and throughout history white men have been thought of as better

White men have been getting a bad rap lately. They are constantly told that they are the world’s oppressors and the world would be a lot better off without these problematic, potential rapists around. Other races and genders roll their eyes at them and say things such as “dear white people” in a tone that implies they’re going to explain their wrongdoings to them one last time. 

I never really thought of white males as anything extraordinary until everyone said it’s a terrible thing to be one. After looking it up, turns out they’re pretty great - maybe not “supreme,” but definitely a combination of race and gender we owe a lot to.

White men create and maintain the world’s most prosperous and desirable countries. Majority-white counties do an absolutely brilliant job at creating and maintaining the cleanest, safest, high-income, low-corruption, politically stable, and technologically innovative societies on the planet. They make up the top 10 most prosperous in the world and top 18 happiest, healthiest and most advanced. The only countries who are more prosperous than us are countries with even greater percentages of whites.

It’s no wonder a huge percentage of the planets population would jump at the first opportunity to come and live in one of these “white supremacies.” There are certainly a few major non-white first world exceptions out there who get ranked around the 20th mark for most prosperous (Japan, South Korea, Singapore, Hong Kong) but these countries are primarily the way they are through adopting Western technologies and systems of government and laws. Immigration to these countries is also almost non-existent, while all the white majority countries are major migration destinations for non-white people around the world seeking a better life.

“White Supremacy”? It’s more like white competency than anything else. And competency is a virtue that should cherished and praised. Not derided.

White males make up only a tiny fraction of the population of the planet, but have been, and continue to be, at the forefront of the vast majority of the world’s scientific, medical, and technological advancements for 500+ years. Japan, Korea, and China could very well still be lingering in a 13th century standard of living if not for increased contact with the West starting in the 1800’s, and western medicine has added decades to the average life expectancy of all races of people across the globe. Can’t live without your phone, computer, car, antibiotics, medicine, electricity, internet, eyeglasses, refrigeration, GPS, satellites and yes, even the toilet? White people say, you’re welcome. 

Now, I know what the racists are thinking. Sure, some white man innovations have been created for destruction, but for every V-2 rocket there is a Saturn V, for every attack helicopter there is a rescue helicopter, and for every nuclear bomb there is an asteroid in space which could be obliterated before it has a chance to destroy Earth. The innovations of white men have brought far more health and happiness to people around the world than their negatives, so cultural Marxists and all the “white privilege” brow-beaters are more than welcome to move to a Madagascar mud hut if they really can’t stand anything white or western. You aren’t going to be missed.

Cultural Marxists, feminists, and other poorly informed left-wing activists love to keep espousing that white males have historically been the most “violent” or the most “oppressive” race of men on the planet. However, this is entirely untrue. It is in fact Asians who have been responsible for the lion’s share of the highest death toll conflicts in human history, and the Japanese, Mongols, and Chinese are well represented in the four most deadly. Even today, where are the only places in the world who are still run by bloodthirsty dictators, where their people are so oppressed they can’t smile without being executed, where rape, slavery, killing gays and marrying children are legal? It sure as fuck isn’t coming from white people and that’s precisely why everyone ignores it. 

The big news media continues to push garbage claims that whites are uniquely racist above all others. On an even more ridiculous note, they may even claim that non-whites can’t be racist at all, because the world is a “white supremacy”. White majority countries all across the world are the most tolerant and the most accepting of living amongst people with different cultures and backgrounds, while countries in the Middle East and Southeast Asia are deemed the least accepting. 

A recent study found that Jordan and India are the two most racist countries in the world followed by Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Vietnam, Indonesia, South Korea, Turkey, Bulgaria, Algeria, Morocco, Mali, Zambia, Thailand, Malaysia, The Philippines, Bangladesh, Hong Kong. But sure, keep telling us how racist and intolerant the United States is. Furthermore, only white majority countries take in huge numbers of immigrants and refugees, while the wealthy Northeast Asian countries (Japan, South Korea, Taiwan) scoff at such humanitarianism. Are you going to go to their airports and chant to let them in?

Also, let’s talk about slavery. Not only have left wingers and the mainstream media purposefully chosen to avoid any kind of discussion of the Arab slave trade, the slave trades of North Africa, Egypt, China, Pakistan, for example or even the slavery that’s still going on today. India has 18 million slaves, China 3 million, Pakistan 2 million, Bangladesh, North Korea, Nigeria, Uzbekistan, Mauritania, Congo, Iran, Turkey, Egypt - all hold millions of slaves today but whites are told to feel guilty and ashamed because about 2% of white Americans owned slaves 200 years ago? White males have made more contributions to ending slavery across the world than any other group of people but they still get blamed as if they were the ones responsible for slavery. Every race has been on either side of slavery and yes, that includes white people once being slaves too. Africa started it, white guys ended it.

Britain abolished slavery throughout the British Empire with the Slavery Abolition Act 1833, the French colonies abolished it in 1848, and the U.S. abolished slavery in 1865 with the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Brazil was the last European colony to do so in 1888. Compare that to the far East, where chattel slavery was a legal part of Chinese culture until 1910 and slavery continued in much of the Islamic world well into the 20th century. It was gradually outlawed and suppressed in Muslim lands largely due to pressure exerted from western nations like Britain and France, you know, white guys.

Despite all the humiliation, browbeating, and derision that white males are experiencing in the west today, they have a reputation of brushing themselves off and continuing to get on with being the world’s inventors and peacemakers. Despite knowing that popular culture, hiring practices, and so many different media outlets and national institutions are against their wellbeing, they’re not the ones raising hell, starting riots or shooting five black police officers. They don’t waste their time with White Men’s Marches, they smile, go to work and continue to lead by example. 

Yes, while white men may have been behind a lot of the bad in the world, so has every other race. The difference is, they’re also behind pretty much everything that is great and vital to us today. That’s what happens when you create the modern world. 

Seeing You On The Other Side (Alexander Hamilton x Reader)

Originally posted by thetheatrekiddestination

Summary: As an old women, you feel yourself slipping away from life on Earth. As you cross over, you reflect on everything wonderful in your life, before making your way to the Afterlife.

Warnings: Mention of character death, but not graphic or terrible. Mentions of the Afterlife? (Not sure if this will offend some people.)

Time Period: Hamiltime, all though not super specific.  

Word: 1340

A/N: I know it is semi-based off Eliza’s part in “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story,” but that was my intetntion. And I am sorry if you are offended by the talk of the Afterlife. I know not everyone belives in it, but I tried to keep any religious mentions out of it. Without further ado, enjoy!

You laid in your bed, trying to rest but finding it near impossible. As you tossed and turned more, a large cough escaped your throat. This alerted the other members of the house, and slowly your bedroom door creaked open.

“Mother, are you alright?” your daughter Eliza, who was named after your best friend, asked as she softly stepped into the room.

Instead of answering, you gave her a small nod and smiled. She started towards your bed and sat on the edge. Smiling sadly down at you, she grabbed your hand and held it tightly.  

You squeezed back and rested your free hand on her check, trying to console her.

“Please don’t worry about me, it’s all going to alright.” You reassured your daughter.

“But I’m scared.” she confessed. “I don’t want to lose you.” Tears now started to slide down her face.

About a week ago, you had contracted pneumonia, and each day you felt worse than the day before. You knew your time was coming soon, and you had confided your suspicion with your daughter.

“Do not be scared, you are such a beautiful and strong woman, exactly like who you were named after. I promise, you will be completely fine when I am gone.” you promised her, wiping away her tears just like you did when she was younger.

“Don’t talk like that, mom.” she whispered.

“Shhh it’s alright, I will be alright. For now, I’m going to try and get some more sleep darling, I’ll see you soon.” you told her, squeezing her hand before she stood up. Your daughter learned down, kissed your forehead, and walked out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Letting out another cough, you could feel your eyes growing weak, and you knew that you would not be waking up to see your daughter once they closed. It turned out that whenever people said that your life flashes before your eyes right before you die was true. Once you closed your eyes, you saw all the wonderful achievements you had throughout your lifetime.

You saw the first time you had met Alexander Hamilton. It was while you were taking a stroll through town, you stumbled across a debate between Alexander and a Mr. Samuel Seabury. After the debate, you had approached Alexander and told him how much you agreed. “Why should a tiny island across the sea regulate the price of tea?” Luckily, he wasn’t like most closed-minded men. He accepted opinions. After flirting with you quite a bit, he asked if he could write you, and the rest was history.

Next, you saw Alexander on one knee, the day he proposed. Right after that, you had a flash of yours and Alexander’s wedding day, when you had become husband and wife. It was magical. Although the Revolution was still going on, you managed to scrape together one night of romance to celebrate your union.

After that, you saw the day you had told Alexander you were pregnant with your first child, Philip, and the day he was born right after that. You saw all of your children before your eyes, growing up all over again. You remembered the tears shed by both you and Alexander as you took turns holding the bundles of joys that were the best parts of you and the best parts of Alexander. 

Unfortunately, you then saw your first born dying in your arms. The time that followed the event had put a strain on your marriage with Alexander, but after moving Uptown you worked through it and fell in love again. But then he went and published that damn pamphlet, and you had to work so hard to build your marriage again.

Then, one of the most horrifying sights flashed before your eyes. You saw Alexander dying as you held him in your arms, and he told you to take your time joining him. That was when your heart a shattered into a million, tiny pieces, and it had never been the same again.

After Alexander had died, you started to work your butt off so people would tell his story once you were gone, trying to secure the legacy he always worked so hard for. You interviewed each and every soldier that your husband fought with, and tried to translate all of his thousands of pages of writings, proving to everyone of the good your husband did.

Then for a while, you helped out your best friend (more like a sister), Eliza Schuyler, to start the first private orphanage in New York City. She got to raise hundreds of children, although she never had any of her own. And you got to experience joy as well. Although, each child’s sparkling eyes reminded you of what you saw in Alexander’s

Once you had helped her to achieve her dream, you continued on with your own dream. You went around and spoke out for those who did not have the equal rights as white males in America.

You started out by speaking against slavery, trying to convince everyone that you cannot enslave another human being. Next, you focused on helping women get their own rights. You even attended the first conference dealing with women’s rights in Seneca Falls, New York.

Every time you finished speaking, you could feel a pain in your chest. Alexander could have done so much better if only he had the time. Each time you thought you weren’t going to live to see another day, the Lord granted you more time. Each time you were extremely grateful, but some days you wanted to lie down and wake up with Alexander.

Finally, you saw all of your family that was still alive. You saw your beautiful daughters, dashing sons, and extraordinary grandchildren and great-grandchildren. You had such a blessed life, and you got to share so many moments surrounded by the people you loved.

Your only thought was had you done enough? Would others continue to tell the story of Alexander Hamilton and his wife, (y/n) Hamilton?

You could feel your soul slipping away from your body, yet you did not try to protest. After years of having faith, you knew that you were heading somewhere beyond life on Earth; the Afterlife. So, you let go of everything and let the unknown consume you.


When you opened your eyes again, you had to blink a couple of times to let your eyes adjust to the bright light. You stood up and looked down at the wrinkles in your dress. As you tried to brush them out, you noticed something that made you gasp.

Once you brought your hand up to eyelevel, you saw that there were no wrinkles. It looked like it had long ago when you were young. One could only assume that the rest of you looked younger as well.

Although you were still marveling, you heard a cough that brought you make to your senses. Looking up before you, you saw a sight that made you want to cry. In front of you, stood every person you had loved in your lifetime, but had passed away before you.

First, you saw your mother and father, who ran to embrace their daughter. Pulling away, you felt like you wanted to cry but couldn’t, for there were no tears in the Afterlife.

Glancing around you saw the all of Alexander’s friends (that became your friends) who had died in the war, or shortly after. Lafayette, Hercules, and John all smiled at you and nodded their heads in thanks for making sure the world knew of their stories.

The people who stood directly behind them made you want to jump for joy. “Angelica, Eliza.” you breathed out, not believing your best friends, who were more like sisters, were standing before your eyes again.

“And Peggy.” the youngest sister, stated as she also embraced you in a hug, and you couldn’t help but laugh. After a few moments, you pulled away.

Finally, you saw two figures standing behind everyone, and your heart soared. There in front of your very eyes stood your first born child, Philip, and your soulmate, Alexander.

You pulled Philp into a bone-crushing hug as any mother would if she had outlived her son by more than 50 years. You checked over his appearance and saw that he looked absolutely perfect. “I love you, mom.” he told you.

Pulling away from your son, you walked slowly towards your husband. Once you got close enough, you broke into a run, and threw yourself into his arms; taking notice of his younger appearance.

Looking into the eyes you had fallen in love with, you brought you lips near his and crashed them together. You had been waiting 50 years to do that.

“Alexander, I’ve missed you so much. I love you.” you sighed in content.

“I know, (y/n), my love. But I’m glad you’ve taken your time in coming to see me again. I just want you to know how proud I am over you, of all of your accomplishments. You did so much more than I ever could.” Alexander complimented, peppering your face in kisses.

You giggled and melted into the hold Alexander still had on you. Now, you never had to worry about having enough time. You were going to spend eternity with those that you loved most.

~Charlotte

The fashion item with perhaps the most romantic history is the handkerchief. This symbol of love and femininity has been the basis of many traditions throughout a very long history. Historical evidence reveals handkerchiefs being included in dowries, bequeathed in wills, and reported as “missing” in official police documents. It’s amazing that an item that had such a practical beginning could have acquired such sentimental meaning.


History of The Handkerchief

Handkerchiefs were not mentioned much prior to the 14th century, but the few references we have state that they have been used for more than just wiping noses. They have been worn on the head, veiled faces, covered mouths to protect from stench and disease, and been waved in greeting. In Pathos, Cypress, people make wishes and hang handkerchiefs on the tree at the entrance to Agia Solomoni Church.

During the Middle Ages, a lady who gifted a man the “couverchef” on her head marked him with her favour. A knight would don his lady’s handkerchief for good fortune in battle. The pocket handkerchief is thought to have been invented by King Richard the II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399.

In 1536, King Henry VIII and his wife Anne Boleyn were watching a tournament when Anne’s handkerchief fell onto the field during a pass. One of the combatants picked it up, wiped his brow with it, and handed it back to her, infuriating the king, who stalked away.

The handkerchief became a symbol of wealth and social status in European society, especially in the courts of Italy and France. Handkerchiefs were richly and intricately decorated, a must-have fashion accessory. The dainty pocket handkerchief apparently made its debut when a Venetian lady made a square of pure flax and decorated it with a lace edge. She displayed her handmade creation in a gathering in a garden. Her creation attracted a lot of interest and many ladies then copied her. To better display their handkerchiefs, women wore them draped across their arm or held in their hand rather than tucked away in a pocket.

During the 16th century, tobacco made its way into Europe. By the 17th century, ladies were taking snuff but were bothered by the brown stains on their noses. The handkerchief had a new job. Coloured handkerchiefs came into fashion because they could better hide the brown stains than dainty white handkerchiefs.

Until the 18th century, handkerchief shapes were frequently round, oblong, or square. Marie Antoinette claimed that the square handkerchief was most practical and raved over its beauty. Louis XVI then issued a mandate requiring that handkerchiefs be square, setting the precedent that remains to this day.

It was said that during Napoleon’s reign, Josephine would hold a handkerchief to her mouth to show disapproval when speaking to the lower classes. Eventually, the handkerchief’s popularity spread beyond the upper classes to the commoners and to the New World. Colonial women began carrying square, lacy handkerchiefs that were essential to complete an outfit.

By the 20th century, men adopted the handkerchief as a social status symbol. The left breast suit pocket was developed to showcase a man’s handkerchief tucked in and showing just the top edge. A man’s outfit was not complete without this final touch.


Victorian Handkerchief Codes

In the Victorian era, young couples developed a way to covertly communicate without arousing the suspicion of their chaperones. The way in which a woman handled her handkerchief spoke volumes:

   Drawn across the lips… “We should meet.”
   Held to the left cheek… “No.”
   Held to the right cheek… “Yes.”
   Drawn across the forehead… “We are being watched.”
   Thrown over the shoulder… “Follow me.”
   Drawn across the cheek… “I love you.”
   Drawn through the hands… “I hate you.”
   Dropping it… “We should be friends.”
   Folding it… “I wish to speak with you.”
   Winding it around the middle finger… “I am married.”

In his 1877 publication “Secrets of Life Unveiled,” Daniel R. Shafer wrote, “The handkerchief, among lovers, is used in a different manner than its legitimate purpose. The most delicate hints can be given without danger of misunderstanding, and in ‘flirtations’ it becomes a very useful instrument. It is, in fact, superior to the deaf and dumb alphabet, as the notice of bystanders is not attracted.”



Wedding

Traditionally, the handkerchief has been associated with love, so it’s no surprise that wedding traditions have arisen featuring the handkerchief. The monogrammed bridal handkerchief came from the tradition of young brides stitching their initials onto their handkerchief and their future husband’s surname.

Irish brides would carry a handkerchief up their sleeve to symbolise their faith that babies would be born to the union. If the first baby was a girl, the handkerchief would be transformed into a baby’s bonnet and the stitches later undone for the daughter’s own wedding.

In China, couples exchange new red handkerchiefs that have mandarin ducks as a symbol of monogamy.

In Greece, the newly married couple dances a traditional handkerchief dance in which they each hold an end of a handkerchief before inviting the wedding guests to join them on the dance floor.

Belgian brides carry a handkerchief embroidered with her name. The bride’s parents then frame the handkerchief and display it on the wall.

In the United States, the bridal handkerchief is passed from mother to daughter. A bride who cried on her wedding day is believed to never cry during her marriage. This developed from a farmer’s belief that a bride’s tears were lucky and would help their crops grow.


The handkerchief as a practical object gradually disappeared from use with the invention of disposable tissues in the 1950s under the slogan “Don’t carry a cold in your pocket.” Yet, the handkerchief lives on in tradition and in the hearts of romantics everywhere who still value the comforting utility of a square piece of cotton softened over countless washes, charming faded prints, and the faint scent of a loved one’s perfume clinging to the threads.

Artwork: Godspeed, by Edmund Blair Leighton.

heatherlanntheclever  asked:

Is there any chance of a happy ending for the Lannisters? I know they are awful people but why develop their motivations and give each of them a genuine moment of compassion if they are just going to murder each other? Every other POV gets a moment of truth/redemption why not the children of Tywin/Patriarchy/Aerys and Disability? I'm a bad person myself so I need to believe the Lions can defy themselves and prophesy and overcome their nature or what's the point? Not all of us are born Starks.

Hey! So it’s gonna take me a few minutes to answer your question, but I promise I’m gonna get there.

In one of the other shows I watch, an actor commented on the banality of evil. He said that evil is something commonplace. Given the right circumstances, great acts of evil could be committed by your neighbors, or your friends, or you, or me. Because evil is so easy. “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” You needn’t be a monster like Gregor to commit evil; you need only be human. 

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                                                      “Perfect”

A/N: Post-Infinite one shot, but I don’t think you have to read it to understand what’s going on in this one.  Definitely giving a shoutout to @gmwmeetsniall for asking about a post-Infinite one shot.  I never planned on doing it, but Ed decided to write the P E R F E C T song (haha, get it?). Fluff is not my strong suit, and I’m afraid it shows.  I hope you all like it anyway. <33

Song by: Ed Sheeran

Word count: 7,660

Pairing: Rucas

Rating: T



Lucas stood in front of the mirror in a desperate attempt to tie his tie.  Logically he knew that his reflection wouldn’t help the slight tremor of his hands, but at that moment, he was unable to think logically.  His hand shook a little more violently as he picked up the ends of the tie.  He wasn’t sure why he was reacting like this.  He wasn’t nervous at all and he wasn’t the least bit scared.  If anything, he felt more relaxed than he thought he would be—given the circumstances.

“About ten minutes,” Farkle said as he walked back into the dressing room.  He stood next to Zay as the two men watched Lucas fumble with the tie.  “How long as he been trying to tie it?”

“My guess is ten minutes,” Zay shrugged.  “It’s kind of entertaining.  You think he’s just about figured it out, but then one end falls and he has to start all over again.”

Lucas flipped the tie around for another moment before he growled in frustration.  Why was this happening?!

Farkle chuckled as he walked over to the Texan.  “You a little nervous,” he asked as he grabbed the tie.  He had never seen Lucas so flustered before.  It was quite a switch from the normally reserved veterinarian.

“No,” he huffed as Farkle slid the tie around his neck.  “How…how does she look,” he asked as a new wave of tranquility overcame him.  Just the mere thought of her seemed to put him at ease.  He looked down.  His hands still shook slightly, but not nearly as aggressively as they did a minute ago.  That was exactly the effect she had always had on him.  She calmed him, even if he were thousands of miles away.

Farkle smiled.  “You already know the answer to that.”  He finished the last loop.  “There.  Perfect.”

Lucas looked at himself in the mirror.  “I can’t believe it’s finally here,” he said as he examined his appearance.

“I don’t think any of us can,” Maya smiled from the doorway.

Lucas’s eyes snapped toward the blonde.  “Maya?  What are you doing in here?  Shouldn’t you be with—“

“The bride?”  She raised her eyebrows as she raised her right hand up.  In it, she held a folded piece of paper.  “As matron of honor, it’s my duty to make sure that the bride gets everything her heart desires today.”  She walked toward Lucas.  “She wanted me to give this to you.”

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5

Homage to Diana Rigg

For those of you into the amazing television series Game of Thrones (I, being addicted to it as well from its inception) let me loan a bit of interesting ‘trivia’ to you about one of the actresses there in the show. She is so incredibly amazing, and yet she does not get the true coverage or tribute she deserves. That actress is none other than Dame Diana Rigg.

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Thief Pt 9 // Park Jimin

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt 4Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7Pt 8

- Part Nine: Revelation

summary: in which prince jimin doesn’t know that his future wife is not only trying to steal from him, but is also trying to kill him.

words: 3,812

category: prince au, fantasy au

warnings: beatings, mentions of death and blood

author note: aye here you guys get to see what I’ve been planning since before I started this book, and the reason the kingdom is so corrupted. this is pretty angsty and a bit of an emotional rollercoaster so enjoy ;)

- destinee

Originally posted by fyibts

-

Jeongguk walked through the castle with a heavy heart. Sure, his mother hadn’t meant to spill your secrets, but she had, and now Jeongguk was at a loss as to whether he should tell Jimin or not.

“I’m so glad the assassination didn’t work out. I think Y/n’s done more good than bad through this plan.“

After learning through his mother that you had come initially to kill Jimin and his father, his blood had run cold. You had been lying? You, who seemed so innocent: a person who just wanted to help her people. You were actually a thief looking to find a bit of extra gold. You were completely selfish. In fact, if you hadn’t fallen in love with Jimin, he might’ve already been dead.

Jeongguk felt more bitterness in his heart as he made his way towards the prince’s room. It was mostly bitterness towards himself, as it was his sole job to protect the prince. It wasn’t to protect the future princess, who wouldn’t last long in the castle anyway.

He knocked on the door rapidly, pushing it open before Jimin could call him in. His eyes narrowed as they landed on your gaze. The two of you were sitting on the floor, having some sort of indoor picnic. Your laughter died down as the two of you greeted Jeongguk.

“Kookie!” Jimin greeted, his fingers threaded through yours. “Y/n was just telling me how she found your parents. How did it go?”

Jeongguk forced a smile and gritted out painfully, “May I please speak to you alone?”

Jimin frowned. “Can’t you say it in front of Y/n?”

“Not really. Plus, you have a meeting with your father and the officials today that you need to get ready for,” Jeongguk said.

“Oh, right. Then I’ll see you later?” Jimin addressed you.

“Sure. Bye, Jimin. Bye, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk glared at you as you left. Luckily, neither you nor Jimin noticed it.

“What’s up?” Jimin asked, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he addressed his guard.

Jeongguk took a deep breath, debating whether or not he should warn Jimin. His mother told him that the prince was no longer in danger. However, Jeongguk had just met his mother, and he had no idea if she was to be trusted or not. It was his duty to tell Jimin that his future wife had originally come with the vendetta of killing him. “I have to tell you something, but you aren’t going to like it. In fact, I don’t even know if you’re going to believe it.”

Jimin offered him a seat, and Jeongguk explained everything he knew, from beginning to end. As he continued to speak, Jimin’s face turned from confusion to realization. Jeongguk pushed through even though his heart felt heavy to see Jimin’s broken expression.

“She was going to kill me? She wants to kill me?”

“I don’t know,” Jeongguk answered honestly. “My mother said she had been working to stop the plan from affecting you, but I obviously don’t know my mother well enough to judge by her words.”

Jimin opened his mouth to reply. His bedroom door opened suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. Minah peaked through, a solemn expression on her face. “Your Highness, it’s time to go to your meeting.”

Jimin’s eyes darted to Jeongguk and he bit his lip nervously. “Right. I’m going.”

As he left, Jeongguk cursed under his breath. He had planned for there to be more time so he could discuss the situation with Jimin. Now, Jimin was going to find out about the law, and Jeongguk was afraid he would follow his emotions and go through with it.

Jeongguk knew the law. Minah knew the law. Chanyeol knew the law. They were sworn to secrecy by the king himself to never share it with Jimin. Jeongguk would’ve broken these commands, if he felt that Jimin would agree to the terms of the law. However, Jeongguk knew Jimin better than anyone. There wasn’t a piece of him that didn’t trust Jimin to fight against his father. He hadn’t been afraid for your safety, because he had always been sure Jimin would fight for you.

What if he had completely ruined that chance?

-

Jimin’s mind raced with whys and what ifs as he walked towards the council room.

Why did you do it? Why was your original goal to kill him and his father? Why did you suddenly change your mind, if you even did? Why were you still with him?

What if you were still with him because you were still planning on killing him? What if you lied when you told him you loved him? What if you thought of him as nothing but a pawn in your stupid game of thievery?

A thief. Jimin found himself scoffing. Never in his life would he had guessed that you were anything more than a simple girl from Krull who liked arithmetic. There was no black and white anymore: it was all gray mush and Jimin didn’t know the truth.

When had your game stopped and the real feelings started? Did they even start, or was your goal to confuse him even more so that he’d never see the knife being driven into his back?

Jimin was hurt, but he was more angry. You had been willing to kill him for a sack of gold. He had been nothing more to you than an obstacle standing in the way of you and your money. To you, he was no better than his father.

Jimin entered the council room and strode to one of the two thrones at the end of the room. Down the walls were tall chairs filled with castle officials. They were all the same ones who refused to look at Jimin only hours before. He wondered what the meeting was about.

King Park stood up and cleared his throat to start the meeting. “Throughout the history of Eden, there have been a few things that kept our monarchy standing. Today, I will pass this knowledge down to my son, who will become the official king tomorrow.”

Jimin felt all eyes on him, so he straightened up and listened intently to his father. “Krull is a land built on examples. Krull is a land of people who defied our lineage and tried to get us off of the throne. Back to a century ago, when half of Eden rebelled against our ancestors and tried to reverse the law, they were separated into the barren land of Krull, no longer in the mercy of Eden’s monarchs. They are an example to the people of Eden, that if you disobey the king, you get punished. When you become king, Jimin, under no circumstances should you help the people of Krull. They’ve reaped what they’ve sowed. They are not your responsibility.”

Jimin furrowed his eyebrows. He never knew why Krull was such a poverty-stricken land, or what that had to do with his reign. He didn’t like it.

King Park smirked, “This begs another question, and that is why we only marry women from Krull. Well, in Eden, the raffle is commonly called the “unlucky draft” because most people in Eden know, or have guessed, what happens to the women who win the raffle. After you marry, a show to the people of Krull, to make them think we’re still with them, we kill your wife.

Jimin gasped, his eyes wide. “W-What?”

The men in the council room laughed, yet it was an ornery, condescending laugh targeted at him for being so vulnerable. So naive.

“You didn’t think we would let that scum onto an Edenic throne, did you? Why do you think your mother died so early, Jimin? I had her killed as soon as she gave me a son. We don’t need people from Krull in our castles. They like to test boundaries. They like to fight against us. We need to be alone in our reign, and we need to show the people of Krull who’s in charge.”

“Father, I don’t think I want to kill Y/n.”

“You don’t have to,” King Park sad softly, much to Jimin’s relief. Then, “I’ll have one of my men do it for you. How’s that?”

Jimin blinked, feeling a bit disassociated in the moment. Why was he considering saving you when you had planned to kill him as well? Weren’t the two of you even now?

He didn’t need you to build a better home for Krull and Eden. Even with his plans, he couldn’t keep a thief in the castle, whether he loved you or not. You were a threat to his safety. If he died, who would defend Krull? If he died at your hands, his father would stay king. Really, it was better this way.

Jimin looked up at his father, who held that terrifying glint in his eye that said agree or I’ll make you.

However, Jimin didn’t want to make Krull and Eden better places without you. Of all the plans the two of you had shared. Of all the dreams and the goals, was he going to throw all of that away because you were a thief? You hadn’t known him personally before. There was no way for you to know that he was nothing like his father.

And, if what Jeongguk’s mother said was true, then you had given up on that attempt after falling in love with him. You had chosen against all of Krull to fight for him.

Jimin had the choice to choose you or his father, and when he choose you, all hell broke loose.

Jimin had never felt pain like this before. Before he could finish his sentence, declaring his loyalty to you, he was thrown to the stone ground by his father. Suddenly, as if he wasn’t their future king, they began to gang up on him. Feet rammed into his ribs and hands grabbed his hair, driving his face into the floor.

Jimin struggled to fight back, but his back wounds had still not healed completely, and they were being reopened with every punch and kick to his small body. His ears rang, and he could taste blood run warm along his tongue. He spat to rid himself of the metallic taste, but it didn’t work as his mouth only refilled with his blood. His body shivered at it began to go into shock. Until, suddenly, he couldn’t feel a thing, and his eyes were trained on the door. Only one sound ripped through his stupor, and that was the sound of the door opening, and Chanyeol’s loud voice. Suddenly everyone stood far away from Jimin in an attempt to look innocent. Chanyeol was yelling, Jimin could tell. Chanyeol was cussing out everyone in the room as he wrapped his arm around Jimin’s waist and pulled him up.

“Jimin, don’t close your eyes, okay? Stay awake until I can get you to the healer,“ Chanyeol’s voice echoed in Jimin’s mind.

Jimin knew it would be okay. Chanyeol had always fought for what was right. He would know what to do. He would help him.

With that, he closed his eyes, ignoring the pleas of his cousin, and fell asleep.

-

You were taken from your room by two men you had never seen before.

Jimin hadn’t been seen since the night before, and you were beginning to wonder where he was, and if he was okay. Today was the day of your wedding, and you were prepared to spend the rest of your life with him. First, though, you needed to find him. You never got the chance to look for him when two men barged into your room and grabbed you. Luckily, you were already dressed, though it was in your wedding gown. There was to be a final fitting in your room before the wedding.

Apparently that wasn’t going to happen. The hands of the men felt rough against the smooth skin of your upper arms. You kept tripping over your skirts as they pulled. You were afraid. “Who are you? Where are you two taking me?”

“Shut up!” one of them growled as the three of you descended the stairs, into a dungeon.

“Why are we here?” You asked frantically, your eyes darting around the eerie interior. It looked as if no one had been there in decades.

The men answered by throwing you into the cell farthest from the entrance. “We’ll come back in a month to collect your body. King’s orders.”

You ran to try and block the door before it closed all the way, but the heavy wood was too much for your small frame to hold back. “Wait! You can’t just leave someone to die! Jimin will find me, you know!”

One of the men swerved on his heel and met your eye through the bars in the door. “If you think Jimin isn’t facing the same fate, than you’re mistaken.”

“What did you do to him?” you growled. “I swear if you hurt him—”

“Worry about yourself,” he said, kicking the door. You jumped at the contact and backed up.

As their steps ascended the stairs, you wondered how in the world you were going to get out of this one.

-

The castle healer’s entire family was threatened to be sent to Krull if he offered help to Jimin. The same case was with the rest of the healers in Eden.

Chanyeol had to take him to Krull, in the hopes that someone there had been studying medicine despite their limited resources. In Krull, if the sickness couldn’t be cured with an herbal tea or a shady potion, one was as good as dead.

Chanyeol knew Jimin would die if he didn’t get medicine, so he took him to the most familiar place he knew that had herbs: Blu’s Shoe Shop.

“Help us!” he cried outside of the door, weak under the weight of his cousin. His only hope was that Yoongi was in and could do some kind of healing magic on him.

The door opened, showing a tired-looking Yoongi. His features quickly shifted to concern when he noticed the bloodied prince. “Bad day?”

Chanyeol growled, “This is no time for sarcasm. Prince Jimin is dying and no one in Eden will help him. Please, Yoongi!”

Yoongi frowned. “I want to, but I can’t. I’m a dark mage. My powers can only be used for bad. You need a healing mage, or a very experienced healer.”

“Well at least let me set him down inside. I can’t hold him up for much longer,” Chanyeol bargained through gritted teeth.

Yoongi quickly opened the door. “My place is upstairs. Go lie him down while I get Hoseok and Mrs. Jeon.”

Chanyeol nodded, without the knowledge of how those two would help in any way. He maneuvered his way upstairs and set Jimin down gently on the chaise.

The prince looked like death. His lips were as pale as his skin, and there were bruises forming everywhere blood wasn’t already dried. Chanyeol found a nearly-clean rag and poured some water over it, hoping to clean Jimin’s face enough that it wouldn’t get infected.

Once Jimin’s face was almost recognizable again, Chanyeol could hear the footsteps racing upstairs. Suddenly he was pushed away, and Yoongi was listening to every command Mrs. Jeon was giving him. As she spouted off random commands, Hoseok pulled Chanyeol over to the corner of the room and stared at him in concern.

“Where’s Y/n? Is she safe?”

Chanyeol shook his head, “I don’t know. I had to get Jimin out of there before they killed him. I couldn’t stop to find her.”

“What happened?” Mrs. Jeon suddenly asked as she tore a piece of fabric into strips with her teeth.

Chanyeol quickly explained the law of Edenic monarchs and why Jimin had gotten beat up for refusing to abide by it. Hoseok grabbed his arm, “If they wanted to kill Y/n, wouldn’t they do it? Where’s Y/n?!”

“Calm down!” Yoongi shouted at the hysterical man, “You’re making me release dark magic into the air and I can’t be doing that around someone so close to death!”

Hoseok shut up, but still turned to Chanyeol with a steel look in his eyes. “I’m going to find her.”

“I hope you aren’t too late. Find Jeongguk or Minah. They are the only ones you can trust in the castle. To everyone else, you’re dead meat.”

“I need someone from Eden to come with me. Someone who knows all the laws and how to speak to authority without sounding suspicious. I get nervous under pressure.”

“I can’t go, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” Chanyeol said. “I’m Enemy Number Three at the moment. However, if you go to Taehyung in Kim’s Bakery and explain the problem to him, he’ll help you sneak into the castle.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Chanyeol pressed his lips together. “For what it’s worth, I hope you guys find her.”

-

“Are you sure this plan is foolproof?” Hoseok asked, eyeing the crates of bread heavy laden in his arms.

Taehyung nodded, “It’s perfect. They’re used to me coming in, and I can just say that I’m delivering stuff for the wedding feast.”

“I don’t think there’s going to be a wedding, Taehyung.”

“Obviously,” the baker countered, “but we don’t know that. Now, let me do the talking.”

Hoseok had never been inside of Eden’s castle. Despite the lavish decorations and ornaments laying everywhere, Hoseok couldn’t help but feel the unwelcoming vibe entering the room. His balance felt off as he walked over the soft rugs. With a quick look at his partner, Hoseok walked on with determination.

This was for you. He was technically your brother, if you counted how long the two of you knew each other and took care of one another. If you were in danger, it was up to him to get you to safety. You were the only family he had, and there was no way he was going to lose you to an egotistical king.

The first man they encountered was a cook, and right there their plan almost buckled. The cook offered to take the food to the kitchen for them. If he did, then the pair would have no reason to loiter around the castle any longer. Luckily, Hoseok was quick to comment that they needed to double-check the numbers of their food before they dropped the boxes off.

The kitchen was large, and there were hardly any people bustling around the place. Taehyung and Hoseok easily set down the crates and explained that they were for the wedding and coronation ceremony. The cooks and servants all thanked them before awkwardly
opening the crates.

Hoseok watched them and whispered to Taehyung, “They don’t know what to do.”

Taehyung elbowed him to get him to shut up, then smiled at the servants. “We’ll come back with the wedding cake.”

Again, they were met with awkward side-eyes and murmurs of agreement. Taehyung grabbed Hoseok’s elbow and steered him away. “Okay,” he whispered, “the plan is to look for Jeongguk. If we get caught, just say we got lost trying to find the way out.”

Hoseok agreed, finding that it might not be too hard to fib since the castle had so many corridors and staircases. It was a wonder anyone knew their way around the place. Letting Taehyung take the lead, he followed with his eyes peeled for the guard he had seen around Jimin before. He couldn’t remember much about his face, but he was sure that he would recognize him if he saw him.

“I’m telling you, Minah, I can’t find him anywhere and there’s no way I’m gonna ask His Majesty either.”

Hoseok stopped so quickly he nearly tripped over his toes. “Taehyung!” he hissed.

Taehyung turned around in question, only for a look of realization to pass over his features when Hoseok gestured for him to listen. “That’s the pair, right? The pair Chanyeol said would be safe to talk to?”

“I’m fairly certain,” Hoseok replied. It was hard to remember the second name, but he was sure it was at least similar to Minah.

“Good. Let’s go before we waste any more time.” Taehyung led the way into the partly open door. Inside of the room, a boy and a girl were speaking to each other while gesturing frantically. Neither of them noticed the new additions to the room.

Hoseok leaned over and whispered to Taehyung, “Should we say something?”

“You do it,” Taehyung answered, “she’s your family.”

“Yeah, okay.” Hoseok squared his shoulders awkwardly and walked up behind the man. He hesitantly tapped his broad shoulder.

The man turned around quickly, in a stance that said he was ready to fight. However, his actions turned slack as he recognized Hoseok. “Aren’t you the guy that owns the inn in Krull?”

Hoseok nodded. “And you’re Jeongguk, Jimin’s guard. Jimin’s safe with Chanyeol, and I’m here to get Y/n and take her home before anyone hurts her.”

“Y/n isn’t with Jimin?” Jeongguk turned to Minah, “They must’ve taken her away already.”

“Who took her?” Hoseok asked. “Where did they take her?”

“There’s a dungeon in one of the towers,” Jeongguk explained. “It’s where prisoners are kept before their trials. I assume she’s there.”

“What if she’s not?” Minah asked. Her question settled in the air, causing a foreboding tone to take on the room.

Jeongguk licked his lips nervously, “Let’s pray she is.”

-

Hoseok felt numb. There was no other way to describe the drop in his heart as he saw the empty cells. You were in none of them, and the thought tore him to pieces. What had happened to you? What did they do to you? Were you hurt? Were you alive? Why would the king want to kill you?

Hoseok felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head. Taehyung was there, sympathy in his pupils. “We have to leave before someone catches us.”

Hoseok suddenly let out a sob. “I can’t. What if she’s in danger? What if she needs me?”

Taehyung bit his lip. “Hoseok, you know as well as I do that through all the odds, she probably isn’t alive.”

Taehyung had never seen a grown man so utterly heartbroken before, and he wished with all his heart that he knew how to calm down his hysterics. His first and foremost concern was getting out of the castle soon and alerting Chanyeol. If Hoseok was in tatters, there was no telling how the prince would react when he awoke. Taehyung pulled Hoseok to his feet and hushed him with the gentleness of a mother. “We’ve got to go.”

So they went, leaving the empty jail cells behind them.

- to be continued -

When Jane Austen wrote her first version of Persuasion’s concluding chapters, she presented an episode in which the reiterated trope of Anne’s unhappy and partial overhearing is given climactic and even extreme form. In this draft, later discarded, Anne overhears through a door. Because the listening behind a door seems quasi-theatrical, and because Jane Austen, rather than rewriting the chapter, abandoned it altogether, the passage can be more readily dismissed than it deserves. But this first attempt throws considerable light on the determinants of the novel’s underlying structure…. [Anne] is stuck, sitting trapped in a room, made to become the unwilling witness of a dialogue that, despite Wentworth’s keeping his voice down, and trying to restrain Admiral Croft’s, evidently becomes an altercation between the two men about something to do with her…. As before in Persuasion, Anne Elliot hears herself spoken of, again only in snatches, but in this scene it is even in a context she cannot understand. Her powerlessness, is graphically represented by the door: a ‘thin’, permeable barrier, so that her hearing through it becomes an acute representation in physical terms of her marginal status — being both inside and outside — that the novel has found so many ways to define. The very forcefulness of the men, with the impatient Wentworth almost losing his temper, seems to underline the fact that she has no power to govern her own life. This carefully staged scene thus recapitulates the novel’s contrast between genders, representing it, again, in material terms…


It is known that Jane Austen was unhappy with this conclusion to her lovers’ story. She wrote 'Finis’ on the manuscript on 18 July 1816, but, according to her nephew, 'she thought it tame and flat’, and one night 'retired to rest in very low spirits’ after signing it off. Because the two endings of Persuasion are so different, and because it seems astonishing that the novelist should not have worked out how her lovers were to be reunited, even before she began her work, one is inevitably led to some biographical, or rather bioliterary, speculation. Austen knows, then, as she approaches the end of the novel in July 1816 that the final scene must be the culmination of the situations she has imagined throughout the novel. It should be another scene of overhearing, it should again rehearse in some form those impediments that have so far prevented the lovers from understanding each other, and it must be a scene in which the contrasting roles of ladies and gentlemen, of men and women, are somehow again the subject. And as a skilled writer she knows this scene must be a scene of heightened drama, of emotional tension. But how to bring off all these requirements? She could imagine a scene in which Wentworth simply avows his love and is accepted. But she has already written one in which he comes very near to this, only to be interrupted by the man who he thinks is his rival. This has effectively achieved one of her fundamental aims — to reiterate the contingent, continually besieged nature of their communication, now made even more difficult by the jealousy Mr Elliot’s attentions have aroused and the continual interference of other people’s affairs. Through Anne, she has even declared the problem that confronts her: 'How was the truth to reach [Wentworth]? How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn her real sentiments?’ As a woman in the early nineteenth century, Anne can hardly confess her love to him. How could a scene of Wentworth avowing his undying love be made convincing? She has to imagine them coming together through some mode of silent communication.


And so the scene she writes meets these co-ordinates of her imagination. It is a good scene, half comic, half dramatic. It presents two men quarreling about how to act, but each able to act, to take change, and it shows Anne in an extreme condition of contingency, a lonely prisoner in the next room, a prisoner, now literally, of the female role. Her fate is again apparently being decided by men. But if Jane Austen goes to bed depressed after writing this scene, isn’t it because — to use a modern phrase — the novel now makes no statement? She has left her heroine powerless, an actually silenced, condition. Perhaps unwell herself, she may have reflected her own depression by returning her heroine to the position that her narrative has shown her gradually escaping. She has written a scene that intensifies, that climaxes many of the earlier situations she has worked with, but there is something crucial missing. Isn’t the problem that there is no overturning in the silent if 'very powerful Dialogue’ of Anne’s self-suppression, of that miserable abeyance [Austen] has constructed her sentences throughout the novel so carefully to both replicate and hide? Is the problem that she has not allowed Anne to express and recover something of her own personal history, never allowed Anne to be fully present to the reader? And hasn’t the minor theme she has worked at, the way Anne’s consciousness is imbued with her reading, been left behind? But soon she begins to feel herself less ill, and, moreover, 'feeling new strength’, she imagines a completely new scene. 


Over the next fortnight, according to her sister’s record, Jane Austen radically revised the conclusion of her novel, inventing in the course of it two new chapters in which the cast of characters is reassembled at the White Hart Inn, Bath. But she retained, and reworked, the central trope of this earlier version: overhearing, and specifically, the partial overhearing of the marginalised subject…. Anne enters, sits down, and since she sees that Wentworth is one of the party, is 'deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such happiness, instantly’. Wentworth gets up and goes to a separate table some distance away to write a letter on behalf of his friend Harville…. When Captain Harville gets up and moves to a window, he invites Anne to join him, and not for the first time she 'rouses’ herself from an absent state of mind, gets up and crosses the room to join him…. Now the geography of this interior is made more specific: 'The window at which he stood, was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth’s table, not very near’. Thus the 'thin door’ that once kept Anne apart from Wentworth and Admiral Croft is re-created as a space that should preserve, and yet does not quite preserve, privacy, but with the positions of speakers and listener reversed. 


Rather than rehearsing once again the polarisation of the genders, like the first version of the novel’s resolution, the conversation between Harville and Anne that Austen now conceives is an explicit debate about gender difference, and it is one in which both speakers take equal roles. Anne Elliot now achieves textual being as an intellectual woman, who, like Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse, enjoys an argument and has lawyer-like logic at her command. Their exchange is about grief, and the different ways in which a man and a gentlewoman experience and deal with it…. Anne is at last allowed to speak in effect of what she has long been forced to withhold. The depth of her experience emerges when she speaks of the feelings that 'prey’ upon a woman who has no outlet for her emotional energies, or when, after an escalating series of sentences, she finds herself speaking 'with a faltering voice’ (though still in general terms) about what her tremor admits are her personal feelings. 


Both enjoy the debate, but they are talking quietly so as not to disturb Wentworth’s writing at the desk, till they hear a noise from his 'perfectly quiet division of the room’. ('Division’ suggests both contiguity and separation: he is equally present in the same space, and cut off.) It is at the precise moment when Anne speaks 'with a faltering voice’ that Wentworth drops his pen. Anne is 'startled at finding him nearer than she supposed; and half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen, because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could have caught’…. It may be a mistake, though, to suggest as some distinguished critics do, that Anne is implicitly addressing her speeches, and especially the last one, to Wentworth. This reading assumes that she has not concluded he is too far away to catch her words. If her speech, as Tony Tanner put it, has a 'double target and dual purpose’, this implies a certain insincerity in her avowals to Harville, as if she were not aroused and stimulated by Harville’s own strong feeling, and makes much less telling the response in Wentworth’s letter. It is the purity of Anne’s feelings here, not their doublings, that is moving…. Anne and Harville are talking about the different accommodations of men and women to grief: it may seem to a reader that Anne is affirming the enduring power of her own feelings, but this is implicit, and what is implicit is not a declaration. The truth is that the scene is more subtle and more subtly conceived: that Austen makes it difficult to be sure of how much Anne’s awareness of Wentworth’s presence in the room is transmuted into the emotional force of her eloquence…. 


Anne has been the dependent listener; Wentworth by contrast has been shown as the confident, attention-commanding, textually dominant speaker. The subordinate role assigned to her, even in that first draft of their romance’s conclusion, is now assigned to him. Their positions (as before, literally) are reversed. She has been forced to sit, catching fragments of discourse, listening in to conversations that —whether they wound or elevate her —cause her consciousness to cloud or her heart to beat faster. Her emotional life has often been lived and displayed to the reader only through these overhearings. Now it is Wentworth, the energetic male raconteur, who is the passive partner, sitting at the table, held there by his task, while she stands at the window, he overhearing sounds that bear upon his life, his prospects, his feelings, unable wholly to possess what he overhears. Through the novels’ trope of filtered hearing, the conventional attributes of their gender are exchanged. 


Jane Austen’s first version of her finale climaxed many of the situations that her previous chapters had displayed. But it had failed to engage with the crucial issue of Anne’s reticence: her silences not only within the action, but within her own text. Persuasion repeatedly presented Anne as 'only Anne’, the despised, marginal, unregarded spinster. At the same time it allowed the reader to know what a fund of intelligence and feeling lay beneath her quietness, to accumulate a sense of her hidden passionate life, intimated by the novelist in many, but oblique, ways. In the finale as it now stands Anne Elliot commands the textual stage. She defines and laments the life of the gentlewoman, a life of severely restricted opportunities. But at this moment she has an opportunity, and she is prepared to seize it. When she tells Harville 'if you please, no reference to examples in books’, her authority is augmented by the clear, extra-diegetic implication that now in this volume, the book in which she is now speaking, the text her reader is now reading, a different story is being told….


Of all the novels, Persuasion is the most obviously a love story. It opens with a tale of love thwarted, its action details the impediments ot that love’s renewal, and it ultimately brings about the return and retrieval of that love, become perhaps deeper and truer than at first. But Austen’s genius was to turn this romantic narrative into a vindication of the right to self-expression, and thus to make her fiction a statement of her own professional and personal identity. As in all of Jane Austen’s novels, it is this unromantic intelligence that leads her readers to re-read, again and again.

—  excerpt from “Anne Elliot and the ambient world”, John Wiltshire’s The Hidden Jane Austen
Dad Material

Request:  Could you do a Bucky x child reader where she is like 7 and some one tries to hurt her like hydra and Bucky protects her, and goes into his winter soldier mode and she gets scared of him after she sees what he can do. But it ends in fluff? :)

Bucky x Child!reader

Warnings: violence, fighting, abuse

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: Sorry it took so long, but here it is!

Heads up: @missallpony1234 @thecynicalnerd @heismyhunter @waywardimpalawriter @misspadfoot02 @flowercrownsandmetallicarms @ifoundlove-x0vanessa0x @rachelle-on-the-run @i-had-a-life-once @lilasiannerd @transdadlovesyou @aenna-4 @buckyb-avengers @amrita31199 @shamvictoria11  @soldierplum

Originally posted by daddyevans

It was a trap. Bucky had realized it too late as the door shut immediately and he was plunged into total darkness. He hurriedly zipped open a secret pocket in his vest and reached inside. He took out a small pill and dry swallowed it. Bucky then radio’d the rest of his team,

“Abort. It’s a trap. I repeat abort,” he calmly informed them, “Save yourselves and pick me up later.”

“Bucky where are you?” Sam asked through the intercom.

“Don’t worry about me just get the hell out of here!” Bucky replied.

“The weapon though? Is there no weapon?” Sam asked.

“No indication of any weapon. The information given to us was false. Now get as far away as possible,” Bucky answered.

“Steve isn’t going to like this,” Natasha’s voice went through.

“Blame it on me,” Bucky said when the door burst open. Bucky took out the communication device in his ear and smashed it.

“We missed you,” a voice said. Bucky prepared himself for a fight. He raised his gun when a small figure entered. Bucky’s vision blurred and he blacked out.

Keep reading

I cannot begin to explain what Adam Lambert means to me. Many of you know how big of a fan I am- you all hear me gush about his music, you’ve seen me attend six of his concerts and cry about how amazing it was, you see me in my Adam t-shirts, bracelets, necklaces and hats on the daily, you’ve seen as I began copying his 2009 hairstyle throughout the years. You know I play his CD’s in the car and you know I recommend his music to everyone I meet. But what a lot of you don’t know is just how deep this passion goes.

He’s an amazing attractive person, a ridiculously talented performer, and a kindhearted artist. But what he did for me- and still does for me- is something I can hardly express in words… but I will do my best. I first saw Adam on American Idol when I was 11 years old. I always rooted for him, but I didn’t connect with him until January of 2010. It was then, when one day I by chance walked into my mom’s living room with the Idol Season 8 re-runs playing on the TV, that I saw something in him. I stood there, paralyzed as I watched Adam sing “Mad World” with so much raw emotion, so much passion that I couldn’t move until the performance was over.

That kickstarted so much in my life that I would never have gone through the same way were it not for Adam. After that day, I became a normal fan, downloading his music and memorizing all the lyrics. However, I also began to write- really write- for the first time. They are stories so poorly written I hardly acknowledge them unless it’s for some good laughter. But still, Adam inspired me to write stories about his life as a performer, fictional ideas of his time as a celebrity and relationships with his band members.

And because I began writing, I met friends. So many friends that I still have today, some I lost contact with, but it introduced me to the niche we call ‘fandom.’ I had been in fandom thanks to Warrior cats all throughout my childhood, but this was the next step. I became part of this community of incredibly diverse people called Glamberts. I attended my first Adam concert and at age 12, stared at the crowds of people who were all so vastly different. Old and young, black and white, asian and mexican, men and women, nonbinary and trans folks, gay and bisexual, pansexual and straight, families and siblings, couples and friends. The diversity is outstanding. Seeing an old white lady on a walker smiling and singing along next to a young gay black man is something you don’t see every day. But they’re both covered in glitter, both singing and dancing and clapping, both experiencing this moment together and feeling the same thing.

With the horrible events happening in this country lately, I think it’s important to remember something Adam always tries to remind us of: we are all human. We should focus on our similarities rather than our differences. This topic can be talked about in much more depth, with so much more to be said… but in general, I hope you do understand my intention here. And as a 12 year old girl growing up in this world, full of prejudice and hate and so much more… seeing this made a huge impact on me. I grew up admiring that Adam united people all across the world. All of his world tours were sold out, always with packed arenas from the US to Australia, from Japan to Russia and the Netherlands to Norway.

So going through middle school and high school, I experienced so many obstacles, as all kids that age do. But Adam guided me through everything with his songs, his messages, his personality. He taught me to be confident in myself; in my body, in my heart, in my soul. He taught me that no matter what struggles I faced, it would all be alright and that I was not alone. I had the “glamily” behind me. He taught me that sometimes, you feel lonely but that’s okay, and that you can enjoy “you-time.” He taught me that there’s all sorts of heartbreak, all sorts of pain but that I’m not the only one who feels that way. He taught me how to pick myself up after heartbreak. He taught me to be proud in who I am- my gender, my sexuality, myself. He reminded me that even if we as the LGBT+ community are marginalized, we are all in this together. He taught me that sometimes, even if I feel uninspired or am hitting a wall in my mind, that I can overcome it and continue to do amazing things.

This post is so long already, but it’s only a fraction of what he’s done for me. There’s so much more. I can go on forever. But this is why I got a tattoo. I’ve known that, for 7 years now, that my first tattoo would be the tattoo that was Adam’s first- the Egyptian Eye of Horus. The Eye of Horus is an ancient Egyptian symbol of protection, royal power and good health. Adam got it because of his love for Egyptology, and I too, as a history major, love to learn about ancient Egypt. But for me, this symbol is a tribute to Adam. It’s something I’ve known I would get for years, and I feared speaking about it to my family and out in the open like this due to the reaction. I know about the stigma of tattoos, the risks of them, and the potential consequences. I can assure everyone that this tattoo was well thought out and it means the world to me. One of my biggest fears is memory loss, and I never, ever want to forget what Adam has done for me. I never want to forget what he’s taught me and how he’s opened my heart. I never want to forget the experiences I’ve had due to him. And if I do, I’ll have this permanent mark on my body to tell myself just how important he is to me.

I can say so much more, but I will wrap this up by saying how proud I am of this tattoo. It’s beautiful, it’s exactly what I envisioned all these years, and I finally am becoming the person I’ve dreamed of becoming when I was an awkward little middle schooler trying to discover myself. I am so proud of who I am and who I will be. I am happier in life right now than I ever have been and I know it will only get better from here.

If you’ve read all of this, thank you. I poured my heart into this and I hope you can understand how much this means to me.

A. Peter Bailey's response to the Assassination of Malcolm X, 1965

“The following is exactly what I wrote 48 years ago in response to the assassination of Brother Malcolm:

Bro. Malcolm X has been assassinated. Once again, as has happened many times in U.S. history, a black man who was considered a threat to the white racist system has been murdered by other black men. Nat Turner, Denmark Vesey, Marcus Garvey and countless other black leaders were all destroyed by blacks working in alliance with the white power structure. We have to assume it was an alliance because the FBI and local police force and the press have constantly bragged that they have infiltrated the Black Muslim movement, thus they know every move the Black Muslims make. It this be true, and they are the ones who made the claims, then they are either lying about the infiltration or they knew that Bro. Malcolm’s life was in danger and made no attempt to stop the plotters. It is the same situation with the Ku Klux Klan. The FBI constantly brag that they have infiltrated the Klan, yet the Klan has been able to continue its campaign of brutality, harassment and lynching against black people. Again the question is if the Klan is infiltrated how are they able to operate so successfully? The FBI and the police force have almost completely immobilized the Communist Party and successful infiltration; only recently they and the NYC police force were able to infiltrate a small group of black men and accuse them of plotting the bombing of certain monuments. Yet now they and the press want us to believe that an organization, which claimed had been infiltrated by agents, plotted a crime of gigantic magnitude without the infiltrator finding out about it. It is no doubt that if the Black Muslims had planned to bomb or assassinate Wagner or some other comparable figures, they would have been halted before any such plan could succeed. The press is having a field day. It’s all so simple, a feud between the Black Muslims and Bro. Malcolm. Everything is in a tight little package. There are many of us who believe that there are others who desired the death of Bro. Malcolm. For instance those people who had him banned from France, those same people who worried about the effects of his trips abroad, those same people who dreaded the consequences of his trips South. He had spoken in Alabama and was due to speak in Mississippi. These people also would benefit from the removal of Malcolm X. He didn’t fir their pattern. He didn’t waste time criticizing Wallace, Barnett, Clark, Bull Conner and other individual villains speaking for white supremacy. He recognized that these men were products of an evil system, a system which has, for over 350 years, treated non-white people as sub-humans. He recognized that the above individuals were able to operate so freely because the system allowed them to do so. He realized that the power of the racists in Washington is so strong that they can block enforcement of any Civil Rights law. They might not be able to block the law from passing, but they could lock enforcement and laws without the desire and determination for enforcement are meaningless. He knew that powerful racists in the federal government had veto power over the selection of judges and that as long as they held this power, laws are totally meaningless. You let me select the judges and I don’t care what kind of laws you pass. The current situation in Selma is a perfect example of this lack of enforcement.

The Civil Rights law passed in July 1964 was hailed by the press and others as The Supreme accomplishment. Now no more laws would be needed. Voting rights were guaranteed. Bro. Malcolm attacked this belief. He called the laws a fraud. Selma has proven him right. Hundreds of black people are being beaten and jailed for attempting, not to vote, but to register to vote. What is the response of the federal government? Strict enforcement of the recently passed law. No! The arresting of brutal local law officers. No! It’s the same tired call for more laws. 

Bro. Malcolm saw those things occurring and recognizing that the federal government was either unable or unwilling to protect the lives and property of black people, he called for a new approach. Domestically, he told black people to unite and adopt a program of self-defense: internationally, he called for black people to look elsewhere for allies in the struggle for human rights. He said that our struggle is only a part of the worldwide struggle where formerly oppressed people were throwing off oppression and asserting themselves. He told us to make use of the U.N., especially the Commission on Human Rights, as other minority groups have done, most notable the Russian Jews. He traveled throughout Africa, the Middle East and Europe telling any group who would listen that black people in the U.S. needed their help in their struggle for human rights. He felt that Afro-Americans have a psychological complex about being a minority and that if they tied their struggle to the struggles of oppressed people throughout the world, it would help them, psychologically, in their own struggle. 

These two approaches by Bro. Malcolm, the call for self-defense and the internationalizing of the racial struggle, profoundly disturbed the power structure and their allies. They first tried to brand him as a wild man advocating violence. I heard him speak publicly and privately many times and I never heard him tell black people to roam the streets indiscriminately shooting whites. He only called for self-defense, which is a basic element in all human society. His specific words were: “In those areas where the federal government is either unable or unwilling to protect the lives and property of black people, then black people should prepare to defend themselves.” Hardly a statement advocating violence. I would called it a reasonable statement. The Human Rights Struggle is already a violent movement; the violence all being committed by the white supremacists.

When Bro. Malcolm traveled abroad, they had their people watch him. They feared his eloquent and well-documented speeches to friendly audiences. Newspapers cooperated by completely blacking out reports of his travels abroad; newspaper columnists dropped hints about taking away his passport and by attempting to brand him a communist. They finally had him banned from speaking at a rally in France. He wasn’t even allowed by the French bureaucrats to contact the American embassy in Paris. He told us when he commented on the official that he didn’t know that France has become a satellite of the U.S., the man blushed and implied that the American embassy was involved in the ban. Incidentally, Bro. Malcolm said that the French Communist Party had refused to allow the rally to be held in their hall and had put pressure on other owners to deny their halls. All of these things make us feel that there are others who desire and would benefit from the removal of Bro. Malcolm.

Bro. Malcolm was a considerate man, the most considerate man I had ever known. The press gleefully took his words out of context and tried to paint him as a monster when reporting his death. They claimed credit for there even being a Malcolm X. They scoffed at him by saying that he had a handful of followers, and, as one said, he had built up a myth. They were practically dancing over his body. The New York Times and the New York Herald Tribune, those pious, hypocritical prostitutes of the daily press, gave Zeus-like editorials about what a terrible man he was, the Herald Tribune saying that he was no loss to the Civil Rights movement. It must be said that the press devoted a fantastic amount of space and time to the death of such an “Insignificant” man. Their very press coverage of his death and the reaction of the people and others leaders showed that the Human Rights Movement suffered a considerable loss with the assassination of this articulate, forceful black man. He even presented an image that white America is not used to seeing in black men. They resented and feared not only what he was doing, but even more so the potential of what he could do in the future. Bro. Malcolm pointed this out very clearly when he told an antagonist on a radio program that if people like him would spend more time helping and protecting Rev. Martin Luther King and his followers and less time searching for material with which to attack him and other nationalists, the U.S. would be a better place to live.

Bro. Malcolm was a considerate man, a man who was always courteous to the people who worked with him. On the day that he was assassinated I spoke with him. He called me to the room where he was waiting for the rally to begin. this man who the press tries to paint as a monster called me backstage because he wanted to apologize for having spoken sharply to me the previous Saturday. He really hadn’t but he thought that he had called me backstage to apologize. He said that he had just been slightly upset. This is only one example of many such considerate acts that he did for people who worked for him. We talked of several other things in that room. I was one of the last five people that he spoke to before being assassinated. He was not feeling well and he mentioned to me that “The way I feel today I shouldn’t even be speaking publicly.” The press has combined with the police to tell so many lies about that day. One paper said that whites were banned from the rally; a lie only the press was banned; another said that an ambulance came to get him; another lie, we had to send two brothers over to the hospital to get a stretcher, which they brought back to the ballroom and placed Bro. Malcolm upon it and rolled him through the streets to the hospital. The brothers also reported that doctors refused to come to the ballroom; Bro. Malcolm laid on that ballroom stage for over 20 minutes. They say the police rushed right into the hall; another lie. I was sitting in the rear of the hall watching the entrance for the speaker who was expected. After hearing four shots I ran into the main hall, looked up front, saw nothing but confusion. The place sounded like a battlefield. I then ducked back out with groups of people running towards me and ducked into the bathroom, as the side area to avoid the shots. Then immediately after the last shots I ran out of the bathroom and down the center of the totally wrecked hall to the stage. Jumping onto the stage I saw Bro. Malcolm lying on the stage floor with bullet holes all over his chest. I leaned over him and saw that his skin was already getting that deathly look. There were several people administering to him when I got to the stage. I went into the room where others were holding his wife. I told her that someone had gone for the doctor, not knowing whether this was true or not. I then jumped from the stage and started to the rear of the hall to see if a doctor was on the way. It was then, almost ¾ of the way down the hall that I saw the first two cops and those two were just walking through the hall as though they were on a Sunday stroll. This, despite the fact that people were still screaming, crying and the place looked like a battlefield. I can categorically say that the police did not immediately react to the assassination in a professional way. The press lied about that too. And now members of the press have asked the police how a place so thoroughly guarded as the Mosque could be burned down so effectively. The press reporting after Bro. Malcolm’s assassination had been so blatantly an attempt to encourage blood-letting and suspicion among militant black groups that very few people in the black community have been fooled.”

Taken from “Witnessing Brother Malcolm X: The Master Teacher: A Memoir” By A. Peter Bailey. (pgs 110-119)

Resurrection

Originally posted by jasontoddlonelysoul

A/N: Its been three years since the death of Y/N’s lover, and she has now returned from her long trip away from Gotham. But will returning to the city that she has always identified as home bring back old ghosts?


The bell echoed in my ears as I pressed it, looking up at the Wayne Manor cast in shadow due to the setting sun when finally the door opened to reveal the familiar butler who I had missed so dearly. ‘Y-Y/N?’ I smiled up at him, ‘Good evening Alfred, I was wondering if I could come in?’ 

‘Well of course Madam! You don’t even need to ask!’ He said with a large smile, pulling the door further open so I could make my way in, leading me to the lounge where he kept me while he would call the others, rushing off with a large smile on his face. 

I sat there, looking around at the familiar surroundings that I hadn’t seen since three years back. I turned instantly at the sound of rushed footsteps, looking up to see three familiar young boys and Bruce Wayne himself, all staring at me shocked and in horror. I just smiled, ‘Is this what I get after three years of not seeing some of my favourite people?’ 

I was nearly thrown off my feet when Dick grabbed me, bringing me into his tight embrace, instantly wrapping my arms around him as he whispered in my ear, ‘I thought we’d never see you again.’ I smiled gently, holding him tightly, ‘That would never happen, I promised you that.’ 

I felt the younger ones hug me from behind, whimpering softly at the sight of me. I turned out of Dick’s embrace pulling them both into my arms as they clung to me, Damian tearfully crying, ‘Thank God your back. I thought I was going to die without you!’ 

‘Oh please, I was the one who missed her the most!’ Tim exclaimed gleefully. I rolled my eyes at the two youngsters, ruffling their heads quickly before turning to the oldest Wayne, smiling up at the man who adopted me, ‘Hi Dad.’ 

Bruce just smiled at me, pulling me into his arms, having to lean down low to reach me, ‘Don’t call me that. Sounds way too old kid.’ I just chuckled at this, smiling widely as he placed a kiss to my head, pulling back and looking down and up at my form, ‘You’ve changed! You look like an independent woman of your own now.’ 

I smiled at this. Indeed I had changed. Boston had changed me in all sorts of different ways, including the way I lived. Living in Gotham I had always been known as the rich adopted daughter of Bruce Wayne along with his many sons, but moving away had made me into a much simpler woman. But the death of my older adopted brother … and lover, had made me leave in the first place. 

Everywhere I had gone I remembered moments we had shared, the restaurants we had visited, the beaches, the parks, even standing in the manor was hard to a certain extent. After he died I stayed at the manor, but a week later, I left without a trace but a letter, explaining that I would return whence I was ready.  

I smiled around at the people around me, ‘Well I couldn’t help it, a simpler life sounded nice. But of course I couldn’t stay away too long from home could I? Couldn’t let all the men have the fun could I?’ Bruce chuckled at this, Tim and Damian huffing, as Dick just smiled, ‘How long are you staying?’

‘Well actually I’m planning on staying. I can’t keep running away from demons any longer,’ The two youngsters cheered as Alfred smiled, ‘I’ll have your room made up for you in no time Madam.’ Tim and Damian continued jumping up and down, running around me in a circle before Bruce grabbed both of them with a smirk, ‘Now you two don’t go too crazy, you have training AND homework to do.’ 

They both groaned, Dick and I snickering under our breath as they were seen out of the room by Alfred and Bruce. 


I found myself pushing the black gates open to the cemetery, taking a deep breath before making my way through the aisles of the dead, passing Bruce’s parents along with Dick’s before stopping at the name I never wanted to see. 

Jason Todd. 

I took a deep breath, before placing the large bunch of flowers I had picked myself before the grave, pulling the vines and weeds away from the grey headstone. I sat down before it, but I stayed silent. I knew if I spoke, I wouldn’t be able to keep myself together. Just looking at this headstone brought tears to my eyes, and all I could remember was those few nights when everything went wrong. 


‘Where is he?’ 

‘Y/N-’

‘Where the fuck is Jason?!’ I screamed as I entered the bat cave pulling off my mask as I pulled myself away from Dick, only to face Bruce, the large computer screen paused on the image of the one and only psychotic Joker’s face. My blood boiled instantly, looking to Bruce, ‘Where’s Jason? I want to see him!’ 

‘Y/N he’s-’

‘No he’s not!’ I turned angrily to Dick who instantly froze, my eyes wide and hair wild and curled due to the late night extravaganza’s. I looked back and forth between the two, shaking my head as I choked, ‘He’s not dead! He promised me he would be safe! That he would come back!’ 

‘Y/N … He is dead. Joker just sent this, and I-I went to look for the body … He’s not there. He’s gone.’ I shook my head at this, trying to breathe but finding it so fucking hard as I turned to the screen, my nails now clenching the back of Bruce’s chair as I just snarled, ‘Play it.’ 

I heard Dick begin to intervene but was stopped, probably by Bruce before he stepped forward and clicked enter. I watched, frozen as the tape played, my eyes frozen on the man in the red suit, covered in blood, scars, an imprinted “j” burn to his right cheek, his eyes flittering with emptiness that I had never seen before from Jason. 

‘Did you get that Bats? Kid’s not yours anymore. He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine. To do with as I wish,’ Is what I heard leave the Joker’s lips before he asked the young boy who Batman was. I turned my head slowly to Bruce who was frozen, his face rigid and hands clenched in fists. Dick was no better state, tears welling in his eyes. I turned back as Jason finally spoke, “Of course sir, it’s-”

My scream enveloped the gunshot sound that echoed through the cave, my hand clasping my mouth in horror as I watched as Jason was thrown back by the force of the bullet, still as he lay against the floor, unmoving, unchanging. I felt myself fall to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably as I shook my head over and over, chanting, ‘No, No, No, No!’ 

I grabbed my chest, hitting it over and over again as my tears flowed, screaming, crying, sobbing as I did before being stopped by Bruce who grabbed me, cradling me in his arms tightly. I rammed my fists against him, hitting him as hard, obviously having no affect on him, before I finally gave in, allowing myself to cry into my father’s chest, the maniac laughter ringing out throughout the cave as I screamed-


‘Y/N?’ I wiped away a tear at this, looking up as Dick placed himself beside me, looking up at the headstone before turning to me, ‘You still haven’t gotten over him haven’t you.’ 

I chuckled at this, ‘Well, I thought you had too. Seems like you’re no better.’ He just smiled lightly at this, shaking his head. ‘I lost my younger brother. I know he was a stubborn pain in the ass, but he was different from the other two, and we got along really well. I remember how it had just been the three of us. The golden trio … before-’ 

I wrapped my arm around Dick’s torso, allowing him to lean his head against mine as we looked up at our brother’s, and my lovers, gravestone. ‘I just-I miss having someone like him around,’ He sighed heavily before turning to me fully with a serious look, ‘You wanna come on patrol tonight?’ 

At this my head shot up, but I felt a nagging in my heart, looking up at him sadly, ‘Dick, I don’t think I can do-’

‘I don’t want you to be locked up in that manor, certainly Jason wouldn’t want that of you,’ I heaved heavily at his words, running a hand through my hair quickly. ‘Come on little one, we don’t want the world to forget the batgirl who keeps this family together now do we?’ 

I looked up at this with a smile, shaking my head, ‘We most definitely DO NOT want that. Fine! I’ll come!’ At this my older brother smiled, hugging me tightly to his chest, allowing me to wrap my arms around him too. He helped me to my feet as he began to explain to me how he and Bruce had been following up a case about some new drug lord who had begun selling weapons to an unidentifiable source. 

As he lead me out of the cemetery however, a flash of red from the thick forest caught my eye, making me turn instantly to see nothing. 


It felt strange to wear the mask again, but it felt amazing to feel the wind in my stride and the feeling of free falling. I smiled as I landed beside Bruce and Dick, both thoroughly dressed as they watched over a warehouse. Bruce smirked at my appearance, ‘So you decided to come! Dick wouldn’t tell me if you agreed.’ 

‘I wanted it to be a surprise for once in a while!’ Nightwing called back, smiling and giving me a wink before we looked towards the warehouse where a man in a white suit, a familiar black mask shining in the mask. ‘Black Mask huh, I thought this guy was history in Arkham?’

‘Well you know how it is, Batgirl, he’s got voices on the inside and the out,’ Bruce said as he instantly turned into the side of Batman before jumping down towards the ground below, both Dick and I following instantly, landing in unison as Black Mask and his men turned in horror, ‘Its over Black Mask, you and your bandits are being delivered back to Arkham!’ 

Black Mask chuckled at this before turning me, a smirk in his voice, ‘Why by the by, Batgirl has returned to Gotham!’ He gave a mocking bow before pulling out one of his guns, ‘Lets give her the welcome of her life!’ And at this chaos broke out. I instantly threw myself at two thugs, kicking one straight in the throat while I threw a punch at the other, both knocked out cold as I tripped another who came running at me. 

However I wasn’t ready when another came at me, punching me right in the face, my vision instantly blurring as he came at me again, unable to sense him before he sent me right through the doors of the warehouse behind the chaos, landing against a couple of planked boxes. I groaned heavily, spitting blood as I just muttered to myself, ‘Remind me to do some training before I come back on the job.’ 

I looked up in time to see the same man raise a hammer towards my face, when suddenly he was stopped by an unknown figure who smashed his way through the window, sending him flying across the room. I looked up only to face a red masked unknown, staring at my own reflection in his helmet. 

‘Who the hell-’

‘DUCK!’ The individual yelled, covering me as he pulled me behind the large craters as a the roar of a machine gun rang out. I looked up at him as he turned his face back towards me inclining his head towards the pillars before I pulled away from him, running across the warehouse and hiding behind them as another round went off, splintering as it hit the cemented rock. 

I heard a rustle before maniac-like laughter rang out from Black Mask, ‘You’re here?! Of all people you just have to show up at the same as she does! Welcome back-’

I was confused before I heard a loud slapping of skin and turned to see Black Mask sent to the floor by the unknown man before Nightwing took off running in chase after him, Bruce checking a pulse in Black Mask, which unfortunately he did. ‘Batman who was that? That guy-’

‘That was the Red hood. He’s been causing deep trouble for a while now, he went quiet but he seems to have found an interest in tonights events. He got away with at least three of those new guns on his way out, bloody sneak,’ Nightwing said as he came back over to us both.  

‘Red hood …’ I muttered under my breath, looking up at the smashed ceiling that revealed the light of the moon pouring down upon me, wondering who on earth this new vigilante, or alliance, was up to. 


I didn’t know I hadn’t gotten here but all I remember was the rush of wind and the journey up the many stairs before finding myself shaking before the door of my old apartment. This had been our save haven, a safe house where Jason or I always escaped to whenever the road got tough. I took one last gulp of breath and the shutting of my eyes, I pushed the door open quickly. I opened my eyes slowly,  allowing myself to be enveloped in the familiar smell of tobacco, rust and blood as I stepped across the threshold.

It was exactly how I had left it, a bit dusty and a couple of cobwebs here and there, but still the same as if I had left it only yesterday. I picked up a few objects from the floor, remembering when I had rampaged after Jason’s death and nearly wrecked the whole place if it weren’t for Dick and Tim showing up.

I picked up an old sweater, lifting it to my nose as I smelt the familiar scent of cologne that I still loved so dearly, but threw it to the couch as the familiar pain rose in my chest. I looked around at the small complex, smiling to myself at the many memories I had of it before I heard the rustling of wind.

Before I knew it, I had my gun drawn and placed to the forehead of the Red Hood, who stood just an arms length from me. Bruce forbid us from using them in battle, but always said to keep them on us for safety. 

He didn’t want another incident like what happened with Jason to happen again. ‘You think you could sneak up on me Red Hood? You should know that I’m one of the best trackers.’

He stayed silent at this.

‘Well are you going to say anything or do I have to put a bullet in your brain to get a answer?’ I said with a small smirk before he scoffed, ‘Already have had one in my chest, doll.’ I chuckled at this, ‘Well its a good thing that I know now that you have experience. But I must ask, how did you find me?’ 

‘Its not hard to follow a bat … Y/N.’ My eyes widened in horror, instantly pressing my gun to the hard surface of his helmet, ‘Who the hell are you and how do you know who I am?’ 

He stayed silent at this before he reached out his hand towards me, and in a flash had me up against the wall, making me gasp as I pressed the gun to the only available flesh I could see, just to the jugular of his neck. 

We froze, staring at each other before he reached up to my face caressing the skin of my cheek with the back of his leather gloved hand before he allowed his fingers to pull away the mask, making me stare up at him in horror as he stared into my face, wondering what the hell was going on as he muttered, ‘You’re still so beautiful …’ 

My blood boiled and I pushed the gun further into his neck, making him instantly jerk before he pulled away from me. 

Just as I was about to open my mouth, I watched as his hands crept to the side of his helmet, making me freeze in amazement as he clicked it open, before ever so slowly removing it. 

My eyes was instantly fell to the patch of white hair before falling to the familiar crystal blue eyes that I had fallen fall so insanely with since the moment we met. But I just froze as I instantly realised that the man I loved, still loved, Jason Todd, now stood before me. 


NEXT

Remember to request <3 and if you want a prompt pick from the list for any imagines you would like or the Jason todd list!

reasons why u should be watching legends of tomorrow
  • its entire team consists of diverse superpowered people
  • Martin Stein, a 60+ old man, aka Firestorm, is one half of a fusion super hero. he’s also a super smart scientist who spends time fangirling throughout history
  • Jefferson Jackson, aka Jax, aka Firestorm, is the other half of said fusion super hero. he’s black, comes from a single parent home, and he’s a mechanic.
  • Sara Lance, aka White Canary, is a bisexual assassin who just keeps on fuckign coming back to life like every time she dies she just comes back like “bITCH YOU THOUGHT”
  • Ray Palmer, aka The Atom, is basically Ant Man and Iron man mixed in one and he’s just honestly a ray of sunshine
  • Mick Rory, aka Heat Wave, is an ex convict arsonist who’s done some bad things in the past that still haunts him but he’s like so protective of his friends
  • Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold, is played by mixed actor Wentworth Miller, and he’s an ex con who cares about his sister so much that he becomes a thief to support her and stuff like…..he pretends he’s a bad, heartless guy,.,,.but He’s Not
  • Kendra Saunders, aka Hawkgirl, is a 4000+ year old Egyptian priestess played by black actress Ciara Renee who has super strength and huge ass wings. she also gets reincarnated every time she’s killed, but she’s also connected to her soulmate who’s reincarnated alongside her
  • Carter Hall, aka Hawkman, is a 4000+ year old Egyptian dude who also has super strength, a kick ass mace (which is later given to Kendra), and the same huge ass wings that Kendra has. he gets reincarnated too, and every time they die, they lose their memories of their previous lives until they meet again and their powers re-emerge
  • Rip Hunter, aka that dude who played Rory Williams in doctor who, is a time traveler enlisting them all to save his family who is murdered by Vandal Savage
  • Vandal Savage is a 4000+ year old Egyptian dude who was in love with Kendra in their first life time. Since she was in love with Carter, they were never a thing. And, as most men, he couldn’t take no for an answer and so he proceeded to kill the couple, but not before a cosmic event happened that granted them limited immortality. Vandal gets stronger and closer to complete immortality with each time he kills the couple throughout the years
  • basically it’s like doctor who meets the Justice league and avengers
  • a bunch of useless info about time travel
  • you don’t question whatever mumbo jumbo they come up with
  • every single character deserves better
  • the show has one gay character who’s been proven to never really actually die (Sara)
  • three black characters (Jax, Kendra, Leonard (technically))
  • an old man who’s a superhero (Stein)
  • two science nerds (Ray and Stein)
  • two ex convicts (Snart and Rory)
  • a time traveler (rip hunter)
  • hawkmates (the ship: Kendra and Carter)
  • getting revenge on the creepy dude that’s been stalking and killing u and ur soulmate for four thousand years
  • the show has that one iconic episode where they go back to 1958 and a white lady assumes that Kendra is apart of “The Help” and asks for her to get her another glass of champagne
  • Kendra gets sideyed when she says she’s at said party with her “husband”, white boy Ray Palmer
  • The realtor tells Ray and Kendra to buy a house in the town up north where they have more “forward thinking”, to which Kendra says, “I like my towns backwards”
  • how iconic is that
  • and don’t forget when that dude was hitting on Sara at the bar and she said that the girl he was with was more her type
  • LISTEN the entire show is filled with iconic moments like that
  • the show has the most possible pairings ever with ot8’s
  • everyone is actually in love with each other
  • g o w a t c h legends of tomorrow

I am so enormously tired of fucking bigotry and hatred and prejudice and fascism and racism and homophobia and transphobia and misogyny and all other manner of rich-white-male-centric-heteronormative macho bullshit this country fucking feeds on. I’m so tired of watching as people are continuously denied basic fucking human rights, and are completely brushed aside by a government that favors power and money over the people who depend on it. I’m tired of waking up and learning that we’ve lost another beautiful life because of prejudice and ignorance lack of gun control. We have witnessed so many evils and vowed to never make the same mistakes again but here we fucking are, at the precipice of yet another black hole of bigotry and intolerance and I am fucking sick of it. 

To all of you who believe that your vote for Trump somehow protects you from the economical shit-storm of the next four years, fucking wake up. You’ll be just as far in it as the rest of us, you’ll just be too ignorant to realize because you like your guns and your prejudice a hell of a lot more than your stability. I barely have words to waste on you so I’m keeping it as brief as I can: you are an archaic and sickening representation of the evil that lurks in humankind. People are shocked that moronic, repulsive beings like you still exist. When the economy begins to collapse, you too, will feel the strain, even if you’re hellbent on denying that it was your fault. 

For those of you who did not vote, you had a chance to fight, one of the only chances we as people have, and you allowed it to fall to the winds. You failed yourself because you thought “It doesn’t effect me” it fucking does. It always fucking does. I can’t even count how many young people I heard try and give that argument. “I don’t like anyone” so fucking what. You don’t need to agree with every single tiny aspect of a politicians personality. You don’t need to passionately take to heart everything they say, or run around with their fucking name tattooed on your forehead.  You just need to decided, “Who do I feel is the least likely to fucking ruin everything” and then you vote. Don’t you dare pull that bullshit excuse out of your ass. Always remember, ALWAYS: You may not be interested in Politics, but Politics are interested in you. 

For those of you who voted third party… you knew the risks, you were warned and yet you continued to selfishly push onward. I am disappointed and sickened by the lack of consideration. Understand that third party candidates  are not designed to be winners. Our system does not cater to that outcome and until it does, you’re wasting your vote. We had a relatively high amount of voters for third party candidates last night, not to mention a collection of idiots who wrote in a goddamn dead Gorilla. What exactly are you trying to prove? The next time an election rolls around, and you want to spread your rebellious “i-watch-a-lot-of-apocalypse-movies-so-i-totally-know-how-to-handle-one-and-we-really-need-a-rebellion” wings; think about the fact that this is fucking real life. This isn’t the fucking time for you to fantasize that your privileged ass knows anything about surviving an actual political apocalypse. Wake up. Understand that there are lives at steak right now because you were selfish.

For those of us who are panicked and terrified and mourning the loss what we have worked for: We must continue to love each other and take care of each other. The future is bleak and we are, again, oppressed, just when things started to feel a little lighter. I will say that we all have to remain gracious and loving, and thoughtful and critical about how we’re going to make it through the next four years. But I will also be honest when I say that yes, I am terrified. Yes I am grieving and crying, but I am also filled with fire and rage and justice and I am angrier now than I ever have been. And I am not ashamed of my rage. I continue to see posts like “don’t dwell on this” “don’t worry so much” and honestly, fuck that. I am worried, not just because we have a literal bag of shit as president, but because that bag of shit stirs all of the nationwide bags of shit, and the people who are simply trying to live fair and equal lives have to spend the next four years looking over their shoulders in fear that they could be killed or hurt, or that their family members could be killed or hurt. Muslim women fear wearing their hijabs, men are running around bragging about how they’re going to assault women and get away with it, Pence is already promising that he’s going to work at revoking most of our lgbtq rights. Poc everywhere are terrified that they will be deported or assaulted or any manner of the racial hatred that will inevitably ensue this election. Women are facing the very real possibility of losing the rights to their own bodies, of losing health benefits and free birth control. We’re all fucked for health care. So don’t ANYONE tell me not to dwell on this. I am dwelling. I’m stewing and festering and bubbling because I am angry. We all should be angry and we should all be proud to be angry because we are right to be.

I am not usually confrontational. I am not usually angry. I don’t want to cause unrest or dissonance or make a scene. However, this election seems to have set the stage for a great many inconsistencies and deviations. So guess the fuck what. I am confrontational. I am angry. I want to cause all the unrest I fucking can because what our blessed country has done to us is fucking wrong. We deserve better.

If anyone, for a moment, thinks that I am going to sit here and watch all of the work we have done, not only for the past 8 years, but throughout history, be wiped away by a collection of ancient, white, racist shit-rags and their prize winning clown, they had better wake the fuck up. 

We are a generation who have seen change. Felt change. Held it in our hands. We are hungry for it, now more than ever, and we will fight. We will love each other, support each other, hold each other through these next four years of hardship, and we will be graceful and classy and just, but we will fight. 

We deserve justice and peace and kindness and the fucking right to live a happy life without fear. We are the change and we will continue to be. We are brave and empowered and intelligent and compassionate, and we embrace the future that includes the all and not just the few. We will forge onwards because we are angry and we are terrified of losing what we hold dear to us. We never want to go back in time, and we’ll fight through this together so that the future we make together, is better than any future they wish to drag up from the past. 

Start a War: Part Three, Tovarish (Darkling/Alina)

Summary: Ruin & Rising alternate ending (and spoilers) : It takes three hundred years for her to love him again. Darkling x Alina, Nikolai x Alina and some Mal x Alina.

Notes:

Thank you for all of the notes, kudos, reviews, asks, and comments!! Special thank you to morozovaaleksander aka The Illustrious Dani for talking shop, headcanoning, and reading this over! (And if you love alarkling go read her fics, they are amazing!)

-Ivan and Ana’s children (Alina’s grandchildren) took the Lantsov surname because Nobility > 

Rating: R
Word count: 8086 (part 3 of 5)

@ tumblr: part i. | part ii. | part iii. | part iv. | part v.

a03


Part Three: Tovarish

He’s heard the expression before, but it’s not until he’s truly setting foot in the Little Palace that the Darkling feels the reality of never going home again. It’s not the first time he’s been banished from Os Alta, but it is the first time he looks to find something familiar. Rulers are replaced, kingdoms fall, but palaces remain unchanged save for the portraits hanging in the halls. And the Little Palace is no different—its fine carpets are the same, the chandeliers, and the gardens, too.

There is still a small hut on the grounds, down by the shoreline.

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anonymous asked:

so I am just curious (as a Christian) what your beliefs are. a lot of your religion is clouded by the extremist and what's going on in the political world, but surely there must be something special about being a Muslim....enlighten me please.

Hi there! :)

First off, I’m so glad that you want to know about Muslim beliefs and understand that extremists do not represent Islam! :D

I think these 30 facts about Islam might help (God willing):

1) “Islam” means “Peace through the submission to God”.

2) “Muslim” means “anyone or anything that submits itself to the will of God”.

3) Islam is not a cult. Its followers number over 1.5 billion worldwide. Along with Judaism and Christianity, it is considered to be one of the three Abrahamic traditions.

4) There are five pillars of practice in Islam. These practices must be undertaken with the best of effort in order to be considered a true Muslim:

A) Shahadah - declaration of faith in the oneness of God and that Muhammad is the last prophet of God.

B) Formal prayer five times a day.

C) Fasting during the daylight hours in the month of Ramadan.

D) Poor-due “tax” - 2.5% of one’s savings given to the needy at the end of each year.

E) Pilgrimage to Mecca at least once, if physically and financially able.

5) There are six articles of faith in Islam. These are the basic beliefs that one must have in order to be considered a true Muslim. They are belief in:

A) the One God. B) all the prophets of God. C) the original scriptures revealed to Prophets Moses, David, Jesus, and Muhammad. D) the angels. E) the Day of Judgment and the Hereafter. F) the divine decree (or destiny).

6) Islam is a complete way of life that governs all facets of life: moral, spiritual, social, political, economical, intellectual, etc.

7) Islam is one of the fastest growing religions in the world. To become Muslim, a person of any race or culture must say a simple statement, the shahadah, that bears witness to the belief in the One God and that Prophet Muhammad was the last prophet of God.

8) “Allah” is an Arabic word that means “God”. Muslims also believe that “Allah” is the personal name of God.

9) Allah is not the God of Muslims only. He is the God of all people and all creation. Just because people refer to God using different terms does not mean that they are different gods. Spanish people refer to God as “Dios” and French people refer to God as “Dieu”, yet they are all the same God. Interestingly, most Arab Jews and Arab Christians refer to God as “Allah”. And the word Allah in Arabic appears on the walls of many Arab churches.

10) The Islamic concept of God is that He is loving, merciful, and compassionate. But Islam also teaches that He is just and swift in punishment. Nevertheless, Allah once said to Prophet Muhammad, “My mercy prevails over my wrath.” Islam teaches a balance between fear and hope, protecting one from both complacency and despair.

11) Muslims believe that God has revealed 99 of His names (or attributes) in the Holy Qur’an. It is through these names that one can come to know the Creator. A few of these names are: the All-Merciful, the All-Knower, the Protector, the Provider, the Near, the First, the Last, the Hidden, and the Source of Peace.

12) Muslims believe in and acknowledge all the prophets of old, from Adam to Jesus. Muslims believe that they brought the message of peace and submission (islam) to different peoples at different times. Muslims also believe that these prophets were “muslims” because they submitted their wills to God.

13) Muslims neither worship Muhammad nor pray through him. Muslims solely worship the unseen and Omniscient Creator, Allah.

14) Muslims accept the original unaltered Torah (the Gospel of Moses) and the original Bible (the Gospel of Jesus) since they were revealed by God. However, none of those original scriptures are in existence today, in their entirety. Therefore, Muslims follow the subsequent, final, and preserved revelation of God, the Holy Qur’an.

15) The Holy Qur’an was not authored by Muhammad. It was authored by God, revealed to Muhammad, and written into physical form by his companions.

16) The Holy Qur’an has no flaws or contradictions. The original Arabic scriptures have never been changed or tampered with.

17) Actual seventh century Qur’ans, complete and intact, are on display in museums in Turkey and many other places around the world.

18) If all Qur’ans in the world today were burned and destroyed, the original Arabic would still remain. This is because millions of Muslims, called Hafiz (or “preservers”) have memorized the text letter for letter from beginning to end, every word and syllable. Also, chapters from the Qur’an are precisely recited from memory by every Muslim in each of the five daily prayers.

19) Muslims do not believe in the concept of “vicarious atonement” but rather believe in the law of personal responsibility. Islam teaches that each person is responsible for his or her own actions. On the Day of Judgment Muslims believe that every person will be resurrected and will have to answer to God for their every word, thought, and deed. Consequently, a practicing Muslim is always striving to be righteous.

20) Islam was not spread by the sword. It was spread by the word (Islamic teachings) and the example of its followers. Islam teaches that there is no compulsion in religion (the Holy Qur’an 2:256 and 10:99).

21) Terrorism, unjustified violence and the killing of innocent people are absolutely forbidden in Islam. Islam is a way of life that is meant to bring peace to a society, whether its people are Muslim or not. The extreme actions of those who claim to be Muslim may be, among other things, a result of their ignorance or uncontrolled anger. Tyrant rulers and those who commit acts of terrorism in the name of Islam are simply not following Islam. These people are individuals with their own views and political agendas. Fanatical Muslims are no more representative of the true Islamic teachings than Timothy McVeigh or David Koresh are of Christianity. Extremism and fanaticism is a problem that is common to all religious groups. Anyone who thinks that all Muslims are terrorists should remember that the famous boxer Muhammad Ali, perhaps the most celebrated person of our era, is a practicing Muslim.

22) The word “jihad” does not mean “holy war”. Instead, it means the inner struggle that one endures in trying to submit their will to the will of God. Some Muslims may say they are going for “jihad” when fighting in a war to defend themselves or their fellow Muslims, but they only say this because they are conceding that it will be a tremendous struggle. But there are many other forms of jihad which are more relevant to the everyday life of a Muslim such as the struggles against laziness, arrogance, stinginess, or the struggle against a tyrant ruler or against the temptation of Satan, or against one’s own ego, etc.

23) Women are not oppressed in Islam. Any Muslim man that oppresses a woman is not following Islam. Among the many teachings of Prophet Muhammad that protected the rights and dignity of women is his saying, “…the best among you are those who treat their wives well.” (Tirmidhi)

24) Islam grants women numerous rights in the home and in society. Among them are the right to earn money, to financial support, to an education, to an inheritance, to being treated kindly, to vote, to a dowry, to keep their maiden name, to worship in a mosque, etc., etc.

25) Muslim women wear the head-covering (hijab) in fulfillment of God’s decree to dress modestly. From a practical standpoint, it serves to identify one as attempting to follow God in daily life and, therefore, protects women from unwanted advances from men. This type of modest dress has been worn by righteous women throughout history. Prominent examples are traditional Catholic Nuns, Mother Teresa and the Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus.

26) Arranged marriages are allowed in Islam but are not required. Whereas “forced” marriages, usually stemming from cultural practice, are forbidden. Divorce is permissible, however, reconciliation is what is most encouraged. But if there are irreconcilable differences then Islam permits a fair and just divorce.

27) Islam and the “Nation of Islam” are two different religions. Islam is a religion for all races and enjoins the worship of the one unseen God who, orthodox Muslims believe, never took human form. The “Nation”, on the other hand, is a movement geared towards non-whites and teaches that God appeared in the form of Fard Muhammad in 1930 and that Elijah Muhammad (a man who died in 1975) was a prophet of God. These beliefs clearly contradict the basic Islamic theology outlined in the Qur’an. The followers of “the Nation” adhere to some Islamic principles that are mixed with many other teachings that are alien to Islam. To better understand the difference between the two, read about Malcolm X, his pilgrimage to Mecca and his subsequent comments to the media. Islam teaches equality amongst all the races (Holy Qur’an 49:13).

28) All Muslims are not Arab. Islam is a universal religion and way of life which includes followers from all races of people. There are Muslims in and from virtually every country in the world. Arabs only constitute about 20% of Muslims worldwide. Indonesia has the largest concentration of Muslims with over 120 million.

29) In the five daily prayers, Muslims face the Kaaba in Mecca, Arabia. It is a cube-shaped stone structure that was originally built by Prophet Adam and later rebuilt by Prophet Abraham. Muslims believe that the Kaaba was the first house of worship on Earth dedicated to the worship of one god. Muslims do not worship the Kaaba. It serves as a central focal point for Muslims around the world, unifying them in worship and symbolizing their common belief, spiritual focus and direction. Interestingly, the inside of the Kaaba is empty.

30) The hajj is a simultaneous pilgrimage to the Kaaba made by millions of Muslims each year. It is performed to commemorate the struggles of Abraham, Ishmael and Hagar in submitting their wills to God.

(Source: islamondemand.com)

Please feel free to let me know if you have any further questions or concerns! Thank you! :)

Time Stood Still, Part 3: There Were No Seals Now

Series so far here

And then the storm breaks, the dreamscape shifts, and through the subconscious fog the shore appears, sunlight glittering on white stone…in Davos II, GRRM almost lets our hero and the reader alike forget there’s a war on. The key word there, however, is “almost.” 

I said in the intro to this series that the central psychological focus of Davos’ ADWD arc is the act of remembering. If his first chapter was about bad memories and bitter realities, it also ended on a positive invocation of the past: the Borrells allowing Ned Stark to return home to fight a just war alongside his beloved Baratheon against the tyrannical regime which had killed his relatives with fire at King’s Landing…and hey, isn’t “fight a just war alongside his beloved Baratheon against the tyrannical regime which had killed his relatives with fire at King’s Landing” exactly what Davos is doing in ADWD? Indeed, that’s precisely the nature of the appeal he will make to the Manderlys in Davos III, a fierce political empathy, and I’d argue it only hits home as powerfully as it does because the first two chapters (so often held up as examples of the bloat that supposedly plagued ADWD) set up such strong, complex connections between Davos and his environment. 

It’s a running joke in ADWD that Stannis’ southern knights are ludicrously ill-prepared to wage war in the North, not only materially but culturally. We see this from both Jon and Asha’s POVs, and it’s increasingly becoming a real political problem Stannis will have to address in TWOW; his Northern allies will have no part in burning godswoods. 

But Davos is different, because he’s been here before. 

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Get Uncomfortable

I primarily use social media to be my goofy self and not express too many internal thoughts that swim about my head throughout the day, but this week was overwhelming.  It’s really nothing new; unarmed black people being killed with cameras rolling by those sworn to protect their very lives, but I’m tired of the reaction to these murders.  I continue, over and over, to see the same show.  Black person is killed, black people cry out.  White people post a “what is the world coming to?” comment and their contribution is over.  “Good thing I wrote blacklivesmatter!  I’ll sleep like a baby tonight!”

What happened this past week was probably the worst thing I’ve ever seen.  Alton Sterling’s death was an execution, plain as day.  I spent the day in a daze, stupidly reading comments about it, the frustrations at a peak for black people.  It’s always at a peak.  Then I went to bed, not really sleeping, and the video Philando Castile was popping up all over the place.  The consoling of Philando’s daughter to her mom has not escaped my mind since I heard her.  If your heart wasn’t shattered hearing a child tell her mom “it’s okay” after her dad was just killed, then you simply are not human.

Right now, we need to change lots of things.  Like, pretty much everything.  The first thing we need to do is get uncomfortable.  Very uncomfortable.  We need to have the awkward conversations with people who don’t look like us.  We can sit here all day and say how we are the same—how our blood is all red or whatever, but the fact is, we aren’t.  I’m not black.  I am white.  I will never, ever, ever understand what it is to be living as a black person.  This does not mean I can’t attempt to understand.  And who better to understand what it’s like to be black, than to listen to a black person.  Black people are literally shouting in the streets right now, and all you have to do is listen.

It’s not just protests outside, it’s on the Internet.  We have the Internet.  Read the essays, read the tweets, read the statuses…donate, share, learn.  If you think a Kardashian invented Bantu knots, you’re learning from the wrong sources.  Knowing that a black man invented peanut butter is not enough knowledge.  I think we have this blockage right now for several reasons.  I think the tensions are at an all time high, and that makes the dialogue even harder to have.  That little girl in the video who had to comfort her mom after he dad was killed in front of her probably can’t even tie her shoes yet, and there she was doing what was her natural, loving instinct.  Comfort those who are mourning and those who are struggling.

The constant argument of whose life matters needs to stop, too.  Blacklivesmatter is a direct cry and a movement by black people who are oppressed.  We are all important, yes, but until you get shot for taking out your driver’s license when asked to by a cop, you need to shut up.  There’s no such thing as reverse racism, too.  Can a black person be a complete dick to you?  Sure, why not!  Is that racism though?  No.  Racism isn’t a word you’re allowed to throw around when you feel like a wrong-doing has been done to you by a person of color, white friends.  Racism is you being followed around a store while you’re trying to shop for clothes with your child…because you’re white.  There’s no “reverse racism” going on.  So stop that, too.

I’m really tired and I kind of don’t even have a point to this.  I’m seeing so many people say, “Well, I don’t do that!” or “My dad is a police officer and he never does that!” because it has nothing to do with anything.  That’s the equivalent of someone’s dog attacking you and as your sit in the hospital bleeding, people start bringing up how their own dog would never do such a thing, how their dog is a good dog; rather than offering condolences and wanting to know what happened, if you’re okay.  We get it; there are good cops.  There are lots of really good cops.  Just like there are good dogs out there.  Lots of really good dogs.  But we aren’t focusing on how there are so many good cops there are, because there’s a rather large group that aren’t.  These aren’t shitty McDonald’s employees who aren’t giving you extra sauces, these are men and women sworn into a job that means them protecting and serving you, the public.  Not shooting you because you are trying to sell some CDs.

Help, listen, get uncomfortable.  Black people are simply asking for equal treatment and are trying to live in peace.  They’re literally asking for peace.  If you’re at this part and are smiling because you have three or four black friends, you aren’t fighting anything.  “I have black friends, how can I be racist!?”  Remember, you don’t have to go out in the street and protest, you don’t have to post a picture of Martin Luther King Jr., you have to listen carefully and understand that we aren’t the same.  Do you really know your friends?  Your black friends being upset at people who look like them being treated like garbage is something you need to work on understanding.  Have the uncomfortable talk; we are different.  If we were the same, this wouldn’t be happening.  It’s okay to have oranges and apples in the same bowl though.

Watch movies that black people share, read books, look at the art, admire the music, embrace the difference and know the history.  Don’t steal it.  Reading To Kill a Mockingbird isn’t enough.  Watching a movie with Denzel Washington in it isn’t enough.  We aren’t getting along because we aren’t understanding each other.  “But Sam, if I’m learning about black culture, shouldn’t they learn my white culture?”  No, black people know ALL about white culture, trust me.

Right now, I think we are all a little tempted to unplug and disconnect.  That’s normal, that’s healthy.  Do not assume that by doing-so means you’re throwing in the towel.  Never feel guilty for that.  Nobody should feel like if they don’t speak out immediately they are horrible people.  Don’t shove the feelings down though, and don’t talk about it while it’s a hot issue in the press.  These things are happening every day—take note of that.  The fact that some of my black friends have thanked me for “speaking up” makes me incredibly sad.  They thank me.  I couldn’t tell you how sad that makes me that my acknowledging them, acknowledging something so obvious as the mistreatment of black people in America is grounds for a fucking thank you.  What does that say about how bad the interactions are?

Go and listen.  Go be uncomfortable.  We are too comfortable right now and that’s why nothing is changing and nothing is working.  We are comfortable with the violence and the mistreatment because we are used to it.

What’s the biggest problem with women artists? None of them can actually paint, says Georg Baselitz

Women cannot paint well, despite making up the majority of art students, according to one of Europe’s pre-eminent post-war artists.

Germany’s Georg Baselitz has dismissed centuries of female artists at a stroke – from Artemisia Gentileschi and Frida Kahlo to Bridget Riley and Paula Rego – in his claim that women lack the basic character to become great painters.

Baselitz, who was lauded by the Royal Academy five years ago as one of the greatest living artists, dismissed women painters, saying that they “simply don’t pass the market test, the value test”, adding: “As always, the market is right.”

His comments sparked a backlash, with one art historian calling them “nonsense”.

“Women don’t paint very well. It’s a fact,” the 75-year-old German artist told the German newspaper Der Spiegel. “And that despite the fact that they still constitute the majority of students in the art academies.”

Baselitz conceded there were exceptions, pointing to Agnes Martin, Cecily Brown and Rosemarie Trockel. After praising Paula Modersohn-Becker, however, he added that “she is no Picasso, no Modigliani and no Gauguin”.

Griselda Pollock, professor of the social and critical history of art at the University of Leeds, hit back: “The most boring of all arguments is that men are better than women. It’s self-evidently nonsense.”

Pollock, co-author of Old Mistresses: Women, Art and Ideology, said: “Only few men paint brilliantly and it’s not their masculinity that makes them brilliant. It’s their individuality.”

She continued: “You have to change people’s perceptions. Baselitz says women don’t paint very well, with a few exceptions. Men don’t paint very well either, with a few exceptions.”

Baselitz is a divisive figure in the art world. Art critic Martin Gayford has called him a “walking monument of art history, one of the major figures of post-war art, and a point of reference for younger artists”. The Independent’s Michael Glover, meanwhile, has described him as “self-aggrandising and publicity-seeking”.

Sarah Thornton, who wrote Seven Days in the Art World, said: “I disagree with him; the market gets it wrong all the time. To see the market as a mark of quality is going down a delusional path. I’m shocked Baselitz does. His work doesn’t go for so much.”

The record for a work by Baselitz was £3.2m in 2011 for his work Spekulatius. The record for a painting by Yayoi Kusama, a female artist, is £3.8m. In the UK, Bridget Riley has sold for as much as £2.5m.

Pollock said women were held back by several factors but principally the “myth of the painter. The image in the West of a lonely, tortured white man. I could run rings around you with great women artists but there isn’t space in the cultural imagination.”

She added that 20th century art historians had edited out much of the contribution of women painters. “Women have also been put down, when they are good, as having talent and taste, but being too nice and not taking enough risks. It’s a sexist hierarchy.”

Baselitz is not alone in expressing such views about female artists. In 2008, Brian Sewell went further saying there has “never been a first-rank woman artist”. He referred to Bridget Riley and Louise Bourgeois as of the “second and third rank”.

Before the opening of Jenny Saville’s breakout show at the Saatchi Gallery, critic David Sylvester said he “always thought women couldn’t be painters” because “that’s just the way it’s always been”. In 1937, artist Hans Hofmann said Lee Krasner’s work was “so good, you would not know it was painted by a woman”.

Ivan Lindsay, an art dealer and writer, said: “This is a hugely contentious issue. Some people think women just generally aren’t as good, others believe they have been held back throughout history.”

He continued: “It is a fairly outrageous and provocative thing for Baselitz to say and we inevitably react against a comment like that. But he has got to an age where he doesn’t care. Others would probably agree but wouldn’t like to stick their head above the parapet.”