The story behind the dishes picture dated March 1975.
“The Year was 1974. I was an elementary school teacher who had temporarily left my teaching career to return to the University of Utah to earn a Master of Education Degree. I began attending church in a “student branch” (a congregation of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, comprised of unmarried college students.) It was there that I met four young men who shared an apartment not far from my home : Wynn Bartholomew, John Homer, Larry Anderson, and Barry Kraus. Wynn was attending law school at the University of Utah. The apartment where these four men lived was quite large, and became the “social center” or “gathering place” for many of the members of our branch : We went there often for parties.
John Homer and Larry Anderson were “stake missionaries” at the time. One day Wynn told John and Larry about a student at the Law School who was possibly a potential convert and who might be interested in having religious discussions with them; his name was Ted Bundy. John and Larry began giving religious lessons to Ted at their apartment. They invited Ted to come to church and meet the rest of the congregation; Ted was always invited to the apartment for social gatherings as well.
Eventually Ted committed to being baptized. Many members of the student branch attended the baptism to show their support. Our branch president, Michael Preece, interviewed Ted prior to baptism… John Homer performed the baptism and his missionary companion, Larry Anderson, pronounced the confirmation. Little did anyone know what dark secrets Ted was hiding!
The ratio of women to men in our student branch was about 4 to 1, so new men coming to our branch were always of interest, and Ted was no exception. He was polite, courteous, intelligent, and attractive. Many of the young women wanted to date Ted; he became quite popular in our group. Ted attended some of our social gatherings, and afterwards, Wynn remembered that to him, Ted seemed quiet and mysterious; at social gatherings he would sit in the background and just watch people silently.
In March 1975, I organized a birthday party for one of our branch members, Sam Green; the party was held at Wynn’s apartment. I was busy washing dishes when Ted walked over and stood beside me.“You look like you could use some help” he offered. I was flattered that he would notice me, and hoped that perhaps he would ask me out on a date. My camera was sitting nearby, and I handed it to Wynn and asked, “Wynn, take my picture with Ted!”Ted pointed a rinsing gun at me as we posed together. It was one of the few pictures taken of Ted outside a courtroom or jail.” - Carol Hall Bartholomew
Summary: After waking up from a two year coma & catching up with Barry, the reader has a little chat with her brother, Oliver Queen. Except, everyone seems to be acting oddly, what could they be hiding?
Disclaimer: I’ve never actually watched Arrow, I apologize for that.
“That is not true!” He smiled
as you stood up holding a dvd in your hand.
“I can’t help that Monty
Python is over quoted and over done.” He told you.
“But this is the Holy Grail.
Everyone likes the Holy Grail.” You
shook the dvd case in front of him.
“I’m not everyone.” He
“Fine, what movie is the best
to you?” You crossed your arms. He opened his mouth to speak but the sound of
someone at the door stopped him. You moved to go answer it but his legs stayed
stretched out resting on the table in the way, “Dude…”
“Pay the toll.” He smirked as
you nudged his legs again.
“There’s someone at my door.
Move.” You smiled at him.
“Pay…the toll.” He said
slowly his face not changing as you rolled your eyes, “They’re going to be
waiting a really long time…”
“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.”
You leaned down giving him a kiss. He let you pass walking for the door.
He leaned his head back
watching you. After a few days of getting somethings in order for his plan to
work, he’d taken you to dinner. He had concluded that he was a god, he should be
able to get what he wanted.
He felt happier than he had
in many years. In the cage, he had been so consumed…He shook it off when he
heard you speak, “Dad? Hi! What are you doing here? Did I miss a call?”
He watched you hug an older
gentleman as he stood up listening, “Oh I was in the area and thought I’d stop
by to catch up, but I see I’m interrupting.”
“Right…no you’re fine. I
actually…I want you to meet him.” You smiled looking over to Allen, “Dad, this
is…uh…well this Bartholomew Allen, and this is my dad, John.”
“Bartholomew, don’t hear of many
of those.” John reached out his hand to him.
“And that’s why everyone
calls me Allen.” Allen took his hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yeah…You must be the mystery
guy she’s mentioned, but never reveals.” John smirked and it was then that he
could see the resemblance.
“Dad…” You blushed a little
shutting the door.
“What? I gotta embarrass you when
I can. You’re always so busy now.” He walked over to one of the bar stools in
the kitchen taking a seat.
“I find it hard to believe
that Y/N gets embarrassed.” Allen crossed his arms smirking at you.
“Please don’t get him started….”
You whispered scratching your forehead.
“You know I might be old.” Your
father looked at you both, “But I still can hear.”
The next few hours were spent
in good conversation and laughter. He’d gotten you to laugh before but the way
your father made your eyes crinkle, it was something special. The more time he
spent with you them more he realized how much he’d forgotten how to live.
“I love you peanut.” John
whispered kissing your head as you lingered holding onto him.
“I love you too dad.” You
smiled letting go finally.
“It was really good to meet
you sir.” Allen held out his hand.
John took his hand firmly, “You
seem alright Allen…take good care of my girl.”
“I’ll do my best.” Allen
smiled stepping closer to you noticing your cheeks flush.
“You two have a good night.”
John turned to the door opening, “Oh and Allen…”
“Yes sir?” He stood up
straight as John looked back at him.
“It’s the Holy Grail…” John
smiled a little, “Sometimes watching it with the right person gives you a
better perspective. Have a good night.”
Allen looked at you smirking
at him, “So I take it…”
“We are totally watching that
movie.” You laughed wrapping your arms around his neck, “Thanks for not running
“He’s your dad, it was bound
to happen. Though I do wish I would have had a little prep time.” He said placing
his hands on your hips as you leaned up kissing him.
“Well you did great.” You
moved your hands to his chest give him a pat, “You get comfy, I’m gonna make
He pulled you back to him as
you stepped away. When you looked to his face you saw him biting his lower lip
in a mischievous way, “So I know of a few places that I can get comfy here, you’re
going to have to get more specific.”
“Oh well…I mean…we could go
about anywhere you want.” He smirked drawing closer to him, “Did you have a
favorite place in mind?”
You yelped as he scooped you
up into his arms heading for the stairs, “I do.”
You smiled a while later you
moved resting your chin on his chest staring up at his face. He smiled at you
before reaching over brushing hair from your face, “You are so beautiful.”
“Thanks.” You blushed a
little leaning into his hands, “You know, I could get real used to this.”
“To what?” He asked letting
his thumb rub against your cheek absently.
“Waking up next to you.” You
watched him smile more. You moved to your knees looking at him for a moment
before swinging your legs off the bed.
“Where you going?” He moved
with you letting his hand trail up your bare back as you searched for something
to put on from the floor.
“I am going to make us
something to eat. We never had dinner.” You looked back him.
“It’s midnight…stay in bed.”
He stared at him.
His stomach let out a loud
low rumble, “Uh…”
“I’ll be back.” You pulled on
your robe before leaning down giving him a kiss, “Just relax.”
Relax. He sighed watching you
disappear from view letting his head rest against the pillows. Yeah…he could
get used of this too.
You came back with some hefty
looking sandwiches. He took his as you set yours on the bed walking over to the
small tv, “No…really?”
You looked back at the
whining man, “This movie is happening…even if we fall asleep watching it.”
He sighed before taking a
bite thinking back to what your father had said to him, which got him thinking
about her father in general, “Hey can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can.” You sat
down picking up your sandwich.
“Your dad…” He looked at you
as the movie started in the background, “He’s…sick?”
You took in a breath nodding
“I’m sorry…” You looked at
him as he put his sandwich on the bedside table, “It’s bad isn’t it?”
“He’s doing okay, but…doctors
aren’t hopeful.” You told him frowning, “You could tell?”
“I’ve been around sick people…”
He told you, “He seems like a healthy guy…is it genetic?”
“Uh actually no.” You picked
at your sandwich, “You’re right he’s really healthy…was…but three years ago he
was at work and that …thing blew up. You know the science thing STAR Labs.”
He listened as you went on, “He
was affected like those special people, but…instead of getting fast or…cool
powers. His genes mutate too fast I guess. The doctors have tried radiation, surgeries…it
always comes back.”
He shut his eyes frowning, “Y/N…I
“It’s okay.” You looked at
him, “My brother and I we’ve come to terms and so has my dad. Doesn’t make it
much easier but…well…you can’t change it.”
“Y/N…you know if you need
anything…ever.” He trailed off.
You smiled scooting closer to
him looking at the tv, “I know…”
He put his arm around you.
The pair of you fell silent watching the film. He smiled every time you started
to mutter some line.
Your dad was right…sometimes
perspective can change with the people you’re around.
Okay, so we all know that the Countess has a type: she’s dated Tristan and Dono, she’s marrying Will, and she’s “closely tied” to James March (maybe she was his wife. We don’t know for sure yet). When she saw John at the fashion show and said he was attractive, Dono said “you sure have a type”.
And when she was doing Tristan’s makeup we can remember she muttered “bellissimo…” and then said “you just remind me of someone”. Then, when he asked who turned her, she said it was someone who was even more beautiful than he.
To add to this, Finn Wittrock, when commenting on the photo comparing all the male actors’ faces in AHS said that there may be a small reason as to why they all look similar.
So what do Tristan, Dono, Will, (March maybe) and John all have in common? Dark hair, light skin, attractive features. This may be the Countess’ type.
Hear me out on this yo because this is where it gets kinda strange. What famous vampire with dark hair and light skin could have turned the Countess and caused her to fall in love so deeply that (almost) all her relationships are just attempts to mimic it?
I think maybe Dracula turned the Countess.
I don’t have any proof at all, but I just thought it was a cool theory. He’s a Count, she’s a Countess, and we all know AHS loves incorporating real life or legendary figures into the show (Marie Laveau, Papa Legba, the Black Dahlia, all the murderers on Devil’s Night, etc.). I think it would be cool to see if Ryan Murphy put his spin on the Dracula legend. There was no for-certain cause of Vlad the Impaler’s (the Romanian dude who Dracula was based off of) death, so there’s kind of an open-ended question.
Don’t look too hard for loopholes because there totally are some. The only way I can tie Dracula and the “Bellissimo” line together is that some people think Vlad the Impaler’s tomb was found in Italy. So there’s that.
But time will tell : ) Thanks for reading!!!
Ambrogio Lorenzetti - Rofeno Abbey Poliptych. Saint Michael the Archangel Slaying the Dragon Between Saint Bartholomew and Saint Benedict; Madonna with Child, Saint John the Evangelist and Saint Ludwig of Tolouse. 1330 - 1335
The thick darkness of the bitter autumn night was broken by
a modest fire, revealing a trio of weary travellers set about the task of not
pondering the miles that lay before them the next day. It was late in the year,
so the three men lay close to the fickle heat of the burning twigs at their
centre. Around them on three sides sat the crumbled ruins of an old farm house.
The walls were thick with creeping plants reaching for the now absent roof, and
all about the floor lay a dense carpet of wild grass. The three were likely the
only living men to have stayed within the walls in living memory.
One man had propped his head against the mossy surface of a
fallen piece of masonry. He was staring at the flames, watching the delicate
fingers dance around one moment and then vanish in the next. Fascinated, he
never broke his gaze. The other two were content to lie on their backs, wishing
for sleep that never seemed to arrive.
The fire watcher became overwhelmed by his fascination and
reached out his hand. The faintest whisper of a flame reached out a finger-like
tendril towards the palm of his hand, separating from the body of the fire. The
disembodied flame began to trace circles around the man’s fingers, tracing slow
and beautiful shapes in the air. The man pulled his hand close to his face. The
flame sat neatly on the palm of his gloved hand, and he continued to stare into
the orange glow. His eyes were illuminated, revealing mismatched irises of
brilliant blue and deep emerald green. He was unshaven, with a fair face
showing only a neutral expression. With a twist of the bare fingers poking
through the ends of his leather gloves the flame grew in intensity, but always
kept its delicate and controlled shape.
A voice revealed that he had gained an audience.
“Who are you Bartholomew?”
He closed his fist, and the ember was extinguished
“A lunatic.” The fire watcher responded. “With the knowledge
of the sanest of wise men.”
Sir Edmund sat up from his place on the floor.
“I’ve heard of the old saints.” He said, his voice as soft
as the flames before him. “I’ve heard of what they could do. They told us all
about it back when I was training, they gave be a tome the thickness of the
length of my thumb and made me study it until my eyes grew stale. It was
incredible really, what they could do. But you. I’ve never heard of you, yet
what you can do is beyond anything I have ever read about.”
Bartholomew looked over at Edmund. From the dismal light he
could tell he had the Knight’s fullest attention.
“I like my anonymity.” He said. “That way I stay my own man,
and not the pawn of anyone looking to use me for any cause that isn’t my own.”
“But Miracles, by their very nature, are no easy feat.”
Edmund pressed on. “Back at Haven, I saw some of the monks, most of them over a
century old, heal the wounds of the injured in just a few days. I can make the
steel of my armour, already a formidable shell, damned near close to
unbreakable when I concentrate, and on a good day I might be able to get a
small fire going without any flint. But you. There seems to be no limit to what
you can do.”
“I have my limits.”
“You don’t seem to. You can do anything it seems to me. I mean,
Hell, the first time I met you I stabbed you through the heart, and within a
few minutes you were walking around again.”
Bartholomew didn’t speak for a few minutes. He was stuck in
thought, pondering how best to respond to a question to which he didn’t truly
know the answer. He continued to stare into the flames, perhaps searching for
his answer then. When he spoke, he did so calmly and slowly, thinking over each
word as he uttered it.
“Have you ever heard of the Holy Wars?” He asked.
“Every young boy grows up hearing the stories of the Old
Knights, and how they fought all those centuries ago carrying The Lord’s
banner, rather than their own heraldry.” The speaker was John, Edmund’s largely
mute squire. He was a youthful yet tenacious man with fire in his past.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of chivalry, of the gracious
Knights conducting gentlemanly war. The Holy Wars were different. They have
been remembered as war in the name of religion and reverence to Christ, but at
the time, they were far from that.”
“What do you mean?” John asked, skewing his head slightly to
“Initially, the wars were no more about ideology than any
other war. Sure, there was the added level of antagonism that was conflicting
methods of worship, but it was still no more than an attempt to increase the
power of the very mortal lords that left from France. The ideology was merely a
means of bringing their followers with them.”
“This is touching, Bartholomew, but what does this have to
do with anything?” John was obviously irritated with having his beliefs about
history being rewritten.
“Let me speak and then I’ll tell you.” Bartholomew shot John
a look of equal irritation. “There was, however, a serious turning point for
the warriors out in the lands far to the East. One group, led by the living
legend that was Bohemond, Prince of Taranto, reached the ancient city of
Antioch. The idea was to capture the city on their way to their ultimate goal
that was of course the Holy city of Jerusalem. When they arrived, however, it
became immediately clear that the Christians were too few to break into the
walls of the city, and those within were too few to rid themselves of the
Christian invaders. Months passed, and the food ran out. The Christians
resorted to the worst possible measure in order to simply survive. People died
in their thousands of starvation. The rich could afford to eat, but the poor.
Well, they survived however they could.
Then Christmas came, and Christians did what would have
seemed absolute insanity to anyone else. They fasted.”
“What?” John exclaimed.
“They cured endemic starvation by fasting?” Edmund was equally
“Not directly.” Bartholomew replied. “But in the days of
fasting everyone became equal. They marched around the camp, shaving their
heads and wearing sack cloth. Priests stood and delivered sermons every hour of
every day. They cast out all the whores, they hanged all of those that had done
even the slightest wrong in the eyes of God and men alike. All of their time
was dedicated to reverence and prayer. They prayed with the righteous temperament
of the most dedicated of followers, and at the end of it all they redistributed
their resources. Everyone had shared in their torment, but everyone had shared
in their rebirth, a rebirth that was fuelled by worship. They cried out to God
to beg forgiveness from all their past deeds and swore to dedicate themselves
to the task of liberating the Holy Land.
And then, everything changed. Against all odds, the
Christians stormed the walls and for the first time in months, they had stone
walls around them rather than the exposed plains of the desert landscape.
Within a few days, however, reinforcements arrived at the
city, intent of slaughtering every last Christian that had stepped foot on
their lands. The Christians were outnumbered, chronically malnourished and
almost completely without any horses or equipment. The day was surely lost,
were it not for the astonishing Miracle performed by a common priest in their
You see, even in Christ’s lifetime Antioch was an ancient
city. After his death, it was widely rumoured that the lance used to pierce his
side after he expired on the cross was carried to Antioch. As it happened, a
priest found this legendary weapon. At first the warriors of Christ didn’t
believe him, so he gave them a demonstration. Clutching the lance in his hand,
he walked across a roaring path of fire, braving the inferno with nought but
the cloth robes of a monk to protect him. Yet when he emerged, he did so completely
untouched by flames. Then the men knew in their hearts that Christ was with
The next day, the reinforcements were utterly defeated,
leaving the Christians as the absolute victors and conquerors of Antioch. They
were outnumbered, outclassed and outmatched in every way except one; their
Silence fell over their campsite. Edmund shuffled for a
moment, John scratched the back of his head.
“It’s a nice story Bartholomew.” John said. “But I’m afraid
you’ll have to explain it to me.”
“Scripture makes a very fine point of saying that Christ was
killed by crucifixion at the hands of the Roman soldiers, and that the man who
stabbed him was a Roman Centurion. Roman’s didn’t use lances as we know them
today. They were shorter, and used as javelins. The points were long and weak
so they could not have been thrown back by their enemies. The shaft would have
long since rotted away and even if the tip had survived, all that would have
been left was a thin piece of steel that would have been weathered by over a
thousand years of exposure. Whatever the priest found was not the Holy Lance.
It was just some spear, probably very common in its design so as to sell the
myth. As for the fire, the priest was a known mystic back in France. It would have
been difficult, but certainly not impossible using illusionary tactics to make
it seem as if he were travelling unscathed through the inferno.
But those soldiers. They did fight against certifiably
impossible odds. They fought, and they died, but when the dust had settled and
the day was done they stood tall. Because, John, in that moment, everything had
come together from the last few months to create the perfect scenario for them.
Belief is the very essence of power, and at that moment their power was far
greater than anything they had ever experienced before. In that perfect moment,
they simply could not have lost, because they had all of the power that they
could have possibly wanted and more.”
The trio fell silent once again. It was quiet without their
speech, with only the lightest breeze flowing over them soft and gentle as a
whisper. The fire had become somewhat dim, making it next to impossible to see
each other’s faces.
“You’re saying that your power comes from your belief? But
not belief in Christ, you’ve made it clear you are no orthodox follower of his.
Your power comes from your simple belief in the fact that you are capable of
performing whatever Miracle you choose?” Asked Edmund.
“I believe it is, and so it is.” Bartholomew replied.
“That’s an interesting theory.” The Knight replied.
“How does soldiers winning a battle equate to you being able
to cast Miracles?” Asked John.
“The difference is the fact that where once we could only
perform Miracles, now we can cast them at will, under the right circumstances.
Nothing has changed in their mechanics, it’s just that now belief is more…” He
paused for a moment. “…Literal.”
“The priest.” Said Edmund. “The one who supposedly found the
Holy Lance. What was his name?”
Bartholomew smiled. The others couldn’t see it through the darkness,
yet somehow they could hear that he was smiling through the tone of his voice.
I take it you read the new pottermore story. Is it as bad as your tags make it sound?
If you mean the Salem witch trials story–yes, it’s that bad. This is what she had to say about the Salem witch trials:
“The last, and probably the
most dangerous problem encountered by wizards newly arrived in North America
were the Scourers. As the wizarding community in America was small, scattered
and secretive, it had as yet no law enforcement mechanism of its own. This left
a vacuum that was filled by an unscrupulous band of wizarding mercenaries of
many foreign nationalities, who formed a much-feared and brutal taskforce
committed to hunting down not only known criminals, but anyone who might be
worth some gold. As time went on, the Scourers became increasingly corrupt. Far
away from the jurisdiction of their native magical governments, many indulged a
love of authority and cruelty unjustified by their mission. Such Scourers
enjoyed bloodshed and torture, and even went so far as trafficking their fellow
wizards. The numbers of Scourers multiplied across America in the late
seventeenth century and there is evidence that they were not above passing off
innocent No-Majs as wizards, to collect rewards from gullible non-magic members
of the community.”
“The famous Salem Witch Trials of 1692-93 were a tragedy for the
wizarding community. Wizarding historians agree that among the so-called
Puritan judges were at least two known Scourers, who were paying off feuds that
had developed while in America. A number of the dead were indeed witches, though
utterly innocent of the crimes for which they had been arrested. Others were
merely No-Majs who had the misfortune to be caught up in the general hysteria
This version fucks up several things:
1) The A good number of judges of the Salem witch trials were NOT native to Salem. All Many of them were brought in from outside the community, and they did not know the people of Salem before coming there. That would seem to make “paying off feuds” a little difficult.
However, the only truly believable Scourer in the group is Hathorne, who was also on the first witch court with Jonathan Corwin, vehemently hated witches and who acted more like an angry prosecutor than a judge. Although Gedney appears to have been easily swayed–he believed that his friend John Alden was guilty after seeing the afflicted girls in action–both he and Corwin only attended the trials of the second court sporadically. And Samuel Sewall issued a public confession in 1698 expressing his remorse and accepting “blame and shame” for his actions against innocent people…the only judge on any Salem court to do so.]
2) Rowling cannot say that some of the dead were witches but were “innocent of the crimes for which they had been arrested”, because the crime for which they had been arrested was witchcraft. A witch, by definition, would be guilty of witchcraft.
(I think that she was trying to say that the accused witches and wizards had not hexed anyone’s animals, made anyone sick, etc. But those were not separate crimes. They all came under the umbrella of witchcraft. This fact is well-known to students of that era and to legal scholars, which makes the “wizarding historians” that she cites look ignorant by comparison. If you’re writing fake history, you need to make it convincing.)
3) Rowling’s version places the blame on the judges, saying that they were Scourers out to destroy witches and wizards. This completely ignores the fact that everything started because of the “afflicted girls”–girls and young women ranging in age from 9 (Betty Parris) to 25 (Sarah Churchill). If the girls had not started accusing their neighbors (both slave and free) of witchcraft, no one would have sent for the judges. There would have been no need.
4) The Salem witch trials were not the only witch trials in America. The earliest arraignment involving colonists was in 1622 Jamestown; the accused was Goodwife Joan Wright. The first execution in the colonies of a suspected witch was Alys Young, who was hanged in Hartford, Connecticut in 1647. There was also a witch hunt in Hartford, Connecticut in 1662. The wizarding historians make it sound as if Salem was the one and only witch hunt, ignoring others in America and numerous witch hunts in Great Britain and on the continent.
6) If some of the dead were witches–which is by no means proven, but let us accept it hypothetically–then the following plotholes arise:
a) Why did none of them use Apparition to escape from jail or from the hangman’s noose? There were other cities, even other colonies, and some people who had advance warning that they were going to be arrested did flee by both land and sea.
b) People without magic did try to save the accused by means of petitions and pleas to the court.
Why did none of their magical friends or family try to save any of them by using, y’know, MAGIC? Because there is no mention of such attempts in this account.
c) Why did none of the accused use Imperio on the afflicted girls to make them admit that what they were saying was not true–or on the judges to force them to admit publicly that they were biased, out to get them, etc.?
d) Why were some people spared if they confessed to witchcraft? If the Scourers were out to destroy all witches, surely there shouldn’t have been any survivors.
e) Given that most witches and wizards in America are not purebloods and that many have been born into non-magical families, why does this book dismiss the non-magical victims of the trials as “merely No-Majs who had the misfortune to be caught up in the general hysteria and bloodlust” as if their deaths did not matter?
And that’s without even getting into the issues of racism, classism and accusations for the sake of land grabs, which had a hell of a lot to do with who was accused.