The letters started in 1976; the citizens of Circleville, Ohio, were living in fear. Numerous residents had received ominous anonymous letters from somebody who claimed to be watching them and watching them they certainly were… The letters detailed private and personal information and were always written in block letters, most likely in an attempt to obscure the true identity of the author. Over 1,000 letters were sent. While many of the citizens were targeted, the vindictive writer seemed to zone in on one person in particular.
Mary Gillespie was a local school bus driver and she was the brunt of the abuse. She received disturbing letters in which the writer disclosed where she lived and frequently threatened her children. In addition to the threats, the letters detailed an apparent affair Mary was having behind her husband, Ron’s, back. Mary denied these claims but they soon wended through the tight-knight community who judged Mary for her apparent wrongdoings. A letter soon arrived for Ron, threatening that his life was in danger if he ignored the affair. After ignoring the letter, in August of 1977, Ron received a phone call. It was presumed the phone call was from the “Circleville Writer.” After slamming down the phone, he grabbed his gun and told his family he was going to confront the letter writing before storming out of the house. He was never seen alive again. Shortly after leaving, his wrecked car was discovered, slammed into a tree on a road that Ron had driven on thousands of times before. Bizarrely, his gun had been shot once. Initially, police claimed foul play was involved but that suddenly changed: it was accidental, they claimed. If this were true then how does it explain the gun being fired?
As if Mary hadn’t been tormented enough, the letters continued but now, the mysterious writer was even more aggressive. He was now placing menacing signs up along her bus route for the whole town to see. On the 7th of February, 1978, Mary decided enough was enough. Previously she had ignored these signs but today, she saw one that infuriated her. She saw a sign along her bus route that threatened her daughter. Nobody was in the bus so she pulled up alongside the sign and went to tear it down. To her horror, when she ripped it down, she realised it had been booby-trapped. Behind the sign was a gun that was set up to shoot when the sign was moved. Thankfully, there was a flaw in the mechanism and it didn’t fire. An investigation uncovered that the gun was registered to Mary’s brother-in-law, Paul Freshour. He staunchly denied he was involved and reported that his gun had been stolen during a recent break in.
Despite the fact that Paul’s fingerprints were not found on the gun or any of the letters or booby trap, he was found guilty of attempted murder. A handwriting expert concluded that the handwriting in the letters matched Paul’s handwriting. However, they came to this conclusion after asking him to replicate the letters in the same style of writing - block capitals. This is unheard of when it comes to handwriting analysis. If you’re attempting to replicate a particular writing style, then you’re going to be obscuring your own. Furthermore, a search of his home uncovered nothing that indicated he was guilty in regards to the letters or the booby trap. Nevertheless, he was sentenced to 7 to 25 years for attempted murder. Investigators and citizens alike assumed that now Paul was behind bars, the letters would cease. How wrong they were.
“Shame how things work out. But better you than me. The sheriff says: you did it. But we know better don’t we,” said a letter received by Paul while in prison. In fact, Paul had been in solitary confinement and was unable to send mail. Nevertheless, the sinister letters continued to arrive; both to Paul and to the concerned citizens on Circleville. Prison guards quickly changed their opinion on Paul’s guilt. They knew he wasn’t sending the letters because it was impossible for him to do so yet the letters with the same handwriting style continued. Paul was finally released after 10 years and staunchly denied any involvement until his death in 2012.
Who was the “Circleville Writer”? Was Paul involved? Was Ron murdered? What was their vendetta against Mary in particular? To this day, the answers to these questions still remain a mystery.
Summary: It’s senior year and everyone is fighting battles they do not want to face. Toxic relationships, conservative parents and alcohol are a bad mix. Quite frankly a recipe for disaster.
Tuesday’s sucked. Feyre had no frees and she had double
English with Rhysand. To top it off, she barely slept last night. After she had
texted back Tamlin, she told Lucien to go to avoid adding more fuel to Tamlins
paranoia. But with her father at an army veteran’s meeting and both her sisters
at University, Feyre felt slight fear that she would be properly alone with her
boyfriend for the first time in almost two weeks. When Tamlin had arrived, he
brought her some flowers and chocolates and showered her with affection. It was
suffocating almost, but she felt comforted that her boyfriend was back to
normal. Some of him anyway. When she tried to get him to talk about his mother,
he would change the subject and end up making out with her instead leading to
him staying the night. On a fucking Monday. It kind of pissed her off. But she
decided to follow Lucien’s advice, be
patient, he said before he left and gave her a quick hug.
Her phone buzzed as Rhys sat down next to her. It was Tamlin
asking let me take you out tonight.
Feyre sighed through her nose before texting back, I have work tonight, you know that. One of the first things on
Tamlins con list was that he hated Feyre having a job – although she had no
damn choice. She and her father could not live on the army amputee veteran’s
benefit they were given alone, and so for years, since she was 14, Feyre worked
at the café down the street from the school. It was only just enough to get by,
but it sufficed.
Change your shift
please xx he texted back. Feyre threw her phone back in her bag, not
wanting to go back into that argument. She was sick of her boyfriend giving her
“Rough night, Feyre darling?” Rhys asked, taking in her dark
circles that Feyre didn’t bother to cover up.
I think the market is a beautiful thing. More beautiful than even Mozart or Bach; more beautiful than a baby’s smile, or the most beautiful woman in the universe. The market is a beautiful thing. The fact that potentially seven billion of us can cooperate without any central direction is just a glorious, gorgeous thing.
out of all the paladins, who do you think has the neatest handwriting? and the sloppiest?
Honestly, the neatest handwriting has to be Hunk.
Hunk’s handwriting would be almost like block letters with random capital letters thrown in even when he’s writing lowercase? because his writing is almost like all capital letters anyway so it just flows well, y’know? and he’s used to writing out all his engineering stuff and he has to be able to understand it and everything so his is very clear, block lettering.
Sloppiest handwriting goes to either Keith or Pidge. They’re both used to scribbling their conspiracy theories in their little notebooks, so it has to be some kind of manic scrawl.
Actually, it’s definitely Keith. Remember his crazy board that he showed everyone with the arrows and the ~mystical energy in the desert~ and the cave drawing pictures? He definitely writes like a man on speed. Like literally when he writes, it’s just a straight line with one or two bumps in it and when Lance is like “does anyone know what these three lines are?”, Keith is like “what, do you not know how to read English now?” and Lance is all “this is. literally one vertical line, one horizontal line, and a straight line with a small slash in it” and Keith is all “yeah, that says ‘I love you’, you absolute fool” and Lance is like “Keith, what the fuck”.
“Ici on noie les Algériens” - “Here we drown Algerians”
-Graffiti on the Saint-Michel Bridge, after the massacre
The Paris Massacre of 1961
In 1961, France found itself embroiled in a fierce counter-revolutionary war against its colony of Algeria. The war started in 1954, and as it dragged on, anti-Algerian laws and attitudes seeped into mainland France. In retaliation of the brutal suppression of the Algerian independence fighters, several police buildings were bombed in Paris. French police began to ruthlessly target Parisians with Algerian backgrounds; other minorities, like Moroccans, Tunisians, Spaniards, and Italians, were sometimes targeted out of ignorance. Those stopped by police were met with harsh interrogation and outright violence - a disturbingly common method used by French police was to beat, handcuff, then throw a suspect into the Seine, effectively executing them through drowning. Established law followed this trend, and by 1961, it was illegal to merely protest against the Algerian War.
On October 5th, a general curfew of 8:30 PM was enforced against all “Algerian Muslim workers,” “French Muslims” and “French Muslims of Algeria.” Pro-Algerian movements urged Parisians to protest this curfew on the night of the 17th. French police responded by mobilizing some 8,000 + police officers and riot suppression specialists and blocking access to the capital by severing all routes of ingress and egress. Out of the 150,000 Parisians who had Algerian backgrounds, about 40,000 assembled to protest on the night of the 16th. French police cracked down, arresting some 11,000 of the protestors.
However, some 4,000 protestors avoided arrests and were able to peacefully protest on the Grand Boulevards. Stopped by police at the Opéra de Paris, the protestors turned around and reversed their route.
The massacre began shortly after. Near the Rex Cinema, police open fired on the crowd with live ammunition, then charged. A similar scene unfolded on the Neuilly-sur-Seine, with protestors being shot and beaten without cause. French police began to throw dead or unconscious protestors into the Seine, sometimes within sight of the Notre-Dame.
Other protestors were arrested and brought to different locations, like the Palais des Sports, Stade Pierre de Coubertin, or various police headquarters. For almost a week, the prisoners were beaten and tortured, or outright executed. French police who carried out the acts were noted to have stripped all identification off of their uniforms. Bodies and half-alive prisoners were dumped into the Seine at night.
For weeks, bodies washed up on the banks of the Seine. The entire massacre was deliberate and planned, penned and ordered by the head of the Parisian Police, Maurice Papon. Papon would receive the Legion of Honour from Charles du Gaulle later that year.
France never officially recognized the existence of the massacre until nearly four decades later, in 1998. However, official statements only mentioned 40 dead, when other estimates place the toll at closer to 200.
In 1998, Maurice Papon was first convicted of crimes against humanity due to his aiding in the deportation of French-Jewish citizens during the Vichy Regime. In 1999, he was also found guilty of perpetuating the 1961 massacre. He lost all rank and decorations, including his Legion of Honour, but was released in 2002 on the grounds of ill-health.
Requested by @pottersnitch : Could you please write something about Jason Blossom? Like he and the reader are dating and then she finds out about the playbook and have a huge fight but make up because of Cheryl.
A/N: I had to type this up on my phone so there may be some spelling errors and I couldn’t put anything in bold/italics so I’ll edit it on my computer and add it to my masterlist when I get home from holiday.
Approx. 2200 words
As you rolled over in bed, the nausea you had been experiencing throughout the day threatened to resurface. You groaned and clutched at your empty stomach, it churned as if it was filled with a nest of slimy eels. You were drenched in sweat from fever, you knew that your bedroom was cold because it was the middle of winter and you could see the cloud of your breath escaping from your chapped lips as you exhaled, but the sickness-bug had trapped you in a permanent humidity. At some point during the day, you had even opened your bedroom window, and frost was beginning to creep onto the window sill. Hearing a gentle knock on your door, you forced yourself into a sitting-position, resting on a mountain of cushions.
“Come in” you called weakly.
“How’s the patient?” you heard your favourite voice tease.
You felt a smile spread across your face as a familiar red-haired boy peered around your door, his brown eyes regarding you with concern, making your heart flutter involuntarily. The few months that you and Jason had been together had felt like a dream. You had been pining after him for the majority of your high-school life, and you still couldn’t quite believe that he was yours. As he almost glided into your room and cautiously sat down on the edge of your bed, a lock of his silky hair fell onto his forehead and you couldn’t help but think that he was beautiful. He didn’t have Archie’s muscular frame, or Reggie’s charming smile, but somehow he was much more attractive than any of the other boys at school. He looked delicate, like a porcelain doll with his pale complexion and angular features, and his muscle was lean and wiry, clinging to his lanky frame. He was just as strong as any other boy on the football team though, he would always carry you around at any opportunity, gathering you up like a princess in his arms. You watched in fascination as his long white fingers danced over the skin of your arm, the sensation of his touch sending what felt like an electric current through your body. You wondered if you would ever get used to this, or would his touch always make your heart lurch. Suddenly, his concerned expression turned into one of disapproval as his attention was caught by the open window, he frowned.
“Y/N! No wonder you’re ill, it’s like Narnia in here!” Jason groaned, hastily closing your window.
“No JJ!” you wined, “I’m too hot!” He sighed and opened the window again, but only slightly.
“I brought you some ginger tea” he said proudly, pulling an enormous flask from his school bag, smiling like a child who had received a gold star. “It’s supposed to help with nausea.”
You groaned internally. Your mum had practically been force-feeding you ginger tea for two days and you weren’t sure how much more you could take. You smiled graciously at Jason though, it’s the though that counts after all, you could always pour it down the sink later.
“Thanks babe, that’s so sweet of you” you enthused. “Also, could I possibly borrow your English book so I can catch up on today’s notes?”
He quickly dug through his bag and handed you the typical dark-green notebook that everyone used for English, before checking the time and muttering something about extra football practice. He leant towards you and kissed you sweetly on the cheek, his long lashes brushed your temple and his warm breath on your skin made your cheeks blush pink. He smelled like pine-wood and maple syrup and you wondered if you would ever stop loving this boy, you thought it was unlikely.
In war,’ answered the weaver, ‘the strong make slaves of the weak, and in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We must work to live, and they give us such mean wages that we die. We toil for them all day long, and they heap up gold in their coffers, and our children fade away before their time, and the faces of those we love become hard and evil. We tread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn, and our own board is empty. We have chains, though no eye beholds them; and are slaves, though men call us free.
“Sorry,” Bucky says, with the kind of charming smile that has Clint genuinely thinking about putting a ring on it, for claiming purposes if nothing else. “You seem like a swell guy - ”
Swell, Clint mouths to himself, amused. There’s something kinda hot about the times Bucky sounds a little like Steve; Clint is down to debauch.
“ - but I’m actually with someone.”
It’s been like this pretty much since they arrived in San Francisco, Fury-mandated leave that Clint had decided to spend with sun and Six Flags and his sexy as all hell guy. It’s been great for the free drinks - Bucky passes them over quicker when there are umbrellas, Clint’s kind of in a perpetual haze - but it’s a little wearing on the ego.
Clint kind of glances over, raises his hand in acknowledgement, gives a little grin. The guy is seriously hot, but Clint is secure in the knowledge that he’s got better arms.
“Souvenir shopping with your dad?” The guy asks sympathetically, and Clint’s mouth drops open. Bucky makes this kind of snort-choke noise at the back of his throat, and Clint’s stomach just drops.
The sun outside is blinding and Clint slips on his shades. He leans against the baked wall of the store, tips his head back and crosses his legs at the ankle, the picture of casual relaxation. Any observer would think he actually seems to get more relaxed, the longer he stands there, but that’s just ‘cos stillness is a skill and no one can see his eyes.
“Hey,” a voice says to his right. Clint nods, acknowledgement. It’s no big deal, right? So the best thing is just not to -
“Sorry about that asshole,” Bucky says.
“Fuck it,” says Clint, and pastes on a passable smile. “I’m not the cradle snatcher, here.”
Bucky moves to stand in front of him, blocking out the sun, and it takes a second for Clint’s eyes to focus, for him to snort himself into laughter that Bucky reflects with his mile-wide charming grin.
The shirt is black with scratchy white letters, tag still in and visible creases from the shelf. DADDY ISSUES it says, block capitals.
- My first entry for @oqpromptparty
- Regina and Robin go look for Daniel’s grave and they happen to find both his and Marian’s stone. Both tipped over and Regina and Robin share an emotional moment.
Her heart is thumping hard in her chest, so hard she’s surprised he can’t hear it as they walk side by side through the graveyard. She passes her father’s stone, managing the smallest of smiles at the sight of it broken in two and laying flat on the grass - she’s sure her mother’s looks just the same but she pushes that thought from her mind, she’s said her goodbyes to her parents - startling a little when Robin’s hand catches hers and he squeezes reassuringly at her fingers.
There are three possible outcomes to this and she’s not quite sure which it is that she’s hoping for.
Still, she walks on with Robin by her side, her frown deepening with every cracked stone that they come across. From what they’ve seen so far, she’s not quite sure she has the strength of imagination to even begin to think of a place worse than this. She feels as though she hasn’t taken a proper breath since they’d arrived here and though they were all practically dead on their feet - no pun intended in the slightest - sleep was a mere memory at this point.
The air tastes of ash and she’s never quite hot enough nor is she ever cool enough. It’s an awful humidity that has the hairs on her arms standing up constantly. She cannot wait until they are able to get out of here to the sweet relief of home.
Robin’s gasp pulls her from her thoughts, has her wide-eyed and nauseas as she whips her head around to find his eyeline. Her stomach flips as he pulls her towards the stone, eyes tracing over the block capitals of Marian’s name. It’s broken cleanly in two and laying on a patch of grass.
His fingers slip from hers only when he reaches the stone and leans down to touch the harsh lettering. There are tears shining in his eyes but a gentle smile curling his lips when he lifts his hand to press a kiss to his fingertips before pressing them to the stone once more and standing.
She watches the deep breath he inhales, his eyes closing and head tipping back to bare his face to the faux Underbrooke sky as he takes another long moment.
He’s had to say goodbye to Marian so many times - too many times.
Regina holds out a gloved hand when he begins making his way back to her, swiping away a stray tear and returning her sympathetic smile as he catches her hand once more.
He nods, “She’s at peace.” He leans in to press a quick peck - more for comfort she thinks - to her lips and entwines their fingers before he tilts his head and encourages her forward.
Her heart is thumping harder the further they move through the graveyard, her eyes blearily scanning each new headstone they come across until all breath is pulled from her lungs and she lets loose an almost inhuman sound of grief because there it is…
It’s just as simple as Marian’s was and it to is laying flat on the ground, broken clean in two from the bottom but her fingers tremble as she slips from Robin’s grip and moves to kneel beside the stone, tracing her finger along the great crack that runs diagonally through it.
She isn’t sure how long he leaves her to cry for but she finds she’s grateful both for the space and for his instinct to comfort when Robin comes to kneel beside her with a palm curled around her shoulder.
“He was in so much pain,” she whispers, shaking her head as tear drops dampen the hard stone and her chin trembles.
She’d told Robin of Daniel’s resurrection once before, when he’d spoken of the pain of seeing Marian again to find out it never truly had been her and he’d listened greedily, desperate to share that hurt so she’s unsurprised he remembers when he replies, “But you set him free, Regina.”
She nods. It still hurts to see the effect Whale had on her first love but she finds comfort in the knowledge that he’s gone on to a better place now and that, perhaps, she had something of a hand in that.
Make sure those stairs between the classes are never blocked. Patriarchy, the Captain/Capitalism is insane. He does the same thing over and over; believing his own superiority (let me try again) over his own past failures. He believes his great mass is unsinkable to GOD and right/wrong & Yin/yang.
BUT THIS TIME
Make sure you use this next year to get everything you need to survive in the frigid waters bc GIRL! All the men in generations have been partying and it’s going to hit more like a tidal wave.
THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH LIFE BOATS so look around your room and decide what can float. Is there a REI store on the Promenade level where you can buy some insulated wet suits for everyone in your family? Seriously, in a financial metaphor, it’s survival time.