the farmer and his son at harvesting

YOU NEED TO GO SEE “LOGAN” (and here’s why)

Comic book heroes function, more or less, the same way the old gods do in mythologies around the world. Their stories are told over and over again, changing according to the teller and the times. They may die but they never really die. They’re immortal…until they’re not.

Even gods have their end. They usually meet that end when the society which created them evolves, splits, gets conquered. When the values they represent are no longer the values held by the people who once revered them.

So what do you get when a Canadian superhero must take a young Mexican girl and an English nonagenarian across the breadth of the literal and figurative American landscape? You get an American film which feels as if it has been written yesterday, it so poignantly represents the current struggles of our nation. You get a superhero film in which we mourn the old ways, the old gods, and strive to find new and betters ways. In the fight for their place, we fight along with them to discover - and define - our own.

You see, most of the Americans who appear in this film are the bad guys. They’re powerful: rich, educated, connected, heavily armed and armored. They’re going after old men and children with all their might and who cares about those caught in the crossfire? But we Americans watching want our Canadian and Mexican heroes to prevail, to outfight and outsmart our countrymen because in those characters we recognize who and what we used to stand for. In the enemies we recognize who we have become.

This movie is going to be held up alongside The Dark Knight and Captain America: Winter Soldier as the best of its genre.

Let me explain:
(so many spoilers under the cut. all the spoilers)

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Hands on the hips of her pantalets, Leia stared at the finished dress on the headless form. Daring in its severity: no voluminous arms, no heavy bustle. No decorative burden whatsoever. Just clean blue bodice into high neck, sleeves snug from shoulders to wrists, skirt too soft for undernets. The last two weeks, pinning filmy pattern pieces to muslin, Leia had doubted her calculations. Repeatedly paused, scissors in hand, to frown over the instructions. But there was no mistake: the design was so faithful to the figure that it allowed no corsetry.

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anonymous asked:

I don't know if you're still doing requests or anything, because I thought I asked, since I was scrolling my dash and the werewolf AU popped up and I was like damn this is brilliant! So I was wondering if you could do a Winter Soldier Steve AU, extra points, if it's Pre-serum Steve! While Bucky's either Cap, or just a simple civilian (poor guy) has to try and look after Steve! And you chose who gets the metal arm! But yeah, if not taking them any more it's fine! Just thought I would ask! Thanks!

Why thank you, what a lovely compliment about the werewolf ficlet! And I love Steve as the Winter Soldier stories, though lord I’m not sure they’re exactly drabbles. I can’t come up with any way that pre-serum Steve would get involved with Hydra, unless he was in a Hydra area and volunteering for their equivalent of the serum, which I guess leads back to the serum no matter what … so sadly I receive no extra points. And of course, because I have prompt issues, there’s no actual “looking after” in this, because it was just getting too long, but there’s Bucky angst!


Bucky remembered holding Steve’s hand as they fell. Remembered Steve’s fingers curled around his, squeezing tight enough to crush bone, like he could somehow save Bucky while they both plummeted to their deaths in the Alps.

When Bucky finally regained consciousness, days later, Steve was gone. The farmer who had found him said that no one else had been there, that he had been hiking home and heard the wolves, seen the birds circling and assumed that Bucky was a deer bleeding out in the snow. Steve’s body was nowhere to be found. But Bucky still had the bruises on the back of his hand from Steve’s fingers. (He wondered, late at night when the nightmares kept him wide awake, which of them had finally let go.)

He didn’t report back to base. His contract with the US Army had expired in 1943, and with Steve Rogers dead, what was the point in keeping James Buchanan Barnes alive? (Col. Phillips had given the rest of the Commandos paperwork, but he’d slapped Bucky on the shoulder and smirked, something like pity in his eyes when he’d followed Bucky’s gaze to Steve. The colonel had always been a canny son of a bitch.) They won the war, the farmer told him, once spring had come and gone and Bucky could strew flowers across the patch of land that might have been Steve’s grave, and Bucky shrugged.

Shrugging was still awkward, without the weight of his left forearm. He’d landed on it, apparently, shattered the bones on rocks under the snow, and the farmer’s wife had done some nursing in the Great War.

Howard showed up at harvest time, his French painfully bad and his mustache almost as garish as his American accent. He was looking for a man with yellow hair, a strong man. A man too singular to be killed by something as pedestrian as a fall.

Bucky tugged his hat down over his eyes, twisted his body away from Stark’s searching gaze and handled his scythe like he had two good hands and had been cutting hay his whole life.

“You won’t find him,” he told Howard that evening, settling down next to him at the long bench, fingers curled around a pint. The bruises had faded and his crushed bones had healed – when he looked at his hand now, it was like Steve had never been there at all, like he hadn’t tried to catch Bucky in the fall.

Barnes,” Stark hissed, staring at him triumphantly. Stark had never had much respect for the dead. “I knew it was you.”

Bucky shrugged. James Buchanan Barnes had fallen off of a train in the Alps and killed the best man who’d ever lived. Barnes had deserved to die.

“Don’t you see?” Howard rambled, his English jarring and out of place. “If you survived it, he must have. You know –”

Bucky ignored him. Steve Rogers had leaped off a train for Bucky Barnes – if Steve had lived, he would never have left Bucky to bleed out in the snow. Howard could build a human heart from wires and grease, but he would never know what made it beat.

But Howard offered to pay him, to keep searching, and Bucky needed some way to repay the farmer for taking in a cripple and nursing him back to health, and he needed a way out of the valley. If Stark wanted to pay a dead man to find a ghost; well, Bucky didn’t have any better demands on his time.

L’ombre, Howard called him. A shadow lost without the sun. The darkness at the bottom of a ravine, bleeding out alone in the snow. Bucky wandered through European forests, through North African cities and Arabian deserts and vast, icy stretches of Asia in search of flashing blue eyes, mussed blond hair and a bloody nose, scraped fists and a shy half-smile.

Steve Rogers was dead, of course. Looking didn’t change that. But it didn’t stop Bucky from searching him out every time he closed his eyes.

He didn’t realize that time was passing without him until Howard flew through Berlin a decade later, a little heavier around the middle with lines across his forehead and radiating from the corners of his eyes. (Bucky had known all along that Zola had damned him, in that room, but he hadn’t known that the porcine bastard had damned him to this.)

And maybe, if Bucky had survived, maybe, maybe Howard was right. Bucky didn’t believe it, but it got him out of bed in the mornings, eyes boring through the horizon and not down the barrel of his gun.

He found Steve on a mission in 1965, blond hair ruffled but his face too calm, his silver fist a counterpoint to Bucky’s missing limb. “Steve?” he said, his voice faint from disuse, and the ghost spun around to fight him, blood already on its fists.

“Who the hell are you?” Steve Rogers spat, blue eyes flashing, a question Bucky hadn’t bothered to answer since his death in 1945.

Your murderer. Your shadow. Your best friend.

Bucky settled onto the balls of his feet and shrugged, rolling his shoulders and shaking his arm out to prepare for the punch this Steve would certainly throw. “A soldier,” he finally said, because it was clear that this blank-faced stranger was holding Steve Rogers captive, and that Bucky would only get him back by fighting a war. (It wouldn’t be the first war he fought for Steven Rogers, and if he looked past Steve he could still see the pity in Phillips’s eyes.)

(This time, though. This time he wouldn’t lose.)

When Aqwalina’s abusive husband abandoned the family, she found herself between a rock and a hard place. Financial opportunities for women were few and far between and like most Tanzanians, her livelihood depended on harvested crops from small rural farms. Aqwalina borrowed money from family and friends and invested in a manually-powered irrigation pump that soon transformed her farm from barren to lush.

By investing in pumps, women can harvest more crops year-round and generate more income by selling surplus crops. The single mother is now completely supporting her son, paying for his private school fees and even putting herself through college. 

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