Usefulandstrange

Spoiler alert: Some of these leftists are now doing this about Covid policy

I’m so god damn tired of not just leftists, but even left-leaning people holding absolutely unrealistic, all-but-impossible positions which have no acknowledgement of any nuance whatsoever and then calling anyone who tries to give a dose of reality a shill or a bootlicker. Honestly, it’s not even enlightened to hold some of these positions because you just reveal yourself to have no grasp of incredibly complex issues. If this sounds vague, it’s because it can apply to how people online react to many different issues.

"Every time someone steps up and says who they are the world becomes a better, more interesting place." 🫶🏳️‍🌈

My tribute to Andre Braugher, thank you for Captain Raymond Holt ❤️✨

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 2 - “I’ll call your name, but you won’t call back”

Warnings: despondency, discussion of murder

Word Count: 1.9k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha’s mother tells her stories on borrowed time.

A/N: can be read as a stand alone, this one is a lot in a way I’m not so sure how to describe.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

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1984

RUSSIA

“You are so loved,” her mother whispers to her, brushing the small wisps of hair away.

“I’m sorry I won’t be there for when you take your first steps, or for any other milestone,” she breathes.

The baby yawns, sleeping soundly, unaware of the tears on her mother’s face.

“Not for your first words, not for first friend, or first love.”

Again, she caresses the girls face, softly touching down the ridge of her nose; “not for your wedding, or for your children.”

She sniffs and sighs.

“Not for anything.”

Tired eyes open and close as she’s jostled in position.

“I’m sorry, my love, I am so sorry.”

Gentle kisses along her fingers, the small chubby hands of an infant, as they reflexively curls to hold onto her mother’s hand.

“I carried you into the world, I didn’t want you the whole way, and now you’re here, I can’t let you go.”

Slowly, she places the baby down in the makeshift bassinet, their meager belongings around them.

“We have tonight though,” she says, laying next to the box, their only blanket surrounding the baby as she suppressed a shiver.

“And I think, I want to tell you all the stories I know, about me, about the man who is your father, about where you’re going and your history. You’ll have to remember all of it, because I fear they’ll never tell you.”

She takes the baby back out, backing into the corner, wrapping the blanket around the both of them.

“Natasha, your father is dead, I killed him.”

She kisses her again, unable to look at her.

“I wish it was different, that half of you wasn’t tainted by him, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing, maybe you have the good parts of him, his tenacity, his fight; maybe his good singing voice.”

She draw the girl closer, glad that she doesn’t understand.

“It’s why they’re coming for you, you see, as punishment, I kill their son, his family takes his only heir. Even if half of you… is me.”

The woman closes her eyes.

“I wish I made better choices, my love, I wish, he was a better man; born to a better family; but they are not good, I don’t know what they are going to do with you; but I’ll come for you; that I swear.”

Natasha’s eyes open, the darkness surrounding them.

Eyes closed again to soft words and a lullaby.

“Sleep, my love, sleep.”

Eyes watch in the darkness, opening and closing as the voice lulls her back.

Continuing the song, gently she touches her girl’s face, memorising her cheeks.

“The house lights go out; the birds are quiet in the garden, fish fell asleep in the pond.”

Eyes close again, the pull of sleep too much for her little body.

“The moon shines in the sky, the moon is looking into the window,” she continues.

She looks up, no stars, no moon in reality.

“Close your eyes now; sleep, my love, sleep.”

Her eyes close as she says the words, knowing sleep won’t come for her on their last night together; she wants to be awake for every moment of it, tell Natasha everything she can think of, make up for a lifetime in a night.

“History is important, my Natasha. I wish I could give you something to remember me by, but all I have is words. I hope your memories hold me, maybe my voice or words.”

Waiting for the tears to dry in her eyes, she sniffs and continues. Maybe it’s because she wants her daughter to know that she’s not alone in the world; even if she’s not sure that’s true.

She wants her to know that she comes from a strong line of women.

“My mother, your grandmother, was a seamstress. She was a hard woman, but not bad, I think, or at least she didn’t mean to be. She could mend anything. We used to sing together, and I’m sure it’s what brought your father to the shop. She could tell a story, and would tell this one much better than I can.”

She wishes the world had been kinder; that her mother was here to tell her what to do next, to maybe tell her to fight and not give up, not be a quitter.

She just doesn’t have it in her. Not when she’s still suffering from birth, can’t walk more than a few meters without pain, let alone take on his family.

“My father, your grandfather, died when I was little. It seems fathers have not served either of us well. I met yours, or rather he came after me, seeing me working in my mother’s shop.”

She breathes.

“I was flattered at first.”

Stopping as the memories of him following her home, the unwanted attention, and the courting.

“Until I wasn’t.”

She sighs.

“By then, my Natasha, it was too late. I was his, and he treated me as such.”

She pauses.

“I had no family, no friends, to help me. So I went along with it. I didn’t know. I didn’t know his family trafficked children. I didn’t know they collected girls for the Red Room…I didn’t know.”

Natasha moves as her mother tightens her grip, almost unconsciously holding on tight to her baby.

“I think they’re going to put you in there.”

The fear of her child being placed in the company of monsters pains her in a way she’s never felt, and she doesn’t quite understand it.

“But if I run, they’ll find us. So our only option is to play along. I give you to them, and I’ll come for you, okay? I’ll figure it out, I’ll get you out, buy your freedoms, but if I’m dead, no one can do that. Do you understand?”

She wishes she did, she wishes this could be tattooed on her skin.

Her grief deepens.

Reality catching her in the likelihood of being able to take down the Red Room, of being able to find her daughter in the shadows of Russian hegemony.

“But if I don’t, I hope you make better decisions than I did and not give your love to those who don’t deserve it. Only those who deserve your greatness, my love.

Where you’re going…. They do not love Natasha, don’t fall for their lies as I did.”

She can’t help the tears that fall.

“Try to stay true to yourself, protect yourself.”

She takes the photos the nurse took of them out. The two small Polaroids the most precious of possessions.

“I’d write this in a letter if I knew it could stay with you, but it’s just a photo of me and you. It’s a reminder. I’ll come for you.”

She removes the blue ribbon from her hair, the thick velvet of it soft as she wraps the picture inside.

She tucks it into the swaddling, hoping in any way that she’s able to keep it. Anything to keep a part of her close.

“I’m so sorry I failed you, and you’re not even a week old.”

All the tears she’s been holding back, all the grief comes flooding through her, pain like no other at the hopelessness of the situation.

The sounds wake the baby and they cry together; grief enveloping them.

.

The baby girls of the Red Room are so small.

Katerina has a specific job, take care of the little ones. She hates it here but doesn’t trust anyone else to do it. Torn between care and wanting to help the girls who have no hope, and leaving; knowing all she does, she comes to work each day with dread and longing.

She sees the bigger girls in their lines and matching uniforms and she wonders if they ever have a chance to just be children.

She doubts it.

They tell her to leave the babies in the cots. They don’t want them to be attached to adults. They need to learn to stop crying at an early age.

It a part of an experiment; a barbaric one, Katerina feels.

The new girl comes in a swaddled blanket, it’s threadbare and worn but seems well taken care of, darned in patches. Carefully she unwraps her, finding a small blue ribbon and a photo.

She doesn’t know the woman, but she knows love when she sees it, the blanket, the ribbon, the photo. Carefully, she wraps them all together and places them into a cupboard, if she can hide them well enough, maybe she can keep them for the little girl, tell her one day that she was loved.

She knows the lies that the Red Room tells the girls, how they are unwanted, abandoned, given up, but for almost all of them, it’s not the case.

She knows for this little one, this is also not the case. Katerina knows love when she sees it.

She changes her nappy, and gently places her into the cot, then turns to tend to one of the other twenty children in her charge.

.

The wet nurse has always been kind to her.

Though only technically for the babies, five year old Natasha runs into the baby room to find her.

“Miss Katerina,” she sobs.

Katerina turns, the girls stops short in front of her, and her heart sinks, she knows that any other five year old would seek a hug.

“What’s happened, Natashka?”

Fat tears drop down her face, bottom lip wobbles and she cries silently.

Only children who have been taught not to cry out loud, cry silently, Katerina has learnt.

She kneels so she at the little girl’s level.

She brushes red curls out of her face, and offers a hanky.

“Take a deep breath.”

Natasha does exactly what she’s told.

“Does everyone have a mother and a father?” she sniffles, sad eyes looking up, like she knows the answer.

“Did I?”

Katerina doesn’t know what to say.

But she has the right things for it.

Looking into a cupboard for something she hid years ago, she turns her back on the girl and finds what she was looking for.

“You had a mother,” she whispers.

“She left these for you.”

She hands Natasha the picture and the ribbon.

“Natashka, look at me.”

Sad eyes look up, tears still falling as little fists hold onto the ribbon.

“They can’t know.”

She holds the girls shoulder tight.

“They can’t know.”

She takes the picture and the ribbon away, and Natasha reaches for them angrily.

“They’re mine!” she exclaims.

“And what do you think they’ll do with you, with these, if they find it?”

Angry fists clench again, and her face goes red.

“I want to see them again.”

Katerina feels likes she’s done something wrong here.

“I shouldn’t have shown you.”

She puts the picture and the ribbon away.

“You have a mother and she abandoned you,” she reframes. “Forget about her. She’s not coming for you.”

Natasha stares.

“No,” she growls.

“I won’t.”

“You need to,” she insists.

She sighs.

“You need to be combat class now, they’ll come looking for you.”

Natasha crossed her arms.

“Yeah, use that anger.”

She pushes her towards the door.

“Whoever told you about mothers and fathers, go punch them in the face.”

Shutting the door after her, Katerina takes a deep breath.

She’s fucked up.

Small girl comes to her crying and she does the one thing that might kill them both.

.

EEEEE!! *Flap flap flap*

Kiss the Dread

Clint flits between anger and sadness. He lays down, his back towards her, trusting she’s likely not going to kill him.

It’s cold in the vents, the occasional blast of warm air floating through making the air dry.

They need sleep.

Rest.

Something.

Fatigue makes for bad decisions.

He wants to check that she’s sleeping too; but his anger keeps him stationary.

He falls into an uneasy sleep, eyes closed, breathing like a sniper.

It’s easy when you know how to put yourself into a trance.

He hears rustling of a wrapper and is glad that she’s at least eating something.

They’ve been on the go for around 24 hours and he doesn’t think either of them got much sleep the night before.

Clint drifts into an uneasy sleep, dreams are unkind and he sees girls with braids, blood and bombs. He opens his eyes and breathes shallowly.

Read More

Nicole W. Lee, from "Even the Dust"

I don't know if you're American or not but in my experience as a person who is not American, American events and media are so incredibly loud and visible that they tend to leech into everything.

Like I'm Canadian born and raised and can name more American presidents than I can Canadian Prime Ministers. I have Canadian friends from Canada who can accurately describe themselves as Liberals but are still sorta foggy on NDP policies. Do you know what day Canada Day is? It's July 1st. Do you know what's on my dashboard on July 1st? Early posts about July 4th.

And if you're an American reading this: Or, hell, anyone else reading this: We all know George Washington was the first American President. Do you know who the first Prime Minister of Canada was? Can you name two British political parties? What are two countries that have Monarchies, not Democracies? What was the most recent political scandal you can think of that took place outside the US? What's your favourite TV show that takes place anywhere outside of America? What are your top three favourite non-american musicians? If English is your first language, how many foreign countries can you go to where you don't speak the language, but don't have to worry about it?

I said "International America Day" as a joke, but there is a very real phenomenon in countries outside of the US where the general population becomes Americanized through the prevalent American media.

We know American current events, we know American scandals, we know about American cops and American movies and American accents and American fast food chains. We have serious opinions on the American legal system and we talk about American law and American policy and American celebrities, and many of us don't know Jack Shit about what's going on where we live.

I'm Canadian. I've heard all about 'building the wall' and ICE and June 6th, the intentional government distribution of narcotics in Black communities and the use of Marijuana Illegalization to persecute Black and Mexican people under the Nixon administration.

Do you know what Canada did to Chinese immigrants to build the Canadian railroad? What about the Sterilization Act? Residential Schools? Do you know what a Status Card is? Does it, or does it not cost money to ride in an ambulance? Can people with breasts legally walk around topless? What's the legal drinking age? What are our biggest cities? Who was our least-popular PM? What are our allied nations? Where does the Canadian military get deployed?

"International America Day" was a goof. But Jesus, it's a little bit serious

WEEK OF CHRISTMAS 2024 (2/7) —🎅🎄🎁🦌— THE MUPPET CHRISTMAS CAROL 1992 — dir. Brian Henson