#( memory. )

[twentythousandvolts]

what if it was church vs labubu

- secret fan

it isn't. there's no "Little boo boo" in red vs blue.

[rvexillology]

I drew the borders and the flags of every country on a world map from memory.

from /r/vexillology Top comment: Every flag that I can remember, that is.

[cruelonlytobekindarchived]

#Fellow Shark Gäÿ

[rvexillology]

Rule of vexillology: "Keep It Simple. The flag should be so simple that a child can draw it from memory." The Flag of the International Federation of Vexillological Associations:

from /r/vexillology Top comment: Oh shit, I found that flag and used it for an alternate history thing I did on my free time at school. I called it the West Siberian Republic and it was a Franch Puppet State. If you want to see the document I'll try to find it.

[rvexillology]

It was this day in 2017 that the worst flag ever was retired. I fly it on this day in memory. R.I.P. Pocatello flag. ™️®️

from /r/vexillology Top comment: I can't stop laughing at the copyright at the bottom of the flag

[ismaeldela]

MEMORY  (  I. Nameless  )

White Tulip Orphanage Chicago, Illinois

August 10th, 1983

“He’s so quiet.” 

The boy stares at Nurse Amsel through honeyed, chestnut eyes from where he lay. Small hands clutch at the fleece tucked around his body. She keeps the bassinet rocking with a light grip as she gazes back into those doe-like pools of brown. 

“He hasn’t cried since he arrived,” Nurse Dreyer states, not ceasing her meticulous notations where she sits at her desk. Thin glasses are perched on her long, blemished nose and hide the dark circles underneath. She sounds weary, overworked. Words come out as matter-of-fact and monotonous. It speaks of someone bitter and austere, which Amsel knows to be untrue. 

“Not once? Is that normal?” Amsel asks, brow creased as her focus darts between the baby boy and her mentor. For a woman who has stood witness to unparalleled sorrow and cruelty, Dreyer guides the nurses and children with the patience of a saint. White Tulip rests upon her unwavering hope for the future. 

Dreyer pauses, puts down the engraved fountain pen and looks up. Though the situation is much too similar and have become common place for her, Dreyer is mindful not to dismiss any question. Three decades have gone by but the eager and open look Amsel gives her is reminiscent of her younger self. 

“It’s hard to say,” Dreyer starts, leaves her swivelling chair with a creak and comes to stand beside the light-haired nurse. “We should keep an eye on him. It could be a sign of trauma, although–” she pauses, contemplating eyes observing the boy, “–he doesn’t appear to be in any distress.” In fact, he appears perfectly healthy. The boy mirrored their smiles and gave no indication of fear or stress. No cause for concern.

And yet, Dreyer feels an unease when he is near. In the manner her gut clenches and her skin shivers as though icy waters had rushed her. She knows – knows that some children are trailed by a figure of shadows – some shapeless, nameless thing that stalks them and looms in the corners. She recognizes its beginning stages then and there. It is preposturous to imagine such a thing, though Dreyer senses its jaws snapping behind her back even still. 

“Does he have a name?” Nurse Amsel asks and tickles the baby as he giggles. 

“Uh, no, not that we know of,” Dreyer says, grateful for the interruption of her own line of thought. “The mother left before we could get much in the way of answers. Not to any fault of her own, of course, she tried her best but sadly, none of us present spoke any Spanish.”

“Mexican?”

“Possibly,” Dreyer shrugs, not in disregard but rather to say I wish I knew. “My limited knowledge of the language didn’t offer much, I’m afraid. I understood bits and pieces, heard the name El Paso once or twice. Perhaps where they were from.” It was unfortunate, how often their children came with no knowledge of their origins. “She was scared, mentioned being in danger, I believe. She was young, too, far too young.” 

“The poor thing,” Amsel sympathizes, eyes visibly damp at the thought – so new to the horrors of the world. Dreyer nearly tells her to buck up. A weak heart does not fare well in these places. She remains silent, however, knows their work will dampen those delicate sensibilities soon enough – no need to speed up the process.

“We’ll need a name,” Dreyer states instead and returns to her seat. “For our records, I mean.” She searches through the stacks of papers on her desk and chooses to suppress all fears and doubts about the child. It is irrational, wholly ludicrous, to believe such nonsense. She was a woman of reason, after all. A sharp nipping at her neck continues, still.

“What about Ishmael?” 

“Hebrew?” 

“Yes, is that okay?” Amsel worries for a second, unsure of the proper customs.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Although, it might be nice to consider his heritage.”

Dreyer hums in agreement, falls silent for a while. “Isn’t there a Spanish form of the name?” She pauses to think, wonders briefly where her books on names has gone. “Yes... Ismael, I believe.” 

“Ismael,” Amsel repeats, eyes crinkling as she smiles at the sound. She peeks into the cradle, feels a rush of affection for the little boy. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

“It’s settled then,” Dreyer says, ignores the churning of her stomach once and for all as she grips the pen. Exhaling, she vows to see to his well-being and not let any of her fears gain fruition. “Ismael.” The black ink bleeds through the paper on its first letter.