maltheniel

[maltheniel]

The Land Where Dreams Come True

This is my contribution for @inklings-challenge 2024! Thanks again so much to @fictionadventurer for running this challenge every year -- it's been so much fun and such a blessing to me. This year's story is very deeply personal to me, but I want to share it in hope that someone else may find some healing in it too.

Once upon a time there was a woman whose womb had become a grave.

Once there was a woman who lived in the woods with her husband, and for a time they were perfectly happy.

The woman was not happy now.

“You are young,” the women of the village said to her, “and you can have another child whenever you want. Look at it this way! At least you know you can get pregnant.”

“You were too young to be pregnant anyway,” one of the village healers said to her, “and it was too early in your marriage. You should be glad you miscarried – you can try for another one when your life is on track.”

“It’s your fault,” one of the old women hissed at the well. “You didn’t want that baby anyway, and your body knew it. If you had wanted that baby it would have lived.”

“Does it really matter?” a careless young woman asked, tossing back long blond braids. “You were barely far enough along to show anyway! You can’t have cared about something you never met that much. It didn’t even count as a baby yet.”

The woman listened to everything they said and said little or nothing in reply. In the evenings she went out to the tiny grave under the willow tree behind her home and she wept.

It was early spring and the leaves were only beginning to bud on the trees when the woman’s husband came out to the garden in the evening. The woman was planting rosebushes around the wee headstone that marked the grave. Her husband came and worked beside her for a time, and presently he said, “Have you ever heard of the land where dreams come true?”

“Only as a myth,” the woman said, “or as a fantasy.”

“I heard of it today from a traveler of many lands,” her husband said, “and he spoke of it as if it was real. Only those who go seeking a dream that can never be granted in this life can find it, and it is never found in the same place twice. But those who have found it come home with the gift of rest for their soul.”

The woman turned and looked at him, and for a time she could not find words. He set his trowel in the mud and took her dirt-streaked hands in his.

“I think you should seek the land of dreams, darling,” he said. “I would go with you if I could, but someone must stay here to keep their job and keep the house.”

“And tend the grave,” the woman whispered.

“And tend the grave,” her husband replied. “I will make sure that the rosebushes bloom.”

“Do you really think I should go?” she asked.

“You are bitterly unhappy here,” he said, “even if I am the only one who knows it. I think you should seek peace.”

~~

So it was that on a gray morning in the spring, with a light mist drizzling down from the warm clouds, the woman kissed her husband goodbye, shouldered her pack, and set out on the road to the land where dreams come true.

She did not know which way the land of dreams might lie, so she took the road over the mountains behind her village, a road over a pass where she had never been. All the aspens were putting on a thin coat of new green leaves, and the pines were tipped with fresh green growth. There were snowdrops and pasque flowers pushing their way up through the edges of the snow that lay higher up, and when the sun came out they gleamed white and purple in the clear clean light.

The woman saw it all, but she barely took it in beyond a glance. She gained the top of the pass and turned to look behind her. The village where she had spent all her life looked so small and unimportant from up here, and beyond it she could see the wide river valley winding ever away towards the sea, and far, far away the glint of higher, snowier mountains.

The woman thought that if all the people in her little town could come up here and see the world from this point of view, they would not have made all their cold little comments to her, and she smiled at the thought.

But there was no hint of an opening to the land where dreams come true, so the woman adjusted her pack on her shoulders and started down the pass on the far side of the mountain.

When she reached level ground at last, she found she had come to an endless, fruitful plain, rippling with newly planted wheat and oats and barley. The land was lovely and luxurious, the people welcoming, and her pack became heavy with all they offered her. But amid all the fruit trees budding for spring and the bright spring sprouts of the grain, she was no closer to finding the land where dreams come true.

She went on and she found a city, glittering and bright and bustling, a façade of utter bliss flung over a darker reality. She discovered how to navigate busy streets in safety and how to take a train, and she found kindness in unexpected places. But amid all the brilliant lights there was no hint of an entrance to the land where dreams come true.

Beyond the city she found a rolling prairie, where cattle grazed on the less fruitful grass and ranchers made a hardscrabble living along the creeks. By this time the spring had passed and the summer was coming on, and the woman was growing discouraged in her quest.

She was spending one night in the house of a rancher who had opened his doors to her, when his wife asked what brought her to the plains. The woman had been asked the purpose of her journey many times before, and she had given many variations on an answer. This night, however, she was tired and doubtful of her journey ever finding a conclusion, and she simply said wearily, “I seek the land where dreams come true, but I doubt that I will ever find it.”

The rancher and his wife gave each other significant looks that she did not understand; then the wife leaned forward and took the woman’s hands in hers.

“Tell me, dear,” she said, “why do you seek that land?” And when the woman hesitated, she added, “Trust me, we will tell no one, nor mock you. But we have some experience with that land ourselves.”

“I seek my baby,” the woman said, and she burst into tears.

The rancher’s wife let go of her hands, but only to fold her into her arms and rock her and shush her while she wept. The rancher said, “Well, then,” and got up and proceeded to rustle around in the background and pretend not to be witness to her sobs, but his rustling ended up with a brighter fire on the hearth and a warm blanket over her shoulders and a cup of steaming cocoa on the table in front of her.

When the woman could control herself and had stopped crying and had also been stopped from apologizing, the rancher’s wife pushed the cocoa toward her and said slowly, “I sought the land of dreams once too, and it was also because I had lost my baby. How young was yours?”

“Not yet born,” the woman said wearily, staring into the cocoa and expecting to be told her baby didn’t count.

But the rancher’s wife only drew a long, slow breath and said softly, “Neither was mine.” She paused for a long moment, then went on in a lower voice, “I think you should continue to seek the land of dreams, and I think you will find it someday. But you may not receive exactly what you expect to find from it.”

“I expect to find my baby,” the woman said as firmly as she could.

“Maybe you will,” the rancher’s wife said softly. “Who knows in the land of dreams?”

~~

So the woman went on, refreshed from her visit to the ranch, and she found another mountain range and crossed the passes. It took her a long time, and on the far side there was a vast desert of shifting sands and scrubby trees and tall cactus, all burning under the summer sun.

The woman sat down on the last of the foothills of the mountains and stared at the landscape before her. She was hot and tired and miserable, and she felt that the desert was as barren as all her hopes and dreams had become.

It was in that moment that she saw what looked like a shimmering door, hanging in the air between two cacti a few hundred yards from her, and from beyond there came the strain of what sounded like the most beautiful music played on unearthly instruments.

The woman recklessly tossed her pack aside, scrambled to her feet, and ran for the door. The closer she got to it, the further away it seemed to be, like a shimmering mirage glinting on the horizon. But the woman was not to be denied now, not after she had come so far and longed for so much, and she continued to chase down the door, heedless of the shifting sand and of the cactus pads catching at her shoes. Finally she found the door almost in front of her. She threw herself forward and felt her fingertips catch something soft. She gave a giant push with her feet, and a heave with her arms, and the next moment she knew she was somewhere else altogether.

When she could stand up, she found herself surrounded by something surreal, as if an artist had painted a very realistic painting in otherworldly colors and then gone back and smeared the whole thing slightly. There was no glimpse of the desert or of her world that she had left. She was surrounded by long grass and trees with leaves of pastel colors, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the trickling sound of water.

She had no doubt that she had found the land where dreams come true.

“Rose!” she shouted, and heard her voice echo all around her, though she could not see from where the echoes came. “Rose! Rose! I’ve come! I’m here at last, Rose!”

The echoes of her voice came back to her again and again, but there was no response. Nothing in that whole world moved, save for the faintest sway of the grass as if in wind.

“Rose!” the woman shouted again, and she began to run forward, heedless of where or in what direction, only knowing that somewhere in this world she needed to find her child.

She felt as if she had been running and shouting for hours, though time passed so strangely in this world that it might have been only a few minutes, when she was forced to stop and catch her breath. She was standing by the stream that seemed to be the source of the sound of water, in a little valley surrounded by cliffs in cream and lavender and gold, though she could not remember climbing anything, and there were no trees around her anymore.

“Rose!” she cried again, and her voice, hoarse with shouting, broke on the edge of tears.

But this time there was a response. There was no movement in the grass or on the cliffs, but from somewhere, almost as if from all directions at once, a child’s voice called back, “Mama!”

“Rose!” the woman cried wildly. “Rose, where are you? Let me come and find you!”

“I’m here, Mama,” the child’s voice said. “I’m always here.”

“Come away with me, Rose,” the woman said. “This isn’t your home – you don’t belong here. Come with me and let me take you home.”

“I didn’t mean I’m always here in this world,” the child said. “I’m always here with you.”

“But you’re not,” the woman protested, and this time her voice did break with tears. “I lost you, little one. I failed you once, and I’ll never stop being sorry for that. Let me take you home.”

“Mama, it wasn’t like that,” the child said. “You were my first home, and you held me safe for as long as you could. And then there was a golden door to somewhere very close, to my new home, and I went through it. It wasn’t dark or scary at all. And I’ll be close by, always.”

“Can’t I take you home?” the woman asked. “I don’t want you to be close by – I want you to be with me. I love you, Rose, and I always will. And I would have held you close and raised you with all the love in the world. Can’t I give you that, Rose?”

“Not yet,” the child answered. “Not in this world yet. But someday, Mama, you will get to hold me close, and in that moment I’ll know all the love you held for me all your life.”

The woman covered her face with her hands and wept, but it was tears of relief as much as of the grief she had carried since her womb had become a grave. After some minutes, she dropped her hands but did not open her eyes. She did not want to know if she was alone again, and somehow if she kept her eyes shut longer she felt she could hold onto the illusion that her little baby girl was close by.

There was a stirring in the world around her, and the woman felt with her eyes shut as if a phantom of a child had pressed up against her legs. She dropped to her knees and gathered the child into her arms and held on tight, tight, tight, and she felt as if the ghost of tiny chubby arms were holding her back just as close.

It was the first time she had held her baby since she had clutched the tiny body of her stillborn babe born far, far too early and wept.

“I love you, Rose,” she whispered intently, pressing her head against the child’s. “We love you so much, and we always will. We’ll never forget you.”

“I know, Mama,” the child whispered. “I love you too.”

The mother still had her eyes closed. She could never have told you, after, when the land of dreams faded away. She never could have told you how it happened. But when at long last she opened her eyes again, she was sitting back on the same slope of the mountains overlooking the desert, and the sun was setting on the far horizon in a splendor of pink and purple and gold. And there, right in front of her where nothing had been before, there was a bush with a single splendid red rose bursting into full bloom.

~~

Once upon a time there was a mother who made a journey back home. She climbed over the mountains and crossed the prairies full of flowers and cattle. She navigated all the trains back through the city. She came to the lush farmers’ fields waving with grain ripe for the cutting and left with her pack heavy with ripe fruit. She climbed the final mountain range to home and drank in the beauty of the golden aspens against the dark and stately pines, and picked handfuls of the goldenrod and asters that rioted around their roots.

The whole way home, the red rose bloomed at the top of her pack, perfect and beautiful, and never lost a single petal.

The mother came home in the fall. She skirted her village, which seemed unchanged, and knew she could face it unafraid tomorrow, but tonight she was going home.

She found her little house in the woods, and she found her husband kneeling in front of the tiny grave under the willow. She ran into his arms as he turned, and for a few minutes they simply held each other.

“Did you find the land where dreams come true?” he asked her, in the end.

“I did,” she answered, “and I couldn’t bring her home, but I did get to tell her we love her. And we’ll see her again someday.”

She bent and plucked the perfect red rose from the top of her pack and showed it to her husband. A slow smile spread over his face. “We can plant it with the others,” he said.

“The others?” she asked.

He put his arm around her shoulders and turned her to face the grave.

There, in a plentiful riot all over and around it, the rosebushes the mother had planted in the spring and the father had tended in the summer were blooming in dozens of beautiful golden blooms.

[maltheniel]

The one that made me weep at the time and will never leave me is the last line of A Tale of Two Cities by Dickins:

"It is a far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far better place that I go to, than I have ever known."

feeling in the mood for some more bite-sized literature! drop your favorite last line ever from a story below! 👇

[maltheniel]

Because I'm curious about the statistics:

[maltheniel]

Inklings Challenge 2024: Team Chesterton

It is time to officially announce the members of Team Chesterton for the 2024 Inklings Challenge

Members of Team Chesterton are challenged to write a science fiction or fantasy story within the Christian worldview that fits into one of these two genres:

Intrusive Fantasy: Stories where the fantastical elements intrude into the real world

Earth Travel: Science fiction or fantasy stories that feature any kind of land, sea, air, or underground travel on a past, present, future or alternate Earth

These genres are open to interpretation, and creativity is encouraged. You can use either or both of the prompts within your story, or if you’re feeling ambitious, you can write multiple stories.

Members of Team Chesterton are also asked to use at least one of the following seven Christian themes to inspire some part of their story.

Admonish the sinner

Instruct the ignorant

Counsel the doubtful

Comfort the sorrowful

Bear wrongs patiently

Forgive all injuries

Pray for the living and the dead

Writers are challenged to complete and post their story to a tumblr blog by October 21, 2024, though they are encouraged to post earlier if they finish their story before that date. There is no maximum or minimum word limit. Writers who have not completed their stories before the deadline are encouraged to post whatever they have written by October 21st and post the remainder at a later date. Writers are also welcome to post the entire story after the deadline.

Posting the Stories

All stories will be reblogged and archived on the main Inklings Challenge blog. To assist with organization, writers should tag their posts as follows:

Mention the main Challenge blog @inklings-challenge somewhere within the body of the post (which will hopefully alert the Challenge blog).

Tag the story #inklingschallenge, to ensure it shows up in the Challenge tag, and make it more likely that the Challenge blog will find it.

Tag the team that the author is writing for: #team lewis, #team tolkien, or #team chesterton. 

Tag the genre the story falls under: #genre: portal fantasy, #genre: space travel, #genre: secondary world, #genre: time travel, #genre: intrusive fantasy, #genre: earth travel

Tag any themes that were used within the story: #theme: admonish, #theme: instruct, #theme: counsel, #theme: comfort, #theme: patience, #theme: forgive, #theme: pray

Tag the completion status of the story: #story: complete or #story: unfinished

Team Members

The writers assigned to Team Chesterton are:

@afairmaiden

@agirlbelovedbygod

@allieinarden

@allisonreader

@apieters

@artist-issues

@butterflies-and-bumble-bees

@called-kept

@casa-anachar

@clarythericebot

@courage-is-when-we-face-our-fear

@dearlittlefandom-stalker

@dragonladyzarz

@drharleyquinn-medicinewoman

@ellakas

@esters-notepad

evanard

@flightsoffancyonpaperwings

@frangipani-wanderlust

@humanradiojmp

@iminlovewithpercyjackson

@katiethedane12

@kazeharuhime

@lover-of-the-starkindler

@maltheniel

@mels-library

@novelmonger

@novice-at-everything

@queenlucythevaliant

@ravenpuffheadcanons

@sashakielman

@secretariatess

@stealingmyplaceinthesun

@swinging-stars-from-satellites

@thalioneledhwen

@thebirdandhersong

@thefinaljediknight

@thelayofsolmonath

@ughnofreeusernames

@weird7habburger

@why-bless-your-heart

@wildlyironicbee

@zelda-was-here

Writing resources, including the Challenge overview, FAQ, writing prompts, and discussions of the genres are available at the Inklings Challenge Directory. Any writers with further questions can contact the Inklings Challenge blog for guidance.

Welcome to the Inklings Challenge, everyone! Now go forth and create!

[maltheniel]

alright folks. it’s time to find out which lotr poem you are. this quiz has 33 potential answers and only one of them is tom bombadil, so your odds are pretty good

[maltheniel]

Inklings Challenge Question!

As the time approaches to choose this year's list of themes, I really, really want to use the traditional list of the Spiritual Works of Mercy. We did the Corporal Works of Mercy last year, so if we're going to use the other list, this is the year to do it. They've all got great story potential (my deciding factor was realizing that a lot of stories from previous years already fit these themes), while also being a good way to help us incorporate spiritual ideas into our stories.

My only point of hesitation is that Protestants might object to one item on the list.

Because this is the list.

1) Admonish (or warn) the sinner

2) Instruct the ignorant

3) Counsel the doubtful

4) Comfort the sorrowful

5) Bear wrongs patiently

6) Forgive all injuries

7) Pray for the living and the dead.

If we use this list, I'm using the whole list and not watering it down, but a lot of Protestants object to the idea of praying for the dead. I figure that with 6.5 other items on the list that all Christians can agree with, that still offers plenty of room for Protestant participation. The tag for that theme would be #theme: prayer, which all Christians can agree upon, and allows people to feature the kind of prayer they're comfortable with. But would the very inclusion of the idea of praying for the dead offend them and/or keep them from participating? I don't want to water down my faith, but I also don't want to drive people away from an activity meant to be a fun way to bring Christians together. Are Protestants okay with what I otherwise think could be one of the best theme lists we've had?

[maltheniel]

since its the last day of the midnights era - what are your top three songs from midnights, which music video is your favourite, and what's your favourite midnights performance on the tour?

[maltheniel]

i made a roast tonight for the first time and it actually turned out really good

at 35 i'm finally a real adult y'all

[maltheniel]

The Burial of Ward Thornton

This is my entry for the 2023 @inklings-challenge! It's centered around the idea of burying the dead in a respectful way, both to the dead and to the living, and that what happens to our bodies after death still matters. It also wound up focusing on something that I think is central to all of the themes this year, and that is seeing the image of God, or the humanity, of the people others have deemed worthless. Thanks again for the chance to write this, and I hope you enjoy!

~~~

It all began, centered, and really ended around the burial of one vagrant man, the events at Charleston City Cemetery that any gravedigger there can now relate to you off the top of their heads.

But let’s call him more than just one vagrant man.  Let’s give him his name.  Once upon a time, after all, he had a mama; he had someone who loved him and named him Ward Thornton.  That’s the name marked on his gravestone now – just a worn-out bit of rock in a corner, but the name’s still visible, for all that it’s been a hundred years since he was buried.  The gravediggers take care of that.  They take care that all the names stay visible.

Because, after all, that’s the point of the whole story – that one life, one death, one body matters.  That it matters how we’re treated in death, not just in life.  That there can be something about the death and burial of one vagrant man that changes the way a whole group of gravediggers and their descendants think about their career.

So let’s tell the story again.  It’s not a story for everyone.  It’s a story of death, of graves, and of mysterious events that even now no one can explain.  It’s a story the gravediggers tell, because they deal with death and graves and the mysterious all the time.

But we all die, after all.  The grave is coming for each of us, isn’t that what they always say?  So maybe it’s a story for everyone, in the end.

Let’s go back and start where it all began.  Let’s start with the burial of the vagrant man named Ward Thornton.

Jared Myers hated working with Lloyd Webber.  For starters, Webber was the slowest of all the gravediggers and the most particular at the same time, which was a well and truly exasperating situation when you were a man like Jared who wanted to get the most done in any given day.  For a second thing, half the time he brought tuna sandwiches for lunch, and Jared hated the smell of tuna.  And to top it all off, when Jared had tried having a little conversation aside with Webber about the pace of his gravedigging – you know, friendly, man-to-man, just giving him some tips – Webber had looked him in the eyes and said, “I believe how we bury the dead matters.”

“Of course it matters,” Jared had said, laughing. “Why else would we be so particular about setting up the family memorials here if it didn’t?  But Webber, you’re usually burying the random people without much in the way of family or friends.  If nobody sees it, why does it matter if your corners aren’t the most perfectly dug?”

“I think it matters to the dead,” Lloyd Webber had said.  And Jared had dropped the subject then and there, because there was something about Webber’s tone and eyes that frankly terrified him.  Jared would never have said until that moment that there was anything to the old superstitions about gravediggers being a bit spooky or touched by another world, but . . .!

So Jared Myers hated working with Webber, both because doing so inevitably dragged down their rate of doing anything and because he was the slightest bit afraid of him.  For Jared, a job was a job; he had a mother and two little siblings that he had to support after their father died, and this was a job that made money.  For Webber, though, it seemed to be almost a religion.

It was just his luck, then, that they were both scheduled to work a slow Wednesday shift one rainy day in March.  It was not a day where they were going to be doing much work.  They had a big interment coming up on Friday to set up for – the entire list of attendees for the funeral were going to be coming, so they needed a nicely dug grave and a tent set up and all of that.  This was the kind of work that Jared didn’t mind putting time and effort into.  But they also had scheduled that the city was sending over a vagrant man who had been found dead on a park bench to be buried, since he had been identified but no one had claimed him or wanted to have a funeral for him.  That was the kind of thing that made Jared groan when he worked with Webber, because it was the kind of job that could be done in short order with minimal effort if he had been working with anyone else, but working with Webber would make it a whole production.

“Hey, Webber,” he said when they met up, “any chance we can get this city burial over with good and quickly and move on to all the things we have to do for Friday?”

Webber gave him a look that for some reason made his skin crawl.  “You can, Myers,” he said. “There’s nothing stopping you.”

Which meant that Webber was going to spend all day making the vagrant man’s grave as nice as the grave for the beloved grandma being buried on Friday.  Jared groaned internally but didn’t say anything further, because there wasn’t the slightest point.  Webber was Webber and nothing Jared said would make him change.

~~~

Thus it was that Jared Myers and Lloyd Webber were out in the constant March drizzle, meticulously digging a grave in a far-off corner of the cemetery for a man that no one cared about.  They had it mostly ready when the hearse pulled up to the front of the building with the casket.

It was the cheapest type of casket, just a wooden box nailed together.  The city officials handed it off carelessly, along with the necessary paperwork for the cemetery.

“You did identify his name?” Webber asked, paging through the paperwork.

“It should be in there,” the official undertaker told him.

Webber found it.  “Ward Thornton,” he read aloud.

“Alright, let’s get him in the ground,” Jared said impatiently, and moved things along.

It was when they were bringing the casket to the far corner of the graveyard that they stumbled on the slippery ground, and the lid of the casket slipped.  Jared shuddered without meaning to as the shifted lid gave them a glimpse of a thin, shriveled face with open jaw surrounded by gray hair.  When it came to dealing with the dead, he never minded arranging the caskets for the larger interments where everything was done decently and in order and there was family to care, but in the case of those where there was no one to care, there was something macabre about it, and he wanted nothing more than to get them in the grave as quickly as possible.

He moved to slam the lid of the casket shut, but Webber had beaten him to it and was shutting the lid carefully.  He hesitated before he closed it, however, and reaching into the casket, he closed the dead man’s half-open eyes.

“Sleep well, Ward,” he murmured quietly, and closed the lid.

The whole performance unnerved Jared.  “Why did you insist on finding the man’s name, anyway?” he demanded. “The grave’s going to be unmarked in all likelihood, so what does it matter?”

“It always matters,” Webber said, as they moved on toward the grave.

Jared kept his thoughts to himself, but they were distinctly unmerciful ones about the number of people who had thrown their lives away who had to be fit into graveyards somehow.  Webber, with his uncanny investment in the dead – not just in the ceremonies around their death, but the dead bodies themselves – always brought out the worst in him.

~~~

They buried the vagrant man Ward carefully in his far-off grave, adjusting the cheap casket into the bottom of the grave and shoveling the dirt muddy with spring rain over the surface.  When they were done, Webber did what he always insisted on doing and knelt in the dirt for a few minutes, head bowed.  Jared stared up at the sky.  He went to church every Sunday, but he had never heard a prayer for the dead breathed in hallowed pews, and it made him uncomfortable, but he also respected religion enough to leave a man alone when he was praying.

“Alright,” he said with relief as Webber got up, “now can we –” Go get ready for that service Friday, was what he meant to say, but as he started it, the world began to swim around him in a way he was all too familiar with, and he changed to shouting, “Watch out!” instead.

A moment later, he felt Webber grip his arm, almost uncomfortably tight, and the world was spinning so fast that no individual object was visible.  But this spin wasn’t particularly long – by the time Jared was beginning to feel sick to his stomach, things were stabilizing again.

When the world became quite solid around them again, it was very similar to the world of before, except for a few key differences.  The sun was shining brightly, and instead of a newly dug grave at their feet, there was softly waving green grass.  They were still clearly in a graveyard, however, and the trees beyond them were similar, although younger than they had been thirty seconds before.

Webber regained his balance and stood up, letting go of Jared’s arm.  “Where are we?” he asked breathlessly.

���Same place we ever were,” Jared said, watching him keenly.  This had become familiar to him over the last years, but he didn’t know if it had ever happened to Webber.

Webber looked at him through narrowed eyes.  “Why does it look like we’ve traveled back to this place about five years ago?” he demanded.

“Probably because we have,” Jared said.  In spite of himself, he was rather enjoying watching someone else go through the process he had when the world first spun around him and spat him out sometime else.

“Okay,” Webber said softly, taking a deep breath. “Okay.”  Then he visibly pulled himself together and turned to look at Jared. “So you’ve done this before?”

He was taking this remarkably well, Jared thought enviously, and decided to start explaining the details.  “Come on, let’s walk a bit,” he said, setting off between the headstones.  “Yes, I’ve done this before.  Apparently there’s a decent number of people who time travel randomly to any era in the past or future, and no one knows for sure if it’s a genetic thing or what the factors selecting the people who do it are.  In any case, there’s a board of Time Travel Overseers who have studied the whole phenomena rather thoroughly.  So don’t think about trying to change the past, because that’s been done and never turns out well.  Nowadays, there’s a few of the TTOs who live in the time stream itself, and if anyone tries to change it, they’ll come popping out and make sure you can’t.”

Webber was following him among the gravestones, nodding along.  When Jared paused, he asked, “So do we eventually get back to our own time then?  I haven’t noticed you disappearing before.”

“Oh, I’ve missed a few work shifts because of it,” Jared said lightly. “But so far that seems to be a characteristic of the time stream – it will pick people up and dump them in the past or future, but eventually it seems to spit most everyone out back where they came from.  There’s a few TTOs who have gotten so caught up in studying the time stream that it sucks them in and they live in it now, but if you just have the normal condition of hopping around in time, it won’t do that to you.  So just keep your head down, don’t interact with the past or future too much, and you’re all good.”

At least, he hoped that was true.  That was what he’d been told, when he had a run-in with the Time Travel Overseers the first time he traveled, when he tried to prevent his father’s death.  Secretly, though, he had a nagging fear of being sucked into the time stream against his will and never let go.

“Is there anything we have to do to get home?” Webber asked.  They were nearing the entrance to the graveyard, with bricks a bit straighter than they were nowadays and a significantly less muddy road outside.

“Some people say there’s some particular thing you have to witness in either past or future before you get sent home, but I’ve never noticed that in all my trips,” Jared told him. “I’ve just wandered around and observed random events, and then eventually I wind up back in my present again.  It seems just as much time passes in your present as you spend sometime else, and you drop back in as if you’d never left.”

Webber nodded but was silent, and Jared’s curiosity overcame him. “Any reason you’re particularly intent on getting home?” he asked.

“My baby girl has a birthday party tonight, and I’d like to be there for it,” Webber said quietly.

Jared hadn’t even known Webber had a child at all, but he’d missed or nearly missed his little siblings’ events due to the time stream.  He nodded a little shamefacedly.  “Well, let’s hope the time stream spits us out in time for that then,” he said, and attempted an awkward pat of Webber’s shoulder.  But Webber gave him a little smile that seemed genuinely pleased, and Jared felt better in spite of himself.

They were strolling down one of the streets now, not hurrying, but passing through the crowds of a few years ago.  The sun was bright and pleasant after the digging in the rain of the present, and Jared tipped his face back and enjoyed it.

“Can we interact with the past then at all?” Webber asked quietly after a minute.

“Superficially it’s fine, like doing this,” Jared said.  “I usually stroll around and take a look for interest’s sake – it would be boring staring at the graveyard the whole time.  But I wouldn’t get into a detailed conversation with people – the time stream doesn’t seem to like that.”

Webber nodded and accepted that like he’d accepted everything in the last ten minutes.  Jared was getting quite envious of how calm he seemed to be.

There was a vagrant man stumbling down the street toward them, gray hair obscuring his face.  Jared picked up his pace; the last person he wanted to have a detailed encounter with was a vagrant.  But Webber slowed down.  Before Jared could hiss at him to hurry up, the vagrant man had stumbled up to him and held out his hands.

“Please, a penny?” he begged.

Webber hesitated, and Jared shook his head frantically at him.  Giving someone in the past money was definitely something that either the time travel overseers or the time stream itself might take amiss.

The man had apparently taken Webber’s hesitation for a sign of giving in, for he pressed his point.  “Please, sir,” he pleaded, “I’m old and I can no longer work, and there’s no one who cares to bury me when I’m gone.  Have pity?”

To Jared’s complete surprise, Webber smiled just a bit.  “I’m so sorry,” he said, sounding very genuine, “but I have no money I can give you.  I promise you this, however: you will be buried with dignity when the time comes.”

Jared couldn’t see the vagrant’s face, but his shoulders suddenly straightened and he stood a bit taller.  “Thank you, sir,” he said, very muffled, and passed on.

Webber came up to walk with Jared, an odd look on his face.  Jared gave him a look that was as incredulous as he felt.  “I can’t believe you, of all people, would be making false promises,” he said.

“That wasn’t a false promise,” Webber told him quietly.

“How in the world can you know that?” Jared demanded – and then it occurred to him. “You think he’s one of the people you’ve buried over the years?”

“You didn’t recognize him?” Lloyd Webber asked.  He lifted his eyes to Jared’s, and though clear, there was that hint of the otherworldly in his eyes that sent a shiver down Jared’s spine. “That was Ward Thornton.  That was the man we buried this morning.  It wasn’t an empty promise because I know I’ll bury him myself.”

Jared shivered uncomfortably.  “I don’t know if you should have told him that,” he said.  “The time stream is widely considered to be sacrosanct, and that was definitely something he should not have known.”

“I don’t care,” Webber said stubbornly, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. “You didn’t see the look on his face when I said that.  It took a load he had been carrying for years off his back.  I’d violate the rules of the time stream to give someone that comfort any day.”

Webber would, too, and however much comfort Thornton may have gotten out of it, it was not comforting at all to Jared.  “Why would he care?” he muttered rebelliously.

“Because it’s part of being human to be cared for after death,” Webber said softly.

The next moment, before anything more could be said, the world began to spin around them again.  Webber clutched onto Jared’s arm again, and this time Jared put a hand up to hold him back.  Apparently they were going on this journey together, and he did not intend to let the time stream separate them.

~~~

When the world stilled around them again, Webber gave Jared a thoughtful look.  “Some people say the time stream whisks you on once you’ve had a significant encounter?” he said.

“Yes,” Jared admitted.  He could read well enough what Webber was driving at.  There had been something in the way the vagrant – Thornton – had straightened to haunt even him.

“Are we home then?” Webber asked, glancing around the street.  It was less busy now than it had been a few minutes ago.

“No,” Jared said, after a minute of looking around.  He recognized a storefront that wasn’t there in the present day, but that he had seen on a previous trip.  “We’re in the future.”

Webber looked slightly lost, and at this point Jared was wanting to ask him some questions.  “Let’s go back to the cemetery,” he said.

They wove their way through streets both more worn and more gaudy than in their present day back to the cemetery.  When they had walked through the gate, passing under an arch that was new since their time, Webber immediately took off toward the back corner where they had been working that morning; Jared tagged after him.

When they got there, the trees were taller than they were in the present; the sun was still shining, although there were clouds scudding over its surface, and the grave they had dug was grown over with green grass.  There was, however, a small headstone in place with Ward Thornton’s name on it, and the biggest difference was that there was a well-dressed woman standing in front of the stone, looking at it.  She turned at the sound of their footsteps and raised an eyebrow at them.

Jared faltered and hissed a warning, but it was too late – Webber had already gone forward.  “Hello,” he said politely, holding out his hand.  “My name’s Lloyd Webber, and I work here.  Could I ask what brought you here?”

“Maura Larsen,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m so glad to meet someone who works here, because I have questions.  I just discovered that I’m the granddaughter of the man buried here.  I found his picture and his name in my grandmother’s things recently.  I don’t think he lived a very long or very happy life, but I wanted to ask if you knew anything about him here?”

“Not much, ma’am,” Webber admitted. “I think he was just handed over to us by the city, when they were unable to contact his family.  But I can promise you that he was buried with all the dignity we could give him.”

Some of the tightness by Maura Larsen’s eyes loosened, and she smiled a small smile.  “That is a comfort,” she said.  She paused and looked back at the headstone.  “You won’t mind if I come and visit him every so often?” she asked. “I don’t know everything that happened to him in life, but it feels wrong to completely abandon him in death.”

“Of course you’re always welcome,” Webber said.  He hesitated before adding softly, “I think that would mean something to him too.”  He nodded at the grave.

“Thank you,” was all Maura said, but her eyes were bright, either with hope or with tears.  She gave the grave a little nod, then nodded to the two of them and swept past them toward the gate.

Webber hesitated when she was gone, then sat down on the grass near the grave.  Jared shook his head and came to join him.

“You really can’t stop yourself from interacting with people, can you?” he asked.

“We’re not supposed to interact?” Webber asked, looking up from his contemplation of the gravestone.  “We’d nearly have to be invisible not to.”

Jared shrugged.  “To be honest, there’s multiple theories about that,” he admitted. “Some of the time travel scholars say we shouldn’t interact with anyone ever, whereas others think the whole occurrence of time travel itself means that the timeline is inevitably messy and includes all the interactions between different times.”

“And what do you think?” Webber asked, looking right at Jared.

Jared squirmed a little under his gaze.  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve always tried to avoid talking to people as much as possible.”

Webber shrugged and looked back at the grave.  “Well, there’s some ways I can’t help time travel affecting me,” he said.  When Jared made an inquiring noise, he went on, “I was always intending to get a simple headstone for Ward Thornton’s grave, but now that I know what it looks like, I know what I order when I get back to my time.”

Jared couldn’t disagree with him.  He hesitated, studying the headstone for a moment, then gave in to the generous impulse rising in him.  “When you go to get it,” he said, “bring me along.  I’ll split the cost with you.”

Lloyd Webber looked up at him with wide eyes.  “Why do you care?” he asked. “I never thought you really did.”

“Why do you care so much?” Jared shot back at him.

Webber turned and stared down at the grass.  After several moments, he said very quietly, “My grandmother all but raised me when I was young, because my mother had to work.  She passed away in her sleep one day.  I stayed by her side until my mother came home so she wouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Jared said softly.  The way Lloyd talked, it was as if they were treading on holy ground.

Lloyd shrugged and otherwise ignored him.  “I don’t think the dead are unaffected by how we treat their bodies,” he said. “The pastors only talk about our souls and what happens to them after death, and that we ought to be happy that they’re free of pain and sorrow.  Maybe they are, I don’t know.  But I don’t think it was just a childish impulse that made me think my grandma would know she was alone if I didn’t sit by her after she died.”

Jared sat silent for a moment, putting that together with Lloyd Webber’s unfailing dedication to burying the bodies of the most forgotten people with dignity, with the way Ward Thornton’s shoulders had straightened when he knew he would be cared for after he died, with the way Maura had treated finding the grave that could so easily have gone unmarked.  Before he could find words for any of it, however, the world started to spin around them.

Webber startled and reached out toward Jared, who instinctively grabbed his arm back.  He expected that they would be spun out within a few moments, hopefully back within the rainy March they came from by Thornton’s newly turned grave.  Then Lloyd could go and be there for his child’s birthday party, and Jared would even consider saying a prayer over the grave before he went his way too.

That didn’t happen.

~~~

Instead, when the world around them stopped spinning after the longest time Jared had ever known it to keep going, they were in a completely unfamiliar place.  They weren’t in the corner of the graveyard at any recognizable period of time; as a matter of fact, they weren’t anywhere that looked like Earth at all.  They were surrounded by a swirling, endless cloud of gray and silver, whipping around them and extending endlessly in every direction.

Webber clutched tighter to Jared’s arm.  “Where are we?” he asked, and his voice was shaking.

Jared wanted to say he knew, but he was as scared as Lloyd.  “I don’t know,” he said, but he was terrified that this was the time stream, that they had been caught up in it and could never go home.

Through the shifting, endless mists, a figure began to appear ahead of them.  It slowly took on a distinctly human form, but its features were still obscured in the blurry cloud of mist.  Lloyd clutched tighter at Jared’s arm and said nothing.  Jared had to swallow twice before he could call out in a shaking voice, “Hello?”

“Thank you,” the figure said.  It was a man’s voice, raspy like a smoker’s and on the one hand very human, but it also echoed around the space and seemed to bounce off every spray of mist in a way Jared’s voice hadn’t.

It was Lloyd who found his voice this time.  “For what?” he faltered.

“For burying me and treating me kindly in the burial,” the figure answered.  “What?” it went on, when they were both speechless. “You don’t recognize me?  But I suppose you wouldn’t until I’m reunited with my body.  I’m Ward Thornton.”

“Oh,” Lloyd gasped out, and then, since he could apparently find words in moments that Jared couldn’t, he added, “I – I hope you’re better now.”

“I will be someday,” the figure of Ward answered. “And that has a lot to do with you.  The way you cared for my body in death was the first thing to give me hope to take on the afterlife.”

“You’re welcome,” Lloyd whispered.  But even as he said it the figure was fading away into the mists, and the mists were beginning to whirl around them.

~~~

Jared had his eyes squeezed tight shut and could still feel Lloyd Webber’s death grip on his arm when he began to feel rain spattering on his cheeks.  Daring to open his eyes, he discovered that they were back where they had begun, back by the freshly turned grave they had just dug, with the March rain spattering down and the trees their normal shapes in the background.

“It’s okay,” he exclaimed, and then as the relief overwhelmed him he turned and shook Lloyd’s shoulders until the other man opened his eyes.  “It’s okay, it’s alright, we’re back in our time, you can go to your daughter’s birthday tonight!”

Lloyd took a moment to look around himself, still shaking a bit under Jared’s hands; then he drew a deep breath and stepped back.  “I never want to time travel again,” he said fervently.

Jared laughed and never cared that his laugh was trembling.  “We made it back,” he said.  He took one more look around to reassure himself that they were back in the right time, then stepped up to the grave.  The echoing thanks of the shadowy figure of the man had shaken him in a way nothing else on the trip could have, and though they must have been directed at Lloyd, he felt ashamed, now, that he would not have cared a few hours earlier to make sure that Ward Thornton was buried with dignity.  He took his shovel and made a few perhaps useless passes to smooth out the surface of the grave, promising himself internally to make sure the grass was kept as neatly clipped here as in the more visited parts of the cemetery.  Then, though he still felt awkward doing it, he knelt for a second and said a short prayer for Ward Thornton.

When he stood up, Lloyd was studiously not watching him, but he said softly, “I think that trip proved pretty well that there’s something to the theory that we’re meant to time travel to certain times.”

“It certainly proved something to me,” Jared admitted dryly. “Did it change anything for you?”

“I never knew if what I did mattered,” Lloyd said. “I thought it did, but I didn’t know.  Now I do.”

They stood for another moment beside the grave, then it was Lloyd who murmured, “About the funeral Friday,” and they started to walk off through the rainy cemetery together.

They were about halfway back to the main building when Jared said, “Remember, when you go to get the gravestone for Ward, I want to help with it.”

“You’re sure of that?” Lloyd asked, and when Jared glared at him, he added quickly, “I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“I think the future has obligated me,” Jared said. “After all, we have to put the gravestone there for Maura Larsen to find.  And Ward Thornton deserves it, too.”

The last sentence came out of him in an impulsive effort, but it made Lloyd smile at him – the small, slow smile that Jared had used to think was creepy and really didn’t anymore.  He clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and they went in to the office together.

~~~

So that’s the story, the way the gravediggers at Charleston City Cemetery tell it.  Jared Myers, you see, told it to all his coworkers after it happened, and they all began to treat Lloyd Webber – and more importantly, the dead they buried – with more respect after that.  The story has been passed on and on through the generations; it’s the legend of the cemetery, and any gravedigger working there today can tell you it by heart.

Is it true?  Who knows?  What story is true when it’s been told for a hundred years and what story is legend?  That doesn’t matter, in the end.  What matters is what it means.  What matters is that generations of gravediggers have buried the ones who come to them with a little more care and respect, even the ones like Ward Thornton who didn’t have anyone to care how they were buried.  What matters is that every grave is marked and every name known.

What matters is that the story tells how the body of one Ward Thornton was buried made a difference to him.  And maybe it makes a difference to all of us, what happens to our bodies when the grave comes for us. Do we know that it does?  Of course not.  But the gravediggers of Charleston City Cemetery believe it does.  And maybe it doesn’t hurt to dig a grave with care, to bury a body with respect, to say a prayer for the dead, while we wait for the time when the body and soul once more become one.

[maltheniel]

The Eagle and Child: Week Three

We're nearing the deadline of the Inklings Challenge! Time for another check-in. You're welcome to discuss anything you want about your story or the writing process, but some things you could consider sharing include:

How is the writing going?

Have your ideas changed over the course of the week?

Have any parts of your story or the brainstorming/writing process surprised you?

What has been the most enjoyable part of the writing process?

What has been the most difficult part of the writing process?

How are the themes fitting into your story?

Are there any writing habits/rituals that get you into the mood for writing? Any rewards that you've promised yourself for finishing?

Are you on track to finish by the deadline?

Any advice as we approach the final crunch?

Or anything else you care to discuss. As always, this is just for fun, so you can share as much or as little as you like. Thank you all so much for continuing on this writing journey with us. Have fun!

[maltheniel]

The Eagle and Child: Opening Day

The Inklings Challenge has started! You’ve received your team assignment, the creative juices are flowing, and you’re either brimming with ideas or desperately trying to find some. Like the original Inklings, this Challenge needs a place to discuss writing, so roughly-weekly posts (named after the famed Inklings pub, of course) will give people a chance to talk about their progress through the Challenge.

On these opening days of the challenge, let’s discuss how it’s going. If you like, you can share things like:

Which team are you on?

Which genre are you considering tackling?

Is this similar to what you usually write?

Do you have a story idea yet? If so, care to share anything about it?

Which themes are you considering incorporating into your story?

Are any other story sparks–pictures, events, genre, themes, etc.–coming to mind as something you might want to use to inspire your story?

Are you excited? Nervous? Terrified? Confident? Some combination of new and exciting emotions?

Are there any ideas/types of stories that you'd like to see from the other teams? Care to share any ideas/suggestions/wish lists?

This is purely for fun, so share whatever you feel like sharing, or keep your secrets to yourself. However you feel like engaging.

Welcome to the Inklings Challenge! Have fun!

[maltheniel]

Team Tolkien 2023

Announcing the 2023 Inklings Challenge team assignments!

Members of Team Tolkien are challenged to write a science fiction or fantasy story within the Christian worldview that fits into one of these two genres:

Secondary World Fantasy: Stories that takes place in an imaginary realm that’s completely separate from our world

Time Travel: Stories exploring technology that allows travel through time

These genres are open to interpretation, and creativity is encouraged.You can use either or both of the prompts within your story, or if you’re feeling ambitious, you can write multiple stories.

Team Tolkien members are also asked to use at least one of the following seven Christian themes to inspire some part of their story.

Feed the hungry

Give drink to the thirsty

Clothe the naked

Shelter the homeless

Visit the sick

Visit the imprisoned

Bury the dead

Writers are challenged to complete and post their story to a tumblr blog by October 21, 2022, though they are encouraged to post earlier if they finish their story before that date. There is no maximum or minimum word limit. Writers who have not completed their stories before the deadline are encouraged to post whatever they have written by October 21st and post the remainder at a later date.

Posting the Stories

All stories will be reblogged and archived on the main Inklings Challenge blog. To assist with organization, writers should tag their posts as follows:

Mention the main Challenge blog @inklings-challenge somewhere within the body of the post (which will hopefully alert the Challenge blog).

Tag the story #inklingschallenge, to ensure it shows up in the Challenge tag, and make it more likely that the Challenge blog will find it.

Tag the team that the author is writing for: #team lewis, #team tolkien, or #team chesterton. 

Tag the genre the story falls under: #genre: portal fantasy, #genre: space travel, #genre: secondary world, #genre: time travel, #genre: intrusive fantasy, #genre: adventure

Tag any themes that were used within the story: #theme: food, #theme: drink, #theme: clothing, #theme: shelter, #theme: visit the sick, #theme: visit the imprisoned, #theme: burial

Tag the completion status of the story: #story: complete or #story: unfinished

Team Members

The writers assigned to Team Tolkien are:

@ablatheringblatherskite

@afairmaiden

@angedemystere

@as-dreamers-do

@atlantic-riona

@brievel

@caitriona-3

@catkin-morgs

@challenger2013

@christian-latte-anon

@clarythericebot

@dragonladyzarz

@dragonteaandfairyhoney

@enchanted-prose

@enjoliquej

@esters-notepad

@friendrat

@frominsidetheblanketfort

@gailyinthedark

@lady-merian

@lilflightlessbird731

@maltheniel

@mentallydatingahotcelebrity

@misscrazyfangirl321

@musicofthedaylight

@olyia-stories

@on-noon

@onewingedsparrow

@plainshobbit

@politicalmamaduck

@queenlucythevaliant

@rachellesedai

@reneethegreatandpowerful

@ripple-reader

@ru-tabega

@shakespearean-fish

@soulwindproductionsblog

@taleweaver-ramblings

@teabooksandsweets

Writing resources, including the Challenge overview, FAQ, writing prompts, and discussions of the genres are available at the Inklings Challenge Directory. Any writers with further questions can contact the Inklings Challenge blog for guidance.

Welcome to the Inklings Challenge, everyone! Now go forth and create!

[maltheniel]

I don't know how useful this is, but one of the first things I think of when I think of Christian poesm that I have loved is Hannah Hurnard's poems. She wrote a couple books, Hind's Feet on High Places and Mountains of Spices, that have lovely little poems embedded in them that expand on verses or spell out Christian ideas in a beautiful way. I can only find a couple of them by searching on the web, though, so I don't know how useful it is as a recommendation. (Unless you happen to have the books, which I highly recommend!)

As a way to foster creativity, I've started adding a poem to the weekly newsletter our church sends out. This is great in theory, but in practice, since I am not really a poetry reader, it means a lot of scrambling each week to try to find something that is A) meaningful; B) short enough to fit in the introductory paragraph without it causing most readers to glaze over and skip to the end (alas, no Desdichado on that account, though I have been tempted to split it by verse and share one portion a week until we've had the entire thing, but I think that might dilute its effect too much); and C) something that is generally uplifting and encouraging in a way acceptable to most of our church folk as well as rich in meaning (I know, I'm asking a lot).

So far I've done a few Psalms and a couple of passages from Isaiah, as well one poem each by Luci Shaw, Malcolm Guite, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Mary Oliver, and Wendell Berry.

Tumblr users who are more widely read in poetry than I, any recommendations for who else I should be looking into? Or are there any poetry anthologies I could purchase to help me in my quest?

[maltheniel]

It's time to start thinking about this year's Inkling's Challenge. There are a few things to address before I make anything official, and I'd like to bounce it off of you guys first.

Interest

Is anyone interested in doing this?

Themes

As in previous years, I'd like to have a list of seven Christian themes for writers to choose from to inspire their stories. This encourages people to think about the Christian element, and provides some guidance without being too rigid. I got the impression that last year's images worked better for people than the previous year's list of Christian concepts. I'm trying to figure out which direction to take with this year's list.

Options include:

Keeping last year's imagery list. Makes it easy for me, but I would like to shake things up to give each year's Challenge a unique feel.

Coming up with a list of new images. My first thought is images that have been applied to God (shepherd, father, king, bridegroom, servant, etc), though that may be too narrow and limit people to stories involving blatant Christ figures. At the moment, I can't think of anything else that goes beyond the major Christian images in last year's list.

Coming up with a new list of more abstract Christian themes. Virtues? Gifts of the Spirit? Books or Sections of the Bible?

I'm open to any ideas that anyone might have because I'm stumped.

Team Chesterton's Technology Category

Each team in the Inklings Challenge gets a fantasy and science fiction genre assigned to it. The split has been pretty even with stories written for Team Lewis and Team Tolkien, but after two years, we've yet to have a single story written for the Technology genre of Team Chesterton. This suggests there's a major problem with the concept, so I should probably switch it up.

The best solution depends on what exactly the problem is. Is the category too broad? Does the title make it seem too technical--like you have to be an expert in technology and write about it realistically? Does it not have a genre attached to it that inspires stories? "Space travel" and "time travel" both suggest going places, which naturally sparks stories. And they evoke certain not-necessarily-hard-sci-fi genres.

There is a possibility that it's chance--maybe Intrusive Fantasy, with its urban fantasy and fairy tale possibilities, is just too appealing to this crowd in comparison to any sci fi genre. But to have no stories in the genre (with Team Chesterton always sparking the fewest stories) suggests a deeper problem.

How to fix it?

Options include:

Choose a category name related to travel like the other two are. There are lots of stories you could tell based on air, land, and sea travel that still involve sci-fi technology (and the concept matches things included in Chesterton's work). But what to call it? "Earth-based travel"?

Choose a certain type of technology to focus on. Say, Biological Technology. Or Robots. This may have some of the same too-technical-sounding problems of the Technology category.

Choose a technology-related subgenre, like Cyberpunk or Steampunk. (Or all the -punks if I could figure out a decent term for it). This still fits Chesterton's work, but may be too limiting or may still not draw writers--after all, these were always options under the original genre category, and no one wrote any.

Any feedback in this area would help.

[maltheniel]

🦀🦀🦀

Reblog if you're comfortable receiving crabs on Crab Day (July 29th) so all your beloved followers know who they can comfortably crab on crab day (July 29th) without feeling nervous about crabbing someone 9n Crab Day (July 29th).

🦀🦀🦀

[maltheniel]

@queenlucythevaliant, I don't know if you've seen this before or not, but it looks like it would line up with your dinosaur interests. 😊

Short post of paleontologists absolutely slaying photo shoots with their discoveries. Please add more such images if you have them.

[maltheniel]

Hi! List five things that make you happy; then, if you'd like to, put this in the ask box of the last ten people who reblogged something from you and spread some positivity ✨💙🌺

Hey! Thanks very much for the ask. 😊

Five things making me happy:

I'm getting married in a week!! Still can't believe it's finally about to happen, and I'm so excited about it.

It's been so nice having my brother home from college this summer and reconnecting and sharing with him.

Where I live got a lot of rain this spring, and all the wildflowers that have come out in response are lovely! Not every year has lovely wildflowers like this one.

Random, but one of my favorite fanfiction authors, @audreycritter, has been posting a new work recently, and I've been devouring it as it comes out because it's so good!

Can I say getting married again? It's the biggest thing absorbing me and making me very happy just now. 😊

That's my list! I don't know if I'll have time to ask people, so if anyone wants to consider this an ask to fill this out, you're very welcome to.