#*beats him to death with a stick of salami*

[eff-plays]

Is this your remorseful and selfless and uncorruptible meow meow.

[koifishscribbles]

Is it a sneak peek of Chapter 11 to make myself feel better about how slow I am writing? Perhaps….

Just in case you haven’t read my 80k stsg slowly burn…

Below is an upcoming Gojo+ first year trio fluff

“You look as good as the day I met you

I forget just why I left you, I was insane

Stay and play that Blink-182 song

That we beat to death in Tucson, OKAY!”

Satoru belts out the last note like it’s his fucking job. It absolutely isn’t, no one would ever pay to him to screech off key Chainsmokers lyrics unless he was facilitating torture. However, in this case he’s taken it on himself to inflict as much harm as he can to the three teenagers in his vehicle, so he lets his voice warble. Louder is always better.

“Please stop!” Yuuji groans, sinking further into the backseat as if he can escape the broken notes if he borrows deep enough into the leather.

“We ain't ever getting olDER!” Is the surrender that grinds against Satoru’s vocal cords as he bounces a finger flamboyantly around the car pointing to each of the kids on what he assumes is the beat.

“This is sooooo messed up,” Yuuji mutters, then sticks a hand on the shoulder of the passenger seat in front of him. “All we did was try and help our sick friend.”

“If he points that finger in my direction again and I’m gonna bite him,” Nobara huffs under her breath.

“Gross—“

“First off,” Satoru drones over the next shitty pop song. “I am a fantastic singer— You’re welcome for the free concert by the way— Second off, Choso found you in a dinner. Megumi wasn’t sick—“

Megumi butts in, talking over him. “But I wasn’t eating anything!”

“Doesn’t matter! They skipped school. You ran off, no one knew where any of you were.” His hand flops around like a dying fishing as continues to point at his students. “We adults can’t trust you to get yourself to school anymore, so you’re stuck with me and in-car concerts dedicated directly to you.”

“This has gotta be against the Genoa Convention or something.”

The music drones hollowly over the engine before Satoru prompts “Yuuji?” Megumi stirs in the seat next to him to twist around.

“Yeah?” From the rearview mirror, Satoru sees that Yuuji’s eyes are cast out the window, unbothered and unaware that everyone is now staring at him.

“Geneva.”

“What about it?” He ask.

“Moron!” Announces Nobara.

“You mean Geneva, Yuuji,” Megumi states, peeping through the gap between the headrest and the seat. “It’s The Geneva Convention. Genoa is a Salami.”

“What’s it matter?” Yuuji frown, kicking his book bag at his feet, “it’s all just European bullshit.”

“I’m snitching!” Satoru sing-songs. “I’m telling Namani you’re talking crap on his culture.”

“Nanami’s Danish.” Megumi scoffs. “Genoa is Italian and Geneva is—“

No one notice the song fade out, but it takes Satoru one note for him to howl out: “OH MY GOD!” over Megumi as he turns the volume dial up higher breaking into the open vocalizations of Gwen Stefani’s “Sweet Escape.”

He doesn’t hear the complaints of the kids over the sound of the music and the gentle buzz in his pocket that thrums into his veins. Suguru had appeared in his doorway at the end of yesterday’s school day, as he was trying to drag up some anger to chew Megumi out for running off when he was supposed to be at home resting. The man didn’t even need to open his mouth. Satoru saw the way he rocked on his heals with his thumbs hooked in his pockets to keep his hands from fidgeting. Suguru wanted something, and Satoru was ready to give it to him instantly offering up any evening for a dinner together.

Suguru had actually only needed another copy of the worksheet. He spilt coffee on the other one. But the blush that smeared across his cheeks told Satoru that he didn’t make the wrong choice.

“And I could be your favorite girl

Forever, perfectly together

And tell me, boy, now wouldn't that be sweet?”

[just-here-for-the-art-shit]

Welcome to the new year mon amies, I wanted to do a special preview of some of the MH fics I've been working on and planning for the 2022 year, once the current fics I have running have been finished. I can't wait to share them all with you!

Moonrise (Sundown Part 2)

With The Operator nothing more than a wilting tree, Jay and Tim are free to live their lives in their own slice of heaven in peace ... or so they thought. There's no rest for the wicked, and Jay finds out there's a lot more life in the canyons then most can see - or rather, death. Old friends and new unite to take on the strange skull-faced shooter. M-E rated, A Bram centric fic with a side of fluffy Tessica.

~

"Aw, my boy, you have a gift."

"G-gift? I wouldn't exactly call it a gift but-"

"It is a gift - one, though, that comes with many responsibilities."

~

Two steps - he's prying the car door open - five - he puts a gun to the engineer's head. "Get up - you better start talking, pal."

"What … where am I?"

"You should be at the bottom of the gulch."

"I don't … remember…"

~

"The souls of Miranda, entwined with the magic of your own, singing the song of creation. The mirrors all shatter, the piano strikes a dull note, and the sky falls."

".... Does anyone understand this hocus-pocury shit?"

~~~

Legend of the Phoenix

Given a second chance, Jay Merrick reincarnates at the start of it all, 2006. With a new lease on life, he has only one thing on his mind - revenge. E-rated, A Jam centric fic following Jay's pov.

~

"Oh … you missed the waiter - you can have some of my food…"

He shrugs, "That's alright, I'm not that hungry."

"Oh my GOD Tim, just eat the man's food, he's not going to bite your arm off." Brian says obnoxiously loud, elbowing him.

"I will personally fight you in this restaurant."

~

"You sound like I'm going to my death." 

"God I hope not. Take care man." 

Poor Brian. He doesn't see, doesn't remember the atrocities. Brian died early in the chaos - thank goodness. Of all people, Brian is one of the ones that never deserved this. He went quick - he hopefully didn't suffer for long. That warm, summer smile was preserved forever, untainted by the wear and tear of paranoid years and tapes and strange messages. 

"Drive safe." He says, and for once today, he thinks it to be true.

~

"Bark bark!"

Ha. He almost forgot about the dog. Here comes the next line -

"Seth, did you bring your dog?"

"Yeah … sorry. I didn't have a sitter."

Alex sighs. "It's … fine … I think we need to wrap up for the weekend anyway, everyone's tired. We'll try again Monday."

…... Huh? That's … not anticipated.

~~~

H.E. Double Hockey-Sticks

Welcome to Hell! Jay - Paimon, and Jessica - Lilith, start out their new demonic lives as soldiers making their way through the ranks of the Imperial Palace, But of course, it's never as easy as it sounds. Dozens of demon lords, kings, dukes and several more make up the hierarchy of Hell, and with that comes a lot of personalities - and a lot of treachery, threatening to overthrow Lucifer himself.

(This is literally a Palace harem au not joking) T - E rated, A Jay-centric polyhornets fic!

~

He peels his cooked, aching body off the mattress like burnt salami, string of drool still rolling down his face as he slips into his gear. What the hell did he do to deserve this?

Today is partner sparring - thank goodness. Jessica still beats his ass, but educates him too, unwilling to give up on him.

~

"The crown prince Satan is well … Satan … but Lucifer… he's kind of a mystery… They say he's truly in charge, but Satan usually makes all his appearances."

"Huh … interesting. Sounds like a mystery …"

"Don't go investigating it now."

His eyes flash, "Why not?"

"Are you insane? Do you want to die?"

"No, but I might be a tiny bit insane - besides, what else is there to do around here for fun."

"I wouldn't consider looking into the history of the Morning Star 'fun.'"

~

"Beleth is coming!"

"Beleth?"

The hall bursts in a fury of whipping winds and fumes, a roar shakes the cathedral, and then a blast of white light.

"ANGELS!" The room turns into uproar, as demons scatter themselves everywhere.

In walks a thin man with glasses. "Pathetic!" He yells. "How do any of you expect to go against even a low rank cherub! Who let you pass through!?"

(And so, so much more I can't wait to publish)

~~~

Marble Heroes

Fresh out of school, Jay takes a hero internship under one of the mightiest heroes known to man - ok, so maybe the only reason he got the internship is because Alex is his BFF. There's lot more to being a hero than just fighting villains - but try telling him that when he continuously runs into the same one over and over. T rated, a Jam centric fic with a hint of Brilex.

~

"Shit - they're already here - cover the backways!"

"W- Alex- and he's gone … great."

~

"Stay down kid, this fight is over."

"Mmm-gh?"

"I know I didn't hit you that hard. Now go to sleep. You'll heal."

"Goo-night…"

"Good night."

~

"Good evening."

"Ag-b!!!!" In a flurry of limbs, he nearly tumbles off the ledge, scraping himself back onto the roof. "Don't do that!"

"And you're supposed to be a hero? Anyone could've gotten the drop on you."

~~~

And if time permits, I hope to share many, many more this year.

[alatismeni-theitsa]

The Greek Frontiersmen songs

The Acritic songs ("frontiersmen songs") are the epic poems that emerged in the Byzantine Empire around the ninth century. The songs celebrated the exploits of the Akritai, the frontier guards defending the eastern borders of the Byzantine Empire. The most famous one is that of Digenes Akritas, considered by some to signal the beginnings of modern Greek literature.

Written in Medieval Greek, the Acritic songs deal with the heroic deeds (Greek: ανδραγαθίες) of warriors who lived near the Arab frontiers and fought against the enemy. The poet narrates in recitation, or in a simple, recurring, and easily taught pace, the enslavement, duels, massacres, escapes, release of captives, and often the bonds of affection between kidnappers and women that led to marriage and reconciliation.

Those songs were sung by folk singers, who may have been professionals, or semi-professionals that temporarily abandoned their jobs to sing their songs for pay. They were called ayirte (αγύρται), the Greek counterpart of troubadours. The tradition developed in central Anatolia, which was the cradle of Acritic literature. The preservation of such important oral songs in Asia Minor up to 1922, until the Greek genocide in the area. In the island of Cyprus the tradition is still prevalent in festivals.

Most poems did not survive the Ottoman occupation of Greece, and only a fraction remains of the original number of works, yet the ones we do hold today were famous enough to have existed in enough copies to survive. The most well known oral songs were written down and copied in great numbers, the most exceptional case being the Digenis Acritas.

The most important Acritic romances are:

Digenis Acritas (Διγενής Ακρίτας)

Andronicus' Steed (Ο Ανδρόνικος και ο Μαύρος του)

Son of Andronicus (Ο υιός του Ανδρόνικου)

Song of Armouris (Το άσμα του Αρμούρη)

Digenis Acritas

The epic is the most famous of the Acritic Songs and details the life of the hero, Basil (Βασίλειος), whose epithet Digenes Akritas ("Two Blood Frontiersman" or "Twain-born Borderer") refers to his mixed Byzantine-Cappadocian Greek and Arab blood. The context is the Arab–Byzantine wars that lasted from the 7th century to the early 11th century. You can find the summary of the story here (Link). Greek art depicting his story follows:

This guy was so badass that he even fought Death (Thanatos/Charon) himself! Only Death managed to defeat him in a fierce battle in "the marble threshing floors". In a similar manner, Death had wrestled with Heracles.

Ο Ακρίτας είμαι, Χάροντα, δέν περνώ μέ τά χρόνια, Είμ' εγώ η ακατάλυτη ψυχή τών Σαλαμίνων, στήν Εφτάλοφην έφερα το σπαθί τών Ελλήνων.

It is I, Acritas, O Death; years can't fade me away. I'm the indestructible soul of Salamis, bringing the sword of the Greeks to the Sevenhill.

Images of the battle follow:

Form and Excerpt

The Digenes Akritas is written in Early Demotic Greek and is composed in fifteen syllable blank verse. Rhyming occurs rarely. Each line holds its own and every hemistich is carefully balanced. The poem flows, is cadential, with no cacophonies with very scarce sound repetitions.

Below is an excerpt in Greek with the translation of the Escorial manuscript, lines 32-55, by E. M. Jeffreys (pp. 240–3):

Εὐθὺς ἐκαβαλίκευσαν, 'ς τὸν κάμπον κατεβαίνουν. Ὡς δράκοντες ἐσύριζαν καὶ ὡς λέοντες ἐβρυχοῦντα καὶ ὡς ἀετοὶ ἐπέτουντα, καὶ ἐσμίξασιν οἱ δύο· καὶ τότε νὰ ἰδῆς πόλεμον καλῶν παλληκαρίων. Καὶ ἀπὸ τῆς μάχης τῆς πολλῆς κροῦσιν δι|ασυντόμως· καὶ απὸ τὸν κτύπον τὸν πολὺν καὶ ἀπὸ τὸ δὸς καὶ λάβε οἱ κάμποι φόβον εἴχασιν καὶ τὰ βουνιὰ ἀηδονοῦσαν, τὰ δένδρη ἐξεριζώνουντα καὶ ὁ ἥλιος ἐσκοτίσθη. Tὸ αἷμαν ἐκατέρεεν εἰς τὰ σκαλόλουρά των καὶ ὁ ἵδρος τους ἐξέβαινεν ἀπάνω ἀπ' τὰ λουρίκια. Ἦτον <καὶ> γὰρ τοῦ Κωνσταντῆ γοργότερος ὁ μαῦρος, καὶ θαυμαστὸς νεώτερος ἦτον ὁ καβελάρης· κατέβηκε εἰς τὸν αμιρὰν καὶ κρούει του ραβδέα καὶ τότε ἐχέρισε ὁ ἀμιρὰς νὰ τρέμη καὶ νὰ φεύγη. Σαρακηνὸς ἐλάλησεν τὸν ἀμιρὰν τῆς γλώσσης: «Πιάσε, μούλε, τὸν ἄγουρον, ταχέως νὰ τὸν νικήσης, μὴ εἰς σύντομόν του γύρισμα πάρη τὴν κεφαλὴν σου· αὑτὸς καλὰ σ' ἐσέβηκεν, τώρα νὰ σὲ γκρεμνίση. Ἐγώ, μούλε, οὐ τὸ ἐγνοιάζομαι νὰ τὸν καταπονέσης, ἀλλὰ μὴ τὸ καυχάσεται ὅτι ἔτρεψεν φουσάτα.» Καὶ ὁ αμιρὰς ὡς τὸ ἤκουσεν, μακρέα τὸν ἀποξέβην, ἔριψεν τὸ κοντάριν του καὶ δάκτυλόν τοῦ δείχνει καὶ μετὰ τοῦ δακτύλου του τοιοῦτον λόγον λέγει: «Ζῆς, νὰ χαίρεσαι, νεώτερε, ἐδικόν σου ἔν' τὸ νίκος.»

They mounted at once and they came to the battlefield. They hissed like dragons, they roared like lions, they soared like eagles, and the two clashed. And then you could see a fight between fine brave youths. In the heat of the battle they struck continuously, and from the great clashing and the cut and thrust the plains grew fearful and the mountains re-echoed, trees were uprooted and the sun was darkened. Blood flowed down over their horse-trappings and their sweat ran out over their breastplates. Constante’s black horse was speedier, and its rider was a marvelous young man. He charged at the emir and struck him a blow with his stick and then the emir began to tremble and flee. A Saracen addressed the emir in his own tongue: "Baseborn, seize the youngster, to beat him speedily, so that he doesn’t take your head off with a sudden turn of his. He has made a fine attack on you, and now he might bring you down. I don’t think, o baseborn, you are going to do him much harm, but don’t let him boast that he routed an army." When the emir heard this, he withdrew some way from the youth, he threw away his spear and pointed his finger at him, and with this gesture he said these words: "May you live and rejoice, young man, victory is yours."

______________________________________________________________

Some of the artwork is done by Dimitris A. Skourtelis !

[onlyhorn]

@cadcnce​ dies :  Wylan smiles at her. "Meatrice."

beats him to death with the salami stick he threw into her hands.

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter Four

Croaking, creaky, doors to heaven or a flash of bright lights reminiscent of a distant city for gambling purposes. Seed or glitter tossed to the audience of bird; dove and pigeon swooped down from above in the guise of hundreds of humans, all ready for a night of party. Sign changed to that of a welcoming invitation, an embrace fulfilled.

Swooners and swingers, uppers and downers. Sitters and stands found their places, some on stages, some in the dimmer recesses. In the middle of it all, a mild-mannered strict enforcer of peace among chaos cleaned glasses.

Some folks, card and dice in hand, bet high stakes; those playing Russian Roulette with a full clip. Some were on their last leg. There was one, solitaire player, alone at a table, with two legs, and mouth full of stake.

She had become without arm nor ornament, having to chew the fat and whatever else was left through the means as one would have at a pie-eating contest; mouth against the table, table against the grain. Although a steak, recent losses also reduced the quality to that of a super rare rather plus ultra.

“How goes your loss of arms?” One privateer sans privacy peeked at two stumps beside a line added.

“Shit's easy 'cept can't afford prosthetic 'til our gang gets a win. Love usin' my mouth, however.”

Sage nod, wisdom as a slow up and down motion.

“Experience any phantom limb?” Phantom crook hovered over, pale and ghastly gourd in hand.

“Don't believe in ghosts.”

Damned nod dawned on hovering attention hoarders.

Toward center:

“I had a wife once,” said old friend to tender of bars.

“I know,” gave a master of tender bars.

Old friend man strolled toward former owner of arms. He relaxed a pat on a shoulder, lest a back be pat.

“One day my story will be told,” he assured more lines added.

“Yeah, and who's gonna tell it, asshole?” She shot back, less with a gun and rather chunks of meat flying from a gaping hole in a face where food at times enters. “'Cause if it's from you, it's not worth hearing about!”

His stature was far from a statue, yet his manner was monumental. Rather chipped shoulder came crashing down, upside on a frown.

“It becomes more clear.”

However, smudged was what entered from behind a hue.

“What do you have against autobiographies? My dear, a automatic biological response toward the self is a circular motion. Jerking, ever forward, sliding sleight of hand marks for a rotary notary.”

Add a shiver to a line. Creep tingled spine.

Behind, vociferous virginal cackle crackled. Stooped stature. One and only entrance, where all else was least expected.

“It has come to my attention that my family of misfits have suffered some losses!” Such an announcement. “No more! I say! We shall overcome this laboratory love, seek shelter from ourselves! Turn inward and a new leaf forward! All who join my gang today gain free drinks on me!”

Thunderous lightning in bottles.

Adeline kept head down, as head above water came skin deep.

“There are two I fear: Sylvie and Virginia.”

To the other Woolfs, howls were deafening. Fangs were spiked in drinks. Yet, when in the presence of a Virginia, her commands were akin to carrying rocks in one's pockets and heading out to sea.

Right on cue, a tunic beat sprung from leaps and bounds of snapping fingers, rickety floorboards, and pickled shoelaces. Such a hall dedicated to tango. Dancers took a new center stage. Pinstripe, tuxedo, tutu, and tunic.

“May I have this dance?” One said to the other.

“No,” other said to one.

The two proceeded to tango. Separately. Creating their own moves. Spun and hiss from the potter's wheel.

“Sing us a song, piano man!” One in the crowd cheered and jeered, a jaunty musk enchanted a nostril torpedo humanoid.

Tune in minor D, flat. Singing in major G, sharp.

“I was born in an institution, so take me to the institution. Hollow out my skull for me, baby.”

Everyone snapped their fingers, sans those without or those with taste buds. Budding tastes abased. Upper right square, centerfold, holy ritualistic loneliness devoured a devout silent speaker.

Muttered, a sufferer. Alone, red wine.

“The church claims to hand out prayers to those in need. The church claims to heal all those with wounds. But how can such wounds be shaved when they come from the hands of one above? How can prayers reach, how can one pray, when one is prey to a praying mantis?”

Her words were a sermon, to and from her alone. All those to see, herself. Though there were two, seeing her.

“Annie, the sharpshooter. Tricky, thick needle. Not one made claim to touch her.”

One of two. Pointer. Point and jeer.

“Sharpshooter or fragile flower?”

Other, drinker. Just as most. Mostly morose.

“Church. We've been over this. Bullets. She knows this.”

“Her mother keeps a keen eye.”

“Of the Sextons?”

“Not one made claim to touch her, but one.”

Turtle and porcupine pawned a torch through a blazing trail, overheard outcrop of silent words.

“Yo, Buddy?”

Turtle had a back, no shell.

“Was that my name?”

“Such a dilemma, that Annie case.”

“Which one?”

Porcupine did a sit, then pointed to a sit, then took a stand. Syd was still on the fence. Respect on a mend.

“I respect women, but what about women who disrespect women?”

Turtle dove, diving down a crown.

“Respect a little less?”

Adeline, minding less of a mind and a little more risky business, less stake for steak, took to munching carpet. Similar texture, less cost.

Decimation, ten of them. Torturous conditions. Smaller and smaller, then lesser and greater than the sum of their tears for fears. Out on the other end, next kareoke session.

“My cue!” Glee, jitter bug and shut-in cough tourist.

As all else, empty, Syd, short for a name forbidden, spoke aloud.

“MOOD CHANGE TONIGHT!” Brought impassioned introduction, then a sing along to a line of lyric. “GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUUUUN!”

Abridged, bridged gaps, two ladies took hands. Unmarried, unbridled, in bridal regalia as regal as larked tongue.

“Why do you date him?” Lustrous loss owner inquired.

“He's harmless. Undangerous man, a safe, sure bet.” She curled over her hair, flexing her neck, sticking it outward in case ladies were to observe. Star tattooed, shoreline above the mantle.

Annie, less drink, more sorrow. Sylvie, more observant, sharp gaze.

“I prefer not to comment.”

“Leader of Sextons, her mother. Weren't the three of us in the same hospital?” Less Victoria, more Virginia mouthed audible.

“I share not her views. We begin and end with being acquainted.”

“Oh, come on, dear,” Sizzled, swizzled nails. Swerved, curly hair. White, silver, grey, painted. Glasses that zoom in and out of frame. “Do we not share our fascinations with death? Look around us, we have all suffered losses. We are dead among the dead. Is that not cause for celebration?”

Silent. Serene. Hostile.

“There are a million reasons to die. There are a million reasons to live. Regardless, we all experience one and the other at one point or another.”

“Hmph. Well, darling. We could talk for days about it.”

“Between nature and nurture, I do not force hands.”

She strode her stroll toward a grassy knoll within inner chambers of a table toward the back, varnished and vanished driftwood matte. Drink, had hand tilted with glass. Knotty bramble ale, crisp to the core of an apple and cider.

“I think I don't want society, but then I think I want society because society wants me to want society,” silver, slivered Syl.

“Societal pressures?” Verge in a woman inquiry.

“More that I don't know what I want if I don't have it. But do I only not want it because it wants me to not want it? And when I want it do I want it because it wants me to want it or is it my own desire? Do I desire to live in a society, or live outside? Do I desire to live, or without?”

Another fucking sip, babes took their places, hips and waist belly dances. Boomed a bounce off another end of another corner, crowd gathered to sharks and gatherers.

“I once knew a man named Dave,” dealer dealt shame.

“Say, pal, y'bought any penises recently?”

“Couldn't afford it. Couldn't win enough missions. Tried going in, trying on different dicks. Saw a penis I liked and asked the register. Clerk clocked me. Caught me and coughed up foul interplay of lessons in lack of funds and lack of missions won. Said come back when gang's more renowned. Screwed up, balls of screws.”

“What about a vagina?”

“Those are in even rarer supplies, mate. Try buyin' pussy and folks say 'our selection is for higher ranks. Come back with a little more, no a lot. Lot and lot of renown. Everyone wants one, those who can fit into one can't afford to have one. Now, them Hemingways, too good, little respect. Ain't know what to do. Men who love men, ain't go for dick, ain't try on pussy. Tell ya what's what?”

“My life's a litter box,” interjected strands of hair attached to a face, earl and mache.

“What, Dave?”

“We talking about cats? Because I own a house full. Over 20.”

“Yes, we know, Dave.”

“Y'know,” sized up undulate leader sliced up with a ruler lines of coke. “People think I do drugs, but I DO NOT DO DRUGS. What especially gets me is when they think I do heroin. No. None in this household. I am a vegan. I AM KOSHER. There are those who would call me a post-modernist, but lemme tell you guys somethin': if you measure out the diameter of a filthy swimming pool, describe the height, length, width, dimension, how clean the pool is and what made up the filth in the pool, in details, y'know what that is? REALISM. The real post-modernism is modernism, if you ask me. If you're too afraid to do a little research, then maybe DON'T GO OUT IN THE FIELD.”

Spread out were the cocaine powder locomotive rollercoaster. Salt or sugar, bitter pickle, all snow white.

“Now, anyone want some? I can't have any, I'm allergic.”

Grime, grit, salami-based muscle, pungent four fingers and a thumb attached to a potato called a palm reached for the flour, only for Dave to slap it away.

“Just so you know, a footnote is an endnote if it's at the end.”

Syl emerged from her drink, still in.

“Problem with Hemingway, when us women are ill, we are seen as the illness. When those men are ill, they are martyrs, brave soldiers. We are sent away to a hospital. To get better. Do we get better? Do we get worse? I think we change, in and out, there is a change, no doubt.” Slow sips.

“I'M JUST A GIRL, THAT'S ALL THAT YOU'LL LET ME BEEEEEE--”

Syd's singing. Unprompted.

Syl laugh. She does on alcohol.

“Do you love him?” Virginal census.

“I think I love love,” first responders. “I think I love loving love. But do I love? I think I would love to.”

“Are you in love?”

“Is love something to you as it is to me? I love love as a being, in or out. Am I being in love? I am loving being.”

Hunched, secrets whispered, lungs scattered. Liquids spilled. Glass intact. Bile of much knotty bramble.

“With me,” virgin of the wolfs. “We have much to discuss in the toilets.”

Two ladies followed the vortex of a single file line toward a horizontal stadium of stalls for all to enter. Few leave 'til close. Moss turns, moss directional, director of dissection, wash basins full of mossy oak. Ultimate of bidets on display, only few take. Most wash, some sign off on air.

Some folk wondered what the house special of the night would be, others wondered who belonged to which gang, or which gang belonged to who. There were those who wondered what constituted ale and bourbon and who owned the bonbons.

“You're probably wondering why I decided to show my face tonight,” leader of a ton of sex, hands spread, pose in a alphabetical T.

Nobody wondered that.

“Have mercy...” Mumbling Annie chit-chattered, tiptoed through tapped toes. No one took notice.

“Our gang has received a mission. Simple one at that. Simple, poetic. Seek out a member of the church,”

Others mumbled. Muttered, even.

“I know some of my children are in the audience tonight. Sippin' on some whine, wine, whinge, chardonnay. I ask: who would be willing to make me proud? My dear husband, perhaps? Or maybe I'll return to the hospital and seek if one of the doctors would be willing to join my family,” toot, tort, ruptured spinal speech, with a hoot and a howl to boot mixed in with something afoul afoot.

Splash spot, stood up was fraught fair-minded resolute, daughter with resolve.

“I'll go.”

Crone critter crept forward, slithered toward child (adult as she were).

“Ah, yes. Annie, my dear daughter,” hands upon Annie's shoulder, only her shoulder. Only her shoulder. Still, a flinch. Nerves before determination. Flushed, relieved, two faces attached to complete figures emerged and heard.

“Knowing how she operates. Disgusting.” Silver leadership spoke up.

“No flame, no phoenix. Speak of passion, yet dejection,” verge in a wolf shared opinion.

“True leaders fight alongside their people, or better yet, be the first to die.”

“At the least, inspire passion.”

“Instead, modifications.”

More shivers, between Sylver (if ever her name), Annie (a face green of gables expressed), or the great wolf.

Outside of it all, smokers smoked in the smokers' lounge.

“Wanna go back inside?” One asked.

“Nah. Hear some of the gang leaders are in there.”

Shackled awe, tight spot for jaw.

“What would they be doing here?”

“As private as they are, leadership have every bit of access to ales and spirits as any of us.”

“Now that I think of it, Ernie's always there.”

“Ah yes, 'blood of a unicorn' kid.”

“Blood of a unicorn?”

“Very same one.”

“Damn. Blood of a unicorn. I've been to the woods once or twice. No unicorns spotted. Rabbit, yes.”

“Rabbit? In the woods?”

“Very live rabbit!”

“Rabbit?”

“Hopped along.”

“Deadass? Rabbit?”

“No, alive rabbit.”

“No way. Those haven't existed for a while.”

“Anyway, we should head back inside. Bar's about to close.”

“Still, a rabbit.”

Some shady men, couple in fact, hand in hand, looking inward. Last drinks ordered: Brisk Bristol bourbon and Tempura Tequila.

Soon after, or not long, rather seconds after counting down the hours, safety in numbers huddled from day-to-day monotony began to rain away as seconds ran dry, as did the barrels.

“My doors will close,” bartender took to announcing, image appearing within every visible area of the distracted establishment. “Get your asses out and have a lovely hunt.”

Hemingway leader set down a sturdy book.

“War is ongoing,” Ernie walked, stuck to a miniscule cycle.

“Yes, my friend,” tip of the bartending hat toward world weary pint.

Other nights, others less dry. For a street of blood, oft wanted is a lick of water.

[180brg]

Acts 13

Barnabas, Saul, and Doctor Know-It-All

1-2 The congregation in Antioch was blessed with a number of prophet-preachers and teachers:

Barnabas, Simon, nicknamed Niger, Lucius the Cyrenian, Manaen, an advisor to the ruler Herod, Saul.

One day as they were worshiping God—they were also fasting as they waited for guidance—the Holy Spirit spoke: “Take Barnabas and Saul and commission them for the work I have called them to do.”

3 So they commissioned them. In that circle of intensity and obedience, of fasting and praying, they laid hands on their heads and sent them off.

4-5 Sent off on their new assignment by the Holy Spirit, Barnabas and Saul went down to Seleucia and caught a ship for Cyprus. The first thing they did when they put in at Salamis was preach God’s Word in the Jewish meeting places. They had John along to help out as needed.

6-7 They traveled the length of the island, and at Paphos came upon a Jewish wizard who had worked himself into the confidence of the governor, Sergius Paulus, an intelligent man not easily taken in by charlatans. The wizard’s name was Bar-Jesus. He was as crooked as a corkscrew.

7-11 The governor invited Barnabas and Saul in, wanting to hear God’s Word firsthand from them. But Dr. Know-It-All (that’s the wizard’s name in plain English) stirred up a ruckus, trying to divert the governor from becoming a believer. But Saul (or Paul), full of the Holy Spirit and looking him straight in the eye, said, “You bag of wind, you parody of a devil—why, you stay up nights inventing schemes to cheat people out of God. But now you’ve come up against God himself, and your game is up. You’re about to go blind—no sunlight for you for a good long stretch.” He was plunged immediately into a shadowy mist and stumbled around, begging people to take his hand and show him the way.

12 When the governor saw what happened, he became a believer, full of enthusiasm over what they were saying about the Master.

Don’t Take This Lightly

13-14 From Paphos, Paul and company put out to sea, sailing on to Perga in Pamphylia. That’s where John called it quits and went back to Jerusalem. From Perga the rest of them traveled on to Antioch in Pisidia.

14-15 On the Sabbath they went to the meeting place and took their places. After the reading of the Scriptures—God’s Law and the Prophets—the president of the meeting asked them, “Friends, do you have anything you want to say? A word of encouragement, perhaps?”

16-20 Paul stood up, paused and took a deep breath, then said, “Fellow Israelites and friends of God, listen. God took a special interest in our ancestors, pulled our people who were beaten down in Egyptian exile to their feet, and led them out of there in grand style. He took good care of them for nearly forty years in that godforsaken wilderness and then, having wiped out seven enemies who stood in the way, gave them the land of Canaan for their very own—a span in all of about 450 years.

20-22 “Up to the time of Samuel the prophet, God provided judges to lead them. But then they asked for a king, and God gave them Saul, son of Kish, out of the tribe of Benjamin. After Saul had ruled forty years, God removed him from office and put King David in his place, with this commendation: ‘I’ve searched the land and found this David, son of Jesse. He’s a man whose heart beats to my heart, a man who will do what I tell him.’

23-25 “From out of David’s descendants God produced a Savior for Israel, Jesus, exactly as he promised—but only after John had thoroughly alerted the people to his arrival by preparing them for a total life-change. As John was finishing up his work, he said, ‘Did you think I was the One? No, I’m not the One. But the One you’ve been waiting for all these years is just around the corner, about to appear. And I’m about to disappear.’

26-29 “Dear brothers and sisters, children of Abraham, and friends of God, this message of salvation has been precisely targeted to you. The citizens and rulers in Jerusalem didn’t recognize who he was and condemned him to death. They couldn’t find a good reason, but demanded that Pilate execute him anyway. They did just what the prophets said they would do, but had no idea they were following to the letter the script of the prophets, even though those same prophets are read every Sabbath in their meeting places.

29-31 “After they had done everything the prophets said they would do, they took him down from the cross and buried him. And then God raised him from death. There is no disputing that—he appeared over and over again many times and places to those who had known him well in the Galilean years, and these same people continue to give witness that he is alive.

32-35 “And we’re here today bringing you good news: the Message that what God promised the fathers has come true for the children—for us! He raised Jesus, exactly as described in the second Psalm:

My Son! My very own Son! Today I celebrate you!

“When he raised him from the dead, he did it for good—no going back to that rot and decay for him. That’s why Isaiah said, ‘I’ll give to all of you David’s guaranteed blessings.’ So also the psalmist’s prayer: ‘You’ll never let your Holy One see death’s rot and decay.’

36-39 “David, of course, having completed the work God set out for him, has been in the grave, dust and ashes, a long time now. But the One God raised up—no dust and ashes for him! I want you to know, my very dear friends, that it is on account of this resurrected Jesus that the forgiveness of your sins can be promised. He accomplishes, in those who believe, everything that the Law of Moses could never make good on. But everyone who believes in this raised-up Jesus is declared good and right and whole before God.

40-41 “Don’t take this lightly. You don’t want the prophet’s sermon to describe you:

Watch out, cynics; Look hard—watch your world fall to pieces. I’m doing something right before your eyes That you won’t believe, though it’s staring you in the face.”

42-43 When the service was over, Paul and Barnabas were invited back to preach again the next Sabbath. As the meeting broke up, a good many Jews and converts to Judaism went along with Paul and Barnabas, who urged them in long conversations to stick with what they’d started, this living in and by God’s grace.

44-45 When the next Sabbath came around, practically the whole city showed up to hear the Word of God. Some of the Jews, seeing the crowds, went wild with jealousy and tore into Paul, contradicting everything he was saying, making an ugly scene.

46-47 But Paul and Barnabas didn’t back down. Standing their ground they said, “It was required that God’s Word be spoken first of all to you, the Jews. But seeing that you want no part of it—you’ve made it quite clear that you have no taste or inclination for eternal life—the door is open to all the outsiders. And we’re on our way through it, following orders, doing what God commanded when he said,

I’ve set you up    as light to all nations. You’ll proclaim salvation    to the four winds and seven seas!”

48-49 When the non-Jewish outsiders heard this, they could hardly believe their good fortune. All who were marked out for real life put their trust in God—they honored God’s Word by receiving that life. And this Message of salvation spread like wildfire all through the region.

50-52 Some of the Jews convinced the most respected women and leading men of the town that their precious way of life was about to be destroyed. Alarmed, they turned on Paul and Barnabas and forced them to leave. Paul and Barnabas shrugged their shoulders and went on to the next town, Iconium, brimming with joy and the Holy Spirit, two happy disciples.