#and when i told a friend about it she coined the phrase “jesus take the veil”

[raspberryconverse]

A Say Yes to the Dress clip popped up in my YouTube recommendations and I decided to watch it this afternoon.

Then I opened the folder with all my wedding photos and realized I'm kinda disappointed with them.

Don't get me wrong, they're not all bad (honestly, the only really bad one is of me getting my makeup done and I look like a blimp). There are some really great candid shots too. But there's definitely some things missing.

The major one is that there are no photos of me walking down the aisle. There's a distant one of my dad and I coming out the door and a friend managed to snap one of us right when we came out, but the photographer thinks her camera froze because it was cold and that's why those are missing.

I was looking at the posed photos and while we were kinda meh on creative posed photos (I've seen some really silly ones over the years), we definitely have regrets about them. Today I realized when she took ones of just my spouse and me, they're all zoomed in. There are no full body photos of us. I got a really gorgeous veil and I'm bummed that there aren't any good shots of it all spread out.

Because it was so long and all the beading made it really heavy, I didn't have my maid of honor stab it into my hair (and believe me, she thoroughly enjoyed that part 😆) until we were about to go out the door.

We still need to make our wedding album (my coworkers bought us one through Zola) and we also have a collage frame I found at Good Will for like $3 that we were going to put photos in. But we've obviously been busy and stressed out lately.

Part of me wants to do a reshoot. I had even considered doing some photos in front of the house, seeing as we closed on it exactly 1 week before the wedding. I just feel like I spent all that money on a dress and veil and I don't have any good photos of it that really show the whole thing.

Any other married folks feel that way? Or did you get a better photographer than we did? I know nobody's perfect, but I still feel like we didn't get what we wanted, especially considering how much it cost. Like if she had suggested some other stuff, we might have been down for it, even if it sounded kind of silly. But she literally just did the group photos we asked for and nothing more. I'd rather she took more photos and have them come out looking silly or cheesy than to have regrets that we didn't get those shots.

[joonkorre]

The Winner Takes ____?

@drarrymicrofic prompt: the winner takes it all - abba

A Pyrrhic victory (/ˈpɪrɪk/ ( listen) PIRR-ik) is a victory that inflicts such a devastating toll on the victor that it is tantamount to defeat. A Pyrrhic victory takes a heavy toll that negates any true sense of achievement or damages long-term progress. (source: Wikipedia). AO3

“You said there’s something we have to discuss.”

Harry nods, suppressing a shiver. It’s cold out, middle of November, and one touch of Draco’s hand is enough to tell Harry that he’s fresh from the shop, sweaty and too warm. Squeezing the palm on his shoulder, he smiles up at Draco. The man watches at his expression for a second before retrieving his hand from Harry’s grasp.

He never does that. They always have to connect in some way, usually with over-the-table handholding.

Ah, Harry forgets; he started the habit in the first place.

“Alright,” Draco seats himself on the armchair, not eating the neatly arranged biscuits on the table, his favorite. Not even glancing at them.

“Let’s discuss.”

So Harry discusses. In better words, he talks and talks with no answer. What Hermione made him promise to say—even sat down and wrote a speech for him to remember—swirls in his head, syllables that don’t make noise, phrases that don’t make sense.

The flames in the fireplace crackle, a flare of heat and a pop of sound. A waterfall of pale-blonde hair, blue eyes that have lost their sparks, telling him that this has gone too far. Dean’s already paid, then Seamus, then Lavender, then most of the Gryffindor alumni. A bet between two festering into a conspiracy between all.

Molly’s shown him a picture of them on the front page and asked if he was sure. He’s only smiled, said ‘yes,’ and, unfortunately, meant it. Harry’s gone above and beyond for a couple of coins, to the point where he worries about abandoning what he’s worked so hard to cultivate.

“I grew a flower that can’t be bloomed in a dream that can’t come true,” croons a singer in a song Teddy likes these days. Harry wonders if Ron’s also heard of that song, so he could use it to snap Harry out of his delusion.

Harry takes a deep breath.

Everything he has to say has been painstakingly scrubbed out of him, scratching his throat raw and robbing him of air. At this point, he wonders if Hermione was right, that feigning disinterest and focusing on a promotion to work in Switzerland is better than being honest.

Draco’s eyes haven’t left Harry’s face throughout the explanation, and he doesn’t open his mouth once. Harry wishes he’d say something, do something other than bouncing his heel ever so often.

The tea’s gone cold when Harry takes a sip, giving his throat some relief. He waits.

Draco raises a hand from the armrest, calloused and huge. His index finger taps a stubbled cheek. Harry knows that finger, is familiar with its uncanny smoothness. Draco’s told him of the vicious accident that burned off three of his fingerprints during his time as an apprentice, a lesson to learn and a story to recount. Harry’s liked to rub them just because, and Draco’s let him with an indulgent smile.

“Okay.”

Harry blinks. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Draco uncrosses his legs. “Let’s break up.”

“Oh,” Harry says, “that’s all?”

Draco spreads his hands and purses his lips, brows high on his forehead. “What more do you want me to say?”

Harry watches him brush nonexistent dust off his jean-clad knees and stand up.

“I don’t—you don’t have to say anything.”

“Good to know,” Draco grabs a handful of Floo powder. “I’m going to Pansy’s.”

“But you haven’t changed yet,” Harry frowns. Pansy loves people she considers hers dearly, but if one doesn’t at least attempt to look put-together, they can’t step a foot into her house without it getting chopped off.

“I don’t think you’re in the position to be worrying about my clothes, Harry,” Draco says. He glances at the bits of Floo powder fluttering to the floor and continues.

“I’ll pack my things when I get back. Hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says. Draco nods once and turns to the fireplace. Without thinking, Harry stands up. “Why’re you going to Pansy’s?”

Draco eyes him like he’s sick in the head. “To cry over being dumped by the Great Savior, why else?”

“Oh, of fucking course you still see me like that,” Harry can’t stop himself from snarling. “Have I ever been anything but The Fucking Boy Who Lived to you?”

Draco’s lips flatten to a thin line.

He’s exhausted, Harry realizes. His shift ended later than Harry’s at the Ministry today, yet he went home just to sit through this.

A weary sigh.

“You know the answer to that.”

Harry deflates. Does he?

Draco’s gaze lingers for another second.

“Bye, then,” he says. With a swift turn, he faces the fireplace, squaring his shoulders.

Draco’s voice doesn’t waver as he says, “Parkinson Estate.” With his old shirt stained with drying sweat, stuffed in a dirty pair of overalls, he walks forward, engulfed by a roar of green.

It’s quiet. The fireplace seems more subdued, as if it only deigns to burn enough to warm a single person instead of two. Harry falls back against his armchair, staring at nothing. His temples ache for some reason, like he’s spent the past hour stretching his unfocused eyes into slants to see better. If it is so, it doesn’t work. Harry feels like he’s blinder than ever.

Never mind, he has things to do. Has to take a shower, get dressed, trim his beard. Put on his best shoes and hit the Leaky, catching Seamus’s signature grin as he waits for Harry to get to the table and share the good news. Inform everybody that he’s done it, has cut things off and drawn this five-year epic of a ruse to a close. Order grumbling friends to pay up, their fault for betting that he wouldn’t have the balls to do it within 3 days.

Has to get some drinks to start, then head to a proper club, it’s nearly the weekend. Avoid the crushing disappointment that Luna has no qualm hiding from him. Make it back home after midnight, way after Draco’s returned to pack his bags—he doesn’t like to stay out past 11—and gone, gone, gone. Make it back home to a half-empty house, never again whole.

“Jesus,” Harry whispers.

His glasses have been pushed up without noticing, leaving space for his hands to press against closed eyes. Stars burst behind his eyelids, a squeezing pain. He presses harder like he’s got something to prove.

The vase on the coffee table is filled with blooms, pinks and whites galore, handpicked by Harry himself just last week. It was the first vase Draco’s blown for him, stained using cheap acrylic paint and glue. It was clumsily done and it shows, but it’s beautiful.

Harry’s hands can’t fall from his eyes, lest he imagines the damn thing cracking open and crashing onto the floor, leaving nothing left but millions and millions of tiny pieces. Delicate glass, delicate petals.

He curls into himself and doesn’t make a sound.

[allforhader]

As The World Caves In

Barry Berkman x (F) Reader

Warnings: Langauge, Violence, TW: Abuse

“Alright that’s the end of acting class. See you next time” Gene ends the class as Barry instantly gets out of his seat grabbing his backpack and waiting for Y/N to simply walk by him. But at least she’s sweet enough to-

“Great work today Barry!” Y/N smiles happily at Barry before exiting the building.

Barry follows respectfully behind her as Nick and Jermaine walk beside him expecting to get drinks. When Barry suddenly stops outside they both bumped into each other watching Barry watch Y/N embrace a man who he thinks is her boyfriend. It’s most definitely the case when he sees the two kiss.

“Damn. We getting drinks or what?”

“Definitely” Barry replies to Jermaine as he pats his back. “Who’s uh. Designated driver?”

“It’s LA Barry. There’s Uber.” Nick laughs walking ahead of the two.

A few rounds later...

Barry was standing outside of the bar with Nick half-passed out on the curb propped up against Jermaine. They waited for their Uber, but the waiting seemed longer than usual.

“Hey, Barry sit down. It’s gonna be a while” Jermaine states as Barry sat down on the curb beside him. “You kept lookin at your phone when girls were tryin to get your attention”

“Hmmmmm he wants one girl” Nick laughs a bit. “Y/N~”

“Go back to sleep”

“Alrighty” Nick laughs a bit more before relaxing on Jermaine’s shoulder.

“What’s so interesting about her anyway?”

“So many things” Barry sighs holding his head down.

Jermaine looks at his friend confused on why he didn’t elaborate but they were all under the influence. Some more than others *cough* Nick *cough* but that’s the biggest reason why he didn’t elaborate that Y/N is the most beautiful talented girl he ever laid eyes on.

“I know the girl is taken. But you can still do a scene together that can make her realize” As the most sober compared to them all, Jermaine’s idea is only going to go downhill of some sorts. “Pick a scene with a kiss and do it with her. Any dedicated actor would do any scene. Despite their relationships off stage”

That could’ve been phrased better, but way to put that idea in Barry’s fucking head.

After finally getting to their apartment of sorts, Barry instantly laid on his bed and pulled up the messages to Y/N.

Barry: You are a god

Y/N: What?

Barry: A god at finding great scenes to do for class

Y/N: Oh! Thank you 🥰

Barry: I know I’m not very good

Barry: But I’d like to do a scene with you

Y/N: Barry! I’ve been waiting for you to ask!!! Plus you are really good! Better than me 😊 What scene would you like to do??

Shit. Think of a scene. FAST BARRY. FUCK

Barry: Um. Romeo and Juliet, Act 1 Scene 5?

Fucking Shakespeare?!?

Y/N: Give me a sec to look up the scene!

Barry: Ok

After a minute passed. Literally. A minute.

Y/N: I’d love to! Hell if we do a good job, maybe Mr. Cousineau would pick it for the next showcase he’s planning!

Y/N: Want to practice tomorrow? After class? I can print you a copy of the scene

Barry: Sounds good

Y/N: Yay! 😊

Y/N: See you tomorrow!

Barry: See you!

Y/N didn’t come to class the next day, which made Barry think he said something he shouldn’t have. But his texts were surprisingly not drunkly influenced for the most part.

“Okay class. Y/N called me saying she won’t be able to be here for the next few classes since something came up. Barry, pick another scene partner or a monologue before we share to pick for the showcase. NOW. Sally you have a monologue you’d like to run by us” Gene states as Sally got on stage to do her monologue but instead of paying attention Barry took his phone out thinking of messaging Y/N to ask what happened. But a part of him thought space was key.

After class, Sally grabbed Barry’s arm to catch his attention.

“Barry, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure?”

“So I need a ride to Y/N’s place. I have her address and everything.”

“Yeah. Yeah I can drive you” Is he going to know what happened along the way? She wouldn’t be going over there if she didn’t know.

The drive was far. Surprisingly further than all of their other friends. Note, Barry has at least driven everyone in their class somewhere at least twice. Usually because it’s expensive to get your car fixed let alone pay rent in LA. So it’s a coin toss and usually the car doesn’t win. Plus his source of income is...not acknowledge and he’s fine giving people rides. But Y/N lived really far in LA that he found himself heading somewhat close to Anaheim territory. Her neighborhood looked still typical LA agriculture and similar to few neighbors closer to the acting class. But when they were driving Sally did tell Barry that this is where Y/N’s boyfriend lives. So who the fuck knows where Y/N actually lives. To his knowledge.

“So Barry, I told her that you were driving me and that I didn’t tell you anything. But we’re here to pick her up then go back to my place. Are you okay with that drive?”

“Anything for the both of you. But I can’t help but be curious” Barry frowns watching Sally give a hesitant halt in what she was going to say but-

“I’m not comfortable sharing something that isn’t mine. She trusted me by telling me. I’m not going to play a game of telephone Barry”

“Okay...just do I go with you?”

“No I’ll go get her myself, just hang tight okay?”

“Okay” What the fuck did this guy do...

Barry waited in the car seeing Y/N step out with Sally, she looks fine for the most part. The closer she got he couldn’t really pin point anything. Just...the girl known to wear colorful clothing and mainly dresses, came out in sweatpants and a hoodie. Style doesn’t describe a person but it made Barry think about what caused a sudden change that isn’t just “to be comfortable”. Y/N sat in the back and Sally day with her.

“Your place right Sally?”

“Right” Sally says calmly setting Y/N bag by her feet.

After the long drive to Sally’s, Barry stayed in the car watching the two go inside. But before he left, Y/N ran over to the car knocking on Barry’s window. He quickly opens it as Y/N slips in a script she had packed before they came and got her.

“I-It’s a monologue for the showcase. S-Sorry I couldn’t do t-the scene with you. Hope this repays for that”

“You didn’t have to repay anything Y/N” Barry frowns watching Y/N pushes her hair out of her face making the man catch a glimpse of the shiner on her right eye that extends to her cheek as well.

“I wanted to Barry” Y/N states before going back inside.

Barry frowns and once she entered Sally’s place. A switch flipped in his head and he drove back to her boyfriend’s house waiting out there until he came home. Barry watches the light turn on inside the house and as he was about to reach for the gun in his glove box. He hesitated.

You don’t want to be defined that way anymore.

The hitman life will only continue if you do this.

You have the make the change.

Take the leap of faith.

Don’t let the past still define you Barry.

Find. A. Different. Way.

“Shit...” Barry frowns smacking the wheel holding his head down thinking. “He doesn’t deserve her...”

The next day came and Barry watches Sally walk into class alone. Where’s Y/N? Thought she stayed with her. He gets up from his seat sitting behind Sally.

“Hey...where’s Y/N?”

“She went back”

“What?”

“....She’s stupid. But aren’t we all? She went back during the middle of the night. I didn’t hear her leave” Sally frowns as Barry felt the fire start to burn again.

Find a different way

“FUCK” Barry exclaims catching everyone’s attention as he sinks into his seat. “Sorry”

“No! Use that energy. Come up here and show us what you got for the showcase” Gene states as Barry immediately regretted it.

Barry got up from his seat after taking out the monologue reading it’s from The Notebook. He laughs a bit to himself before looking out and seeing Y/N walk in in a turtle neck with a hoodie over it and makeup covering the bruises.

“That’s right. We do that sometimes, remember? We don’t cut each other any slack. If I’m being a jerk or an arrogant sonofabitch, you tell me. If you’re a pain in the a—, which you are ninety-nine percent of the time, I’ve got no problem telling you, or hurting your feelings, which have about a two second rebound rate before you’re off doing the next pain in the a— thing.” Barry frowns looking at Y/N as the rest of the class grew intrigued.

“So, it’s not going to be perfect. We’ll have to work at it every day. But I want you. Not for today, or next week, but forever.” He states stepping down from the stage glancing at the script making his way in Y/N’s direction. “Every day, you and me. Think about your life twenty years or fifty years from now. Where do you want to be? If it’s with that guy, go. I lost you once. I suppose I can do it again. Just don’t take the easy way out. Answer one question for me. Forget about me and your fiancé and your parents for a minute. Forget about what you should do. What about you? What do you want?” Barry ended up in front of Y/N watching her hesitantly reach for him before retracting.

“Jesus CHRIST Barry!” Gene smiles proud of the man as he walks over to the two. “If you can be the closing to the showcase with that same amount of energy. Recruiters will definitely want to represent you!” he smiles watching Y/N retract herself a bit before getting an idea. “If it works best with Y/N on the stage. She can be there. Prove you’d be good with a partner even if it is a monologue.”

“If...that’s okay with you” Barry frowns looking Y/N as she nods agreeing to do so.

“Great! Now let’s go to the next person, better have that off script Barry!”

Barry frowns looking at Y/N as she just stares at him. She watches him reach to reassure but the automatic stepping back indicated she didn’t want to be touched. By any one for that matter.

When the class was over Barry stepped out carrying a weight on his chest wishing he can break a barrier and risk it all. But he didn’t want more people to get hurt and he didn’t want to disappear. Barry made his way toward his car about to get in when he felt a small hand grab his sleeve. He turns around locking eyes with Y/N as he of course stopped for her.

“...can um...s-shit”

“You need me?”

“yeah...”

“Just. Text me, and I’ll do whatever you need me to do” Barry says calmly as he connected the dots to why she’s wearing a turtle neck and her voice was low.

First stop was a pharmacy. Barry walked with her as Y/N grabbed what she needed. Ice pack, bandages, anti bacterial spray, and foundation. He felt very protective of her in the public scene thinking her “boyfriend” can pop up at any minute or really anybody would look at her a certain way and he’d want to kick their ass.

“can..I stay with you...B-Barry?” Y/N asks after she paid. She looks down at her feet for a moment thinking he’d say no when he obviously said it’s okay for her to stay with him.

“Um. I have roommates”

“That’s ok...I j-just...don’t need t...the lecture from S-Sally” Y/N frowns watching Barry hesitantly step closer to her afraid anything he’ll do she’ll feel uncomfortable. She looks up at him seeing the worry in his expression.

“Can you let me....take care of you?” Barry knows she won’t directly tell her what the asshole did. Barry expecting a no wasn’t coming from her. She nods watching Barry take her things to carry for her. “Just need to make...one more stop before we go to my place”

“Ok...”

Y/N found herself staying extremely close to Barry in the grocery store as he grabs what he needs to get. She watches around them having the same feeling Barry has except hers is fear driven.

“Broth?” Y/N asks picking up the carton from the cart.

“I’m not gonna give you straight broth if that’s what you’re thinking” Barry laughs a bit catching a smile from Y/N. “Even though I like straight broth” he states putting in a few seasoning in the cart. “Are you allergic to anything so I know not to get it?”

“No, you’re good” Y/N smiles making Barry feel a bit better but he still worried.

A few hours went by and Y/N found herself sitting on Barry’s bed staring down at her phone seeing texts from him and she immediately felt awful. Y/N started to cry thinking about what she’s gotten herself into because she was blind to it all until it got to this degree. The blame was definitely being put onto herself when no one sees it as her fault. Barry especially didn’t and all he wants to do is see her happy again. That smile of hers brightens his day...he misses it. Barry steps in carrying a bowl of soup he made, being in LA for some time you pick up at least ten minutes to watch cooking videos, and he immediately set the bowl and spoon on his desk before moving everything to the side of the bed and sitting in front of her. He didn’t want to pull her into his arms to comfort her but his presents was enough until Y/N grabbed his face resting her forehead against his. She continued to cry but it slowly burned into sniffling. He leans into it feeling her rub her thumbs against his cheeks taking a minute to take it all in.

He cares about you. He’s there for you right now and he always has been. Take a minute to appreciate what he’s doing. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere....

He’s dedicated to caring about you.

No more words were said that night between Barry and Y/N. Except when Barry wanted to see what he did because he knew Y/N couldn’t see most of the “damage” so he offered to help. He also carries quite the first aid kit with him since he used to get hurt a lot and Fuches was a terrible doc so he had to learn. Y/N took off her hoodie before hesitantly slipping off her turtle neck. Her arms instantly covered herself but once Barry got a look where everything is, he got up going into his dresser and grabbing one of his t-shirts having her wear it so she doesn’t have to sit in just a bra. He moved himself closure looking at most angles of the bruising as he goes into his first aid knowing she bought ice packs but those were ones that’ll take time in the freezer when he has ones you punch and it’ll take a little moment to get there but it’d be cold enough. He popped two of them, one for her neck and the other for her cheek. Y/N had a few bruises on her arms that weren’t as bad as the ones needing the ice packs, he mainly focused on disinfecting the scratches and putting bandaids on the few that need them. Barry watched her start to shake making his worry get worse as he took her hand carefully into his sitting it out with her.

After putting everything away and Y/N eating what he made for her...she took his bed as Barry laid on the floor. The two were awake the entire night and thinking about their own deals...

I love her

He cares about me

I don’t want to step over the line

Why couldn’t he be like Barry?

I risk my life every day...I don’t want her to get hurt by it if she becomes apart of it.

Barry Berkman...you truly do make me feel lucky to be alive.

When the day of the showcase came, Barry took his roommates advice to wear the part with a white button down tucked into his black slacks with a belt and shoes were just his pair of converse. He didn’t wear a tie but the first few buttons were unbutton and his sleeves were rolled up. Y/N was apart of his monologue, clearly with no lines, and she wore one of Barry’s long sleeves for the soul fact that she’s playing a love interest and on the other hand wants to be comfortable. His part was last and he waited behind stage with Y/N until their time to get on stage came. Barry watched Y/N check her phone every now and then watching her eyes trail from one thing to another as her tense expression said everything.

“Barry! Y/N! You’re up next. Be on deck” Sasha states to the two before going back to helping Nick out of his costume.

Barry looks at Y/N seeing her look up at him smiling a bit to reassure them both.

“You’ll do perfectly Barry”

“Y/N....”

“Hm-“

“ON DECK”

The two flinch to the yell before going to the deck staring at Natalie and Antonio get close to wrapping up. Barry quickly turns to Y/N and before he could say anything Y/N grabbed his collar pulling him down to her level kissing him suddenly. The startling factor being the tears that rolled down her cheeks during it. Barry frowns parting gently resting his hands on her face.

“YOU TWO ARE ON!” Sally pushes the two in when the lights were down.

Y/N stood on her mark staring at Barry’s back where he started before turning to the crowd wiping away the tears that shed but a figure in the crowd stung in her heart. She held her head down for a moment before bringing it up when the lights turned on and Barry turned to her.

“That’s right. We do that sometimes, remember? We don’t cut each other any slack. If I’m being a jerk or an arrogant sonofabitch, you tell me. If you’re a pain in the a—, which you are ninety-nine percent of the time, I’ve got no problem telling you, or hurting your feelings, which have about a two second rebound rate before you’re off doing the next pain in the a— thing.” Barry states stepping forward and as he got closer to her his body retracted when she started crying. “So, it’s not going to be perfect. We’ll have to work at it every day.....But I want you.” He says resting his hand on her cheek watching her ease into it.

“I-....” Y/N choked looking up at Barry seeing he’s meaning what he’s saying. For them. Not the scene.

“Not for today, or next week, but forever. Every day, you and me. Think about your life twenty years or fifty years from now. Where do you want to be? If it’s with that guy, go. I lost you once. I suppose I can do it again. Just don’t take the easy way out. Answer one question for me. Forget about me and your fiancé and your parents for a minute. Forget about what you should do.” Barry states feeling her grab his shirt shaking right in front of him as the crying got heavier. “What about you? What do you want?” he whispers but the mic picked it up for everyone and before the lights went down, he presses his forehead against hers.

When the lights went off Barry pulls a bit away feeling Y/N grip onto his shirt for dear life. He looked out into the crowd watching the asshole stand up and he couldn’t take it.

Think of a different way. Fuck a different way.

When the students merged with the crowd, Barry immediately pushes her abusive boyfriend out into the open. Forcing him outside and before any of them said another word.

“Barry please—“ Y/N quickly caught up with the two staring at Barry look at him and the asshole. “Josh. Leave. Please just leave.”

“The fuck? I came to support you. But you went up with this guy? Are you cheating on me with this fucking asshat?” Josh got up in Barry’s face which wasn’t a good choice.

“I DIDNT ASK YOU TO COME” Y/N yells watching Josh push Barry only to make him retaliate the same way. “Barry please don’t do anything”

“Yeah. Listen to the fucking slu-“ before he could finish, Barry had head butted him in the face watching him stumble.

Y/N knew she could get in the crossfire but didn’t care as she tries to step in when Barry stepped in front of her when Josh grew infuriated immediately punching Barry in the face. But before he could retaliate, Nick and Antonio pulled him back as Sally and Sasha pulled Y/N into their embrace keeping her away from them.

“You gotta leave dude” Jermaine states to Josh as he gives Y/N an annoyed looked before looking back at Barry.

“Are you really fucking worth it? Or just an asshole like the rest of us” Josh states pushing Jermaine away from him before storming off tending to his broken nose.

Barry frowns relaxing so Nick and Antonio can let go of him. He adjusts himself before going back inside where Y/N quickly followed him. She grabs his arm forcing him to look at her when they were alone in a hallway.

“Why? Why did you...you didn’t have to”

“He shouldn’t have come..”

“I know but Barry—“

“That asshole doesn’t deserve you. He never did. You deserve so much better. I—FUCK” Barry frowns looking away to take a minute.

“Barry...”

“What?” He frowns looking at her watching embrace his arm being directly close. She looks up at him with a questionable look.

“You care about me....”

“There’s..so much more Y/N” Barry took his arm back to move his hands to her face locking eyes with the gorgeous woman in front of him. “I love you...I love you and it hurt me seeing what he did to you. All....all I want to do is protect you. Protect that smile of yours...only if you let me...and you did that night, but it started a hatred seeing him come tonight. He shouldn’t have come”

“I know...It was...a surprise to the both of us...” Y/N started to tear up again feeling Barry gently wipe them away with his thumbs. “You love me...? Even if...I’m broken goods?”

“You’re not broken goods Y/N...and if it takes a life time for me to show how worthy you are to me and everybody. Then I’m willing to take that time....because you mean the world to me”

“Oh Barry...” Y/N moves his hands off of her face bringing her arms around his neck hugging the tall man as Barry instantly wrapped his arms around her waist lifting her from the ground slightly. Holding her like his life depends on it digging his face into her shoulder. “You mean the world to me too....”

“I love you...I love you Y/N”

“I love you too Barry....”

[scientifically-strange]

For Oc week could I get my oc Sasha with the prompt "We thought you were dead!" Maybe with Danny+Logan or Danny+Peter in reference towards Sasha. With a potential run in with hellfire and the Demon being more demon-like than they thought. I'll send you her info in dms.

Sasha groaned as she was dragged across the floor. Her shoulder was burning from the asshole that shot her, and everything else was hurting from the fall. Her large, leathery wings dragged behind her, and her dark hair was stained with her own blood.

She saw the forces that had come after she had been shot. Hell, she had been stepped on by the forces that had driven Phantom and Spider-Man away. She didn’t blame them retreating, she would have done the same. There were to man of them, and with her life on the line, there was no way they could risk her getting hurt even more. She had demon powers, she had to be useful somehow to Hydra.

She didn’t have super strength or any of that stuff, but she did have claws, and once her hands were out of these dumb restraints she planned on using them, and she wasn’t planning on holding back.

----

Sasha yawned as one poor soul came over to feed her. She had been here for a day? Two, maybe? She had no idea, and a part of her didn’t really care, either. She had heard snippets of moving the whole base, but to be honest, she couldn’t care less. When she escaped, she was going to bring the whole place down.

The agent must have been new, because he was shaking like a leaf when he approached her.

“Why are you so afraid?” She asked, almost tauntingly. “I’m restrained, so quit being a pussy. Jesus.”

Her hands were still in the big, heavy, metal cuffs which prevented her from scratching the eyes out of every person here. But she would get her chance. Maybe this new guy was it.

He placed the tray down on the ground in front of her, and she looked up at him, slightly pissed.

“How the hell do you expect me to eat with these things on?” She said, waiving the restraints around.

“I-I don’t-”

“-Are you new here, pal?” It was painfully obvious he was. Especially when he shook his head, but Sasha almost didn’t catch it with how much his whole body was trembling. “Usually they uncuff me for meals. They don’t like spoon feeding me.”

“i-I don’t-”

“-Look, I get it, you’re new, you wanna make an impression, but not even the higher ups are that much of a dick. Now uncuff me so I can eat.”

He looked at her for a long time, before finally sighing. It took him a while because his hands were shaking so bad, but he was finally able to unlock her cuffs.

She wasted no time in punching his crotch and running out.

She went over her mental To-Do list. 1, she had to find the control room or the storage room or wherever, and download all of their files like a good little spy. 2, blow the place up and get out. Preferably alive, but if that didn’t happen then at least she took out the rest of them with her.

-----

The flight to the Avengers HQ was long and boring and painful. She was sore everywhere, and her whole body hurt. Hell, even her horns hurt. It was like a growing pain, but turned up to eleven.

But once she made it to New York, she as going to get the information to the Avengers. Hydra was their villain, not the X-Men’s, and she didn’t really plan on dragging her friends into their mess, despite the fact that she had let her own drag her into theirs.

She really could pick them, couldn’t she?

-----

Danny wasn’t naturally a guilty person. He felt it all the time, but only if he knew he had really, truly fucked up. And now, with the death of Sasha hanging over his head, he had never felt guiltier.

On the other side of the coin was Peter, who came to feeling guilt naturally. It was just another one of his superpowers, as shitty as it was. if Danny tried hard enough, he could make Peter feel guilty for something he didn’t even do.

That being said, Peter was an absolute wreck when Danny got to his place.

They had both been there when Sasha died three days prior. they had been on a secret-don’t-tell-mamma-Stark-mission, and they had paid for it dearly.

Danny had been preoccupied with taking down the air forces, and Spider-Man on the shields. After that they were going to try to sneak in, but before they could, some dumb Hydra agent got a lucky shot, and Danny and Spider-Man weren’t able to save her.

They were driven out. With Sasha on their side they could have made it, but with how many forces came out of there, there was no way the two of them could have done it on their own. But, to Danny, his biggest mistake-regret-whatever you wanted to call it, was the fact that neither of them were able to recover Sasha’s body. They saw he shot, they saw the blood pouring out of her, they saw soldiers trample over her body.

And now Danny and Peter had the responsibility of telling the other Avengers that they’re youngest, and newest member, was dead.

Danny carried Spider-Man, and he took his sweet time. He really didn’t want to tell them, but he knew he had too. he just couldn’t stand the thought of the anger and disappointment that would be in the other’s faces. Hell, he didn’t care if he got kicked off of the team. he just didn’t want them to hate him. He knew Peter felt the same way, even if he might care a little bit more about being on the team.

When they got there, Tony and Steve were standing, waiting for them. Both of them had their arms crossed, and were looking down at the twenty year olds.

“I take it you guys know?” Peter said, his voice small and nervous. He didn’t meet their gaze. neither did Danny. he didn’t want to see the disappointment.

“Oh, we know everything,” Stark said.

“Look, we know we should have told you, but if we had waited any longer more people would have died. They had to scatter and move their operation, which gives us time and-”

Danny stopped his rambling when Steve put his hand up to stop him. In a slow, low voice he said, “Do you honestly think the bad guy’s operation is more important than someone’s life?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” danny said. He couldn’t help the small tears that came to his eyes. His face was hot, and there was a big ball of shame weighing him down.

“Geez, lay off. Can’t you see that they’re basically crying? I think they’ve learned their lesson.”

Danny and Peter’s heads shot up, looking over to none other than Sasha.

“We though you were dead!” Peter yelled, lunging forward and wrapping her up in a tight hug. She winced slightly, and that’s when Danny noticed the bandages everywhere.

“Come on, you know I’m not that easy to kill.”

“How’d you get out?” Danny asked, coming in for a hug as well. Sasha flared her large, leathery wings before relaxing them again.

“Those idiots had no restraints for a demon person,” she said cheekily. “Hydra is just a bunch of idiots running around looking for a purpose in life.”

“You’re so badass!” Peter cried. Literally, there were tears of relief and joy streaming down his face as he squeezed Sasha. Danny squeezed her tightly too, but not to much because of the injuries she’s sustained.

When he pulled away, he took a goo look at Sasha. He knew she was able to look more human or more demonic at will, but there was something different about her. She seemed more demon-like than before, even when she was in her full demon form.

Her hair was darker and shinier, her fangs were longer, here eyes pierced into his soul more so than usual. Her dark horns curled around more dramatically, and seemed shinier and sharper than before. Hell, even her wings were different. He could have sworn they were smaller.

“Something’s different,” he said.

“I’ve, uh, leveled up, for lack of a better phrase,” Sasha said, smiling at him.

“Oh,” Danny said, giving her another once-over, “nice.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m gonna go back home. I’m sure Professor X would love to have a conversation with me.”

“Fly safe,” Peter said, finally letting her go.

“Yeah, whatever,” Sasha said. The comment was kind of a throwaway, but she was smiling when she said it, so they knew she would take the suggestion to heart. 

Sort of. 

“Now,” Tony said, after Sasha had left. “About your punishment...”

[sanguisviscera]

Stairway to Heaven

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

Beside or near the underside of a bridge in a major metropolitan area. There should be large bricks with crumbling mortar, graffiti, trash. Somewhere in the chaos of all this there should be a conspicuously written “MATHEW 5:5-9”, preferably near JOSIAH’s house.

JOSIAH is rich by street standards. His home is comprised of assorted, mismatching pillows, a few shopping carts, a tarp that has a few holes, plastic bags, bottles, and jugs, a mattress that has turned the color of soot, and several empty Campbell’s soup cans.

JOSIAH also owns a bible.

TOPHER enters singing LED ZEPPLIN’s “Stairway to Heaven” disheveled, dirty and drunk. TOPHER should present as a man. There should be absolutely no indication made until explicitly stated in the script that TOPHER is anything other than a man.

TOPHER “THERE’S A LADY WHO’S SURE                   ALL THE GLITTERS IS GOLD                  AND SHE’S BUYING A STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN                 WHEN SHE GETS THERE SHE KNOWS                  IF THE STORES ARE ALL CLOSED                  WITH A WORD SHE CAN GET WHAT SHE CAME FOR”

JOSIAH (entering from the portal of his house) Could you keep it down friend?

TOPHER What’s it to you?

JOSIAH Just trying to read.

TOPHER What you got there?

JOSIAH Bible.

TOPHER A bible!

JOSIAH That’s right.

TOPHER Why the fuck you reading a bible?

JOSIAH It soothes me.

TOPHER Got anything to drink?

JOSIAH Water.

TOPHER Whisky, vodka, fucking gin motherfucker.

JOSIAH Move along friend.

TOPHER I ain’t your friend.

JOSIAH I know it. I don’t truck with drunks.

TOPHER (amused) He don’t truck with drunks?

JOSIAH Move along.

TOPHER Got a nice little set up here pops.

JOSIAH I said move along.

TOPHER (indicating the MATTHEW 5:5-9) That your work?

JOSIAH “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

TOPHER You sure about that?

JOSIAH What do you want?

TOPHER Can I have your mattress?

JOSIAH I said what do you want.

TOPHER So defensive, old timer.

JOSIAH I don’t recognize you.

TOPHER Why would you?

JOSIAH I know all the street folk. And all the street folk know me. You’re not one of us.

TOPHER “One of us” he says. Like it’s a fucking club.

JOSIAH It is.

TOPHER Who says I wanna be a part of your fucking club?

JOSIAH I’m saying I don’t know you.

TOPHER Got anything to drink?

JOSIAH No.

TOPHER I need something to drink.

JOSIAH You need the Lord is what you need.

TOPHER Jesus Christ.

JOSIAH “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be satisfied.”

TOPHER I’m thirsty, all right!

JOSIAH I told you to move along.

TOPHER Tell me, how are some words on a page gonna do anything for you?

JOSIAH The Lord is my solace and my salvation.

TOPHER So you believe in that shit? Some alien in the sky gonna take you to paradise after you die?

JOSIAH “Blessed are the merciful for they shall receive mercy”.

TOPHER Mercy, huh? What’s that mean?

JOSIAH I told you to move along friend.

TOPHER And I said I ain’t your friend.

JOSIAH This is my house here. There ain’t nothing for you here.

TOPHER Suppose I take a liking to something I see?

JOSIAH Would you like a pillow?

TOPHER I’ve been eyeing that mattress of yours.

JOSIAH “Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God”

TOPHER You gonna see God, old timer? Got one of those pure hearts?

JOSIAH The mattress is mine. All of this is mine.

TOPHER Awfully possessive for a Christian, ain’t you?

JOSIAH What do you want, friend?

TOPHER For the last time, I ain’t your friend.

JOSIAH “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called sons of God”.

TOPHER You a peacemaker now?

JOSIAH I don’t want no trouble.

TOPHER That was always my beef with that book of yours.

JOSIAH What?

TOPHER I ain’t meek or blessed or merciful or pure or a mother fucking peacemaker because that ain’t me. It just ain’t me because I had a daddy who liked to suck my titties and finger my little pussy every night while my mom slept and then, he got sent to prison. For 18 years. 18 years my daddy served for making me feel like I was about as far from them words you got tattooed up there on that bridge but then: He walked free. My daddy got out and got himself a bible and street corner and he stood on a little box and started talking about sin and forgiveness and telling all the little street urchins that they could be redeemed, made whole if they just believed in the word of the Lord. But you know what? Its all just lies. You can’t be made whole. Not by words in a fucking book. And certainly not by a rapist pedophile father. But you know what can make me whole? Vengeance. What’s that phrase? Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord?

JOSIAH Abigail?

TOPHER Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare call me that. You call me Topher because that’s who I am to you.

JOSIAH Abigail?! Oh my God, I don’t know what to say— I was a different person, I—

TOPHER So was I.

JOSIAH How did you find me?

TOPHER Say I’m sorry.

TOPHER/ABIGAIL begins removing a long-is cloth bag with a bundle of coins at oneend, a violent instrument of bludgeoning.

JOSIAH What?

TOPHER I want you to say I’m sorry.

JOSIAH I’m—I’m sorry!

TOPHER Sorry ain’t enough for me mother fucker.

TOPHER/ABIGAIL bludgeons JOSIAH to death upstage inside of JOSIAH’s house. It should be brutal sounding and incredibly vocal from both actors until JOSIAH falls silent and all we hear are the sound of TOPHER’s breathing and grunts and the sick sloppy sounds of the bag of coins hitting something wet and soft.

A moment. TOPHER looks around.

TOPHER begins to sing again as she exits.

TOPHER “THERE’S A LADY WHO’S SURE                    ALL THE GLITTERS IS GOLD                 ��AND SHE’S BUYING A STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN                  WHEN SHE GETS THERE SHE KNOWS                     IF THE STORES ARE ALL CLOSED                     WITH A WORD SHE CAN GET WHAT SHE CAME FOR”

END OF PLAY

[aflockofbyrds]

My D&D campaign that ran a little over a year ended last night, and honestly ended on the best note possible in my opinion. I let one of my players take care of it since he had a really good idea and jesus did he deliver. Gonna put this undercut because while it does connect to characters I RP here (specifically Garrett, Rose and Dusty) I will warn that it’s a tiny bit graphic because y’know, D&D and people fighting. Also it is LONG

So, we start out Christmas eve, at the players’ mansion they owned with the players + Garrett and Rose/friends of the players since the players are friends with them, with a party. We learn from our DM that since we took over a major company in the world, we’ve had multiple hits put on us, but none successful. Out of Garrett and Rose I pick Garrett since he’s a level 10 when she’s 9 which worked better with the party. Part way through the party, Tony, our favored soul of Nerull, hears a knock at the doors, answers it and finds a letter that says “Merry Christmas” on it, and a coin. He brings the coin in, and asks if anyone knows what it is, and when none of us can figure it out, Garrett casts detect Magic. Only for it to blow up in our faces, and while part of us are unconscious, in walks in the one person we all thought was dead, a fucking CE sorcerer kolbald named Alduran, who smirks, and knocks everyone else out. 

When we come to, we find small rock on the ground, which Tony picks up and immediately gets told through a message that everyone else at the party+ one player character (who wasn’t playing) and his entire family were kidnapped. Then the rock floated and lead the way to a statue where we got a couple friends, specifically Dusty since he’s a powerful NPC (both level and socially), Tina who’s a friend who can’t be violent, and Weave, a friend of the party that works with Alduran’s (technical) brothers, Zeke and Fizz, who went missing. We go into the portal that had opened up in the statue, and immediately, all of us are separated. 

Each of us go through our character’s nightmare situation. Tony is told to kill his adopted family, and when he refuses, he’s dropped out of the hallucination. Evee, our cleric, is told to drown after being left alone in the ocean, and she refuses, breaking her hallucination. Vel, a (male) drow scout, has to cut his arm off or die in a sacrifice to Lolth, and Illya has to watch her family die in a fire to escape. Vel starts to cut his arm off, and Illya tries to pull her family out of the fire, burning her hands. Neither of them wake up yet. Garrett’s on the other hand is to cut open his (hanging) sister to get the key to escape. 

He at first refuses, but when he hears her whimper he goes to help. Once he does, Rose falls on top of him, and he hears her bones crack. Garrett carefully gets out from under her, and stands up to look at her. She’s bleeding from her eyes and twitching, but not saying anything. The DM expected me to refuse to do it, but he forgot one thing. Garrett is part of the ruling elites of a drug cartel, and he’s already seen his sister die once (in a tourney that was held). So to put her out of her misery, he ended her. 

Garrett breaks out of his hallucination with that, and joins Tony and Evee with three unconscious people: Vel, bleeding from his arm; Illya, with burned hands; and a new character, Adrian, a warlock aasimar, who is tossing and turning. Tony woke the others out with dispel magic, and a door appears which has Dusty, Weave, La Mano (a disembodied hand who’s Dusty’s best friend), and Tina. We slowly make our way out, and into a room. 

This room fills up with toxic vapors which makes us start throwing up, and we notice enough vials for all of us to drink (minus La Mano bc he’s a hand and doesn’t need it). After a few minutes, of vomiting, we suck up our fears and drink the vials. They’re poisonous, and a couple of us get hit for Constitution damage (which we instantly have fixed bc the favored soul has a spell to fix it). We move on to the next room. 

Next room, we find a bunch of shells, and a timer that is counting down. In a stroke of genius, everyone except Dusty puts a shell to our ear. Second the timer hits 0, we see Dusty start screaming and holding his ears as blood trickles out. Then, the shells start growing across our face, suffocating us. Dusty, even though he’s fucked up, manages to break the shell on Garrett’s face while our warlock shatters the rest of them. We heal Dusty, and while he looks shaken, he’s fine and we move on. 

The next hell hole, is a room with a pendulum swinging back and forth. We have to roll a will save, which Weave (our tank), the warlock, and Evee fail. The three that fail see us that succeeded as monsters, and start to attack. The fight has Tony getting stabbed in the side by Weave, Illya having her arm stabbed through by him, Vel temporarily paralyzing Weave, and Dusty trying to kill him before he became unparalyzed. Eventually, Illya turned Weave into a lizard, and we figure out the only way to progress is to kill someone with the pendulum. Weave volunteers since there’s no way he’s useful as a lizard, and we can’t change him back. Second he’s dead, we’re teleported out of the room. 

We find ourselves in front of a map for a maze, and Tony and Garrett manage to take a picture before the party is hit with some kind of mostly debilitating spell. Tony and Tina manage to pass their checks, and are told by Alduran that we have to draw our own blood to proceed. Slowly and surely, all of us that are fucked up manage to draw our own blood. Evee by dropping her weapon on her own foot. Tina and Weave are the last ones, and all of us out watch on a TV screen as she tries to help Weave. Eventually, Weave makes it out, and we are stuck watching Tina on the TV. She tries to draw her own blood, but because of her vow of non-violence, she can’t. Her knife breaks when she’s tries, and we get a heartfelt good bye from her, in which she reveals that she’s not actually  aasimar like we thought, but a dragonborn. The video feed cuts out before she dies. 

Next room we enter, it’s a small platform with a pit on the other side, and a wall covered with half inch holes with the phrase ‘marry me?’ written over them. A feather is slowly falling to the ground, and as it comes closer we get more anxious for some reason. Even though we all have an idea about what will happen when we stick a finger in the hole, Vel goes ahead and does it, and he disappears leaving the hole he used bleeding. Eventually we all work up the courage and do the same, including La Mano. Last one was Illya who tries to catch the feather and when she gets close, is hit with a wave of extreme anxiety, and she almost runs into the pit to escape. She doesn’t and then we all get to the next room. 

This room is sterile white, and all of us are dripping blood from where our ring finger use to be, a black vein up our arms connecting to once finger, while the other arm has the word “forever” branded on it. The vein burns and hurts like hell. La Mano is also missing at this point. We slowly head out of the room through double doors with no puzzle in sight, and find a keypad that asks “How many are gone?” 

We answer three, and after video of our friends dying, the door opens to a cell block. There are multiple skeletons at first, but as we go down we see other races in them. All of them have scales and horns growing out of their skin, all in weird places. A tail growing out of a man’s side, horns growing into another’s eyes, etc. We walk down, ignoring them to another keypad. “How many are you willing to lose?” 

After some debate with Dusty wanting to put in 7, the remaining number of people, and other wanting to put in another number, we try 0 first. incorrect. We type one, and the door open. Tony takes a step in, and the door close before we can follow. We type in 6 and the doors open again, with Tony on the other side, and we head up the flight of stairs. 

At the top, we find a platform with a catwalk leading to it, and cages on either side. Adrian flies over to look at the cages and the person on the other side of the platform, then comes back to tell us it was Aldarun and our missing friends/family. Vel and Dusty moves first, casting invisibility on themselves and going to sneak attack Aldarun because they’re assassins and they studied him long enough to try and death attack him. Second Dusty steps on the catwalk, lights come on and Aldarun notices the party. Specifically, the party minus Vel and Dusty. 

We get a little monolog, and the platform drops after Aldarun mentions that “well, guess either Dusty or Vel are alive still since one of you set off the lights…” Dusty just barely keeps from falling, and Aldarun disappears into a glowing red crystal behind him. We realize this is a problem, but we need to save our friends, so we set about doing that. We manage to get Zeke and Fizz out before Aldarun reappears, as a horrific dragon. Second he steps on the platform, it collapses under him, and Adrian, Tony and Vel fall to the ground with him, with Vel and Adrian invisible. Dusty, Garrett, Evee and Illya are still on the other side, and Dusty casts feather fall on all of them, before shoving them in the pit to help out their friends. 

This dragon is pure white like Aldarun was, with red eyes, and a glowing red crystal on his back. Of course, this shit scares everyone except Death Jesus Tony and Illya, Dusty drops darkness, and the fight starts. None of us do any damage at first because of the fact Dusty covered the monster with a giant black void, but Garrett formed a plan to distract him after Alduran breathed a cloud of acid, lightening and fire at Evee, Illya and Garrett. The plan failed, and Aldarun immediately grabbed hold of Garrett because he want to prove how useless the distraction plan really was. Vel and Dusty stay off to the side, studying what they can to try and attack him, while Tony climbs his way along a wall to watch us, and Adrian tries to free people. 

While this is happening we start to notice the smell of burning flesh, and realize that the cages are starting to heat up. The people inside couldn’t tell us because they were unconscious and we are now fighting against the clock with this. Next turn, Garrett did the only thing he could do with his low health. He pulled off a necklace he had been saving for a fight against Vel and let it drop, and that necklace immediately exploded as it hit the ground. It went through all 7 charges that the thing had, dealing a solid chunk of damage to his health. Downside, it took Evee and Garrett with them, leaving only a pile of ash. 

Dusty immediately dispelled the darkness because he realized what Garrett had done, and Vel went to attack. Only to miss. Dusty went to attack, and missed. Finally, now that Adrian could see the monster, he flew above him, and dropped onto the crystal, attacking it right away. This make the crystal start sparking, and Alduran lashed a leg out at Vel, then tried to breathe the cloud of Acid/Fire/Lightening at Adrian. Only it caught. He tried again. It caught. Alduran roared at us, tried one more time only to have acid dribble down his chin, and he moved to take out Zeke and Fizz. Before he could though, he finally collapsed, dead. 

The world around us immediately shook, and Dusty rushed to pocket some of Evee and Garrett’s ashes to hopefully bring them back. Next thing we knew, we were back outside of the statue, with our friends and family badly burned but still alive, two piles of ashes, and three stones, one blue one (Tina), a grey one (Weave) and a sickly flesh tone one (La Mano). And as we stand there in shock, it slowly starts to rain, and with that, our year long campaign finally closed. 

[missblanchette]

Birds of Paradise [3/5]

Series: Joker Game

Characters: Amari/Tazaki; Kaminaga and Fukumoto as Tazaki’s #squad 

Rating: G

Summary: Tazaki never found a reason to talk to the shopkeeper with the chestnut brown hair and god-like jawline – that was, until his pigeons attacked the flower display. (AKA The Flower Shop AU no one asked for)

Words: 2628

Notes: Modern AU/Flower Shop AU; Sorry this is a bit late ;; I had a lot of trouble reworking this and started falling into the Cycle of Doubt™ on top of that lmao but here’s chapter three~

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | You can read this on AO3! Thank you guys for reading and I hope you enjoy~!  (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Ch 3: Surprises Come in All Shapes and Sizes

Unfortunately, or fortunately, Tazaki had little to no chance to pass by Persephone's in the days after his failed attempt. Part of him was thankful, because only the gods knew he was still recovering from last time. On the other hand, he missed seeing Amari work so diligently, even if he only caught it through the window; the bouquets that decorated his small apartment could only fill the void so much. Still, with Miyoshi's words urging him on, Tazaki tried to hype himself up so that he could finally ask Amari out.

Key phrase: "tried to."

This entailed a very long talk with his pigeons. Multiple very long talks. For the most part, his darlings seemed open to the idea of letting someone new into their lives. But then there was Kazuaki. It wasn't that he wasn't opposed to, but he didn't seem for it either. Then again, Tazaki couldn't really tell because the minute he mentioned Amari, Kazuaki went nuts. Well, at least he had approval from the majority.

On top of that, he rehearsed what he wanted to say in front of the mirror and even asked Kaminaga for some tips (most of which Tazaki swore never to do). Fukumoto also tried helping, but his advice was simply to take him on a date to his cafe and Tazaki knew he just wanted more business. The support was appreciated, however.

Regardless of whether or not he was ready, another opportunity to see Amari again arrived. So of course the night before, he stayed up late shaken by his nerves and ended up oversleeping.

Berating himself for not sticking to plan, Tazaki rushed out with his pigeons following in a tizzy. It wasn't too late, just about early afternoon, so Amari should still be there. Although as much as he tried to calm himself down, perhaps the adrenaline from power walking didn't help. The only thing keeping him grounded now was the weight of his darlings on his arms.

Despite the calm mask he put on, his legs quivered and his heart hammered against his chest. It really shouldn't be a big deal, he told himself. All he had to do was go in, ask, and get a date. Or get rejected. One or the other. But he couldn't start thinking like that or else he'd really chicken out. As Persephone's came into view, he looked over to his darlings for one last bout of reassurance. Right shoulder, check; left shoulder, good but... where was Kazuaki?

Tazaki paused.

What was that rustling noise?

Looking to the side, he saw Kazuaki had found entertainment in the bouquet of cosmos, the petals fluttering to the ground. Tazaki pursed his lips.

"Really?"

Kazuaki merely chirped in response.

Sighing, Tazaki went over to retrieve him.

"I thought I told you especially to be on your best behavior," he said, pointing a finger at him.

Before Kazuaki could reply, the shop's bell rang. Tazaki looked up to see Amari standing at the door.

"You're a bit later than usual," Amari said, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Oh sweet Jesus. Okay, just like he practiced -- he got this.

"Sorry I'm late, I got lost in your flowers." Not bad, he mused.

Chuckling, Amari stepped forward.

"You're not the only one lost, it seems." As Amari neared the display, Kazuaki slowed to a stop. In turn, Amari petted him with a finger. "Would you look at that? Only one bouquet ruined this time."

"They're learning." He narrowed his eyes towards at Kazuaki. "Most of them, at least."

"Can't learn something overnight," Amari said, Kazuaki climbing onto his arm.

"Kazuaki's always been a procrastinator."

"It’s fine to take things at your own pace~"

"Even at the expense of your flowers?"

"Some sacrifices have to be made." Amari shrugged, passing Kazuaki over to him. "Though I have to admit seeing you -- your birds slam into the displays makes my shift a lot more interesting."

"And my bank account a lot more emptier," Tazaki mumbled.

Amari laughed.

"Let me guess, you want to take responsibility for this, too?"

"I-It's only fair," Tazaki said, grateful he was busy helping Kazuaki back onto his shoulder. Although, it was a good opening for him. "Speaking of which... I was thinking about other forms of payments."

"Oh?" Amari tilted his head.

As Amari looked at him with those chestnut brown eyes of his, the words died on Tazaki’s tongue. Practicing a conversation with one’s self in front of the mirror was nothing compared to the real deal. Amari was a nice guy, so rejection wouldn't hurt that badly, would it? Just when he considered backing out, Kazuaki's talons dug into his skin like a painful reminder.

Right. It was now or never.

"Yeah, how about a --"

"Papa!"

Hands shooting out, Amari clutched Tazaki's shoulders as he fell forward. Thankfully, his pigeons didn't do anything more than flap their wings about and trill in surprise, but Tazaki figured it would've been easier to deal with their frenzy than Amari's proximity. Amari's eyes, he thought, were just as pretty as his flowers, and he had to remind himself it wasn't socially acceptable to gawk.

"E-Emma!" Before turning around, Amari mouthed him an apology. Tazaki simply shook his head, having lost his voice. "You should be more careful."

"Sorry~"

To Amari's side, Tazaki saw a young girl with her arms wrapped around Amari's knees. She grinned as Amari patted her head and Tazaki couldn't help but grow weak at how adorable the sight was. Behind them, another man made his way for the flower shop.

"Thanks for picking her up, Hatano," Amari said. "What do we say to Uncle Hatano?"

"Thank you, Uncle Hatano!"

Hatano merely grunted in response.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, leaning against the door. "Just let me know when you're done, I'll be getting ready for my shift."

"Why don't you go wait inside with Uncle Hatano, Emma?" Amari asked as Hatano disappeared into the store.

"Not yet, not yet! I have something really cool to show you, Papa."

And as Amari knelt down to be eye level with her, two realizations hit Tazaki: Amari was a father. And if he was a father, then surely he must be married.

Dear Lord. He'd been hitting on a married man.

Mentally, he chided himself for thinking that being a father made Amari more attractive. Now was not the time be thinking that. But he couldn't deny it. Not when he listened to his daughter so attentively and treated her so gently; it reminded Tazaki of how he treated his birds the other day, and only served to make him fall harder. Moral crisis aside, he briefly debated on whether or not it was viable to have his pigeons fly him out.

Clink!

"Ah." Emma looked down towards the ground, a pout on her face. On the ground laid a coin. "It was supposed to come out of your ear."

Not missing a beat, Tazaki maneuvered his hands to slip a coin into his own palm and bent down.

"You mean like this?" he said, reaching behind Emma's ear and sliding the coin up, as if pulling it right out of her ear. Smiling, he presented it to her. "Ta-dah!"

"Yeah, like that!" She hopped up and down, pointing excitedly at his hand. Then she took a clear look at him and clammed up, taking a step behind Amari. Nevertheless, Tazaki just kept on smiling and handed her the coin.

"Here, this is for you."

Shyly, Emma looked at Amari as if asking him for permission to which he nodded.

"Oh, that's right! Emma, this is my friend, Mr. Tazaki." Friends. He could die happy right there. "Now what do you say to Mr. Tazaki?"

"Thank you, Mr. Tazaki," Emma said, her previous smile returning as she took the coin from him.

"You're very welcome, Emma."

With coin in hand, Emma shifted her attention back to Amari.

"Ah... Papa, I'll be inside."

With Amari's nod of approval, Emma ran off into the store.

"Your daughter's very cute," Tazaki said, as the shop's door bell chimed.

"Thank you, she means the world to me," Amari said, voice growing softer; his smile widened and there was a proud gleam in his eyes. "Ah, anyways, you were saying something about payment earlier?"

"Yeah, uh..." Just like that, what little confidence Tazaki had built up earlier dissipated, which was made worse with Amari looking at him expectantly. Amari seemed happy, and happy enough without him. He had his own family and he'd probably just be intruding if he tried anything. "...Do you take check?"

Amari blinked.

"Just, y'know, in case there's no other forms of payment."

"...Gotcha." Amari nodded slowly. "We do, actually. Did you plan on paying by check today?"

"Oh no, um, I was just wondering." Tazaki patted his pockets in search for his wallet. "I mean, it's just one bouquet anyways. I should have enough cash on me..."

"Money isn't necessary."

"Hm?"

Instead of answering, Amari picked up the bouquet Kazuaki had ruined and inspected it. The white cosmos seemed to be in decent enough condition despite the ruckus, as well as the bird beak-like flowers that sat in the center of them. Removing a few loose petals here and there, Amari adjusted the cellophane wrapper so that the torn parts weren't visible and re-tied the lavender bow that kept it together.

"You made Emma smile," Amari said, handing it to him. "That's payment enough."

"Are you sure? I really don't mind paying."

"I insist." Amari smiled. "We gotta do something with this bouquet anyways, no?"

"That's... fair enough." After a moment's hesitation, Tazaki took the bouquet from him, sending those goosebumps throughout his body again as their fingers brushed together. "Thank you."

"I'll see you around?"

"For sure," Tazaki said, cradling the bouquet in his arms. Because even if he couldn't be with Amari, he could still admire him.

Staring at the flowers in front of him, Tazaki had no doubt in his mind that they'd look good alongside the other bouquets he'd received from Amari. Despite it not receiving the same treatment the first two got, it looked as if nothing happened to the bouquet in the first place. The cosmos retained their color and stood tall and proud, the beak-like flowers he'd still yet to identify adding to their liveliness. Amari truly had skill when it came to flowers; whoever his spouse was must be very lucky.

"Dude," Kaminaga said, interrupting his pity party. "You look pretty down."

His voice brought Tazaki back to his senses, the sounds of the cafe rushing into his ears. He’d almost forgotten he was hanging out with Kaminaga. Tearing his gaze off the bouquet, Tazaki turned to him.

"You never told me he had a kid."

"What?"

"Amari. He has a kid."

"I didn't think it was relevant." Kaminaga furrowed his brows, resting his chin in his palm. "You love kids!"

"If he has a kid, then he has to be married."

"He's never mentioned it before. He doesn't have a ring, either."

"Oh my God," Tazaki said, hands flying to his cheeks with an audible smack. "Maybe his spouse is dead."

Kaminaga squinted at him.

"Then what's the problem?"

"He's in mourning!"

Snorting, Kaminaga took a sip of his drink.

"He looks pretty damn happy for someone who's mourning."

"Some people are really good at hiding their pain," Tazaki said, jabbing a finger in Kaminaga's direction. "Plus he has Emma to help him through the process..."

"Y'know, Emma looks nothing like Amari," Kaminaga said, leaning back in his chair. "Red hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Even her name isn’t Japanese."

As much as he wanted to deny it, Kaminaga had a point. But still, Amari treated her as if she were his own, and Tazaki didn't want to rule out any possible scenario.

"Okay, but --"

The scent of peppermint wafted through the air, a coffee cup placed in front of him. Though the drink was out of season, he knew one guy who'd make it for him.

"Tazaki." He looked up to see Fukumoto pulling up a chair next to them, his voice like an anchor. "Breathe."

"Oh, Fukumoto," Kaminaga said. "On break already?"

"I pulled some strings."

Both Tazaki and Kaminaga had learned not to question Fukumoto ever and so let it be, ignoring the yelling up at the cash register.

"So what's going on with Tazaki's guy problems?" Fukumoto said.

"There's no problem," Tazaki said, holding the cup in his hands. The scent of peppermint soothed him, the warmth comforting. In fact, it almost reminded him of… actually, never mind. "I'm already over it."

Kaminaga scoffed.

"More like you're trying to run away from it." Kaminaga folded his arms. "So what if you hit on a married guy? We all make that mistake --"

"Not really," interjected Fukumoto.

"-- At best, you'll get rejected; at worst, he'll never wanna see you again. No big deal."

Tazaki suddenly found his peppermint mocha unappealing.

"Kaminaga," said Fukumoto.

"Yeah?"

"Shush."

Kaminaga pouted, but stayed silent nonetheless.

"I just don't want to impose on anything, all right?" Tazaki said. "He seems perfectly happy without me."

“If you keep making excuses for yourself,” Fukumoto said. “You’ll never be truly happy.”

In the silence that fell, Tazaki tapped his finger against the cup. Fukumoto wasn't wrong; indeed, Fukumoto was rarely wrong. If he didn't do anything about it, surely he'd end up regretting it sooner or later. But he'd get over it, wouldn't he? He'd been fine without Amari up until now, so he could get by. He had his birds, after all.

Okay, even he had to admit that sounded a bit pathetic.

"I know it's difficult," Fukumoto said. "But if you really want something, then you should go after it."

Taking a shaky breath, Tazaki nodded.

"I know," he said. "It's just that... every time I try, I get scared."

"I understand," Fukumoto said, his eyes taking on a faraway look. He was quick to snap back, though. "But it'll be worth it if it works out, don't you think?"

Allowing himself a moment, Tazaki imagined what it would be like to be with Amari. There would be no need to admire him through Persephone's windows, since he'd be able to spend time with him without question. The thought of being able to see Amari's warm smile and feel his gentle touch sent his heart racing, though he had no complaints about that. He wanted to get to know Amari better, to be by his side and help him through his day, that he had no doubts about.

At the same time, he didn't want to rush into anything. Not when there was too many uncertainties. Perhaps he really was being a coward, but he'd rather be a coward than overstep any boundaries.

"You're right, but..." Tazaki finally said. "I need some time to think about it."

Fukumoto set a hand on Kaminaga's shoulder, stopping him from any outbursts. Though Kaminaga complied, he still gave Tazaki a concerned look. Meanwhile, Fukumoto opened his mouth as if to say something but decided against it. He dug into his apron's pocket and pulled something out.

"It's your decision and we'll support you no matter what," Fukumoto said, handing it to him. "But if you go through with it, take this for good luck."

Hesitantly, Tazaki took it.

"What is it?"

"A gift card. For when you take him here on your date."

"...I see," Tazaki said, pocketing it. "Thank you."

Another failed attempt today, but hey, he got a discount from Fukumoto. You win some, you lose some, he supposed. Eyes drifting back to the bouquet, Tazaki sighed. Perhaps more losses than wins.

[douxreviews]

American Gods - ‘A Murder of Gods’ Review

"That’s some profound knowledge for you right there. Wrapped up in a quaint sexual metaphor."

American Gods takes a quick side trip to alt-right paradise, and makes some new friends along the way.

One of the things most widely known about this episode among people who care in any way about such things is that everything we see this week is a brand new creation on the part of the series and has nothing at all to do with the novel. Which is good, really. That's the main virtue of doing a multi-season adaptation of a novel like this; it gives them the opportunity to really explore the corners of the universe that they're showing us in a way that a novel really can't.

Fortunately, they really take the opportunity and run with it, giving us a highly enjoyable episode while really digging into the ramifications of a couple things that were thrown out there previously. Most notably, last week we saw Mr. Wednesday being offered the opportunity to stop fighting and allow Mr. World to assimilate him into the new order of things. Specifically, as a weapons satellite over the middle east, which is a fair enough example of the sort of thing that is worshiped by a certain striation of humanity.

Wednesday turned down the offer in favor of remaining himself and fighting the new gods, which is for the best since that's sort of the plot of the whole series. But this week we get to see what happens to an old god who does agree to the offer. And so we stop off in Vulcan, Virginia, where every store welcomes open carry sidearms and fascist style armbands are all the rage.

Vulcan, for those of you who were popular as children and therefore might not have spent every second obsessively studying these things, was the Roman god of fire. In the episode they identify him as the god of the Volcano, which is close enough, if not strictly accurate enough for the more pedantic of us. He was the rough equivalent of Hephaestus in the Greek pantheon, but I feel obligated to point out that the whole metalwork thing was more Hephaestus' gig than Vulcan's. Which kind of makes me wish they'd gone with the Greek version of this particular god rather than the Roman, but I suppose they wanted to use the less difficult name. Plus the 'V' made a nice logo for his company.

When your whole show premise is based around addressing the idea of new gods based on things that modern American's actually worship, guns and ammunition has to be pretty close to the top of the list. Even so, it's quite brave for the show to be as up front about it as they are here. This is a town, and by proxy a country, that openly worships their guns. They all carry them, a volcano on every hip, as Vulcan says. The 'firearms as a way to make yourself feel powerful' theme is in no way subtext. It's the text. The good people of Vulcan only have to turn a blind eye to the occasional factory manager 'falling' into the smelting pots and they get to keep their nice, shiny guns.

I have to say, Vulcan transitioning from the volcano to the bullet factory works really well. The show spells it out, in a nice turn of phrase; he's gone from fire to firepower. They're showing us what happens to Gods who accept the offer Wednesday turned down last week, and what we see having happened here is a bloated, smug, king of his own little hill, openly rubbing Wednesday's nose in his own comfort. His taunting of Shadow with the front yard lynching tree, is just one detail in the sub-textually hostile dynamic between Wednesday and Vulcan.

But the idea of what happens to a god who assimilates isn't the only thing we're being shown here. We're also being shown what happens to an old god who turns down Mr. Wednesday's offer. That's going to come up again the next time he reaches out to an old friend, because now we know what the implicit threat is. That's a nice structural note for the season to build on later. Vulcan turned Wednesday down, so Wednesday decapitated him and vowed to tell everyone that Vulcan had decided to betray his new friends and so the new gods killed him. To say nothing of his urinating into the foundry. Seriously, let's not say anything about that.

Meanwhile, in the other plotline, Mad Sweeney, Laura, and Salim have ended up together on a road trip to Kentucky, by way of Indiana. Honestly, I could watch these three all day long. The combination of Laura and Sweeney trying to out-cynic one another contrasted with Salim's endearing sweet positivity is just a winning formula. One thing that this show doesn't get enough credit for is the way the characters interact with one another. Pleasingly, it makes perfect logistic sense why they're together despite not liking one another particularly. Sweeney very kindly even spells it out for us:  He wants his coin. The only way Laura will give it to him is by getting her resurrected properly, and it so happens he 'knows a guy who knows a guy.' They need a car to get there, and Salim has one, but Salim is searching for the Jinn. Well, it so happens that Sweeney knows how to find him and will do so in exchange for a lift. Perfectly set up, they're all doing what they're doing out of self interest, and that's a solid way to establish your mismatched buddy road trip.

Lastly, it's worth mentioning the opening sequence. We've seen several 'Coming to America' vignettes in the past, but they've all been in a comfortable past setting where we can view them as history. By setting this weeks segment as immigrants crossing from Mexico illegally, only to be greeted with gunfire from sinister shadowed 'border patrollers', the show is forcing the viewers to confront some very uncomfortable thoughts about what coming to America means. The sequence is made even bolder in the way it unabashedly frames the immigrants as the heroes and the border patrol as the villains, right down to Mexican Jesus assisting the immigrants and getting shot by the patrol for his efforts.

Seriously. A TV show just showed American border agents, unofficial or otherwise - it's not really clear, shoot and kill Jesus. That's... well, brave doesn't seem to even cover it.

Quotes:

Shadow: "Who are you?" Wednesday: "If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me."

Laura: "Do you have a car?" Sweeney: "Yes. I do." Laura: "Well Chop-chop, ginger minge. Let’s go."

Laura: "Did you just name drop Jesus Christ like you know a guy who knows a guy?"

Wednesday: "There’s always been a god shaped hole in Man’s head. Trees were the first to fill it."

Wednesday: "Religion inspires in those who fear nothing fear of the gods. And using that fear requires a certain element of f**ked up."

Salim: "You are not a leprechaun?" Sweeney: "Oh, she’s a lepre-c**t" Laura: "(after smashing his face in the glass) If I hear that word pass your lips one more time I’m gonna peel them off your gums."

Salim: "I never met Ibrahim bin Irem. I imagine he was given a new life, just as I was. My name is Salim. Or, it was Salim. I do not know what my name is now."

Bits and Pieces:

-- So, rapture and fear. Wednesday seems to be telling us that Gods get their energy from fear and that sacrifice is essentially food to them. That's an interesting differentiation, because it makes a distinction between thought and action. I'll be interested to see if they expand on that.

-- Vulcan says that people like to be watched and that they don't do evil while being observed. That's very Jeremy Bentham of him. There's an interesting Doctor Who connection there, if you feel like doing the research. Key word to look up being 'panopticon'.

-- Sweeney uses the phrase 'murder of Gods' as the group singular noun, like a pack of wolves, a murder of crows, or a romp of otters.

-- Yes, the group singular for otters is a 'romp'. I've been waiting to work that into conversation for years.

-- Wednesday is desperately trying to convince Shadow to let go of Laura, including implying that she only came to see him to let him go and lying to him about knowing about her presence there in the first place. I wonder why he's so desperate to get rid of her.

-- There was a really nice shot transition from Mexican Jesus forming a golden halo to confirm who he was, and then that halo turning out to be the headlights of the border patrol trucks. Really nicely framed.

-- Shadow's being infected by the bit of 'tree-thing' was kind of a waste of episode space, to the extent that I forgot to even mention it last episode. It did, however, allow Wednesday to tell us about Mr. Wood, one of the first Gods, which introduced the concept of gods evolving and changing to adapt to changes in the world, which thematically set up Vulcan's situation. SO it wasn't a total waste.

-- The shot of the 'World's Greatest Boss' mug dissolving in the molten metal made me laugh out load.

-- That is, in actual fact, what happens when you fire bullets into the air like that. Don't fire bullets into the air like that. It's a dumb-ass thing to do.

-- As I mentioned in a previous Punisher review, Corbin Bernsen really does a great 'villain'. It's a shame he lost his head.

-- It's a little inexplicable however why Vulcan actually made that sword for Wednesday. It seemed pretty clear that they were both already planning to betray one another, so why actually give him a powerful weapon like that?

A really great character piece, as well as an exciting advancement toward the season one finale. Can't wait to get to Kentucky.

Three and a half out of four shell casings.

Mikey Heinrich is, among other things, a freelance writer, volunteer firefighter, and roughly 78% water

[agameforgoodchristians]

Stories about lost sheep, coins, & sons being about OUR inaction, not God's. (Luke 15)

The story of “the prodigal son” is the classic story of love and redemption.  As such it has entered into the secular realm of speech. Even people who do not read the Bible have heard the phrases like “the prodigal son has returned.”

The story in summary is simple:

As Jesus tells the story, a father has two sons. The younger son told his father to give him his inheritance even though dad is still alive. The father gives it to him. The younger son then gathered all his belongings, traveled to a distant country, and spent all his money partying.

After he had spent everything, a severe famine hit that country, and he was out of resources. The younger son hired himself out, working in a pig-farmer’s field. He is so desperatehe wanted to eat the pig food himself.

Eventually the younger son figures out that it would be better to be a servant in his father’s house than living like this. So he packs up the nothing he has and heads home, rehearsing everything he will say to his dad.

But while he was still a distance from his house, his father saw himcoming, ran out to meet him, gathered him in a huge hug, told his boy to shut up with his apologies, and threw a party for his lost son. Saying “this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!”

In the midst of this partying, the older son comes home from working in the field and finds out from a servant what is going on. The older son is pissed and won’t join the party. When his dad goes outside to get him, he yells at his dad for welcoming his younger brother back, and never appreciating all the work that the son who stayed has done over the years. The dfather tries to comfort him by reminding him that 1) everything that the father has left belongs to the older son, and 2) “we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”

The Ground Rules

It's a familiar story of love, forgiveness, and redemption. But before we go any further, here are the ground rules for this Card Talk:

Remember that there are three (3) stories in the chapter.

Stop seeing God all over these stories.

Accept that the focus of these stories is searching for the lost and the joy of finding, not repentance.

Let's start with the first ground rule.

As we said in Ground Rule #1, Luke chapter 15 contains three (3) stories. The third is summarized above. The other two are pretty simple:

1. A shepherd loses one out of one hundred sheep, leaves the rest, tracks it down, brings it back, calls his friends, throws a party. 

2. A woman loses one out of ten coins, cleans the whole house, tracks it down, returns it to the others, calls her friends, throws a party.

Here's the question: Did you ever think to ask who is at fault for these losses? Or did you always jump to story three, blame the prodigal son, and not apply this logic to the other two stories?

What do we mean?

 If We Are The Sheep, Who is the Shepherd?

Do you really blame the sheep? Sheep wander off because they are freaking sheep. That’s what sheep do. Sheep don’t lose themselves. They also don’t "repent" for wandering off after they have been brought back.

The shepherd on the other hand had one job: keep track of the sheep. So how did the sheep get lost under the shepherd watchful gaze? Was he was lazy, forgetful, stupid, or inattentive? Sure he had 100 sheep, but he had one job. Now you might be saying, "calm down, he's only human. People make mistakes!" Yes, people do make mistakes. That's our point.

Remember Ground Rule #2. That argument only works if the shepherd is not seen as representing God (unless your version of God is a lazy, forgetful, stupid, or inattentive divine being, who can lose you).

If We are the Coin, Who is the Woman? 

Apply the same logic as above: the woman had to clean the whole house to find the coin because she lost it. Coins don’t lose themselves. They also don’t repent for not losing themselves and being found. They don’t pray because they are coins. The woman was clumsy, untrustworthy, forgetful, or simply misplaced the coin for a time. Again, is your God like this?

If We are the Son, Who is the Father? 

The third story complicates things even more. If the shepherd and the woman are to blame in the previous story, what does that say for the father in the third? This leads to a deeper question: when you read the story, why do you only blame the prodigal son for the situation?

Coptic Christians call this story “The Lost Son,” but begin with the apt question, “which son is lost?” We believe the answer is "both." The father did lose one of his sons, he lost them both.

One was mis-raised through indulgence and a lack of discipline. When his younger son asked for his portion of the inheritance, the answer should have been “no.” Period. His duty as a father would have required him to put the parental smackdown in regards to his son's request, not to go along with it (c.f. Leviticus 19:17,  Deuteronomy 8:5, Deuteronomy 21:18-21, Proverbs 3:11-12, Proverbs 13:24, Proverbs 19:18). And let us not forget that the son remained in the house for a few days before he left. Just like Jephthah, this father had time to change his mind and make a better choice.

And despite some really bad bible-times history, proclaimed by Christian preachers, there was nothing in Jewish culture at the time period that prevented the father from searching for his son. There was certainly nothing in the culture preventing him from sending someone else to bring his son back, like his other son, the older brother.

 His other son, the older one, was mis-raised as well. Sure, we can say he was tired of taking care of his younger brother, spent a lifetime cleaning up someone else's mess. But let's be honest: abandoning familial duties out of frustration is not a biblical virtue. The elder son does nothing to stop his younger sibling from leaving, does nothing to bring him back, and then complains when he does return home. 

 Returning to the father, he didn't even think to invite his eldest son to the feast being thrown for the youngest. We can paint this a the hysteria of joy, forgetfulness, or playing favorites (which might be why the prodigal is so spoiled in the first place), but who forgets to invite their own child, the one who is running the household wealth, to a party when his other son has returned home? Shouldn't family be the first on the invite list when calling friends to throw a party, especially when the party is about family returning home (not sheep or coins)?

And what is there to say about the younger son, the prodigal? He sucks. We get that. He lost himself, he chose to leave, unlike the sheep or the coin. However, how well was he raised by his father? It's a legitimate question once we begin to pull away from seeing the father as God. This father is not as noble as the shepherd or the woman: they at least went searching for that which was lost. Sure he rejoiced at finding, but still missed his other son’s absence.

So yes, both sons suck in their own ways-- one has no sense of discipline, the other no sense of compassion-- but this stems from a less than perfect father. This father raised two shitty sons. Is this how you imagine God? 

Ground Rule #4: Go Back to the Beginning

A crucial element in interpreting these stories is remembering how they began, as well as the original audience. 

Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So He told them this parable . . . (Luke 15:1-3)

There are two classes of people Jesus is addressing: The tax collectors and sinners & the Pharisees and the scribes. The low and the high. The socially rejected and accepted. Those seen as immoral and those making the judgments.  

The lost and those who were supposed to go looking. 

The lost things in these stories are the tax collectors and sinners. 

The Pharisees and scribes are the shepherd, the woman, the father. 

The shepherd, the woman, the father are the ones who lost something. They are the ones who dropped the ball and were not doing what they were supposed to be doing. But they are also the ones with the reason to rejoice. It was right in front of us the whole time, and we missed it. But that's exactly the point: we often miss what is right in front of us. 

 Perhaps we need to see that we are the shepherd, the woman, the father.

 Perhaps we should ask what are the things right in front of us, the things we've been given to do, that we might have lost track of.

Perhaps some things come back without our effort and we still rejoice, but if we don’t address the underlying problems we can lose again or continue to miss the pieces which are not whole.

Perhaps we need to search for the things right in front of us, the work we've been given to do, so we can live in Ground Rule #3, rejoicing. 

And again I say rejoice. In heaven and on earth, for the finding of lost things. For not losing them in the first place.  

 But what do we know: we made this game and you probably think we're going to Hell. 

[spiceukonline]

Amsterdam Unfiltered

THEY say that not all those who wander are lost. Walking aimlessly through the backstreets and across the canal bridges of Amsterdam, you’d think the Dutch coined that phrase themselves. 

Amsterdam has been a favourite amongst lads, first-time stoners and cheap thrill seekers for years, dating all the way back to the 1930s when “window” prostitution appeared.  The city has a reputation for vice and decadence that it doesn’t exactly gloat about but acknowledges and respects it nonetheless by showing curious visitors that there are no skeletons in their closet that they’re trying to hide. 

Source: Get Your Guide

Source: Wikipedia

Prostitution and cannabis usage is something many countries try to deny exists and thus remains stigmitized and poorly regulated. In Amsterdam, both are in full view. We could not walk out of our tiny apartment door in the heart of the Red Light District (or “De Wallen” to natives) without a working girl staring gazelessly at passers-by in one of the infamous windows.

To the Dutch, legal prostitution is simply an industry like any other, and they make tremendous efforts to convince you of such too. Taking pictures of the prostitutes is strictly forbidden, and various monuments and art projects have been erected around the city as a marker of respect for sex workers.

Strolling through the Red Light District at 9 am after an early morning coffee run, I accidentally meandered down what I later discovered to be the narrowest street in Amsterdam. Having recently undergone a redecoration, the walls were spray-painted with “#NoFuckingPhotos,” a creative decision spearheaded by an art project aimed at encouraging people to take pictures of Amsterdam’s artwork rather than the red light women.

The Museum of Prostitution, Amsterdam. Source: Hindustantimes.com

The narrowest street in Amsterdam, at just 100cm wide. Source: Georgia Chambers

  Call me uncultured, but the Museum of Prostitution, also located in the Red Light District, was by far the most interesting museum I visited during my time in Amsterdam. For €9.50, you not only get educated, as one would expect to be the outcome of a museum trip but also leave with your perceptions of prostitution completely altered. Throughout the tour, placards ask you probing questions to challenge your own morality, such as ‘How would you feel if you were judged by so many people day in day out?’

Interactive and thought-provoking, the tour even gives you the opportunity to feel what it’s like to have your own window. Standing at a window and staring out into a virtual reality, men leered at you and women called you sluts to your face. I was deeply affected, both harbouring guilt at the skewed perceptions I had previously held towards sex work and knowing how easily I could end up in the same situation.

Truth be told, we never intended to stay right in the heart of the Red Light District. I’m probably the wildest out of all of my travel companions and the height of my rebellion is that time I used a wok as a shot glass. Still, I wouldn’t say that the Red Light District is out of the question for those who didn’t sign up for a mental lads’ weekend. Sure, it can get loud, but for the most part, we slept soundly throughout the grunts and drunken cheers from the crowd below.

Even if you don’t smoke, I’d highly recommend visiting a few of the city’s many coffeeshops (places where cannabis is sold, not to be confused with “cafes,” which are pubs.) I’d recommend The Greenhouse Effect for produce and The Bulldog for the atmosphere. If you do plan to smoke, don’t feel intimidated but also don’t pretend you know what you’re doing when you very clearly don’t, and the closest you’ve ever come to a blunt is Rihanna’s Instagram feed. Always ask whoever is selling it questions about the strength and effect so you are aware of what you’re taking. It’s also wise to bring a responsible friend to watch over you, especially if it’s your first time.

Situated on Oudezijds Voorburgwal, The Bulldog is said to be the first coffeeshop in Amsterdam. Source: Amsterdam Travel Guide

The Greenhouse Effect is a favourite hangout for smokers. Source: flickr

Parental advice over, if you really want to catch the Red Light District at its most interesting, try taking a stroll through the streets early in the morning. The area is like a post-apocalyptic ghost town, with nothing but dumper trucks on the streets clearing up bottles and takeout boxes from the night before. There was also something kind of beautiful about being practically alone in surroundings known for its loudness and business. I felt like I had absorbed a thousand people’s stories and was carrying them along with me, trying to decode them as I went. I didn’t even mind when my travel buddies didn’t want to paint the town even redder in the evening, as I looked forward to my early morning coffee runs so much.

Walking through Amsterdam during daylight hours. Source: Georgia Chambers

Amsterdam’s infamous canals by night. Source: Georgia Chambers

Note: the coffee is good, but expensive, as is everything in Amsterdam bar the marijuana. My favourite hide-out was Ms Crumbs, a little shed turned bakery, and practically one of the only places in the Red Light District awake before noon.  They also did an incredible vegan chocolate cake, which was like a godsend for this struggling travelling vegan. I often encountered the same girl working behind the counter, and I wondered what her story was. Namely, how did she feel walking through the Red Light District getting to and from work every day?

  “There’s something beautiful about being alone in the Red Light District” 

  In a desperate effort to prove I could handle things by myself, I took a stroll through the Red Light District at around 6:30 pm whilst my friends were getting food. Five minutes in, and I was already being heckled by a small group of guys. I pretended I didn’t hear them, turned on my heel, and practically ran in the opposite direction.

Back at the apartment, I told my friends what had happened, and there was a look of concern on their faces as to why I had ever thought to wander around the debauched towns in the world was ever a good idea.

Never one to take good advice when it’s offered, I ventured out alone again the day after, this time a little earlier in the afternoon. Just my luck, I was stopped by two men speaking rapid Dutch asking if they could pray for me. Originating from a small village and able to go without human contact for weeks, figuring out how to escape from this situation left my petrified. Not wanting to be rude, I let him tell his story about how Jesus saved him from suicide, before thanking him for his kind words and making my exit. Smiling to myself as I walked away and exhaling a breath I didn’t know I had been holding in for so long, I began to reevaluate what I was so worried about. People were just people, and the beauty of Amsterdam’s people was that they came in every shape, size, colour and approaches to a casual conversation.

Exploring the city on foot. Source: Georgia Chambers

On top of the famous ‘I Amsterdam’ sign (which is harder to climb than it looks.) Source: Georgia Chambers

  That’s another thing that surprised me about Amsterdam- how colourful it was. Even if you didn’t take notice of the multi-cultural community that passed by you every day, you only had to look at the extensive range of cuisine, from Chinese to Italian to Lebanese, to grasp how proud the city is of its cultural diversity. There’s a real sense that whoever you are and wherever you’re from, in Amsterdam you never feel too far away from home.

I suppose that’s how I can best articulate my time in Amsterdam. Quirky, rebellious and a bit old fashioned, I felt more like myself than I have in a long time. By the end of my stay, I had well and truly caught the Amsterdam bug.

Despite what people say, Amsterdam deserves so much more than a short weekend that you were too wrecked from to even remember to send a postcard. Even though the city is filling up with millennial exchange students with an impressive Instagram account, no one can mistake the city’s timelessness. For a city, it lets you take things easy- eat if you want, get high if you want, wander into the darkness if you want to…in Amsterdam, you’ve got time.

  Check out my favourite Amsterdam travel guides from Lonely Planet and Nomadic Matt 

[storiesofobjects]

THE VOICES IN OUR HEADS Why do people talk to themselves, and when does it become a problem? By Jerome Groopman Hearing voices can be a sign of a malady, but for many it’s just part of thought. Hearing voices can be a sign of a malady, but for many it’s just part of thought. Illustration by Leo Espinosa “Talking to your yogurt again,” my wife, Pam, said. “And what does the yogurt say?” She had caught me silently talking to myself as we ate breakfast. A conversation was playing in my mind, with a research colleague who questioned whether we had sufficient data to go ahead and publish. Did the experiments in the second graph need to be repeated? The results were already solid, I answered. But then, on reflection, I agreed that repetition could make the statistics more compelling. I often have discussions with myself—tilting my head, raising my eyebrows, pursing my lips—and not only about my work. I converse with friends and family members, tell myself jokes, replay dialogue from the past. I’ve never considered why I talk to myself, and I’ve never mentioned it to anyone, except Pam. She very rarely has inner conversations; the one instance is when she reminds herself to do something, like change her e-mail password. She deliberately translates the thought into an external command, saying out loud, “Remember, change your password today.” Verbal rehearsal of material—the shopping list you recite as you walk the aisles of a supermarket—is part of our working memory system. But for some of us talking to ourselves goes much further: it’s an essential part of the way we think. Others experience auditory hallucinations, verbal promptings from voices that are not theirs but those of loved ones, long-departed mentors, unidentified influencers, their conscience, or even God. Charles Fernyhough, a British professor of psychology at Durham University, in England, studies such “inner speech.” At the start of “The Voices Within” (Basic), he also identifies himself as a voluble self-speaker, relating an incident where, in a crowded train on the London Underground, he suddenly became self-conscious at having just laughed out loud at a nonsensical sentence that was playing in his mind. He goes through life hearing a wide variety of voices: “My ‘voices’ often have accent and pitch; they are private and only audible to me, and yet they frequently sound like real people.” Fernyhough has based his research on the hunch that talking to ourselves and hearing voices—phenomena that he sees as related—are not mere quirks, and that they have a deeper function. His book offers a chatty, somewhat inconclusive tour of the subject, making a case for the role of inner speech in memory, sports performance, religious revelation, psychotherapy, and literary fiction. He even coins a term, “dialogic thinking,” to describe his belief that thought itself may be considered “a voice, or voices, in the head.” Discussing experimental work on voice-hearing, Fernyhough describes a protocol devised by Russell Hurlburt, a psychologist at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. A subject wears an earpiece and a beeper sounds at random intervals. As soon as the person hears the beep, she jots notes about what was in her mind at that moment. People in a variety of studies have reported a range of perceptions: many have experienced “inner speech,” though Fernyhough doesn’t specify what proportion. For some, it was a full back-and-forth conversation, for others a more condensed script of short phrases or keywords. The results of another study suggest that, on average, about twenty to twenty-five per cent of the waking day is spent in self-talk. But some people never experienced inner speech at all. In his work at Durham, Fernyhough participated in an experiment in which he had an inner conversation with an old teacher of his while his brain was imaged by fMRI scanning. Naturally, the scan showed activity in parts of the left hemisphere associated with language. Among the other brain regions that were activated, however, were some associated with our interactions with other people. Fernyhough concludes that “dialogic inner speech must therefore involve some capacity to represent the thoughts, feelings, and attitudes of the people with whom we share our world.” This raises the fascinating possibility that when we talk to ourselves a kind of split takes place, and we become in some sense multiple: it’s not a monologue but a real dialogue. Early in Fernyhough’s career, his mentors told him that studying inner speech would be fruitless. Experimental psychology focusses on things that can be studied in laboratory situations and can yield clear, reproducible results. Our perceptions of what goes on in our heads are too subjective to quantify, and experimental psychologists tend to steer clear of the area. Fernyhough’s protocols go some way toward working around this difficulty, though the results can’t be considered dispositive. Being prompted to enter into an inner dialogue in an fMRI machine is not the same as spontaneously debating with oneself at the kitchen table. And, given that subjects in the beeper protocol could express their experience only in words, it’s not surprising that many of them ascribed a linguistic quality to their thinking. Fernyhough acknowledges this; in a paper published last year in Psychological Bulletin, he wrote that the interview process may both “shape and change the experiences participants report.” More fundamentally, neither experiment can do more than provide a rough phenomenology of inner speech—a sense of where we experience inner speech neurologically and how it may operate. The experiments don’t tell us what it is. This hard truth harks back to William James, who concluded that such “introspective analysis” was like “trying to turn up the gas quickly enough to see how the darkness looks.” Nonetheless, Fernyhough has built up an interesting picture of inner speech and its functions. It certainly seems to be important in memory, and not merely the mnemonic recitation of lists, to which my wife and many others resort. I sometimes replay childhood conversations with my father, long deceased. I conjure his voice and respond to it, preserving his presence in my life. Inner speech may participate in reasoning about right and wrong by constructing point-counterpoint situations in our minds. Fernyhough writes that his most elaborate inner conversations occur when he is dealing with an ethical dilemma. Inner speech could also serve as a safety mechanism. Negative emotions may be easier to cope with when channelled into words spoken to ourselves. In the case of people who hear alien voices, Fernyhough links the phenomenon to past trauma; people who live through horrific events often describe themselves “dissociating” during the episodes. “Splitting itself into separate parts is one of the most powerful of the mind’s defense mechanisms,” he writes. Given that his fMRI study suggested that some kind of split occurred during self-speech, the idea of a connection between these two mental processes doesn’t seem implausible. Indeed, a mainstream strategy in cognitive behavioral therapy involves purposefully articulating thoughts to oneself in order to diminish pernicious habits of mind. There is robust scientific evidence demonstrating the value of the method in coping with O.C.D., phobias, and other anxiety disorders. Cognitive behavioral therapy also harnesses the effectiveness of verbalizing positive thoughts. Many athletes talk to themselves as a way of enhancing performance; Andy Murray yells at himself during tennis matches. The potential benefits of this have some experimental support. In 2008, Greek researchers randomly assigned tennis players to one of two groups. The first was trained in motivational and instructional self-talk (for instance, “Go,” “I can,” “Shoulder, low”). The second group got a tactical lecture on the use of particular shots. The group trained to use self-talk showed improved play and reported increased self-confidence and decreased anxiety, whereas no significant improvements were seen in the other group. Sometimes the voices people hear are not their own, and instead are attributed to a celestial source. God’s voice figures prominently early in the Hebrew Bible. He speaks individually to Adam, Eve, Cain, Noah, and Abraham. At Mt. Sinai, God’s voice, in midrash, was heard communally, but was so overwhelming that only the first letter, aleph, was sounded. But in later prophetic books the divine voice grows quieter. Elijah, on Mt. Horeb, is addressed by God (after a whirlwind, a fire, and an earthquake) in what the King James Bible called a “still small voice,” and which, in the original Hebrew (kol demamah dakah), is even more suggestive—literally, “the sound of a slender silence.” By the time we reach the Book of Esther, God’s voice is absent. In Christianity, however, divine speech continues through the Gospels—the apostle Paul converts after hearing Jesus admonish him. Especially in evangelical traditions, it has persisted. Martin Luther King, Jr., recounted an experience of it in the early days of the bus boycott in Montgomery, in 1956. After receiving a threatening anonymous phone call, he went in despair into his kitchen and prayed. He became aware of “the quiet assurance of an inner voice” and “heard the voice of Jesus saying still to fight on.” Fernyhough relates some arresting instances of conversations with God and other celestial powers that occurred during the Middle Ages. In fifteenth-century France, Joan of Arc testified to hearing angels and saints tell her to lead the French Army in rescuing her country from English domination. A more intimate example is that of the famous mystic Margery Kempe, a well-to-do Englishwoman with a husband and family, who, in the early fifteenth century, reported that Christ spoke to her from a short distance, in a “sweet and gentle” voice. In “The Book of Margery Kempe,” a narrative she dictated, which is often considered the first autobiography in English, she relates how a series of domestic crises, including an episode of what she describes as madness, led her to embark on a life of pilgrimage, celibacy, and extreme fasting. The voice of Jesus gave her advice for negotiating a deal with her frustrated and worried husband. (She agreed to eat; he accepted her chastity.) Fernyhough writes imaginatively about the various registers of voice she hears. “One kind of sound she hears is like a pair of bellows blowing in her ear: it is the susurrus of the Holy Spirit. When He chooses, our Lord changes that sound into the voice of a dove, and then into a robin redbreast, tweeting merrily in her ear.” Forty years ago, Julian Jaynes, a psychologist at Princeton, published a landmark book, “The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind,” in which he proposed a biological basis for the hearing of divine voices. He argued that several thousand years ago, at the time the Iliad was written, our brains were “bicameral,” composed of two distinct chambers. The left hemisphere contained language areas, just as it does now, but the right hemisphere contributed a unique function, recruiting language-making structures that “spoke” in times of stress. People perceived the utterances of the right hemisphere as being external to them and attributed them to gods. In the tumult of attacking Troy, Jaynes believed, Achilles would have heard speech from his right hemisphere and attributed it to voices from Mt. Olympus: The characters of the Iliad do not sit down and think out what to do. They have no conscious minds such as we say we have, and certainly no introspections. When Agamemnon, king of men, robs Achilles of his mistress, it is a god that grabs Achilles by his yellow hair and warns him not to strike Agamemnon. It is a god who then rises out of the gray sea and consoles him in his tears of wrath on the beach by his black ships. . . . It is one god who makes Achilles promise not to go into battle, another who urges him to go, and another who then clothes him in a golden fire reaching up to heaven and screams through his throat across the bloodied trench at the Trojans, rousing in them ungovernable panic. In fact, the gods take the place of consciousness. Jaynes believed that the development of nerve fibres connecting the two hemispheres gradually integrated brain function. Following a theory of Homeric authorship that assumed the Odyssey to have been composed at least a century after the Iliad, he pointed out that Odysseus, who is constantly reflecting and planning, manifests a self-consciousness of mind. The poem’s emphasis on Odysseus’ cunning starts to seem like the celebration of the emergence of a new kind of consciousness. For Jaynes, hearing the voice of God was a vestige of our past neuroanatomy. Jaynes’s book was hugely influential in its day, one of those rare specialist works whose ideas enter the culture at large. (Bicamerality is an important plot point in HBO’s “Westworld”: Dolores, an android played by Evan Rachel Wood, is led to understand that a voice she hears, which has urged her to kill other android “hosts” at the park, comes from her own head.) But Jaynes’s thesis does not stand up to what we now know about the development of our species. In evolutionary time, the few thousand years that separate us from Achilles are a blink of an eye, far too short to allow for such radical structural changes in the brain. Contemporary neurologists offer alternative explanations for hearing celestial speech. Some speculate that it represents temporal-lobe epilepsy, others schizophrenia; auditory hallucinations are common in both conditions. They are also a feature of degenerative neurological diseases. An elderly relative with Alzheimer’s recently told me that God talks to her. “Do you actually hear His voice?” I asked. She said that she does, and knows it is God because He said so. Remarkably, Fernyhough is reluctant to call such voices hallucinations. He views the term as pejorative, and he is notably skeptical about the value of psychiatric diagnosis in voice-hearing cases: It is no more meaningful to attempt to diagnose . . . English mystics (nor others, like Joan, from the tradition to which they belong) than it is to call Socrates a schizophrenic. . . . If Joan wasn’t schizophrenic, she had “idiopathic partial epilepsy with auditory features.” Margery’s compulsive weeping and roaring, combined with her voice-hearing, might also have been signs of temporal lobe epilepsy. The white spots that flew around her vision (and were interpreted by her as sightings of angels) could have been symptoms of migraine. . . . The medieval literary scholar Corinne Saunders points out that Margery’s experiences were strange then, in the early fifteenth century, and they seem even stranger now, when we are so distant from the interpretive framework in which Margery received them. That doesn’t make them signs of madness or neurological disease any more than similar experiences in the modern era should be automatically pathologized. In his unwillingness to draw a clear line between normal perceptions and delusions, Fernyhough follows ideas popularized by a range of groups that have emerged in the past three decades known as the Hearing Voices Movement. In 1987, a Dutch psychiatrist, Marius Romme, was treating a patient named Patsy Hage, who heard malign voices. Romme’s initial diagnosis was that the voices were symptoms of a biomedical illness. But Hage insisted that her voice-hearing was a valid mode of thought. Not coincidentally, she was familiar with the work of Julian Jaynes. “I’m not a schizophrenic,” she told Romme. “I’m an ancient Greek!” Romme came to sympathize with her point of view, and decided that it was vital to engage seriously with the actual content of what patients’ voices said. The pair started to publicize the condition, asking other voice-hearers to be in touch. The movement grew from there. It currently has networks in twenty-four countries, with more than a hundred and eighty groups in the United Kingdom alone, and its membership is growing in the United States. It holds meetings and conferences in which voice-hearers discuss their experiences, and it campaigns to increase public awareness of the phenomenon. The movement’s followers reject the idea that hearing voices is a sign of mental illness. They want it to be seen as a normal variation in human nature. Their arguments are in part about who controls the interpretation of such experiences. Fernyhough quotes an advocate who says, “It is about power, and it’s about who’s got the expertise, and the authority.” The advocate characterizes cognitive behavioral therapy as “an expert doing something to” a patient, whereas the movement’s approach disrupts that hierarchy. “People with lived experience have a lot to say about it, know a lot about what it’s like to experience it, to live with it, to cope with it,” she says. “If we want to learn anything about extreme human experience, we have to listen to the people who experience it.” Like other movements that seek to challenge the authority of psychiatry’s diagnostic categories, the Hearing Voices Movement is controversial. Critics point out that, while depathologizing voice-hearing may feel liberating for some, it entails a risk that people with serious mental illnesses will not receive appropriate care. Fernyhough does not spend much time on these criticisms, though in a footnote he does concede the scant evidentiary basis of the movement’s claims. He mentions a psychotherapist sympathetic to the Hearing Voices Movement who says that, in contrast to the ample experimental evidence for the efficacy of cognitive behavioral therapy, “the organic nature of hearing voices groups” makes it hard to conduct randomized controlled trials. Fernyhough is not only a psychologist; he also writes fiction, and in describing this work he emphasizes the role of hearing voices. “I never mistake these fictional characters for real people, but I do hear them speaking,” he writes in “The Voices Within.” “I have to get their voices right—transcribe them accurately—or they will not seem real to the people who are reading their stories.” He notes that this kind of conjuring is widespread among novelists, and cites examples including Charles Dickens, Joseph Conrad, Virginia Woolf, and Hilary Mantel. Fernyhough and his colleagues have tried to quantify this phenomenon. Ninety-one writers attending the 2014 Edinburgh International Book Festival responded to a questionnaire; seventy per cent said that they heard characters speak. Several writers linked the speech of their characters to inner dialogues even when they are not actively writing. As for plot, some writers asserted that their characters “don’t agree with me, sometimes demand that I change things in the story arc of whatever I’m writing.” The importance of voice-hearing to many writers might seem to validate the Hearing Voices Movement’s approach. If the result is great literature, it would be perverse to judge hearing voices an aberration requiring treatment rather than a precious gift. It’s not that simple, however. As Fernyhough writes, “Studies have shown a particularly high prevalence of psychiatric disorders (particularly mood disorders) in those of proven creativity.” Even leaving aside the fact that most people with mood disorders are not creative geniuses, many writers find their creative talent psychologically troublesome, and even prize an idea of themselves as, in some sense, abnormal. The novelist Jeanette Winterson has heard voices that she says put her “in the crazy category,” and the idea has a long history: Plato’s “mad poet,” Aristotle’s “melancholic genius,” and John Dryden’s dictum that “great wits are sure to madness near allied.” But, in cases where talent is accompanied by real psychological disturbance, do the creative benefits really outweigh the costs to the individual? On a frigid night in January, 1977, while working as a young resident at Massachusetts General Hospital, I was paged to the emergency room. A patient had arrived by ambulance from McLean Hospital, a famous psychiatric institution in nearby Belmont. Sitting bolt upright, laboring to breathe, was the poet Robert Lowell. I introduced myself and performed a physical examination. Lowell was in congestive heart failure, his lungs filling with fluid. I administered diuretics and fitted an oxygen tube to his nostrils. Soon he was breathing comfortably. He seemed sullen and, to distract him from his predicament, I asked about a medallion that hung from a chain around his neck. “Achilles,” he replied, with a fleeting smile. I’ve no idea if Lowell knew of Jaynes’s book, which had come out the year before, but Achilles was a figure of lifelong importance to him, one of many historical and mythical figures—Alexander the Great, Dante, T. S. Eliot, Christ—with whom he identified in moments of delusional grandiosity. In Achilles, Lowell seemed to find a heroic reflection of his own mental volatility. Achilles’ defining attribute—it’s the first word of the Iliad—is mēnin, usually translated as “wrath” or “rage.” But in a forthcoming book, “Robert Lowell, Setting the River on Fire: A Study of Genius, Mania, and Character,” the psychiatry professor Kay Redfield Jamison points out that Lowell’s translation of the passage renders mēnin as “mania.” As it happens, mania was Lowell’s most enduring diagnosis in his many years as a psychiatric patient. In her account of Lowell’s hospitalization, Jamison cites my case notes and those of his cardiologist in the Phillips House, a wing of Mass General where wealthy Boston Brahmin patients were typically housed. Lowell wrote a poem about his stay, “Phillips House Revisited,” in which he overlays impressions of the medical crisis I had witnessed (“I cannot entirely get my breath, / as if I were muffled in snow”) with memories of his grandfather, who had died in the same hospital, forty years earlier. There was a long history of mental illness in Lowell’s family. Jamison digs up the records of his great-great-grandmother, who was admitted to McLean in 1845, and who, doctors noted, was “afflicted with false hearing.” Lowell, too, suffered from auditory hallucinations. Sometimes, before sleep, he would talk to the heroes from Hawthorne’s “Greek Myths.” During a hospitalization in 1954, he often chatted to Ezra Pound, who was a friend—but not actually there. Among his contemporaries, recognition of Lowell’s mental instability was inextricably bound up with awe of his talent. The intertwining of madness and genius remains an essential part of his posthumous legend, and Lowell himself saw the two as related. Jamison quotes a report by one of his doctors: Patient’s strong emotional ties with his manic phase were very evident. Besides the feeling of well-being which was present at that time, patient felt that, “my senses were more keen than they had ever been before, and that’s what a writer needs.” But Jamison also shows that Lowell sometimes saw his episodes of manic inspiration in a more coldly medical light. After a period of intense religious revelation, he wrote, “The mystical experiences and explosions turned out to be pathological.” Splitting the difference, Jamison suggests that his mania and his imagination were welded into great art by the discipline he exerted between his manic episodes. Lowell was discharged from Mass General on February 9th. Jamison quotes a note that one of my colleagues wrote to the doctors at McLean: “Thank you for referring Mr. Lowell to me. He proved to be just as interesting a person and a patient as you suggested he might be.” Later that month, Lowell had recovered sufficiently to travel to New York and do a reading with Allen Ginsberg. He read “Phillips House Revisited.” That September, he died. ♦ Jerome Groopman, a staff writer since 1998, writes primarily about medicine and biology.