#ashe voice would it be morally wrong to send him to the spirit world

[a-cat-in-toffee]

How does virion and Kota react to william, since we kinda already have a idea of how Dakota would react to wight, how does civ ashe react

virion is like. now you know. now you know what it's like to be me. also why are you calling me vyncent

KOTA. does not like this change. he would be incredibly mistrusting of william. who is this guy why is he in our house. where is wight

ashe . . ... hmmm I think I actually drew something like this a while ago buy she would Not be with it. chaos magic? loosing control of yourself for a more chaotic nature? no fucking thank you.

[chwrpg]

I burn! I pine! I perish! -- Cohen James

A NOTE FROM ADMIN B: Please welcome to the stage, Ash and New Calvin! (Sometimes I can still hear old Calvin’s voice....) I think it’ll be fun to see a new take on a character that has been a staple in Rosewood since day one, and we all know you can DELIVER so I can’t wait to see my new son on the dash!!!

OOC NAME/ALIAS, PREFERRED PRONOUNS, AGE & TIMEZONE:

Ash Thee Butch Queen, she/her, nice try, satan, EST

DESIRED CHARACTER:

Cohen James

HOW ACTIVE WILL YOU BE?

Hella to Kinda

SECONDARY CHOICE:

Omg, no

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER:

Cohen is a guy who is always thinking on both a big picture level and about the small things, and he knows that about himself so to offset that, he often does the impulsive thing -  not because it comes naturally to him, but because he doesn’t ever want to overthink something so much that he’s paralyzed. He’s a free spirit and passionate to boot, so being stuck in any sense of the word didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. For the most part  Cohen likes to think the best of people, giving them a lot of grace; some people only gave you once chance to make a good impression, but Cohen was often known to give second and thirds because he’s more likely to think of a glass half full than half empty. He’s grateful for his lot in life, well aware that he and his family had more money than any of them could spend in a lifetime, but he refuses to bury his head in the sand just because he was born wealthy in  regards to the world around him. His heart is big and he shows it any way he knows how, and sometimes that means giving money to a person or cause without a second thought, but he also gives his time to do his part to leave the world a little better than he found it.  Because of his impulse, he doesn’t always make the best decisions the first time around, but he’ll always try to right his own wrongs. In other words, his moral compass has known to get out of whack every now and then, but he wasn’t to proud to course correct.  

SAMPLE WRITING:

The first time Cohen ran into Birdie, he literally ran into her. It was his first night in town and his cousin Cal along with Calvin’s best friend went to a bar called the Coyote Ugly in celebration of not only Cohen arriving, but also part of an apparently week long send off for his cousin who was shipping out for another 4 year bid in the USMC. He’d been in Rosewood in less than a day, and the bar that night was the first thing to really impress him despite both his cousin and friend going on and on about how much Cohen was going to love it here eventually. He didn’t know how much he believed that he’d find himself in Illinois of all places, but he was at least making himself be open to it

He was seven or 8 shots deep, jumping around on the dance floor with a group of people from some frat that despite the guys yelling it a lot, Cohen couldn’t remember when he declared loudly that he was getting the next round for everyone.

Spilling a girl’s drink wasn’t the most original meet cute, but Cohen figured it was okay since Birdie didn’t find it that cute anyway. Or rather, at all. His first glimpse of the aforementioned angel was that of an angel of fury, “Shit I’m sorry.” He told her after colliding with her, the girl leaving the bar just as he was approaching it. “Let me buy—” He looked up to see Birdie in her full annoyed glory and it was like he’d gotten hit by a 18-wheeler despite him being the one who did the colliding. ‘You should be!…’ she tore into him, really let him have it, but she at least let him get her another drink for not only her but the three friends she’d apparently come with, “Listen I’m new in town and I was wondering what you would think about you maybe showing me around? I’m Cohen.” Birdie snorted, and Cohen couldn’t decide if the face she was making while she looked him over was one of her being impressed by his nerve or off put. Either way liquid courage was a hell of a thing, and Cohen stood there with what he thought was a charming lopsided smile, but in all likelihood didn’t land the way he thought it did. 'I think I’d rather consume the drinks you spilled off off the ground. Watch where you’re going, Cohen.’ She breezed by him, and sure, getting rejected stung, but for some reason that he couldn’t and didn’t care to decipher, he wasn’t deterred – he just had a feeling that he’d see her again and when he did, he’d win her over for sure.

___

The next time he saw her, he was at the campus book store. He had a list of books he was needing for his classes, and had acquired all but one. It seemed luck was on his side though because the book store had exactly one copy left and it was all his. He decided to stick around for a bit, settling in to an empty table near the service desk while he scrolled through his instagram feed and he figured out how he wanted to spend the rest of his day. What had to be no more than 15 minutes later, a familiar, exasperated voice of an angel came from the very same service desk he’d been at. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but in his defense, if he hadn’t then how would he have known that the universe was giving him a second chance at a first impression? Because as luck would have it, the book she needed was the book he’d bought.

He went back and forth with himself on if he should approach her, but his legs made their mind up before his brain could when he saw her about to leave. “Hey, wait up.” He said, practically sprinting to catch up to her and cut her off before she left, 'Are you stalking me or something? I carry pepper spray and I’m not in the mood’. “What? No, wow, straight to stalking, huh? No I go here.” He pointed to his new badge, on a Red and yellow 'The Flash’ lanyard around his neck. “I was picking up books but I think it’s a good thing I am here because ta-da.” He told her, presenting her the French book in question, “I bought the last copy a little while ago.”

'Of course, because life isn’t already unfair enough’ She muttered,

“Come on, you gotta think good thoughts, here. Today is both our lucky days. You get this book and I get to see you again. Take it.” He told her and she looked at him suspiciously.

'You want me to take it? What’s the catch?’ Birdie asked, eyes narrowed in his direction. She was highly suspicious of him, obviously, but he knew he could turn it around, he just needed a chance, and the fact that they’d run into each other wasn’t exactly one in a million, (the town was only so big, let alone the student population), but them being there on the same day in the same time frame was enough to think that he was given a second chance to make a good first impression for a reason. After all, Cohen had met plenty of girls, but none of them had had the instant effect on him that Birdie had - it was like Cupid shot him with an arrow or something. “No catch.”

'No catch?’ She parroted suspiciously,

“Okay well one catch. You give me another shot at meeting you.”

She scoffed,

“Look I probably came off as a tool like Peter Quill levels of douche bag that night, but I was really drunk, my cousin and his friend wanted to show me the town. And I know that maybe when I’m drunk and think I’m being charming I’m really being obnoxious, but believe or not, I don’t actually suck. My mom thinks I’m the coolest.” He gave Birdie a hopeful smile, but she didn’t answer. It did, however look like she was contemplating, so he took that and ran with it, almost literally, making a b-line for the outside. And as soon as he was out of the door he came back in and walked up to Birdie, running his fingers through his hair to get it out of his face, “Hey, I’m Cohen and I don’t know if you believe in fate or not, but I just have this crazy feeling that this book should belong with you and not me…” He once again held it out to her and reluctantly, she took it. Even more reluctantly, Cohen got a smile out of her after the 10th guarantee that there were no strings attached.

He could have ended the interaction there, but he tempted fate, asking Birdie out to dinner. She said no, but the way she’d said 'nice try, though’ wasn’t exactly discouraging.

___

He’d seen Birdie around a few times after that, but Cohen figured that there was a thin line between being charmingly persistent, and a creeper straight out of r/letsnotmeet, so he hadn’t approached her on any of those occasions. Besides, between school, being shown the ropes at HearstCorp, and still carving out time to do his own thing, Cohen had plenty of things to keep him occupied. And so what if he got a glimpse of the most beautiful brown eyes he’d ever seen every now and then that made his stomach morph into a pit of hungry moths? Plenty of people had pretty eyes, and a pretty frame that Cohen was convinced would fit perfectly with his own, pssh - he had a crush but he wasn’t Joe Goldberg.

So the next time he’d spoken to Birdie, it was because she approached him, not the other way around.

He hadn’t come to Rosewood with much in the way of clothing, figuring he could just pick up whatever he needed, and what he needed that day was not only a tux, but several business suits.

Cohen didn’t think it was needed, but there was a gala that his grandfather was putting on essentially announcing Cohen’s intent to one day take his grandfather’s place at the head of the company. It sounded like a whole lot of pomp and circumstance, but the excitement in which his grandparents spoke about it, made it impossible for him to shoot the notion down, (the way they talked about galas gave Cohen the inkling that they were like their Coachella) hence why he found himself at one of the upscale tailor’s on Rosewood’s main street.

'Cody’? It wasn’t his name, so while he’d heard it somewhere in the back of his mind, Cohen paid it no mind and continued on with his mirror selfies, waiting for the tailor to get back with his measurements and proposed alterations.

'Cody!’ The voice registered that time, and Cohen whipped his head around to see Birdie, “It’s…Cohen, you didn’t remember my name?”

'Cohen, right. Sorry’. Well that sucked, but she at least genuinely looked as if she’d regretted the faux pas. 'You clean up nice’.

He could feel a blush creeping up his neck as he watched her eyes roam over him; it more than made up for Cody, 'Is that Tom Ford?’

“Uhhh… yeah totally. Maybe, I don’t know. I liked the way the jacket looked. It gives me Bruce Wayne vibes, right? You really think it looks good? I have to go to this gala thing and I didn’t have anything to wear so my grandpa told me this was the place I wanted to be. Everybody’s real nice so I’m not mad at it. What are you doing here though?” He asked innocently, and it wasn’t lost on him that she didn’t answer his question, but he didn’t call her out - it was a little weird, but she was curious about him so he wasn’t going to mess that up…on purpose

'Gala, what gala? I’m pretty much up on every social function and there’s no gala on the calendar for at least the next three months.’

“I think invitations are going out today. It’s kind of for me technically. My grandpa’s just kind of stoked on me working with him on like some family business vibes so it’s gonna be a whole bunch of people who are really happy for me or maybe hate me who I have no idea who they are”. He chuckled, sending a sparkling, soft smile in Birdie’s direction.

He couldn’t exactly get a beat on what she thinking in her head; was he talking too much? Did he seem braggy? He didn’t want to seem braggy. Braggy was the worst.. Luckily, the tailor came back, and after a quick conversation, Cohen told the guy that he’d take the tux as well as the suits he’d picked out earlier. He pulled his wallet out and handed over a black card, polite to the tailor, but wanting to get back to his conversation with Birdie, “So anyw—”

'what kind of business does your family do?’ Birdie asked, and Cohen answered, “Publishing and media pretty much. It’s not all that interesting. Hey, so crazy idea and I swear it’s not me asking you on a date, but since you know so much about galas, maybe you’d want to come? No pressure if you don’t, it’s just I won’t know like 95% of the people there and you’d probably be helping me not chop my arm off just so I wouldn’t have to shake anymore hands.” He moved his arm up and down, and damn if he didn’t feel like a goddamn superhero for making Birdie laugh.

Things were going so well, so of course they had to be interrupted; this time by Birdie’s phone ringing. She took a look at her phone, muttered 'shit’, then focused her attention back to Cohen, her braids whipping around from the motion in a way that for sure wasn’t going to be a thing he thought about all the way home.

'Mmm, maybe. I’ll think about it. I’ve got to go though. See you later, Cohen.’

“Later days!” He called back when she was already just about out of the door, “Later days? What was that?” He berated himself only for his own phone to ping with a notification, and when he pulled it out of his pocket he saw 'From Instagram: Birdie Stratford started following you’

He spun in place, then gave his reflection a wink and the gun, powered by nothing less than pure elation, “Whooo I’m in the game, baybeee! Bruce Wayne who?”

ANYTHING ELSE?

Bro, why is this shit so long? Good luck reading through this BS. You should have never called me a fatass kelly price. 1985 or whatever. 

[wisdomrays]

One Supplication and Four Essentials

QUESTION: Could you please elucidate the four essentials mentioned in the following oft-repeated supplication of the noble Prophet: “O God! I beseech You for guidance, piety, decency, and dignified contentment.”

ANSWER: First, it is necessary to point out that each of the points mentioned in this prayer refers to an important attribute of the Prophets. It is even possible to say that these virtues are their indispensable qualities. Given that they are guides for all believers in every aspect of theirs, the heroes of guidance who devoted themselves to conveying truths to humanity must also adopt these lofty qualities. Not only with their words, but also with their personal state, attitude, and behaviors as well, they must be saying, “O God! I beseech You for guidance, piety, decency, and dignified contentment!”

Guidance

The first thing asked by the Prince of the Prophets at this oft-repeated supplication is huda (guidance), which means seeing the truth, hearing the truth, finding the truth, and being steadfast at truth. In this respect it is a very important fact that the Messenger of Allah, blessings and peace be upon him, puts guidance first in his supplication. Were it not for guidance, it is not possible for a person to see the truth and program one’s life accordingly. Without guidance, it is not possible to talk about piety, decency, and dignified contentment. Attaining these other three, depends on guidance.

“Guidance” is the first and foremost for everything and its source is primarily the Qur’an and then the noble Prophet’s Sunnah, which includes his blessed words, acts, and behaviors. In the same way, it is pointed out in the second verse of the chapter Al-Baqarah that the Qur’an is a potential source of guidance for God-revering and pious ones. After mentioning the qualities of the God-revering ones in the third and fourth verses, the fifth verse puts emphasis on guidance again by stating, “Those (illustrious ones) stand on true guidance (originating in the Qur’an) from their Lord; and they are those who are the prosperous...” In addition, taqwa (piety, reverence of God) is mentioned as the basic condition of thoroughly benefiting from the Miraculous Qur’an, which is noteworthy in terms of pointing out the relationship between the two.

As we tried to express earlier, guidance is the foundational character of the Prophets they are innately blessed with. Because God Almighty does not let those exalted personages whom He sends with a very important mission present certain behaviors to be used as a pretext for ignoring their message. In this respect, the words spoken against the Prophets David, Solomon, Noah, and Hud, peace be upon them, are nothing but slanders by their own people. In the same way, the inappropriate words spoken about the Pride of Humanity out of the sphere of guidance are both an expression of impertinence and a gross slander to make the Divine Throne shiver.

Incidentally, I would like to correct a misinterpretation voiced by some Islamic theologians. While explaining the verse, “(Did He not) find you unguided, and guide (you),” they mistranslate the word “unguided” (dallan) as “misguided.” By using this mistranslation, they claim that, until the moment he was blessed with the light of Divine Messengership and his horizons were lit up, the Prince of both worlds lived—God forbid—in misguidance. To tell the truth, those who ascribe him such a claim of misguidance are misguided ones themselves, may God grant them guidance.

The Qur’an states:

“Your Companion (the Messenger) has neither gone astray nor adopted a wrong way (in belief and action)” (an-Najm 53:2).

The inflection of the original Arabic expression “ma dalla” (has not gone astray) indicates that his entire life passed upon guidance.

In order to explain the seeming contradiction between these two verses, it is necessary to look at the different meanings of the word “dalalah.” While one sense of dalalah is “deviation from the straight path one walks,” another meaning is not recognizing the right path and experiencing a hesitation at this issue. It is this second meaning of “dalalah” that needs to be understood when it refers to the Messenger of God. Until the Divine light came to him, he hesitated between different paths, endeavored to find the right path, and in a way he laid very important foundations for the future with that.

In addition, the expression “(Did He not) find you unguided, and guided (you),” might be referring to the states of amazement (dahsha), passion (qalaq), and stupor (hayman) he experienced during revelation. When he met such a heavenly surprise, he may have experienced a serious shock and not understood what he was supposed to do in the first place. In spite of this, that paragon of insight came to his wife Khadija, may God be pleased with her, who was a woman of a balanced and sound character, and opened up to her. And she first evaluated the noble Prophet in terms of his general character, expressed his lofty morality, and stated that God would not leave him on his own. Afterwards, she took him to her cousin Waraqa ibn Nawfal, who was a Christian scholar.

Then we can understand the meaning of the verse in question as follows: at a certain period, you did not know what Paradise or Hell was. You felt agonized before the general condition of the people but did not know what to do for them. Even though you sensed certain things through what remained from the religion of Prophet Abraham, peace be upon him, and that they conveyed and inspired certain meanings to you, you were not in a position to make a definite decision to put everything in its right place. With the Divine revelation He sent, God eliminated this perplexity and hesitation of yours and showed you the right way.

There is another point that also merits consideration about the attribute of guidance the Prophets are blessed with. Considering the following verse of chapter Ash-Shura:

“And certainly you (by God’s guidance) guide (people) to a straight path” (ash-Shura 42:52);

it is pointed out that the Messenger of God is upon guidance, and that he is a guide in this respect at the same time. As the Prophets are upon guidance, they also lead people to guidance by God’s permission, show them the way, clear the way for them, and help them meet guidance. To put it within the framework of our description of striving on the path of God and providing guidance, they help hearts to meet God by removing the barriers between people and God. Surely the Divine light’s being kindled in the hearts of those addressed is a glorified act that belongs to God.

Piety

The perfect guide’s second request in his supplication is taqwa (piety), which we can define as “the endeavor to be saved from the wrath and punishment of God by fulfilling His commands and abandoning great sins.” As there are degrees of guidance, there are different degrees in piety as well. First, a person who observes the obligatory commands and keeps away from grave sins steps into the corridor of piety. Later, one who keeps away from dubious things and does not even pass from the neighborhood of forbidden things steps in from the door of piety. After that, true piety is realized by abandoning certain permissible things, considering they may be dubious. In addition, it should not be forgotten that piety in the perfect sense can be attained by not only scrupulous observance of religious principles, but also by complying with the Divine laws or general principles operating in this universe.

A believer’s thoroughly benefiting from the guidance found in the Qur’an and Sunnah depends upon such a level of piety. When seen from this perspective, guidance and piety are like twins. Attaining piety depends on guidance; while, correct understanding of the system established by the Qur’an and Sunnah and grasping its spirit, sublimity, and grandeur is possible by deepening in piety again.

Decency

The third thing mentioned in this supplication is iffah (decency, chastity), which refers to a person’s scrupulous observance of morality, being on the watch for not turning one’s looks the wrong way, keeping one’s ears under control, using one’s tongue only when necessary, not asking disgracefully from anyone... in short, it means a person’s keeping within the sphere of modesty and mannerliness in every state and behavior. If individuals are decent, the society will also be decent—clearly, a society made up of sinners cannot be decent. In a society that has lost its decency, there will be various corruptions and evils like theft, bribery, libel, and embezzlement. Those in low levels steal and embezzle in low amounts and those in high levels in high amounts.

The Qur’an describes the heroes of decency as,

“Those who are unaware (of their circumstances) suppose them wealthy because of their abstinence and dignified bearing, but you will know them by their countenance —they do not beg of people importunately. And whatever good you spend, surely God has full knowledge of it” (al-Baqarah 2:273).

Accordingly, they do not beg from others even if they are hungry and homeless, truly deserving tribute. We also need to point out here that Islam allows destitute people to ask from others the minimum amount to survive.

Dignified contentment

The fourth thing mentioned in the noble Prophet’s supplication is ghina, which has two meanings. The first is richness of heart and having dignified contentment of not asking from others, and the second is to become rich with lawful earnings in the material sense. There is nothing wrong with asking for the second either, because if worldly blessings can properly utilized, they can be important factors that support faith and observing the Divine commands. However, when asking for material richness, it is necessary to show utmost care for its being lawful, never fall into misery at giving such richness its due, not let the heart fall for worldly possessions, never forget that worldly properties and wealth are favors of God, and be very careful not to head for the same pitfall as Korah by remarks like,

“I earned these on account of my own knowledge and merit” (al-Qasas 28:78).

There is nothing wrong in asking God Almighty for wealth as long as these points are followed. In addition, the Prince of the Prophets sought refuge in God against hunger and poverty, along with some other things, because a person who faces such a situation might complain about one’s condition and stoop to begging.

In this respect, it can be said that Islam does not have a negative and forbidding attitude against asking for material richness. Maybe the issue of consideration here is refraining from amassing wealth with greed and personal concerns. Indeed, the Miraculous Qur’an warns against the grim end to be faced by hoarders who do not donate from their wealth for the sake of God:

“Those who hoard up gold and silver and do not spend it in God’s cause (to exalt His cause and help the poor and needy): Give them (O Messenger) the glad tidings of a painful punishment!” (at-Tawbah 9:34).

Here, there is the glad (!) tidings of a painful punishment for those who amass wealth, who keep hoarding stocks and mostly use what they hoard for usury, for those who even play with the economy by looking for an opportunity to benefit themselves, and who do not have a fear of God or concern for the Afterlife while doing all of these things. Actually, if a person uses the wealth in hand properly, it is possible to be honored with the blessings mentioned in true glad tidings. However, as they misuse their wealth, they transform the glad tidings for those who spend for the sake of God into tidings of a painful punishment.

In the following verses, the form of the punishment they will face in Hell is related in detail: “On that day, it (that hoarded wealth) will be heated in the fire of Hell and therewith their foreheads and their sides and their backs will be branded (and they will hear): “This is the treasure which you hoarded up for yourselves; taste now what you were busy hoarding!” (at-Tawbah 9:35).

Wealth collected in order to spend for the sake of God is different that wealth amassed for personal gain. Wealth formed with virtuous intentions, such as using it for glorifying the Name of God, opening schools and universities in different places of the world, and teaching humanity about our values must be evaluated differently. It is even necessary to encourage people for having wealth to realize this ideal.

Leading a decent and dignified life, and benefiting from God Almighty’s blessings can both be in compliance with Qur’anic commands:

“But seek, by means of what God has granted you, the abode of the Hereafter (by spending in alms and other good causes), without forgetting your share (which God has appointed) in this world” (al-Qasas 28:78).

But what really matters is a person having dignity in his own spirit. The Prophets always lived with this feeling of dignified contentment. They did not expect anything from people in return for fulfilling the duty of conveying the Divine message. They endured enormous difficulties and trouble for the sake of conveying their messages to their people, and they never asked for any rewards in return because all of their expectations were from God. In this respect, we can say that the most important and influential dynamic they used against their people was dignified contentment. Such a stance is very convincing in terms of those addressed. So a person’s not cherishing any worldly expectations for a duty they carry out, not demanding any status or titles, and expecting their reward only from God are a different depth of dignified contentment or richness of heart.

Finally, everybody must consent to what God Almighty apportions for them and never show greed at material issues and worldly matters because for some individuals, poverty decreed by Divine destiny can be much better for them. Who knows, their inherent weakness for wealth might make them lose a trial with richness and lead them headfirst into Hell. Thus, it is always necessary to consent to what the Divine Will decrees for us.

[dfroza]

A warning against what is false

which is a point the Scriptures make in our lives, to direct. to correct. and to comfort with True hope.

Today’s reading from the New Testament is the 2nd chapter of the Letter of 2nd Peter:

In the past there arose false prophets among God’s people, just as there will continue to be false teachers who will secretly infiltrate in your midst to divide you, bringing with them their destructive heresies. They will even deny the Master, who paid the price for them, bringing swift destruction on themselves. Many will follow immoral lifestyles. Because of these corrupt false teachers, the way of truth will be slandered. They are only out for themselves, ready to exploit you for their own gain through their cunning arguments. Their condemnation has been a long time coming. But their destruction does not slumber or sit idly by, for it is sure to come.

Now, don’t forget, God had no pity for the angels when they sinned but threw them into the lowest, darkest dungeon of gloom and locked them in chains, where they are firmly held until the judgment of torment.

And he did not spare the former world in the days of Noah when he sent a flood to destroy a depraved world (although he protected Noah, the preacher of righteousness, along with seven members of his family).

And don’t forget that he reduced to ashes the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, condemning them to ruin and destruction. God appointed them to be examples as to what is coming to the ungodly. Yet he rescued a righteous man, Lot, suffering the indignity of the unbridled lusts of the lawless. For righteous Lot lived among them day after day, distressed in his righteous soul by the rebellious deeds he saw and heard.

If the Lord Yahweh rescued Lot, he knows how to continually rescue the godly from their trials and to reserve the ungodly for punishment on the day of judgment. And this especially applies to those who live their lives despising authorities and who abandon themselves to chasing the depraved lusts of their flesh.

They are willfully arrogant and insolent, unafraid to insult the glorious ones. Yet even angels, who are greater than they in power and strength, do not dare slander them before the Lord. These individuals are nothing but brute beasts—irrational creatures, born in the wild to be caught and destroyed—and they will perish like beasts. They are professional insulters, who slander whatever they don’t understand, and in their destruction they will be destroyed. For all the evil they have done will come crashing down on them. They consider it their great pleasure to carouse in broad daylight. When they come to your love feasts they are but stains and blemishes, reveling in their deceptions as they feast with you. They are addicted to adultery, with eyes that are insatiable, with sins that never end. They seduce the vulnerable and are experts in their greed—they are but children of a curse!

They have wandered off the main road and have gone astray, because they are prophets who love profit—the wages they earn by wrongdoing. They are following the example of Balaam, son of Beor, who was rebuked for evil by a donkey incapable of speech yet that spoke with a human voice and restrained the prophet’s madness.

These people are dried-up riverbeds, waterless clouds pushed along by stormy winds—the deepest darkness of gloom has been prepared for them. They spout off with their grandiose, impressive nonsense. Consumed with the lusts of the flesh, they lure back into sin those who recently escaped from their error. They promise others freedom, yet they themselves are slaves to corruption, for people are slaves to whatever overcomes them.

Those who escape the corrupting forces of this world system through the experience of knowing about our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Messiah, then go back into entanglement with them and are defeated by them, becoming worse off than they were to start with. It would have been much better for them never to have experienced the way of righteousness than to know it and then turn away from the sacred obligation that was given to them. They become illustrations of the true proverb:

A dog will return to his own vomit

and a washed pig to its rolling in the mud.

The Letter of 2nd Peter, Chapter 2 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 2nd chapter of 2nd Chronicles to begin the work of building the Temple that includes a letter written by King Solomon and the reply:

[The Temple Construction Begins]

Solomon gave orders to begin construction on the house of worship in honor of God and a palace for himself.

Solomon assigned seventy thousand common laborers, eighty thousand to work the quarries in the mountains, and thirty-six hundred foremen to manage the workforce.

Then Solomon sent this message to King Hiram of Tyre: “Send me cedar logs, the same kind you sent David my father for building his palace. I’m about to build a house of worship in honor of God, a holy place for burning perfumed incense, for setting out holy bread, for making Whole-Burnt-Offerings at morning and evening worship, and for Sabbath, New Moon, and Holy Day services of worship—the acts of worship required of Israel.

“The house I am building has to be the best, for our God is the best, far better than competing gods. But who is capable of building such a structure? Why, the skies—the entire cosmos!—can’t begin to contain him. And me, who am I to think I can build a house adequate for God—burning incense to him is about all I’m good for! I need your help: Send me a master artisan in gold, silver, bronze, iron, textiles of purple, crimson, and violet, and who knows the craft of engraving; he will supervise the trained craftsmen in Judah and Jerusalem that my father provided. Also send cedar, cypress, and algum logs from Lebanon; I know you have lumberjacks experienced in the Lebanon forests. I’ll send workers to join your crews to cut plenty of timber—I’m going to need a lot, for this house I’m building is going to be absolutely stunning—a showcase temple! I’ll provide all the food necessary for your crew of lumberjacks and loggers: 130,000 bushels of wheat, 120,000 gallons of wine, and 120,000 gallons of olive oil.”

Hiram king of Tyre wrote Solomon in reply: “It’s plain that God loves his people—he made you king over them!”

He wrote on, “Blessed be the God of Israel, who made heaven and earth, and who gave King David a son so wise, so knowledgeable and shrewd, to build a temple for God and a palace for himself. I’ve sent you Huram-Abi—he’s already on his way—he knows the construction business inside and out. His mother is from Dan and his father from Tyre. He knows how to work in gold, silver, bronze, iron, stone, and wood, in purple, violet, linen, and crimson textiles; he is also an expert engraver and competent to work out designs with your artists and architects, and those of my master David, your father.

“Go ahead and send the wheat, barley, olive oil, and wine you promised for my work crews. We’ll log the trees you need from the Lebanon forests and raft them down to Joppa. You’ll have to get the timber up to Jerusalem yourself.”

Solomon then took a census of all the foreigners living in Israel, using the same census-taking method employed by his father. They numbered 153,600. He assigned 70,000 of them as common laborers, 80,000 to work the quarries in the mountains, and 3,600 as foremen to manage the work crews.

The Book of 2nd Chronicles, Chapter 2 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, january 30 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons that reflects upon the need of a sound mind:

The Apostle Paul forewarned that the time before the “End of Days” would be “perilous” and full of unrelenting human depravity and lawlessness (2 Tim. 3:1-5). Yeshua warned that apostasy would abound and that the hearts of many would run cold as ice (Matt. 24:12). In light of the raging spiritual war going on all around us, the following needs to be emphatically restated: “The important thing is to not lose your mind...”

The mind is the “gateway” to your heart, and it is therefore essential to guard your thinking by immersing yourself in the truth... “Not losing your mind” therefore means being grounded in what is real, and it therefore means understanding your identity and provision as a child of God. “God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power and of love, and of a sound mind” – literally, a “delivered” mind, “healed” from chaos and despair (2 Tim. 1:7). The Greek word “sound mind” (σωφρονισμός) comes from a verb meaning “to be made safe,” in the sense of being under restraining influence of the Spirit of God... The closest Hebrew word might be musar, or “moral discipline.” God’s truth us likened to a Father’s moral correction that leads his child to life (Prov. 6:23).

Part of the task of “guarding your mind” is being able to discern between good and evil. “The fear of the LORD is to hate evil” (Prov. 8:13) and as the prophet cried out, “Hate what is wrong, love what is right” (Amos 5:15). We must love the truth and abhor the lie (Psalm 119:163, Zech. 8:19; Prov. 12:22). Tolerating sin in a world ripe for judgment is a tacit form of “collaboration” with the enemy. Indeed, the only thing regarded as intolerable in the devil’s world is the denial that people have the “liberty” to sin. But the Lord is clear on this point: “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, and who turn darkness into light and light into darkness, to those who turn bitter into sweet and sweet into bitter. Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes, and shrewd in their own sight!” (Isa. 5:20-21). It is the truth that sets people free, but this presupposes the ability to discern how we become enslaved to deception. Therefore we are instructed: “You are to distinguish between the holy and the common, and between the unclean and the clean” (Lev. 10:10). [Hebrew for Christians]

https://hebrew4christians.com/

1.28.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

January 30, 2021

Treasure in Heaven

“Sell that ye have, and give alms; provide yourselves bags which wax not old, a treasure in the heavens that faileth not, where no thief approacheth, neither moth corrupteth.” (Luke 12:33)

The Lord Jesus frequently warned us against trying to accumulate wealth here on Earth. “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth,” He said. Rather, “lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven” (Matthew 6:19-20). In our text above, He even says to sell what we have and give it away. To the rich young ruler, He said: “If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven” (Matthew 19:21).

God’s Word cannot contradict itself, however, so this teaching must also be balanced against a man’s responsibility to “provide...for his own, and specially for those of his own house” (1 Timothy 5:8). Similarly, “the children ought not to lay up for the parents, but the parents for the children” (2 Corinthians 12:14).

We are also encouraged to “give to him that needeth” (Ephesians 4:28) and to sow “bountifully” as “a cheerful giver” (2 Corinthians 9:6-7). Such instructions imply that by faithful labor in the vocations God has given us, we shall have the wherewithal to do such things. Ananias and Sapphira were punished not for retaining part of their possessions for their own needs, but rather because they lied about it (Acts 5:1-10). Our giving should be done “with simplicity”—that is, with “singleness” of heart (Romans 12:8).

All we have is of the Lord and should be used in ways that honor Him, in accord with His Word and His providential leading. We should provide judiciously for the needs of those dependent on us, but our own personal needs and wants should be kept minimal so that more can be used in His service and to meet the needs of others. HMM

[iamwhelmed]

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Chapter 10

I’m not sure I’ll have enough time to update the rest of this week. If I do, you guys will be the first to know... because I’ll have updated it...

Also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net!

Summary: When monsters start to invade Mayview, the morality of the connection between a medium and their spirit comes into question. Is killing a spirit any different from taking the life of another human? Relationships between club members become strained, and if Max thought the club was coming apart before, it certainly is now.

He closed his locker and zipped up his bag, just like he did every day. When he walked down the crowded hall with shoulders brushing and bumping into his every other moment, and when he took the first steps down the stairs that lead to the first floor, it all felt normal. Like every day after school, he was taking his usual route with the usual weight of his textbooks, and it was all so very usual.

But Isaac’s body was tingling, shivering, twitching with anxiety. Every person he passed seemed to be watching him, judging him, and guilt was slowly clawing across his strangled chest, twisting his stomach into such a tight knot that he nearly keeled over. He never wanted to hurt them, or anybody, anybody but the club. He told himself it was fair; they’d been killing him slowly for two years, twisting and digging an already-wedged knife even deeper into him when all he wanted was to make it all up to them. He’d tried. After Dimitri left the club, he’d tried. After Spender started keeping secrets, he tried. Then Isabel stopped talking, and Ed stopped talking, and week after week his patience seemed to snuff out, little by little. They still made fun of him, and he still remembered realizing, by chance, that maybe it’d never been friendly, that maybe they made fun of him because they didn’t care about him, not because they were bonding or something, in hindsight, stupid as that. He got weaker, and weaker, and he got hopeless, and pathetic, leaching onto something that would never be.

Then Max happened.

Max took the knife out of his chest, and just as he thought it was gone for good, Max dug it right into his heart.

He didn’t care; he never did. Just like the rest of them. Isaac wasn’t even important enough to be hated, wasn’t worth the thought and energy. They had other things to worry about, things they wouldn’t tell him because he didn’t matter and he was nothing but the team mascot they’d abuse each and every day, toying with his emotions the way masters lined up their puppets. So he hated them for all they were worth, hated himself, too. It disgusted him that they had so much tug at his strings, that they could burn each thread down without so much as a glance and not even watch his ashes hit the ground. He knew they’d never forgive him, let alone like him-- and he didn’t even want that anymore. He just wanted them to care.

And if he had to make them hate him as much as he hated them to get there, he’d do that.

She’d been tossed and kicked and bent, and there wasn’t any sign she’d get better. She was sure her grandfather saw it-- sure her opponent saw it. Isabel winced and got on her knees, pressing the palms of her hands against the wet grass. Her legs were bruised from just above the calves and down, though she was sure a spectral shot had hit her right in the thigh-- and her side-- earlier. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. This wasn’t a student that had ever given her trouble before. When her grandfather called him up to the field, she’d been sure he wanted her to teach the slacker a few things, but it looked like the tables had turned. It was either the loser had finally started brushing up on his punches, or…

She turned her head over her shoulder, eyes searching the sidelines. Master Guerra sat at his typical spot, arms crossed, looking gruff as ever-- she wasn’t doing well, she knew that. Other students sat around with water bottles in their hands and towels around their necks, wiping beads of sweat from their red foreheads. Others met her eyes when they landed on them. Ed sat among the crowd with hardly a drop of sweat at his brow, and he was also watching her.

Usually he’d be cheering her on so obnoxiously loud that her grandpa would have to shut him up.

He just sat there, watching her. No expression. No glee, no disinterest, nothing.

Isabel reached up and wiped the wetness from the corner of her lip, twisting back around just as the student came closer with one extended hand. Was he going to help her up? Punt her in the stomach with his aura? “Bad move, buddy.” She curled her fist and threw it right into the side of his face, sending him into the ground, rolling a few inches away. She took the opportunity to kneel on one leg, baring her teeth. The student gasped and pushed their body off the ground and she dove forward, pulling back her other fist before throwing it forward. The other student dodged it, and they began dancing back and forth like that-- Isabel throwing punches, the student just narrowly dodging them.

“You are not concentrated, Isabel. You will focus.”

“I’m trying!”

She took another glance at Ed, who seemed just as withdrawn as he had before. He’d just taken to wiping his mouth with a towel hanging from another student’s shoulders. It took only that moment for the other student to dig their heel into the ground, raising both arms tight to each other to block the next hit Isabel went for. She blinked, and he reached around to grab her extended arm by the elbow, twisting the skin enough to feel like it was burning. She yelped, and they docked their heel in the ground with a small hole, twisting their body around so that she followed.

They went around and around in circles, spinning so furiously and so quickly that Isabel’s breath didn’t just leave her-- her footing did, too. She was weightless, couldn’t even manage a scream, though she was trying. Her legs swung through the air as the other student twisted them both around. Then he started to let her go. Isabel choked on nothing and tried to press her hand against the force of the wind, inching closer and closer to his arm where she could latch on. It felt like the whole world was pressing against her, so thick and invisible she couldn’t fight against the currents.

Slowly, though she was squinting through dry eyes, her fingertips brushed against his wrist  where he held her. He grunted and let her slip through his fingers, releasing her to the mercy of the wind. It felt, then, like the wind was knocked right out of her, equal to any punch she’d ever received in the gut. She went flying across the yard, too fast to do anything about it, too slow to know anything but the instinctual fear.

Her feet hit the ground first, tips of her toes brushing against dirt and wet grass. Then her body started to fall backwards, and with an outstretched arm, she watched as the world around her ran in circles again. She went tumbling, rolling in a ball until she’d gone as far as the other student could throw her, back hitting the ground before her legs did. Isabel gasped and arched her back, twisting around so that she could sit up on her elbows. Strands of her hair fell into her face, twigs and dirt like dandruff on her head. She coughed and bent her head below her shoulders, clenching her fists.

“You aren’t even trying, Isabel.” Her eye twitched at Master Guerra’s voice. “Why will you not focus? What else is so important?” She pushed herself higher, sitting up on her calves. “Fight again, and this time, concentrate.”

“I can’t!”

Isabel pressed onto both feet, spinning on her heel, speeding as fast as her walk could carry her to the front door of the dojo, one hand to her face, the other balled in a fist at her side.

Master Guerra followed her with his eyes, sneering to himself and stroking his beard. “What a distracted child… she will get over that should she be a prodigy.”

Ed’s eyes followed Isabel all the way to the door, brows furrowing. His hands tangled, fingers intermingling.

He wanted to reach out to her; he wanted to grab her hand.

“Concentrate?” Isabel slammed the door to her room hard enough that the walls shook around her. “How am I supposed to concentrate when he’s leaving me here?” One hand reached out and gripped the lamp at her beside. Her fingers clenched around it, and she tossed it as far and as hard as she could into the wall. It shattered on impact. “First Eightfold,” Isabel kicked a stack of textbooks, both schoolwork and spectral work. Papers went flying through the air, falling around her like slow, soft confetti. She sneered at it all. “Now Ed, it’s all my fault, and I’m supposed to concentrate!” She was supposed to remind him that she’s cool-- that he thinks she’s cool-- and what did she do? Fecked it all up! “What am I even doing? Nothing! Showing off isn’t gonna make him stay, Isabel, you idiot! He’s your friend, not some sparkle-eyed groupie! Ugh! How dumb can I even be?” There had to be a way to get him to change his mind, something that would remind him that she was his best friend, that she needed him-- darn it, she couldn’t lose him, too! Not so soon after Eightfold! She’d let one friend down already, lost them because she made a choice-- not the wrong choice, but not a great one-- and the same stupid thing was about to chase Ed away too, and it was all just her fault! How was she supposed to fix it? Could she even?

Isabel huffed, breaths in and out as she stood in her destroyed bedroom. Whatever books she’d had laid around were all over, had even knocked over some posters that’d been hanging on the wall. Her bedsheets were thrown to the other side of the room, pillows and their feathers falling in the air, gracing her head on the way down, blowing away as she exhaled. Her fists unclenched, and she frowned.

No, she would fix it-- she had to.

His dad had been fiddling with his tie for the last twenty minutes, but he insisted he do it himself, so Max let him. The old guy was smiling from ear to ear, nose wrinkling in sheer anticipation of what was to come on his Tuesday night. After all, third date? His dad might be getting home late that night… the thought made him sick, but Max put on a fake grin anyway. His dad could never tell the difference. He loved his kids and all, yeah, but the guy was practically a dumb teenager in an adult’s body; reading people wasn’t something he was exactly high in skill on, even in regards to his own kids. He could always tell with Mom though…

“Finally! Got it! How do I look, Max?”

He blinked back to life, eyeing his father in the suit he’d worn all of three times-- his sister’s wedding, Easter, and then one embarrassing time to a casual neighborhood cookout-- and finding, with mild contempt, that he actually looked pretty good. Max nodded and forced his smile to be wider, like that made it look more genuine or something. He knew it didn’t, but he also knew his dad wouldn’t notice. “You look great, Dad!”

“Even the tie?”

“Even the tie.”

His dad laughed, and the smile he’d had twitched downwards for the smallest of moments as he reached up to tug at it around his throat, lightly tugging when the knot sat. “I haven’t tied one in years, I suppose. Your mother always helped me with it…” The room fell silent with the drop of Max’s mood, sullen and somber, reminiscent of a time years passed. His dad winced and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I like to think she’s cheering for me, wherever she is.”

Max stayed quiet.

Moments passed in hours, or they felt like hours, honestly Max couldn’t much tell anymore. Time had become a bit of the odd concept when he focused on it too long. Five years seemed like five years sometimes, the times where he wasn’t actually really thinking about it, the times where the date crossed his mind but he’d be busy doing something else, like fighting Grudges or struggling to remember who signed the Declaration of Independence. Then other times, times like these, five years seemed like five minutes ago. Five minutes was too soon, he felt, to be talking about another woman, too soon for it to feel like moving on and not “cheating”. He pushed the guilt in his chest down, though it came at him from two sides-- the part of him that knew he should support his dad, and the irrational part of him that felt like a traitor, pushing his dad into a stranger’s arms because she apparently “had blue hair” and “smiled like the ocean”. Yeah? Well his mom had caramel eyes and a voice like the warmest bells in spring, with cinnamon and fire and chestnut.

“Anyway,” his dad started for the stairs, waving to Max on his way over “I’ll text you when I’m on my way home! It’s a school night, so I promise it won’t be too late.”

“Yeah, yeah…” He might have sounded more flippant than he’d planned, so he covered it up with a low chuckle and waved back. “Have a- a good time!”

His dad smiled again, and giggled like a child before sliding down the staircase railing.

Wednesday

“You can’t run this story, Suzy.”

“And? Who says I can’t?”

Dimitri growled through his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. Suzy watched him the way he figured she would when Isaac told her-- if Isaac told her. She took a step back when he took a step forward, and kept her eyes on him even when Collin was saying something.

Collin, who wasn’t much better, standing on the very opposite side of the room from the two of them, hands in his pockets, legs twisted to run whenever the situation might call. But Dimitri would never hurt them, and it bugged him more than he would have liked to logically admit that they seemed scared of him. Seemed? No, they were. Horrified. “Please, Suzy, listen to me here. If you release that story, there’s a lot that’s gonna happen and none of it’s gonna be good.”

“Except that people will finally know the truth.”

“You’ve gotta trust me here!”

Suzy practically spit at him. “Oh yeah? Like you trusted me?”

Dimitri blinked, lips parting to say words he couldn’t even fit together. She watched him, unmoving, hands clutching the folders and pictures to her chest; the editor in him, the part of him that didn’t exist until Suzy took him into the journalism club, until she got her hands on him and changed him because that’s honestly what Suzy did best-- he wanted to tell her that she’d crease the pages; it would all be harder to scan. He shook the thought and fixed her with a glare, taking a step forward. “Suzy-!” He reached one hand toward her, aiming to set it at her shoulder, maybe set her terrified self at ease.

But another hand gripped his wrist and tugged it to the side, and when Dimitri looked, he found Collin standing there, an unreadably cool look on his face for somebody who knew Dimitri could slice him in half. His lips thinned, and he forced himself to not pull out of his hold. He turned his attention back to Suzy, who’d been glancing at Collin with startled eyes when he started again. “Suzy, you have to trust me. You have no idea what you’re doing!”

“Bite me, broski. You’ve been one of them from the beginning, haven’t you?”

“What?”

“A spe- specter…” Suzy hummed and bit her lips. “Whatever you guys are called! You’re one of them, and you knew I was on the Activity Club’s trail, so you joined the Journalism Club to throw me off!” Her voice cracked, and he could see her eyes turning red behind the fire she used as a shield. He went to say something, and she cut him off. “You never wanted to be here! You were-- you were a double agent! You were just trying to protect the people you actually care about!”

“Suzy, I-!”

“Well what about us, huh?” She slapped one hand to her chest. Cheeks brushing red as frustration and betrayal and pain took over, and she spat each word. “Don’t you care about us at all? We were supposed to be a team, you jerk! And all this time you’ve just been hanging around for their sake? Protecting them?”

He could feel Collin’s hold slackening around his wrist, fingers parting slowly until the whole hand fell. “Suzy.” Collin’s voice fell on deaf ears. Dimitri would have tried, but they’d both learned long ago that there was no quelling Suzy. She was fierce in every meaning. When she felt, she felt with the same passion and ambition in which she worked, and right then she must have been feeling perfectly dismal.

“Well, you failed.” When she spoke next, she spoke with finality and clarity, though he could hear the wet salt piling up. “So you can go report back to your little psychic friends and let them know you can join their little cult again, because there’s no reason for you to come around here anymore!”

He hadn’t known heartbreak for a long time, if he’d ever. It was something he only heard about in overly dramatic novels when they read tragedies in English, or soap operas his mom would pop on the TV sometimes with a fresh pint of ice cream. It was a deep, scarring feeling, he’d gathered, something so profoundly painful that it could lead someone to do their worst-- murder, suicide, cheating-- the works. It had the power to start wars and the power to win or lose them. Dimitri wasn’t sure he’d ever really known heartbreak, but he was sure he felt something like it right then.

He gaped like a brainless fish at Suzy, who’d twisted away, rubbing furiously at her eyes. She couldn’t have been serious, right? He turned to look at Collin, who’d been watching Suzy with such empathy he almost thought he was sharing in the bulk of her pain. He looked at Dimitri when he felt his eyes on him, frowning sympathetically compared to the rage that’d been in their fearless leader.

“I think you should go.”

Dimitri looked from Collin to Suzy, back and forth until his mind could completely process that this was really happening. Each second had his heart splitting in two, cracking open and spewing a mouthful of emotions he didn’t think he’d ever find it in himself to feel. Yet there they were, cold, hot, stinging, unconceivable panic and regretful acceptance bursting forth from his chest and rising like acid in his stomach. Something was rising in his throat, but he choked it down because it wasn’t a scream or a speech, or a plan-- it was unfamiliar, and it was taking him over the way no other emotion had taken him before.

He twisted on his heel and sped through the clubroom door, falling into step with the rest of the student body, filtering through the front doors on their way home.

Collin watched after him, clenching and unclenching that hand that’d been wrapped around Dimitri’s wrist. He wasn’t sure what he’d been doing, or even why. He guessed he was done seeing Suzy put herself in danger, not that Dimitri was actually a threat, necessarily; there’d been a chance, but most of him wanted to believe Dimitri was secretive-- not a psychopath. It was odd that his mind had pressed him to step between her and danger that time, as opposed to trying to keep Suzy away from any danger at all. But he’d found himself leaping in front of her; he’d known, somewhere, he hoped, that Dimitri wasn’t going to hurt her, but some part of him wasn’t sure, and that part of him had full control for just that moment.

He turned to look at Suzy, who’d stopped wiping her eyes, though he could still hear her sniffling.

“It was a good idea, not telling him.” Collin stuffed his hands in his pockets, and Suzy stood a little straighter. “He was torn up enough about you publishing it in the school paper. If he knew you were…”

“Yeah.” Her voice still shook. He could hear it even in just that word. He could see the unspoken comment in the air. I think he might’ve really tried to kill me, then.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Well, what are we waiting for? We have two-hundred dozen papers to print.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, scrunching her red nose, brows furrowed, eyes curious. He smiled and shrugged, turning away to gather the printing paper. Suzy blinked and gave her eyes one last good wipe back and forth, her smile growing little by little before she beamed at him from behind her sleeve. “Let’s get to work, then, lazy-bum!”

[seismicmeowmeow-blog]

Blind Life: an adaptation of The Great Gig in the Sky by Pink Floyd

Part 1

My father and his father and the father before him all died cowards. Whether it be curled in the fetal position before a cohort of Germans with shiny rifles and ear to ear grins or in the bathroom of a brothel with a needle stuck up his sleeve, those men were cowards. They abandoned women and children and dogs and cats and even little, innocent fish. We were just waves washing against their lives, receding into the ocean to never be seen again. The sand would mold and stay, but after enough washing each castle, each unique empire, would fall tragically before the power of the waves. An entire feudal system, concocted by geniuses broken down and recycled to fish litter.

I’ve been a magnificently defiant sand castle.

I was born on a Tuesday. If you asked my mother or father or neighbor or doctor what kind of Tuesday it was they would all recall it was a spectacularly uneventful Tuesday. I was one of eight in four years. Each one the heir to a disparate throne. Except Milo and Winslet, they were twins.

Mind you, my mother was no prostitute, just a splendid fool, hoping that each truck driver and vacuum cleaner salesman after the last would be an upstanding, classy fellow, ecstatic for the opportunity to wed and settle down with a wonderful woman like my mother. Supporting the likes of eight children, a microcosm of our lovely mother earth.

You see, before me there was nothing. Tedium molecularly crafted. Besides the click of empty revolvers in my mother’s bathroom, the house was silent. My future brothers and sisters knew not to speak. Not even a word. The man my mother was laying with, my very own pa, was a wildhack. The men before him had beaten her and beaten them and stolen from them and even kidnapped Milo thinking it was his own child, only to return the following evening, defeated, mother never the wiser.

But this man, my father, was especially boring. Not the boring that one may suffer through a math class or at work, or even in the war at times, but a crippling boring, a lull of words that bounce off the ear and echo around the room until the frequencies of it all burst the listener's ear drums and prod them towards insanity. That is not to say he was loud - this man was, in fact, extraordinarily quiet - that was part of his boring charm, wasn’t it.

All of the children - seven of them at the time - gave their hundred and ten percent effort to keep clear of his incessant dreariness. Even the youngest of the bunch, Hector, only four years of age, at the time, knew to shut his yapper the minute this king of apathy walked through the unhinged door. He had been fired from his last job for bringing down office morale and was now working as an energetic UPS driver, full of stories from the day, eager to spew them out in a semiautomatic fire of doldrums.

He was gone by Friday. The three days of whining and shitting and crying that I besieged upon him was enough to send this emperor of drab back to his lock up in Bermackeron, Wyoming. I went head to head with this spineless, humdrum asshole and defeated him effortlessly. For most of my siblings it took them weeks, some even months, one in fact had a father for a year until the little schmuck got pinkeye and ma queried the father to foot the bill. He was gone by sunrise, but a year nonetheless. I was triumphant in a matter of days. My mother never hesitated to remind me of this as I aged, each time bolstering my already bloated self-esteem a little more.

I was special. For an instant there I was really special, wasn’t I.

Out of that treacherous cloud of smoke, out of the ashes, I arose. Grander and more cunning than any man before me. Out of the blindness monotony of everyday life, I came, the savior of a generation, the maker of men.

Why should I be frightened to die.

Part 2

I lost my virginity at age twelve, to no one other than my very own sister, Clarissa. It was not meant to happen that way, that wasn’t how I planned it, it just occurred, simply and unapologetically.

She was fourteen at the time and just as interested in me as I was in her. Mother had never explained to us what sex was, she was too drugged up and busy with the three other pregnancies to deal with the babies she already had. Some of those babies were as old as seventeen, but babies nevertheless. Still stuck in prepubescence, trying, unsuccessfully to tear pieces off the cocoon, hoping that opioids and amphetamines may assist in their escape.

She cried when we did it. I don’t think I did it right. Looking back on it, I am sure that I did not.

Afterwards we sat there for a minute, indecisively. Do I punch her now? Scream at her? Steal her emerald necklace and run away? Do I tell her a story about the interesting conversation I had with Jerry just before heading out to deliver dildos to middle-aged wives?

I decided to tell Milo. He bashed me in the head with a lava lamp.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, you little sister fucking prick.”

He was coked up at the time. Found a little of the dust laying on mother’s nightstand.

I shook my head around, trying fruitlessly to find my eyesight in the muddled room, full of cartoons and porno mags, the battered bits of a cocoon.

I think he was jealous.

Part 3

The second time I had sex was with Oksana. This is the time I tell people about when they ask me regarding my virginity.

“It was exquisite” I tell them “We waited until we knew we loved each other.” I’ll say.

They’ll “awww” and smile and I’ll smile and that’ll be it, just another endearing virginity story in a sea of white noise. I should make a machine that plays people telling their virginity stories, maybe a writer could sit in solitude and just write and write and write with no distractions around her, a painter could decorate his masterpiece, a poet could cry on paper, all because of me with my million dollar idea. But somewhere in that homogenous tune a voice would scream out. I fucked my sister. The painter perks up, stares at the machine, examines it for cracks and bumps, veers out the window, wondering what hooligan, what deviant would utter such words.

You see, I was special.

Oksana was my everything for a minute there, wasn’t she. After all these years of corrosive juice I’ve been pouring into my skull, I still remember her. Not her face - no - that has faded, but her essence, her being, has imprinted itself in the foam of my consciousness. No matter how many acid waves come and go, her castle will not wash away.

Atop that acropolis is a desolate tree, her and I tragically below it. That tree is everything to me. The existence that is humanity. The momentary lapses of reason and divisiveness, the unwavering feeling of loneliness in a sea of bourgeois, that rests upon the words on a tongue on an autumn day in November, leaves falling about the tree. There is a hollowness in her eyes, a fatigue, a yawn. But to me, this is the pinnacle. The reason death brought me fright during the war,  the reason Clarissa cried, the reason I will be drowned out by the screams of a million souls, writhing in their graves, waiting for their time to be alive again.

Out of nowhere emerges life, it ages, it misbehaves, it screams, it lies, it laughs. It lays in bed at night when it is thirteen years old, crying because one day it will be erased. Because there will be a point in time when everything is forgotten about its little, old existence, every memory of a memory - euthanized.

Part 4

All I remember is the screams of my comrades with shrapnel up their urethras.

Who gives a fuck about war, anyways.

Part 5

I wasn’t special.

I fucked and abandoned as many pregnant women as my own father and his father and the father before him.

I was just as cowardly and tripped out as all those lousy schmucks. I used the war as an excuse for all my dickery, for all my addictions and habits and dependencies and what have you. But so did they, didn’t they. It’s a generational rhythm, I guess, send off the coked up young broots to kill some commies in the war and have them return just as adolescent as they were sent, with blood on their hands and rape and murder in their hearts, grabbing at whatever potential victims they can.

I was no different.

In the end it all evened out. I killed as many men as I made. I was the maker and destroyer of man.

I was god, wasn’t I.

Part 6

I died on a Thursday, a spectacularly uneventful Thursday if you asked my mortician, or my sons or my daughters. I was the 14th strike of the clock in a science museum, measuring each of the world’s deaths, second after second. I was that one, right there. Reduced to nothing more than a statistic.

It was a brutishly slow death.

I needed the medicine. I needed the drugs. I needed to see that time was malleable, that one instance I would be in the operating room and the next I’d be killing commies in the war.

Part 7

I have returned from the dead to claim my spirit, I believe I left it here, somewhere around this room, with all the cartoons and porno mags. It only exists in a picture frame now. A single picture. It sits on my great grand daughters bedside table. Gets boxed up in a hurry, moves from house to house, from nightstand to nightstand until one day. When a Klan member burns her house down. My only granddaughter.

All of those god forsaken children churned out like frozen yogurt on a summer day, only to perish one after the other, fruitless, little savages. My sperm could have kept children in Africa from starving, but instead it was wasted on those egregious imbeciles.

Didn’t I deserve more than one grandchild. More than one memory of a memory of a man.

The photo was of that Autumn day, under the tree, atop the hill, on that beach, beneath those acid waves of mine. That was the day I got drafted for the war. That was the day, I believe, I began dying. My death was an insignificant day for me, now that I think of it, no more special or mundane than any other. Just a day like all days, a day for the ages.

It was that spring evening with my grand daughter, with the yellow house with maroon window panes, with the klansmen. That was the day I ceased to exist. And within the monotony and peculiarity of that day was my photo, Oksana and I, Clarissa and I, our love.

I never said I was frightened of dying.

I mean, I was god, wasn’t I?

By Paul Miller-Schmidt