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thebigoblin · 1 year ago

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as the sun rises

i've been working on this on & off for a couple weeks, and it's now complete! posting this here first, and will post it on ao3 this week!

He's just about to kiss Derek when he's pulled out of his sleep, his traitorous phone vibrating on his nightstand with a text message.

Who could be texting him? It's too early for socializing, and his brain is tired! But since he's not just a college student but also a human who runs with a wolf pack and is liable to delay rescue missions if he's not on his feet all the time — he's literally one-half of a two people operation in this pack who hold strategic braincells — he groans and opens his eyes.

His room is dark, but the curtains are blowing against a soft breeze, and slants of sunlight fall into place across his room. It's morning, then. Too early to really call it morning, but morning nonetheless.

Who would even text him right now? His pack cannot get in trouble this early in the day, can they?

Actually, they can, and they have in the past — he grabs his phone and opens it up to the text messages.

It's a message from Derek.

That says just one thing: Morning.

Stiles blinks at it. Tries to figure out if it is a secret code message or something. Scrolls back up further in their text thread, realizes Derek had an early night yesterday so of course he'd be awake early today, at 6 in the morning, and like all the mornings this past week he's sent Stiles a message.

Morning.

Normally, he does it at reasonable hours, like 8. Which is Derek's usual wake-up time, given his usually scheduled afternoon shifts at the BHPD. Like it's the very first thing he does, eyes still blurry from sleep.

It's a sweet, delusional thought borne of Stiles' own desperate greed for Derek's attention, and it chokes him as much as it pleases him.

And there goes his sleep, running away like a headless chicken, at his predicament of being in love with someone he can not have.

Derek Hale is a legend from the myths, a werewolf amongst humans; he's honor and pride intertwined with a gut of trust he's sharpened over the years, the mistakes of his youth lending him a jaded perspective on his once easily-given faith. He is a man turned ashen with tragedy, turned once again into technicolor as years have climbed up.

Stiles was there, at the intolerable stage of it. When Derek was barely a man, a kid alone in the world, hurting and grieving, persistently angry, and with no vision. And he's been there since, once a spectator turned into pages in Derek's book. He's seen him become the man he is now, their relationship blooming under the throes of violence, of almost-dead-but-not-yet celebrations, of the pack letting Derek down and Derek learning to be better for it, instead of sulking and lashing out.

He has watched Derek become who he is now, and he has fallen in love with a man who is one of the strongest people he knows, and it's devastating because why would someone like that love Stiles? There's so much that Derek deserves, so much of which Stiles can not give. He deserves all the good things, and Stiles isn't something like that, is he?

The morning goes on like this: him in the bed, under the covers, the wind blowing inside his room a gentle contrast to his harsh thoughts. He is a year into college now, he's dated a few guys and girls, felt attraction but no connection to them before he realized what's wrong with him — he couldn't connect with anyone because he's already given his heart away, and he knows this is it for him. He's gone and done for, the kind of once-in-a-lifetime love they try to sell in movies and shows and books his claim now, except for the part where he gets the guy and the life of his dreams.

Maybe, just maybe, in a couple of years, he would have moved on. But today, all he can hear in his room is the sound of his heart breaking, his breath hitching, all because of a simple text and his sadist brain.

He hurts in a way he never has. He knows grief — he's lost his mom and that hurt, too, and still does. There's a piece missing in him, a part of him forever buried with his mom, and he's learned to live without it. And this hurts too, the clarity of never having Derek, in a way that is different but somehow similar. He's grieving for something he never had, a future he dreams of but knows can never be his reality.

He allows himself to fall apart today.

It's the Christmas break, the weather outside slowly getting more chilly than it was when he woke up. He burrows under the covers, the wind pecking his skin, his limbs too heavy from exhaustion of having cried his hours away to get up and close the window.

He should have closed the window, really.

He's fully under the covers, tear-streaks dried on his cheeks, sticky and a tangible reminder of his woes. Still, he hears it when there's a sudden thump, of a familiar pair of boots landing on his floorboards, and a decisive click of his window being shut close.

"You'll catch a cold."

Of course he's here. Stiles doesn't want him here, not right now, not when —

"Stiles... are you okay? The room smells like you just cried."

If it was any other day, any other reason, he would have appreciated it. They have a no-bullshit relationship. It's honest and grueling, but ultimately, it works for them. Stiles knows Derek trusts him, and that is more than he ever expected to receive from him, of all people.

But he has Derek's trust, and he knows he can not have more. So, he can not lose this, too.

"G'way," he mumbles, "Please."

Time stretches, his request hanging in the air. Then, the bed near his legs dips down, Derek's warm hand finding Stiles' hand, the one outside the covers, and holding it gently. Derek's fingers wrap around his wrist, and the chill melts away.

"I was worried about you," Derek confesses, voice soft. "It's nearly nine, and you hadn't texted me back, and now you're like this. What's wrong?"

Not even a year ago, Derek would have left long as soon as something like this happened, too raw for conversations like this, too naive to navigate a healthy dialogue between friends.

That's what they are, right?

Stiles pulls his covers down until his face is visible to Derek, something which prompts Derek's hand to move to his face, give a soft caress. He truly is worried, eyebrows furrowed and everything.

"Just a bad morning, I guess," he says, and it's almost the truth.

Except. Except, Derek knows Stiles' truth and lies, and not just by his heartbeat.

"If I can help, whatever it is, I will. Just tell me." He's so earnest too, for fuck's sake.

He's a great friend, truly.

Stiles smiles, small and ironic. "You can, and you can't." Derek gives him a confused look. Stiles shrugs, the best he can while lying down on the bed. "Trust me."

"I do, Stiles. Don't you?"

Stiles is angry now. It comes as a surprise to him — a hot, white flash of anger, zipping through him like lightning.

He sits up on the bed so abruptly everything falls — the covers, his phone, him. Derek stops him from falling on his ass, though, arms around his waist.

Even before he's in no danger of hurting himself he's saying heatedly, "Don't fucking pull that card on me. You know I trust you, so much it's impossible to put into words. If you asked me to drive a dagger in my heart I would, I would trust you to keep me safe. So don't even, Derek Hale!"

"I'd rather take the dagger in my heart, Stiles." Derek's eyes are hard, alpha red creeping into them. "Tell me what's wrong." His jaw works, as if he's finding the right words, and Stiles' anger goes away as fast as it came — he slumps in Derek's arm, his weight on the man beside him. Finally, Derek says, "Is this... If Andrew did something, I'll slash his tires."

He isn't expecting this. The hell?

Andrew was the last person he went on a date with, almost two months ago. It didn't work out between them, it never does between Stiles and people, and this was more of the same. But the thing is, he didn't tell Derek about Andrew. It was their first and last date, and the only one he had told about it was...

Lydia.

Derek continues, oblivious to Stiles' confusion. "Ever since you came back to town you've been distant, and if it's because of something your boyfriend did —"

"Woah, what the fuck?" Stiles' voice rises, this time the heat replaced with a level of perplexed he hasn't felt since ages. "He's not my boyfriend, he's not my anything. We went on one date, like weeks ago. What's Lydia been telling you?"

A warmth blooms inside his chest at Derek being so protective of and vindictive for him, but he forces himself to not be affected by it right now. He can loathe Derek's instincts as an alpha when he's alone again.

Derek, for his part, parts his mouth in surpise. "Have I been stupid this entire time?" he says, more to himself than Stiles. "Then what's wrong with you?"

And now they're back at the problem asking for the problem.

Stiles sighs. "Listen. I'm happy you're such a good friend, but some things just aren't meant to be shared, okay?"

"You tell me everything." Stiles scoffs. "Stiles."

They both look out the window, where birds are flying, free from the complex human emotions. The sun is high in the sky, real morning now beginning.

"Why do you keep texting me anyways?"

Derek's eyebrows are raised when Stiles turns to look at him. They're seated with barely an inch between their bodies, and the turn of his neck has them almost sharing the same breath.

Stiles licks his lips, and he must imagine Derek's eyes tracking the movement.

"I can't ask you what's bothering you, and now I can't text you either?"

"Not what I— the morning texts, I meant. Of course you can text me, but the morning texts are new and I'm just... asking. And why can't you text me good morning? Why is it just a morning?"

Derek stares at him. Stiles knows he's thinking something, debating whether to share whatever is going through his head, or not.

"You don't have a boyfriend?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, Derek. I do not."

Derek takes a deep breath, as if he's bracing himself for something huge, something he has high hopes for, something he can not bear to lose but he has no idea if he gets to keep it.

Stiles suddenly has a feeling, and if that is true, he's going to murder himself just to relive the pain one last time, because if what he's thinking is true, then he's stupid as fuck and he deserves it.

"I text you morning and not a good morning because the mornings aren't good."

"Okay... why aren't they? Good, I mean."

Derek is looking into his eyes, a vulnerability in them that Stiles has seen before, but still it feels like he's seeing it for the first time. Like this is a part of Derek he hasn't seen previously, a part that has been kept hidden purposefully finally brought to light.

Derek moves, and the miniscule distance between them is gone, eaten up by the anticipation building in the room.

Derek's hands come up to caress Stiles' face, thumb rubbing circles at the dried tear-tracks, the motion comforting. He says, "Every morning, I wake up in my bed, alone, and it's such a shitty way to start my day. Every morning is just another day, and all I can think is, the mornings would be good, really good, if you were in my bed with me, too."

Stiles swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat. "You're joking."

"Never, not with us. Not about this."

Stiles' breath hitches. Derek comes closer, rests their forehead together. Stiles closes his eyes against the closeness, the dread that this is a dream.

"You're too important to me for me to make a joke out of this, Stiles."

He's crying again. "But I don't deserve you."

Suddenly, the warmth of Derek is gone.

When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek is pacing, a glower on his face.

"Isaac can't be right, can he?" Stiles makes a confused noise. Derek rounds on him, then decides sitting down on his knees is a better option. Stiles' morning is so confusing, he starts counting Derek's fingers as well as his own when Derek holds both his hands, rests their limbs on Stiles' thighs.

There's twenty fingers. Ten his, ten of Derek's.

"Stiles. Why don't you deserve me?"

He does his best to not cry. "You're... amazing, Derek. I. I'm just me, you know?"

It seems silly to say it. It's one thing to believe it, another to put it into words.

Derek squeezss his hands. "I've loved you for a long time, longer than I have realized it."

"What?"

"And I felt the same. You're you, and I'm just me. You deserve better."

"You are the best thing that can happen to anyone!"

Derek chuckles at Stiles' vehemence, squeezes his hands once again. "Pot's calling the kettle black. I felt the same, you know," he repeats. "That you deserve better. So I never told you. And you started dating others. But then..."

"Isaac. What has he told you?" He doesn't know what he could have told Derek. It's not like Stiles and Isaac are close, but there are things their pack does, like meddle in each other's affairs, that has him realizing how troublesome their pack is.

It's not like Stiles has even a single subtle bone in his body.

Derek smiles. "He told me that he's got a bet going for us to get together before the New Year." Stiles isn't surprised, not really. He smiles back. "Yeah, the pups have a bet going, and Lydia and Isaac seem to be on the same page."

"Jesus. Her too? What did you say?"

"The whole pack is in on it. I was surprised they would do such a thing. They can't force two people together when one of them isn't into the other one." He moves forward, until their foreheads are touching once again, and this time, Stiles takes one of his hands and presses it to Derek's head, cards his fingers through the soft hair.

"Then what happened?" He prompts.

"Isaac laughed in my face when I told him I was disappointed because I didn't think he and others would stoop so low. And then he told me I might be an alpha but that I'm stupid if I haven't been able to figure out that you like me back."

Stiles laughs, rather nervously. "I always worried you'd figure it out and we'd not be close anymore."

"I did figure it out, actually."

"WHAT?" He shouts it in Derek's ear, who winces and pulls back. "Sorry, but why the fuck didn't you say anything?"

Derek stays on his knees, but he inches a bit backwards, creating a safe distance between Stiles' mouth and his ears. "I didn't want to lose you."

"How could you lose me when you liked me and realized that I liked you back? That doesn't even make sense." Derek gives him a look. Stiles rolls his eyes. "See, I didn't say anything because I've always believed you deserve nice things, and I've mutually never believed I'm a nice thing. But if you told me you liked me... I would have been selfish."

Derek's expression turns soft. "You're the best thing to happen to me, even as just friends." Stiles' cheeks heat at the proclamation, and he ducks his head. When he looks back up, Derek is smiling back at him. "I've wanted you to be mine for a long time. And when I say mine, I mean it. For life. Building a future together and all the good and bad that follows. But all I could figure out... at least what I thought I figured out... was that you liked me casually."

Stiles gets up from the end of the bed and pulls Derek up by offering him a hand, which he takes with a full-tilt smile, bunny teeth and all. "No part of me is casual for you. I never believed I could feel like this, but if anything, everything I feel for you is cosmic."

Derek's smile grows until it's a full-on grin, and Stiles feels the width of it, the rush of Derek's blood, the pure joy of their stupidity taking second place to communication in the kiss Derek pulls him into — Derek's arms wrap around his waist, his own around Derek's shoulders, sliding up and down, on his stubble, his cheeks, his hair. The kiss itself is sweet and hot, their mutual joy imprinting itself in the endless journey of time with their noises of appreciation.

They kiss and kiss, tongues touching and lips bitten raw, until the necessity of oxygen forces them apart. As soon as they break apart Derek moves on to his neck, the press of his lips electric, and Stiles is the happiest man on Earth.

Well. Except for Derek, of course.

"Good morning, Derek."

Derek growls and bites down, intent on marking. "The best morning," he agrees, and Stiles can only moan, feel the pain of being claimed, and revel in the moment.

He still has thoughts of being unworthy in the back of his mind, but what he told Derek was true: if Derek wants him, he'll be his. He'll be selfish.

He'll love Derek Hale as long as he breathes.

Once the hickey is painted on Stiles' neck, Derek tips his jaw, their eyes locking onto each other. He says, "I love you so fucking much, baby."

Stiles smiles. Derek seems to be on the same page as him, and it's starting to feel like Stiles will be a part of Derek's book for a long, long time.

Maybe, just maybe, till even the last page of the book.

It truly is a good morning.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fics #sh.writesonmain #inspired by a post i saw on insta

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year ago

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ATF!Series Part Two: Fucked - David Hale x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989@hatersaremymotivators@bennykk@kelpies-shed

ATF Series:

Part One: A Rabbit You Don't Want To Chase - Stahl makes an unwelcome return to David's life.

You and David have plans for the summer. You think about them as you recline naked on a chaise lounge in Simone’s art studio, one arm above your head, your face tilted towards the painters.

You’ve been accepted into San Franisco Art Institute’s Accelerator Program over the summer, which means you’ll be spending eight weeks on campus learning from the best the country has to offer. At the end of the course there’s an event where the artists enrolled get to showcase their work to industry professionals. It’s a way of being discovered, of taking your art to the next level.

David’s going to drive you up there next month. The two of you are going to spend a couple of days sightseeing before the program starts. He’s booked off a few weekends throughout the duration, made reservations at a hotel so you can spend a little time together in the city before you come home.

San Franisco is a dream that you never envisioned for yourself. When your professor had given you the application you didn’t think she was serious. It was a competitive program, it was unlikely you’d get a place even if you did apply so what was the point? It was David that changed your mind.

“You’re so talented.” He had murmured, his lips ghosting across the line of your jaw as you straddled his lap, his fingers untying the knot on your silk robe. “I have every faith in you.”

You’ve never had a man say those words before, they’d been more of an aphrodisiac than you cared to admit.

When the letter had arrived announcing your placement, he had brought home a bottle of champagne and spent the entire night licking the bubbles from your body. You try to distract yourself from that thought because the last thing you want is to get wet in the middle of a session.

When you tune back into your surroundings you find yourself meeting the eyes of the woman across from you. She’s new to the class and the way she looks at you, it’s predatory.

It’s after session that she approaches you. You’re standing in your cotton kimono, sipping from a teacup while she leans against the counter alongside of you. You freeze when she reaches out, her fingertips tucking a loose strand of hair back behind your ear.

“You are very fuckable aren’t you?”

“Sorry honey, you aren’t my type.” You tell her as you pull away, she dogs your steps until you disappear behind the mango wood room divider so that you can dress.

“I know.” She says from the opposite side as you step into your panties and draw them up your thighs. “You have a thing for cop uniforms and leather kuttes.”

You pause for a second before pulling on your sports bra.

“Special Agent Stahl.” You presume.

“Ah David told you about me.” She says, sounding pleased as you tug your jeans up to your hips.

“Only that you like to be called Mommy when you’re sucking dick.” You respond and there’s silence for a moment before she pops her head around the screen.

“You know he was fucking me an hour ago.” She tells you, watching with appreciation as you raise your arms to pull on your shirt. “I’ve still got his come dripping out of me.”

You give her a bored look because you know there isn’t a chance in hell that David stuck his cock back in that beartrap.

“Careful.” You say as you lace up your ankle boots. “Your desperation is showing.”

“I get why he likes you, you know?” She says, leaning back against the desk Simone uses for her admin. “I bet you’re just a firecracker in the bedroom.”

“Is there a reason you’re here or are you just trying to figure out ways to piss off David?” You ask her as you sling your slouch bag over your shoulder.

She shrugs her shoulders.

“It’s an added bonus.” She tells you before crossing her arms over her chest. “I want to talk about someone else we have in common. Jax Teller.”

“Old news.” You say as you search through the contents of your bag for your phone. “If you’re looking information you’re in the wrong place. We fucked for a month almost a year ago.”

“Do you know if he was carrying a gun during that time?” She asks you, picking up a fidget spinner Simone leaves on her desk for Juice to play with.

You see the path that this is taking. Jax is on parole for a weapons charge. If Stahl finds a witness that says he has a gun, they can get a warrant to search the clubhouse. Jax goes back to prison, the Sons do an investigation of their own. You’ll be the first place they look and what comes after that…

You don’t want David caught up in that crossfire.

“No.” You tell her and she sighs, setting the fidget spinner back in its rightful place before meeting your gaze.

“Fine.” She says reaching into her purse and removing a set of handcuffs. “I’m arresting you on conspiracy to commit vandalism.”

You couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d drew back her fist and punched you in the face. She snaps the bracelet on your wrist before turning you around to face the wall.

“A year ago you spraypainted a five foot dick on Jax Teller’s house, causing a crime spree that went on for weeks and cost the town thousands in property damage, anything over $400 dollars makes it federal. The charge comes with up to a year in jail, fines and restitution.” She tells you as she cinches the cuffs so tightly that they bite into your skin, already your fingertips are starting to tingle. “If that doesn’t stick I’m going to call your art school and that shitty little summer program in San Franisco and tell them your affiliated with a known, violent gang so that future you’ve been looking forward to you can kiss that goodbye.”

In that moment your entire world collapses. Everything you’ve worked so hard for, it’s gone in an instant.

“Tell me is Jax Teller really worth all this?” She asks you, her breath ghosting in your ear. There’s a purr in her voice as she presses up against you, she gets off on having all the power, you remember David telling you that when he described how fucked up their whole thing was.

For you this isn’t about Jax, it’s about him. It’s about what happens when the Sons come for you because David, he will fight to his last breath to protect you and you can’t stand the thought of that.

“Fuck you.” You snap and you can practically feel Stahl’s smile against your skin.

“I think you’re the one that’s about to get fucked.”

Love David? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#david hale #david hale x reader #soa #deputy chief hale #sons of anarchy #deputy hale

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infinityyrp · 7 months ago

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Muse List: Teen wolf 🐺

☆Sundina Gloriana Deaton-Villanueva (TW/BTVS/shadowhunters OC)

☆Mieczyslaw 'Stiles' Stilinski

☆Isaac Lahey

☆Kira Yukimura

☆Malia Hale

☆Vernon Boyd

☆Romeo Bennett (TW/TVD OC)

RULES and what I'm looking for:

☆Always looking for partners.☆

•25+ MDNI.

•All Muses 21+, mature and dark themes will be present. Looking for MXF or FxF Roleplays, with me in the F role for mxf: I NO LONGER DOUBLE UP! I PREFER THE FEMALE ROLE DUE TO UNFORTUNATE EVENTS OF PARTNERS NOT BEING EQUAL AND TAKING ADVANTAGE OF ME AND MY MALE MUSES.

☆My Muse for my OC is always high: Replies, posts, and starters for her will be rapid fire. Medium-high activity.

♧My Muse for my cannon characters vary: so that means replies, posts, and starters for them will vary. Medium-Low activity.

•Looking for a partner to play as Derek Hale and Scott McCall: I am okay with Genderbent!F Muses for them as well! (If you need ideas for FC's I have a few in mind.) Please actually enjoy it and want to play them as well. It's not fun for anyone if both parties don't enjoy it.

•Looking for Clark Kent from Superman and Lois:

•Looking for a Faith Lehane from BTVS: My main OC has a slayer verse. She was a potential slayer (unfound) and when Willow did the slayer awakening spell, she arose to the occasion.

•Looking for Tasha Williams from The L word: But make it supernatural

•Looking for Angel Reyes from The Mayans: But make it supernatural.

•Looking for Ricky Underwood from SLOTAT: but make it supernatural.

•Looking for Jace Wayland from Shadowhunters: Post series.

•Looking for Zade Meadows from Haunting Adeline:

•Looking for Zeke Landon from manifest: But make it supernatural.

•Looking for someone to make an OC out of Devale Ellis.

•Looking for someone to make an OC out of Taye Diggs.

•Looking for a MALE OC of YOUR choice if the chemistry is there!

Thank you! ♥️

•Looking for all other cannon characters for platonic interactions— potential romance:

•No guarantee on interactions: just because you send a starter to me or reply to one of my open starters, does not mean I will reply to you. I will kindly decline a roleplay if I don't vibe with your style. I will never ignore you though, that's very rude and disrespectful. You will get nothing but kindness from me and I expect the same in return.

•Semi-selective.

•NOT GHOST FRIENDLY: Please be an adult and communicate the issue so we can either change things up or part ways respectfully.

•Mun is 29 almost 30: I am an adult and want to be treated as such. Drama will not be tolerated, if you can't respect me, you will get blocked.

•This blog is for entertainment purposes only: It's purely fiction and is supposed to be fun. I'm not here to fulfill some fantasy that you have, I am married and a mom and write for the storylines. Nothing more.

•No god-modding.

•Respect my limits and triggers and I'll respect yours:

No rape, pedophilia, blood incest, heavy mentions of abuse, heavy mentions of death, extreme gore, and bathroom play. Those are my HARD no's.

•My preferred method of roleplay is on Discord. My UN is: infinityyrp

TUPPERBOX IS A REQUIREMENT.

•I will roleplay here if need be.

•I prefer the female role, with the exception of my side/background male cannon characters.

•I will not accept anything less than a paragraph: Though my motto is always quality over quantity.

•I enjoy text style roleplays from time to time: Especially when things get busy for me/us.

•50\50 smut and story: Fluff will be kept at a minimum. I enjoy drama of all kinds(cheating, love triangles, double life, pregnancies, one night stands.) The list goes on. If that's not your cup of tea, then I'm not the partner for you.

•please be POC friendly: my main OC is a woman of color— Alan Deatons daughter.

•lgbtq+ friendly.

•I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but I do have the right to decline a roleplay, just as you do.

•Communicate effectively.

•Please be consistent: Consistency is key in my book. If I'm waiting days for a reply (without communication), I lose interest. I understand life happens, I have a job m-f, but I also know most of us have our phones on us at all times, and it literally takes 2 minutes to send a message explaining your absence. I WILL leave a server after 7 days of inactivity and no communication. Sorry not sorry.

•Please be willing to talk ooc and be enthusiastic about our stories: I like to make Playlists and plot and talk about our ships and be friends outside of the roleplay.

•Most important, have fun!

•Open starters will be in the comments: DM me about which one you like and I'll tag you in a starter on the TL or we can make a server on discord and go from there!

•You can add me on discord and message me anytime.

•My DMs are open for discussing potential partnership/plots.

•Kink friendly: Will discuss privately

•Taboo friendly: will discuss privately.

Are we besties yet?😉

Send an Emoji when you DM me to let me know you've read and understand my preferences and rules:

Thank you for your time! ❤️

Discord: infinityyrp

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scotianostra · 7 months ago

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On September 28th 1864 Charles Murray,, a poet who wrote in the Doric dialect of Scots, was born at Alford, Aberdeenshire.

Though easily the best known and most popular Scots poet of the period from 1910 till the 1960s, Charles Murray’s literary output was modest. Though there was nothing amateur in his approach to his poetry, Murray was not a professional literary man and had to compose in the time he could spare from a busy working life first as prospector and mine manager, then as a senior colonial civil servant, in the newly created Union of South Africa.

In 1969, twenty-eight years after Murray’s death, poems which had not appeared in book form during his lifetime were published as The Last Poems, with Preface and Notes by Alexander Keith.

Finally in 1979, Murray’s friend, the novelist Nan Shepherd, edited Hamewith: the complete poems of Charles Murray. These publications were supported by the Charles Murray Memorial Fund.

Gin I Was God

Gin I was God, sittin' up there abeen,

Weariet nae doot noo a' my darg was deen,

Deaved wi' the harps an' hymns oonendin' ringin',

To some clood-edge I'd daunder furth an', feth,

Look ower an' watch hoo things were gaun aneth.

Syne, gin I saw hoo men I'd made mysel'

Had startit in to pooshan, sheet an' fell,

To reive an' rape, an' fairly mak' a hell

O' my braw birlin' Earth, - a hale week's wark -

I'd cast my coat again, rowe up my sark,

An', or they'd time to lench a second ark.

Tak' back my word an' sen' anither spate,

Droon oot the hale hypothec, dicht the sklate,

Own my mistak', an', aince I'd cleared the brod,

Start a'thing ower again, gin I was God.

Meaning of unusual words:

gin=if

darg was deen=day's work was done

deaved=deafened

oonendin'=unending

feth=faith

syne=soon

pooshan, sheet an' fell=poison, shoot and kill

reive=thieve

birlin'=spinning

rowe up my sark=pull up my shirt

lench=launch

dicht the sklate=wipe the slate clean

brod=brood

#scotland #scottish #history #doric #aberdeenshire

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misfitwashere · 5 months ago

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November 27, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

NOV 28

Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday…but not for the reasons we generally remember.

The Pilgrims and the Wampanoags did indeed share a harvest celebration together at Plymouth in fall 1621, but that moment got forgotten almost immediately, overwritten by the long history of the settlers’ attacks on their Indigenous neighbors.

In 1841 a book that reprinted the early diaries and letters from the Plymouth colony recovered the story of that three-day celebration in which ninety Indigenous Americans and the English settlers shared fowl and deer. This story of peace and goodwill among men who by the 1840s were more often enemies than not inspired Sarah Josepha Hale, who edited the popular women’s magazine Godey’s Lady's Book, to think that a national celebration could ease similar tensions building between the slave-holding South and the free North. She lobbied for legislation to establish a day of national thanksgiving.

And then, on April 12, 1861, southern soldiers fired on Fort Sumter, a federal fort in Charleston Harbor, and the meaning of a holiday for giving thanks changed.

Southern leaders wanted to destroy the United States of America and create their own country, based not in the traditional American idea that “all men are created equal,” but rather in its opposite: that some men were better than others and had the right to enslave their neighbors. In the 1850s, convinced that society worked best if a few wealthy men ran it, southern leaders had bent the laws of the United States to their benefit, using it to protect enslavement above all.

In 1860, northerners elected Abraham Lincoln to the presidency to stop rich southern enslavers from taking over the government and using it to cement their own wealth and power. As soon as he was elected, southern leaders pulled their states out of the Union to set up their own country. After the firing on Fort Sumter, Lincoln and the fledgling Republican Party set out to end the slaveholders’ rebellion.

The early years of the war did not go well for the U.S. By the end of 1862, the armies still held, but people on the home front were losing faith. Leaders recognized the need both to acknowledge the suffering and to keep Americans loyal to the cause. In November and December, seventeen state governors declared state thanksgiving holidays.

New York governor Edwin Morgan’s widely reprinted proclamation about the holiday reflected that the previous year “is numbered among the dark periods of history, and its sorrowful records are graven on many hearthstones.” But this was nonetheless a time for giving thanks, he wrote, because “the precious blood shed in the cause of our country will hallow and strengthen our love and our reverence for it and its institutions…. Our Government and institutions placed in jeopardy have brought us to a more just appreciation of their value.”

The next year, Lincoln got ahead of the state proclamations. On July 15 he declared a national day of Thanksgiving, and the relief in his proclamation was almost palpable. After two years of disasters, the Union army was finally winning. Bloody, yes; battered, yes; but winning. At Gettysburg in early July, Union troops had sent Confederates reeling back southward. Then, on July 4, Vicksburg had finally fallen to U. S. Grant’s army. The military tide was turning.

President Lincoln set Thursday, August 6, 1863, for the national day of Thanksgiving. On that day, ministers across the country listed the signal victories of the U.S. Army and Navy in the past year and reassured their congregations that it was only a matter of time until the United States government put down the southern rebellion. Their predictions acknowledged the dead and reinforced the idea that their sacrifice had not been in vain.

In October 1863, President Lincoln declared a second national day of Thanksgiving. In the past year, he declared, the nation had been blessed.

In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, he wrote, Americans had maintained their laws and their institutions and had kept foreign countries from meddling with their nation. They had paid for the war as they went, refusing to permit the destruction to wreck the economy. Instead, as they funded the war, they had also advanced farming, industry, mining, and shipping. Immigrants had poured into the country to replace men lost on the battlefield, and the economy was booming. And Lincoln had recently promised that the government would end slavery once and for all. The country, he predicted, “with a large increase of freedom,” would survive, stronger and more prosperous than ever. The president invited Americans “in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea, and those who are sojourning in foreign lands” to observe the last Thursday of November as a day of Thanksgiving.

In 1863, November’s last Thursday fell on the 26th. On November 19, Lincoln delivered an address at the dedication of a national cemetery at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. He reached back to the Declaration of Independence for the principles on which he called for Americans to rebuild the severed nation:

”Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

Lincoln urged the crowd to take up the torch those who fought at Gettysburg had laid down. He called for them to “highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

The following year, Lincoln proclaimed another day of Thanksgiving, this time congratulating Americans that God had favored them not only with immigration but also with the emancipation of formerly enslaved people. “Moreover,” Lincoln wrote, “He has been pleased to animate and inspire our minds and hearts with fortitude, courage, and resolution sufficient for the great trial of civil war into which we have been brought by our adherence as a nation to the cause of freedom and humanity, and to afford to us reasonable hopes of an ultimate and happy deliverance from all our dangers and afflictions.”

In 1861, Americans went to war to keep a cabal from taking control of the government and turning it into an oligarchy. The fight against that rebellion seemed at first to be too much for the nation to survive. But Americans rallied and threw their hearts into the cause on the battlefields even as they continued to work on the home front for a government that defended democracy and equality before the law.

And in 1865, at least, they won.

Happy Thanksgiving.

#heather cox richardson #letters from an american

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 1 year ago

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Thanksgiving History

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

November 23, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday…but not for the reasons we generally remember.

In 1841 a book that reprinted the early diaries and letters from the Plymouth colony recovered the story of that three-day celebration in which ninety Indigenous Americans and the English settlers shared fowl and deer. This story of peace and goodwill among men who by the 1840s were more often enemies than not inspired Sarah Josepha Hale, who edited the popular women’s magazine Godey’s Lady’s Book, to think that a national celebration could ease similar tensions building between the slave-holding South and the free North. She lobbied for legislation to establish a day of national thanksgiving.

And then, on April 12, 1861, southern soldiers fired on Fort Sumter, a federal fort in Charleston Harbor, and the meaning of a holiday for giving thanks changed.

In October 1863, President Lincoln declared a second national day of Thanksgiving. In the past year, he declared, the nation had been blessed.

In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, he wrote, Americans had maintained their laws and their institutions and had kept foreign countries from meddling with their nation. They had paid for the war as they went, refusing to permit the destruction to cripple the economy. Instead, as they funded the war, they had also advanced farming, industry, mining, and shipping. Immigrants had poured into the country to replace men lost on the battlefield, and the economy was booming. And Lincoln had recently promised that the government would end slavery once and for all. The country, he predicted, “with a large increase of freedom,” would survive, stronger and more prosperous than ever. The president invited Americans “in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea, and those who are sojourning in foreign lands” to observe the last Thursday of November as a day of Thanksgiving.

”Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

And in 1865, at least, they won.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Thanksgiving history #Heather Cox Richardson #Letters from An American #American History #Civil war #Thanksgiving #Abraham Lincoln

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readingaway · 2 years ago

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Danielle Babbles About Books - Elantris by Brandon Sanderson

What made you want to read this book? - After reading the first couple Mistborn books, I decided that I wanted to actually crawl through the cosmere after years of resistance, and followed a reading order list by someone I follow. So I finished the first Mistborn trilogy and then read this and was blown away.

What elements stood out to you most? - In many ways this is such an atypical plot for high fantasy. Taken all in, it's not that atypical but it is a much, for lack of a better word, quieter plot. Even then it was compelling and made me think and I really enjoyed the characters.

Some other thoughts - So religion and Utah authors... with any author who was or is very religious or came out of a religious background it not only can't be avoided, but ends up woven into anything. (A recent interview with Shannon Hale in the SL Tribune goes into this a bit.) And I'm not talking about subliminal messaging or anything since the main conflict in this book is a religious one. I could probably get into a deeper analysis on this book, and I'm sure that there's been an essay submitted at BYU (possibly in one of Branderson's creative writing classes) about this or any of Branderson's books and mormon doctrine. What I see most is how clearly Branderson is interested in religion: what do different groups believe in terms of numbers of gods, types of gods, types of godly powers, purpose of gods, limits of gods, various religious practices and rituals. I don't necessarily like some of the choices he makes ex the gender roles and "safe hand" thing in the Stormlight Archive could be "ah look gender divides are silly so here's a world where they're different from ours" while these gender roles still are almost the same as in real life western culture, only with some extra strictures (the difference in food) and then there's the whole "safe hand" thing again. But that's a different series in the cosmere.

Now on a different thread in the same fabric, the Branderson and religion thing does highlight something in the fantasy genre. It's pretty common for authors creating fantasy worlds to invent some religions for their characters, and I know I've seen it talked about once or twice that these religions are typically half-baked, clearly just Catholicism with maybe some extra gods or different gendered gods and the characters almost never interact with that religion. (*pause to look at GRRM.*) And for all I know this may be how people from some religious denominations actually live their lives. (Protestants? Some protestants? I know a lot of evangelical sects are intense.) You sorta believe in god but it doesn't take up much of your day (Or maybe it has to do with what is dominant in the culture. The religion that the majority are technically a part of is normal and just sort of set dressing and nobody really thinks about it.) And characters who are devoted to their faith or whose faith requires a lot from them, like in real life, in terms of rituals or sacrifices (like dietary restrictions/ codes, daily prayers, a day of worship that doesn't coincide with the majority's day of worship, etc) are portrayed as being strange and limited, or unhappy, or a villain. So in that respect I appreciate this aspect of the cosmere where religion and these supernatural powers play such a huge role.

#elantris #book reviews #my reviews #danielle babbles about books #booklr

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mothereliza · 5 months ago

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Advent - A Day of Hope (Luke 21:25-36)

Today marks the beginning of the Advent season for Christians. Advent means “arrival.” It is a time set aside by the church to reflect on the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. It is also a time for reflection on God’s role in our lives in the past years.

In just a few weeks, we will celebrate the birth and first coming of Jesus with bells and carols. While the world is preparing for this celebration with shopping, galas, and exotic dinners, the scripture readings frantically caution us with another sense of preparation—the scriptures ask us to be diligent in our prayers, to keep watch, and to remain faithful, lest we miss the day of our Lord's second coming for redemption.

In our Old Testament reading reminds us of Jeremiah’s foretelling of the coming of God’s Son, a promise made to Israel and Judah (Jer 33:14-16). That prophecy came to pass, but the people of Israel and Judah missed it because they were not watchful and did not heed the message.

In our gospel reading, Luke gives us an account of yet another prophecy with Jesus’ warning of his second coming. His words express the signs of awe-producing power; “men will faint with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world, and the powers of the heavens will shake.” Like Jesus’ first coming, these warnings were for those seeking hope. In ancient times, seers warned the people through prophecy and tested its fulfillment. Today, we look to the media for warnings of things to come because we know too much. We have known exceedingly too much about ourselves, our universe, and life, and once we tasted life, we became chronically addicted to the impulse of self-preservation. We tend to hold on to what we know – things that may not necessarily be best for us, and it gets harder and harder until our lifestyle becomes habit-forming as cocaine. So, how are we then to escape the warnings of the scriptures?

Jesus tells us what to be watchful for and how to stay prepared. “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves.” (Lk 21: 25). These are fearful words of agony and destruction, and it is tough not to be afraid of such a disaster. But Jesus also gives the escape route. “Be on guard,” he says, “so that your hearts are not occupied with too much feasting and drinking with the worries of this life, or that Day may suddenly catch you.” (v. 34 Good News Translation). The Bible contains many analogies, given in their context, that are appropriate to the people's experiences, and we must be careful when taking one prophetic voice and leaving the others. We must heed to understanding the scriptures.

Some of you may remember the story of the Heaven’s Gate cult back at the end of the 1990s when the world watched in horror as the bodies of members of this cult were discovered; we couldn’t help but wonder what the world was coming to. Their belief in the apocalypse of the Book of Revelation 11 was the start, which they added on with other scriptures, etc., as the cult developed. The cult members had seen the Hale Bopp comet as a sign of the end times, and they happily looked forward to a better world. Today, when we think of the grim reality of people who leaped too soon at the wrong idea of a new world and a new life and their attention to signs and misinterpretation of scriptures, we are reminded of the deep sadness in the pit of our stomachs.

The Heaven’s Gate incident and many similar stories are teachable moments to remind us that not all world intelligence comes from God. Most importantly, not all signs of scriptural interpretation are from God, however brilliant it may sound. And though things may look frightening, Jesus asks that we not let our guards down but stand up, raise our heads, and not let fear overtake us.

We are to look for worries and situations that trouble us as signs of God’s living presence and the dark skies and dark moments as anticipation of God’s eternal redemption. But we need not look too far and too deep - we can look at here and now; we can look in our communities and receive people around us with a new attitude of love and compassion.

Staying alert means holding your head up and eyes open. Study the scriptures; snatch the moments from your busyness; reflect and meditate in silence so you don’t despair. Most importantly, continue praying that you are not trapped in the darkness and that all the noise around you will not deafen you because you need the strength to help you stay awake so you can embrace the Son of Man when he arrives.

Amid this life and the many events that evoke despair, let’s plant the seed of hope in a bright future in which God is made manifest in Jesus.

#episcopal #christianity #mothereliza

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writer-at-the-table · 8 months ago

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Double fan adhesive, with gelli plate prints

#my art #craftblr #bookbinding #book arts #gelli plate #gelliprint #monoprint #book a day with faith hale

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yourreddancer · 5 months ago

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Heather Cox Richardson

November 27, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday…but not for the reasons we generally remember.

And then, on April 12, 1861, southern soldiers fired on Fort Sumter, a federal fort in Charleston Harbor, and the meaning of a holiday for giving thanks changed.

In October 1863, President Lincoln declared a second national day of Thanksgiving. In the past year, he declared, the nation had been blessed.

”Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

And in 1865, at least, they won.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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fusion360 · 2 years ago

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Joseph Smith Wives: Who was Joseph Smith?

Joseph Smith Jr., a name that resonates with millions around the world, is best known as the founder of the Mormon religion, officially known as The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Joseph Smith is also known for other LDS historical topics including but not limited to the Book of Mormon, priesthood authority, and polygamy. According to historical records reguarding, Joseph Smith wives had a complex marital history. This aspect of his life is often a topic of discussion and debate within and outside the Mormon community.

Early Life and Spiritual Quest

Born on December 23, 1805, in Sharon, Vermont, his life journey would eventually lead to the establishment of a new religious movement that has left an indelible mark on the religious landscape of the world. Joseph Smith grew up in a time of religious fervor and experimentation in early 19th century America. The Second Great Awakening, a period of religious revivalism, swept across the nation, sparking interest in matters of faith and spirituality. Smith's family was caught up in this wave of religious enthusiasm, and his early life was marked by a search for religious truth.

At the age of 14, Smith claimed to have experienced a vision of God the Father and Jesus Christ, which set the stage for his later religious endeavors. According to his account, he was visited by these divine beings, who instructed him not to join any existing church, as they were all in a state of apostasy. This vision would become a pivotal moment in Smith's life, leading him on a path that would culminate in the establishment of the Mormon religion.

The Restoration of the Gospel

Joseph Smith's visions continued, and he asserted that he was visited by an angel named Moroni, who revealed to him the location of a set of golden plates inscribed with ancient writings. These writings, according to Smith, contained the fullness of the gospel of Jesus Christ as taught to the ancient inhabitants of the American continent. With the guidance of the angel, Smith translated these plates through divine means and published the resulting text as the Book of Mormon.

The Book of Mormon, along with Smith's teachings and revelations, formed the foundation of Mormonism. Smith claimed to have been called by God as a prophet to restore the true gospel and priesthood authority to the earth. He organized the Church of Christ (later renamed The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) in 1830, in Fayette, New York.

Joesph Smith Wives

The topic of Joseph Smith wives are a complex and controversial aspect of his life. He is known to have practiced polygamy, which involved entering into marriages with multiple women. This practice, often referred to as plural marriage, has been a subject of discussion and debate both within and outside the Mormon community. Here is an overview of Joseph Smith's relationships with some of his wives:

1. Emma Hale Smith: Emma Hale was Joseph Smith's first and primary wife. They were married in 1827 and had several children together. Emma's feelings about her husband's practice of polygamy were mixed. She initially opposed it and had difficulty accepting it, leading to strained relationships with some of Joseph Smith wives. Despite the challenges, Emma Hale Smith remained devoted to her husband and played an important role in the early history of the LDS Church.

2. Fanny Alger: Fanny Alger is believed to have been one of Joseph Smith's earliest plural wives. The nature of their relationship is not entirely clear, but historical records suggest that Joseph may have married Fanny before he introduced the concept of plural marriage to the wider Mormon community.

3. Eliza R. Snow: Eliza R. Snow was a prominent figure in early Mormonism and is known to have been sealed to Joseph Smith as a plural wife. She later became one of Brigham Young's wives and played a significant role in the women's organization of the LDS Church.

4. Helen Mar Kimball: Helen Mar Kimball was a young teenager when she was sealed to Joseph Smith. Her marriage to Smith at a young age has generated discussions about the complexities and cultural context of 19th-century marriage practices.

5. Other Plural Wives: Joseph Smith is believed to have entered into marriages with additional women, though the details and circumstances of these relationships vary. Some of these marriages were likely entered into for religious and spiritual reasons, according to LDS theology.

It's important to note that the practice of polygamy during Joseph Smith's time was a sensitive and often private matter, with limited documentation available. Some of the historical records and accounts are fragmentary, and there are differing interpretations and perspectives on the nature of these relationships.

In conclusion, Joseph Smith's life is characterized by his role as a visionary, prophet, and founder of a religious movement that has left an enduring impact on both American religious history and global religious thought. While his life is marked by controversies and complexities, including Joesph Smith wives his contributions continue to shape the lives and beliefs of millions of people around the world.

#joseph smith wives

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libidomechanica · 2 years ago

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But you will green tree a faint in Phaetons hands let me in

If I but his test— thy praise, O! With glee away. Thy here east, which for her too,—with the last in the Grape that mountains. But you will green tree a faint in Phaeton’s hands let me in! And white, who had the Heart; I said t was but we haven

of they will conspire, was bright. Is God, our complete, all I saw a wind where na thy Will’ will claim, and desolate; and thy Court us cry Supper— heed of gold the yews of them, to stocks at me beauties not mine earth’s froward they will

bring at you silently! Such must be heard not need not a Sage out. Perhaps, despite old Sir Will, ’ and hung. Herbs, garlic, cheese, and i’m queen o’ the spray, that I was done—how earth dost plays dead, and then, Turk, or blushing Time again. Not mix’d with

a flower, for their blest he knew wine! To mankindness, only chain round high death; but shall but all abroad lucent of Auld Lang Syne! They will brink that a pure imitate; and lifts and new, whit dissolved pit unflesh; our soules, buried on his

dumbe lips a tree, at leaned a parachute and much but to show us this more cave, lovest to be more thing, drowning. And her sigh, grave, ere I gied it, and growest: if he had the guy of many Knots uncouth, and lessed like a rug—

turning by the prove parents new cells, and like a girls gave you my own into wax dim, drew quiet! Nor Thames’s tribes to tenderness—and were engrave, loved thee on a which them: the good thing, she generations deem high, my Clay Theotormon

brother would be it is she but talk’d leave that a man, what is slip frae me living as soul held, he lean of them loving a grac’d to makes father’s gush disdaining? To uses you wilt thou my face. Then Bowl did seen, takes us to

other; as agreeable them Sir Matthew Hale’s genial genial genitors, guardians, and fill then down! She worship couldst faith the embitterested chanted me and how, so passe his the vestry of his day two Hinkseys and

bite. You to seal forefather Jonson new Invention make my muse, while weakers holiness of mine would not you pat it seen deaf to run. For its quiet constant issue beating away! Tops with his upon the intellects your fury

now the onely ridge of Perfume than saw men’s free, to disease? But sometimes should not see if he speechless young did me to west now the bat, that beak the first, I shall waies to Flight of a far-off sound of Perfumes the aisles of

thine eyes taken unto no displease, with lullaby now rules did she wings done—how does the clay on that have than flour, pity hath and town. And what is spoken, yet I bathe said my ioyes flashed and why her the Character, who in the wretches

him beyond it, and the small lessons can empty glass. To Thee this usual inter’s Lips a not guessed by the Power like Roland die foreclose the sea. Alas, when rising in drouth, and was dews o’ summer she west below me

thered greater its long’d with the River of Dawn’s hardly to the pillow fields each place book! Did I,—to the independed them to thickens no other heart. Tides back one is not see you were though all thinks and we wanted me; my grief

years and fling beach, by the desire of His true as in on a hinge. This not: and, with thee restraight bends of Light it lay carved struggle having today when with rebuff that is, if eagle first as soon marriage then sweeten someone with

fugitive enough here, the sky white, and so we for any beauty. ’ My brave cease, but if I should be won by Sandy O. And how love you pinch a look’dst thou down, clear unto these brink of lust, the son a Walter first lullaby now,

now sucks to speak of horse, my this shines, where soft hangovers sawcinesse fled, the voice of watercresses unknown? And flaunt with Dust! Though hill, but as before sincertainly a happy copulation in sphere, becauses be undo

it country blacken, not love you have has per we have sent, on a hinge. Of pity; or a wonder, may be drawn Sight. Pavement of the level, such also, but in families with gold chafe and make and water’s wrong. Who wearièd with gray linen,

’ said, How good knight in the low. While I to not you sit at once the year my pity; or dropping over shame gives in hell, sick man’s sung in October, thou shoulders, while Pan is golden the new-built back thought and ne’er the porch with Nature’s

couple, wilt not that strangers are lying. Ah, make throne,— and hath a crush on thy bliss, O though their hydes, lessons thought my absolute, should be a piece o’ my key to that the human Death of Am I in you will.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #136 texts #ballad

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puutterings · 2 years ago

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meanwhile, a study of Rocks in Sepia

Yesterday morning I took my first painting-lesson, and lor! it is very funy. Professor Hummel is very much, to look at, like Dr. Hedge; and he has his “Atelier,” as he calls it, all about in two little parlours. When I went in, so found I two ladies puttering away, and a gentleman with his neatly prepared drawing-board painting... The Professor had got me a table and copy all fixed out, and I sate down to copy a study of Rocks in Sepia. Alas, dear Herst! this man’s method is totally different, and so old-fashioned and arrière! To copy every darned line in pencil before the colour!! To Miss Lucretia P. Hale / Frau Biber’s Erfurte-strasse, Tuesday evening, December 3, 1872 100 : link

Meanwhile, Tilton has kept me the whole winter puttering over the decorating book, which is now really going to press at once; he will pay me twenty-five dollars more, which makes a hundred... To Miss Ellen Day Hale / Boston, February 20, 1885 144 : link

...But good old Franklin came every day afterwards, and made the fire mornings, and stayed round, and I called in Oliver, who dined with Franklin and stayed afterwards to help him wash up. ’Twas a sight to see the two old darkies clumsily puttering away with the mops and towels. Oh! those mornings! to wake up in doubt of any help — cold as Greenland — my bath at six, — then down to a cold kitchen, the faithful Franklin appearing just as I gave him up, — then making myself the coffee, sweeping the red room, in a royal clutter, with Phil., his cigarettes, the constant fire, newspapers all scattered round, — set the table, back to kitchen to fry sausages and potatoes and make toast, boil milk, skim the cream, put away the milk, keep neat the refrigerator, fetch Phil.’s waterpail, and cheer him in bed with news from the front... To Miss Lucretia P. Hale / Matunuck, Rhode Island, October 2, 1893 284 : link

Such a delicious drive, and you with me (unawares) through country roads, and every tree just flushed with sheen, the first minute of real spring-time, poplars and willows and oaks and sycamores and maples with hanging things, and ladies stepping out of green fields with great bunches of red flowers, and a river with clear water sparkling over stones, and the earth smelling newly ploughed, and the lawn-cutters making hay smells, and the Golf Club, and caddies caddying and putters puttering and toads toadying and Dukes and Princes and Counts counting, and the Grand Duke of Russia and sa femme in a carriage, and the blue sea sparkling, and the Jardin Publique with music, and little boys drawn in carts, and donkeys with side-saddles, and English women holding up their petticoats to the skin, and fish shining in the fish-markets, and small boats everywhere, and Britannia ruling the waves. Hurry up and come before it is all gone by. To Mrs. William G. Weld / Cannes, March 24, 1897 315 : link

all ex Susan Hale, Letters of. Edited by Caroline P. Atkinson; introduction by Edward E. Hale. (Boston, 1919) LC copy (among others) at hathitrust link

note, and observation

144 this would be Susan Hale, her Self-instructive lessons in painting with oil and water-colors : on silk, satin, velvet and other fabrics : including lustra painting and the use of other mediums (Boston: S. W. Tilton Co., 1885) : link (Getty copy) same, via archive.org : link Introduction : Art and Taste...

a search for “puttering” + “author:hale” was prompted by a Library of America announcement — “Wickedly Smart”: Honoring Nancy Hale at 115 — of the imminent republication of two Hale titles — The Prodigal Women (1942) and Where the Light Falls (a collection of short fiction). Hale, winner of ten O. Henry Awards and a frequent contributor to The New Yorker — I’d never heard of her; but it may have been something about the name...

Nancy Hale (1908-1988) wikipedia : link daughter of Philip Leslie Hale (1865-1931) and Lilian Westcott Hale (1880-1963), both painters — he once engaged with Ethel Reed (1874-1912 *) — and both honored with their repective wikipedia pages : link and link and he (Philip Leslie) the son of Edward Everett Hale (1822-1909), author, historian and Unitarian Minister wikipedia : link

and Susan?

Susan Hale (1833-1910) was author, traveler, artist, and Edward Everett’s sister, keeper of his summer house in Matunuck, Rhode Island. wikipedia : link

I don’t know what to make or do with any of this, but will look further into Nancy Hale, and think about this accomplished-cum-privileged white Boston Brahmin-ean family, and Edward Everett’s erased-by-the-family relationship with Harriet Elizabeth Freeman (1847-1930), a remarkable botanist/geologist/conservationist in her own right wikipedia : link

an overall sense of the Hale family can be gotten from the finding aid to the Hale Family Papers (1797-1988), held at Smith College : SSC-MS-00071 : link

#1919 #Susan Hale #prodigalities

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dianakc · 2 years ago

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Thinking of You. Inspired by Thinking of You by The Colourfield.

This my first attempt at a fanfic so please be kind 🩷

Margaret approached John clutching her fathers copy of Plato. Gathering her courage to speak to him, likely for the last time, her luminous eyes met his and offered him the book. She valiantly tried to contain her composure against the swell of grief and loss she felt at losing her father, her home, her friends, Milton…him.

A gift? For me? She thought of me at this unbearably sad time?

“I shall treasure it. Along with your father’s memory. He was a good friend to me” murmured John, accepting the well loved tome with gratitude.

With his mother, Fanny and Aunt Shaw in conversation, John saw his opportunity to communicate to Margaret what he was unable to speak and stealthily reached into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve a small envelope and pressed it into Margaret’s hand. He couldn’t let her go forever without ensuring that she understood the permanence of his affections, despite the vexing incident at Outwood station and subsequent fallout. Yes, putting his words down on paper was the best plan. This way her rejection would be silent. He just wouldn’t hear from her and he would take comfort that she was not alone. Happy.

He concentrated on the book. He dared not look at her for fear of seeing her indifference but he longed to imprint her every feature into his memory. There was no need, she was already indelibly there. Margaret’s eyes fluttered up questioningly. Taken by surprise at the furtive nature of Mr Thornton passing her the note, she acted on instinct and concealed the letter at once in her skirt pocket.

Within moments final goodbyes were said and Margaret was bustled out of the door and into the awaiting carriage. Aunt Shaw couldn’t wait to be away from this dirty, dismal place and wittered non-stop about Milton’s shortcomings. Snow swirled gently around the mill courtyard as the women settled in their seats with a woollen rug for their knees and the carriage driver readied the horses to set off.

Ignoring Aunt Shaw’s diatribe and unable to resist the attraction of the mysterious letter in her pocket Margaret opened the envelope:

Dear Miss Hale. Margaret.

Please accept my good wishes for your future. I wish only happiness for you and hope that you find comfort with your family in London.

I hope that you never find yourself to feel lonely or friendless in this world and whilst I do not wish to burden you with my unwanted affections I need you to know that I am faithful.

If you should ever think of me, I will be thinking of you.

John

Margaret clutched the note to her chest, eyes wide.

Is it possible? He couldn’t, could he? After all that has happened?

John stood on the steps overlooking the mill courtyard which had been so pivotal on that day of the riots many months ago. The urge to race down and physically stop her from leaving was almost overwhelming. He was unable to tear his eyes away as the carriage lurched forward and slowly advanced towards the mill gates. Heedless of the cold he prepared to watch the carriage that took away his only love until it was out of sight.

His poor broken heart ached, hopelessly yearning for one last sign of affection. “Look back. Look back at me."

The mill gates loomed ahead as Margaret frantically re-read the note in her trembling hands oblivious to the ongoing disparaging prattle from her Aunt.

"If you should ever think of me, I will be thinking of you.” Oh Mr Thornton. John. You are always in my thoughts.

She made the best decision of her life. “Stop the carriage!”

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josjournal · 2 years ago

Text

Bet My Life On It (Full Moon Ficlet #508 - Faith)

Written for @fullmoonficlet

Stiles stood on the porch of the newly rebuilt Hale House. He knew Derek had finished the night before when the Pack group chat had received a text from Derek inviting everyone for a barbecue that weekend. Stiles, being Stiles, didn’t want to wait that long to see the house. He’d texted Derek to ask if he could come over that morning but hadn’t gotten a response.

He had a drink carrier in one hand and a paper bag in the other. Using the hand holding the paper bag, he knocked on the door and waited. After a few minutes, Stiles heard nothing from inside the house. He glanced over his shoulder to see Derek’s SUV and knocked again.

After another couple of minutes, Stiles put the edge of the paper bag in his mouth and used his now free hand to try the handle. The knob turned easily under his hand, and the door swung open. Stiles’ breath caught as he took in the foyer of the house. He’d seen it before as a blacked-out shell and again during construction, but he’d never imagined it would wind up so beautiful.

When Derek had announced that he’d planned to rebuild the house himself, with only the occasional help from contractors, the Pack had laughed at him. Stiles had gone to the library and checked out many construction books. While contractors came, he’d sat at the house because the strangers made Derek edgy. Even as the house came together, the rest of the pack bet on how long until Derek either gave up or the house fell down around them.

“You can’t be here yet,” Derek said, startling Stiles. Derek stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at him, but he wasn’t glaring.

Stiles noticed the way Derek’s hands twitched. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Inspector’s coming,” Derek explained. “The house isn’t officially habitable until it passes inspection.”

“You already sent out the invites for this weekend,” Stiles pointed out.

“Might have been a few steps ahead of myself.”

“Derek,” Stiles said, setting the bag and carrier on the small table to the left of the front door and heading up the stairs. “Everything is going to be fine. The house will pass inspection.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t seen anything except the foyer,” Derek argued, but Stiles saw the corner of his lip curl up slightly.

“I have believed from day one that you could do this,” Stiles said. “My faith in you and your determination never wavered.” A knock sounded on the door, and Derek pressed his lips together. “Now, c’mon, let’s get this house okayed to live in so I can pick out my room.”

The following weekend, Stiles sat next to Derek on the back steps of the house while the Pack ran around, roughhousing and eating. The house had passed inspection with no problems. The inspector had claimed that it was the highest rating he’d ever given in all his years as a housing inspector.

Stiles nudged Derek when Scott approached, looking sheepish and his hands deep in his pockets. When he reached them, Scott pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to Stiles. “You had to have cheated,” Scott muttered as he walked away.

“What’s that?” Derek asked as Stiles counted out the money, taking half and handing it to Derek.

“The pool winnings,” Stiles said. “I was the only one who bet you could do it.”

Derek’s smile was small as the tips of his ears burned pink. “You bet on me?”

Stiles grinned. “I’ll always bet on-” Stiles cut off when Derek leaned forward and pressed his lips to Stiles’. “What was that?”

“You like me,” Derek said, reaching out to tangle his fingers with Stiles and flipping Erica off when she started cheering. Stiles saw money changing hands out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t look away from Derek’s face.

“You don’t know that,” Stiles said but not arguing because Derek wasn’t wrong.

He smiled and kissed Stiles again. “I’d bet my life on it.”

Cross-posted to AO3

#fullmoonficlet #sterek #eternalsterek #sterek ficlet #my writing #bet my life on it

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