#but also that poem is about god not being real but trying to bargain with him anyway

[chickenbyday]

YOOOOOO

[occasionalfics]

the arrangement (1/1)

main masterlist | thor masterlist | ko-fi 

Summary: The past, present, and future collide when communication stops and your mind spins. But what happened? And what can you do to fix it?

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Thor x Writer!Reader

A/N: I’ve basically only made posts on this blog to complain about how I can’t write anymore. This isn’t something I thought was gonna fix that, and I still don’t think it’ll make everything better (there are still at least 4 series I’ve started and never finished over the last year that might never see the light of day), but at least I got it out from start to finish. It’s only lightly edited because I genuinely just want to share it, so please enjoy it for what it is.

It’s also 100% wish fulfillment fantasy because I probably very much need to be cared for and dicked down.

Warnings: Mentions of sex (a lot of them), one scene that starts at the end of sex but isn’t super detailed or anything. Language. 18+ content ahead, read at your own risk.

Words: 7,536

You pretend to be asleep when he leaves in the morning. At first, when you started doing it weeks ago, you were just doing it to see what he was like when you weren’t looking. Just to confirm a few things that you didn’t want to have to go through his security camera feed to see because that would make you feel disgusting.

Every morning, he gets up at the same time (even weekends), showers and dresses, puts his pack together for the day, then sits on your side of the bed and bends to kiss you. It’s sweet. He asked if he could do it months ago, when this whole arrangement started, and you’d said yes thinking he wouldn’t stick with it.

But as far as you can tell, he has. Every. Morning. He makes sure to say goodbye to you, through kisses or words or both, every morning, even when you look and breathe like you’re asleep.

But two weeks ago, things at night have changed that don’t let you rest easy. It’s nothing drastic - nothing that makes you fear for your safety or anything - but...it’s enough.

He’s been coming home later each day. Minutes apart, like you won’t notice. He says less each night. Disengages from you earlier. You haven’t even had sex in a week.

A whole week!

That bothers you because sex is part of the arrangement. Now it s, anyway. You like it that way.

You were a struggling artist trying to pay bills and he was a wealthy Real Estate exec who’d happened upon a piece of yours in a literary journal that’d been mistakenly placed in his office one morning. Two pieces, actually; you’d written a poem and a short story for that edition, just to be able to go the extra mile and show what you were made of.

Thor’s always said he knew he needed to meet you the second he’d put the short story down. He’d contacted the literary magazine and its parent company and, finally, got through to someone with your phone number.

Yeah, it was really weird getting that phone call. Of course you were cautious to meet a man that’d tracked you down over a story, but he seemed genuinely interested in more of your work. It’d attracted you to him from the start, enough that you felt comfortable accepting his offer to meet in a very public cafe during one of their rush hours.

The rest was fate.

--

Dark henley, light jeans, pushed back dirty blond hair and the brightest blue eyes you’d ever seen. Holy shit you thought. That’s the single most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And he was there for you.

The instant his eyes met yours, he recognized you. There was no chance to turn around, no time to even give thought to leaving. The beautiful man waved, smile gleaming as he stood to greet you. You felt pulled in by the atmosphere of him, like if this were to go on for too long, you might actually start rotating around him.

If only you’d known.

The energy between the two of you was electric from the start. He was kind, funny even, and his questions were never too much. He wanted to know what you were working on, was sad when you told him you had a novel in the works but it was too slow going to expect anything soon because work and home were too much for you to juggle them all regularly.

“My day job is kind of a nightmare,” you told him, hoping to wipe some of the disappointment from his beautiful face. “Like, I’m sure it’s actually not that bad, but it leaves me feeling...empty. It’s bad enough that, sometimes, I can't write. But I can’t afford to just leave it, so...writing takes a back seat.”

You knew it was too much to say, and yet, it felt like the weight of a whole planet was lifted off you once it was all out. Until another weight settled - the weight of losing your passion to the everyday grind of life.

“I know this isn’t how writing works,” he said, “but I was wondering if I might be able to commission something. Anything. I don’t have anything in particular I want - just...more of what you do.”

That caused you to pause. You’d never taken a commission before. You’d never even known it was possible for a writer, outside of journalism, really. 

“You want me...to write something...for you?” you asked him.

He nodded. “No stipulations. No word count minimums. Just...take twenty minutes every night and write me something. Here.” He pulled out his wallet and ignored your protests as you tried to dissuade him. He held out bills you didn’t even dare look at, and when you didn’t take them, he reached further and forced them into your hand, curling his fingers around yours.

You both stopped as electricity coursed through you.  His eyes met yours, his face set in the same expression of shock as yours, but then his hand closed tighter around yours, and he managed to get you to keep the bills as he sat back.

“Twenty minutes a night. Just get something out. It doesn’t even have to be good yet, because I know it will be, eventually.”  He winked. “In a week, we’ll meet back here and see what you’ve got. Deal?”

How could you deny him that? All he wanted was...your writing.

--

This morning, after he shuts and locks the front door of his penthouse apartment, you slowly rise. With Thor gone, the place is too quiet. Creepy, almost. And with how distant he’s been every night for the past two weeks, you doubly don’t like being alone.

You think about calling Wanda and having her come over, but you remember that she still has a day job. Natasha and Bucky and Steve and Sam all still have day jobs, too. You’re the only one lucky enough to have met Thor Odinson, to have him care for you like he does.

And god damn it, up until two weeks ago, you were so sure he cared so damn much for you, even beyond your arrangement. He’d moved you into his penthouse after you’d signed the contract your lawyers had drawn up together - just for an ultimate layer of safety for you both. He’d insisted you use his home office as your own because he never used it and preferred to keep his work and home lives separate anyway. He gave you a generous allowance, essentially still paying you for your writing, and got out of it only a handful of simple things you could give him.

First glances at everything you put to paper. Thor’s an excellent editor, even though it’s not his chosen profession. He’s honest and intellectual, funny and dedicated. He loves listening to you read what you’ve written that day - or did, up until two weeks ago - and you both cherish the time you spend going over additions and line edits, suggestions and the like. You think - or thought - it thrills Thor that he gets to be the first person - the only person in the world at the moment - to see your book.

Until two weeks ago, regular sex. Your lawyers were both anxious about adding that into a legally binding contract, so the two of you had agreed on a verbal basis that, yes, sex would be good. On the table, as it were. You’d both laid out your boundaries and talked about what you liked, and you’d thought you were compatible but...something’s changed. And you don’t like it.

Exclusivity. He promised he’d never keep you from your friends and family - and you’d promised the same - but romantically and sexually, the two of you were exclusive. It’s crossed your mind - and then been erased immediately by force - that...maybe he’s been distant because he hasn’t kept up this part of the bargain.

You wonder if this was enough. Or maybe too much? He’s...different now, and you’ve gone over what happened leading up to two weeks ago a million times in your head, but nothing stands out. Not anything that might make him lose interest without, you know, consulting you about it. You’d thought there’d been something in the contracts you’d signed about full disclosure when it came to discontent within the relationship, just so that issues could be dealt with or an amicable breakup could ensue without too much pain and misery in its wake.

Then...what? What’s changed his mind so recently that he barely even talks to you, let alone asks for your writing anymore?

--

The first day you’d lived with him - not including move-in day - was full of rest, disbelief at your situation, and a whole shitton of productive writing. You had an office! An office with a view of Central Fucking Park! Thor’s chair was unquestionably comfortable, and the surround-sound speakers he’d installed provided the perfect immersive sound to get you into your writing headspace.

Around lunchtime, it’d finally hit you that, entirely by circumstance, you were a full time writer. You were one of the lucky ones - like Harper Lee or Stephen King or someone else that didn’t have to work a soul-crushing job that sucked the life out of their eyeballs. You felt unstoppable. And you decided to order food in for lunch as a treat.

When Thor got home, you ran out of the office with a manila folder full of the chapterSSSS you’d written that day. More than one. To completion. Well, unedited, but still - thousands of words on paper in one day? You were too excited to keep it to yourself, even without him asking for you to share.

His smile reached his electric blue eyes. Thor put his bag on the kitchen counter, then swept you up and carted you off to the couch along the entry wall in the office. He kept you snugly in his lap while you read out your work to him - at first a little shy, even blushing at times - but growing in confidence as you went. He interjected with a few notes every few minutes, but mostly, he just listened.

When you reached the end of the final page, his lips gently touched the skin just below your ear. Tentative, you could tell, but cute. It lit your body up with goosebumps, had you putting your folder down to look at him. You breathed the same air for a beat before you asked, in a tinier voice than you’d expected, “What’d you think?”

His smile returned. “I love it,” he said. “I have some thoughts, but I see so much potential. I really believe in it, you know?”

“You do?” you asked.

He nodded. “Of course. You know I think you’re extremely talented. Gifted. I can’t wait for more.”

You let the folder slide off his lap and onto the seat next to him before kissing him. It hadn’t been part of the plan, but wouldn’t you know, it was amazing.

There was just something about someone so openly supporting your work, loving every step of the process with you that set your insides ablaze in the best way possible.

Thor broke the kiss just to say, “Apparently, I can.”

--

He hadn’t asked to read your new chapter the night before, but when you step into the office, you find the folder on the couch instead of the desk, where you’d left it yesterday. There’s a piece of paper, torn from inside a notebook, with a list of thoughts in Thor’s hand. Everything is fair and nonjudgmental, and of course it’s helpful for the next part you know you’re going to write.

Of course it is you think. The irony isn’t lost on you.

Still in your robe and panties - you’d hoped that would’ve been enough to seduce Thor last night and set things back to how they were before...well, yes, two weeks ago - you sit at the desk, open your computer (the one you’ve had since before this whole arrangement) and stare at the blinking cursor.

You want to write. You know what’s coming next for your main character. You have Thor’s list of suggestions - lists, really, as you have a file organizer full of sheets just like the one you found a moment ago on the corner of the desk - and your brain is ready to work, but something stops you.

Your stomach feels knotty. Your chest is heavy, and your eyes won’t focus. Writing is impossible  like this, but you can’t fathom doing anything else.

You get out one word. Another. One more. A sentence.

You freeze again. That sentence sucks. It’s wrong, and it should never exist. Thor would hate it.

Would he? Even if he did, he’d never say it like that...right?

The uncertainty inside you rises, and with it, insecurity. If he can’t even listen to you read anymore, if he can’t tell you to your face what he thinks of what you’ve written...are you even good anymore? Is he avoiding you because, suddenly, he no longer believes in you?

That seems drastic, but you can’t think of anything to counter it.

You sigh because, before  Thor, you never needed validation like this. You know it’s not that you must know if you’re still a good writer, but that you want his approval. You want, specifically, to make him happy with your work again.

Groaning, you know this book will never get finished if Thor doesn’t tell you what he’s thinking. Maybe you didn’t start this project because of him, but you’d written more and more because he’d asked (and paid) you to. You’d gotten through chapter after chapter because he’d encouraged and helped you. 

Because he’d said he believed in you.

--

It was a slow, slow day. You turned off all the clocks and taped over the one on your computer with masking tape so you could focus on the page, but not knowing what the time was didn’t make the words come, and it didn’t make the day go any faster. If anything, it slowed everything down even more.

When Thor came home, he called out for you, but all you did was groan defeatedly in response. You heard him chuckle to himself, and then he was in the office with you, standing just behind the chair you were curled up in, both of you facing the mostly blank page.

“I barely wrote anything today,” you said, covering your  eyes with the palm of your right hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong so don’t ask.”

“But there are words there. Read them,” he said, his command soft but true.

“I don’t wanna,” you mumbled indignantly. “They’re awful, Thor. I hate every single one of those words.”

“It’s only a few paragraphs you have to get through-”

“Ugh! Don’t remind me!” You lower your face to your knees, replacing your hand with the even less comfortable surface of your bent legs. And then you groaned like a baby,  whining because nothing you did all day would ever amount to anything.

Thor shook his head and simultaneously turned your chair to face him while he kneeled so he had to look up at you.

“Hey,” he said softly, poking at your shin. “Y/N, look at me please.”

You couldn’t deny him, but you didn’t have to lift your head completely. Just enough for you to peek down at him suspiciously.

“You wrote something today. That’s more than most people on this planet can say they’ve achieved.”

You scoffed. “Yeah right.”

“I’m being serious. Do you have any idea how in awe of your ability I am? Honestly?” When you didn’t respond at all to that, he reached out and gently rubbed your leg. “Babe, you’re an author. You create worlds and people every single day. Every day for the last few weeks you’ve written thousands of words, and that’s… Fuck, that’s more than impressive. So you had one day where you got out-” He looked at the computer screen, seemed to count, then shrugged. “Four paragraphs? So what?”

“I’m a fraud,” you muttered.

“No, you’re not. You’ve done so much work in so little time, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before today. You’re a wildly effective and competent writer, and you’re going to finish this book. But you’re also going to have slow days. Even the slow days are days you still get work done, though.”

He let you sigh, but nothing else.

“Read them to me. And take tomorrow off. I will, too.”

That got your attention. You sat up a bit, still staring at him incredulously, only for a different reason now.

“Really?”

He nodded, then pushed himself up far enough to kiss you. “Really,” he promised under his breath.

--

No matter how you replay the last three weeks, the last month, the last two months, you can’t figure out what happened. What you did. What caused the change in Thor? Was it your writing, or just...you?

If it were you, thought, you can’t fathom why he still comes in to kiss you goodbye every morning. That hasn’t changed. It’s the only thing that’s stayed the same, in fact.

And it isn’t enough to calm you. It’s nice, routine, but it’s not…

You sigh.

It’s not late night conversations - pre- and post- sex - about art, both yours and otherwise. It’s not reassurances and validation and understanding. It’s just shallow but nice little act he can put on to try and make things seem normal. It’s the least amount of effort he can put into this whole arrangement, and it’s so fucking frustrating to know that.

You decide the computer is useless. Trying to write today is useless. You shut your laptop and push away from the desk, then get up off the chair and head back into the bedroom. You’re on autopilot when you go to  the closet and pull down a suitcase, not even thinking twice before filling it up with haphazard piles of your clothes from the closet and dresser. The thing won’t even close, but you don’t care.

With what’s left of your stuff, you get dressed. You decide Central Park is too pretty to just look at today, so you dress warm and head out, automatically double checking that your keyring is in your purse before getting in the elevator.

The sky is clear, and the air is crisp. You head into the park, taking in the familiar sounds and sights. Couples stroll past you - some more intimate than others - and you feel your heart lurch into your throat.

It’s fine you tell yourself. It’s not like you and Thor ever gave each other labels. You were official on paper, sure, but you were never, like, his girlfriend.

Maybe you should’ve been keeping distance this whole time. Just a little. Just enough so that, when something like this happened, you wouldn’t be so torn up about it.

You head by Wollman Rink and stop. Memories flood your head, and you shut your eyes to keep from tearing up. You can’t help it, since you feel so much on the outside of everything right now.

When you compose yourself, you get closer to the rink. You watch as people - mostly children today - twirl and skate around the rink, and you yearn for something you fear you might not ever  have again.

--

Apparently, Thor had been talking about you with his friends. Tony Stark in particular was excited to meet you, and who ever, in this entire world, got to put that on their resumè?

Stark put together this whole double-date. Well, Tony was the one taking credit, anyway. His finacè, a lovely, gorgeous redhead named Pepper, was the mastermind behind it all. Everyone knew it.

It was especially evident when your group made it to Wollman Rink and Stark put his skates on. Pepper twirled in tight circles around him, but the Billionaire Genius stood with his hands out, knees apart, and a slightly terrified look on his face as he tried to maneuver - not very well - around the ice.

You were a little wobbly at first, but Thor never took his hand from yours. Of course he was rather good at skating - besides writing, what wasn’t Thor good at? - so he mostly just guided you around the rink, keeping you close while also sometimes taking the lead and letting you drag behind him, just for fun.

After a while, he suddenly pulled you in close to him and took you by surprise, kissing you in the middle of the rink. You melted into him as much as you could in the brisk December night, and he caught every bit you gave. Your pink noses barely registered as touching, given how cold they both were, but you knew. It was always like that with Thor.

“Hey!” you both heard Tony yell. “Stop showing off, asshole!”

Pepper immediately chastised him, stating that the children now chortling around him were too young for such language.

A little while later, the group collectively agreed to call it a night on the skating and try to find some hot chocolate somewhere. The penthouse wasn’t far, so worst case scenario, everyone clambered up to your building and you’d make hot cocoas there.

Thor and Pepper offered to return the rented skates, and while you were slipping your boots back on, Tony took a second to get kind of real with you. If you hadn’t spent the whole night watching him and Thor bickering back and forth, you wouldn’t think twice about the serious look he was giving you.

“You really like him, right?” he asked.

You nodded without hesitation. “He’s… He’s so special.” You hadn’t meant to sound dreamy, but that didn’t stop your voice from taking on an airy quality. “I’ve never met anyone like him before.”

“Good, good,” Tony said, though clearly he had more on his mind. “It’s just- I know he likes you. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. He’s been talking about your writing for almost a year nonstop and, I mean-”

“Wait,” you cut in. “A year?”

You’d only met Thor three months ago.

“We didn’t know he was talking about you, at first. He’s just raving about some poems or something. We thought he’d, you know.” He pointed to the side of his head, then let his fingers flutter away as he rolled his eyes. “He just had to find you. But you don’t have a website or anything, not even to display your social media- I’ve got a few friends I could talk to about managing all of that for you, by the way, and-”

You cleared your throat as Thor and Pepper made their way back. They were far enough away still that, when Tony gauged their distance, he had enough time to turn back and quickly tell you, “He’s in it. For you. Be careful with him, okay?”

You didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but you nodded anyway. Of course you’d be careful with Thor. You had a contract and everything. You’d been careful all along.

Something told you that wasn’t what Tony meant, though.

When you made it back to the penthouse for the night, you got into your warmest pajamas and slid into bed. Thor’d forgone a shirt, but he so did most nights. He wrapped you in his arms, warming your still cold skin on contact, and asked, “So what’d you and Tony have to talk about earlier?”

Be careful with him, okay? 

As the question rang in your head, you shook it. “He’s just looking out for you,” you mumbled, yawning through the last word. “He’s a good friend.”

“Sometimes,” Thor joked.

You managed to laugh, then snuggled in tighter. “I’m glad you have him. And me.” Your eyes shut and you stilled against Thor’s warm torso, breathing in his familiar, musky scent.

You swore you heard him mutter something else, but were too close to sleep to know exactly what it was.

--

A child runs past you, and the caretaker excuses herself as she hurries after the kid. You step back from the rink and head further into the park, keeping your arms in tight to fight off the chill. You find a hot chocolate vendor, glad to have something warm to wrap your fingers around for a while.

You stroll through the park hoping something might inspire a spark, but mostly just wanting to distract yourself. There’s an annoying poking thought in your head that, once you go back to the penthouse with your clothes all stuffed into a - completely open - suitcase, everything will unravel. Nothing will ever be the same. It scares you, makes you seek refuge elsewhere, pushes you deeper into the recesses of public spaces. You don’t register your phone pinging once in a while, or if you do, you choose to ignore it.

Eventually, the sun starts to go down, and you know you have to return home soon. Thor will be home soon, too. And even if it’s just to say goodbye…

You can’t finish that thought. It takes you a minute to process, but you realize that it’s not just because of the writing. Like, yes, his support and encouragement has meant everything to you, but it’s...so much more than that.

He believes in you. In everything you do. He’s kind and gentle and he genuinely seems to like you. He’s been generous and fun and wonderful for six months, and you’re not ready to go on without all of that.

Your feet stop moving because your mind is reeling as you think that you don’t want to go on without him...because you love him.

Your mind tries to fight off the emotion that bubbles in you, but your heart won’t let it. You have to feel this as you come to accept it. As you recognize that you don’t want to say goodbye, you can’t let him go because he’s the best part of your life. You love Thor Odinson, and maybe you’ve known it for a while. Or felt it or whatever. The feeling doesn’t read as “new” in your body, in any case. It registers as comfortable, like a huge, warm blanket wrapping you up and keeping you safe and cozy.

I love Thor.

Your mind, ever persistent, reminds you of the last two weeks. The distance. The silent notes, in place of the intimate reading sessions. The morning kisses that seem to have taken the place of steamy makeout sessions and hot, strenuous lovemaking. The gestures that now feel empty, filling you up with hot air instead of weighty reassurance.

God, how could you be so stupid? To think that someone like Thor would love you? Tony had said it all those months ago - Thor loved your writing. He probably just tolerated all the rest. Once he figured that out for himself, he withdrew, which is why he’s been leaving you high and dry and alone for two straight weeks.

Heartbroken and determined, you head back to the penthouse. The sun has set by the time you reach the building, but you ignore your shivering and numb fingers as you board the elevator.

Now you’re angry. Not angry enough to scream or make a scene, but angry enough to force  that suitcase closed and leave. Angry enough not to leave a letter, and apparently petty enough to make Thor beg for an explanation. Maybe you just want to see if he will.

But the moment you reach the door and realize it’s already unlocked, everything fades away. Everything. You’re hollow.

You enter the apartment and pull off your coat, but don’t bother hanging it on the rack beside the door. Your plan is just to put it on again in a few minutes anyway.

Thor comes out of the bedroom looking confused and sad. His brow is knit so tightly you know he has to be in pain. He stares at you, and you see his shoulders shake, but you keep your distance.

“Y/N,” he calls, despair and loneliness creeping into his voice. The mixture does something inside of you, but you try not to notice.

And you fail. You fail because there’s only one other time he’s ever called your name like that.

--

He was off the whole night. You’d gone through your regular motions, excited as ever to read the next chapter to him to hear his thoughts, but as you came to the end of the printed section, he sighed and hummed, but didn’t say anything.

“Thor,” you said gently. “What’s up?”

“Hmm?” He caught your eye for just a moment before gazing across the living room and shaking his head. “Nothing. Just had a long day, I guess.”

He’s had long days before, though. You know from experience that, on long days, he comes home and asks if you want to go out for dinner, then immediately asks to go to bed upon returning home. He promises you can read as much or as little as you want the next day, and you both normally just...go to sleep.

This was different.

You shut your folder, put it on the coffee table in front of you, and turned so you straddled his thighs. You were wearing a dress that day, one with a wide, flowy skirt, so you had plenty of room to get comfortable. You cupped his jaw in both your hands and forced him to look at you, and without words, you communicated that you knew something more than just work was on his mind.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t lie to you.”

“Just tell me what’s wrong, babe.”

He searched your eyes for something. You figured he had to have found it, because he sighed and nodded. “I found out my brother was arrested today. It’s not his first time, either. Our father is insisting I let him learn his lesson in prison, but I can’t just let my brother rot.”

“Oh,” you said, then realized how bland and disinterested it sounded. “Oh, Thor,” you tried again, arms going all the way around his neck. You hugged him close, and he pulled you in even tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

He tried to tell you that it was alright, but clearly it wasn’t. His shaking shoulders told you that much, and his hitched breaths told you more.

You pushed on the back of his head until his forehead touched your shoulder. “Shh, it’s okay,” you whispered to him. “Get it all out, babe. I’m here. I’m with you.”

He didn’t cry. Didn’t sob. Apparently would not dare to get your dress all wet. You would’ve let him if he had, though.

When he calmed down, he kissed your shoulder once. Twice. Trailed his lips up to your neck and around your jaw, leaving a single kiss on your lips as he settled his forehead against yours. “Y/N,” he said, shaky and so unlike Thor you had to convince yourself you hadn’t imagined it. On another shaky breath, he let out a simple but meaningful, “Thank you.”

--

He looks at the bedroom doorway, sucks in a tight breath, and starts, “Were you…” He can’t finish until he’s looking at you again, though. “Were you going to leave?”

Your jaw tightens. And not even out of anger. You hate it when Thor’s like this because it’s not even like he’s being possessive or anything. He’s not trying to control you. He’s asking in this broken voice that snaps your resolve string by string until you’re nothing but frayed edges inside. And you hate it all because it means he’s just as broken as you are.

“I-” you start, but you can’t find the right words to follow it up. Yes feels wrong, and you’re not even sure it’s the truth anymore. Maybe...for just a moment… But how could you leave? How could you ever even think of walking away from all of this? All of him?

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks of silence and separation, two weeks of being in your own little world within the walls he provided and you don’t even know why.

Oh yeah. That’s how you could leave.

“Y/N,” he says again, this time more sure of the emotion in his chest and tone. “Were you packing a bag to leave me?”

You stand your ground, but try not to come off as angry even still. You’re not angry. You’re just...lonely. And alone. On your own team for the first time in six months. “Yes,” you answer.

His breathing gets heavier. You refuse to look away. He seems to calm himself a little bit, but doesn’t sound much better when he asks, “May I ask why?”

How dare he attempt to be polite right now? But, you remind yourself, it’s his nature. He’s always like this, no matter what. He can’t even be angry properly, and that makes everything even worse.

Torn between owing him an explanation and demanding one yourself, you say the only thing you can think to say that might give both of you answers.

“You stopped touching me. Stopped talking to me. You’ve barely looked at me the last two weeks, and I’m tired of being alone. I may as well go back to my shit job and crowded apartment.”

You’re just about to let the emotion, the rage and tears settle in when he pauses. Steps back a little. Just stares at you, like what you just said is preposterous. But then something in his expression clicks, a light flickering behind his eyes, and he seems to know he’s done everything you’ve accused him of.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’ve decided you’re not done, though.

“I thought I did something, Thor. I thought you were just too nice to tell me what it was, so you got quiet and distant in the hopes that I would just...leave.” As you say it, you know how ridiculous it sounds. It’s a thought process better suited to the inside of your brain. But you’re still going. “What else was I supposed to do? You weren’t asking for my new chapters, you were barely even looking at me. And I was just supposed to take the hint? Well, hint taken.”

His eyes fell to the floor in shame. You stepped lightly toward him, stopping with just enough room that your shoulder just barely grazed his arm.

“If I knew what I did, I would’ve fixed it, Thor. I would’ve tried. But I had no clues-”

“You didn’t do anything,” he whispers.

You can’t move then, except watch him sigh and shake his head.

“You’re not the cause of my misbehavior, Y/N. Not directly.”

Not for the first time, you wonder if he really does have another woman. But you know him, and you know him well enough to know he’d never break that promise of exclusivity. You’re not confident in much about your arrangement right now, but that is one thing you know for sure, without any doubts.

Which only leaves you to believe that maybe he wants to break the promise and just won’t out of a sense of duty or something. Like he’s just sticking with it because you won’t let him out of the deal.

None of it makes any sense, and you know it’ll make you sound like a crazy jealous demon if you say it out loud. So you don’t.

And that’s enough encouragement for Thor to look at you again, all of the world’s weight alive and heavy in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. The sound is so familiar, you nearly lean into him for comfort.

--

He stilled inside of you, the both of you suddenly quiet and tense. This...wasn’t supposed to happen. You only met the man a week ago, and today was only the second time you’d seen him in person.

But after he’d read your work from the week before, you’d talked. About everything. You told him way too many embarrassing stories about your childhood and he told you all about the private schools he got expelled from because he’d been a hellion of a young boy. You could still see the spark of mischief in his eyes if you looked hard enough, and you found that, yeah, you really kind of liked it.

You’d asked him to come up to your apartment. It was empty at the moment, since all of your roommates had lives and jobs, too. You’d just wanted to keep talking, but maybe in a place where it didn’t matter how loudly you laughed at his stories or how boisterous he became in response to yours.

He was charming. Gorgeous. So nice. Too nice, really. He paid for refills of coffee, then followed your lead to your apartment.

Things had started in the kitchen, but then you’d gotten hungry, so he ordered in Thai. You’d brought him into the bedroom so you could watch a movie and eat without the forced space a couch might offer. He was warm and easy to feel comfortable around.

When the movie ended, you talked some more. About the movie, about what you were going to write next. Everything.

And then you leaned up on your knees and kissed him. One thing led to another, and then he was fucking you better than you’d been fucked in a long, long time. Maybe ever. He was generous in all things, it seemed.

It was only when you both came down from your highs that you, collectively, seemed to remember that he’d paid you to write for him. Sex seemed complicated and taboo in conjunction, and that thought made you feel hollow, despite only minutes ago feeling like you could lift the world on your back and carry it easily.

Minutes passed and you said nothing. He didn’t say anything, either.

But then he did. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, slow and genuine.

You felt your chest tighten at the thought that he regretted what you’d done together. It made no sense, given how you kind of regretted it, too, but you knew it wasn’t the feeling of it all that you regretted. The act, sure, under the circumstances.

But the success of the trial? Absolutely not.

You shook your head. “No, no, don’t be. It’s okay.”

“Your silence indicates otherwise.”

“Well yours did, too.” You sighed and tried to explain what was going on in your head, and when he finally met your eyes, you knew the truth of the whole matter: You didn’t regret a thing. Not really.

“Like I said, don’t be sorry,” you told him, finally managing a small smile.

It was enough to encourage him to kiss you again, and your stomach erupted in a kaleidoscope of butterflies. If kissing him like this felt so right every time, you never wanted to do anything else.

--

This time, you have no reason to tell him not to be sorry. This isn’t a mistake, and your silence isn’t your own fault.

His electric blues are deep and dark, and they scream at you not to let go. “I’m sorry,” he says again, the last word breaking on the end of a breath. “Please...please don’t leave.”

Your brow furrows, more confused than anything else. “Why not?” you ask, trying your best not to sound mad because, truly, his plea intrigues you more than sparks anger. You were so sure, until that moment, that he’d simply been meaning to find a good way to ask you to leave.

But now… That’s not even a possibility.

He surprises you by bringing a hand out, begging for your touch. On instinct, mostly, you respond, your fingers sliding right into his palm like they were made to fit together perfectly.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

You nod. There are no other answers. You trust Thor, and you know, somewhere inside, that he never really meant to play with your feelings. Whatever he’s trying to show you now will fix everything. You have to believe it, or else you’ll really, truly break.

“Say it.”

“I trust you.”

He relaxes enough that you notice, then pulls you along into the bedroom. He asks you to sit on the edge of the bed, then picks up a long envelope from his nightstand.

“I should’ve been more attentive here, but I was doing my best not to ruin a surprise,” Thor says, handing you the envelope. When all you do is stare up at him, he nods at the package in his hands, and waits patiently.

You take it. Open it. Inside is your contract. Every page. You stare up at him, brows furrowed deeper in confusion. “What?” you ask.

“I’ve been discussing this with both of our lawyers this week. And the week before that, I was trying to figure out what I wanted to say to the lawyers. But...this is big and I was nervous, and I knew I should’ve said something to you, but I-” He stops, clears his throat, and looks away from you. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

You slide the contract back into the envelope, then put it on the bed. “What surprise?” you ask.

“I was going to have the contract terminated.”

The same dread from earlier fills you, until you remember that he wouldn’t have pulled you in  here to explain everything if all he was going to do was kick you out. He wouldn’t ask you to stay, in that case. You try to control your reaction, which ends up meaning that you don’t really react at all, except to ask him, “Why?”

“I want us to be real,” he says plainly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. It’s not too long before he’s lowering himself into a kneeling position in front of you, grasping for your hand again. “I don’t want there to be any obligations. If any legally binding contract is going to exist between us, I want it to be nothing short of a marriage license. The last two weeks have been excruciating, and I know that’s all my own doing, and I’m sorry I put you through that, but please believe me when I say that I love you, Y/N. I love you, and I was trying to do anything I could to end the artifice and make this real.”

“Make...us…” You trail off, mind running at a million light years. Too fast for you to process. Things don’t compute correctly, like when your fingers type faster than your brain can think of words, and all you end up saying is, “You...you love me?”

Thor nods. “I do. I love you so much, and all I wanted was a chance for us to make things work on our own terms, without expectations. Without mutual gains with monetary value.”

You start asking him silly questions, because they’re all you can think to bring up. “So you don’t hate my book? You’re not disgusted by me? You want more of me?”

He confirms with double negatives and a positive. “Of course I want more, Y/N. I’d have to be living under a rock not to.”

“Did you say you wanted to marry me?” you ask him, only just now starting to catch up.

He laughs, nods, and pushes himself up so you’re level. “Without a shadow of a doubt. We already live together. We’ve been together for half a year, and I love you. We don’t have to rush- whenever you’re comfortable, just say the word and-”

But there are no words. Only actions.

You can’t find it inside yourself to hold the last two weeks against him anymore. All that insecurity has washed away with a few simple affirmations - but God Damn are they effective.

You crash your lips against his, arms winding around him as tightly as you can make them go. He pulls you to him, fitting snugly between your knees as he deepens the kiss, rolling his tongue over your lips, asking for an invitation.

A little levity of the night settles back into your brain then, and you gently pull back instead of letting him ravish you. For now. You give him a serious look, but you can’t stop smiling through it.

“Don’t ever go quiet like that again, Thor. I was so scared and alone, I never want to feel that way again.”

He nods. Light from the hallway shines on his face, and you see tear streaks have stained his cheeks. Your thumbs come around and wipe them away, and he smiles so prettily at you that you almost cry, too.

“I promise. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I promise, I’ll always tell you what I’m up to.”

He kisses all over your face, repeating himself between points of contact, swearing to any God who’ll listen that this will work. That he loves you, that he’s sorry, and then-

“I love you too, you know,” you get out. 

And the whole thing starts all over again.

[medea10]

Medea’s Top 10 Saddest Moments in Anime

[lizabethstucker]

Some of the Best from Tor.com 2019 Edition

This was a free collection on Amazon at the time that I stumbled across it while browsing science fiction selections.  While I’ve always liked both Tor and Baen publications, I was amazed by how very much I enjoyed almost every short story and novella in this collection. Such high quality, and some authors that have been added to my TBR list.  4.5 out of 5.

CURRENTLY FREE ON AMAZON AS OF THE DATE OF THIS POSTING!

“Deriving Life” by Elizabeth Bear

Marq Tames is contemplating suicide or becoming a Host, unable to cope with being alone again after their spouse dies.  Tenants bring many benefits, including being pain-free, living a bit longer, making better decisions for themselves.  Unfortunately the Tenants ultimately consume their Hosts.  Unlike most potential Hosts, Marq is healthy.  Wow.  A really detailed look at grief, cancer, loneliness, and the choices we might make for happiness.  Intense.  Could be triggering for some who are themselves dealing with grief.  4.5 out of 5.

“For He Can Creep” by Siobhan Carroll

The Great Jeoffry the Cat helps keep the demons away from the humans in the madhouse.  His favorite is the Poet who is trying to finish the most important Poem for God.  If only his creditors would leave him alone, stop pushing for the satiric content he once wrote.  Then Satan himself comes to speak with Jeoffry.  Satan deems the Poem to be out of favor style-wise, and not very good.  He wishes to have the Poet write him a poem, one that will drive religion out of the minds of the masses.  To do that, he needs to speak with the Poet without Jeoffry’s interference.  It is, as they say, a devil’s bargain.  Jeoffry may, for the first time since kittenhood, lose.  He must consider and consult.  The fact that this is based on a real poem written by Christopher Smart, who was incarcerated in St. Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics, circa 1763, adds an extra layer of interest and curiosity to the story.  Needless to say, I spent the evening researching the poet online.  3.5 out of 5.

“Beyond the El” by John Chu

Connor struggles to recreate his late mother's dumplings, never quite reaching that bit of perfection. He really doesn't need the stress of his cold abusive sister back in his life.  Although maybe he does.  Very low key.  The relationship between Nick and Connor was more interesting to me.  As to the use of magic to prepare foods, was it really necessary?  3 out of 5.

“Zeitgeber” by Greg Egan

Sam is searching for why his daughter Emma's sleep patterns are suddenly and radically off phase.  It isn't long until this issue with sleep cycles begin spreading throughout the world.  At first it was just puzzling and annoying.  Now there are more and more accidents and deaths.  Life moves on, people adjusting as best it can, with cures both fake and possible appearing.  

Truly fantastic tale.  Scary as well, especially considering how we are waiting for a cure for COVID-19 with trepidation and distrust of the very organizations, such as the CDC and FDA, that are supposed to protect us.  Add on top the discussion of just how much conformity society demands of us.  4 out of 5.

“One/Zero” by Kathleen Ann Gorrnan

The war made its way to Vida Zilan's home in Kurdistan, ending with her parents, aunt, and grandmother dead.  Now Vida is on the run with her three year old brother, traveling with other terrified and displaced children.  Mai Davidson has retired in Washington D.C. after years of helping with various issues through the agency she had given her life to, until her husband died and she began to look for something different.  Her life is becoming increasingly regulated as the AIs begin taking control of medicine and senior care and transportation, among other things.  Or are the SIs, the rumored super intelligent computers now moving out into the world?  Be careful what you wish for has always been what is said in regards to those who can grant wishes.  Perhaps with the right teachers, the right guides, the SIs can help fix the world for the children, with the assistance of the children.  If only, if only.  Magnificent look at how Hal might not be the villain of the piece.  After all, he just wanted to save both himself and his astronaut charges.  4.5 out of 5. 

“Skinner Box” by Carole Johnstone

A trip to Jupiter and back, scientists caught up in their personal cycle of pain and hatred, an engineer who brings some comfort and support.  And a Skinner box filled with nanites.  There are layers upon layers upon layers in this intense story of experimentation and conditioning, the cost of freedom and, ultimately, love.  In essence, there are three reveals.  The first was expected almost from the start.  The second was almost suspected after we met Boris.  But it was the third that, for me, saved the story from the coldness.  3.5 out of 5.

“The Song” by Erinn L. Kemper

The world is moving from beef to whale meat, expensive as it is, taking abandoned oil rigs and converting them to whale meat processing centers.  As the ecowarriors grow increasingly violent, killing those involved in killing the whales, the people on SeaRanch 18 are stranded without relief personnel.  One of the last new scientists to arrive is Suzanne who is staying the changes in communication patterns among the whales.  She tells Dan, a deep sea diver and welder, of attacks by the whales, how humpbacks and blues were congregating for the first time ever seen and apparently communicating.  Whales and dolphins are so very intelligent, yet humans think they can do whatever they want to them.  I don’t understand.  Needless to say, I was primed for this story.  I thought I was prepared, even hopeful.  But the ending was beyond tragic.  4 out of 5.

“Articulated Restraint” by Mary Robinette Kowal

(Lady Astronaut 1.5)  After an accident leads to a lunar rocket slammed into a space station and the airlock jammed, the moon’s astronauts must figure out how to rescue them before their air runs out.  First, they’ll need a plan of action and see if the plan can work on their mockup rocket.  They need a way to get them more oxygen and a way to get a life raft to the vehicle.  Complicating procedures is Ruby’s nasty ankle sprain, especially after she needs the foot restraint which requires her to twist her feet to get into position.  Something snaps, but she perseveres, unwilling to let her injury prevent the rescue of her friends.  In some ways this reminds me of old time science fiction, a neat adventure with threads of backstories I want to know more about, such as the Meteor and what’s going on back on Earth.  Luckily I discovered that this is part of a series, so there is a possibility of learning more.  Although I have a few other of Kowal’s works in my TBR pile (freebies back in the day), I hadn’t as yet read any of her works.  Definitely want to read more based on what I found here.  4.5 out of 5. 

“Painless” by Rich Larson

Mars is a child when he is first found by the men who have been searching for someone like him, a genetic mutation who cannot feel pain.  There’s an organism put inside his body, that can make him stronger and able to repair himself, even grow body parts back.  He is trained to be a soldier, a mercenary, a killer.  He yearns for freedom and someone to be his friend and family.  The story jumps a bit from present to past and back again. It took me a while to get into the author’s rhythm, but once I did it was well worth it.  I can see so many countries and organizations who would kill to have someone like Mars under their control.  Good read.  3.5 out of 5.

“Seonag and the Seawolves” by M. Evan MacGriogair

Seonag was considered strange almost from the moment she was born, but she still loved her homeland.  So much so that she hides when her parents make plans to sail to Canada, unable to afford the croft rent.  Once they leave her behind, Seonag goes to the town bard for help and advice.  She is told about the wolves that were driven out of Ireland.  He tells her to swim west until she can hear the wolves.  The advice is cruel, certain suicide.  Knowing all that, Seonag still decides to do so.  An old style story, a myth, a fable, a fairy tale.  A story about those who only want to belong, yet are different enough to be pushed to the sidelines.  Mystical and magical.  4 out of 5.

“Any Way the Wind Blows” by Seanan McGuire

The Cartography Corps explore and map the parallel universes in order to determine if any ever go missing at a future date.  In this Manhattan, they find an intact Flatiron building, but no killer pigeons in this universe, so win-win.  Then a group of locals ask to meet the Captain.  This should be a television series!  I’d watch each and every episode and cackle at the crew’s adventures.  The only thing I was disappointed by was the length.  It was too short.  4.5 out of 5.

“Blue Morphos in the Garden” by Lis Mitchell

Vivian does love Dash and Lily, their daughter, but she continues to refuse to marry him, unable to deal with what his family goes through upon death.  If she officially marries into the family, she will become a Karner in all ways.  When it appears that Viv may be dying, she will need to make a decision sooner than she had hoped.  Stay, but remain a terminal.  Marry and, once she dies, become something else.  Leave, with or without Dash and Lily.  There's a beauty to having one's death transform into something useful or beautiful or both.  Frankly, I don't understand Vivian's concerns about that.  4 out of 5.

“His Footsteps, Through Darkness and Light” by Mimi Mondal

Love comes in many forms, some never spoken out loud.  Binu had found a home and a job with the Majestic Oriental Circus.  He became a trapeze master, soon heading his own team.  He also continued playing Alladin in Shehzad Marid’s illusionist act.  He was happy and content.  Until he helped the wrong person.  There is so much hinted at and more left unsaid.  But it will always be known that Binu was a good man and a loyal friend.  Bittersweet, yet in that time and place, perhaps the happiest ending(?) one could hope for.  4 out of 5.

“Old Media” by Annalee Newitz

John was as free as he had ever been under his latest Master, a lady scientist who provided him franchise papers that granted him full rights within the city before she went into hiding.  Med, a fan of John's journal on Memeland, becomes his friend and roommate.  She is also a robot and professor, as well as the lady scientist's research partner in the project that caused the woman to flee.  John and Med try to navigate the idiosyncrasies of living among humans, both clueless and bigoted.  3.5 out of 5.

“More Real Than Him” by Silvia Park

Morgan Ito is working on her own robot, one that resembles her favorite actor who is currently doing his two years of military service.  This is the first story in the collection that I struggled with.  Frankly, it read like bad fanfiction, and I'm a fanfiction reader and writer.  I didn't like any characters except Stephen, but he was barely in the story.  I finally gave up, not caring what would happen to pretty much anyone.  DNF

“The Hundredth House Had No Walls” by Laurie Penny

The King of the country of Myth and Shadow is incredibly bored after five hundred years on the throne.  He does what any ruler does in his situation, he decides to travel incognito to the imaginary land of New York City.  There he runs into the Princess of Everywhere and Nowhere.  

I had a hard time at first dealing with random phrases, words, and letters made bold.  This was a strange story.  Once I got past the random bolds, I quite liked it.  Feminist overtones with a message about freedom and allowing each individual to write their own story.  3.5 out of 5.

“The Touches” by Brenda Peynado

Life is separated into clean and dirty.  Clean was living virtually, locked into a tiny cubicle from birth, cared for by an assigned robot, and hooked up to an all-encompassing system for hours at a time.  Dirty is the real world, filled with plagues and viruses and what the narrator calls filth.  Things get more complicated as robots glitch, an accident puts the narrator into quarantine, and a phone number leads to something scary.  There's a layer of disconnection due to a lack of physical contact that cannot be fulfilled by robot hugs and virtual touches.  Add to that the narrator's extreme fear of the dirty world.  She actually has counted the number of real physical touches in her life.  Very intense, more so during our current Pandemic and the separation of friends and family.  Also extremely weird.  I don't know what to say about this one, but I suspect it will linger in my memory for quite a while.  3.5 out of 5.

“Knowledgeable Creatures” by Christopher Rowe

Investigative dog Connolly Marsh is hired by human Professor Thomasina Swallow after she kills a coworker who was threatening blackmail.  Things become increasingly screwy.  The body is missing, the learned mouse who is also Sparrow's adopted father believes historical research into the history of knowledgeable creatures and humans shouldn't be forbidden, and Marsh can't make himself leave the case alone.  Huh.  Another strange story with a lot of dangling threads left behind and even more questions.  Yet this isn't a set-up for a longer story or even a series.  It is complete within itself, with a somewhat sad ending for one character.  Intriguing, almost a noir type of story.  Fantasy with just a touch of science fiction.  3 out of 5. 

“Blood is Another Word for Hunger” by Rivers Solomon

Anger boiled in the heart of fifteen year old slave, Sully.  When she heard that her master had been killed during a battle, she drugged all five of his family members, slicing their throats.  Her actions cause a rift in the etherworld, drawing Ziza to her.  Sully is a product of her life, the cruelty of her upbringing.  She may also hark back to a creature from the country of her ancestors.  Sully shouldn’t be a sympathetic character, but she is.  I wanted her to find, if not happiness, at least a form of peach.  And maybe she will with her revenants, especially Ziza.  Be aware that this isn’t an easy read by any means, but I found it surprisingly satisfying.  4.5 out of 5.

“The Last Voyage of Shidbladnir” by Karin Tidbeck

Saga learns the ship she serves on is a living creature who is outgrowing her shell of a high-rise building.  Saga and Novik, the engineer, are determined to save Skidbladnir from being sold for meat.  She needs a new shell, so they'll find her a new shell.  This gripped me the moment I realized Skidbladnir was alive.  I'm a sucker for stories like this.  So enchanting.  I wish it had been longer or had a sequel, but that is just me being greedy and not wanting to leave Saga, Novik, and Skidbladnir behind.  Lovely from start to finish.  4.5 out of 5. 

“Circus Girl, the Hunter, and Mirror Boy” by JY Yang

Lynette first saw Mirror Boy the night she was almost killed after fighting off a rapist when she was barely 16 years old.  After she survived, Lynette found a friend to unload her pain, her disappointments, and her dreams to the boy who appeared in place of her own reflection.  Once she left the circus she had grown up in and worked for, Lynette had never seen him again.  Until now.  The boy is worried that a serial killer is after her.  A perfect story for the month of October, with a wraith, a witch, and a supernatural hunter who made assumptions that led to so many innocent deaths.  An ending that, while I guess it might be coming, was also so satisfying.  4 out of 5

“Water:  A History by K. J. Kabza

The surveyors badly judged how compatible the colony of Isla would be for the humans who left Earth on a one-way trip there.  The colonists adjusted, but being outside too long led to cancer deaths during the early years.  Marie, in her 50s, is now the last person who has direct memories of Earth.  She has been extraordinarily lucky in that her frequent trips outside hadn’t led to an early death.  A younger colonist, born on Isla, longs to go outside as well.  She wants to smell the planet’s dirt and feel the breeze on her face.  Lian finds a friend and support in Marie.  But no one can expect the good times will last forever.  Deeply emotional and tragic, yet somewhat hopeful as well.  Yet the story needed more depth, more content.  Good, but not as good as many of the others in this collection, in my opinion.  3 out of 5.

“As the Last I May Know” by S. L. Huang

Nyma was just ten years old when she was selected to be the Carrier.  In order to impress the consequences of using seres on another country, the Order choses to hide the codes in the body of a child.  To obtain access, the President must personally kill the child Carrier and rip her heart open.  AS the enemy forces draw ever deeper into the country, Nyma waits.  Oh, this one was gut-wrenching.  Seriously gut-wrenching.  And yet, the logic behind the Order's idea was extremely logical.  Force the President to basically live with the child he must kill to get access to the seres that will kill millions, make it real.  And Otto Han is disgusted by the Order, but it is what it is.  Again, the idea makes sense, but that doesn't mean that it isn't horrifying.  Not to mention torturous for the child who must live with the idea that they can be killed at almost anytime in order to kill millions of other people.  4.5 out of 5.    

“The Time Invariance of Snow” by E. Lily Yu

When the Devil's mirror splinters, it enters the hearts and minds of mankind, spreading hate and violence despair and depression.  G and K are in love, but G is wary of the violence of men.  When K makes a comment on how he would kill her, she protests his cruelty.  He leaves.  Despite knowing how the story will end, G goes on a quest to save him from the Snow Queen.  

A subversion of fairy tales and a treatise on both them and the treatment of women.  I have to admit that I was annoyed by the use of footnotes in this fictional short story.  I barely tolerate them in non-fiction books.  That said, as I struggled on, once G and K came onto the scene it became an easier read.  I think I would've enjoyed this more if it had been expanded.  My least favorite in the collection, but still worth reading.  3 out of 5.

[woodworkingpastor]

O Come, O Come, Immanuel Isaiah 26:1-8 First Sunday of Advent, 2019

Lighting the first Advent candle               Dan Lubbs, Isaac Hernandez

O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer

our spirits by thine advent here.

Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,

And death’s dark shadow put to flight.

We light this first Advent candle as a sign of our persistent hope that Jesus the Messiah has come and will come again!

We rejoice—even as we wait and work—in anticipation of Godly things yet to be revealed.

Hope when there seems to be no hope

In 1977, the world was introduced to Star Wars, a film which brought us some of the most popular movie characters of all time: Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia, Darth Vader and others have captured people’s imaginations for 42 years now, and many are eagerly awaiting the release of Star Wars Episode IX where the storyline of the Skywalker family will be completed.

One of the strange things about Star Wars: A New Hope is its beginning; we are obviously picking up the story in the middle.  The film begins with a little ship being fired upon by a bigger ship; then Darth Vader boards the little ship to search for the plans to the Death Star, while Princess Leia hurriedly hides those plans inside R2D2, before putting the droid and C3PO in an escape pod and launching them to the desert planet of Tatooine, where the droids almost immediately head off in separate directions and are soon captured by Jawas, to be sold to the local moisture farmers.

Star Wars is a great story, but it always felt like it was missing something.  On December 16, 2016, that something was provided in the movie Rogue One.  In the Star Wars universe, this movie is set in the days and then moments leading up to A New Hope. We’re introduced to a new set of characters and the necessary backstory: Galen Erso was one of the leading engineers in the design and construction of the Death Star, but his heart is with the rebellion. So he makes a choice: he works for the Empire but designs a flaw deep within the Death Star.  He gets word of this flaw out to his long-lost daughter, Jyn, who leads a team to capture the plans to the Death Star.  

You realize something very early on in Rogue One: none of these characters will make it out alive.  On one level, that was an inevitable choice; as none of them were in the movies 40 years ago, their story lines had to end.  The writers literally had no choice.  But it also makes sense within the story itself. The Empire is so powerful, and the Rebellion so fragile, that the attempt to capture the Death Star plans really has no chance of succeeding; all the rebels have is hope.  One of the most powerful quotes from the movie comes right before the final battle begins, when Jyn tells her team:  “If we can make it to the ground, we’ll take the next chance. And the next, on and on until we win, or until the chances are spent.”  They knew that the only thing they had on their side was hope, and so the band of rebels, against all odds, steal the plans to the Death Star, paying for that hope with their lives.

That investment makes this scene from Star Wars: A New Hope all that more significant. 

Rogue One gives the context to understand this scene; it is one of the most hope-less points of the entire Star Wars story. The Empire has ruled ruthlessly for 20 years; several major battles were fought just days before to have a chance at destroying the Death Star.  And here, the fate of the rebellion turns on a small red and white droid whose malfunction enabled R2D2 to go home with Luke Skywalker.  Of course, we know the rest of the story: Luke and R2D2 find Obi-wan Kenobi, the Death Star is destroyed, and hope shined a bit brighter. But in this moment, there is as close to no reason to find hope as could be imagined.

The nerve of that preacher

All of that is to help us have a chance at grasping the significance of today’s Scripture: “On that day, this song will be sung in the land of Judah:” (Isaiah 26:1a). Isaiah had some nerve with this message, standing up in front of a group of people and encouraging them to live by the expectations of another day, even while others are dictating the terms for how we are to live on this day.

Isaiah had nerve preaching this sermon because his congregation had eyes and ears and minds of their own. They had eyes to look out the windows of their homes and see that their world looked nothing like what God had promised their ancestors. They had ears to listen to the news when it came to them and hear the tidings of suffering and loss and separation. They had minds that could remember what it was like when Jerusalem was destroyed; memories of family members that were now either dead or separated from them in exile; memories to remember what they had been taught about being the people of God.

But here stands Isaiah, telling them about “that day;” asking them to hope for a day which they will never see, but to live their lives as if it’s coming anyway, a day when God will ultimately set things right, when the righteous will enter into God’s presence.  And so Isaiah says for the people, “In the path of your judgments, O Lord, we wait for you” (Isaiah 26:8).  

God’s people in this portion of the Old Testament know a lot about waiting.  So much so, in fact, that Old Testament Hebrew has twelve different words that can be translated “wait,” with a whole host of nuance in their meaning.  Some of these words simply mean to “wait,” with no other real context.  It’s the kind waiting we do at the doctor’s office or the DMV.  But other words—and especially the Hebrew word here in verse 8—refers to waiting that has a purpose.  We are waiting, because something better is coming, or is at least possible.  Maybe we’re waiting for a piece of news, maybe we’re waiting for someone’s arrival; maybe we’re waiting for an event.  We may not be sure of will happen or if it will happen, but for Isaiah the invitation to wait begins to transform into hope. We have reasons to invest ourselves in a certain promise.

To believe in hope, however, means to accept a risk.  We again see Isaiah’s nerve in preaching this sermon because hope can be so easily dashed. One of the most heartbreaking stories I’ve been told comes from a friend whose parents divorced when she was a little girl, and how after the divorce her father would promise to come pick her up and take her places. She would eagerly await his arrival, but so many times he simply didn’t show up.  No warning, no expectation.  He just didn’t come, and her mother would have to try to bind up her broken heart. It’s only been as she honestly dealt with the pain of that as an adult that she’s begun to find healing.

For hope to have any value in our lives, we must recognize that we only have reason to hope when our circumstances seem so unhopeful. Hope has little meaning in certainty.  That is what must be understood if hope is to be anything that’s real.  We’re not interested in unrealistic hope like those who believe they’ll win the Power Ball lottery; we’re not interested in false hope—the sort that wants to believe those emails offering us money from widows in the Ivory Coast; and we’re not even talking about a bargainers hope that says “If this happens, then I’ll do that.”  

Isaiah describes a mature hope.  This is a hope that recognizes there is spiritual value in waiting, spiritual value in investing in a particular promise, even if things might not turn out the way we wish, or if we never live to see the outcome we’re working toward.  This is the hope of the rebels who stole the plans to the Death Star; they knew they wouldn’t live to get off the planet, but they made the attempt anyway.

Learning hope      

Where do we go to learn to wait in hope?  Advent teaches us to find value in our investment of waiting and hoping for Jesus’ way to be realized. It’s no great secret that most of us would rather sing about Christmas, but true Biblical faith is filled with examples of hope.  And in today’s featured hymn—O Come, O Come, Immanuel—we have a song that uses both lyrics and tempo to teach us hope.

The lyrics of this hymn are some of the oldest in our hymnal, and both lyrics and tune have a somewhat complicated and confused story on how they came to exist in this form.  What is known is that many of these lyrics are adapted from a sixth or seventh century poem that was used in worship.  Not quite a “long time ago in a galaxy far, far away” but it ought to be enough to appreciate that Christians have a long history of valuing hope.

One early use of this hymn comes from the monasteries of the middle ages, where one verse of this hymn would be sung in worship each day from December 17 – 23.  Life in the monasteries was very routine, with virtually nothing special to separate one day from the next. There were no Christmas carols being broadcast the week before Thanksgiving; no Christmas TV ads starting the day after Halloween. Nothing but the unceasing sameness of solitary monastic life.  But beginning on December 17, the senior abbot in the monastery would sing one verse of this hymn each day in worship, and then give a small gift to each of the monks—perhaps as small as fresh walnuts—as a taste of something different, something special to build anticipation for the celebration of Jesus’ birth.

I also find it interesting that although our arrangement of verses is not the original, each verse in this arrangement does seem to be just a bit more hopeful than the one before, beginning in complete lostness and ending in a hope that God’s vision of the peaceable kingdom will be realized.

Do we have the patience to slow down long enough to begin to hope?

Conclusion

How do we react to Isaiah’s nerve as he looked out over his congregation, knowing what they knew, seeing what they saw, and then told them to wait, because there is more to come?  What about when we look at the world around us—or perhaps look no farther than our own lives—and see that it does not comfort either to our expectation or to our understanding of God’s promises? What do we do then?

[perspectivepodcast]

[Transcript] Side A: Seasons

There was a tree in my backyard, a pine tree. I don’t know what it is about pine trees that attracts me so much. For me, they smell like summer; they remind me of places where the air is sweeter; perhaps I was a fox in another life and used to hide under them to protect myself from the blizzards or the heat.

There was a pine tree in my backyard once, just next to the pomegranate tree that just now is offering its fruits to the birds.

They say Persephone was picking flowers one day, on a field in the green and yellow island of Sicily, the land of the sun, of fertility. Suddenly, Hades, King of the Underworld, appeared on his chariot of death and raped and kidnapped Persephone, and took her with him to the Underworld as his bride. Her mother, Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest, unleashed her despair and fury over the world by making everything on the earth wilt and die. Fearing for the survival of the earthlings, Zeus, King of the Gods, decided to convince Hades to give Persephone back to her mother, and he forced Hades to agree on one condition: he could have Persephone for himself only as many months a year as many grains of pomegranate she would eat in the Underworld. Hades, however, did not tell Persephone about this bargain. Meanwhile, in the Underworld, the heartbroken, captive Persephone had refused to eat for many days, and began to feel starving and feeble. Hades offered her twelve grains of pomegranate; she accepted six of them. Thus framed, Persephone doomed herself to live in the Underworld as Queen for six of the twelve months of the year, and she would be free to go back to the earth, to her mother, for the remaining six months. Every year, this is why the seasons come and go: during the six months Persephone is in the Underworld, Demeter forbids everything from growing, while, as soon as Persephone is back on the earth, Demeter makes the world bloom again. They say that poppies first blossomed on the earth the first summer Persephone could see the sun again, as a passionate reminder that Hades stood forever waiting for her return in the Underworld.

If you still believe in this story, then Persephone must soon be bound to go back to the Underworld, judging from the color of the leaves. And from the pomegranates on the tree.

But perhaps, this story stays true even if you don’t believe in it.

One of my favorite poems is about this story. It was written by Louise Glück, and it is entitled ‘A Myth of Devotion’:

When Hades decided he loved this girl he built for her a duplicate of earth, everything the same, down to the meadow, but with a bed added.

Everything the same, including sunlight, because it would be hard on a young girl to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness.

Gradually, he thought, he'd introduce the night, first as the shadows of fluttering leaves. Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars. Let Persephone get used to it slowly. In the end, he thought, she'd find it comforting.

A replica of earth except there was love here. Doesn't everyone want love?

He waited many years, building a world, watching Persephone in the meadow. Persephone, a smeller, a taster. If you have one appetite, he thought, you have them all.

Doesn't everyone want to feel in the night the beloved body, compass, polestar, to hear the quiet breathing that says I am alive, that means also you are alive, because you hear me, you are here with me. And when one turns, the other turns—

That’s what he felt, the lord of darkness, looking at the world he had constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind that there’d be no more smelling here, certainly no more eating.

Guilt? Terror? The fear of love? These things he couldn’t imagine; no lover ever imagines them.

He dreams, he wonders what to call this place. First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden. In the end, he decides to name it Persephone’s Girlhood.

A soft light rising above the level meadow, behind the bed. He takes her in his arms. He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you

but he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end you’re dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.

 Life is the combinational, delicate dancing struggle of light, earth, and water. A single green vine shoot is able to grow through cement. Some animals have evolved to hibernate; some animals have evolved to migrate. Some trees lose their leaves; some trees keep them. The seasons change, pass, follow one another, in a flow that doesn’t really take everything they find on their way with them, because everything that is in the way of the seasons also kind of is the seasons actually. Life all flows with them, inexorable. The light doesn’t just refract or diffract, it is diffused and absorbed. The land will rest in winter; the fruits will fill with sunlight in the summer; the birds will build new nests in spring; the waters will quench the thirst of forests in the fall. As we circle around the star of our devotion, the leaves will burgeon and grow and swell with chlorophyll and be burned by the blinding light and find relief in returning to the ground. Nothing remains intact. Everything remains itself. Everything is real and what is real cannot die. Everything just keeps being everything, in all its countless forms and mutations.

There is something about evergreens that fills me with wonder and admiration. Although I should specify it’s a sense of wonder and admiration I feel for plants in general, not just evergreens nor just for trees. I am in awe by and admire their ability to be, despite everything. I admire the state of biological evolution they have reached that makes them so incredibly resilient to external forces of change. I admire how intelligent they are as life forms, how wisely they have used their time on this planet to learn how to adapt to it with mutual benefits.

We animals are all built to make movement possible. We have organs that are specialized in one thing, and one thing only, because of course if the whole of our organism were responsible for the whole of our biological functions it would take us too long to process everything we need to process, or at least, too long to be able to move and go and fetch food or run away from another animal that has come to fetch us as food. Imagine if we had to wait for every cell in our body to process sugar before being able to move. We have specialized cells for that. And a brain to control it all. So that in the meantime our muscles, hopefully helped by a generous dose of endorphins and hormones triggered mostly by fear, can target us to a safer place while our stomachs can concentrate on digesting the food we just ate.

Trees don’t have this kind of hierarchy: if you cut down a branch, or a root, or if you carve the trunk, it’s not as if you made a hole in one of our lungs, or cut through our stomachs. A tree is always itself: unless you really annihilate it, and you really need to make a sadistic effort to do that, it’ll find a way to grow back no matter how much you mutilate it. In this sense it is different from animals because while animals are individuals, that is, in Latin, in-dividuus, or non-divisible, trees are very much divisible and they’ll still be what they are. But most of all, they’ll still be.

There was a pine tree in my backyard, and once I made up a story about it being actually a prince who was turned into a tree by a witch to prevent him from marrying the princess. The witch had taken the princess away with her a long time before, but the Pine Prince continued to stand watch and wait for his princess to come back. I must have written it somewhere, the story I mean. Who knows where it is now.

I met him in my backyard everyday as I walked to the garage to take my bike and go to school. The Pine Prince would endure the fog, the heat, the cold, the snow, the rain. I remember the bark was crusted, and tears of honey-colored resin lay between the cracks. He was a little threadbare, perhaps because he didn’t have much space to grow…

They cut him down on the 7th of March 2011. I wrote two poems, that day and the day after, that I’ll try to translate here:

 They had told me that everything dies (my eyes burnt for the cold dismembered dismembered in pieces before my eyes). But I didn’t think they’d dare rape the smell of the sea and of freedom ancient inside the coarse skin or the tender white secret (how many tears of resin have we wept together?). Not in spring, I didn’t think they’d dare, not in spring (one bud that closes its eyes puts a whole forest on mourning)… Something dies inside. It dies like the shadow of the sagging smoke of fireworks dies. It dies and where there used to be the mutilated shape here after my gaze, now only the sky is left only an emptiness of sky.

 *

 In memory of a dream

Any invention, even an entire world of poetry, is worth you staying here with me.

 I don’t know what it was about that tree that made me love it so much. Perhaps he was the symbol of trees for me. Perhaps he embodied something I was still unable to phrase with precision, something Rainer Maria Rilke was able to put to words in a book I still didn’t know at the time but that has been a home for me ever since I read it a couple of years later, the Letters to a Young Poet. In Stephen Mitchell’s translation, Rilke writes: ‘if it turns out that you are wrong, then the natural growth of your inner life will eventually guide you to other insights. Allow your judgments their own silent, undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be forced or hastened. Everything is gestation and then birthing. To let each impression and each embryo of a feeling come to completion, entirely in itself, in the dark, in the unsayable, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one’s own understanding, and with deep humility and patience to wait for the hour when a new clarity is born: this alone is what it means to live as an artist: in understanding as in creating.

In this there is no measuring with time, a year doesn’t matter, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!’

 It is autumn now, and I wish I were as firm as a tree in my ability to be. I wish I knew how to be the way trees know. I wish I were as vertical, as resolute as them. I wish I were as horizontal, as molecular as them. I wish I knew how to be despite and through the seasons. I wish I weren’t indivisible. I wish I weren’t so brittle.

They say sorrow passes, and we remain. But I wish we didn’t always have to worry so much about our intactness, I wish I didn’t always have to be so afraid to be disintegrated.

I wish I could be more like the Pine Prince, or even better, I wish I could be a forest of Pine Princes. And seasons would be seasons again. And time would be time again. And I would be seasons too. And I would be time too.

[thewildkairos-blog]

Summer Reading 2017!

It’s that time of the year again, where students alike just cannot put that book down – and it’s safe to say, I am certainly one of them! As an avid reader, when I finished my A Levels and walked out of that Psychology exam after writing three sixteen-mark essays, I nursed my cramped wrist and proclaimed: “I cannot wait to read all my books!” as opposed to everyone else’s chimes of: “Tonight, let’s drink so much that booze comes out of our ears!” I suppose there’s two kinds of people, although I am certainly not opposed to gulping down a whole bottle of rosé whilst sifting through my latest page-turner.

Of course, with the strain of school stress, upcoming exams and trying to maintain a social life, sometimes our reading gets put on the back burner; however, in summer, we have so much free time and so much reading material, so I am setting out to read three books per month until I go off to university and have to kiss goodbye to my printed pages. Now, if you know me at all, you’ll know that I buy way too many books, and so, choosing my reading list proved to be more difficult than I anticipated! So, today I will be compiling my Summer reading list for you all, and of course, I’ll give my reasonings, give you a smidge of information about the books and leave links to where you can purchase them, should you want to give them a whirl!

Without further ado, I present to you, the reading list of yours truly for months July through September!

1. City of Heavenly Fire by Cassandra Clare

‘Sebastian Morgenstern is on the move, systematically turning Shadowhunter against Shadowhunter. When one of the greatest betrayals the Nephilim have ever known is revealed, Clary, Jace, Isabelle, Simon and Alec must flee – even if their journey takes them deep into the demon realms, where no Shadowhunter has set foot before, and from which no human being has ever returned. Love will be sacrificed and lives lost in the thrilling and long-awaited final instalment of the bestselling and acclaimed Mortal Instruments.’

This book is part of my all time favourite series The Mortal Instruments by my all time favourite author, Cassandra Clare; if you haven’t read this series, I recommend it so, so much! I decided that I would read this book first because it is literally the size of a brick and about has big as my face, so it’s the real deal and definitely is NOT light reading material! I have followed this series since I was about fifteen years old, and it is still my absolute favourite – after finally finding it (because I misplaced it when I moved house), I am already 28% of the way through it because it is fantastic! If you love a good fantasy book with well thought out ideas and amazing pacing, then this book is certainly for you! Buy City of Heavenly Fire on Amazon Buy The Mortal Instruments on Amazon

 2. Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe

‘Including Poe’s most terrifying, grotesque and haunting short stories, Tales of Mystery and Imagination is the ultimate collection of the infamous author’s macabre works. Focusing on the internal conflict of individuals, the power of the dead over the living and psychological explorations of darker human emotion, the collection features one of his most popular tales. ‘The Gold Bug’ is the only story that was significant within his lifetime, whereas ‘The Black Cat’, ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’ and ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ became more widely read after his death.’

Haunting, right? Okay, so I can’t be light and feathery all the time and Poe’s work astounds me, I absolutely love his poems so when I came across this book for a total bargain, I knew I had to pick it up and give it a read. This book is being slipped in my handbag and becoming my carry-on read, because you never know where you might find time to turn a few pages! I love darker tales and short stories as they are usually so gripping from start to finish, and if you’re a fan of classics and a psychology geek like I am, this book is perfect for you!

Buy Tales of Mystery and Imagination on Amazon

 3. The Sun is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon

‘THE STORY OF A GIRL, A BOY, AND THE UNIVERSE NATASHA: I’m a girl who believes in science and facts. Not fate. Not destiny. Or dreams that will never come true. I’m definitely not the kind of girl who meets a cute boy on a crowded New York City street and falls in love with him. Not when my family is twelve hours away from being deported to Jamaica. Falling in love with him won’t be my story. DANIEL: I’ve always been the good son, the good student, living up to my parents’ high expectations. Nevr the poet. Or the dreamer. But when I see her, I forget all about that. Something about Natasha makes me think that fate has something much more extraordinary in store – for both of us. THE UNIVERSE: Every moment in our lives has brought us to this single moment. A million futures lie before us. Which one will come true?’ After falling in love with Nicola Yoon’s Everything, Everything, and when I saw I could get this book half price in Waterstones, I instantly knew I had to buy this book – and so, into the baskt it went and now it’s in my hands. I was so drawn to this book and I’ll be honest, it was the beautiful front cover that caught my eye! I suppose I can drift from dark and macabre to uplifting and romantic when it comes to novels, and I tend to do that – I like to read different genres rather than the same genres over and over to mix it up a little bit! I’m looking forward to the unfortunate events in this story and how it unfolds, and I’m also interested to learn more about these serious characters that suddenly become undone due to love (which I am a sucker for)!

Buy The Sun is Also a Star on Amazon

 4. A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin

‘Summers span decades. Winter can last a lifetime. And the struggle for the Iron Throne has begun. As Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark counts it a curse when King Robert bestows on him the office of the Hand. His honour weighs him down at court where a true man does what he will, not what he must… and a dead enemy is a thing of beauty. The old gods have no power in the south, Stark’s family is split and there is treachery at court. Worse, the vengeance-mad heir of the deposed Dragon King has grown to maturity in exile in the Free Cities. He claims the Iron Throne.’

If you haven’t been watching (and anticipating the next season) of Game of Thones, what are you doing? For real, it is one of the greatest TV shows of all time and I am such a huge fan. Of course, such a marvellous idea has to come from somewhere and it is the genius mind of George R. R. Martin who came up with the world of Westeros! I bought the Song of Ice and Fire series because of my love for Game of Thrones, so I just had to read the books! If you like dragons, medieval-fantasy inspired novels, this series is for you!

Buy A Game of Thrones on Amazon

Buy A Song of Ice and Fire on Amazon

 5. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

‘Dorian Gray is having his picture painted by Basil Hallward, who is charmed by his looks. But when Sir Henry Wotton visits, and seduces Dorian into the worship of youthful beauty with an intoxicating speech, Dorian makes a wish that he will live to regret: that all the marks of age will now be reflected in the portrait, rather than on Dorian’s own face. The stage is now set for a masterful tale about appearance, reality, art, life, truth, fiction and the ultimate burden of conscience.’

As a sucker for the classics, I can honestly say that when one of my close friends (yes, Anna, you’re getting a mention, girlie) offered to purchase me this book for my birthday, I was overjoyed! I will hold my hands up and say that the first time I heard the name ‘Dorian Gray’ was the time that two of my friends were gushing over Penny Dreadful, which – and I did my research – is a psychological thriller set in Victorian London, which interlinks the origin stories of different classic literary characters. When I asked who Dorian Gray was, they looked at me as though I had asked them if the world really had colour (spoiler alert: it does!), and I knew I needed to change that. Thanks to extensive preparation for my A Level exams though, this book has sadly been waiting to be read for six months, and so I cannot wait to pick this one up again!

Buy The Picture of Dorian Gray on Amazon

 6. The Bane Chronicles by Cassandra Clare

‘It is not easy being Magnus Bane. As a warlock, he’s often called upon to fix the problems of others. His life has been long, and his loves have been many. And Magnus has a way of making sure he’s in the right place at the right – or perhaps wrong – time. The French Revolution, Prohibition, the first great battle between Valentine and the New York Institute… Magnus was there, and usually in the middle of it. Magnus will never be able to tell all of his tales. No one would believe him. But these eleven stories shed a little light on his often inscrutable character. They are stories he probably wishes never got out.’

Okay – confession time: Magnus Bane is easily my favourite character in the whole The Mortal Instruments franchise, so when this book was released myself and best friend Maddison squealed the roof down and whilst she has read it, I have only recently purchased and I’m sure I’ll read this one so fast that I’ll have to take extra precautions in order not to rip the book! For a little insight, Magnus is a sassy character who, in The Mortal Instruments series, has forever been shipped with none other than Alec Lightwood. Honestly, Malec are my OTP and whilst there are several references in the Mortal Instruments books to Magnus’ past, a lot of these aren’t explored and so for me – a huge fan of the books – this is an absolute must-read because I definitely need those answers!

Buy The Bane Chronicles on Amazon

 7. Revenge Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

‘Life has been good to Andy since she quit job ‘a million girls would die for’ at Runway magazine. Now, ten years later, she’s about to get married and she’s running her own successful magazine. But the night before her wedding, she can’t sleep. Is it just normal nerves, or is she having serious second thoughts? And why can’t she stop thinking about her ex-boss, Miranda – aka, the Devil? It seems that Andy’s efforts to build herself a bright new life have led her directly into the path of the Devil herself bent on revenge.’

I’ll be honest, I picked this book up from a boot sale for 50p, and I just couldn’t say no. Even though I have never read the first book (which I will be investing in), I have watched and loved the movies – and yes, I know books are always better than the movies. I must say that I love the movie (and I love Meryl Streep, so it really is a win-win), and I have always wondered what Andy would do after quitting her job at Runway, so I picked up this book so I could get some answers!

Buy Revenge Wears Prada on Amazon

 8. The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion                      

‘Love isn’t an exact science – but no one told Don Tilman. A handsome thirty-nine year old geneticist, Don’s never had a second date. So e devises The Wife Project, a scientific test to find the perfect partner. Enter Rosie – ‘the world’s most incompatible woman’ – throwing Don’s safe, ordered life into chaos. Just what is this unsettling, alien emotion he’s feeling?’

I cannot contain my excitement about this book! Recommended to me by my friend Faye, this book really does intrigue me and I’m ready for a bit of a quirky romance novel! Although, when Faye recommended this book to me, she said she thought I would love it and that I reminded her of Rosie – which, considering Rosie is ‘the world’s most incompatible woman’, may or may not be an insult, but regardless, I love my friend to pieces and I am sure I’ll love this book!

Buy The Rosie Project on Amazon

 9. The 5th Wave by Rick Yancey

‘After the 1st Wave, only darkness remains. After the 2nd, only the lucky escape. And after the 3rd, only the unlucky survive. After the 4th Wave, only one rule applies: trust no one. Now is the dawn of the 5th Wave.  On a lonely stretch of highway, Cassie runs. Runs from the beings that only look human, who have scattered the Earth’s last survivors. To stay alone is to stay alive, until she meets Evan Walker. Beguiling and mysterious, Evan might be her only hope. Now Cassie must choose: between trust and despair, between defiance and surrender, between life and death.’

Isn’t that description just chilling? Don’t mind the triadic structure at the end there – it only drew me in so much that I can’t wait to pick up the book! After watching the movie adaptation in cinema, I knew I had to read this book because the concept was astounding. I’m excited to add a dystopian-style novel to the mix because any and all who know me will tell you that I am a sucker for a world-is-going-to-end style of book. Maybe I have a thing for the morbid? I just like to think I have a thing for survival and intrigue! This book is bound to keep me on the edge of my seat, that I can guarantee!

Buy The 5th Wave on Amazon

So there you have it – these are the nine novels I hope to complete through months July to September. Of course, regular updates will be posted and maybe even a couple of book reviews along the way. Of course, if you want to discuss any of these books or give your own opinions of them, you should totally feel free to approach me in the comments, drop me a message or reach me on any other of my social media which I’ll link down below for you! And don’t forget to leave your reading list and recommendations in the comments. What are you looking forward to reading this Summer? Drop me a message and ask me your questions here!

Social Media

[everyonesomething]

Session Fourteen

Edith Runekill: "...hope there's not another kraken down there."

Malkas: "Unlikely,"

Pepper "What if it was right behind you?" and mage hand grabs Edith's shoulder.

Edith Runekill jumps a foot in the air

Edith Runekill and falls into the aisle

Edith Runekill and starts hyperventilating

Malkas: "Pepper!"

"It's okay, Edi, it's just Pepper being an ass."

Pepper: "No, it's really an itty bitty kraken in the traincar."

In this session we get some new toys and a new plan of attack.

The set-up: We've made our way to Baldur's Gate, finally.

The Game: We've been transferred to a new train to finish the journey to Baldur's Gate, Edith and Grim fill the time by discussing theology.

Grim: "How come Auril? You don't mind the question."

Grim: "Don't seem much like you."

Edith Runekill: "It's just... what our people do. We weren't always farmers; if you go way, way back, we were pirates, raiders, sailors; scourges of the North an' all that."

"That was a long time ago, but Illuskans weren't always farming folk."

"But... the one thing the old way and the new way had in common... is that winter is long, and cold, and hard."

"So we worship Auril so our crops make it to the spring. And, well, so we make it, too."

Grim nods

Edith Runekill: "And it's just what I used to, even if now I live somewhere where it's never winter."

Grim: "You got a real penchant for the traditional, huh"

Malkas makes a face like "hahaha no"

Edith Runekill: "I guess so. I mean. I haven't exactly lived a traditional life. There's a reason I left. But... I respect old things, I respect the history behind 'em. And, well, they're still my people, even if I've left."

Grim nods again

Edith Runekill: "But if I were really traditional I'd be a farm wife or something by now. Not really the life for me."

Grim: "Right."

Edith Runekill turns back to Grim. "Do... do you worship anyone? If you don't mind me asking. I'd understand if you don't wanna talk about it."

Grim shrugs

Grim: "Sure."

"Ilmater, god of enduring the worst this world's got to throw at you."

Edith Runekill smiles. "Makes sense. Good god for the sorta things we been going through lately."

Grim nods

Grim: "If someone's gotta hold out for the sake of everyone else, may's well be someone with nothing to lose."

Edith Runekill: "Difference with worshipping Auril is she's the one throwing the things at you, and you're praying to her to please stop for a while."

Malkas: "A little like the church of Asmodeus."

Grim: "Never been one for bargaining with the enemy."

Edith Runekill: "So, uh, you always worship Ilmater, or did you come to him later on?"

Grim shrugs

Grim: "Hard to know."

Edith Runekill: "Thin line between the two, I guess."

Grim: "Don't remember much of my early years, truth be told."

Grim: "Could've worshipped the tarrasque f'r all I know."

Edith Runekill looks concerned. "D...did something happen?"

Grim shrugs again

Grim: "So I heard."

Edith Runekill: "Sorry."

"Didn't mean to pry..."

Grim: "No apologies, like I said I don't remember the most of it."

"As best I know, there was some kind've a fire in my hometown."

"Bounty hunters picked me up, that's all I got."

Edith Runekill: "Oh..."

Malkas has never felt more awkward.

Grim smokes

Edith Runekill: "Sorry..." Edith says, to everyone and no one in particular.

Grim: "What you sorry for now?"

Pepper eats, this doesn't really crack the top 10 of her awkward experiences but that doesn't mean it's fun.

Edith Runekill: "I dunno. Just... sorry you had to go through that? But. That's maybe not really what you want to hear."

Grim: "Ilmater says everything you go through is for a reason. Reason being, nobody else has got to weather it."

Edith gives the group a small pep talk about the importance of finding the lich—almost being eaten by a kraken puts things in perspective that way. She's still determined to hunt him down and vows to do her best and not die before then. Pepper tries to lighten the mood by scaring the bejeezus beauril out of Edith, but it goes over about as well as you'd expect it to with someone who was almost fish food.

Pepper and Edith then talk language and literature.

Edith Runekill: "[Elvish] My mother would've never actually come out and said that; she would have artfully conveyed it by choosing exactly the right sort of silence or a precisely calibrated frown or closing a door just short of a slam."

Pepper stares for a second and busts a gut laughing.

Edith Runekill: "Was... was my accent wrong?"

Pepper: "Who taught you Elvish? You sound like my grandma."

Malkas is hopelessly confused.

Edith Runekill: "Well, we learned a really formal register of speech at the university..."

"And since then I mostly been reading ancient texts in Elven, not having friendly chats."

"Also the professor was probably old enough to be your grandma."

"So."

Malkas has dozed off.

Edith Runekill: "So when I try to use it conversationally it's a bit... uh..."

"Well. You heard."

Pepper: "Oh the stories Gran told. [Extremely old Elvish accent] Come children, willst thou gather and hear of the dark days of yore, before zero was invented."

Edith Runekill: "But with me it's all [Elvish] 'I seek to return home but my bones are weary; I shall walk no more. If you please, show me where I can embark on an omnibus to convey me onwards."

"When I just wanna say, hey, where's the bus stop."

Pepper shrugs, "I could point you to some pulp stories to help, but like I said I don't think our tastes match up."

Edith Runekill: "You'd be surprised by the kinda things I read for leisure. I can't be on all the time, y'know?"

"It's not always ancient tomes of poems in dead languages."

Pepper ticks titles off on her fingers, "[Elvish] Well there's 'Help, I Have No Head', 'My Family's Turned Into Cannibals', 'Guillotine, Guillotine, Guillotine'..."

We get to Baldur's Gate and are greeted with a hero's welcome. Literally! The mayor has put together a press conference to thank us for our service in Kraken eradication. We snap a few pictures and Sydney and her gumshoes are formally welcomed to the city.

And into the back of a squad car.

But it's a good ride to a police station, we're getting rewarded for our services! And also they want us to check out Candlekeep: an ancient, warded-off library where children of Ba'al used to be raised. The wards are down and they've noticed activity around it, but all their usual adventurers are still in Tarrasque country so would we do them the favor of checking it out?

Of course we will.

In exchange, they give our weapons a magical boost and let us take something fun from the evidence locker.

Grim – The Punisher: Rifle scope that grants a bonus and advantage to attacks, but only if the user makes a pun.

Edith – The Living Grimoire: Allows an extra spell regardless of class to be prepared each day. Looks like a small cat.

Sydney – Hookshot: Allows the user to make a ranged melee shot to attack or to latch on to a surface and rappel forward.

Pepper – Cool Sunglasses: Advantage on deception and persuasion checks against anyone uncool. Also makes her look extra cool.

Mal – Rapier: Gives extra damage on a successful attack.

We make plans with the police force to head out the next day, but for now we retire to our all-expenses-paid fancy hotel suites. Easily the nicest place we’ve been on the whole trip: huge bathrooms, plush furnishings, each room even has a piano! We're living large, baby.

[thegirlwhocamehome]

A smart woman once told me that if they don't want me back, then what I am really losing. And she was - is - right, the hard part is wrapping your head around what to do when you do in fact discover that the people who claimed to love you so much, are so ready to leave you out of their narrative because you didn't fit into the character they wrote for you.  I am not an archetype, I am not an extension of you, and you can't hold me a certain way in the light so that you only see what you like. You can't call me dramatic, tell me I don't know how to argue, and tell me you've never seen me like this because it has started to feel like you never really knew me, you only saw what you wanted.  If you cared to see me in stark daylight, you would see someone who has been through so much pain and darkness and you would be - should be impressed - by everything I have overcome, especially the things I have overcome in spite of you. I will never stop loving you, and I hoped that you would all be able to look past yourselves, your egos, the stories she tells you and trust the person I am. Because although there is a deep pain in me, and it is carved into my bones, there is so much light inside of me too.  If you stopped at any point and valued me as a person, someone with real experiences and emotions, and looked past my age, my awkwardness, and my blasted attempts to draw your attention in, I think you would have really loved what you saw. But instead, I just became your niece, your granddaughter, your daughter. I was like a color by number painting, always allowing others to pick how they wanted to see me and color me as they saw fit. But I owe it to myself to break this. I am so much more than everything you have heard, or whatever it is you may think of me. Blood is not thicker than water, but god knows I spilled enough of it for all of you.  The hard truth of it all is that none of you really seem to have my best interest at heart, and you have all written me off, but I just hope that if this ever makes it to you, that you know I never wrote any of you off, and I am not now. Because I'm not like you - any of you. I still love all of you so much, but I am capable of being transparent, I am capable of putting my ego aside, the problem is none of you are.  You are defending the woman who has surmounted upon me so much pain, some of you heard it. Yet you still defend her, why? Because she is your daughter, sister, friend? Well, I guess it never occurred to you that I am also someone's daughter, sister, and friend. If I am able to stand up to the woman who has hurt me in ways a mother never should, you should be able to as well. You placed reparations in my hands when I never even started the war, and you can't wrap your head around the concept that she might be lying. There is a reason I can sense in my very being when someone's mood has shifted, you would too if you spent most of your childhood trying to find ways to keep the storm at bay; its presence always lurking just over the horizon. I used to think that rhyme we heard about red skies was written for my mother and the way her anger would explode out. I am sick of being told both indirectly and directly that this is my fault, that most things are my fault.  I used to shy away from owning the trauma I have been through, from even calling it trauma, because I was scared of being too dramatic, I was scared none of you would take me seriously, but I spent my whole life walking on glass for all of you and all I ended up with was sore feet and more blood spilled than I could handle. I know none of you like it, but she abused me. She would yell too loud, and she would say awful things to me, and she would tell me everything was my fault, and when she got too angry, her anger would hit me across the face, or grip arm so hard it left marks, or throw me onto the bed. You don't want the truth because you truly cannot handle it. You can't accept the fact that she did these things, and that is preventing everyone from healing. Because I can't be the first person she unleashed this on.  Yes - she meant well, and she got some things right, but she has been getting the same stuff wrong for most of my life.  If you need to buy into her lies and tell yourself that I am only doing this because of my father, if that helps you sleep at night, fine, but I hope you know what you are losing in the process.  I wrote another poem, after the one about the houses, where I took it all back, where I realized I was nothing more than the housekeeper, cleaning up the mess you left behind, well I decided to fuck that narrative to hell and burn that goddamn house down; you both had already poured gasoline all over it. So I hope when you find yourselves along a familiar trail in the woods, and you make your way to the homes we built, that you feel a deep sadness knowing you burnt that shit to the ground - I was just the one who lit the match. I hope you know how long I held onto everything you left behind. I hope you know your ghosts followed me everywhere. I hope you feel bad, because you should. I hope you do a better job with your real daughters. It's a god damn shame that all I ever was was a practice run. And if you read that line and think "no, lishie, you weren't" well fuck you, and fuck your delusions, because you can't love someone when it's easiest for you. You either love me and show me that all the time, or not at all. You either meet me halfway or I'm not interested. I'm not interested in holding up your end of the bargain anymore, clean your own goddamn cobwebs, and dust your own fucking shelves.  And to you, you were always the safest haven for me, and now it feels like that was all a lie too. Are you that scared of her, that stupid, that you're willing to bend to her every wish and let her pull the strings? I have compassion because I know you have never been an easy position either, but how do you think I feel? Don't say you miss me, or that you're worried about me when all you're worried about is making sure I come back, on your terms, on her terms, on everyone's terms but my own. If any of you really gave a shit you would tell me you love me anyway, and that you understand, and that I should just do what's best for myself right now. Because you're all the grown-ups here, and I may be grown, but I', still learning. You all broke my heart in unique and tremendously painful ways, and now I have to figure out to put it back together again.  Lucky for me that kind of pain is familiar, and even though every heartbreak is different in its own way - and I would argue that's what makes it special, that's where the lesson is - I have been through too much to die on this hill. I have written about so many heartbreaks, ones from boys, ones from girls, and I always said one was worse, but trauma isn't comparative, and I refuse to give you guys the prize for this - I would hope you wouldn't want it anyways.  I know your hearts are breaking too, and I'm sure it hurts, but you should all hold yourselves responsible - some of you more than others.  I am sick of protecting you, I am sick of holding all of YOU a certain way in the light, some of you have ugliness in your hearts and I have no place for that in my life. There has already been so much pain in my life, and I don't care if you think I'm melodramatic for saying that, because you don't know what I've been through, maybe I should tell you.  About all the times I wanted to kill myself, about the time I wrote you all letters saying goodbye, abolishing you of fault, washing your sins for you, because I just didn't want to be here anymore. About the way I used to cling to toilet bowls and shove fingers, toothbrushes, pens down my throat to puke up the meal I had just eaten with all of you. Can you handle knowing I used to steal knives off the dinner table, razors from random drawers and cut so deep into my skin I reached the fat of my thigh? Can you handle knowing all the way boys violated me, walking through the hallways, being called a slut, a whore - boys you used to teach gym class to. Can you handle that? I don't think you can. Can you handle knowing the deep darkness I sank into because of all of this, how I wanted to kill myself every day for two weeks? You can't, and I understand, it's heavy shit, sometimes I wonder how I even handled half the shit I've been through, but I did. And if you have no interest in getting to know me, even the scary, ugly parts, then I have no interest in trying to show you anymore. If my attempt at transparency and vulnerability is just going to be met with uncomfortableness without any means to push past it, then count me out. I want to surround myself with people who are able to live with the fact that we all have skeletons, that we all have demons, and that's okay. Because I know things about all of you too, and I wish that you were the ones to tell me, because then maybe we could have had a better chance at all of this. Maybe things would have turned out differently. None of you are perfect, and I still love all of you despite that, infact I think I love you more. I hate people who won't acknowledge the demons they've faced, and yes I understand there is a time and a place, but you can't go around pretending you got through this life unscathed - none of us have. And the sooner you recognize that we all have scars, the better off we all are for it. Stop airing out other people's dirty laundry while yours sits in a stinking pile in the basement of your conscience - grow the fuck up.  We are all defined by the awful and beautiful things that happen, happened, or are going to happen to us, and I never felt comfortable in my own skin around you guys. Mom found out that I liked girls just as much as I liked boys and she told me I couldn't tell any of you. Well, guess what? Fuck that. I am sick of hiding certain parts of myself, you should all love me for who I am, and if you can't, I am sorry you are so full of yourself and your own self-righteous morals that you can't just love someone when they present themselves in front of you. I deserve so much better than this conditional, and sometimes one-sided love some of you have offered to me. I love you all, but I love myself too. Finally, and after all these years. And I wish that was something I could have shared with all of you. Because to me, that's what family is. I know some of you tried, and for that I am grateful, but I also have to look at what you are doing now, and what you are doing now hurts me. So if you can't be the family I need, the one I deserve, then I will find that elsewhere. We all deserve people that love us for who we are, good, bad, ugly, monstrous, beautiful - all of it. I was willing to do that for you, were you willing to do it for me?

F is for Family

[ilovearticlesoffaith-blog]

Being Slow about Ministry

Many pastors are slow about advancing in their ministry.  Sometimes they are slow in obeying the call of God.  Perhaps, this is because many pastors have a phlegmatic temperament.  Slowness is a very dangerous thing in the ministry.  One of the determinants of our lives is the speed at which we move.      

What is the time according to God’s clock?  There are three times that are running simultaneously.  These are “my time”, “your time” and “the time”.

Then Jesus said unto them, My time is not yet come: but your time is alway ready.

John 7:6

Take a look at your watch right now.  In the natural that is your time. Take a look at some one else’s watch. That is his time.  But what is the time?

In real life, every watch has a slightly different time. My watch is usually set a few minutes fast to help me overcome the spirit of lateness.  Other people have more accurate watches. This phenomenon gives rise to a multitude of different times for everyone.   

In the spirit realm, we all have different times.  My time is different from your time. That is why Jesus said, “My time is not yet come but your time is always ready.”

A few years ago, Princess Diana shocked the world by making a sudden and tragic exit.  No one expected her to die when she did. No one expected her to die on the Sunday morning that she died.  

A week before she died, if you had asked me, “What is the time?” I would have said,  “It is Sunday morning, and time for church”. If you had asked her the same question she would probably have answered, “It is another Sunday morning; and a few days before I go to be with my boyfriend in France”.    But the time was actually seven days to her death.  Unfortunately she didn’t know it.

On the Saturday before she died, she was having dinner with her Egyptian boyfriend in Paris.  If someone had asked you, “What time is it?” you might have said, “It is eight o’clock.”  If someone had asked her she may have said, “It is Saturday night, and a time of lovemaking and dreaming of a better future.”  But she was wrong; the real time for her was a couple of hours before the end.   She was also one week  closer to her funeral.  

“My time” speaks of where I am in the timetable of my life.  “Your time”, speaks of where you are in the timetable of “your life”, and “the time”, speaks of where we are in God’s overall timetable.  

Unknown to many people, this earthly life is very time-related.  Every instruction or opportunity is time-related.  Hear this and hear it very well:  every instruction that God has given to you has an invisible timer.  A countdown begins the moment God speaks to you.  The available time to perform that duty reduces with every passing hour. Many think they are just biding time and will take God seriously later.  Do not be deceived!  The expiry date of your grace period is fast approaching.

Like I said, Princess Diana might have been planning for her wedding. What she didn’t know was that she was not far from the night of her exitus.  She was oblivious to the fact that she was to be the subject of the largest funeral of all time. She didn’t know the time.   

Do you know the time?  Do we know the time?                                                   

If God has told you to do some work, the clock has begun to tick.  A time will come when you will no longer be able to fulfil that instruction.  

Sometimes God speaks to you:  “Finance my Kingdom.”   Perhaps that comes along with a five-year period wherein you can obey Him.  Perhaps He tells you:  “Go out as a missionary.”  Maybe that instruction has a ten-year lease.  Some people spend eight years of that period doing other things and then in the last two years, attempt to obey God. But their time is almost up. Nothing effective can be done in the remaining two years.

One day, God is going to remove the element of time from our lives.  This has been prophesied in the book of Revelation where He swore that there would no longer be time. But until then, everything we have to do is very much related to a ticking clock.  

Dear Christian, if you think you have forever to please Him you are living in the highest kind of deception.   

And sware by him that liveth for ever and ever, who created heaven, and the things that therein are, and the earth, and the things that therein are, and the sea, and the things which are therein, that there should be time no longer:

Revelation 10:6

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

Ecclesiastes 3:1

I read a book in which the author said, “Write the books you intend to write and write them now.”  He continued, “At another stage of your life, you will not write the same things you would have written then.”   How true that is. Perhaps if I were to write the books I wrote some years ago now, I would not write them in the same way today.  

Five More Lives

Once, my children were playing on their play station.  There was this creature that was making its way through a jungle with all sorts of amazing traps and ambushes. Gigantic wheels would appear and roll over their player.   Deep ridges would appear into which the player would fall. Eagles flew over trying to kill the player.  As I watched, my son’s player was suddenly destroyed by a huge animal, which came from nowhere.   

Then I said, “Oh, sorry, that is the end of the game.  You’ve lost your player.”    

But he answered “Oh, don’t worry I have five more lives.  The game is not over at all.”

The computer games of our world have deceived us into thinking that we have multiple lives.  We have nothing but one life and one death.  The clock is ticking and opportunities are passing by.

There will even be a time when you will hear the Word of God but will not be able to repent. In the book of John, Jesus said, “Do not say that there are yet four months.”   In other words do not give yourself extra time. This is the time of the harvest. It is time to respond now.

Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest.

John 4:35

Gordon Lindsay, a man of God, who built Bible schools and churches in the sixties, wrote this powerful poem. It depicts the life of a young man who was offered the opportunity to get involved in the harvest. He procrastinated until he was too old to obey God.  He never intended to disregard the call of God. But before he realized, his life was over.  Read this poem by Gordon Lindsay.  I believe it will bless your heart.   

Sunrise and skies are fair.  A day begins without a care!  A day for joy!  A day for leisure! A day for thrills! A day for pleasure!  Youth is merry and young.  Youth is gay.  The great reaper is far away.

But there is a call, ‘tis the master’s voice!  I need you today, may I be your choice.  A harvest is waiting and the fields are white.  Will you join the reapers in the morning bright?  Awake, oh youth, to the heavenly vision.  Because multitudes, multitudes are in the valley of decision.  The morning sun high above the earth!   

A cry of distress in the midst of mirth!  Heathen are born and heathen are dying. 

Is there none to hear them crying?  “Oh yes,” said the youth.  Count me as one to help in this harvest till the day is done.  Yet he lingered on for a little more fun.   

High sun, high noon; you’ll be hearing from me soon.  I’ve married a wife, I’ve property to see; five yoke of oxen acquired by me.  I’ll soon heed the call. I’ll join the band. Ready to give the reapers a hand, but he carried on. He had a bargain in hand.   

Afternoon sun and afternoon light, the golden ore hastened its flight.  Conscience still hard memories daunted.  Wealth, he had acquired, yet more was wanted.  Many were the possessions he proudly flaunted; houses and barns, lands and farms, streams and ponds, stocks and bonds. Chickens and hogs, forest and logs, crops and flack, meadows and haystacks, orchards and berries, vineyards and cherries.   

Day was waxing, day was waning, still the rich man was entertaining for a sinister voice had spoken and said, ‘On with the fun, on with the dance. Go ahead and make merry while you have the chance.  You’re a man of the times, you’re ten feet tall.  He saw time yet for the call.  So a little more jolly and a little more fun.’  And the hours slipped away until there were none.

Sunrise to sun fall.  The day was wasting on the western wall.  Hands still busy with a thousand thing.  As evening descends and curfew brings.  The day had faded into twilight red.  As multitudes hasten to join the dead.  

 “I am ready”, “I am ready” said the man at last.  But shaking hands could not hold fast.  His hair unnoticed had turned to gray.  Still he thought it was yesterday.  Alas, harvest past, it was too late.  To save those who had gone to a Christless grave.

Where is the silver and where is the gold?  Where are the possessions to another soul? Where are the sheep that grazed the hill?  And where are the cattle that drank from the river? Where are the barns that were filled with plenty?  And where are the thoroughbreds one hundred and twenty?  Where are the heirlooms? Where are the treasures?  Where is the laughter? Where are the pleasures?  Where are the porters? Where is the wine?  Where are the delicacies? And the dinners that are so fine?

Sun sunk low.  And night descended. The summer is gone, the harvest is ended.  O for a chance for time extended!!  A wasted life was never intended!!  Sun fall and noon rise. What is left of the rich man’s prize?  Go out to the valley to yonder hill, and see the marble standing still.  Treasures were offered in heaven.  But he took instead the cold reward of the unsaved dead!

And what of us who live today?  This is our home let us not stay!!  A call to the harvest till it shall end.  Work now, work fast, and reap my friend.  New dawn and sunrise!  Till the faithful the master will give the prize.

by Dag Heward-Mills

[tinybarracuda]

Doubt; a mile-long prose.

Doubt.

My best friend. One of my only real, constant companions.

Doubt. In the form of my thoughts. Devouring every single part of my brain. Occupying every single space in my head. An intangible being, an incredible heck of a mess.

It might just be everything I've ever lived on. It might just be the only the thing I perfectly knew. It's a constant shadow, yet a hidden one. It is present in all times. Every single second. It begs to be noticed, to be acknowledged by my sight. It demands every single piece of my attention. From the moment I open my eyes, to the last minute I struggled to be awake at night.

Doubt. The twin of faith.

Doubt. That one thing you wish hadn't ever existed. That one selfish creature that destroys all the hopes. The only reckless animal I've ever encountered that kept tearing the walls of my fortress of dreams apart, throws it religiously into the dark chasm of forgotten matter, leaving the castle built from my most treasured emotions into ruins.

Doubt. A constant being that presents itself in the only moments of my life that made me feel the most important emotions I never knew I was capable of. It shows itself when it knows that I am bargaining with a great deal of precious feelings.

Doubt.

Present when I first fell in love.

Present when I kept myself awake because I set my eyes on this little, innocent boy, wondering if I'll ever be able to capture his heart the way he unexpectedly captured mine.

Doubt. Present when this little boy became a friend, a close one. Present when this little boy looked into my eyes and made enough promises to make me fall in love quite foolishly. Present when he gave me enough reasons to lift my hopes up. Present when he sang this song when he tried to get me back after a stupid little fight the night before. Present in every silence we created down the hidden staircase every time we wanted to spend a few moments with each other. Present when he and I worked on this dream house as a project with our own agenda  of really having a home exactly like that in the future, when he made puns and pick-up lines about glues and fences and tiny little windows. Present when my mother met him and acknowledged him and even liked him for me. Present when he stared at the colorful pieces of paper pasted onto the walls of my bedroom. Present when I tried to push him past my doorway but he didn't budge and laughed and smiled at me and almost wrapped his arms around me instead. When he said he'll come back someday, as someone who'll be by my side for a long time. When I thought we were going pretty well.

Doubt was present when he started to end our conversations with the most painful things you can hear from a boy you loved at the age of 12. Present when he started to break my heart without looking twice. Present when he started to become that person I never wanted to love, when he started to change and become worse and be the epitome of a mistake. Present when we were separated by the flame of silence that we all knew too well that he was responsible for igniting. Present when he talked to me two years later, saying sorry and putting his arm around my shoulder as he walked with me down the stairs after we locked away the last few pieces of our love, never to be recognized by neither of us ever again. When I put all the last feelings I had for him into that last smile I gave him, the last laugh I shared with him, the last time I acknowledged the way he squeezed my shoulder. Present every time now after our closure that he would reach out, like he always does, his signature move. His default gesture for me. Present when I told myself over and over, that I wouldn't love another boy like I loved him.

Doubt. Present when I stayed awake wondering why I started loving him and why he started ending it. Present when I started throwing away my poems about his absence. Present when I started to fall asleep quite more easily.

Present when his haunting slowly and finally came into a halt.

Doubt. Present when his pair of Asian eyes were all of a sudden replaced by your two, beautiful  brown ones.

Doubt. Emphasized by my thoughts the very moment I saw you leaning against the wall and willingly letting tears roll down your cheeks. The time I realised I still had those tiny feelings for you back in sixth grade and I knew too well that this is about to go nowhere. The first time my heart ached because of you, the very first time I held your gaze for more than one damned second, the time you stayed next to me and bugged me restlessly so we can watch Harry Potter together in the middle of a tiring day, when you kept insisting that I take the seat next to you, when you snatched the camera from my hands and secretly took a photo or two of me going through schoolwork next to you, that one time I laughed at you because you made me do your makeup and you looked hilariously pretty in my favourite  eye shadow look, the very first time I let you squeeze my fingers mindlessly with yours, the time I was the only one there beside you to feel your heart pounding with adrenaline against your chest, when you held my waist and I had my hands on that space between your neck and shoulders and we danced to the rhythm of that pretty song playing at 11:38 in the middle of the night in my dress and sneakers and you being so undeniably handsome in your handsome, handsome suit,

And the very first time I decided to rest my head on your shoulder; I knew doubt was present. When you sat down next to me and listened to the music playing in my head, when you kept getting close to me, when you didn't want to say goodbye yet so you trudged along behind me and had both your hands on my shoulders as I walked, when you nudged me out of the blue and asked if I want to grab a snack with you and I just had to make an excuse to take the long cut so I could enjoy your presence for a little longer.

Even when I told you I liked you, when you started to drop hints, and even when you told me you had reciprocated my feelings, I knew doubt was just around the corner. Waiting to be mentioned once again in my poetry. Allowing me to slowly fall yet again into its deceiving arms. Watching me break into a cry and sink onto my knees and down, down I go and there I was sitting on that dirty bathroom floor at two in the dead of the night and staring at nothing as I was being consumed by overthinking; an offspring of Doubt.

Doubt. Present when you didn't show up. Present every time you say "someday". Present when we got too excited for the day you'll get your phone so you can finally call me. Present when you asked for my number. Present when I started to write about you. When I knew I was falling in love, when it started to coldly remind me that I was making yet another tragic mistake, Doubt was there.

Doubt. Present when you told me your parents found out. Present when my mother warned me yet again about heartbreak and pain and the endless nights of crying that she was very well aware of. Present when I woke up without a single message from you. Present when you stopped trying to call. Present when I listened to your voice messages. Present when I said I understood. Present when I said I'm okay and when I said I wouldn't dare feel otherwise. Present when I realized I'm desperately in need of you. When I knew it already hurts knowing it still has to be a long time before I see you again. When I knew I had to make a few mistakes again for you. When I knew I still have several more rules to break. And when I saw you again; Doubt, just laughed and laughed with so much cruelty and evil running in its veins, when I saw you finally so close to me yet I didn't know why but something held me back. Something makes me just want to stand back but oh, did I let myself continuously stare at you and ponder all day at why did God let me share the same, inevitable feelings with a person so beautifully molded like you, with that perfect hair and beautiful, beautiful brown of your eyes that always finds its way into the bright black of mine and the way you just laugh, that talent of yours that lulls me into a daydream every time I hear you play River Flows In You by Yiruma and that nice, kind and humble personality and that heart-stopping smile of yours and I kept marvelling at the thought that maybe I don't deserve too much like you all at once.

Doubt was present when I saw you and you ignored me. And there I was, dumbfounded in the middle of the campus, wanting to slowly melt into the asphalt and let my remains be crushed into oblivion. But days later, Doubt tried to ease its playful tactics and decided to let me be happy.

But it still lingered in the following scenes.

Doubt was also present every time I see your face and hear your voice and take in your scent. Every damn time. When you spend the day next to me and every time your hand reaches for mine but at the last second you choose to reach farther behind me and wrap your arms around me instead and you play with my hair and you laugh onto me and you smile like you're the happiest person on earth just by doing those things and when you pull me close, too close and I could just make out every single detail of your face like the way your lashes are all so beautiful and that perfect brown of your eyes and every line on your lip and I just can't help but stare at them every time you talk and when you grab my arms all of a sudden just to hold me tight and I didn't care if it cost me a damn little heart attack and every time you look so defeated when you can't find my tickle spot after a whole minute of trying and I just laugh at you and you let me bury my face into your shoulders or chest I don't know but you wrap your arms around me when I do so, and I can't help but conclude that your arms became my home now.

A home that gives me comfort, a home that never fails to keep me warm and effortlessly makes me happy and alive and radiant from the inside. Every time you nudge me restlessly to do schoolwork together and you and me just sitting there arguing about which formula was the right one and I just can't stop staring at your stupid little smile when you knew you lost the argument and damn I just wish Doubt really just wasn't there because every time I get lost in my thoughts about just how perfect you are and I can't understand why there's always this thought

This thought that maybe you are too much for me and I'm too less of a human to be someone for you because maybe I'm too broken or too dead inside and too much of everything I never wanted to be but I just want to keep you close because as far as I know you are the only thing in this entire universe that could keep me happy and alive and on my toes and I want you to know that but I'm just far too scared that maybe you wouldn't know how that feels and that's not how I make you feel because for all I know I'm this fragile but already broken little girl who knows nothing but heartbreak and this friend of hers named Doubt.

How I wish Doubt wasn't even here, I could've been better off without him.

But Doubt's twin; Faith, decided to be a little stronger than him at the times Faith knew I was growing weaker. Faith can give me a small nudge, just to keep me standing for a little while longer. Even when Doubt tried to take the best of me, I know that Faith is worth holding on to. But Faith can do just little, for it can always be overpowered by its twin. A losing battle, like always.

But like the twins they are, they are both constant. Always around the corner. Faith just remains unseen, undisturbed, quiet, obedient. It does not beg not even a single fragment of my attention, it is calm, not violent, peaceful, and is always waiting for me to give it its freedom to take over; waiting for me to overcome its twin. And when I do, it will not cease its force, it will stay, like the way I knew I want you to. Faith remains a being that is not often present in all my poetry, but look closely, and we'll both realize that Faith is one of the only reasons why I'm writing this down. Faith is a creature who enjoys sunsets with another creature much like himself, yet also much like Doubt; Love.

Doubt. A creature that lures my thoughts into its plate and feasts on the agony and anxiety and depression they bring with them and turns them into something much, much worse and a lot more like itself.

Doubt. The whole time without a face. Most of the time does not show itself. Most of the time found in the deepest, darkest parts of my mind in the deepest, darkest time of the day.

Doubt. Most of the time a senseless, unforgiving monster.

Because sometimes, Doubt was right. I should have followed it. I should have listened. I shouldn’t have told you how I felt. I shouldn’t have wasted another second on another episode of Doubt’s favourite hobby: breaking my heart.

Because Doubt was there. Doubt was there when yet again, we found ourselves in a tragedy. When we found ourselves yet again encaged in what seems like hopelessness. When we found ourselves yet again in tears.

When we decided to let it all go, when you decided to give me the space you thought I need, when we said we’ll be strong on our own, and when we said we’ll just be holding on to bare Hope for the future. And that’s what’s left: Hope. Not Love, Hope.

But the original character still remains, as well as Faith.

Because for all I know,

Doubt, ironic as it may seem; is my old friend. A friend that never left.

But I would be wrong, oh how I admit I would be wrong to say this,

But would it matter to you, if I said that Doubt has replaced its face

with a face exactly

like

yours?

//

HELLO THERE! Thank you for taking the time to read this excruciatingly long prose! It’s been sitting in my phone for months now and only just then I was able to put it out here. Thank You for making it to the very last sentence! I wrote this in the midst of a mess when I was in eighth grade, and then continued again after a bad heartbreak on my tenth. Too early for bad heartbreaks, right? But hey, it ignited this spark in me, I never knew I could write this much. 

You’ll hear from me again real soon. Until then, I’ll leave you with this post. Thank You!