#father mark

[tomicscomics]

11/10/2023

Aw...

JOKE-OGRAPHY: The class is drawing pictures of Bible verses.  The girl, Agnes, chooses to draw one of her favorites, but she's misheard the words.  In the actual story, Jesus tells His disciples "parables" (or stories with morals).  She mishears "parables" as "pair of bulls," so she thinks Jesus had two disciples who were male bovine.  She's excited to draw Jesus's animal friends and has a whole headcanon where they're the children of a cow who was in the manger when Jesus was born.  The news that she's misheard the story destroys her, and it takes weeks for her faith to recover.

[griseldabanks]

"Worth a Thousand" and "The Ambassadors" for the fic writer game!

132 words for Worth a Thousand! (Tentatively calling this chapter "waves of darkness" for now, but I'll probably glean a title from "Diving Bell" by Starset, because that song perfectly captures how cheerful this chapter is going to be.)

There is no shelter from the cold. Nowhere to hide from the darkness. The Soldier huddles beneath the one last, flickering light, watching the waves grow higher and higher.

(I also didn't realize I was going to do it in present tense, but that's how it's coming so far!)

155 words for The Ambassadors!

But then Father Mark peeked up at him with kindly brown eyes and gave him a reassuring wink. Swallowing hard, Sean murmured the same words he'd heard Father Mark speak so many times. “May the grace of the Great Eagle be upon you.”

Kick-in-the-Pants Writer's Game

[griseldabanks]

Sean stared at the tiny, bedraggled creature that had just clawed its way out of the mess of shiny black eggshell on the scrubbed surface of the wooden table. It looked a bit like a lizard, with a long, swishing tail and sinuous body covered in scales as black as the egg. But its little head bobbed on a long, slender neck as it looked around the room with huge eyes that glowed golden in the firelight. And the leathery, bat-like wings that scraped along behind it made it clear, if nothing else did, that this was no lizard.

Those round, yellowish eyes looked up and latched onto his. It opened its mouth, made a little growling sound...and Sean discovered that he could understand what those sounds meant.

“You aren't my mother, are you?” the baby dragon squeaked.

“Um...no.”

Somehow, it seemed the dragon could understand him too. “I didn't think so,” it said, reaching back with its sinuous neck to knock one last little shard of eggshell off its back with its nose. “Your voice sounds different.”

Sean wondered if he should tell the dragon that its mother was dead. He probably should, eventually. But thankfully, Father Mark returned at that moment with a plate of bread and cheese, forestalling that moment. He brought the food over to the table, eyes riveted to the dragon. “So,” he breathed, sinking into a chair as he set the plate on the table, “it's happened.”

The dragon's nostrils flared as its head whipped around to eye the food. “Is that food? My mother told me all about it! She promised me she'd have a treat ready for me just as soon as I hatched!”

Sean broke off a bit of the dry, crumbly cheese and held it out in his palm. “Do you want some?”

The dragon reached over with its long neck, examining the cheese from all sides and snuffing it curiously. Then it opened its mouth, revealing a row of fine, needle-sharp teeth, and bit off half of the chunk in Sean's hand.

Sean watched the dragon chewing thoughtfully, a dozen different emotions passing over its face. He'd never imagined a dragon's face could be so expressive.

“What kind of meat is that?” the dragon said once he'd finished his bite. “It didn't taste anything like my mother described!”

“Oh...that's because it's not meat,” Sean explained. “It's cheese.”

“Cheeeeeeeeeeez.” The dragon extended its neck as it drew the growl out extra-long, as if to taste the word on his tongue just like the first food it had ever eaten. “My mother didn't tell me about that.” It cocked its head to one side, then the other, eyeing the remaining food in Sean's palm like a bird contemplating a worm. Then it shuffled its wings, almost like a shrug, and lapped up the remaining crumbs of cheese. The tongue was rough against Sean's skin.

“You gon' haff sum?” the dragon mumbled brightly.

Sean found himself smiling, not caring that Father Mark stared at him as if he'd grown another head. “Sure.” He picked up the knife on the plate and cut himself a slice of bread and cheese.

“Oooooh, what's that?” the dragon demanded, licking its chops and dancing closer to the plate, its little claws clacking against the wood. It sniffed at the breadcrumbs on the tabletop. “I wanna try some!”

And so human and dragon broke bread together for the first time.

The Chesterton Challenge: Day 6

Welcome to Day 6 of the Chesterton Challenge! If you haven't already, make sure you check out all the creations in the notes of yesterday's post.

Today's Optional Prompt is: Cheese

Because how can you have a Chesterton-themed creative challenge without referencing his famous quote: "Poets have been strangely silent on the subject of cheese"?

With this prompt, one could write a cheese-themed poem (I welcome as many as you'll give me), but there are plenty of other directions one could take this prompt. You could cook a dish involving cheese, create artwork in homage of cheese, or even write a cheesy story. Be creative!

Whatever you create, make sure to show us or tell us about it by reblogging or replying to this post.

Now go forth and create!

[fear-is-truth]

imagine…

bathing in the afterglow of making slow, sweet love to charlie. the room is still, the only sounds are your soft breaths mingling in the quiet; the air is heavy with the scent of sex and sweat, your bodies tangled in the sheets. your fingers brush lightly over his bare back, tracing the ridges of his spine before they accidentally catch on the raised welts etched into his flesh, and he winces—and you freeze.

you’ve already guessed the reason for them—his guilt, his need to punish himself for this, for you. charlie is not the confident, charismatic priest now, the one who preaches with fire in his voice and conviction in his eyes. here, in this private sanctuary, he’s raw, fragile, and tortured in ways only you ever see.

“you don’t have to do this,” you say, your hand brushing over his back, carefully avoiding the marks this time. “i know why you do, but it doesn’t have to be this way.”

he turns his head slightly, dark brown eyes catching the faint light, but the usual bravado isn’t there. his gaze is tired, haunted, and yet, there’s still a tenderness in the way he looks at you.

“it’s... necessary,” his hand comes up to rest against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as if to soothe the guilt you’re feeling. “for my wickedness. for this.”

you shake your head, biting your lip, struggling to find the words. “but you don’t have to hurt yourself like this. there must be other ways..”

his eyes darken for a moment, his expression hardening, but then it softens again, just slightly. “sweet girl. if i don’t... if i don’t atone, what kind of priest am i?”

you rest your hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“i don’t want to be the reason you do this to yourself.”

he closes his eyes, a small, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “you’re not. but even if you were...” he presses his forehead against yours,

“it’s worth it.”

m.list © fear-is-truth do not repost, modify or translate

[crismakesstuff]

“What if I become him and I don’t even know it?”

[themultifanshipper]

Was doing.... research? For a fic and came across the best pic I've ever seen:

What could he have possibly said that caused that reaction??

[tampire]

City of the Wolves

[ricky-mortis]

I love playing dress up with the blorbo

[dogearedheart]

What use is a door if you can't exit? A door that can't be opened is called a wall. My father was on the other side of the wall.

[shatter me, tahereh mafi || home, supernatural || heartburn, nora ephron || devil's trap, supernatural || how do we forgive our fathers?, dick lourie || dream a little dream of me, supernatural || my father’s house (springsteen on broadway), bruce springsteen || everybody loves a clown, supernatural || father, the front bottoms || unknown || on the head of a pin, supernatural || lullaby on mount moriah, and: dioskouri, traci brimhall || mark maish || obit, victoria chang]

[anxietybumblebee]

Happy father's day to these weirdos and their freaky ghost kids !!

And to them only. (Joke)

[your-local-granny]

fall from grace

[griseldabanks]

Father Mark for the OC bingo 👉👈

- @WolfsbaneAndOtherFunActivities

Oh, cool! Means a lot to me that someone is interested in my dear Father Mark <3 His creation stems from my realization that all the priests (at least the vaguely-Catholic ones) in fantasy tend to be evil and/or corrupt, and I was like, "Hey! How 'bout we...not do that?"

He's a sweet, gentle soul, father figure to the protagonist, and without him, none of the story would happen because...well, the two main characters would probably be killed in Chapter 1 D:

[griseldabanks]

Sean gasped in pain as Father Mark gently began to wrap a bandage around his hand.

“I warned you not to get too close to the fire,” Father Mark said mildly. “Perhaps next time you'll heed my warning?”

Sean sniffled, watching his hand steadily being encased in white. “Wanned to see the fee-nicks,” he mumbled.

The chuckle that met his words was not an unkind one. “There wasn't a real phoenix in the fire, Sean.”

Frowning up at the priest sitting on a stool in front of him, Sean used his uninjured hand to wipe his nose. “But it's the Fee-Nicks Festival.”

“That's right,” Father Mark said patiently, “but the phoenix is a metaphor.”

“Metta-for?”

“Yes. Like a symbol.” Tying off the bandage, Father Mark gently held Sean's hand in both of his own weathered hands. “Sean, do you remember what the three days of the Phoenix Festival are?”

Sean immediately straightened up. It felt like they were in class, which was funny because he was sitting on the side of his little cot in the room he shared with Father Mark, rather than out in the sanctuary with all the other village children as Father Mark taught them. “Ember Day, Ash Day, Life Day,” he rattled off in the sing-song way they all used for reciting. “We set aside these days to commemberate the Eagle-Son's sacrifice for us in the flames. He has burned that we may not.”

“And so may it be,” Father Mark said solemnly. “Very good, Sean. And just as the Eagle-Son burned for a day and a night, so do we light a great bonfire in the middle of the village on Ember Day, to remember what he has done for us. And what is tomorrow, Sean?”

“Ash Day,” Sean said, flexing his bandaged fingers experimentally. They couldn't move much, and when he tried, they stung something fierce, so he quickly stopped.

“And what do we do on Ash Day?” Father Mark prompted.

With a sigh, Sean flopped down onto his back on the cot. “Nobody lights a fire and everybody pretends to be sad.” Ash Day was the most boring part of the festival. Sean didn't see why they couldn't just have Ember Day and then skip ahead to Life Day.

“Ash Day is a day of reflection and prayer,” Father Mark said, tugging the blankets out from under Sean and tucking him in. “The Eagle-Son's ashes settled to the ground and lay in silence for a day, and so we put out our fires and consider the evil that burns in our own hearts. For those were the flames that killed the Son of the Great Eagle.”

Sean shivered, pulling the blanket up to his nose. He'd just realized how chilly it was, in this back room of the stone chapel, without a fire crackling merrily on the hearth. He thought of the Eagle-Son, burned alive by wicked men. Just a quick brush of his fingers against the flames, and his own hand ached miserably. He couldn't even imagine how much more it would hurt to burn all over until you were dead.

“Sean, do you remember the script for this week?”

“'Out of the ashes, new life will spring; out of the flames, an eagle's wing.'”

“Yes, Sean.” Father Mark smiled down at him, smoothing messy brown hair out of Sean's eyes. “And that script speaks of Life Day. The day the Eagle-Son rose from the ashes like a phoenix and returned to life—eternal life that we all may share. That is why we celebrate the Phoenix Festival, to remember what the Great Eagle has done for us, and why we need not fear death.”

“I'm not 'fraid of dying,” Sean said, yawning hugely. Now that his hand wasn't hurting anymore, he wanted to hurry up and go to sleep so they could get through Ash Day faster. “'Cause once I die, I'll get to see Mother and Father in the heavens. And then we can all go flying together with the Great Eagle and the Eagle-Son.”

“Yes, I'm sure you will.” Father Mark's voice sounded sad for some reason.

But Sean was too tired to try to figure it out. He snuggled down farther under the blankets and dreamed of soaring through the clouds on huge wings as soft as the pillow under his head.

In the dream, his wings were black.

The Chesterton Challenge: Day 1

Welcome to Day 1 of the Chesterton Challenge! The beginning of a month full of creativity! I can't wait to head on this journey with all of you!

Today's Optional Prompt is: Tradition.

Chesterton was an advocate for tradition in secular and religious contexts, and May 1st is a day associated with all kinds of traditions, from May Day to St. Joseph the Worker to the opening day of writing and art challenges.

You can interpret the word any way you want. Will you write about a fantasy world's traditions? Write an essay about your favorite springtime tradition? Create artwork within a traditional art medium? The sky's the limit!

Whatever you create, make sure to show us or tell us about it by reblogging or replying to this post.

Now go forth and create!

[thebrainrotsreal]

My dear papa taught me how to howl, how to bear my teeth and growl. Anyways, haven't caught up with s2 just yet but still thinking about Mark being forced to hit harder for just pure survival. Born to be kind, forced to bear your teeth.

[crismakesstuff]

I Am The Face Of Love’s

RAGE

[haoovn]

"I thought- I thought you were stronger."