#i will live in ignorance as a mockery of who i once was amen

[crowfatherd]

my oc now . his names alonzo ashe

diversity win ! your suicidal older brother figure is a latino !!!

[hieromonkcharbel]

Prayer to St Mary Magdalene (Feast July 22nd)

by St. Anselm

St. Mary Magdalene, you came with springing tears to the spring of mercy, Christ; from Him your burning thirst was abundantly refreshed through Him your sins were forgiven; by Him your bitter sorrow was consoled.

My dearest lady, well you know by your own life how a sinful soul can be reconciled with its Creator, what counsel a soul in misery needs, what medicine will restore the sick to health. It is enough for us to understand, dear friend of God, to whom were many sins forgiven, because she loved much.

Most blessed lady, I who am the most evil and sinful of men do not recall your sins as a reproach, but call upon the boundless mercy by which they were blotted out. This is my reassurance, so that I do not despair; this is my longing, so that I shall not perish.

I say this of myself, miserably cast down into the depths of vice, bowed down with the weight of crimes, thrust down by my own hand into a dark prison of sins, wrapped round with the shadows of darkness.

Therefore, since you are now with the chosen because you are beloved and are beloved because you are chosen of God, I, in my misery, pray to you, in bliss; in my darkness, I ask for light; in my sins, redemption; impure, I ask for purity.

Recall in loving kindness what you used to be, how much you needed mercy, and seek for me that same forgiving love that you received when you were wanting it. Ask urgently that I may have the love that pierces the heart; tears that are humble; desire for the homeland of heaven; impatience with this earthly exile; searing repentance; and a dread of torments in eternity.

Turn to my good that ready access that you once had and still have to the spring of mercy.

Draw me to him where I may wash away my sins; bring me to him who can slake my thirst; pour over me those waters that will make my dry places fresh. You will not find it hard to gain all you desire from so loving and so kind a Lord, who is alive and reigns and is your friend.

For who can tell, beloved and blest of God, with what kind familiarity and familiar kindness he himself replied on your behalf to the calumnies of those who were against you? How He defended you, when the proud Pharisee was indignant, how He excused you, when your sister complained, how highly He praised your deed, when Judas begrudged it.

And, more than all this, what can I say, how can I find words to tell, about the burning love with which you sought him, weeping at the sepulchre, and wept for Him in your seeking?

How He came, who can say how or with what kindness, to comfort you, and made you burn with love still more; how He hid from you when you wanted to see Him, and showed Himself when you did not think to see Him; how He was there all the time you sought Him, and how He sought you when, seeking Him, you wept.

But you, most holy Lord, why do You ask her why she weeps? Surely You can see; her heart, the dear life of her soul, is cruelly slain. O love to be wondered at; O evil to be shuddered at! You hung on the wood, pierced by iron nails, stretched out like a thief for the mockery of wicked men; and yet, "Woman," You say, "why are you weeping?" She had not been able to prevent them from killing You, but at least she longed to keep Your Body for a while with ointments lest it decay. No longer able to speak with You living, at least she could mourn for You dead. So, near to death and hating her own life, she repeats in broken tones the words of life which she had heard from the living.

And now, besides all this, even the Body which she was glad, in a way, to have kept, she believes to have gone. And can You ask her, "Woman, why are you weeping?" Had she not reason to weep? For she had seen with her own eyes -- if she could bear to look -- what cruel men cruelly did to You; and now all that was left of You from their hands she thinks she has lost. All hope of You has fled, for now she has not even Your lifeless Body to remind her of You.

And someone asks, "Who are you looking for? Why are you weeping?"

You, her sole joy, should be the last thus to increase her sorrow. But You know it all well, and thus you wish it to be, for only in such broken words and sighs can she convey a cause of grief as great as hers. The love You have inspired You do not ignore,

And indeed You know her well, the Gardener, who planted her soul in His garden. What You plant, I think You also water. Do You water, I wonder, or do You test her? In fact, You are both watering and putting to the test.

But now, good Lord, gentle Master, look upon your faithful servant and disciple, so lately redeemed by Your Blood, and see how she burns with anxiety, desiring You, searching all round, questioning, and what she longs for is nowhere found. Nothing she sees can satisfy her, since You whom alone she would behold, she sees not.

What then? How long will my Lord leave his beloved to suffer thus? Have You put off compassion now You have put on incorruption? Did You let go of goodness when you laid hold of immortality?

Let it not be so, Lord. You will not despise us mortals now You have made Yourself immortal, for You made yourself a mortal in order to give us immortality.

And so it is; for love's sake He cannot bear her grief for long or go on hiding Himself. For the sweetness of love He shows Himself who would not for the bitterness of tears.

The Lord calls His servant by the name she has often heard and the servant knows the voice of her own Lord. I think, or rather I am sure, that she responded to the gentle tone with which He was accustomed to call, "Mary." What joy filled that voice, so gentle and full of love. He could not have put it more simply and clearly:

"I know who you are and what you want; behold Me; do not weep, behold Me; I am He whom you seek."

At once the tears are changed; I do not believe that they stopped at once, but where once they were wrung from a heart broken and self-tormenting they flow now from a heart exulting. How different is, "Master!" from "If you have taken Him away, tell me"; and, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him," has a very different sound from, "I have seen the Lord, and he has spoken to me."

But how should I, in misery and without love, dare to describe the love of God and the blessed friend of God? Such a flavour of goodness will make my heart sick if it has in itself nothing of that same virtue. But in truth, You who are very Truth, You know me well and can testify that I write this for the love of Your love, my Lord, my most dear Jesus. I want Your love to burn in me as You command so that I may desire to love You alone and sacrifice to You a troubled spirit, "a broken and a contrite heart."

Give me, O Lord, in this exile, the bread of tears and sorrow for which I hunger more than for any choice delights. Hear me, for Your love, and for the dear merits of your beloved Mary, and Your blessed Mother, the greater Mary. Redeemer, my good Jesus, do not despise the prayers of one who has sinned against You but strengthen the efforts of a weakling that loves You. Shake my heart out of its indolence, Lord, and in the ardour of Your love bring me to the everlasting sight of Your glory where with the Father and the Holy Spirit You live and reign, God, for ever. Amen.

[elexica]

Give & Toke

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069568

Happy 4/20 Yugihoes,

Please accept a humble posting of my puppyshipping/violetshipping weedfic. 

Joey showed up at Kaiba's shiny new dispensary for the sole purpose of kicking Kaiba's ass.

It does not go as planned.

A gift for @sky-kaijou​ / @sky-kaijou-writes​ in honor of the 2020 New Zealand Cannabis Reefer-endum. TW: Marijuana use and sale.

Title by @auroraXborealis <3 For the Professional Rivals prompt of AU-Gust. . . . (context for this fic) Marijuana is decriminalized currently in Domino City, and stores can be licensed through a regulatory scheme similar to that of California.

Full story under the cut

Joey stomped into the new cannabis shop in the neighborhood.  It looked like an Apple store: white walls, smooth white tables, iPads and clerks in matching polos.  Gentrification had taken his neighborhood by storm, spinning the older apartment complexes into glamorous condos, replacing the older styled homes with sleek modern imitations, and leaving everyone who couldn’t keep up forced to either move away or to the streets.

Joey’s own rent was soaring, and so was his bitterness towards the invaders to his territory.  And especially this cursed-ass pot shop.  The shiny new dispensary hadn’t made a terrible dent in his sales, but he couldn’t keep up with the variety, the quality, or the convenience.

It was a travesty to his profession, is what it was.  Joey had been dealing for years—he’d never gotten an allowance from his father and passing a little pot along had made up the difference.  Once he graduated high school, it morphed into something of a full-time gig.  That hadn’t been his intention.  It wasn’t like he was trying to move up the distribution ladder or become the next gang lord.  But he’d built a good network, and in an industry that ran on relationships and reputation, it was really going pretty well for him.

And this bastard had the gall to move into his territory!  Sell his soulless, corporate product to his loyal customers.  With this robotic, inhuman, unfeeling mockery of everything that weed is.

Joey spotted a mustachioed blue-polo wearing corporate shill and waved him over.  “I’m here ta talk ta yer manager.  Give him ‘a piece of my mind.”

“If you intend to make threats against Mr. Kaiba in some sort of gang turf nonsense, you have no idea the true power that you are—” the goon responded, placid energy souring.  Joey’s fists clenched tighter, body preparing for a fight.

“I’m not sure a piece of your mind would get you very far.”  While Joey was attempting to intimidate the soulless bud-tender, a tall brunet in a white suit with a light blue oxford shirt had stalked up behind him and interrupted.

Joey spun on the toe of his well-worn red Nike’s. “An’ who do ya think you are?”

The brunet crossed his arms over his chest.  “Seto Kaiba, the license-holder for this establishment.”

Joey nervously ran a hand through his messy blond hair.  He hadn’t expected the shop owner to be so young.  Or attractive.  All of his fight drained from him.  In Joey’s decade of experience, rival dealers were rarely so… professional and polished.  Joey felt instantly underdressed in his varsity jacket and jeans.

“Uh… well, yer in territory that doesn’t belong ta ya!”  Joey stammered.

“Is that so?  I assure you, I have all required state and local permits,” Kaiba answered, blue eyes narrowing.  The taller man let a stray glance to Joey’s old, green Jansport backpack. “Perhaps if you had a better view of my inventory, we could have a more amiable business relationship.  I’m not trying to alienate everyone in my industry.”

It was insane, the way the taller man could knock the fight out of him without even trying.  Joey had never considered that his enemy would possibly seek to de-escalate the situation.  Joey nodded and followed the taller man to the back, hypnotized.  He maybe shouldn’t have smoked a bowl before raiding the enemy facility.

Inside an equally pristine office, Kaiba lit a pre-rolled joint and took a long inhale.  He passed it across the desk, the rolling papers poised delicately between his forefinger and middle finger.

Joey accepted the joint and took a hit.  After an impressive pause, Kaiba released smoke rings from his lips slowly, in that perfect practiced way.  The smoke dissipated softly, fading from tight circles and clouding the air.  With no windows in the room, it seemed that his intent was to hot box it.  Joey wondered idly how the white marble of the desk was so free from dust or ash if Kaiba took to smoking here.

Joey passed back the joint before releasing his breath in a round of hacking coughs.  

While Joey was gasping for air and trying to gather his bearings, Kaiba produced a glass of water and a plain white ashtray.  He gently rested the joint on the edge.

“That was a proprietary strain—Blue Eyes White Dragon.  It’s Sativa.  I’m working on a hybrid model that has a significantly greater THC content.  But the current Blue Eyes plant has the highest percentage of CBD for Sativa plants currently on the market in Domino.  Thoughts?”  Kaiba unbuttoned his white blazer.

Joey’s eyes watered, and he managed to take a few sips from the glass.  “It tastes… unique.  Kinda minty?”

Kaiba nodded, raising the joint to take another hit.

“So, y’know, I came here to talk about ya encroaching on my business.  I’ve built up a book ‘a business in this part ‘a Domino, and I’m not gonna give up that easy!”  Joey said, straightening his shoulders.  He couldn’t tell if he was sitting up properly.  The world was already starting to feel a little warmer, fuzzier. His forehead sort of tingled like he had a third eye.

Once again, Kaiba blew out a series of flawless rings, staring into space.  The blue irises of his eyes were framed by smoke-induced redness.  “Yes, well, I have no intention of cowing to any threats.  I took this corrupt pharmaceutical company from my dead father, and I am turning it into something that can actually improve people’s lives.  And no puny street punk will stand in my way.”

“Oof.  Sorry for ya loss.”  Joey elected to ignore the last comment, as a gentleman.  And because, for the first time, he spotted a white holster tucked under the newly opened sport jacket.

“Don’t be, he was a bastard,” Kaiba said with a satisfied smirk.

Joey laughed at the insinuation.  He might’ve had more to say, under other circumstances, but Kaiba had shared the good shit.  Instead, the room felt a few degrees warmer than when he had entered and he removed his letterman jacket, revealing his toned biceps.

Kaiba was constructing another round of rings when his eyes met Joey’s sculpted arms.  His focus was completely dashed, and he ended up exhaling the rest of the smoke from his nose, like a dragon.

“Ha, ya see something ya like, rich boy?” Joey said with a signature grin, picking up the joint again.  It was already almost half-way spent.

Kaiba looked away dismissively.  “Irrelevant.  Mr. Wheeler, it was a matter of time before you paid my enterprise a visit.  As you have most likely noticed, there are certain elements of the trade in which I excel.  I am a gifted scientist, an expert businessman, and—”

“A robot?  You’ve had double the hits I have and ya won’t even crack a smile!  I dunno what yer tolerance has ta be, but ya ain’t human anymore.”

Kaiba rolled his eyes, tapping the joint against the ash tray to release some of the built-up cinders.  “There is a certain social element to this business that I have no interest in participating in.”

Joey leaned over a little in his chair.  “Is that so?”  He meant to have an interrogator’s pose and expression, but he was worried he just looked high as balls.  

Kaiba passed the still burning joint across the table, little red ember barely emanating light in the bright white office.  

“I would like to absorb your book of business and employ you as a bud-tender.”

Joey rejected the joint and cracked his knuckles, knowing that the action flexed his arm muscles.  An almost-imperceptible blush flashed across Kaiba’s cheeks.  “I’ve been my own boss, mostly, for a little while now.  Why should I be a glorified store clerk for ya?”

“You can’t possibly see this career continuing to serve you indefinitely.  You’ll need to go legit or go to jail.”  Kaiba lazily released one more puff of smoke before butting the joint.  “But, I am amenable to other arrangements.  What do you propose?”

Joey smiled at the suggestion.  “Partner.  It doesn’t haveta be fifty-fifty or anything, but I’ve built somethin’ up, and I know what I’m worth.  I gotta be making at least five g’s a month.”

Kaiba finally broke.  He laughed almost hysterically at the suggestion, doubling over and taking a full minute to get his breathing to settle.  “Yeah, ok.  That would be, maybe, a five percent share of the retail business.”

Joey stretched, resting his arms behind his head, giving Kaiba an eyeful of his tight white t-shirt and strong pectorals underneath.  “Ten percent of the retail company.”

Kaiba nodded, picked up his phone and typed away.  “The contract will be prepared presently.”

“Neato,” Joey said with a lecherous smile.  Everything felt soft, warm, comfortable—even if the room looked so sterile it could be used for a surgery.  “Now, what should we do with this time?”

Kaiba shifted in his seat and adjusted his light blue tie.

Joey leaned forward, planting an elbow on the desk.  “I got some ideas I think you’ll like, partner…”

Kaiba leaned over the desk as well, a small smile budding on his lips.  “Oh, already?”

“Yeah.  In this business, yer supposed to seal a contract with a kiss.”

“I do not think that’s custom—”

Joey closed the remaining distance and captured his lips in a searing kiss. Kaiba relaxed into the kiss almost instantly.  It was softer than Joey had expected.  Sweet and hot, with the flavors of mint, smoke, and cannabis on his partner’s lips.

Joey only broke it to walk over and climb into the brunet’s lap.

The contract was respectfully slid under the door.

FIN

[hannah-deactivated20220725]

Vampire Idol Rewrite Chapter 1: Elizabeth’s History

Words: 947

This is just a bit of background about Liz’s life before she met Nane. (: enjoy!

Vampire Idol Taglist (ask to be added or removed):

@leafgreen6, @bathingindirtyteacups, @amandahoyle, @wyldlynxx, @mrs-raven-writes, @daftydrafty, @jade-island-lives, @adaparkwrites, @magic-is-something-we-create, @violetcancerian (I feel like you asked me to be on this taglist a long time ago but feel free to ask me to be removed if that wasn’t the case).

When I was younger, I was… aimless. I had no real goals, no real ambitions. I didn’t really care enough about life to have any. After all, I literally had forever to come up with it. As long as I didn’t piss off some human that decided to become a hunter or huntress, I was A-okay. When I was younger, I tended to keep to myself, keep quiet, keep my head down. I know, laughable, right?

I wasn’t exactly the type to kill if it wasn’t totally necessary. I would kill to feed for a couple of days… or I’d kidnap to feed longer… I was constantly moving. I really wish that vampires had the abilities that they do in the books or movies and were able to teleport or turn into bats… hell, if I could become a bat, that would be amazing in so many ways.

However, the universe in the real world has not been so kind to my kind. We cannot teleport, cannot turn into any species other than humans. In fact, the only things that separate us from our lesser kind are our super strength as humans call it and our night sight… and, of course, our immortality. Oh, and who can forget the thirst for blood?

Vampire shows like to act like we need the sustenance in order to survive. I laugh at that. We actually don’t need anything. We don’t need food, don’t need blood. But we rather like blood. I’ve heard humans turned vampires talk about it… when they were humans they thought it was so gross to like blood but they thought it was really cool that vampires drank it. However, when you become vampires… it becomes a craving. One that’s difficult to ignore. It becomes something that whispers in your ear when you try to sleep and it won’t stop until you fulfill its whispering wishes.

That said, yes vampires will burst into ashes in the sun. However, it isn’t instantaneously. You do have time to get the fuck out of dodge, but not long. I’ve timed it before. It really depends on how pure of blood you are. Pureblood vampires tend to burst to flames within a couple of seconds, if not shorter. Those that were born human tend to have more like 5-6 seconds before they start flaming up. Those that have more powerful vampire blood, ironically, tend to burst into flames the quickest. I think I once timed a vampire bursting up after 2 seconds. I think that’s the quickest I’ve ever found. But once you catch flame, it cannot be put out. So once you’ve caught flame, you may as well scream your goodbyes between your squeals of agony.

When I was a teenager, I knew this young vampire. She was born of a family that was known for how powerful their family was. She was the youngest vampire I’d ever known to die. She burst into flames within a couple of seconds of being in the sun. She had stared up at the bright ball of light for too long, enchanted by its rays of warmth. She basked in that warmth for a little too long… and next thing you knew, I was gathering her ashes for her parents. All for naught, by the way. They ended up scattering them on the road just as some humans were driving by. Spat out about how dumb she was for standing in the sun for so long, in spite their warnings… that little girl was only about 4 or 5 years old. Her parents were fucked. I never looked at them the same after that.

I grew stronger… and more vicious. At least, that’s what I’m told. When I was young, I didn’t care for killing. It was just… so unnecessary. There were better, more efficient ways to get blood, but as I got older, the calling to kill, to feed… it became louder and more vivid. It started filling my head and I couldn’t ignore it so easily.

I think I was 13 when I had my first killing. It was a girl I went to school with. By the way, most of my kind would go to vampire-only schools, but since I was so peaceful, my parents allowed me to go to a human school. That said… that didn’t last that long. I mean, yes… it lasted from when I was about 6 until I was 13, but… well, some people last their entire adolescence going to a human’s school… my parents didn’t want any charges pressed against them, though, so they forced me to go to a vampire school. Kids would look at me like you just had your first kill? There would be mockery in their eyes. I didn’t like that too much.

So I became more… amenable to the idea of killing for fun, not just by accident. The girl that took me to my first intentional hunt was the girl that taught me how to kill the way I enjoy. She was the first vampire, the only vampire, I knew that enjoyed drinking blood out of the skulls of her victims. She would cut off their heads and skin it, tossing the skin aside until all she had left was a blood-soaked skull and she would work it like a woodworker working with wood… until it became the cup she wanted, and then she would enjoy a nice “glass” of blood. It was… it was fascinating. And I couldn’t stop being awed every time I saw her do it. And eventually, I picked it up myself.

Funny that I was the one that became famous for this… preference.

[pineaberry]

Fictober: #31

SWTOR

STARRING: Darth Malgus (RETURN OF THE BURNT POTATO!)

This one goes out to @doomhamster and @fluffynexu. I still owe you the rest of this fic, but I hope this will tide you over until I get to it! Also @sunsetofdoom. She’s always down for pron!

_______________________

Existence was a cruel, sadistic thing with a twisted sense of humor.

His entire life Malgus had fought for power and control heedless of the consequences. He knew what lay at the core of every sentient being: chaos. Deep down, they were all of them savages and the strongest would rule the weak. War was the perfect model for his philosophy. It was the logical conclusion of everything the Sith represented. To emerge victorious was to hold the chains of fate itself.

Friendships, family... love… he burned them all in the altar of war and cauterized his weaknesses to form a protective callous. After decades in the bloodied forge, he thought himself untouchable. Like the Vitiate of old he saw the rot spreading in the dark halls of the council chambers and vowed to raise a new Empire up from the maggots.

Illum had seemed like child’s play. Unlike Lord Scourge, Darth Marr’s new pet Wrath was young, eager to please, and so helpful it bordered on the naive. His first impression was that she was not worth recruiting. She was a symptom of a greater sickness: the Sith’s waning strength made manifest. He dismissed her as a feeble-minded slip of a girl, prone to manipulation. She had no place in his new Empire save to be used and discarded.

It had been a serious miscalculation on his part.

One of many.

Over the years he had many long hours to contemplate his failure and it all began with that single error. He mistook her smile and amenable nature to be the signs of an idiot. He saw her give her opponents a chance to surrender and thought her soft. He found her wanting and then put her from his mind.

He was too busy claiming his throne; too busy preparing to rule the galaxy to see the warning signs. He ignored her as his allies were decimated; cut down by wheat. Darth Serevin’s death weighed on his mind. While he had believed the wrath to be a flickering shadow, she in turn executed him for his betrayal and kept Talsa-ko’s decapitated head as a trophy. Something about that encounter had ignited the Wrath’s rage and they had paid the price.

He failed to see her splintering his barricades one by one and leaving only corpses behind. He failed to see the Wrath’s wrath.

The irony of it made his lips twist in a self-deprecating smile.

Blinded by his own visions of a throne well within his grasp, he did not act until she stood before him. She had been a strange contradiction of vivid hues and blackened aura. In the end, his own hubris became his undoing. Wasn’t that always the way?

In his defeat, Malgus found a better understanding of what it meant to be in chains. He was not given the dignity of an honorable death. No, he was taken back to Dromund Kaas and dragged into the bowels of the citadel where the council’s butchers awaited.

He learned his lesson there in the darkness amidst a new definition of pain. But even locked away from the stars he could not escape her. The inquisitors spoke in hushed whispers of a Wrath that came thundering down on Makeb and crushed the Hutt and Republic alike. In between his torments, he heard of Rishi and Yavin and Revan. He heard of Marr’s close partnership with her and of Vowrawn’s unlikely ‘friendship’. He heard of an Imperial always dogging her step and her habit of gifting him the severed hands of Sith and diplomats alike that failed to respect his personal space. A blatantly obvious sign that the man was her lover.

He listened and felt the caustic burn of envy.

Perhaps, if he had not been so quick to dismiss her, she might have joined him. Illum would have gone a thousand different ways if he’d had Vowrawn’s silver tongue or Marr’s charisma. It became all the more galling with the fall of Zakuul.

They were more alike than he gave her credit. In a few short years she built her own army and her own loyalists taken from the disillusioned masses. Even the fallen emperor Arcann broke under her grip and came to her on his knees to pledge his allegiance. The throne was as good as hers the moment she reached for it.

It had taken her less than a decade to do what Malgus had planned for a lifetime. It was as though she’d taken a quick glance at his work and then decided she could do it better.

Even her defeat broke differently than his. She still commanded a formidable power. Mere Sith no longer, she was referred to as The Commander and she bowed to no mortal being.

They met again on Ossus, both of them fulfilling the same mission. The difference being, it was her choice to be there. When he stepped out of his living coffin, he expected her mockery and disdain.

Malgus had been completely unprepared for her bright smile and pleasant words. She was as neon hued as ever and greeted him like an old friend instead of a foe she hadn’t quite killed off.

At first he believed she was taking a page out of Vowrawn’s book and hiding her hatred. But the more time he spent with her the more he realized she was genuinely pleased to see him. It occurred to him that the nastiness on Illum had never been personal to her. It was as though she had forgotten all about it.

When Ossus was completed, she praised him and once more left him without a dignified response. Her reasoning was beyond his understanding. What did she hope to achieve?

His thoughts were interrupted when his implants activated. Malgus winced in discomfort. It was time for maintenance on his hardware and he was being summoned.

His body moved of its own accord and he was too weary to fight the programmed obedience. He’d always despised the image of a slave being brutalized and now it seemed he was destined to die in captivity.

Vowrawn had been the first one to ‘visit’ him in his cell. The Pureblood had gleefully noted how they had hunted down his power base as he used medical instruments to forcefully remove Malgus’ cybernetic augments. It was Vowrawn who took away his motor skills and repurposed him with new parts. It was Vowrawn who fashioned his cage and locked him away in a body that no longer listened to him.

It was Vowrawn who made a point to remind him just how low he had fallen with every touch that lingered far too long in between bursts of sheer agony. Vowrawn who reduced him to a cheap whore be it out of spite or boredom.

Marr visited exactly once. Malgus remembered hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by medical tubes as restraints were welded into his skin. Marr’s unreadable mask cloaked his expression, but Malgus could feel the loathing and disgust radiating from him. For a brief moment, Malgus believed Marr would end his existence but the man was never one for mercy. Instead, he ordered the nearest guard to summon Cytharat to the council chambers and was gone without a second glance.

He didn’t know how long he lived in that special type of hell. He was kept alive to serve as an example, as a lesson, as a tool for intimidation.

“This is what happens to traitors.”

“Don’t end up like Malgus.”

“This is your fate if your hubris costs me my victory.”

The days and faces all blurred together. Only his firm grasp of the Force kept him from going insane.

The door automatically closed and locked behind him as he stood defiant as he glared at the medical bed. He had grown to detest the scent of kolto and the cold touch of metal on his skin. Discomfort laced with fear radiated from his form. There was nothing he could do to avoid it; no feasible way to escape his fate.

Acina was the first to realize his potential. Or perhaps Zakuul had simply decimated enough Sith that she was desperate enough to use him. Whatever the reason, it was she who rebuild his limbs and turned him into a weapon. She was not one for finesse and enjoyed letting the droids work on him until he was reduced to screaming in agony.

As his robes and armor fell away, he bore the marks of her handiwork etched crudely into her skin. The pain focused him, it kept his senses keen. Every step, every motion, every breath, felt as though it were cutting into him. To live was a war, and one he constantly won. He had to believe it was so or else he would be driven mad by it.

The last of his armor was cast off and he spared a glance to his captor. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the commander had taken possession of his obedience codes, after all, she had some of the best slicers in the galaxy under her employ. After their confrontation on Illum, it was understandable that she wished to inflict her own version of punishment. Funny, he hadn’t thought it was her style to be vindictive.

Calm blue eyes stared back at him with an unreadable expression that was unnerving. Cruelty or malice he could understand, but this passive response was beyond him. He broke eye-contact and lay down on medical bed as ordered. It was better than a metal table, but it did little to put him at ease. The sound of his respirator seemed too-loud in his ears as he waited for pain or humiliation or some sickening combination of the two.

Instead he felt a gentle touch on his arm and a pinprick before something warm flowed through his veins. Confusion clouded his thoughts as he felt the constant pain melt away into a blissful numbness.

“That’s better isn’t it? No need to be scared,” she smirked and he eyed her warily as she set aside the injector. Her small hand rested over his chest and it felt like a searing mark against his skin. His throat emitted a sound that was a cross between a snarl and an enraged growl.

“Scared, me? You lack the capacity to inspire such an emotion,” he snarled..

He didn’t need her coddling. He was not a child nor a fool to believe her comfort was genuine.

Tremas didn’t so much as flinch as her touch continued to rest over his sternum. Medical droids scanned his body and displayed readings he could quite make out from his vantage point. Tremas lips curled into a scowl as the results displeased her.

He wanted to say something scathing or acrid to her but the retort died in his throat as he felt her delicate fingers touch his inner thighs and firmly push his legs apart. Adrenaline surged through him but he was not allowed neither flight nor fight as his programming kept him restrained. He stared at the ceiling cursing the respirator that echoed his quickening breath in a deafening rasp.

“Now just breathe. There’s structural damage and this might sting a bit...”

________________________

Read More About Tremas HERE!

Original Fictober Promp List HERE!

[tricksterarchangelgabriel]

The Bowling-match of the Angels

Where the Angels of the Lord are having a bowling match.

Lightning crashed down and the rain banged against the window, the wind howling around the house.

Standing on his tip-toes, the child stared out of the window, watching the rampaging thunderstorm outside with fascination. When the sky roared once more, a small gasp left Sam's mouth and he ducked down.

Small hands clasping the windowsill tightly, he pulled himself up once more and his green eyes focused on the sky above. Sam watched how another lightning bolt stroke down to the ground, the sky roaring not long afterward.

A sigh left his lips. There's no way I can sleep like this, Sam thought in annoyance.

Closing his eyes and clasping his hands together in front of him, he send out a prayer. Might as well try. "Hello angels," the child spoke, "pastor Jim once told me that thunder is angels bowling."

The sky quieted down. Hoping that the angels were listening, he continued. "My name is Sam Winchester and I am trying to sleep here, so I would appreciate it greatly if you could just shut up for now. Amen."

Unclasping his hands, Sam went away from the window, crawling back into the warmth of his bed at Bobby's. Finally, silence. But sadly for Sam, it did not last long. For the moment he had closed his eyes, the lightning show started again louder than before; almost like a mockery towards the child.

Sitting up in his bed, Sam groaned in irritation. "Really?" He muttered under his breath, throwing the blanket off him and jumping out of bed.

Sam crossed the room and opened the door, groggily rubbing his eyes. "Dean!" He whined, going down the creaking stairs. "Dean! Bobby!"

He ran into Bobby when rounding a corner. "What are you doing out of bed, kiddo?" Bobby asked. Sam looked up into the older man's gaze which stared down at him in slight concern. "It's already past your bedtime."

Sam pouted. "I can't sleep," he said, "the angels are keeping me awake."

Bobby stared down at the child before him. "Angels?" He asked in bewilderment. It would have been more logical to him if Sam had told him there was a poltergeist or a wendigo in his room, but angels? No hunter has ever seen an angel and there was no way Bobby believed they were real, not without any proof at least.

Nodding his head, Sam replied. "Pastor Jim says that thunder is angels bowling." As if on cue, the sky roared once more, followed by another flash of light. Sam stared out of the window before focusing his attention back on Bobby.

"Do you know where Dean is?" Sam continued.

"On the couch," Bobby replied, pointing somewhere behind him. "Get some milk from the fridge or something and get back to sleep, okay?"

Sam nodded. "Sure," walking past Bobby, he went towards the living room to find his big brother.

Watching Sam go, Bobby shook his head, deciding that he needed to have a chat with Pastor Jim to stop filling the boys head with crap like angels. "Idjits," he muttered and left.

Just like Bobby had said, Dean was on the couch. Sam watched his brother with his head tilted to the side. Dean was sprawled out on the couch, appearing to be reading a porn magazine of some sorts - Sam never understood his brother's liking towards it - and Dean was lightly chuckling to himself.

Peeking over his brother's shoulder, Sam saw the picture of a half-naked Asian woman. Pulling a face, he whined, "Dean!"

Startled, Dean dropped the magazine and turned around wide-eyed. "Sammy!" He said. "Don't do that."

"And aren't you supposed to be asleep?" Dean added, glancing at the clock on the wall that read past ten. "It's past your curfew."

"Dean," Sam asked, "Pastor Jim says thunder is angels bowling... that true?"

Shaking his head in disbelief, Dean went back to the magazine. "There is no such a thing as angels."

"Anyway, if they were real. Do you really think angels can be that loud?" He added.

As if on cue, the sky roared once more, louder than before and numerous lightning bolts illuminated the sky. The brothers looked outside and Dean said, "Just try to sleep. It's late."

Sam sighed. "Alright then, good night," he mumbled, going back towards his room.

Once in his room, he glanced out of the window once more. Sam swore he could hear someone yell 'strike' very loudly. Shaking his head, he went to bed and covered his head with the pillow, hoping to block out the obnoxious thunderstorm that way.

~~~~~~

Meanwhile in Heaven.

"Guys," Castiel said, trying to catch the attention of his siblings. "That was just mean. Perhaps we should let the child sleep. We can bowl another day."

His siblings ignored him. Castiel hung his shoulders slightly.

Uriel meanwhile, held a bowling ball in his hand, staring at the pins in great concentration. The other angels watching on.

Pulling back his arm, Uriel shot the ball towards the pins, but before he could release it, Gabriel flew forward and screamed loudly in his ear. Yelping, Uriel's arm twisted and he missed the pins by a feather's breed. Another lightning bolt went towards the world below when the Angel had thrown the bowling ball. He turned towards the smirking Archangel and asked with furrowed eyebrows, "Brother, what did you do that for?"

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. "I just felt like it. Now shut up and watch how the pro does it, little fledgling," the Archangel spoke, picking up his golden bowling ball and standing in position.

"Zachariah," Uriel tried desperately, turning towards the angel who wrote down the scores, "say something about it."

Zachariah stared at him. "I am not going to tell an Archangel off. I don't have a death wish."

"Gabriel," Castiel tried again, "you really shouldn't cheat. Cheating is a sin."

"Shut up, Cassie," Gabriel replied, tongue poked out. He threw the ball and it went towards the pins, all of them went down. "STRIKE!!" Gabriel yelled, fist pumping the air in victory. Numerous lightning bolts illuminated the skyline of Earth when the Archangel got a strike.

Uriel threw his bowling ball into the ground in irritation. And Raphael electrocuted a yelping Gabriel. "Don't cheat," Raphael said, lightning radiating off him, "you should follow the rules!"

"Nobody cares about the rules!" Gabriel retorted.

"Who gave you the right to cheat?" Raphael asked again, starting to feel agitated with Gabriel's actions.

A smirk grew on Gabriel's face. "I did."

The Archangels glared at each other and Anna slipped away, knowing what was going to happen next. Uriel was also starting to sneak away and Castiel mostly looked confused.

Zachariah looked down at his clipboard, pen in hand. "Ten points for Gabriel," he said, adding a '10' to the Archangel's score.

He turned towards poor Castiel, who did not seem to understand what was going on. "Castiel," he called out. The black-winged angel looked his way. "You might want to get away from here. This isn't going to get pretty."

Castiel lightly bowed to the higher-ranked angel before he disappeared in a flutter of wings. Glancing one last look at the two fuming Archangels, Zachariah himself disappeared as well. If Raphael and Gabriel really were going to fly at each other's throats he did not wish to be there.

~~~~~~

Michael watched how Gabriel and Raphael clashed together, the force strong enough to create an enormous thunderstorm above the entire American continent.

He wasn't worried though. Not at all.

Michael knew his younger brothers wouldn't kill each other and they never fought long either way - a few hours at most, until Gabriel got bored and went back to Earth to play as a pagan god.

Interfering was pointless in his opinion. "Idiots," the eldest Archangel muttered.

Glancing down at Earth, towards the child who had sent out a prayer - the very child who was to be Lucifer's vessel - Michael felt slightly bad for him, but not bad enough to actually do something about it.

He knew the child wasn't going to get any sleep done tonight either way.

@luciferstempest @kittyhazelnutwashere @gabrielsbackbitches

[artdjgblog]

Innerview: M.L. / ​University of the Arts, Philadelphia, PA

April 2008

Image: MO Fine Arts Academy Name Badge / Logo: Roman Duszek

Note: ​Interview for a design student’s art history lecture​.​

Introduction:​

I wanted to know if you would be willing to answer a few questions for me. I really like your work, because I really appreciate the super hand-done and collage quality of it. I think it’s a way of working that’s often forgotten and overlooked, but personally I really like it, and your work really appeals to me. I’m especially interested in your work with show posters, so if you would be amenable to a short interview I would really appreciate it. You can just shoot me back an e-mail, or if you prefer a phone interview that would be fine too. Thanks! ​0​1) Did you go to school for art, or are you self taught? I was fortunate to attend one of the best kept secrets in design schools at Southwest Missouri State University (SMSU) in Springfield, MO. Shortly after I left, the name was simplified to Missouri State University. (Rewind A Bit to 1996) The year before my ​F​reshm​a​n fall semester, I was selected for the first annual Missouri Fine Arts Academy, which was held on the campus of SMSU. Before my senior year of high school (back in 1996) I thought about pursuing a career in architecture design, in particular, the area of sports stadium design. Though, after several years of lying to myself that I would eventually kick my math deficiency, I got a kick in the gut that this might not be my best choice. I loved to shut myself in my room for hours at a time drawing everything from comics to sports logos to buildings and such. I loved the creative aspect of this and felt that not only might I lose some of that personal one-on-one with architecture (though, nothing short of creative, but it’s a relatively computer and technical group effort), I would be held responsible to make the designs actually “work”. Being that I was terrible at math I didn’t want to be held accountable for future building flops. So, at the Fine Arts Academy I did a little bit of re-discovering of my own wheels, as I realized that I had more to offer from my fingertips. Raised from the dirt of a farm in the middle of the mid-west, I was pretty naive to most all things having to do with graphic design, I just knew that I should head in that direction, yet not limit myself only there. And I had shown signs of graphic design earlier on by way of winning a small town logo competition for a skating rink / bowling alley in the fifth grade. I just had a hunch while in creation of the identity (they kept the original, but i still have the newspaper clipping copy depicting my original entry) that I would be chosen out of the dozen other area schools and get my creation up on that big sign. Well, come time for the grand opening of The Fun Factory, my school principal forgot to notify me or my parents that I was the celebrated one to christen the new establishment. The next week she apologized, but i didn’t really give a care as I don’t like such sanctions of attention, and I still don’t. Most kids would have been struck with disappointment by the loss of a free chance to be the first to scuff the freshly waxed lanes with boulders and the new floor with skates, but the deep gut spoilage came to me by way of finally getting to see my logo up on that sign. I was devastated. My design had been butchered. This was my earliest memory of design sabotage. How could somebody take my vision and just ruin it? I look at all things in my life to have lead me up to this point in the writing, and so I feel that early little burnt spark in my gut that day told me something important…pour yourself into your work and protect that. (Fast Forward To 1996) To shorten the story, I came back from those three weeks of Fine Arts Academy in a born-again sense within my own talents, though still unsure of how to officially tap into it like I once had before body hair and outside influences and distractions pushed “play”. Being inspired by a couple of graffiti artists that I observed at the Fine Arts Academy, I began studying the art of typography (though, I had no idea what that word meant then) by way of this whole new world of urban language. And being that I tried to keep my nose clean and lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere, I just practiced my own graffitied typography twists and turns by way of perfecting one-of-a-kind personalized locker names and special birthday certificates for my classmates and friends on cheap Wal-Mart sketchbook paper. I was never so thankful to be attached to my small school in such a way as I only had two dozen classmate name plates to hand draw and color and diecut. If I did that now, my hands would surely buckle. I didn’t need to do it then, but I saw it as an investment towards the future growth of my work, or some way to start my last year of schooling fresh. My senior year was mostly spent in my bedroom making things. All of my friends had girlfriends and I had my work to sit next to on weekend nights. I also was inspired by a new art teacher at the school named Allen Heck. He was a real artist and not just some fluke or painter who couldn’t sell work so in-turn dropped on the totem pole to teach a crummy low-budget art program. Allen had a business head and an artistic head and he meant business in a classroom that spilled creativity. Even though there were a couple of art teachers before Allen that I admired, most art classes before his were mostly afterthoughts or throwaways. Places where the jerk-off kids could goof and ruin the atmosphere for the ones who wanted to be there to learn and develop, just like at most any school, i suppose. Anyway, I found an excuse to be in Allen’s classroom as much as I could and he sorta guided me on some design paths. I also helped him teach several of the elementary classes (we had K-12 grades all under one roof) that year. At this same time I was getting really involved in devouring music and an early mining idea of combining art and music started to strike, though it wouldn’t cement until several years later. Outside of Allen’s classes I landed a logo for the local Future Farmers of America chapter, along with other little so-called “best artist in the class” projects. A title that I didn’t really think I deserved as a friend of mine was ten times the draftsman that I was. Anyway, for my not-so troubles with the Future Farmers (I wasn’t a member and I didn’t want to follow my blood line), I got a giant canvas carrying case for artwork big enough that a beefy baby calf corpse could take a nap in it (I use it now to stuff my dirty clothes in for the laundromat trips). In early 1997, my guidance counselor set-up a special solo trip for me to visit an area company that specialized in yearbook designs. I went and wasn’t completely enthused about this place that seemed to put a lock on creativity in a darkened room with eyes staring at computer screens, shuffling around items given to them, though, I lied to myself that as I would grow older, this is what I might want. It just didn’t really say “Happiness” to me though, more-so (to quote The Beatles), “Happiness is a warm gun”. Still, I decided to go on ahead with going to a college that had graphic design courses. As graduation loomed on the purple and white horizon, I began to think a bit more seriously about applying for schools to further my education. Being that I had some solid fortune at the Fine Arts Academy at Southwest Missouri State University, and being that Springfield, MO was four hours south down the black top road (far enough from everything, but not too far for a weekend visit), I registered with no time to spare. Thoughts of the Kansas City Art Institute loomed, but they were more expensive, and i felt some sort of strange magnetism to SMSU. I ended up getting in by a scrape to the only college I applied for. I had the lowest common denominator for test scores and was in the top half of my graduating class as I was 12 out of 24. That was all the requirements I needed, the deal was set. The transition from high school to college art class (like most I assume) was a little challenging for me as I soon realized that the mold I was in previously had to be broken as I wasn’t comparable to skill with my new classmates. Though, the drawing classes frustrated, yet intrigued me, I did do fairly decent in my fundamentals design classroom. And this is where I learned more about making like-minded, potential life-long friends, a skill I hadn’t perfected much since my first day of Meadville first grade. All of my friends in foundations course were annoyed with working in cutting blades and paper and such…whereas, I flourished a good reputation in those departments and at times neglected all other areas of my studies to perfect my art skills. On break one early spring morning my friends spoke of much better things to come in the coming semester. Their minds were on the computer. They couldn’t wait as they had backgrounds in computer-related image creating in their high school yearbook classes. My school had one computer until I was a senior, and then we got a baker’s dozen or so. Other than that few hour visit to the local yearbook factory, I was naive to the idea of a computer as the essential tool for the modern day graphic designer. Exhausted by their comments, anxieties swelled in me and out finally popped my ignorance to the subject, “I plan to take the direction in graphic design that is done without the computer. I’m going to take the courses that are all hands-on.” And instant mockery, was I. My friends ripped me a new one and basically said I better learn pretty quick because graphic design wasn’t conquered without the computer. This is all really quite humorous to me know (possibly to them too) as I’ve somehow managed some mild success with my hands-on design approach and most of them are staring at computers all day in jobs they dislike or not even doing graphic design at all. Later that year I found out where the design kids were stuffed as I climbed aboard a twenty minute bus ride to the small downtown area of Springfield and up an elevator zooming past vacant floors housing archives of university products and collections to the top of a five story building where the world of graphic design officially opened up to me. Did it open wide at first? That answer is a giant NO as I was still so naive to what the heck I was getting into that when my friends early-on claimed, “I can’t wait until next semester for typography class”. I said, “Cool! We get to design maps?” ​0​2) Were your areas of interest in school (artistically) the same as they are now? My artistic whatevers were put on hold the first few semester of design school. Not only that, but they were run thru the emotional and physical gambits over and over. Being thrown on a computer was very troubling for me and there was a time that I almost quit design all together because I didn’t feel a connection to the work anymore thru the screen barrier. So, I struggled to find myself again for about a year and a half. Though, at the same time the design instructors at SMSU were (and still are) old-fashioned in a sense with their training and we still did many hands-on projects. I shined more in these areas, though my work still seemed more like decorating than me trying to say something. True, design is pretty much decorating and saying something, but, I couldn’t really find myself and it felt more like doing my chores than anything else. I think it can be dangerous when the designer is hogging the avenue and only speaking for their ego or style and not client intentions. Sometimes a healthy dose of both works, sometimes not. Anyway, I just didn’t “get” what I was doing and basically was doing an incredibly OK job at fulfilling my instructor’s projects. Which is fine, but it took me a while to really enjoy design. All of the instructor’s at SMSU were (mostly still are) from Eastern Europe and Russia. This was a great experience for me as it opened me up to not only a unique education in design, but also one in culture. I felt a strange connection to this as I was somewhat foreign being an artistically-challenged kid from a farm in The Sticks, Missouri. There is an exciting mix of design and passion going on down there on the fifth floor of that building. New wheels in me started to get greased around this same time and my eyes started to open a pinch. And they really thumped when I went on a limb to attach illustration classes to my already full plate during my junior year. I was starting to get hungry and / or full…full in a sense to where I needed to get the work out of my system. It was time for me to find my voice. ​0​3) How did you get started working as a​n​ illustrator? Growing up and drawing a lot, I thought I was pretty decent at it, but nothing more special or ordinary than creating strange, graphic WWII battles and mimicking comic book characters. I even had an epic, life-sized drawing of Batman I worked on at my grandma’s almost every week after school. Sadly, I think it was thrown away recently when she moved. However, on the back burner to the drawing, there was a side of me that always did a lot of cut-outs and saving and archiving of things. I think most every kid at some point cuts things of interest from magazines and tacks them to their wall or jumbles words cut to make “cool” sayings glued on paper. My older brother and I did this a lot. Mostly, we were just never bored and always doing something and always being inspired by anything and everything. We even created our own little magazine (I still have a few issues) at my grandma’s. My grandmother was a good influence on my creative side too as we were always making homemade things there. My siblings and I recreated any event we went to or anything we watched on television / movies in our sandbox, tree house(s), forts and bedroom. I was fortunate to have a large intake of popular culture and mix that with the experience of farm life and a lot of room to play. All of this fueled my creative side to where at a younger age I had a lot of options to choose from and I enjoyed and loved them all. Though, it took me a while to re-discover this within myself in design school. I was getting deeper into school and the ever present “What do I wish to do with my life” question(s) (among other personal mind trappings and inner wrangling). This especially was asked after I signed up with other design students on several professional studio visits. Every time I would come home with an empty heart from these “creative” places that felt more like controlled meat markets than anything remotely creative. Some people thrive in certain areas and not everybody wants the same thing, but the typical trappings of community computer screen shuffling didn’t offer me much hope at all. I have always enjoyed being alone making things. I’ve also been very protective of my creations and I didn’t want to be thrown into a factory-like design setting unless it was my own to where I could do what I wanted, when I wanted and have parental rights and control. Coming back to school from these studio visits was very discouraging to me. I felt confused and as if my career path was in a box already. Around this time I toyed with the idea of taking illustration classes to help push myself a little more as I wanted to keep what little fire I had in me from burning out. However, I wasn’t confident in my illustration skills as I thought I wasn’t solid enough at regular drawing. This is a terrible mistake that I feel many students make. I sorta had to shovel deep and realize the way I created when I was younger and that really helped cultivate a new side of me as I learned how to pour myself into and out of my work again and it was fun and special. Looking back, I think mustering up the courage to find confidence in illustration helped me in the long run. Though, at times I still struggle with thinking that I’m still not good enough at particular things. The only competition I have is with myself. ​0​4) Did it take you a long time to find a working style that you are satisfied with? For the most part I advise for makers of things to stay away from the trap of a “working style”. And it’s mighty easy to stumble or choose something and milk it, which is the feeling I get from the majority of artists and designer’s portfolios. It’s easy to stick with turning over the same old tires on the same old asphalt. I realize I have a certain feel to my body of work, but each day my head’s approach to life is so different (heck each minute sometimes) that I try to trust my gut instincts. I just try to speak from my heart, which ends up in my gut sometimes. A lot of times I trust good ol’ intuition. Of course, some projects require a bit more fine tuning than others as something like a logo has more life than say, a concert poster. Even though the logo might have more of a lasting impression, I’d rather put my butter to the blank paper bread of the poster. I love to try new things and just reach and grab at whatever I have around me and in my head, marriaging that with the band and the music in some strange brew. At times it can be quite intoxicating and when you do it enough and for a long while, you end up not even thinking, rather just doing and it’s fluid and non-calculating. This is when it becomes pure, this is when design becomes true language. I’ve had some projects where I’ll be told about it from a client and I’ll immediately have a vision in my head of how it should look, and then go home and start teaching it how to walk. Items like CD packages are very similar to logos because you’ve got to really give out something that you don’t mind sticking around a while in the lock-down of identity for a product or persona. There have been a few CDs that have happened out in a matter of a couple hours. The majority though, I like to have enough time to tackle and build in three separate sessions. But, I really don’t like sitting on projects for a long time. And usually the client has more of a personal care for a CD than a poster, so it might take a three act play or teeter tottering until all sides are fixed to fancy. I’ve had a few CDs that have stretched to almost a year. Being that my work is recognizable to a hands-on aesthetic, I’m sure most think that I don’t touch a computer. This is true and not true. I try to build as much as I can by hand as I love that connection I get. The screen barrier between me getting dirty with my work has bothered me and created anxieties with my work since day one in formal design class when I was thrown on a computer to mash buttons. I do what I can by hand and then use the computer as a layout and printing tool and I use it to correct or help put the finish on some items. Most designers forget that the computer is only a tool. If I could have it my complete way, I wouldn’t use a computer at all. I have made several projects in this way, but it’s hard to do it all in this fashion anymore and I have a wide format ink jet printer to print a lot of my more complex poster works with. The computer has ruined and helped designers. But, overall I feel that if it’s treated with respect and not used as substitute brains, then a designer will truly show his or her meat and potatoes. For the most part, I get a little disappointed in the output from a vast majority of designers as it all feels far away like an afterthought that doesn’t count, or simply as a decorating kit or pre-fabricated template you buy at a craft store. But, I try to keep my disgruntled burly bears close to my own heels. As long as I am creating what needs to be created from my own little corner of the basement, then I am a pretty happy camper. Though, the computer has broken many a bulb, not only with designers, but also with attitudes toward treating the designer with respect. Maybe it’s always been this way, but it’s easy for me to think that I can throw an iPhone and hit somebody who thinks they know graphic design because they can change the colors on their myspace or blog (and I’d have to borrow their iPhone to do so). It’s great that creativity is being fused with daily interaction, in a sense, but it can get a little confusing for people. I don’t think it should be reserved for a certain few, but I feel that everybody thinks they are a graphic designer now. It’s like trying to keep the raccoons out of the patch of sweet corn. You’ve just got to find the right gauge of wire to shock the perimeter with so they will find other food to steal and nibble. And there are still those who are hungry enough to go find and get the good stuff on their own. I suppose I’ve found myself to be more in tune to old folk artists and with the mindset of the old school designers and illustrators. Folk art is as pure in art and language as cave painting and daily ancient living. I like the idea of somebody just up and making something out of the blue because they’ve got to get their story out for themselves. Last summer I went from The Museum of Modern Art to the American Folk Art Museum in New York City in an afternoon and found a more pure-incentive to making things from the folk artists than the artists and designers across the street. It was refreshing. I had been enjoying my personal study of folk art history the past four or five years, but seeing it out of the pages of a book or web site really gave it a new light. And to see that most folk art has pushed into some avenues of the mainstream is really interesting, though chokes the purity from it original conceptual intention. I find that a lot of artists and designers are just as much about making themselves as important as the work they are producing. I just have never understood this idea. So, what individuals are my art and design in kin with? There are many, and it goes beyond just one field, but here is the short list: Grandma Gibson / Jim Henson / Stanley Donwood / Lester Beall / Saul Bass / Seymour Chwast & Pushpin Studio / Paul Klee / Ivan Chermayeff / Henryk Tomaszewski / Art Chantry / Vaughn Oliver / Edward Gorey / Saul Steinberg / Bill Traylor / Ray Johnson / Eric Carle / Cy Twombly / Robert Rauschenberg / Henry Darger / Hans Schleger…to name a few. There are a few items I’ve created that I can tell don’t speak right in retrospect (and they are probably obvious to others as well). These were the ones that caught me in a bad mood, exhaustion or in a lack of time. It’s so hard not to let the daily life and emotions influence the work. And in my case I’ve never been able to just chase my dreams, as I’ve had to work full-time day jobs and at times part-time jobs on top of those, and then slide my work into late nights and weekends (and I always had a girlfriend on top of that…now, a wife). It can be a hard struggle for a healthy balance. I just try to approach it with the idea that I am a man and a man who happens to make things. I am doing what I need to be doing and working hard towards the goal of some day having all of the clocks wound on my time. I have been fortunate in my choices of day jobs. I admire those who wish to live in near-poverty designing for bands and independent projects, but there is no money in it at all and it’s easy for people to take advantage of you. I tried it for a few short stints, but got tired quickly of scraping by and relying on musician’s responsibility of paying me and I ran out of belongings to sell to pay the rent. Throwing out the few bad apple clients, I must say I can’t complain too much as I’ve been blessed with some great people to not only work with, but also to have relationships with beyond the art. Janitorial and groundskeeping had me for 5 years and I loved it. The pay isn’t great, but I was alone and within my thoughts and had time to write and actually make a few things while on the clock. Also, I was able to bring home whatever stuff I could dig out of the dumpster. I’m still chipping at a 15,000 page stack of bricked paper that I found in a dumpster 6 years ago. Currently, I am in the second year of being trapped in a cubicle as a data entryman. It’s a great job, it’s not too difficult, I work with people I know, I walk to work, I’m able to get my teeth fixed and am setting aside some money now for my future, but I don’t plan to marry it as it’s not what I need to be doing with my talents. Many days I can’t sit still because all I can think about is going home and making things. Design is a way of life for me. It’s easy for it to start to take over at times, but I’ve been working on a better balance of it by getting up at 5:00 in the morning, before the “junk” pollution of the day. I love getting up before the crickets and getting to work. Even if I’m filling up on books and movies, it’s still work for me. But, it’s not really work, it’s just what I enjoy and I kinda need it to aid survival. If a designer only puts their design mind onto paper / screen into a 9 to 5 crack, then they might want to think about looking into other lines of life work to chew on. ​0​5) Do you do a lot of self promotion, and how? I’ve been in an interesting position to where my work has been trickling word of mouth for the most part. I’ve been surrounded in positions where I’ve been around musicians a lot and in general, people have been attracted to my creations to where they too want me to make them something. With age, I don’t get out as much to shows, nor do I live with musicians anymore (thankfully). Those days were great, but that kind of lifestyle can’t be taken seriously forever. But, it helped shape me in some way. And I’ve established myself, somewhat. It still amazes me that my work is speaking in the volume that it has. It’s certainly nothing of major impact, but it means a lot to me. For many years I’ve also been at a constant with submitting large quantities of my work to yearly design magazine annuals. This breaks my bank for sure, but it’s the best way of promotion as the work gets spread around the world quickly. I have contacts in many countries who found me this way and thus, offer me entry into their books, magazines, contests or give me a shot to make something for them. The internet is a great source too, of course. Recently I’ve somehow caught a breathe of fresh air from the web currents and realize the easy importance of putting myself out there on it. It’s a strange world though, and I’m still a bit ignorant of it, but I’m becoming more comfortable. I used to not be into self-promotion much. Not only that, I just didn’t have much time with it, being weighed down by day jobs and life stuff. And I’m a believer of the work speaking for itself and letting it take time to mature and incubate. Right now I’m looking at how much weight my portfolio has gained and am seeing what alternate routes I can walk with it. I’ve always planned to be doing my best work, for me, but I’ve never really pushed it as hard until now, as the big No. 30 looms. True, I am making what I want to make, but I don’t wish to be working a full-time job much longer. I have alot more to say and in different varieties of value packs and I just need more second hands to say it in. 0​6) Lastly, because I’m interested in doing show posters, do you have any advice on positioning oneself into that market?

I tell a lot of people a similar thing that I’ve heard Quentin Tarantino say to aspiring filmmakers, (to paraphrase here) “Just go and make what you need to make and do it at whatever cost.” Just get out there and make things and get those things out, even if you go broke or worn out doing it. Catch fire and start a paper trail. I was fortunate to not only love devouring music since the day my ears could, but ended up in positions to where I was surround by musicians and / or individuals with like-minded inner ear infestations. Most importantly, I found that I could merge the things I loved into a cohesive music and art stomping ground. My last couple of college​ ​years I befriended several bands and musicians and had my own little business on the side from class, making show posters and CD packages. After four and a half years of college and exhausting all my design class options…AND ability to fail Algebra four times and even an art history course…I had a higher calling to quit spinning my own wheels and dropped college from the daily schedule, among many other things weighing me down at the time. It was gutsy, but one of the most crucially sound decisions I’ve ever made. I moved from the Bible Belt Buckle comforts of Springfield and into a big, orange, dilapidated house in the middle of a shady section of Kansas City, Missouri with a band that had become my best friends. I almost didn’t do it as my pants pockets were turned inside-out and thoughts of sticking around the family farm to save up money kept me down. I think a lot of people were very disappointed in me too for quitting school. But, my decision was made and I believe in following the heart instead of stopping up the artery. I would have been miserable to stay at home and I had bigger fields to plow and sew. And I didn’t need a piece of paper saying what I was supposed to be doing. Most importantly, only I can tell myself what I should do with me. -djg

[hieromonkcharbel]

Prayer to St Mary Magdalene (Feast July 22nd)

by St. Anselm

St. Mary Magdalene, you came with springing tears to the spring of mercy, Christ; from Him your burning thirst was abundantly refreshed through Him your sins were forgiven; by Him your bitter sorrow was consoled.

My dearest lady, well you know by your own life how a sinful soul can be reconciled with its Creator, what counsel a soul in misery needs, what medicine will restore the sick to health. It is enough for us to understand, dear friend of God, to whom were many sins forgiven, because she loved much.

Most blessed lady, I who am the most evil and sinful of men do not recall your sins as a reproach, but call upon the boundless mercy by which they were blotted out. This is my reassurance, so that I do not despair; this is my longing, so that I shall not perish.

I say this of myself, miserably cast down into the depths of vice, bowed down with the weight of crimes, thrust down by my own hand into a dark prison of sins, wrapped round with the shadows of darkness.

Therefore, since you are now with the chosen because you are beloved and are beloved because you are chosen of God, I, in my misery, pray to you, in bliss; in my darkness, I ask for light; in my sins, redemption; impure, I ask for purity.

Recall in loving kindness what you used to be, how much you needed mercy, and seek for me that same forgiving love that you received when you were wanting it. Ask urgently that I may have the love that pierces the heart; tears that are humble; desire for the homeland of heaven; impatience with this earthly exile; searing repentance; and a dread of torments in eternity.

Turn to my good that ready access that you once had and still have to the spring of mercy.

Draw me to him where I may wash away my sins; bring me to him who can slake my thirst; pour over me those waters that will make my dry places fresh. You will not find it hard to gain all you desire from so loving and so kind a Lord, who is alive and reigns and is your friend.

For who can tell, beloved and blest of God, with what kind familiarity and familiar kindness he himself replied on your behalf to the calumnies of those who were against you? How He defended you, when the proud Pharisee was indignant, how He excused you, when your sister complained, how highly He praised your deed, when Judas begrudged it.

And, more than all this, what can I say, how can I find words to tell, about the burning love with which you sought him, weeping at the sepulchre, and wept for Him in your seeking?

How He came, who can say how or with what kindness, to comfort you, and made you burn with love still more; how He hid from you when you wanted to see Him, and showed Himself when you did not think to see Him; how He was there all the time you sought Him, and how He sought you when, seeking Him, you wept.

But you, most holy Lord, why do You ask her why she weeps? Surely You can see; her heart, the dear life of her soul, is cruelly slain. O love to be wondered at; O evil to be shuddered at! You hung on the wood, pierced by iron nails, stretched out like a thief for the mockery of wicked men; and yet, "Woman," You say, "why are you weeping?" She had not been able to prevent them from killing You, but at least she longed to keep Your Body for a while with ointments lest it decay. No longer able to speak with You living, at least she could mourn for You dead. So, near to death and hating her own life, she repeats in broken tones the words of life which she had heard from the living.

And now, besides all this, even the Body which she was glad, in a way, to have kept, she believes to have gone. And can You ask her, "Woman, why are you weeping?" Had she not reason to weep? For she had seen with her own eyes -- if she could bear to look -- what cruel men cruelly did to You; and now all that was left of You from their hands she thinks she has lost. All hope of You has fled, for now she has not even Your lifeless Body to remind her of You.

And someone asks, "Who are you looking for? Why are you weeping?"

You, her sole joy, should be the last thus to increase her sorrow. But You know it all well, and thus you wish it to be, for only in such broken words and sighs can she convey a cause of grief as great as hers. The love You have inspired You do not ignore,

And indeed You know her well, the Gardener, who planted her soul in His garden. What You plant, I think You also water. Do You water, I wonder, or do You test her? In fact, You are both watering and putting to the test.

But now, good Lord, gentle Master, look upon your faithful servant and disciple, so lately redeemed by Your Blood, and see how she burns with anxiety, desiring You, searching all round, questioning, and what she longs for is nowhere found. Nothing she sees can satisfy her, since You whom alone she would behold, she sees not.

What then? How long will my Lord leave his beloved to suffer thus? Have You put off compassion now You have put on incorruption? Did You let go of goodness when you laid hold of immortality?

Let it not be so, Lord. You will not despise us mortals now You have made Yourself immortal, for You made yourself a mortal in order to give us immortality.

And so it is; for love's sake He cannot bear her grief for long or go on hiding Himself. For the sweetness of love He shows Himself who would not for the bitterness of tears.

The Lord calls His servant by the name she has often heard and the servant knows the voice of her own Lord. I think, or rather I am sure, that she responded to the gentle tone with which He was accustomed to call, "Mary." What joy filled that voice, so gentle and full of love. He could not have put it more simply and clearly:

"I know who you are and what you want; behold Me; do not weep, behold Me; I am He whom you seek."

At once the tears are changed; I do not believe that they stopped at once, but where once they were wrung from a heart broken and self-tormenting they flow now from a heart exulting. How different is, "Master!" from "If you have taken Him away, tell me"; and, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him," has a very different sound from, "I have seen the Lord, and he has spoken to me."

But how should I, in misery and without love, dare to describe the love of God and the blessed friend of God? Such a flavour of goodness will make my heart sick if it has in itself nothing of that same virtue. But in truth, You who are very Truth, You know me well and can testify that I write this for the love of Your love, my Lord, my most dear Jesus. I want Your love to burn in me as You command so that I may desire to love You alone and sacrifice to You a troubled spirit, "a broken and a contrite heart."

Give me, O Lord, in this exile, the bread of tears and sorrow for which I hunger more than for any choice delights. Hear me, for Your love, and for the dear merits of your beloved Mary, and Your blessed Mother, the greater Mary. Redeemer, my good Jesus, do not despise the prayers of one who has sinned against You but strengthen the efforts of a weakling that loves You. Shake my heart out of its indolence, Lord, and in the ardour of Your love bring me to the everlasting sight of Your glory where with the Father and the Holy Spirit You live and reign, God, for ever. Amen.