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rivers-rambles21 · 4 years ago

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The one with the surprise

Part 5 of The one where Bucky has a cute neigbour series!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader (f)

Summary | Reader and Bucky become friends after he saves her from a creep in their apartment building. Each chapter explores a different point in their friendship - very slow burn!

Warnings | 18+ only, Smut in later chapters (this is a slow burn), swearing, unprotected sex, oral sex, cockwarming (later chapters)

Will include elements of TFATWS in later chapters

“C’mon, where are you taking me doll?”

Bucky trailed behind you, his feet dragging as he continued to moan about your late night adventure. You’d lured him out with a promise of pizza but as you exited the train in Queens, his mood had turned sour.

“Not much further, I promise” You waited for him to catch up and looped your arm through his. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“Pineapple on pizza comes to mind” He muttered, eyes darting around the quiet street.

With a sigh you dug into your purse and retrieved your secret weapon “I’ll give you these if you stop whining” You shook the bag of cashews you’d picked up from the store in front of his face before swiftly moving it from his grasp. “Nope! Hey!” Bucky had made a grab for the bag but you’d quickly anticipated his move and spun on the spot, taking it out of reach.

As you turned, Bucky’s arm moved with you, pulling him into your back as you bent over in an attempt to stop him from getting his snack.

You laughed as he snaked his arm around your side, pulling you flush against him as he tried to take the bag from you, his fingers brushing your sides in an attempt to tickle you.

With a jolt, your ass pressed back into him in a vain attempt to free yourself from his grasp. You both stilled as your behind pressed into his crotch, acutely aware of just what you were feeling. Bucky was the first to act and swiftly removed his arms from around you, glancing around in embarrassment.

Standing straight, you adjusted your dress which had become dislodged. “Shall we?” You asked, trying to act as though nothing happened.

“Yep.” He responded, a bit too quickly.

To try and ease the tension, you ripped open the bag of nuts. “Here” You threw one toward him which he caught with his mouth effortlessly. “Thanks doll”

You smiled back and looped your arm back into his, directing him down the road.

A few minutes later you arrived at your destination and you held your breath as you both looked up at the building.

“What do you think?”

Bucky simply glanced down and smiled at you, his white teeth catching the light from the street lights.

“This is one of the very few perks I get with my job, I figured who better to enjoy it with?”

“How do we get in?” Bucky asked, pulling you towards the doors at the front.

“Security will let us in, they’ll be doing the odd patrol as standard but apart from that, we’ll have the place to ourselves”

“Y/n… this is incredible”

“Yeah well… I knew you wouldn’t come here because of the crowds and I didn’t want you to miss out.”

You’d brought him to the New York Hall of Science in Queens way past closing time. After dedicating to a ridiculous amount of unpaid overtime, your boss had finally relented and given you access to the contacts who ran the museum. Using your company's connections, you’d manage to swindle full exclusive access to the museum for the entire night.

Over the past few months you’d picked up on Bucky’s interests, one of them being technology. Despite spending most of the last 70 years in a big freezer, he loved technology of the modern age, often speaking of the projects Shuri was working on in Wakanda.

You spent the next hour or so strolling around the many exhibits, reading up on each subject and interacting with the activities throughout the building. Bucky didn’t know where to look next, each section of the museum peaking his interest more and more.

“Okay so I may have one more surprise for you” You confessed as you gently steered him towards the theatre.

Bucky remained silent as he felt himself become overwhelmed. He was genuinely touched by the thought you’d put into the entire evening, slightly bewildered why you even bothered with him in the first place. He knew he could be hard work, he often spent days being a miserable bastard, responding with only sarcasm. Yet you stuck around and got to know him and his quirks. Heck the two of you had gotten that close you knew how he’d been eager to pay a visit to the museum but hadn’t due to the worry of being recognised.

He’d now stopped kidding himself and accepted he felt something more than friendship for you. At first he brushed his feelings off as purely physical as afterall it had been over 70 years since he’d been with a woman and he’s not blind. Everything you did drove him insane. It took all his self control to stop himself from kissing you senseless every time you hung out.

The closer you both got, the deeper he fell for you. He tried his best to find fault with you but he came up short every time.

He loved how easy you were to talk to, how you never pushed him too far or tried to change him into something he’s not. He loved how selfless you were, always thinking of others before yourself. He also loved how thoughtful you were, constantly coming up with plans or ideas on what you both could do so he wasn’t cooped up in his apartment all day.

Bucky had fallen hard.

“Now we do have other options if you’re not feeling it but I thought we could watch the original Dracula!”

Bucky couldn’t hold back his smile as you looked up at him with excitement etched across your face. All he wanted to do was kiss you.

“So what do you think?” You asked, waiting for his response.

“I think you’re incredible.” You beamed up at him and led him into the quiet theatre which was housed within the museum.

“Grab a seat and I’ll be right back”

Bucky nodded in response and picked one of the seats in the middle of the empty theatre, pulling his phone out as he did. He flicked through some of the pictures you had both taken throughout the evening, landing on the one of you both in the space exhibit. He’d bent down to your level for the photo to be taken, your arms not quite long enough to get you both in frame otherwise. You’d flashed a smile for the photo, leaning back into him, pressing your face against his as he did his best to pose for the photo. It had been a long time that he’d had a photo taken that wasn’t linked to a crime. Smiling to himself, he updated his settings and set it to his background.

The lights then dimmed and the screen changed as the movie began. A moment later the door swung open and closed as you entered the theatre, your shoes stomping down the isles as you raced over to Bucky, eager to get there before the film started.

“I remember seeing this when it first came out.” Bucky confessed, a small smile gracing his face as he recalled the memory. “Me and Steve snuck in shortly after it started, we were too broke and young to get in on our own. He was so worried we’d get caught he spent the entire movie watching the door.”

You laughed along with him, struggling to imagine the Captain America you’d seen on the news sneaking into a movie theatre. Reaching into your bag, you pulled out the blanket you had brought with you and covered you both in it, sinking into the warmth it gave as the movie began.

Although it was a horror, you both couldn't help but laugh at some of the scenes, special effects had come a long way since the 30’s.

The evening had gone exactly as planned. You’d wanted to do something special for Bucky for a while, knowing he didn’t venture out much due to the large crowds making him a bit uneasy.

Your friends at work had teased you about it after they heard the hoops you had jumped through to pull the entire thing off; knowing you wouldn’t put in so much effort for someone you regarded as just a friend.

You’d wanted your relationship with Bucky to develop into something more for a while now; you couldn’t deny the attraction you had with him and the bond that had developed. Deep down though, you knew he had a lot going on that he needed to work through and you didn’t want to get in the way of that. You heard his tortured screams on a night as the nightmares took a hold of him. You never brought it up but you saw how it affected him. The dark circles under his eyes were always a dead give away.

Although your body craved something more with him, you were content on leaving things how they were. You genuinely enjoyed spending time with him and wouldn’t risk losing it.

It was the early morning when you both left the museum, having thoroughly enjoyed yourselves. Due to the late hour you agreed on hailing a taxi and sat in comfortable silence on the journey home as you struggled to keep your eyes open. Begrudgingly you watched as Bucky paid the driver as you reached your apartment building and accepted his hand as he helped you out of the cab.

“Thank you for tonight”

“Don’t mention it” You replied as you entered the empty elevator, pressing the button for your floor.

“The last person who did anything like that for me was Steve” He confessed as he rubbed the gold markings on his vibranium hand, not quite knowing what to do with himself.

“You’re making me blush Serg” The nickname slipped out without you realising and you glanced a peak over at the man beside you.

He simply shook his head, grinning to himself as he followed you out of the elevator.

#bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #ao3 #tfatws #fluff #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you

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gnosticinitiation · 3 years ago

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Nature The Law Giver, Chapter 56

Man, in his greed, will heedlessly sacrifice anything in order to attain his end. Each day a forest disappears to provide logs for the mills, with the result that destructive nature is becoming more active and summers and winters are becoming more severe. Cyclones and tornadoes do not recur where virgin forests still exist, for the tall trees temper the effect of the destructive agencies. Nature, however, steps in and penalizes man for his destruction and wastage of her bounty.

In England, during the Great War, much oak and other timber was cut down to provide necessary pit props. It will take at least ninety-nine years of a reforestation before this damage can be remedied. When the trees covering the sides of our mountains are destroyed, torrents of water carry away the fertile earth, and eroded stony deserts are formed. Today even the small trees are ruthlessly cut or broken down in the process of logging, and reforestation by artificial means is necessary. The more man destroys the handiwork of nature, the greater the calamity to future generations. But there is another angle to this law, for we are told that in proportion to man’s destruction, nature shuts down on the activities of his memory.

If the citizen who destroys one tree will with love and reverence plant three others in its place he will form an alliance with the consciousness of nature which will afford him a shelter of protection. Devotion to God through kindness to nature will redeem man from such ignorance. As man destroys the trees and vegetation, nature's supply of oxygen is reduced, and oxygen is man’s elixir of life. There are many places on the earth today which afford man an earthly paradise, because the climatic conditions are tempered by the bounty of nature’s vegetation and man receives his full supply of oxygen. When a man who has lived close to nature enters the great industrial sections of a city, he will experience difficulty in breathing and a sense of oppression. Smoke from the factories, especially where soft coal is burned, causes havoc and destruction among humanity because the soot with which it is laden clogs the lungs, and the gases rob the blood stream of its oxygen. Nature's purifying oxygen is diluted with carbon oxides, and men and women are “born tired,” live in exhaustion, and die in despair. The impurities man liberates in the air are brought into his own system, and he should realize that he is suffering the penalty of his own acts.

Nature looks too man to help repair the calamities which he creates, and whoever works to alleviate the misfortune of nature unconsciously redeems himself. There are many real lovers of nature who beautify their houses and gardens, and on them nature bestows her love and affection. I have heard many sensitive people say, “Love comes to me from my garden for the care I bestow upon it.” However, people seldom exert themselves outside their own environment or seek to remedy the destruction which others have caused. While nature seeks to bring happiness to her children, she often weeps over the desecration of her bounty which Christmas brings, when the small fir, pine and hemlock trees are uprooted and sold over the counter for a few cents each.

A dear friend of mine, whose nature is of the “sylphid” type, once purchased a small Christmas tree for her drawing room, which she painted a silver bronze. It is most beautiful when decorated, but she said last Christmas and has said for several years, “I shall save it and use it again next year, for I never wish to kill another fir tree.” She had been to one of the big shops, and had seen hundreds of the small trees piled up to provide a passing thrill for the children and grown-ups at Christmas.

The devas have prophetic knowledge and they often inform the student what catastrophes are to take place when the Titans within the earth will be released to work destruction and havoc among mankind. Our modern Sodoms and Gomorrahs will in the fullness of time all suffer their due penalty which their destructiveness has brought to nature. When a place becomes so saturated with evil that it becomes destructive to the pure in heart, it remains only a matter of time when it will be razed to the ground.

I have witnessed the manipulation of natural forces by an Initiate during one of the great commercial crises in America, in order to prevent nature's penalties being too severe. And if it were not for the great immortals now living, the aftermath of the last great war would have been terrible beyond the conception of man.

Man comes naked into this world, and naked goes he hence. The perfection, the experience, which he gains to bring him into the consciousness of Truth can be summed up in one question, “What did he learn about himself?”

I have been privileged to read messages which certain Yogis wrote before they passed out, and the knowledge they had gained was of true spiritual worth, even though the whole life experience could be summed up in a single phrase. They also wrote minutely about knowledge they had gained in far distant countries, in order to enable the reader at some later date to open the book of the daily life and customs of a people who are today known only through archaeological research. Some of the writings of these seers gives an insight into the daily life and religious observances of past civilizations, and when the will of nature allows, humanity will be given information about Lemuria, Atlantis, Cush, Egypt, and Asiatic and African cities which today we know little.

This information will become available to those who are seeking to abide by the laws and edicts of nature's consciousness (natural law). But until a man passes the border which separates him from nature's consciousness, and lives according to her law, he cannot enjoy her bounty and protection. The devas often say, “How few we find in humanity who can become our spokesmen to redeem man into an understanding of our purpose in humanity’s endeavor.”

The great light-bringers to our earth have said, “Thou shalt not kill,” yet today mankind is recklessly killing other human beings by pestilence, wars, gas, greed, and the adulteration of nature's products. Could the total be known, the entire loss of life through the Great War would be negligible in comparison to the killing going quietly behind the scenes through man’s violation of natural law.

Disease is becoming so subtle that science is baffled to ascertain its cause or cure, and there is a new disease developing which will attack the membranes of a man’s astral and mental bodies, for man in his ignorance releases powers and forces into the atmosphere, the effect of which on the human brain and man’s causal body sheath he little knows.

After many years the manipulators of the X-ray are beginning to learn how to protect themselves from injury. This discovery, which has been of the greatest service to mankind, produced martyrs before the operator learned to safeguard himself against its subtle affects.

The average person seldom realizes that there are many pathways to God, and that there is one through science, wherein nature instructs humanity, and although many martyrs are sacrificed, yet when man lives the natural life according to nature's law, he will live to a greater age and gain a greater knowledge, and enjoy a greater freedom from disease and annoyance. From the requirement of knowledge comes wisdom, and wisdom points the path that leads to the “place of understanding.”

There are many today, generally unheeded by the populace, over whom nature has cast her Shekinah, and these are our “wise men.” We have many politicians, but a few statesmen. The devas often speak of the wise men in nature, meaning those men who have attained to her wisdom. These men are given great powers to ennoble the mind of humanity, and protect the innocent, and in proportion as they increase, the level of human accomplishment is advanced.

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goldtracing · 4 years ago

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Day 7 – Memento / (post-1945)

Once again, I’m a wee bit late. I wanted to present this for Day 6, however family activities interfered. So, I’ve decided to post it for Day 7. Also, I had pieced of this in my WIPS, and therefore I just went ahead, translated it and added.

In lieu of the most devastating war in human history, the once proud nation had been crushed, the confidence in that smile liquidated, the mad glint of fascism eradicated. Something that the fiend had deserved in Denmark’s eyes.

“What else do you want to do to my people?”, Ludwig had rasped, desperate in his question to Matthias, his else collected nature distorted by hopelessness. It had filled Denmark with sadistic glee to see his enemy so vulnerable.

He had played god for so long and he would be a slave all the longer.

The physical wounds the war had inflicted were deep and hurt, but it was the mental injuries that smarted the worst and hauled forth the worst sides of human nature. So, as one of the wronged, the Nordic hadn’t shown any mercy in his next words. Because wasn’t he entitled to revenge, however abstract it was?

“My dear Ludwig, somebody has to clean up the legacy you have left, and who would be better suited than your own children”, he had smugly declared.

Germany had demeaned them, forced them to their knees and humiliated them. He had shot, enslaved, tortured, subjugated and starved them – therefore he deserved nothing less than the unbridled ire of the whole world.

Which was why he couldn’t fully comprehend why Alfred had decided to spare the disgusting sinner, even decided to reconstruct him. “America is still young and foolish and so woefully idealistic”, he had told himself. “One day he shall learn that a tumour can’t be converted – it has to be burned out by a cleansing fire.”

Nevertheless, beneath all his anger, a small fraction of him that was so unchangeable human and sympathetic understood the new-found king, even concurred with his choices when the superpower vaguely explained part of his reasoning. That they should retake the exact path that he lead to the war to begin with. However, it was just a spark of compassion – one that was almost extinguished by years of bloody conflict, like every time order was replaced by chaos and altruism yielded to greed.

However, such memories were irrelevant in face of the present. The war was over and to remain trapped in the past and recollections of it, as well of the self-conflict it brought, was ill-advised. It was the most logical option and as a millennia-old nation it should have been an easy task. Despite having participated in countless wars and having learned to bury loathing – for allies could become enemies overnight and vice versa, leaving little room for permanent grudges – but this time, it was different.

Matthias breathed in deeply, smelling the sea and the sand, holding the air in his lungs for a few moment and then releasing it. The stiff breeze tugged at his tresses, the chill welcome and grounding in reality. He reminded himself that he was free again, free to remould himself to the changing demands of the modern world and choose the path he wished to take.

Opening his eyes again, staring down at the beach from his perch. It was a windy day, the dully shining through a grey cover of clouds, mirroring the turbulent waves with its froth-crown waves. Drowsy, in a way, like the village to his back.

That couldn’t be said of the boys down on the beach and Denmark made his way down to them, halting at the black flag that had been plunged into the loose ground. Behind that makeshift line, the member of the Hitler Youth, were lying on their stomachs. Their fear was palpable as they poked in the sand, searching for landmines. They were thousands of them buried in this little stretch of land, the legacy of Germany that desperately needed to be removed.

Some of his men had argued that it was inhumane to put children in harms way like this, where one wrong move could be their demise. Other’s argued that they were Germans, and therefore this was only fair.

Either way, this had to be done.

Grimacing, he glanced at the black crude things that had been stacked up. All defused, ready to be stripped for metal and explosives. Yet Denmark considered keeping one, as a crude memento of this wretched century. Something grotesque that would remind him of the atrocities committed, even when the world shall have forgotten about it, every living memory eradicated and the people that had witnessed the battles and bombings and crimes all deceased.

It would fit well in a museum, buildings were artifacts were housed, so many of them souvenirs he, the personification, had gathered on the journey that was called life. Such a mine would be an appropriately grisly warning from a long-gone era in a century or two.

#historical hetalia #historicalhetaliaweek #hhw day 7 #memento #1945 - present #post-ww2 #aph denmark #aph germany #hws england #tw war

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

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Next Cinderella AU part ahoy!

Conical hats were actually considered very fashionable during the Middle Ages and the early Renaissance. What’s fascinating, however, is how they evolved into two very distinct and oddly opposing styles of hat: the stereotypical “Pilgrim” hat and the pointed hat that witches are generally depicted wearing! Around the turn of the 17th century, the most stylish variation of black conical hat was called the capotain, which is a cone, but with a rounded top -- the hat McGonagall wears in that top sketch is one of these types of hats (her dress is based on this design, which also features a shorter version of the capotain). The hats were originally fashionable among both men and women, but over time, one group of women that was most associated with wearing them were Quakers, a branch of Christianity that broke away from the Church of England and advocated quite liberated views for the era, such as the abolition of slavery, women’s rights, and a refusal to involve themselves in war. They also passionately believed that one didn’t have to attend church in order to be close to God and that one could practice one’s faith out in the world by living and dressing modestly and being active in charity work. (To learn more about the history of how the conical hat evolved into our modern image of “the witch hat,” check out this awesome fashion history video on the subject.) As one can expect, Quakers and Quaker women in particular were not well-taken-to by a lot of European society, especially by the religious movement on the opposite site of the political scale in Britain, the uber-conservative, Bible-purist Puritans. Many of these same Puritan-types got very involved in hunting witches both in Europe and in the Americas (the Salem Witch Trials are a perfect example). But yes...if one looks up pictures of historical clothing for Puritan men and/or “the Pilgrims” (A.K.A. the group of Americans that colonized Plymouth, who were Puritans), they very often wore a variation of the capotain! Although it’s been theorized by historians that the capotains worn by Quaker women ended up being associated with sin and therefore witchcraft, similar hats were also worn by the men who persecuted them. The hats were worn by both sides -- victim and accuser -- and yet most of us today look at the capotain and immediately think “witch” exclusively. Talk about irony.

Greensleeves is often ascribed as being commissioned by King Henry VIII for his second wife, Anne Boleyn (even Six the Musical references this)...but it actually was written in the later half of the 16th century, when Anne’s daughter Elizabeth I was Queen. So yeah, that’s sadly just an old wives tale. But it is a lovely song! The melody for Greensleeves has been remarkably long-lasting, even being rewritten as multiple Christmas songs over the centuries, including the still popular What Child is This?, which was written in 1865.

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you all enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Carewyn very quickly threw on her mother’s green-sleeved yellow dress and as many warm wool petticoats as she could before fetching her white horse from the palace stable. She rode up through the gate in exactly twenty-five minutes, to find Orion on his black mare waiting for her. Carewyn was ready to ask Orion if everything was all right, but almost as soon as they’d left the perimeter of the gate, Orion urged his horse into a fast gallop.

“Come, my lady,” he cried over his shoulder, “let us chase that horizon!”

Carewyn had to send her horse charging forward in its own gallop to catch up with him. They rode right through the market and then out of the capitol altogether -- they avoided the road that led toward the Cromwell estate, dashing eastward. They weaved in and out of the rolling snow-capped hills, riding beside and around each other. The freedom of riding alone was enough to bring some life back into Orion’s cheeks, and Carewyn despite herself soon found herself smiling.

When they came to a stop at the top of a hill close to the northern border, Orion looked out over the edge with a handsome, endless gleam in his eye, like that of a sailor looking out to sea. Carewyn once again prepared to ask Orion if he was all right...but once again, Orion dodged the question.

“Do you see that eagle, overhead?” asked Orion.

Carewyn looked up. She did -- it was a truly handsome golden eagle, gliding in a circle through the air over their heads.

“I’ve seen eagles just like that nearly every day, up and down the border,” said Orion. “Shall we see if we can ride fast enough to overtake it in flight? Could we take flight as birds do, without ever spreading wings?”

“Orion...”

Carewyn brought a hand gently down on his arm.

“I know there’s something wrong,” she whispered.

Orion looked at her, his expression losing most of its levity and becoming much blanker and more inscrutable again.

“I understand if you can’t tell me,” she insisted softly. Her blue eyes rested on her own hand on his arm rather than his face -- with the intense concern she felt, she didn’t dare expose them further by looking straight into his eyes. “And I truly don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Your secrets are your own, and I know you have a reason for them.”

Just as I have mine.

“I only...I can tell you’re running from something...maybe even the thing you’ve being running from, every time you’ve come to see me, all these weeks...and I don’t know what to do, to protect you from what you’re so afraid of. Please...tell me what I can do.”

Orion’s black eyes trailed over Carewyn’s face, rippling with many tiny flickers of emotion that were hard to properly identify -- pain? Affection? Anxiety? Evasiveness? Shame? Longing? Who knew?

At last the Prince of Florence brought a hand out to gingerly rest on top of Carewyn’s on his arm.

“Chase that eagle with me,” he said softly.

Carewyn looked up at Orion and then at the eagle overhead as it soared off toward the nearby woods. Then she gave him a small, sad smile and nodded.

“...All right.”

Dislodging herself from Orion, Carewyn steadied her grip on her horse’s reins and flicked them to make it gallop toward the woods.

“Well, come on, then!” she called over her shoulder with the strongest smile she could. “T’would be a shame if I out-rode you in a challenge you set yourself!”

Orion’s face broke out into a brighter, fond smile and he pursued her.

The two rode their horses down the hill and into the trees. Racing side by side, overtaking each other in their strides and then catching up again -- all while Orion smiled so fully and handsomely, and looked at her with such blazing midnight-black eyes -- was a joy that Carewyn had trouble putting into proper words. His expression was full of such silent, and yet unbridled joy -- free, in every sense of the word.

“You should be allowed to feel like that more often,” Orion’s words returned to her. “Free.”

You should be allowed to feel like that too, Orion, thought Carewyn. You deserve to feel this free all the time.

The two rode with speed until they’d finally lost sight of the beautiful golden eagle. Slowing their horses into a calmer trot, they then journeyed through the trees, enjoying the peaceful serenity of the chirping birds and the pools of sunlight scattered across the muddy, snow-dusted ground.

“I’ve never been out this far before,” Carewyn confessed, her almond-shaped blue eyes trailing over the interlaced branches overhead.

Orion looked at her out the side of his eye. “...This close to the border, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Carewyn caught a strange scent in the distance -- something vaguely like the fires she’d tend to back at the castle and the Cromwell estate.

“...Something’s burning...”

Orion nodded solemnly. “Bonfires. The Royaumanian and Florentine camps aren’t far from here.”

Carewyn looked at Orion, slightly startled. His gaze had wandered northward, but it was clear his mind was far from the trees his eyes were idly resting on.

“We’re near the war front?” asked Carewyn softly.

“Yes...” Orion glanced her out the side of his eye. “...Are you frightened?”

“No,” said Carewyn.

She looked through the trees in the direction Orion had been facing.

Jacob could be over there right now, she thought to herself. The idea of seeing her brother for the first time in nine years -- of hugging him again and seeing his relieved smile -- it made her feel like her heart was being squeezed.

Orion’s black eyes scanned her longing, but fearless face, before shifting back in the direction of the trees that obscured the path toward the war front.

“The scales are going to shift again, soon,” he whispered. He could feel Carewyn’s eyes on him again. “The two sides have constantly fought for dominance...lashing out ruthlessly and then retaliating, back and forth, until they’re forced to come to a stalemate, just to catch their breath. Then one lashes out again, and the precarious balance is thrown to the winds once more...”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with concern. “Orion...is something bad about to happen, out there?”

Orion closed his eyes. His father claimed he needed him, in order to lead the Florentine army in the two-pronged attack on Royaume...but it wasn’t unlikely that the King might make do and find someone else to fill that role...

“Hopefully not,” he said softly.

Carewyn reached out a hand and took hold of Orion’s wrist. Orion looked down at her hand and then up at her face -- she had trouble looking at him, but he could tell her eyes were rippling with concern. His heart felt like it was suddenly being harshly compressed, just to fit inside of his chest.

You wish to protect me from what I fear...but what I fear, I should wish to protect you from.

The King’s words returned to his mind.

“When you make mistakes, the people you cherish, that you want most desperately to protect, pay the price!”

But how could he hope to protect Carewyn from the War and the cost it would demand? How could he hope to stop it, when his own father unknowingly would be sabotaging his efforts for peace? How could he live with himself, if he had to chain himself to the War the way the King had -- to fight against the Royaumanians he’d met and broken bread with as equals?

Orion took several deep breaths before speaking again.

“...My father wishes me to join him, at the front,” he admitted lowly.

Carewyn looked up, startled. “...Your father’s in the army?”

“Yes,” said Orion. “He’s...a high-ranking officer. He expects that I will follow his example and lead our ranks into battle.”

Carewyn considered Orion for a moment. “...You don’t want to.”

Orion’s eyes darkened significantly. “...I don’t want to.”

When Carewyn didn’t respond, he pressed on.

“My father believes that the War can only be ended through force -- that justice can be only brought about by utterly destroying our enemy. But...I cannot believe that. I grew up on the border between Florence and Royaume. The town I’m from is so close that one could hop easily from one to the other. It caused some tensions, yes...but it also made it so that at first meeting, or even third or fourth, you never knew what side of the divide a person was on. And so I found myself constantly thinking...what is it that truly separates us? Is it morality? Is it values? Humanity? And yet I don’t think either side can boast having any of those things exclusively. It instead all comes back to a mistake made fifty years ago -- a land dispute that ended more violently than it should have. So many people have died, all because of that...and because neither King has decided to be the better man and choose forgiveness over vengeance.”

Orion bowed his head, his eyes closing solemnly.

“...My father asked me to help him lead the army, in an upcoming attack on the enemy forces -- one that he believes could end the War once and for all. But...”

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

“...I couldn’t accept that burden...so I left.”

Carewyn didn’t respond. Orion scanned her face, trying to read her reaction, but it was proving difficult when she wouldn’t look at him.

Does she...disapprove? he couldn’t help but think. She did think he was Royaumanian -- she didn’t understand that he wanted to protect her brother, not prevent him from returning home...but how could he explain that to her, without...?

“I know that the War could end, if my father’s strategy succeeds,” Orion explained, trying to keep his voice level despite the anxiety he felt, “but this is only one strategy of hundreds, all of which have failed. And even if our side was victorious...however many lives I could potentially save by fighting, I would be snuffing out far more. I realize that this is my responsibility alone, and sometimes one must be willing to do what others will not, to reach their goal...but flowers bloom under sunlight and water, not blood. If we could avoid burning a forest to the ground, wouldn’t it then be easier to bring it back to life?”

“Yes...but if someone wants to set a forest ablaze, you have to act if you want to stop them.”

Carewyn’s response was very soft and solemn, but there was no anger or disapproval -- instead, to Orion’s immense relief, it sounded almost encouraging.

“If you believe that Royaume could make peace with Florence, then you need to speak out for it,” she said firmly. “If you see it and believe in it, that’s great...but you need to make others see and believe in it too, if it’s going to really come about. Talk to your father, make him see things as you do -- and if he isn’t able to, then...well, I’ll talk to Andre, and you and he can discuss it together.”

Her lips spread into a gentle smile and she gave his wrist a light squeeze.

“My own family may have profited because of the War, but the people of Royaume, the common man, would celebrate, if peace could come about without further loss. If Florence would also, then that’s a step in the right direction. There’s more than one way to fight for something...all it requires is enough courage to place one’s goal over whatever risks stand in their way.”

Orion stared at Carewyn for a long moment. As he did, the black of his eyes seemed to melt, gaining a warmer, softer light that resembled candlelight rippling in endless, dark water.

“...Carewyn...”

Before he could say anything more, however, there was a loud explosion in the distance. Carewyn’s horse reared back in terror, which in turn spooked Orion’s, and both Carewyn and Orion had to quickly calm their steeds.

“Whoa, whoa,” Carewyn whispered in her horse’s ear, “easy, boy...it’s all right...”

Orion stroked his horse’s mane with a slightly trembling hand, breathing in and out as he tried to steady his heart rate. He then looked at Carewyn with a more serious eye.

“...Perhaps we should make our way back to the valley. It’s not safe here.”

Carewyn looked northward through the trees again. “Do you think your father’s started the attack?”

“No. Coordinated attacks require both strategy and assignments, as well as the element of surprise. I’d say this is a skirmish between younger, less experienced soldiers -- and if so, it’s likely to run farther afield and cause damage outside the designated battlefield.”

Orion could see Carewyn still hesitating. Although there was no fear in her face, she seemed reluctant to leave -- likely thinking of her brother, more than the risk to her own safety...

After a brief flicker of uncertainty, Orion reached out a hand and took hold of Carewyn’s arm not unlike how she’d taken his earlier.

“From everything I’ve heard from you about your brother, I truly cannot see him not doing everything he possibly can, to look out for your well-being...including looking after himself.”

A second smaller explosion in the distance made Orion stiffen slightly, his fingers tightening that bit around Carewyn’s arm.

“...We should move out of harm’s way,” he said as levelly as he could.

Seeing the paleness of Orion’s face, Carewyn relented at once.

“Yes.”

Bringing a hand up onto Orion’s horse’s reins, she directed both of them around so they could start riding back out the way they came.

As they came around a cluster of trees, however, their attention was caught by the sound of the cry of an eagle and many snapping branches. Carewyn’s horse reared back again, just barely dodging a large clump of golden-brown feathers that collided sharply with the ground.

Carewyn once again rushed to soothe her horse. Orion quickly climbed off his horse and bent down to get a better look at what had fallen.

It was a golden eagle, just as brilliant as the one they’d chased into the wood -- perhaps even the same one. It was conscious, but clearly in pain when it tried to return to the air -- its left wing crumpled up against its side and covered in blood and what looked like grayish ash.

Orion’s black eyes narrowed.

“Gunpowder,” he said. “The poor creature’s wing must have been struck by a stray bullet.”

Once she’d successfully soothed her white horse, Carewyn likewise jumped off its back. She dashed over to Orion, hitching up the skirt of her mother’s gown as she went.

“Can you hold him?” she asked.

The eagle gave an angry-sounding cry, baring its sharp talons at both of them, and it tried to hobble away back into the air with its one good wing.

“I don’t think he wants our help,” said Orion.

Undaunted, Carewyn ripped off some fabric from her outer-most petticoat. “Well, he needs it, whether he wants it or not. Can you hold him, please?”

Orion looked at the eagle. Rather than try to grab it, he met the eagle’s eyes and tried not to blink. The eagle looked back at him with a piercing gaze. When Orion extended a hand, the eagle lashed out its talons again -- Orion withdrew, but didn’t flinch.

“Steady,” he said gently.

He waited a moment, keeping eye contact with the bird, and then tried again. This time he was able to move close enough to touch before the eagle lashed out with its claws again.

“Peace,” said Orion patiently. “We mean you no harm, feathered friend.”

Another loud explosion in the distance made both the eagle and Orion flinch.

“That one sounded closer,” said Carewyn, her voice faintly tense but as gentle as she could. “We need to be quick.”

The flames of his childhood home were returning to Orion’s mind despite his best efforts, and he shut them out as best he could, closing his eyes and breathing in and out several times. Once he’d reestablished his focus, Orion opened his eyes again.

The eagle looked from Orion to Carewyn almost critically. Finally, after Orion reached in for a third time, it let the Prince run a gentle hand over its back. Once the bird was calm, Orion then carefully extended its wing so that Carewyn could reach it.

“This will likely hurt him a little,” Carewyn told Orion. “Please hold him still, so he won’t fly away.”

Orion brought a hand around the eagle, which fidgeted and cried out indignantly, but did not claw or snap at them. With Orion holding out its wing, Carewyn was able to reach into its blood-soaked feathers and dislodge the bullet. The eagle gave an angry, pained cry, and Carewyn very quickly set about wrapping up the wound with the white fabric she’d ripped out of her petticoat.

“There,” breathed Carewyn, her red lips spreading into a smile. “That should help...”

The bird looked down at its wing, gingerly folding up against its side as it surveyed her with a very beady eye. With a soft click of her tongue against her teeth, she slowly extended an arm out, holding it very still like a branch.

“Climb on,” she cooed. “That’s it...”

The eagle peered Carewyn over, but after a long moment, it gradually scooted over and leapt up onto her arm. Its talons dug into the sleeve of her dress with strength, and it was heavier than Carewyn expected, but she with some difficulty just barely managed to hoist it up.

“Your talent with animals shines through again,” said Orion with a wry smile, clasping his hands lightly in front of him.

“You weren’t half bad yourself,” Carewyn said amusedly. She brought a hand gently along the eagle’s comb. “You’re a very handsome bird, aren’t you? You poor thing...”

“You there!”

Both Orion and Carewyn looked up in great surprise.

Striding through the woods toward them was a very tall middle-aged woman. She wore a black capotain hat and an old-fashioned black dress with a white ruff around the collar, and her graying brown hair was tied up in an austere looking bun under her hat. Despite her apparent age, her step was strong and her posture as straight as a general’s.

“What are you doing here?” said the woman very sternly.

Carewyn stood a bit uneasily, thanks to the weight of the eagle on her arm, but she nonetheless straightened up, resting a hand on the eagle’s back almost protectively.

“We’re merely out riding, madam,” she said, not impolitely, but still confidently.

The woman peered down at both Orion and Carewyn with an eye almost as critical as the eagle’s had been as she crossed her arms. Her height made it so she towered over both of them with relative ease.

“Well, through your riding, you have trespassed on my land,” she said stiffly. “And it seems you’ve claimed something of mine.”

Her eyes flickered over to the eagle on Carewyn’s arm, taking in the makeshift bandage on its wing. The golden eagle gave a loud shriek -- the woman extended her arm, and it leapt the distance, landing on her arm instead. The older woman did not struggle to hold it up the way Carewyn had.

Carewyn blinked in surprise. “Then...he’s yours?”

“Do you have others, like him?” Orion asked curiously.

The woman peered down at the bird on her arm with a look that was rather like a scolding, but still affectionate mother’s. “No -- he’s one of a kind. All the more reason why I’m pleased to see him safe, after coming so close to the enemy camp.”

The eagle bowed its head, its gaze flickering back over toward Carewyn and Orion. When another cluster of explosions rang out through the air, however, both the bird and Orion straightened up abruptly.

The woman looked northward, and then beckoned Carewyn and Orion after her with her hand.

“Come with me -- with the armies positioned just north of us and a band of Florentine bandits just south, the safest place at present to wait out this skirmish is my home.”

The woman introduced herself as the Baroness Minerva McGonagall. Carewyn felt like the surname was familiar somehow, but she couldn’t quite place it in her memory. Regardless, McGonagall led Carewyn and Orion out through the trees. Only once they crossed the perimeter of the trees and McGonagall gestured toward the valley below did Carewyn and Orion see her country estate. It was odd that they didn’t spot it sooner, for although the valley seemed to cradle the small chateau, it was a rather beautiful and open estate framed by a wrought iron gate. The property itself was made of aged brick and stone with stained glass windows and overgrown with ice-trimmed ivy.

After holding out her arm so that the eagle perched there could jump down on the railing beside the stone stairs that led up to the front door, the Baroness invited Orion and Carewyn inside. As stern as she’d first appeared, she actually was a very kind host -- after Orion and Carewyn’s horses were settled in her stable, she escorted the two into the dining hall, where she served them some rose water and ginger biscuits. Once inside the house, none of them could hear the explosions from the battlefield -- it was as though the walls cancelled out all sounds from outside even though they must’ve been so close.

Seeing that the Baroness had no servants to help her, Carewyn insisted on taking the dishes to the kitchen and washing them, so as to thank the older woman for her hospitality. Despite being reluctant to accept the help at first, McGonagall eventually accepted it, her lips upturned in a rather dewy smile as Carewyn left the dining hall.

“Your riding companion has a very kind heart, Your Highness,” she said, once Carewyn was out of earshot.

Orion’s black eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly.

“...You know me.”

"Naturally,” said McGonagall. “You do very much resemble your grandfather -- and your father as well, I expect.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“We met once, a very long time ago,” said McGonagall rather curtly. “Your name would also be Cosimo, correct?”

“I am called Orion,” said the Prince, his level voice dusted with the slightest edge. “By both my lady, and otherwise.”

McGonagall’s eyes grew a little smaller. “She comes from the Cromwell family, doesn’t she?”

Orion’s eyes narrowed that little bit more, but he did not reply.

“I suspected it due to her eyes,” said McGonagall, “but with how gentle they were, I wasn’t sure.”

Her eyebrows rose over her narrowed eyes as she leaned forward slightly and rested her elbows on the table.

“You have quite a predicament before you, Orion,” she said dryly, interlacing her fingers beside her chin.

Orion clasped his hands on the table in front of him, considering the Baroness carefully.

“Yet you decided not to approach me about it until Carewyn left the room,” he said levelly. “Is it because you suspected I knew your true identity, and why your house has been so miraculously shielded from the War raging on your doorstep?”

McGonagall peered at Orion over her hands with something like wry amusement. “Florentines are generally more favorable toward magic than Royaumanians. And considering your grandfather shielded my family after my mother accidentally killed the King and we fled across the border...well, it would be in-character for you, especially.”

“And yet you returned to the land that the King of Royaume had died trying to claim?” asked Orion. “Why?”

McGonagall gave a dismissive shrug. “It was our home. Even if we had to cast and recast illusions every day to prevent anyone else from finding it again, that was a cost we were willing to pay. And one I’m still willing to pay today, to protect those who live here.”

McGonagall’s eyes were drawn to the hallway -- a young man with tanned skin and a sharp nose had just paused in the door frame of the dining hall. His arm was in a makeshift sling and wrapped with what looked like bandages made out of petticoat fabric. When Orion turned around, the young man stared him down with just as beady of a look as the golden eagle from before had.

“The skirmish has ended, Baroness,” the man said brusquely.

“I hope you haven’t determined that by casting any more transfiguration spells, my young apprentice,” said McGonagall with a slightly reproachful look.

The apprentice’s nose wrinkled sourly. “No. The explosions have just stopped -- they probably decided it wasn’t worth trying to fire their cannons blindly in the dark.”

“Very well,” said McGonagall. “Orion, you and Carewyn may leave when you wish. Though I would recommend you steer clear of the border. The bandits in these woods are Florentines, so I doubt they will harm you...but I cannot be sure how they would respond to a Royaumanian, especially one related to one of their wealthiest noblemen.”

Orion nodded. “I understand.”

“Make sure you bring her back to the palace safely,” said the apprentice, his eagle-like eyes still rather critical upon Orion. “It’s the least you can do, considering she doesn’t know the extent of the risk she’s taking, interacting with you.”

He swept down the hallway and out of sight, still holding his arm. Orion was a bit surprised that the Baroness’s apprentice knew where Carewyn worked -- but then, he recalled, he’d seen an eagle flying over his and Carewyn’s heads once, while they were walking through the market together, hadn’t he? Might it have been this man then, as well -- as it likely had, every time he’d seen an eagle while crossing the border?

McGonagall looked back at Orion, her expression a bit more solemn. “I understand your rationale behind not telling her of your identity, Orion...but remember -- deception is just like any magical spell. Even the most powerful ones in the world don’t last long.”

Orion bowed his head. “...I know.”

He knew none of this could last. He knew that once Carewyn knew who he was, everything between them would change, whether he wanted it to or not. He did think that Carewyn would understand -- he desperately hoped so -- but even so, it was sad to him, knowing that his happy times with Carewyn were doomed to be so fleeting...

“I just...want to enjoy my time with her as long as I can,” said Orion softly. “However fleeting it might be...even when it is over...at least then I can cherish the memory of those moments forever.”

McGonagall’s face grew a bit gentler, almost sympathetic. "I see...”

Carewyn returned at that moment, wiping her bangs out of her eyes with her arm.

“Orion,” she said, “it looks like the stars have come out.”

Orion looked out the window. The sky was dark with night and shining with stars.

“So they have,” he said with a soft smile. He turned to McGonagall. “Forgive me, Baroness...but might we sit in the valley outside your home for a short while, before we leave?”

McGonagall smiled. “Of course.”

Orion and Carewyn found a grassy spot in the crest of the valley where they could sit and look up at the stars. Upon learning that Carewyn hadn’t ever gone stargazing before, Orion lay back against the grass and pointed out each constellation above them to Carewyn in turn -- the hero Perseus, his enemy the Cetus, and his future wife Andromeda -- -- the divine twins, Castor and Pollux, otherwise known as a pair as Gemini -- and the queen Cassiopeia, which made Carewyn laugh, thinking of her friend, KC. Carewyn loved listening to Orion’s stories: the way he would vividly embellish every detail and go off on philosophical tangents in the middle was oddly endearing. After he told his first tale about Perseus, Carewyn was reminded of the Song of Roland, an epic about a similarly grand hero, and soon Orion would ask her to sing something in response to every story he told, however weak the connection was. When they reached Cassiopeia’s tale, Carewyn sang one of her favorite songs, Greensleeves.

“I have been ready at your hand To grant whatever thou would’st crave; I have waged both life and land, Your love and goodwill for to have.

Greensleeves was all my joy; Greensleeves was my delight; Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but my lady Greensleeves...”

As before, Orion found himself closing his eyes and relishing the feeling of Carewyn’s voice washing over him. At the end of this song in particular, however, when he opened his eyes, he found himself chuckling softly.

Carewyn raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Orion’s black eyes were sparkling like two miniature night skies as they ran over Carewyn sitting just below him. “It’s a lovely song, as always...but I have not ever seen my ‘star twin,’ so to speak, wearing green -- only ever black and blue. You, however...”

He took her hand so that he could extend her arm out like they were dancing, showing off the olive green sleeves of her dress.

“So it seems you are ‘my lady Greensleeves,’” said Orion with a wry smile.

“Oh, stop it,” Carewyn huffed, her cheeks burning as she withdrew her hand.

Orion laughed fully. It was the first time Carewyn had ever heard him laugh so openly before -- it was a soft sound in the back of his throat, like a chuckle, and yet so much brighter and warmer. Despite herself, Carewyn couldn’t fight back a full smile of her own. Her shoulder brushed up against Orion’s as she reclined back onto the grass, her body tilting slightly toward him as she looked up at the sky.

“...There’s a constellation called Orion, isn’t there?”

Orion smiled and traced the stars of the constellation with his finger. “Just there. Do you see his chest? And there’s his bow.”

“I see it!” said Carewyn excitedly. “His arm is arched back, right?”

“Yes -- he’s holding a club in his other hand. He was a great hunter, you see -- the greatest hunter, they say, aside from Artemis, Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt. Some say that he hunted alongside her. Others say she was his one and only love...and that she, likewise, never loved any other man, in all her days.”

When Carewyn didn’t respond, Orion looked down at her. She was considering the constellation very carefully, looking oddly deep in thought.

Orion tilted his head to look better at her face. “Your eyes resemble a dark pool.”

Carewyn looked up, startled.

“They’re so deep and mysterious, I hardly know what is within them,” said Orion. “Yet I would dearly like to know, if you were willing to share their contents.”

Carewyn’s eyes drifted back up to the sky uncomfortably.

“It’s just...I’m realizing that I don’t even know if Orion is your real name,” she murmured. “You said I could call you it...you did not say it was your name.”

Orion’s face became grimmer. His hands clasped over his chest and he too looked back up at the sky.

“...It’s not the name I was born with,” he admitted. “I chose the name myself, when I was young.”

The memory of the older boys at the workhouse shoving him, piling extra work on him, and mockingly bowing whenever he walked by rippled over his mind.

“Clear the floor for the Prince!”

“Why thank you, Prince Cosimo -- you’re too kind!”

“Does the mud add flavor, your Royal Highness?”

“When I was at the workhouse, my name...antagonized the other boys. So, to try to preempt the reactions, I started avoiding telling anyone my name. I would dread anyone ever asking.”

“Like when I asked you?” whispered Carewyn. Even though her eyes were averted, she was clearly very ashamed and upset.

Orion leaned against her slightly, offering her a gentle, reassuring expression. “No, Carewyn. I dreaded it when I had no answer I could give at all. It made me anxious...made me feel like I didn’t know who I was supposed to be...made it difficult for me to interact with much of anyone at all.”

He closed his eyes.

“But...after hearing the tale of the great hunter whose skill put him on the same level as a goddess...I decided that was who I’d be. I’d chase my dreams with just as much single-minded focus -- be just as free and strong of a man, by fighting the monster inside of myself.”

Carewyn looked up at Orion, her eyes rippling with sadness. “The monster inside of yourself?”

“Mm,” said Orion. “Mine is a frenetic beast. It makes it hard for me to think, act, or even breathe, when it’s particularly intense. It makes me question absolutely everything, including myself. It shouts so many things in my ears so loudly that I can’t move or react properly, and I have to break away from everything and everyone, just to silence it. Sometimes it even brings back bad memories that make the experience even worse.”

Carewyn was once again avoiding his eye, but it was largely because she was having trouble keeping her face stoic.

“...It’s terrible, when you feel like you can’t do anything,” she said lowly.

Orion didn’t speak. He wanted her to feel comfortable enough to continue -- after a silence, she finally pressed on.

“When Jacob first went off to War...I felt so helpless. So...alone. And worse...I felt like that’s how I should be. Like I should be alone, and empty, and cold, and in pain, when Jacob was off at War suffering, while I’m stuck here.”

Her eyes darkened.

“There are times when...I think I still should be. Sometimes...well, it’s all the time.”

She closed her eyes, exhaled heavily through her nose, and then looked up at Orion with a firmer expression.

“...But I know I can’t afford to sit around and feel sorry for myself -- not when I need to be strong, for Jacob’s sake. So I don’t.”

Orion’s black eyes softened visibly, rippling with empathy. “No...you certainly don’t.”

He paused. His eyes ran over Carewyn’s face, trailing through her hair hesitantly.

“Carewyn...” he said at last, very softly, “may I...?”

He swallowed.

“...May I rest my head, on top of yours?”

Carewyn’s face broke into a very sweet, tender smile.

“Of course,” she murmured.

Orion shifted over and, very tentatively, leaned back against the grass so that Carewyn’s head rested in the crook of his neck and his cheek rested against the top of her head. He closed his eyes -- she felt so warm...

“I...realize that the beasts inside of us are ours alone to face,” said Orion softly, “but...should you need a hunter to help you beat yours back...I will be here.”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with emotion as she stared up at Orion’s face. Her red lips slowly turned up in a smile that was full of pain, and yet also fuller still of love.

“And I will always help you fight yours,” she whispered. “If you need me...I will fight for you.”

Orion’s expression cleared, losing all tension as a smile pricked at the corners of his lips. He breathed deeply, his heart slowing to a wonderful peaceful beat as he took in the smell of her hair. Carewyn watched his serene, handsome face, and she found herself moving into him that bit more, just to get a better view. For that moment, it felt like the whole world outside wasn’t there -- that the War and the palace and the Cromwell clan and everything she was and wasn’t didn’t even exist...and in that moment, Carewyn realized...

If she was ever truly free, she would want to love the man called Orion with all of her heart.

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theparanormalperiodical · 4 years ago

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31 Celebrity Ghost Stories You NEED To Read On Halloween Night (Or Any Time Of The Year, Screw The System)

*Puts on old professor glasses*

For generations we have been in awe of the celebrity.

*strokes beard*

For generations we have trodden their paths, followed their scents, and watched with wandering eyes exactly what they do - and all in the name of escapism.

Since the conception of humankind we have sought to understand what makes the rich and famous both rich and famous. Our philosophers decode mannerisms, our magazine editors calculate their every mistake, and the rest of us simply gaze up at the stars wondering how, why, and what we share in common with the glorified among us.

But you see-

*walks across the Ted Talk stage*

-they are just like us.

They make mistakes, they compare themselves to others, and yes, they even suck in their stomachs when trying on their new TopShop crop top and then shove it in the back of their sock drawer convinced their lower belly will always have too fat.

But even more than that, they have experiences with the paranormal.

*pulls up a chair and sits on it backwards cause for some reason people think it looks actually idk how people think it looks but whatever back to the imagery*

And so, on this Halloween night, we celebrate what brings us all together - no matter how much cash nor clout one has.

Shall we?

Miley Cyrus

During her 2009 Europe tour, Cyrus stayed in a flat in London - a flat that she claims was haunted.

"It was seriously so terrifying. It used to be an old bakery and they turned it into an apartment building, and I was having really crazy dreams and really scary things, and one night my little sister–it sounds crazy to tell you–but she was standing in the shower and all of a sudden I hear her scream.

I run in there and the water had somehow flipped to hot but it was still...It wasn’t like the water had just changed, the knob had turned but she hadn’t turned it and it was burning her.”

In the same bathroom Cyrus was convinced she saw a little boy sitting on the sink whilst she was showering. A series of other unexplained events took place until they delved into the family history of the bakery: it was passed down for generations from father to son. Cyrus believed she saw the last son to be left the bakery.

Cher

Turns out Cher doesn’t just believe in life after love but life after death, too.

The music legend herself is convinced that her late husband, Sonny, who died in 1998 is still making his presence known to her.

She claims his spirit has a habit of turning lights on to remind her he is there and often does this to her chandelier - even when there is no power.

“I love ghosts, I prefer ghosts to some people.”

Anna Nicole Smith

This late Playboy bunny was known for her bombshell sex appeal and scandalous career - but what about her forays into the supernatural?

"A ghost would crawl up my leg and have sex with me at an apartment a long time ago in Texas. I used to think it was my boyfriend, and one day I woke up and it wasn’t. It was, like, a spirit and it—woo! [miming a ghost flying from her bedsheets]—went up!

I was freaked out about it, but then I was, like, 'Well, you know what? He’s never hurt me and he just gave me some amazing sex so I have no problem.'"

When the interviewer asked her whether it was merely a dream Smith replied that it was happening every single night.

Kesha

Just like Smith, Kesha’s own experience with the paranormal is rather more sexual.

In her own words she went to the “bone zone” with a ghost.

"I don't know his name. He just started caressing me. It was a sexy time, it wasn't, like, sex."

Emma Stone

Back in 2014 Stone revealed on a late night talk show that the spirit of her grandfather often leaves quarters for her to find.

In fact, she claimed her family has a history of the small change - and its legacy clearly goes beyond the grave.

La Toya Jackson

Michael Jackson’s death is one of the most striking moments in modern history - but it turns out the King of Pop might also be the King of the Paranormal.

La Toya often claims she feels strong presences in the Jacksons’ childhood home and frequently shares about the supernatural activity coming from MJ’s old room. Many visitors, staff members, and family members have heard tap dancing coming from the room, even when they didn’t know who it used to belong to.

It was in this room that Michael would tap dance for two hours every sunday.

Susan Boyle

Boyle often recounts that she lost several members of her closest family within the span of a few short years and felt abandoned by her family. But in a 2011 interview she claimed she sees her mother’s spirit around her house, believing it to be a reminder from beyond the grave that she is not alone.

Megan Fox

"I was just in Mexico at my hotel and it was a bedroom, living room, bedroom...I had pre-ordered breakfast for 7:30, and at 7 a.m. I hear them come in with the table, I hear them pouring the coffee…

30 minutes later, at 7:30 I went in there, no table, no coffee, no food, no nothing, no one there. Door bell rings, I open the door, it's room service with my food...Brandy the nanny comes out later and says, 'Why did room service come at 7 when we told them to come at 7:30?' So you can't tell me I'm crazy, because two people heard it."

Ariana Grande

This paranormal enthusiast was visiting one of the gates of hell - Stull Cemetery - when she felt a sudden surge of negative energy around her. Flies suddenly appeared in the car and she smelt a strong odour of sulphur.

Both are symptoms of dark, demonic energy.

As they drove off she ‘apologised’ to the spirits for disturbing the peace and took a couple of pictures of the area before they left. She saw clear demonic faces in the image. When she tried to send it to her manager as proof of the strange goings on, the picture couldn’t be sent.

Why?

Because it was 666 megabytes.

Joan Rivers

This comedian’s old Manhattan apartment might be worth $28 million but it's far more famous for the supernatural entities within its walls than its price tag.

In one iconic episode of Celebrity Ghost Stories Rivers claims she even brought in a voodoo priestess to help a former resident, ‘Mr Spencer’, pass on.

Marilyn Manson

Just like Rivers, Marilyn Manson told his own paranormal experience on CGS. But his story had less spirits and more, you know, Satan.

Pressured by his peers into reading demonic incantations in a supposedly haunted basement, Manson claims he then heard demonic whispers around him asking if he believed in Satan.

Alyson Hannigan

Hannigan might be known for her Wiccan ways on the TV screen in Buffy The Vampire Slayer, but her encounters with the paranormal aren’t just captured by our favourite streaming services.

Back in 2003 Hannigan claimed she lived in a haunted house - but she believes the spirit is friendly.

“My friend saw him first one night. She said, 'I don't mean to alarm you, but I just saw a man follow us out of the house.' “

"Later that night I saw this silhouette of a man standing in the bathroom doorway. I was like, 'Sweetie, what are you doing?' I thought it was [fiance] Alexis [Denisof]. But then I looked and Alexis was asleep next to me.”

Nicolas Cage

Yes, the most memed actor in Hollywood has faced a series of paranormal experiences, too. In 2007 Cage purchased one of the most haunted houses in America in a bid to get inspired to write the latest horror novel.

He bought the LaLaurie Mansion in New Orleans, a house belonging to one of the 19th century’s most infamous serial killers.

Many believe the slaves tortured by Delphine LaLaurie still haunt the mansion. Perhaps Cage heard the wails and moans of her victims, or maybe he felt the demonic presence rumoured to have taken part in a murder of a tenant in 1894?

Demi Lovato

Lovato often makes mention of her beliefs in the paranormal - especially when it comes to her haunted house in Texas. She claims a young girl named Emily haunts her home in the South, and has even mentioned that she was a childhood ‘friend’ when she was growing up.

But this tale has to be the most terrifying:

"One of my friends, Tucker, came over one time and he asked, 'So your house is haunted?' I said, 'Yeah, just watch. Something will happen. Something always happens.' We started to watch a movie when all of a sudden a laptop in my kitchen started to play a movie also. It was a black screen before, so it was a question of who turned it on and hit play.

And after that Tucker texted a friend saying, 'I think this house is haunted, a movie just turned on by itself,' and there was a 'glitch' in his phone that kept texting him back the word 'definitely' over and over again. That happened about 30 times."

Peter Jackson

Jackson might be known for putting mystical and magical creatures on the big screen, but he’s seen similar things in real life, too.

"One night I woke up and there was a figure in the room. She was really scary—her face was like a silent scream. She glided across the room and disappeared into the wall." He told Fran in the morning and she said, "'Was it the woman with a screaming face?’ We had never spoken about it.

She had seen the same ghost two years earlier. So I do believe in some energy, a spirit or a soul..."

Kendrick Lamar

From one famous rapper to another:

Lamar told Home Grown Radio that he had a dream about Tupac Shakur - a dream he believed conveyed a message from beyond. In the dream Tupac told him “Keep doing what you doing, don’t let my music die.”

Keanu Reeves

He’s one of the internet’s favourite celebrities - but what isn’t so famous about this Matrix star is his paranormal experience from when he was living in NYC.

"I'm probably like six, seven years old, we'd come from Australia. Renata, [our] nanny, in the bedroom, my sister is asleep, she's sitting over there, I'm hanging out. There was a doorway and all of a sudden this jacket comes waving through the doorway, this empty jacket — there's no body, there's no legs, it's just there. And then it disappears..."

The nanny saw the exact same thing.

Adele

Ghost nuns are not only on-trend but also terrify-ing. Adele can testify to that. In 2012 the singer moved into a plush Sussex mansion which used to be a convent.

A couple creepy noises later and she hired around-the-clock security to protect her against the paranormal activity. Who knows what she might’ve seen in her new $6 million home?

Matthew McConaughey

McConaughey claims his Hollywood mansion was haunted by an unhappy female spirit by the name of Madame Blu.

"I was not even under the influence and she was there. She wasn't that happy, it didn't seem like she was going to be much fun to hang around or have in my house, so I went ahead and stood my ground. I opened the door and said 'You can move around all you want but I'm not going anywhere.'"

"For weeks everyone that came to the house said the same thing: 'There's someone down in that hall, there's somebody down in that hall.'"

Ryan Gosling

Most of the celebs that made this list whip out their charming ‘lil spooky story to pique interest in their latest career venture. Gosling’s story, however, is actually pretty f*cking scary.

One day, in his childhood home, he saw a ghost of a young boy.

"He just sat. And I knew from a very young age that he was a ghost, too. He scared me. I told my mother, but she couldn't see him. Nobody could. And I learned to live with that. I had to…

Then, a few years later, [my mother] thought she saw him, then almost right away my cousin saw him, and then my uncle. And we were outta there in fairly short order."

Laura Linney

Linney is one of Hollywood’s most cherished actresses - and even on the stage she has witnessed something from the other side.

She became a believer in the paranormal after working in the Belasco Theater on Broadway.

"I had forgotten this, and I was doing a play with Jane Alexander, and I turned to Jane Alexander, and I looked up to the upper balcony—there are two balconies there—and the upper balcony you can only get in from the outside, and those doors were locked; and I looked up, and there was a woman standing in the front row looking over with a blue dress and blonde hair.

I just thought, 'Well, hello!' I looked back at Jane, and I looked back up, and she was gone. I went to the house manager and I said, 'Joe, I think I saw a ghost.' And he went, 'male or female?' I said, 'female.' And he went, 'blue dress, blonde hair?'"

Megan Mullally

Another famous ghost that haunts a famous face features on this list. But this time the paranormal activity described by Mullally is certainly the most tragic.

She claims she lived in a house haunted by the spirit of Nicole Brown Simpson who was murdered in 1994. She believes that only when her husband watched the American Crime Story series about her death did the strange occurrences (most of which were odd and unexplained sounds) settle.

Kristen Stewart

Only last year our very own Bella Swan opened up not just about her own experiences with ghosts, but her own spiritual connection with other people.

“If I’m in a weird, small town, making a movie, and I’m in a strange apartment, I will literally be like, ‘No, please, I cannot deal. Anyone else, but it cannot be me.’ Who knows what ghosts are, but there is an energy that I’m really sensitive to. Not just with ghosts, but with people. People stain rooms all the time.”

Carrie Fisher

Carrie Fisher lived an extraordinary life. She was one of the few a-listers to openly discuss her struggles with mental health and drug use before it became so accepted in mainstream society. Unfortunately, these topics would haunt her in a rather more supernatural manner, too.

Following the overdose of a friend sleeping next to her in her mansion, Fisher claimed she would often feel their presence around her.

"Lights would go on and off, and I had this toy machine, that when you touched it would say, 'F*ck you! Eat sh*t! You’re an asshole!' And it would go off in the night, by itself, in my closet.”

She later hired an exorcist to cleanse the house of the spirit.

Halle Berry

Whilst filming Introducing Dorothy Dandridge, Berry would experience intense paranormal activity she believed was down to her dress.

A dress formerly owned by the woman titling the film.

"I'd come home and the housekeeper would say she'd heard my vanity chair moving upstairs in the bathroom. When the film was over, I desperately wanted to keep her dress, but it had to go. And then everything was fine."

Lady Gaga

Just like Kendrick Lamar, Lady Gaga has had her own dealings with the spirit of an icon. But instead of rap legend Tupac, she got the late fashion designer Alexander McQueen.

"Right after he died, I wrote 'Born This Way.' I think he's up in heaven with fashion strings in his hands, marionetting away, planning this whole thing…

I didn't even write the f*king song. He did!"

Melissa McCarthy

Comedian Melissa McCarthy revealed in 2016 that she believed in ghosts - and gave insight into where her beliefs came from.

"I grew up on a farm and I didn't have any real friends,

I have a very strong belief that people are out there, because I was certainly talking to someone in those barns. Otherwise I'm just crazy. I really strongly believe in ghosts."

Jessica Alba

In 2008, Alba told US Weekly about her own encounter with the paranormal when she was a child.

“I felt this pressure and I couldn’t get up, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t do anything

Something definitely took the covers off me and I definitely couldn’t get off the bed, and then, once I did, I screamed, ran to my parents’ room and I don’t think I spent many nights in that house ever again.”

Jenna Bush Hager

The White House already has a reputation for its paranormal activity (Abe Lincoln often makes a reappearance during times of crisis) and this former first daughter has evidence to support such a claim.

"I was asleep, there was a fireplace in my room and all of a sudden I heard 1920's music coming out. I could feel it. I freaked out and ran into my sister's room. She was like, 'Please go back to sleep, this is ridiculous.'"

Lucy Liu

This Charlie’s Angel - like so many of the people included in this article - claims she had sexual relations with something supernatural.

“I felt everything. I climaxed. And then he floated away.”

Bella Thorne

"I was lying in bed when I saw a shadowy, silvery figure of an old woman creeping across my room, then it slipped into my closet…

I panicked and ran out of bed and swung open my closet door only to see she was in there. But she was gone. I was sure I had seen her ghost! It was really freaky."

Do you believe ‘em?

If you liked this post be sure to like, reblog, and hit the follow button!

Got your own paranormal experience to share? Head on over to the peoplesparanormal.com to read real ghost stories and submit your own!

Happy Halloween, lads.

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jme-crocodile · 6 years ago

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(TW: my catholic school trauma)

Reading “The Boy Who Could Change the World”

It’s difficult to even imagine what America was like before the industrial revolution. Their notion of freedom was far stronger than the one we have today. For many Americans, life wasn’t about showing up at a job at a specified hour, following orders all day, and returning home for a couple hours of “free time”—that would be considered slavery. A free American was one who worked on their own or with their family, worked from home, worked whatever hours they liked, and got paid based on what they accomplished.

Under the putting-out system, for example, merchants would deliver raw materials like cotton to your house. When you felt like it, you’d card, spin, and weave the raw cotton into cloth. And then the next week the merchant would come by to buy from you whatever cloth you had produced.

He goes on to discuss mill workers in New England, who were mostly young girls, some around the age of 10. This was before our modern day labor laws, so the girls were working fourteen hour days. They still found time to read & discuss books/ideas, though.

And through all that thinking and learning and discussing, they began to question the less pleasant aspects of their situation. When, in 1836, the Lowell mill owners decided to cut their employees’ pay, the girls walked out.

What these young girls accomplished is truly amazing. They organized their own newspaper, the Voice of Industry, which they wrote, edited, printed, and sold themselves. Through it they organized more protests and strikes, as well as organized their own slate of candidates in the state elections to fight for better working conditions and a ten-hour day. Amazingly, their slate won. The owners, outraged, got their legislators to declare the election results invalid and hold a revote. Before the revote, large signs were posted threatening that anyone who voted for the ten-hour slate would be fired. And yet the slate won again.

[..]

But their writing in the Voice shows that they wanted much more than simply better working conditions. They saw themselves as slaves—wage slaves—and concluded that the solution was not simply to demand that the bosses be nicer to them or pay them more, but to abolish the bosses entirely.

Their bosses didn't like this, at all. The mill owners fired the girls, blacklisted their names, and then did something strange: they sent girls to school.

The schools they built—the common schools—would be easily recognizable by any modern student. “The door [of each school] shall be closed precisely at the time fixed for the opening of the school, and in the morning religious exercises will be performed, for which purpose 10 minutes are allowed.” (Today we just say the pledge of allegiance.) “Each teacher shall call the roll call of his or her classes … in the morning and afternoon, and shall keep an accurate record of all absences.” The day was then divided into separate lessons, allowing “30 minutes for the study of each lesson and 10 minutes for each recitation.”

Instead of corporal punishment, teachers were encouraged to secure order “by the mildest possible means” to instill “a regard for right, and thus a standard of self-government in the minds of the children themselves.”* Students were tested on how much they learned and, just like today, working coordinating other students was considered “cheating” and punished. (Perhaps they were worried that if students learned to coordinate they might be more likely to foment strikes once in the mills.)"

[...]

Careful records kept by the mill owners allow us to compare mill workers who did and did not go to school. Just as with modern students, there is no evidence of any impact of increased education on worker productivity.*

So why did the mill owners spend so much money building and running these schools? They were quite clear about their intent. The classes were justified not for their usefulness but because memorizing them was a form of “moral education” leading to “industrious habits … and the consequent high moral influence which it exerts upon society at large.”

As one Lowell manager explained it, “I have never considered mere knowledge, valuable as it is in itself to the laborer, as the only advantage derived from a good common-school education. I have uniformly found the better educated, as a class, possessing a higher and better state of morals, more orderly and respectful in their deportment, and more ready to comply with the wholesome and necessary regulations of an establishment.”"

As the Lowell School Committee summarized their findings: “The proprietors find the training of the schools admirably adapted to prepare the children for the labors of the mills.” Why? “When [their laborers] are well educated … controversies and strikes can never occur, nor can the minds of the masses be prejudiced by demagogues and controlled by temporary and factitious considerations.”*

Indeed, school was so important that the mill owners quickly decided to make it mandatory. “No language of ours can convey too strongly our sense of the dangers which wait us from [those who] are not and have never been members of our public schools,” warned the Lowell School Committee. Universal schooling is “our surest safety against internal commotions.”‡ The children who didn’t attend school “constitute an army more to be feared than war, pestilence and famine,” warned the committee. “Unsuccessful attempts, during the past year, to burn two of our school-houses … are an index to the evils which threaten from such sources.”

More accurately, such burnings were an index of public resistance to such coercion. In 1837, 300 teachers were forced to flee their classrooms by riotous and violent students.║ In 1844, the Irish population went on strike from the schools, reducing attendance by 80%. The School Committee stepped up their anti-truancy efforts to force them and others back to school."

And so the spread of schools and factories destroys the American model of freedom. Instead of being independent farmers or self-employed manufacturers, Americans are herded into factories enmasse, forced to work for someone else because they cannot earn a living any other way. But thanks to schools, this seems normal, even natural. After all, isn’t that just the way the world works?

The effect on the students is almost heartbreaking. Taught that reading is simply about searching contrived stories for particular “text features,” they learn to hate reading. Taught that answering questions is simply about cycling through the multiple-choice answers to find the most plausible ones, they begin to stop thinking altogether and just spout random combinations of test buzzwords whenever they’re asked a question. “The joy of finding things out” is banished from the classroom. Testing is in session.”

School hasn’t seemed to have changed much since the early 1800s, at least the not sort of schooling geared for the masses. As a child, I was strongly discouraged from risk taking, ridiculed by teachers when I gave the wrong answer, punished for asking questions, had to ask permission to use the bathroom (and was often refused), refused permission to get a drink of water (the school had no air conditioning & it was June in Pennsylvania. Yes, multiple children got heat exhaustion, daily. Our parents commiserated, but thought this was normal. Teachers treated this as normal. We were told to “toughen up” and respect our elders when we complained.) We were taught to need someone’s permission to get medical attention.

I was once refused when I needed to see the nurse (I was going to vomit.) The teacher accused me of lying & told me to sit down. I sat down, and about two minutes later threw up. I half expected to get a demerit for dirtying the floor. I burst into tears, blubbering out humiliated apologies to my classmates and to the teacher. Above my concern for my dignity and health had been placed my teacher. That was my mentality as a kid.

(Normal is whatever you’re used to, but people shouldn’t be used to this.)

The thing that stands out in all of this, now, was how the other students remained frozen. I don’t know how to interpret their freeze -- they didn’t move to get me a tissue, or towels, or anything. The teacher had forbade me from moving to clean up myself, so I had to wait for the nurse to arrive in a puddle of my own vomit. I obeyed. My classmates were staring at their desks, at the wall, anywhere but the teacher or myself. Maybe they were suffering second-hand embarrassment, or pity, or even fear that the teacher would lash out at them, next.

That was the sort of environment we grew up in, for 14 years of our lives.

In all of this, I notice this kind of moral fragmentation that society today seems to encourage. There’s a sense that people have abrogated all responsibility: “oh, that’s not my department, I’m not the one who makes the rules.” So we ignore people in pain, and accept on an instinctive level that there’s nothing we can do.

Except that isn’t true, even that asshole Lowell said, “The children who didn’t attend school “constitute an army more to be feared than war, pestilence and famine.””

This submissive attitude people have comes from fear, from an underestimation of our own strength and compassion.

---

Like, do people get what this does to a person’s self-esteem? Maybe not, because they’re all suffering from the same blindness.

Last week during the heat wave, I started experiencing heat exhaustion and my instinctive thoughts were to move as little as possible, and wait for it to be over.

I mean, what does that sound like to you?

Like, maybe my experiences at school were unusually bad, but it looks to me a lot like our society is systematically abusing kids into submissively accepting poor treatment by their superiors.

#unschooling #aaron swartz #tw-school

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cyborgpotatoreads · 4 years ago

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Books I read in August!

This month was wild because on the 28th, I got a box in the mail with 4 books I didn’t order. 3 of the books were ARCs and 2 of those ARCs were coming out today, September 1st, so I quickly squeezed those two books in at the end!

Favorite book of the month: The Poppy War by R.F. Kuang

In order that I read them:

The Poppy War (The Poppy War #1) by R.F. Kuang

I didn’t think I could be into military-type fantasy, but Rebecca Kuang has changed my damn mind. Wow, I really loved this! I love Rin and am also so, so frustrated with her, but I know that is intentional. I’m gonna pick up The Dragon Republic pretty soon!

I will say this, though, when you look up reviews for this book, they will be very adamant that this book is very dark and lists many, many triggers. I will add on that the book doesn’t really get dark until past the halfway point. Most of the triggering stuff happens in Chapter 21, so keep that in mind!

Wounds: Six Stories from the Border of Hell by Nathan Ballingrud

The Poppy War ended on a note that made me not want to pick up a happy-go-lucky, or heroic fantasy book, so I settled on a horror anthology.

Hmm, I was a little let down by this. When I read horror stories, I like there to be a point or a theme. Like, the dangers of unchecked ambition, the evils of corporations, the fear of the unknown, whatever. Something like that. And these stories just... felt off. They had some gorey moments and some hints of spooky lore, but I just didn’t care about any of the characters or what was happening to them.

I KNOW I’m picky with my horror, so I’m not surprised that I didn’t love this, but man I wish I knew how to pick horror that fits my weird standards.

Nocturna (A Forgery of Magic #1) by Maya Motayne

I have been putting off this book for no reason other than I don’t want to run out of fantasy books with thief characters, which makes no sense because it’s a common trope and I love it.

Things I love in fantasy that this book contains: thieves, orphaned thieves with trust issues, royalty that are forced to confront their privileges and leave their bubble, high INT low WIS characters, enemies/rivals/reluctant accomplices to lovers (ish), thieves, thieves with magic

Suffice it to say. I loved this book. Can’t wait for Oculta!

Daughter of a Pirate King (Daughter of a Pirate King #1) by Tricia Levenseller

I do NOT like this cover. I don’t know why, but I don’t. Covers can make or break my interest in a book, but luckily my love for pirates overpowered my dislike of this cover. Man I love pirates! They’re the thieves of the sea, and I love thieves. The main character is so cocky and a brat, but so is the (?)love interest, whom I also love. I can’t wait to pick up the sequel!

The Modern Faerie Tales (Tithe, Valiant and Ironside) by Holly Black

This series was one of my favorites when I was 11. For the longest time, I considered Holly Black my favorite author, because of my love for fairies. At 11, I was madly in love with Roiben, and look, I still have a soft spot in my heart for fae like him. However, rereading as an adult... hmm, well, let’s say that I don’t buy the romances as much anymore. While I loved the fae, I loved the surrounding lore, I just... didn’t really like the relationships, which are a major part of these books. I loved Ironside the most though, so that made up for my lackluster feelings on Tithe and Valiant. Also I love Lutie.

These Witches Don’t Burn (These Witches Don’t Burn #1) by Isabel Sterling

Here’s what I knew about this book going into it. Queer. Witches. That’s it. And that’s about the extent I like to know about books going into them. I loved this book. I love the fraught relationship Hannah has with her ex, I love her friendships, I love her crush, I love her coworkers and I love the mystery! I want to get a regular hardcover of this book so that I can have matching covers for this and the sequel.

The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America’s Shining Women by Kate Moore

This book took me forever to read because boy, is it a bummer. If you don’t know about the radium dial businesses of the 1920s, or the radium products in general that were prevalent in the early 20th century, check this book out. Know going in that corporations have always been nightmares, and that the United States Radium Corporation didn’t cease radium processing until 1968. If you want to know some more about what radium was used for outside of paint, check out the Sawbones podcast too, and listen to their episode on radium.

The Inheritance Games (The Inheritance Games #1) by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

This is one of the two ARC’s I received 4 days before their release! This book, first off, is just a dream I still hold on to. I hope one day I also inherit BILLIONS from a man I’ve never heard of. This book is filled with riddles and mysteries and... also a love triangle, so know that going in. My favorite character is Xander, who I love from the first page he shows up in, all the way to the very end. This book comes out today, September 1st 2020.

None Shall Sleep by Ellie Marney

I was remarkably less interested in the second ARC that comes out today. I do not enjoy reading mysteries and thrillers from FBI/cop perspectives, because I just find it boring and uninteresting. This does have the twist that it is actually two teenagers temporarily hired by the FBI to interview teenage serial killers, and I did love the mystery and twists of the actual plot, but every time the FBI was involved, it dampened my interest. That’s a personal pet peeve though, and I can see this becoming very popular. This book comes out today, September 1st 2020.

#potato reads #august reads #2020 reads

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sunshineandfangs · 5 years ago

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The Long Way Home

Day Five (October 11th - Friday): Different Time Period

Klaus and Caroline in the 1920′s? Klaus and Caroline as Originals and their adventures throughout the centuries? Is Caroline sent to the past and has to deal with a Klaus from that time? Is Klaus sent to the future and sees himself with Caroline? Royalty AUs? Regency Era? So many possibilities!

This is always something I thought about so I decided to write the snapshot version. Some angst again, though not Klaroline related.

---

Caroline watched her fellow blonde from the shadows. She was beautiful and vibrant and so achingly young. Physically of course, Caroline did not look a single year older than the other girl. Both of them appearing an eternal seventeen. However, the discerning would note the differences in their eyes, their demeanor.

That girl didn’t walk with an edge of lethal grace, always one move away from being able to attack or defend. She didn’t carry a confidence built over ages, the kind one gains when they had to fight for their right to exist and came out on top. There wasn’t a weight in her eyes that came from the slow build of weariness, from that near constant fight.

So, the two of them could hardly be more different for all that they were once the same person. She supposed that’s what over a thousand years of separation did to a person.

---

To be quite truthful, Caroline almost didn’t return to Mystic Falls. The people, the events that had once been the entirety of her short life were now little more than vague memories. They were strangers with familiar faces, as if remembered from a dream. And she would be the strangest of them all, an entirely different person from who they knew.

The worst moments of this younger Caroline’s life were waking confused and hungry in a hospital. Her mind reeling from what felt like PMS on hyperdrive and then an influx of what couldn’t be memories. Almost dying a second time to her rapist and the pain of her friend’s rejection, for all that she hid it with snark and flippancy. All terrible things to befall anyone let alone a teenager.

But she had yet to experience the stunned horror of waking to a village being devoured by flame. Of having the rancid, acrid scent of burning corpses so thick in the air she could taste it in the smoke. Or the dawning realization of where she was, when she was. The denial that she had dearly wanted to sink into when she spotted a familiar river with no bridge, a waterfall surrounded by several dozens more trees.

And yet she had not been able to afford such a luxury as panic. Not when she realized she could not understand a word anyone spoke to her. When she had to use her superior strength and speed to fight off men that wanted to kill her, rape her, enslave her. And even those that may have had good intentions, but whom she still couldn’t understand. Everything felt like a threat when she was so lost and clueless.

The next blow came later. For it had truly broken her heart to feel relieved that compulsion transcended language barriers. To have to rely on a tool that once decimated her own mind just to survive, to have the chance to fit in and find a way home.

Fortunately or unfortunately, desperation was a cruel but effective teacher. High school Spanish had been half-remembered vocabulary and grammar rules, a middling grasp on the written and spoken word. In comparison, the languages of the few settlers that remained came quickly. Even as she tried not to think about how one sounded vaguely Norwegian or Icelandic, how she suspected it was Old Norse. Or how the tongue of what she came to realize were the natives, didn’t have a modern equivalent to her knowledge.

Then, just as she was finding her feet, she learned the harshest lesson of them all. There was always something worse. Hope could not die faster than when a powerful witch confirmed all her worst fears. When they sensed the magic of their descendant in her ring and the magic of her monster in her blood.

Ayana spoke to her just long enough to tear the last remnants of her denials to shreds. And then achingly remind her of home as familiar features twisted with familiar disdain. She had refused to aid an abomination, telling her instead to pray for a quick death.

Caroline harbored no shame for the way she fled in tears. Decades later she would feel only disgust that an adult would let prejudices blind them to the plight of a child. But she was proud of the way she rallied. How she determinedly moved from tribe to tribe across the ancient Americas, learning dozens of new languages and making both friends and enemies. Painstakingly building trust and learning of new magics all in the hopes of home.

It failed.

She spent weeks, months, filthy and near starving to travel across the sea to the Old World. To do it all again. To fail again.

It wasn’t until somewhere in her fifth century that Caroline stopped trying so hard. Such an idea would have once been unfathomable, but truly all she was doing was making herself miserable. Fighting so hard to return to people whose faces grew blurrier by the decade. To people whose mental labels were “best friend,” but who had been long supplanted in her mind by centuries of other companions. Some whom had long died and she had mourned. Some whom she had turned and met up with every so often. So, why look back when she could look forward?

Another five hundred years would see her “home” anyway.

---

Caroline witnessed the precise moment when her past self was whisked away in a storm of magical energy. She read the startelement and fear on her face and felt something in her own chest twist, not quite in pain but also not quite in happiness, knowing as she did exactly what that girl’s next thousand years would be like.

A thousand years, and she supposed this place still had an effect on her after all, for she didn’t immediately try to take the place of her other self. Instead, she lingered in the shadows, watched with another odd pang that no one made a fuss about her disappearance.

They got a pass when she spotted Elijah in town. Though she had never personally met any of the Originals, wanting to stay well clear of their mess, she hardly lived under a rock. She knew who they were, knew their reputations. Even saw most of them from a distance once or twice.

It wasn’t worth the energy to hold grudges against strangers for their prudence in priorities.

---

A few weeks later, Caroline found herself drinking in a bar. Not the Mystic Grill. Some other establishment she hadn’t bothered to remember the name of, one on the outskirts of Mystic Falls.

The alcohol burned as it raced down her throat, her glass emptying far quicker than she would like. She frowned down at it as she traced the rim with her finger, not sure how she should feel. Elena was sacrificed. Elena was resurrected. All without Caroline needing to lift a finger. Her involvement or rather lack thereof made her feel guilty. Or perhaps her lack of guilt made her feel guilty. Should she be feeling conflicted in the first place?

She had called them strangers with familiar faces. And...and it was true. She looked at them and felt a startling lack. Only the memory of a memory of their once importance elicited any emotion for them at all. So perhaps she should treat them like strangers. Build new bonds should their paths cross, but otherwise go about her own business.

Tension she hadn’t realized she had been holding left her shoulders. A weight she had long carried lifted as she, at last, truly let her past go. It only took another five hundred years…

“Caroline Forbes,” an accented voice mused behind her, startling her from her thoughts.

She turned, admonishing herself for her carelessness. When her eyes fell on the person behind her, his blonde curls and deceptive dimples, a true litany of internal curses rang in her head.

Always something worse.

He likely noticed the way her eyebrow twitched a fraction, but that was all the reaction she allowed to slip.

With a polite nod she returned his greeting, “Klaus.”

There was a curious expression on his face and he didn’t wait for an invitation to step closer, invading her space.

“I rather delighted in Katerina’s misery when she learned you had so thoroughly slipped the noose she had placed around your throat. I even had a fond thought or two for the baby vampire who managed to vex her so.”

He cocked his head as he looked at her, eyes dark and assessing. Humans might have thought his demeanor casual and friendly, but the predator that lived in her veins knew better.

“Yet somehow you’re not a baby vampire at all, are you, love?”

There was no point in lying. Not when he could surely feel her age as she could feel his.

“No,” she said simply.

He made a soft, contemplative noise. “Katerina is not nearly foolish enough to mistake a human for a vampire. So, however has this come to be, hm?”

Caroline didn’t bother to smother the light laugh that erupted from her chest. “It’s a long story.”

“I always have time to learn of curiosities, love.” Threats, she heard unspoken. “And this is a rather unique time for curiosities. Why don’t you join me for the summer?”

She knew it wasn’t a suggestion. And the only thing worse than being noticed by an Original is angering one. Besides, she could use the time away from Mystic Falls, the last remnants of her attachment left at the bottom of a shot glass.

With an easy shrug she stood from the bar stool, setting a few large bills on the wood.

“Lead the way.”

A smirk crawled across his face. One she didn’t flinch or cower from, and only lightly tensed when he guided her out with a hand to the small of her back.

“I rather think we shall have fun, you and I, love.”

---

So Caroline accidentally time traveled just after Elena was rescued post-masquerade. Therefore, due to time travel shenanigans with her arriving just as the Originals were leaving technically Caroline is older than them in vampire years lol. By a few weeks but still, that’s hilarious. Though she’s not stronger since I headcanon the Originals have more strength than normal vampires even when matched for age. Fights could still go either way though of course. She certainly closest in strength to them than any other vampire.

#Klaroline #KCAUWeek2019 #Klaroline Fanfiction #Klaroline Drabbles #Klaroline Edits #Klaroline Photosets #Klaroline Aesthetics #My Writing #My Edits

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harrelltut · 6 years ago

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praisebreeandevilshallburn · 4 years ago

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The War to come...

Long has it been, since I have been moved to put my fingers to the keys, yet I can stand silent no longer.

It cannot now be denied that Evil stalks the corridors of the American “White House”, and that a would-be dictator of very little brain seeks dominion.

We may take solace in the fact that he has launched no invasion to expand his reach, for those “United” states comprise millions of square miles of land, achingly unexpanded, rolling and free.

However, this is not to say that there is no danger, were the Americas to suffer the ending of Democracy. Indeed, we have looked upon the American Experiment, flawed as it is, as example, in both good practice, and bad.

Good Practice, that the citizens of All States have long protested injustice, and bad, in the resistance to their call. And so it remains.

However, we may argue that the forces that believed themselves to be of order from those days, at some point, had a conscience of some form upon which to rely. That they, at some point, would realise their own inhumanity, look down in disgust at their own brutality, and recoil in horror. That the fever would break, and that they would realise that, laws be damned, they were perpetrating violence not upon some inhuman “Bad Guys”, but rather fellow humans.

I have no such confidence in the modern idiom of “Police”.

Which brings me to the meat of this oratory in textual form: Without Conscience, Non-violence cannot be effective.

Would you argue that the brutality in the face of Non-violence would capture the hearts and minds of the ordinary person, shocked by the brutality of their supposed protectors, in the face of a mere plea for accountability? And perhaps I would agree, supposing that the Fourth estate would truthfully portray these demonstrations as what they were.

I have, however, no such confidence in the modern “News Media” either.

Would you argue that too many already have died at the hands of these monsters? That too many Beautiful Flowers have been lost to this damn war? Need I remind you that you are speaking to a soldier? War is beyond hell, composed almost entirely of the innocent and unwilling, sent to die for the interests of the powerful and supposedly “great”.

However, there are ideals in this world worth fighting for. We may fight for peace, for truth, for self-determinism, for bodily autonomy. We fight for Police accountability in the short-term, and an ending of the over-reliance of martial and militarised solutions beyond that.

That which we seek would be so easily attainable, that we lived in a world of reason, of Conscience, where elected representatives may dispassionately discuss zoning laws and tax codes, and the murder of one innocent person, let alone several, would spark horror, investigation and root-and-branch reform, if not total abolition and re-conceptualisation of the social contract.

Regrettably, this is not the world in which Black Americans live.

I am not a Black American. I know that I cannot truly understand their pain. And if I called for them to rise up, truly rebel, I may also be targeted, or labelled as merely another Antagoniser, Looking to Escalate against police that they have an excuse to send out the big guns.

And yet, What other choice remains? Impotently shout slogans while Neo-Nazi “Police” beat and brutalise? Look on with pleading eyes while elected representatives are either bought off, or frustrated at every turn? Look to a saviour, that we may remain comfortable behind our keyboards?

I say that the time for asking has passed.

I say that it is not only the Black American that this administration has failed. It is the American whose mind and body are not at the peak of fitness, it is the American who is Financially deprived, it is the American who is almost financially deprived, it is the American that is fed a diet of lies and distraction to blind them to the glaring truth that THEY HAVE ALLOWED THEIR NATION TO SLIP INTO FASCISM because it was Holding a Cross and Wearing a Flag.

And yet, you still have a chance.

Before I advise you to take up arms, in great number, and reshape your nation to one that is once again by the people, for the people, of the People, There is One thing that has worked before.

While the last vestiges of Democracy hang by a thread, those who are registered to vote MUST use their voice. Those who are able, yet unregistered, MUST register.

I will not speak upon the hither-tos and hear-abouts of the two options for President, for one is a dictator in waiting, and the other is not. However, if you still believe in elected representatives to represent you, there are options, I am told, to vote for honest people in the rest of the ballot form.

And supposing that Democracy may yet win through, if the votes for honest and Decent people outweigh those for Monstrous Corporate Animals, then the problems can at least be greatly ameliorated in the Short term. And protest will work beyond that.

On the other hand, supposing that Democracy is subverted, then the only option remaining is to take up arms, and take back by force, that which was stolen from you.

I do not lightly advise the ending of a fellow human, even as an old soldier. And yet, have we the time, the inclination, the personnage to wipe the stain of Fascism, of White Supremacy, of “Nationalism” for a stolen land, from every mind? For I believe that there are some minds for whom it is already too late. That they are too far from sanity, from reason, to ever, EVER accept the truth of a World without them. Without me.

In the days of the Chaosite Crisis, I advised the chosen of the Goddess to take up arms, to Burn the Hated Chaos in hails of gunfire, or Petroleum Flame. I believed the foe to be irredeemable, to be lost in their cultish adherence, in their power.

Now, I hesitate to advise the same for a Nation Entire, yet I fear that impotent protest upon deaf ears shall only lead to further death.

It is said that one cannot make an omelette, if one is afraid to break open an egg. I have tasted of Ostrich Omelette, and there is enough for everyone, with plenty left over. Let us then, have the courage to break open the Ostrich egg of the future, to cook the Omelette of a Better World, flavoured with new ideas, empowerment of the individual, and the ending of hegemonies in all factors.

STAND STRONG, Battle-siblings! Evil shall Burn!

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frederickwiddowson · 4 years ago

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Exodus 23:20-33 comments: a comparison between ancient Hebrews and modern Christians

Exodus 23:20 ¶ Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared. 21 Beware of him, and obey his voice, provoke him not; for he will not pardon your transgressions: for my name is in him. 22 But if thou shalt indeed obey his voice, and do all that I speak; then I will be an enemy unto thine enemies, and an adversary unto thine adversaries. 23 For mine Angel shall go before thee, and bring thee in unto the Amorites, and the Hittites, and the Perizzites, and the Canaanites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites: and I will cut them off. 24 Thou shalt not bow down to their gods, nor serve them, nor do after their works: but thou shalt utterly overthrow them, and quite break down their images. 25 And ye shall serve the LORD your God, and he shall bless thy bread, and thy water; and I will take sickness away from the midst of thee. 26 There shall nothing cast their young, nor be barren, in thy land: the number of thy days I will fulfil. 27 I will send my fear before thee, and will destroy all the people to whom thou shalt come, and I will make all thine enemies turn their backs unto thee. 28 And I will send hornets before thee, which shall drive out the Hivite, the Canaanite, and the Hittite, from before thee. 29 I will not drive them out from before thee in one year; lest the land become desolate, and the beast of the field multiply against thee. 30 By little and little I will drive them out from before thee, until thou be increased, and inherit the land. 31 And I will set thy bounds from the Red sea even unto the sea of the Philistines, and from the desert unto the river: for I will deliver the inhabitants of the land into your hand; and thou shalt drive them out before thee. 32 Thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor with their gods. 33 They shall not dwell in thy land, lest they make thee sin against me: for if thou serve their gods, it will surely be a snare unto thee.

Here is an important doctrine regarding what an angel is, a spiritual representative, the presence of someone, in this case God. God’s name is in the angel.

Isaiah 63:9 In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them: in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; and he bare them, and carried them all the days of old.

Judges 2:1 And an angel of the LORD came up from Gilgal to Bochim, and said, I made you to go up out of Egypt, and have brought you unto the land which I sware unto your fathers; and I said, I will never break my covenant with you.

Verse 24 reinforces God’s disgust with worshipping gods, little g, and idols. They are either figments of man’s imagination or devils.

Deuteronomy 32:17 They sacrificed unto devils, not to God; to gods whom they knew not, to new gods that came newly up, whom your fathers feared not.

Do not think that because you don’t worship Thor or Kali that you are not worshipping a false god. Any time you think, “an education will make me successful,” or, “having that man or woman will make me happy,” or, just constantly wanting something other than what you have you are creating idols, not much differently than ancient people. You are one step away from giving your dependence on education, sex, or material possessions a name, an identity to worship. Anything we place as more important than obedience to God and faithfulness to Him is an idol. We are to do right, to do our best, and to trust God only for our success and happiness. Education is a good thing, intimacy between a husband and wife is an honorable thing, and we need food and shelter but we must not depend on them rather than God.

For instance, in regard to wealth, Paul warns Christians;

1Timothy 6:6 ¶ But godliness with contentment is great gain. 7 For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. 8 And having food and raiment let us be therewith content. 9 But they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. 10 For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.

And Jesus admonished His disciples using the Syriac word for the personification of money.

Luke 16:13 No servant can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.

With regard to sex as an idol the ancients had goddesses like Ishtar, the goddess of immigrants and prostitutes, a version of which we have in the harbor of New York City also called the goddess Liberty, popular among the Enlightenment thinkers like James Madison, the so-called Father of the Constitution, along with Providence, a reference to a vague universal power but certainly not the God of the Bible. The Greeks and Romans of Paul’s time had Venus and Aphrodite, goddesses of sex, who were worshipped in temples like those of Acrocorinth in Greece with short-haired priestesses, the reason why the Corinthian Christians demanded that their women have long hair which Paul approved while stating that it was not an issue in other churches. See 1Corinthians 11.

Idolatry is and has been one of the prime sins of man against God throughout history. This has been the cause of the perverted, sexualized religion of the ancient world and the decadence of mankind. Idolatry results in sexual perversion and it is the byproduct and result of idolatry.

Romans 1:19 ¶ Because that which may be known of God is manifest in them; for God hath shewed it unto them. 20 For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse: 21 Because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. 22 Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, 23 And changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and fourfooted beasts, and creeping things. 24 Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonour their own bodies between themselves: 25 Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. Amen. 26 For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature: 27 And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompence of their error which was meet. 28 And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient; 29 Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whisperers, 30 Backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, 31 Without understanding, covenantbreakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful: 32 Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.

In that passage we can see why society decays and who is responsible for its decay. God gives delusions and permits our more decadent natures to take preeminence.

Whether our idol is the flag or Constitution, which Mormon Joseph Smith convinced patriots was divinely inspired by God, or whether it is money, sex, or education idolatry is one of the prime reasons that American Christianity is so powerless to impact a dying world in any way other than providing humanistic drivel to control a congregation under the guise of fundamentalist, right-wing or liberal, left-wing preaching.

Thou shalt not bow down to their gods, nor serve them, nor do after their works: but thou shalt utterly overthrow them, and quite break down their images.

God is promising these physical, literal Hebrews coming into a physical, literal land blessings and prosperity and protection and the written words of God are a vital part of those blessings. By the way, don’t let some wicked preacher tell you that if you attend church whenever the doors are open you won’t ever get sick or have trouble in your life. We cannot apply literal, physical promises to the Jews before Christ to the Christian as they are not promises made to us under this dispensation. For all of your slavish devotion to a fundamentalist preacher’s will and whims you will have trouble in your life and you will get sick at some point and you will probably have a child that goes astray, etc. etc.

Joshua 1:8 This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth; but thou shalt meditate therein day and night, that thou mayest observe to do according to all that is written therein: for then thou shalt make thy way prosperous, and then thou shalt have good success.

While Christians were not promised an earthly country we would do well in life to honor these admonitions and warnings that God has given. Idolatry will destroy your walk with God and make you a caricature of a person of faith to the unsaved, a cartoon, a joke. You cannot uplift an idol in one hand and God in the other without looking stupid, a hypocrite, or just plain evil.

Even though Christians do not have a country on this earth the historical principle laid down in Romans, chapter one, applies to nations as we know them. Let me give you a brief religious history of America to show you how idolatry can be poison. America’s self-worship as idolatry has its roots in the country’s earliest times. The good thing, which was the belief and faith that this new land was to be a nation set apart by God for a divine purpose was a common thread preached throughout. However, a specific millennial belief, that Christ would set up a kingdom on earth without being present Himself to last for literally a thousand years or with the millennium as just representing a long time was the standard, evangelical Christian view until the 20th century. This is called Postmillennialism, with Christ returning at the end of the thousand years. With a few exceptions it was believed that Christ would rule through His church. But there was no doubt that America would be the location where this period would begin. Men like John Cotton, Ephraim Huit, Increase Mather, John Davenport, John Eliot, Samuel Sewall, Cotton Mather, and Joseph Morgan preached an imminent millennium and Eliot, combining the fervor of what was called Fifth Kingdom Monarchyism prevalent in England, was especially hopeful that the New Jerusalem of the Book of Revelation would descend upon America itself.[1] Sermons were preached before Congress that said that America was the Promised Land and that the events of Revelation would take place here before we converted the world and established Christ’s kingdom for Him.[2]

An actual, historical Kingdom of God was expected, with the millennium, a thousand years of Christ’s reign through His church, coming soon.[3] Jonathan Edwards, the Congregationalist preacher so important to the series of revivals in 1700s America called The First Great Awakening, viewed the millennium not as Christ physically returning to save a ruined world, but a gradual process where righteousness and the control of Godly men became prevalent as Christ ruled through His church.[4]

Millennial ideals were also preached during the time of and after the American Revolution pointing more and more to America’s God-chosen role in the bringing in of Christ’s Kingdom, linked to evolutionary progress. President of Yale College Ezra Stiles said;

It may have been of the Lord that Christianity is to be found in such greater purity in this church exiled into the wilderness of America, and that its purest body should be evidently advancing forward, by an augmented natural increase and spiritual edification, into a singular superiority, with the ultimate subserviency to the glory of God to converting the world.[5]

The nineteenth century was an era in secular and religious thought of a progress that was inevitable.[6] In Protestant evangelical faith, Postmillennialism, that mankind would create a millennial kingdom without Christ’s physical presence, was, “the commonly received doctrine,” of the century.[7] The documents, the speeches, the sermons are available for you to read, mostly free. Don’t take my word for it. During this period this doctrine was the intellectual compromise between the devastation of God’s judgment on the world portrayed in the book of Revelation in the Bible and the evolutionary theory of constant movement upward to better and better times, and a utopia.[8] Liberal religious thought in collusion with the growing atheism of science brought about a weakening of the hopeful, religious viewpoint of a coming golden age created by Christians dependent upon their own righteousness but it was the nightmare of the Civil War and the calamity of World War One that drove the nail into the coffin and, “it became a relic of a lost world.”[9]

But, at the time of the Civil War’s commencement most evangelical Christians in America believed that the United States was God’s Promised Land and white, Anglo-Saxon Americans His chosen people, destined to bring in a ‘golden age’ of peace, prosperity, and righteousness as Christ ruled the earth for either a literal thousand years or for just a long period of time, represented by the word millennium, through His church. Lincoln himself referred to America, not Christ, as the last best hope of earth.[10]

It was not unusual for nations with a state church to view themselves as God’s chosen people. England, Russia, and Germany were notorious for this view. German sermons during World War One even likened the German Army to the Holy Spirit moving in the world and ‘God With Us’ in German was on the belt buckles of soldiers. Glorification and even deification of the state was one prime motivator in the half-century of war.

President Woodrow Wilson’s mentor at Johns Hopkins University, Richard Ely, put the thought of the elite and great planners whose government was God’s agent on earth or His replacement even like this;

Now, it may rationally be maintained that, if there is anything divine on earth, it is the State, the product of the same God-given instincts which led to the establishment of the Church and of the Family. It was once held that kings ruled by right divine, and in any widely accepted belief, though it be afterwards discredited, there is generally found a kernel of truth. In this case it was the divine right of the state.[11]

But worshipping the state as a “Christnation,” as the Redeemer Nation of the world, was America’s undoing. With the leadership making government God’s agent on earth rather than God’s people and with the common Christian expecting that we could create a perfect world without Christ physically present we had this great religious expectation that was blatantly false.

That’s why today so many think that they are electing a pastor or a messiah when they vote for a president and then try to Christianize their candidate if elected to make him look like something he is not. It all boils down to state-worship.

World War One, the Jazz Age, the automobile, the sexual revolt of the 1920s, the triumph of evolution in science, the growing importance of the Entertainment industry all figured in to God’s judgment on the nation for its idolatry. As an example, where women who wore makeup were derided as ‘painted city women’ before the war, with strong suggestions of immorality, the demands by boys returning home that their women look like French girls has resulted in the fact that Christian women wouldn’t dare leave home without makeup on today. In addition, the lax morals produced by boys and girls being able to go off alone in a car and listening to Ragtime and Jazz watching Hollywood movies glorifying decadence was a chilling reminder that something was very wrong in America. We had the Great Depression, remember? Then, another devastating war and a so-called Cold War for 50 years pounded away at our families and our institutions. Look at today. Do you not doubt we are under God’s judgment? Look at Israel in Kings and Chronicles. Don’t you see America in every page? Ancient Israelites, like Americans, believed that they were special and by virtue of their exceptional place in God’s ordained world they deserved peace and prosperity, both of which were taken away over time for their idolatry.

Fundamentalism came about in the early 1900s because America, under God’s judgment, appeared to be descending into chaos and darkness. The King James-only movement came about in 1964 because fundamentalism had gone crazy with regard to its denial of the Bible we had in front of us. The problem, fundamentalists wrongly assumed, was non-Christians polluting God’s country. The actual problem was Christian idolatry and not venerating God’s word above our ambitions. This is how idolatry, in this case, worship of one’s country as a god on earth, can do horrible damage.

We are held to the same standard as everyone else and we have been found wanting. I refer you to the passage I quoted earlier from Romans, chapter one, again to find out why things are the way they are.

But, it must be said, unlike the Hebrews assuming control over an area of land the promise to Christians is an eternal inheritance. We don’t get a utopia here, a millennium without Christ’s physical presence, but we can get an awful mess.

It is interesting in Verse 28 how God promises to use creatures to drive out the inhabitants of the land He has promised to the Hebrews slowly. God has used many naturally occurring events as weapons. Remember the plagues of Egypt?

Compare what ancient Israel was to be with what America was to be to see a difference dispensationally. Israel was not to permit idolatry in its borders and was to drive out the idol-worshippers lest they pollute the Hebrew religion, which their existence did, as we can see by reading the Bible. America is a pluralistic nation with many different religious traditions or no religion at all. We cannot remove everyone from the land who does not believe exactly what we believe or how we believe, no matter how much you would like to do that. The Hebrews didn’t do that either, but it was their apostasy that garnered them God’s wrath.

I think it is important to realize that every Christian now is a type of the nation of Israel then, as the children of Israel then were a type of every Christian today. Our land is a spiritual land and our Canaanites are our sins. God promises us that He will drive out our sins if we obey Him as He promised the Hebrews He would drive out the wicked, child-sacrificing, bestiality practicing, temple-prostitute patronizing Canaanites if the Hebrews obeyed.

But, having said all that, I would go on to say that if Christians themselves would repent and turn from their sins and obey God in the best way they know how, believing His word, they would not be deceived by lying, gutless, and corrupt politicians and their land would not be given over to the perversion, violence, and decay that is so prevalent. God honors obedience, not obedience as defined by some fundamentalist whack-job preacher or evangelist who just wants to control them but obedience and righteousness as defined by the Bible. The problem with America is not homosexuals, left-wing demagogues, drug-dealers, or liberal judges. The problem with America is the faithlessness of Christians who regard the Bible as a type of Emily Post’s book on etiquette to be observed if convenient and who regard God as more of a concept or idea than a real, living entity who controls every aspect of reality from their living room to the edges of the universe.

[1] David E. Smith, “Millenarian Scholarship in America,” American Quarterly Vol. 17, No. 3 (Autumn, 1965), 539. http://www.jstor.org/stable/2710907. (accessed 10.28.2015), 539.

[2] Fountain E. Pitts, A Defence of Armageddon or Our Great Country Foretold in the Holy Scriptures In two discourses, Delivered in the Capitol of the United States, at the request of several members of Congress, on the anniversary of Washington's birthday, 1857, (Baltimore: J.W. Bull Publishers, 1859), 90.

[3] Ernest Lee Tuveson, Redeemer Nation: The Idea of America’s Millennial Role (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1968), 29.

[4] Ibid., 30.

[5] Ezra Stiles, “The United States Elevated to Glory and Honor,” in The Pulpit of the American Revolution, or, The Political Sermons of the Period of 1776, John Wingate Thornton, ed., (Boston: D. Lothrop & Publishers, 1876), 405, 472.

[6] Tuveson, Redeemer Nation, 52.

[7] Henry Boynton Smith,”History of Opinions Respecting the Millennium,” The American Theological Review (Boston: Charles Scribner & Son, 1859), 642. https://books.google.com/books?id=hWrUAAAAMAAJ&vq=millennium&pg=PA642#v=snippet&q=millennium&f=false (accessed 11.14.2015).

[8] James H. Moorhead, “The Erosion of Postmillennialism in American Religious Thought, 1865-1925,” Church History Vol. 53, No. 1 (Mar. 1984), 61. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3165956 (accessed 11.14.2015).

[9] Ibid., 77.

[10] Jean H. Baker, “Lincoln’s Narrative of American Exceptionalism,” in We Cannot Escape History: Lincoln and the Last Best Hope of Earth, James McPherson, ed., (Champaign, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1995), 42.

[11] Gary M. Pequet and Clifford M. Thies, “The Shaping of a Future President’s Economic Thought: Richard T. Ely and Woodrow Wilson at “The Hopkins,” The Independent Review: A Journal of Political Economy 15, no. 2 (Fall 2010): 262, 266.

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simplyshelbs16xoxo · 5 years ago

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‘Repeating History’ Chapter 5: A Dangerous Game

FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

1894

The chilling voice had the hair on the back of Molly’s neck standing on end. Sherlock held an arm out in front of her to keep her away from the door. “Stay here,” he ordered quietly.

“Bring her along,” Moriarty’s voice drifted out.

“No.” Sherlock’s baritone voice boomed.

“If you want answers, I suggest you not dawdle,” Moriarty spoke in a sing-song voice. “Bring her with you; do not mollycoddle.” He snickered at his own joke.

Molly, taking matters into her own hands, stepped in front of Sherlock. “I’ll go. He wants to see me, and we need answers. I do not see any reason why we should not give him what he wants. The man is locked up.”

“He is not a man,” Sherlock corrected her, continuing to stare down Moriarty through the small barred window. “He is a spider at the center of a criminal web.” Upon giving the guard a nod of approval, he unlocked the cell, allowing Sherlock and Molly to enter. James Moriarty was bound by a straightjacket, sitting in the far right corner of the cell. His hair was long and shaggy, and the stench in the air was that of sweat and God knows what else.

“Ahhhh,” Moriarty began. “If what you seek is an identity, then you must heed my warning. Inside of your home, this man will creep, and one will be gone by morning.”

“What does he mean?” Molly looked to Sherlock for an answer he did not have.

“Stop fooling around,” Sherlock snapped. “Who is the murderer? Has Jack-the-Ripper come back?”

Moriarty grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Good ol’ Jack goes by many names; upon hearing the truth you will not be the same.”

“For God’s sakes,” Sherlock grumbled, but Moriarty ignored his outburst.

“He buries his bones in the catacombs, on his way to his well-deserved fame. Think of your family, for it will be clear, the murderer is, in fact, a Holmes.” Moriarty was delighted, smug satisfaction on his face.

Taking a hold of Molly’s arm, Sherlock turned them toward the cell door to leave. “I have had enough.”

It was then that Moriarty began shouting at them. “Margaret Hooper had morbid humour ; too bad she never wed. She fell apart with a broken heart, and all they found was her head.”

Molly’s face paled, feeling sick to her stomach. She prayed that James Moriarty wasn’t a clairvoyant, but feared there may be truth to his mad ramblings. The last thing they heard was another riddle, this time about the detective.

“Sherlock Holmes upon his throne likes to slay the dragons. He loved to roam amongst funny gravestones, before he fell off the wagon.”

“Holmes!” Watson greeted the detective when he answered his door. “How is the case going?”

Sherlock only groaned in response.

“Not well, then,” Mary Watson remarked as she waddled into the sitting room. She couldn’t help but notice the uncomfortable girl who had sat down beside Sherlock. “Doctor Hooper?” she smiled.

“Yes, hello, Mrs. Watson!” Molly smiled in return. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“I’ll feel even better after I give birth,” she laughed. Turning to Sherlock, she asked, “When were you going to tell us you were courting this lovely girl?”

“What? No,” Sherlock laughed. “Miss Hooper is merely a client who happens to be assisting me on this case.” Molly looked as if the ground fell from beneath her. This reaction did not escape Mary’s notice who now gave the young doctor a once over.

“Really,” Mary replied dryly. “Then perhaps you should have kept your lips to yourself.” She felt smug seeing Sherlock’s brows furrow. He then took one look at Molly, noticing the mark he had left upon her porcelain skin just above her collarbone. Molly’s face flushed, the heat getting to her. She was getting up to leave when Mary offered her hand. “Come along, poppet, we shall find you a coat to cover that up with for now.”

All was silent in the sitting room until Mary returned sans Molly. She was glaring at Sherlock. “What do you think you’re doing? You are hurting a nice girl, Mister Holmes. Do not treat her as some common harlot. From what John tells me, you fancy the girl, so why are you suddenly so callous?”

“It was a moment of weakness and it shall never happen again,” Sherlock replied. “I haven’t the slightest idea what came over me.”

“Well,” Mary huffed, “the next time you feel the urge to canoodle with some poor unsuspecting girl, be sure to think with the right head.”

Sherlock blanched at her words. He felt guilty for the mess he had now caused. Sure, he had been smitten with Molly, but nothing was more important than the work…at least that’s what he continued to tell himself.

The detective stood when Molly appeared in the sitting room after having chosen a lovely plum coloured coat with a high collar. “Thank you, Mrs. Watson,” she blushed. “I promise I will return your coat as soon as possible.”

“Not to worry, dear, you may keep it. The colour contrasts beautifully with your dark hair,” Mary told her kindly. “You may call me Mary. Shall I call you Margaret?”

“Molly is preferable,” she answered.

“We should get going,” Sherlock interjected. “It is quite late already.”

“Yes, of course, we probably should,” Molly agreed. “Thank you again, Mary.”

“It was nothing, Molly,” she replied. “Please come by for tea sometime.” As Sherlock and Molly made their way down the foyer, Mary Watson couldn’t help but notice his hand hovering over the small of her back. It had been automatic, as if it were a habit. The longer he denied his heart’s desire, the more he would come to regret having done so.

2016

221B was a madhouse for the next two mornings. Molly had been staying there, burning the midnight oil with Sherlock on this case. His wall was covered with the crime scene photos and newspaper clippings that claimed we had a modern day Jack the Ripper on our hands. Mrs. Hudson had been in and out making sure they were properly feeding themselves. To Molly’s surprise, Sherlock had eaten twice although it was unusual for him during a case.

“I just don’t understand,” she finally voiced aloud, curled up into a ball in Sherlock’s chair. “Serial killers like these are usually dying to show off. Where are the taunting notes or the complex clues they leave about that make them feel so clever?”

Sherlock felt guilt wash over him. He hadn’t shown Molly the note that had been left at the crime scene. “There was something,” he began, “at the last crime scene with the two girls.” He shifted his eyes, hesitating to look at her reaction. Molly was now sitting straight up, and looking as if she couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t told her. “It was a riddle.”

“Can I see it?” she asked impatiently.

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t have it, but I can tell you what it said.” He sat upon the sofa before speaking the words aloud. “I am the Hunter, but you’re not the prey. Your heart will be torn asunder. Think of your family; it will pave the way. Does the devil live within me? You wonder.” He gauged her reactions as he recited it word for word. Molly remained curious throughout most of it, but seemed she had come to a conclusion when he read the last half.

“Think of your family; it will pave the way,” Molly repeated. “Does the devil live within me?” An answer seemed to hit her full force. “I was born with the Devil in me.”

Sherlock stood, taking the few steps to close the distance between them. “Molly? What is it?”

“Think of famous serial killers, Sherlock,” she told him. “What happened in America after The Ripper disappeared?”

Realisation dawned on him. “H.H. Holmes,” he answered. “Our killer is obsessed with H.H. Holmes, but he didn’t murder like this; The Ripper did.”

“Maybe they were one in the same,” Molly suggested. “It did seem strange that the murders stopped here when H.H. Holmes began a spree in America. And by changing up how he murdered people, nobody would think the two were actually the same person.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. “There is one problem, though,” he told her. “We share a last name, but the man was born as Herman Webster Mudgett.”

“Holmes was his mother’s maiden name,” Molly informed him. “I’m not saying you are related to him, but this copycat killer seems to think so. If you do have ties to him, then this killer might be related too.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sherlock plopped down on the sofa. “Can’t I have one break from murderous family?” he pleaded to no one in particular. “Just one. Break.” Molly’s heart broke for him, knowing that this was the last thing he needed whilst he was still trying to process what had happened at Sherrinford. She moved out of Sherlock’s chair, and sat beside him, her arms wrapped around his torso, and her head resting over his chest.

She lifted her head to look at him, his face taut with the stress he was feeling. “Let’s step away from the case for now,” she suggested. “I know that’s not what you do, but I think you should. We’ll find something fun to do.”

Like clockwork, John strolled into the flat with Rosie who could now walk as long as you held her hand. She was wobbly when she tried it by herself, but refused to be carried any longer. Rosie was definitely her mother’s daughter, independent and determined as she was. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have to go into the surgery today, and hoped—“

“Yes!” Molly jumped up, appearing to frighten John just a little bit. “Of course, we can watch Rosie, right Sherlock?”

“Yes, of course we can.” He was rubbing his hands over his face, willing the stress to go away.

“Well…alright then,” John remarked. “Thank you. Here are her things.” He handed off the bag to Molly.

Rosie was now crawling toward her godfather calling out for “Unca Wock.” Sherlock flashed her soft smile, and picked her up to sit on his lap when she reached her arms up, the tension leaving him if only for a bit.

“Is he alright?” John asked Molly quietly, having remembered how tense Sherlock seemed when he first arrived.

“It’s been…difficult,” Molly told him. “There may be another murderous family relation on the loose right now.”

John’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding?”

Molly shook her head. “There’s a real chance that we’re dealing with a Holmes.”

“Jesus,” John sighed. “Well, I hope this gives you two some reprieve from it, then. I have to go, but I’ll be back around six-ish.”

“Alright,” Molly nodded. When John took his leave, she turned around to find Rosie throwing her arms around Sherlock who was holding the little girl close. It brought tears to her eyes knowing how much Sherlock loved their goddaughter. Rosie had him wrapped around her little finger. “What do you say we do a little shopping?”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side ever so slightly, confusion plain on his face. “What for?”

“Well, it’s nearly mid-October, and Rosie doesn’t have a costume yet,” Molly explained.

Looking at the golden-haired baby girl in his arms, Sherlock asked her, “Ready for an adventure, Watson?” Rosie clapped her hands excitably in response. “The game is on, then!”

Though they had her stroller with them, Rosie was adamant about walking, so Sherlock and Molly held her hands, sometimes swinging her between them gently just to get a few giggles. There were quite a few costumes to choose from, but nothing caught Rosie’s eye until they turned the corner. “Bee!!” she shouted. “Aunt Mowwy, bee!!” It was a black and yellow striped bumblebee dress with tulle netting as the skirt. It came with an antenna headband and wings that were worn over the shoulders. “You bee, Aunt Mowwy!”

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” Molly smiled curiously, looking up at Sherlock who now looked as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Sherlock?”

“I,” he paused, “may have referred to you as my…honey bee once or…twice .”

“Hun bee!” Rosie shouted, pointing at the costume.

“Well, it seems we have a winner,” Molly laughed. “I’ll go on and pay for this, so you two don’t go wanderin’ too far.”

After Molly had purchased the bumblebee costume, she searched for Sherlock and Rosie. She hadn’t a clue where they got off to. It wasn’t as if it was difficult to spot those onyx curls in crowd with the height he had. She eventually spotted them at another register, having just purchased something.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked when he made his way over towards her. Rosie reached up to Molly who then scooped her up in her arms.

“Our costumes,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Since when do you dress up for Halloween? And what are these costumes?” Molly asked, trying to peer inside the bag.

“Ah, well, you see, that’s for me to know and you to find out,” he teased. “I’ll show you when we return. Are we ready?”

“Think so,” Molly replied.

“How sweet,” said a kind, feeble voice belonging to an elderly woman. “You don’t see family outings happen very often anymore. How old is your little girl.”

Molly stifled a laugh. “Oh, she’s no—“

“Nearly a year old now,” Sherlock replied, interrupting Molly.

“She is darling,” the old woman cooed. “Lucky parents, you are.”

Molly was speechless, allowing Sherlock to do all the talking, though she smiled in response.

“We sure are,” Sherlock agreed just before the woman went off further into the store. He then looked at Molly, his eyes a brilliant shade of icy blue. “We’re very lucky godparents.”

One week later, Molly had gone so far down the research rabbit hole, it was nearly two-thirty in the morning when she stumbled across a name that brought the riddle to the forefront of her mind. It appeared that one of H.H. Holmes’s children, Lucy Theodate Holmes, had once been to a man by the name of James Douglas Hunter. “I am the hunter,” Molly repeated aloud. “Hunter was capitalized.”

She read on to find out that marriage only lasted four years due to the fact that Hunter was not ready to settle down after all. No children were mentioned, but Molly was sure a child coming into the picture is exactly why the divorce happened. Lucy most likely brought the child to an orphanage. There was no trace of their offspring anywhere, but Molly knew there had to be one if this psychopath claimed to be related to Sherlock and was a Hunter.

She pulled her eyes away from the computer, removing her reading glasses to rub her eyes. Exhausted as she was, it was imperative that she try to get to the bottom of this case. Now, she knew what Sherlock felt like. Molly eyed her costume draped over the back of the sofa. It was a tattered bluish-white wedding dress in the style of Emily's from one of Molly's favourite movies, Corpse Bride. Sherlock was to be dressed as Victor, which wasn't much different than dressing in his own clothes.

Her mobile rang just then, Sherlock’s photo popping up on screen. “Hello?” Molly answered.

“I think you ought to come ‘round, Molly,” he told her.

Sitting in his chair by the lit fire, Sherlock Holmes held his phone in his right hand and an old photo dated back in 1894 in his left where his and Molly’s faces stared back at him.

1894

Watson was wrong. He did not fancy Miss Hooper, and that fact did not change just because he snogged her senselessly. It did not mean anything. He repeated the mantra in his head, unaware that it he was having a difficult time convincing himself of it. Romantic entanglements were beneath him, and he mentally berated himself for allowing her to get around his perfectly built walls. She made them crumble, but he would not allow her to do so any longer. Though he was angry with her and himself, Sherlock was taken aback when she appeared downstairs, bag in hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he snapped.

“I’m leaving,” she answered, “I thought it was fairly obvious.”

“You will not be leaving, Miss Hooper, it is too dangerous for you to be on your own,” Sherlock stated.

Molly tossed her bag on the sofa and stormed her way over to where he was standing by the fireplace, the light of the flame flickering against the damask wallpaper. “Make up your mind then! I refuse to be treated like this, Mister Holmes. You run hot and cold, and the one thing your miniscule brain cannot seem to do is make a clear decision about your personal relationships. I am either a hindrance or a help to you.” Her face was burning with anger. “Oh wait, that’s right, I am only a help to you when you cannot keep your urges in check. I am nothing more than a play thing to you, and I forbid you to kiss me ever again! You do not feel anything for me, and it was a dirty rotten game to play, making me believe you actually had a heart!”

The color drained from Sherlock’s face as she shouted at him, rightfully so. Never before had anyone ever called him out on his shortcomings…at least not in such an aggressive manner. Before he had time to open his mouth in response, the press stormed into the sitting room of 221B. As Molly turned to see their entrance, a photo was taken of the two of them, neither looking particularly happy. Questions were being shouted at them left and right pertaining to the gruesome murders.

“Who is this, Mister ‘Olmes?” one reporter asked, motioning towards Molly.

“That’s Doctor Margaret Hooper,” another one answered.

“Are you courting her?”

“Is she helping with the case?”

One deep breath, and Sherlock took on the crowd, answering their questions as best as he could. When he finally managed to push the last one out of the room, he closed the door behind him swiftly, locking it up for good measure. His eyes flickered over to where Molly had stayed seated in his chair by the fire.

“If you want to leave, I will not stop you,” he spoke softly. “I am sorry, Miss Hooper.”

“Thank you,” she replied scornfully. Molly stood and retrieved her bag from the sofa. Sherlock stepped aside from the door upon opening it for her.

“Molly,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “I won’t keep you from this case. If you would still like to help, that is.”

“I do not think it is a good idea,” she told him. “Goodbye, Mister Holmes.”

#sherlolly #sherlolly halloween at 221b #sherlolly halloween 2019 #repeating history #my fanfiction

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hieromonkcharbel · 5 years ago

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It’s unlikely that the ancient rite of the sacrament of Holy Orders will undergo transformation—it’s one of the Catholic Church’s most hallowed and dramatic liturgies. But in light of the many scandals in the Church and the precipitous drop in vocations, if bishops did gather to discuss alterations or addendums to the centuries-old rite, perhaps they might consider inserting into it more reminders of asceticism and martyrdom and its meaning—perhaps beginning with Polycarp. The eighty-six-year-old Turkish bishop Polycarp seemed to set the priestly standard in the year 108 when he was wheeled into a Roman arena to be set on fire. Eyewitnesses said a voice from the heavens could be overheard: “Be strong, Polycarp, and play the man.” Thought then to be the last man alive to have personally known one of Christ’s apostles, Polycarp relied on heaven’s instruction to embrace his martyrdom with both ferocity and grace. As the proconsul debated whether to burn him alive or set wild animals upon him, Polycarp said, “Eighty-six years have I been His [Christ’s] servant, and He has done me no wrong… . But why do you delay? Come, do what you will.” He knew that the seeds of his martyrdom would hearten Christ’s followers. Martyrs inherit and take on the scandals, challenges, and issues unique to the generation in which they were born. St. Ignatius of Antioch inherited the challenge of Roman emperor Domitian wanting him dead, as well as the entire mushrooming band of Christians spreading the gospel throughout the Roman Empire at the beginning of the first century. Just days prior to Ignatius’s mauling by wild animals, he wrote the following in a letter to the Romans: [Let] me to be eaten by the beasts, through whom I can attain God. I am God’s wheat, and I am ground by the teeth of wild beasts that I may be found the pure bread of Christ. Rather entice the wild beasts that they may be my tomb, and leave no trace of my body, that when I fall asleep I be not burdensome to any. Then shall I be truly a disciple of Jesus Christ… . Only pray for me for strength, both inward and outward, that I may not merely speak, but also have the will; that I may not only be called a Christian, but may also be found to be one. “Woe to me if I should prove myself but a half-hearted soldier in the service of my thorn-crowned Captain,” St. Fidelis of Sigmaringen said before he was martyred for his continued strong defense of the Catholic Faith in the face of revolts from Calvinists and Zwinglians. Take a look around. Blood doesn’t run down America’s streets. Emperor Domitian and the like have been held in check. For the most part, Catholics still are able to worship and to profess their Faith as they choose. They hold political offices and are CEOs of large companies, Supreme Court judges, and NFL quarterbacks. Their scapulars can dangle outside their apron as they butcher meat behind the counter, and it’s unlikely that anyone will say a word about it. Things are rather comfortable, or at least the flesh is safe relative to earlier times. And yet within this comfortable setting, perhaps priests have found too-comfortable footing; many dread casting themselves in an unfavorable light or inviting alienation by driving folks to tougher standards of self-denial and holiness. But right outside their parish doors—right before our eyes—our children daily breathe in the zeitgeist, the “spirit of the age,” in which zealous apostles of modernism have flipped reason and natural moral laws on their heads. The fight to advance this counter-religion of godlessness is as unrelenting as the heretical pushes for Gnosticism, Arianism, and Pelagianism. The strong priest pushes back. St. Ignatius Loyola spoke of the agendo contra (action against) that priests must undergo to imitate the humiliation of Christ. When a priest willingly acts contrary to his nature, selflessly accepting mortifications and renouncing worldliness, his actions directly reflect his desire to spill his blood as a salve to protect his flock and show Christ to the world. These continual sacrifices offer his most vivid testimony of crucified love. Jesuit martyrs Isaac Jogues, Jean de Brébeuf, and their companions bore out the agendo contra when they were tortured to death in North America a century after their order’s founder, Ignatius, spoke about it. As the Eternal High Priest, Christ suffered desolation, complete separation from God, torture, and finally death. In saving us in such a fashion, He offered priests the ultimate example of the chasm a shepherd must willingly cross to love and save his daughters and sons. “[ Jesus] learned obedience from the things he suffered” (Heb. 5: 8). Confronting sin and modernistic thought in today’s culture stipulates that priests embrace sufferings similar to those embraced by Christ. It’s this action that reveals his fullest identity with his Savior. Heroic virtue, stouthearted preaching, deep devotion to prayer, untiring charitable acts, and ascetic witness all mark the priest’s share in Christ’s cross. K. Wells

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videoassocdallas · 5 years ago

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Bart Chat 2/23/19 Greetings all, We are very excited about DOCUFEST coming up October 3rd-6th at the Angelika Film Center in Dallas, but before we get to that, we have a program coming up this Saturday at The Amon Carter Museum in Fort Worth. As you may or may not know, they have a great Gordon Parks photo exhibit going on there. Most People know Gordon Parks from Shaft fame but he was also a great photographer and seeing the show is worth the trip. We are teaming about with Amon Carter to show his earlier documentaries, Diary of a Harlem Family (1968, 20 minutes) and The World of Piri Thomas (1968, 60 minutes). Parks tells the story of the Fontenelle family. He was inspired to make this film after photographing the Fontenelles for a Life magazine photo essay on race and poverty in an attempt to show that, regardless of race and class, families across America all work to provide for their children. This a rare opportunity to see these films so please check them out. The World of Piri Thomas gives an unflinching view of the “mean streets” of Spanish Harlem as told by one of its most noted inhabitants. In this film, Thomas, who was a painter, poet, author, ex-con, and ex-junkie, shares his experiences and reads from his book, Down These Mean Streets. Now back to DocuFest. We live in, shall we say, unique times when questions about what is real and what is fake constantly permeate decision making. Should I click on that? Can you believe what he said? Can that be true? In these titles, DocuFest presents fresh oasis of media that ascribes to presenting reality and framing reality in a way to make us better citizens, to create awareness, and make us whole in a time when the news makes us feel empty, angry, less connected to the world and in the end, less human. Come to the Angelika Film Center Dallas and spend four days with us and you can rediscover joy, brilliance, tragedy and be moved by it all. This fest is more than just a series of movies, it is a way to reconnect with your sanity. (Did I oversell this?) The first two nights, we have two theaters. Opening night, we start with a preview of Flannery, a new feature film about the great southern writer Flannery O’Connor. This is a really great doc by a good friend, Elizabeth Coffman, whose work we have shown before, but this is her best film to date. If you ever read O’Connor’s work, this film tells her fascinating story in a style that works with her style. At the same time, in another world in the next screening room, we have Now or Never: A Tony Romo Story. We have seen him play, we have seen him talk, now see how he attained success with interviews of family and friends who knew him back in the day. Then our late shows on Thursday have A Woman’s Work, by Yu Gu, a documentary about NFL cheerleaders who are fighting for their rights. It follows class action lawsuits and the women who have the courage to stand up to the NFL for their rights. Then we have a classic: When DA Pennebaker passed away, we wanted to show one of his films to honor his memory and what he meant to documentary film. We thought of The War Room (directed by Chris Hegedus) because we have an election coming soon and we thought about Don’t Look Back, which is the obvious choice and we don’t do that, so we went with Ziggy Stardust to remember both Pennebaker and Bowie. Pretty cool for opening night. On Friday night, we start with a new documentary about legendary choreographer Merce Cunningham, in 3D!!!!!!! It’s hard to imagine modern dance without the influence of Cunningham and his lifelong collaborator and partner John Cage. In his film, the filmmaker assembles dancers from the Merce Cunningham dance company to perform the classic works, in a new way. Often 3D can be a trick or a gadget but here with an artist working with moving in space, 3D brings it alive. At the same time (sorry, on Thursday and Friday night you will have to make tough choices) we are proud to show Midnight Traveler, the story of filmmaker Hassan Fazili’, who had a bounty on his head from the Taliban and had to leave with his wife and their two daughters. In this film, shot with a mobile device, he documents the everyday moments of family life interspersed with the peril of this dangerous journey. This film helps put a voice to the people who are having to leave their countries, seeing, knowing and understanding their struggles. The late-night Friday program is just as special. Varda by Agnes is a film that was on many best-of lists from Toronto. Agnes Varda has had a long and fascinating career as a filmmaker, and she gets to tell her story in this doc. (We have been happy to show her work for years, including the great Beaches of Agnes.) In this film, we see her in many different audiences talking about her work. It is a great way to hear her talk about and view her work. It’s a must-see. And finally, the last program is controversial (Can you believe we would do that?) It is American Dharma, Errol Morris’ film about Steve Bannon. This played a few festivals last year and Errol got blasted for giving Bannon some oxygen. Indeed, I was not keen on the idea of the film and then I saw it. Bannon does get to put this burn it all down point of view in the film, while Morris does call him on things, it is not as much as most audiences would like. However, as we get into this next election cycle, it is good to see what made Trump’s campaign successful, at least from one person's point of view. Also, I think it’s better to get into the heads of an opponent than to think you know them. And the actual film is fascinating. Bannon is very much influenced by films, and he has made films of his own. He talks about 12:00 High, a classic film about the Air Force, heroism and WW2. Morris recreates the main set of 12:00 High and the interview takes place in the set. It brings a strange unsettling context to their discussion, and I think it works. That’s just the first two nights and there is so much more, which I will detail in the next newsletter. Speaking of immigrants, last night I got to see a special screening of Detras de Realidad which will show in Frame of Mind October 10th at 10:00 PM. This program is made by women about their own journey to Texas and what their life is like here. Frank, honest and in their own voices. I really liked what they did, but I was so happy to meet the makers who learned how to control the image and use the medium to tell everyone their stories. Thanks so much to Amber Bemak who taught then and Ignite Dallas at SMU for making it happen. Speaking of Frame of Mind we have a great new show on Thursday night at 10 PM. Each year on the series, we feature a retrospective of a Texas filmmaker and usually, they are old folk. This year, we took a different approach. Explordinary is Sarah Reyes and Daniel Driensky. They are great at straddling the world of digital and analog media, as well as film as art and commerce. They have traveled the globe documenting, in their unique way, artists, skaters, film labs and many other things. They put together their own retro and it rocks. 10:00 PM Thursday, Sept 26th. What else is happening around town? On Thursday, there is a special screening of the Princess Bride as a benefit for Hope Kids of North Texas. Next weekend, there is the North Texas Film Festival in Plano. There is the Alice Cooper film that played at DIFF and things like Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, Poltergeist, and Reanimator, so if you are into these and many are, not so much me, go for it. My favorite film they are showing is Mack Wrestles, a short I saw at SXSW about the Mack Beggs, a local athlete who goes through a sex change and still wants to wrestle. This is a must-see. As for The Texas Theater, on Wednesday, they are showing a film that has been getting lots of buzz (I have not seen it, yet) called Anthropocene the Human Epoch. It is one of those national we are all showing the same film tonight, programs. On Thursday, they are showing not one but two Les Blank films (I love Les Blank films) called Chulas Fronteras and Del Mero Corazón. These are newly restored, so they should look great. They are some of the first films that showcase Texican border music, including Flaco Jimenez and they sound great. Then they are showing the Miles Davis: Birth of the Cool film that was on PBS, made by the great Stanley Nelson. We have an interview with him about this film and the rest of his work on the podcast The Fog of Truth. Then Friday night, Theater Cine Wilde presents a film that is actually wild, Todd Haynes' Poison. A really great film that showcased his voice is his Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story. On Tuesday night, The Magnolia Theater is showing Yentl, Barbara Streisand’s film about gender inequality in the Jewish religious community. Bart Weiss Artistic Director Dallas VideoFest

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