#my Moneybags family is large and in charge

[sidehowriting]

🌹🌹🌹

!!!! I never expected 1 let alone 3!

Ok, here's one from a Thor fic I started writing, then rewriting, ages ago and maybe one day I shall finish it.

"Just because I agreed to an arranged marriage does not mean I don't like sweet happy endings."

Here's one from a Criminal Minds fic I have going on ff.net. This is wayyyyyyy ahead of what is currently posted but maybe one day we'll get this far (publicly).

“I find out, that after months of trying, we’re finally having another kid, from Emily, because she fucked up and said ‘my wife and kids.’

I am also completely obsessed with my Sims family. When I'm burnt out writing fandom fic, sometimes I write stories about my Sims. Here's one!

"It's okay," she said, fighting back the urge to add 'I deserve it.'

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

We’re All Mad Here | Jurdan College AU

Summary: Tenacious student, Jude Duarte, discovers a dark underworld in the very heart of RGU. It’s all just a game of Russian Roulette. Harmless, as long as you’re the one holding the gun.

Content Warning: Cursing, mild mention of panic attack (to skip, stop reading between the ~~~~~)

Part II   |   Masterlist   |   AO3

Part I- Slow Burn

I, Jude Duarte, third year at Royal Greenbriar University and soon-to-be reigning Top Scholar, am in a hurry.

It’s rush hour. The pavement is slick with sleet and packed with important people in fancy suits. They brave sheets of freezing rain that lash down from the angry October skies with an unending canopy of black umbrellas.

I don’t carry my own. Umbrellas aggravate the chaos of mornings in Insmire, and I don’t need to add another to the mix.

Luckily, I am short. Manoeuvring through gaps in elbows and shoulders does not take much effort on my part. It’s the briefcases and patches of ice which make running a bit of a challenge this morning—but then, I have always enjoyed a challenge.

As I tear through the crowded streets of Insmire, I only know one thing: No amount of wind or hail or people can stop me. And if anyone gets bludgeoned with my thirty-pound backpack as I weave through the throng, well, that’s on them.

Cold air slices through me with every heave of my lungs, every pounding thud of my boots on the sidewalk. My legs are sore from yesterday’s fencing practice, but I savour the sweet ache and forge on.

I am used to this rushing, for I am always in a hurry. It sometimes feels like I’ve been in a hurry from my very first breath. As if I’m constantly trying to catch up to something just out of my grasp.

My twin sister, Taryn, and I were born in a hurry.

So excited were we to join the ranks of men, we surprised our mother half to death by wandering into the world nearly four weeks early.

As a result, we spent the next several weeks of our lives as tiny things in incubators—a little sickly and terribly jaundiced. This was how our mother always used to describe it, at least.

Ever since then, I have been invariably late to everything. Mostly, I blame it on the incubators. And the jaundice.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, being always late is a trait I can only attribute to who I am as a person. It is as much a part of me as the tip of my left ring finger is not.

I sometimes wonder if that’s exactly the crux of it; that just like my fingertip, my punctuality has somehow been taken from me, too.

I have heard of twins absorbing their siblings in the womb. I can’t see why personality traits should be any different. Especially since Taryn and I had to spread them so thinly between two of us.

And Taryn is always perfectly on time.

I risk a glance at my watch. A tiny crack runs up the glass. It’s been there for ages, but I am still nettled by the sight of it and the unbidden memory it stirs.

It’s because of this tiny crack that the watch’s face is now fogged up from the inside. I can barely make out the three little golden hands racing each other toward my tardiness.

Seven minutes past eight.

I am really very late. Or, I know I will be, at least.

Technically, if I go straight to the Silhouette Gazette now, I will be right on time for my interview.

But I can’t go straight there. Not when I haven’t had coffee.

Without my fix, I won’t be able to string together even one sentence. Much less make it through an entire interview with enough charisma to snag the internship position I so desperately need. Since I am not very charismatic to begin with, I’ll need all the help I can get.

Everything depends on my getting this internship. If I don’t, there’s no way I’ll maintain my near-perfect GPA, no way I’ll graduate summa cum laude or Valedictorian of my class.

And then I’ll have to go into something boring. Like publishing. A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I shove between two men wearing long coats and flat caps. They grunt in shock and disapproval. I hardly feel the zing of pain as my shin collides with something hard.

A briefcase flies out of its owner’s grip, crashing onto the pavement a few yards away. I don’t stop to apologise.

“Bitch!” One of the flat caps shouts after me.

Yes, I agree silently, hopping over the felled bag. I am very much that.

If I had the time and breath to tell the men just the same, I would. Instead, I flip them a rude gesture over my shoulder and don’t turn around.

I’m already ten paces away when a dull throbbing starts on my leg. It radiates from where I know there’ll be an unsightly bruise tomorrow. But bruises are a thing for future Jude to handle.

There is no way I will let what happened last year happen again. Second-year was a fluke. A one-time thing.

I will get this internship, take back my rightful title of Top Scholar, and keep it until I graduate—just like my mother did. I absolutely refuse to be beaten out by some preppy moneybags prick.

Or a bit of hail.

Before flying out the door of my flat this morning, I did a quick search on Google Maps, the results of which yielded the quirky little coffee shop I now see in my line of vision.

The White Rabbit sits mercifully in all its three-story glory right across the street from the newspaper’s office building. If luck is on my side, if I hurry, I should have just enough time to grab a cup to-go and make it with a minute or two to spare.

My thoughts are all jumbled as I barrel through the glass doors.

A white-haired barista stands behind the counter at the back of the shop, taking a customer’s order with an unbearable amount of cheer for a Monday morning.

The queue isn’t too bad, maybe three people long. I send up a quick thanks to whatever power of the universe might be in charge of coffee queues.

It smells miraculous in here—freshly ground coffee and something buttered and flakey. Suddenly, I am too warm.

I make a beeline for the back of the queue, shucking off my hat and gloves as I go. I’m unzipping my coat, a difficult task with hands full of knitted things, when a wall of black blurs into my periphery.

I don’t have a second to react before that wall smacks me right in the forehead. And collides everywhere else.

A scalding liquid sloshes down the front of my shirt. I stumble backwards, gasping at the pain.

There is a very loud “Fuck” followed by an equally as loud “Shit!”

I am not sure which curse fell from my lips, but I know it was one of them. All I can feel is this dreadful sting. It spreads like a wildfire across my chest.

Perhaps, I’d cursed both words. The pain certainly warrants it.

“Are you alright, dear?” a dark, silken voice asks. A pair of beringed hands steady me, grasping my shoulders with the barest of touches. As quickly as they appeared, like that they are gone. And then they are handing me a wad of brown paper napkins.

“Here,” the voice says.

I snatch the proffered napkins and look up at my assailant.

Perfect. Just perfect, I think with a scowl. Of course the person who spills their drink down my blouse has to be stupidly attractive.

The man before me is so beautiful it’s almost cruel.

A crown of crow dark curls circles his head, framing his oil slick eyes and sharp cheekbones. His is an unnecessary sort of perfection that sets my teeth grinding.

He’s clad in all black, save for his coat—a beaded brocade of black and crimson silk with quilted red lapels. From the breast pocket, a beaded scarlet brooch in the shape of a dahlia dangles in ostentatious splendour.

There is something familiar about him I can’t quite grasp.

For some inexplicable reason I amount to probable insanity, I cannot stop my gaze from flitting to his mouth.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

His lips look like two full flower petals. I’m plagued by the inane thought that they might feel just as soft. If I can only reach out and���

I shake my head.

Concern creases the man’s brow now. To my horror, I realise I haven’t responded to his question. I’ve just stood here, dripping and sticky, for who knows how long. Staring. Like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” I grit out through barred teeth and my own mortification. I pat at the stain hastily with the wad of napkins. “I’m just great.”

It’s useless, of course.

The stain isn’t coming out, I’m late to my life-altering interview, and to make matters worse, I still haven’t had coffee. Not to mention, my chest burns in a way that makes me tempted to scrap everything in favour of a doctor’s office.

~~~~~

That’s when panic seizes hold.

A strand of pearls tightening around my throat. I am sure it means to strangle me because I cannot breathe.

My heart takes flight, battering my ribcage as if it intends to escape entirely. A trail of sweat trickles down my forehead.

I am going to be late. I am going to have this horrid stain on my shirt. I am going to fail this interview. I am going to fail this year and myself and my family.

There’s something heavy sitting on my lungs. I am both hot and cold, here and not.

Tears prick my eyes. I will them not to spill over, but of course, my body betrays me. I swipe furiously at my cheeks.

Everyone in the coffee shop plus one unfortunately attractive dude must be staring, watching as I teeter on the edge of full-blown hysterics.

“Hey,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude croons, but I don’t see him.

I try to draw even breaths. And fail. And fail again.

~~~~~

I’m barely aware of the hand that guides me to a corner of the coffee shop. It’s darker here. A bit quieter, too. I notice a large bookshelf obscuring the alcove from the main seating area. Away from prying eyes.

“Just relax,” the man says. “It’s going to be okay. Are you hurt?” He looks inclined to place his hand on my shoulder again but thinks better of it when he sees my expression.

I want to punch him in his stupid face. Maybe I should. It’s only fair, given the circumstances.

“Relax?” I scoff, hating the way my voice cracks. “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes and I’m fairly certain my would-be boss won’t appreciate my being late. Or this sort of oversharing.”

I make a wild gesture at the stain on my chest, ignoring the slight tremor in my hands. I am acutely aware of the fabric’s transparency there. Today was not the day to wear a bright purple bra.

A moment passes before a smirk slips into place on Unfortunately Attractive Dude’s hateful mouth. He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a once over.

“You sure about that?” he drawls, and now I am positive I’m going to punch him. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you, sunshine, are no longer having a panic attack.”

Indeed, the tightening in my throat has waned. But as keen an observation as it might be, I would first run my hand through with my fencing sabre than admit he is right.

“I wasn’t having a panic attack,” I say too quickly. He produces a smug expression that is just as bewitching as it is infuriating.

He knows what I’ve said is a lie. I know it’s a lie, too. Very deep down. In some dark forgotten place inside me where things that don’t want to be admitted go.

The man grins as if I should be grateful. I am decidedly not.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I say, taking a step toward him. “But don’t pretend to know me. Because you don’t.”

He lifts a brow—the worst kind of dare. “Don’t I?”

“No,” I say. I hope I come off more menacing than I feel with my tearstained cheeks and conspicuous underthings on display for all the world to see.

“Pity,” he says, still wearing that stupid smile. “You seem delightful.”

My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think.

And apparently, I don’t think—because I take another step closer.

The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop.

He towers over me, lithe and angled, face limned in shadow. He’s unflinching and returns my gaze with equal distaste.

My heart skitters wildly, stumbling one beat over the next like it knows it's been spotted by something with sharp claws and jagged teeth.

In the unclosed space between us, a glittery treacherous thing ripples.

I am suddenly very glad for bookshelves.

I should leave. I should go to my interview before I do something I will regret. Before I ruin everything. I should walk away.

Then, I do the opposite of that.

“I’m the farthest thing from delightful,” I tell him, shooting a dagger-filled glare from beneath the hood of my brow. “Which is why I’d strongly advise against getting in my way again. And don’t call me sunshine.”

Something smells familiar; like a forest in winter. Like cedarwood and myrrh. With a jolt, I realise it’s him and dig my nails into the meat of my palm.

He chuckles, raising his hands in defence. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t happen again. But at least come with me. I think I can help.” He juts his chin toward the back of the coffee shop, presumably towards the toilets.

I wrinkle my nose.

This can’t seriously be some kind of come-on. I don’t have time for unsolicited advances right now. I don’t even have time for solicited advances.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spit, and he flinches. “First, you give me third-degree burns. What’s next? Chop me up in the alley out back?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “As appealing as that sounds,” he says. “I’m shit with knives.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort.”

“Better with fabric, though.” He gives an unbothered shrug. “I was going to offer to get that out for you.” The man nods, seemingly unfazed, at my chest. Heat rises in my cheeks again.

“You’ve done enough already,” I snap.

Maybe I’ll just wear my winter coat through the whole cursed interview. Even that would be a better solution than this conversation.

I turn on my heel to leave, but the man catches my wrist.

Bad move, I think.

I’m contemplating dragging him out of this alcove by the ear so I can punch him in front of every customer in this coffee shop when, to my surprise, he lets go.

The man rakes a hand through his dark curls, heaving a great sigh.

“Wait. Just...” he starts. “Look, I feel bad enough as is. Let me make it up to you. It’ll take five minutes. You’ll only be a little late to your interview, and you won’t have to deal with a dry cleaner’s bill.”

I snort. I haven’t been able to afford dry cleaning since I stopped living in Madoc’s house two years ago. I will likely have to throw this shirt away if I can’t get the stain out with a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

“I’ll buy you a coffee for your troubles while we wait.”

I consider him for a moment. He seems sincere enough, though attractive people always seem sincere, even when they are truly not.

Now, though, I don’t really have much left in me to care.

I want the stain out of my blouse, a vat of coffee in my system, and a teleportation device that can transport me to the sixth floor of the Silhouette immediately.

If this man is a willing rung in the ladder to get me even two-thirds of those things, I will consider it a blessing.

“Fine,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll take a large cappuccino. Extra shot of espresso. And a shot of caramel. To go.”

“Wonderful.” The dazzling man smiles his dazzling smile. “Follow me.” And with that, he leads the way out of the alcove, a gleeful bound in his step.

I already regret my decision.

☽☽☽☽☽

Part II 

Masterlist 

AO3

Tag List: @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte @velarhysismine @knifewifejude

AN: this was originally sent to me as a request for the prompt “I’m running late to an important interview/meeting and you accidentally spill your hot cocoa all over my outfit” from a winter prompt list. but it spiralled into several chapter outlines and an almost fully-fledged plot so i’m rolling with it.

anyway, thanks so much for reading! hope you enjoyed :) if you’d like to be tagged in future updates for this AU, feel free shoot me an ask/message.

a few disclaimers:

1. i don’t think publishing is boring! i’m technically trying to go into publishing for my career so really just poking fun at myself. but i do think jude would find publishing (or any other office job) incredibly boring.

2. the depiction of jude’s panic attack is provided by yours truly, though i do not claim to speak for everyone who gets them, and am aware that they differ in both manifestation and severity from person to person. this just pertains to my own experience.

3. i was definitely listening to slow burn by kacey musgraves while writing part of this lmao (hence the chapter name).

[lihikainanea]

do you think tiger would get insecure or really drift away from bill after a lot of her so-called "friends" or news outlets said she was just using him for his money? it's angsty but my small heart is wanting something soppy today (´･_･`) ♥️

 I don’t think she pays too much attention to the media outlets, to be quite honest. Bill isn’t big enough yet, fame wise, where this type of thing would be shoved in her face left right and centre. Ignoring it is as simple as not seeking it out, really. I think it would be a lot trickier dating Alex or like...y’know, someone of Taylor Swift’s level. Then there wouldn’t be much escaping it,

I can’t quite see her friends being so fucking dumb as to say that, but you know who would be?

Layla. That cunt.

I’ll bet after the last little threesome debacle, after tiger damn near took her out, maybe Layla is out for blood. So maybe she gets drunk one night, somehow stumbles her way to tiger’s apartment to unleash. Or hell maybe just for the drama factor, she waits. Plots. Gets her evil plan in place. And the next time there’s some big family dinner, Layla unleashes her ire. I kind of low key love this thought that tiger’s family is the absolute shit storm, because usually it’s Bill who always feels the need to apologize to whomever he’s with for the absolute GONGSHOW that is his weird, large, famous family. But tiger’s family? Shit son, they’re a straight up circus.

I’ll bet it starts with Layla just getting a few subtle jabs in, in that way all passive aggressive cowards do that is so irritating. Tiger, for her part, is really trying to stay out of it--just avoid her cousin completely--but Layla ain’t about to let that happen. Maybe a relative comments on tiger’s beautiful earrings and Layla makes some quip about how her moneybags boyfriend bought them for her--except maybe Bill actually did buy her those earrings. And then another relative comments on the beautiful bracelet and uh--yep, it’s the one he got her last year at Christmas.

And tiger is suddenly feeling mighty self-conscious, pretty angry actually, but more so she’s also just like....incredibly defensive. But tiger being defensive means that something is really getting to her, which was Layla’s plan.

Bill keeps his eyes on his girl all night because she’s looking closer and closer to fucking snapping, and he’s actually worried that she’s going to start a brawl right here in Aunt Fiona’s living room. He’s doing everything he can to make sure Layla doesn’t get too close, and to make sure the two of them never find themselves alone because blood will be shed and it won’t be tiger’s. Besides, this would be a really inconvenient time for the kid to get a felony charge because she’s supposed to fly with him out of the country next week to spend some time on his new set. Which--Layla overhears--and oh really? Wow, it must be nice to be so....provided for.

Bill can ignore it, he’s been ignoring idiotic comments like that his whole life, but he knows it gets to tiger. And he loses sight of her for one instant--god just a second as she heads to the bathroom. He’s deep in a conversation with her dad and he realizes all too late, that he hasn’t seen her in a few minutes. And his eyes scan the room frantically, widening in panic when he can’t find Layla, either. Excusing himself, he heads quickly down the hallway and as soon as he rounds the corner, he sees it--tiger and Layla, locked in a stare down. Tiger is tense and alert, her back straight and her fists clenched tightly at her sides--he swears if she had hackles they’d be raised in warning. Layla has her hip cocked, her arms crossed confidently in front of her.

“...When exactly did you go from an independent, self-sufficient woman to a well-kept whore?” she asks, and tiger tenses even more.

“Take it back,” tiger whispers, but Layla’s not backing down.

“I guess when you met him, right?” she continues, 

Bill intervenes, because he’s had enough. And he doesn’t give a shit about Layla or what she’s saying, so instead he takes a step in front of tiger, gets into her line of vision.

“Come on kid,” he says quietly, “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

“Who would have thought that my little cousin could be bought so easily?” Layla keeps going. Tiger’s breath is deepening, rage contorting her face and she lunged forward but Bill put his arms out, blocking her and holding her back.

“It’s not worth it tiger,” he whispers.

“Did he wave all those pretty, shiny things at you and you just got on your knees?” Layla said, “Because you were easy like that before, but usually it was just when some guy finally gave you the time of day. I never knew money had the same effect on you. No wonder you keep him around.”

Tiger lunges again. Bill’s jaw clenches, he holds her back, but you know what? That’s enough. So he bends--just barely--put his lips right by tiger’s ear as she struggles against him.

“Make it count, kid,” he whispers.

And then he lets her go.

Layla’s quick, but tiger grew up a scrappy little thing and she’s much quicker. He lets her get a solid shot in--just because let’s face it, Layla needs to be taught a damn lesson--but one shot is enough and then he picks her up, pulls her off, carts her outside to calm down.

It’s probably the end of some extended family reunions.But more than that, as much as tiger tried to fight it, I’ll bet Layla’s words really play on her mind--because it’s her biggest fear, right? The fact that people will think the only reasons he’s close with Bill is for his money. And tiger just can’t seem to grasp that the only person that really matters in that scenario--Bill--thinks that idea is fucking ridiculous.

[thelastranger]

Retirement

This was inspired by a prompt by @ranger-melany who asked about Crowley and Halt retiring. I really enjoyed writing this!

Halt and Crowley were old now, not so old that they couldn't fight and shoot but old enough that they could feel it in their bones when they fought. They loathed to retire, to leave the corps; they had given so much to the corps. The corps was their life, but they couldn't be rangers anymore. Reflexes that were just one second slower could get a ranger killed. Halt always thought he would give his life for Araluen, die defending it, but he was glad to have been proven wrong.

They weren't completely out of the corps. Crowley still helped out with paperwork and Halt would occasionally take over a fief for week or two when a ranger was injured. Gilan and Will were in charge of the corps now and asked for help constantly. The two retirees were only really retired in name; they kept busy with the corps and with family matters. Crowley liked to call it consultant work. Halt thought that made it sound pretentious.

A routine developed between Halt and Crowley. Help out with the corps or Duncan and Cassie then reward themselves with a nice leisurely coffee or lunch every once in a while. Sometimes Maddie would join them, those were fun times. The young ranger kept them updated on all the new ranger gossip and liked to listen to their stories, hoping to gain some valuable information she could use as a ranger. They frequented the tavern more and more as their duties lessened and the days grew just a tiny bit harder.

Today was a special day. Halt and Crowley were celebrating Crowley's (un)official retirement. Of course he was still helping out, but as Crowley liked to put it "I don't have to deal with you herd of cats and the paperwork you never do. I can quit whenever I like."

They were known around the Blue Canary not as ranger but as genial old men who tipped rather well. And they liked it that way.

The Blue Canary is packed today, the place is hopping. Usually that's a good thing, but the energy in the place seems a little off. Like everyone is slightly on edge and waiting for something to happen. Halt and Crowley picked up on that energy as soon as they walked in. A larger number of strangers were sitting down at the bar with a large number of bottles in front of them.

Watching the men out of the corner of their eyes, Crowley and Halt slide into their normal booth, greeting some other regulars on the way. Almost immediately, a serving lady pulled up right next to the table. Normally Rosa seemed extra cheerful and glad to see the two rangers, but today she seemed anxious.

"What'll be boys? Normal meals?" Rosa was in a hurry it seemed. Every other day Rosa would chit-chat with them for a few minutes. She was never this brief. Crowley noticed her eyes dart over to the group of strangers. Ah, of course. Halt noticed it too.

"Our regulars would be great, yes. Say Rosa, is that group of fellas bothering you and the others?" No one could say Crowley didn't beat around the bush.

Rosa smiled, but it seemed strained and she pushed her dark curly hair back. "No, no. It's just that they're drinking too much too early. That tends to lead to trouble."

"Well, if trouble starts, Halt and I can stop it quicker than a ranger's arrow." Halt nearly rolled his eyes at that. Crowley accompanied his words with a goofy smile and arm flex and Halt did roll his eyes. They pretended to be harmless old men, but Crowley was laying it on bit thick like he always did. And like always, it worked.

"We'll beat em up for you. No worries."

Rosa let out a short laugh, some of the tension disappearing in her shoulders. The thought of the two kind old men beating up a gang of drunks was a bit ridiculous, but she appreciated the thought. She slid their coffees towards them.

"I'll let you know when." Rosa went off towards the bar before being reluctantly flagged down by another table.

Halt took a deep sip of his coffee. It was nice and hot, nothing added to it. Crowley's, on the other hand, was full of milk and he was debating on adding honey and sugar to it. It was a big cause of disagreement between the two friends. After a couple minutes of comfortable silence, Halt leaned back like he was contemplating something.

"Why can't we be the type of old people that sits in chairs outside and complains all day to the young people? Ya know, instead of threatening to beat up a group of strangers in a bar." Crowley leveled a look at Halt. Halt already complained to the young people, he didn't need to retire to do so. And Halt complaining about beating people up was the most hypocritical thing Crowley had ever heard. And he lived through Morgarath's political machinations.

"Halt, that sounds absolutely lovely, but I'm afraid that you attract danger wherever you go. We'd never be able to sit down."

"Wherever I go? Me, attract trouble? I seem to recall that you were the one who started a bar fight the first night we met." Crowley had to admit that was true, but he continued on. The constant bickering and one upping of each other was just what they did.

"Well, I seem to recall you getting drunk one night and committing treason against our dear friend Duncan and then getting banished as a criminal." While that event had been very painful at the time, it had become somewhat of a joke over the years. Crowley in particular found it very funny. Duncan, not so much.

"I'm not the one who disguised himself as a washer woman and had bandits chasing after him when they found you out."

"Whaddya mean? You were right there next to me being chased! And you made the better washerwoman anyways."

"I guess trouble follows both of us around." Crowley grunted, which Halt knew meant he was right, Crowley just didn't want to admit it.

At that moment, Rosa came back with their meals. A bowl of stew was slid in front of Halt and a plate of biscuits and gravy slid in front of Crowley.

"Need us to beat them up?" asked Halt, only half joking. He got a strained smile. The men had been making more noise and Halt could see the outlines of dagger underneath their tunics. The situation was getting dangerous.

"No, no," Rosa absently looked over her shoulder back at the men. "At least not yet."

The pair of men exchanged glances. It was more serious than they thought.

"We'll take the bills now." Rosa already had the bills prepared and the men took them gratefully. The tavern was almost empty except for the drunk strangers, Halt and Crowley, and a few stragglers.

The meals were a good price and Halt fished out some coins and Crowley did the same. Now came the next part of their routine. The disagreement over tipping. Halt looked over at Crowley's tip for Rosa. It was pretty generous, but it could be better.

"Pay Rosa more, why don't ya? I know how cheap you can be, but you can afford a better tip."

"How do you know I'm cheap?" exclaimed Crowley, only pretending to be affronted.

"You spent fifty years managing the corps coffers and you never sprang on the good coffee grounds. And I never got a pay raise in all my years of service," Halt peered at Crowley over a steaming cup of coffee. "If anyone deserved a pay raise, it was me for putting up with you all these years."

"Well, we can't all be an Hibernian prince who married a top diplomat. We're not all accustomed to money."

"Believe me, I know."

"I was actually waiting on you to pick up the tab Mr. Moneybags. Since you can afford it."

Halt gave a dramatic sigh and threw some more money down on the table, as did Crowley.

A second later, the group of drunk men stood up and pulled out their daggers. The leader had a short sword.

"Give us all the money in this place." said the leader, slurring his words only a little. Behind the bar, the cook and Rosa looked frightened. All noise in the tavern had dropped.

"The... the cash is in the back of the bar." stammered Rosa.

"Go get it then!"

As Rosa edged her way to the lockbox, she made eye contact with Halt and Crowley. Crowley nodded at her to continue on with what she was doing. It was best if she cooperated for the time being. Halt looked down at the coins on the table and looked at Crowley. The pair knew instantly what Halt was going to do.

"Ah, Pauline's gonna kill me."

"Not if we get killed first." And with that, Crowley brought his fist down on the table. At the same time, Halt poured out the last remains of his money onto the table.

The leader of the would be bandits spun around and faced two men who seemed to be old and harmless. And rich apparently if the money on the table was any indication. The bandit made sure his friends were keeping an eye on the lockbox before speaking.

"Stick em up geezers and push the money over." A sword point was stuck in Crowley's face.

Crowley put on a scared look and went to push the money over, hands trembling. Halt tenses and his hand slides under his cloak towards his double scabbard.

"Come on old man, we don't have all day!" The sword was jabbed closer towards Crowley's face.

Everyone was looking at Crowley and Halt. The cook looked pale and Tosa was frozen in place. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Crowley looked at Halt.

"It's never a quiet day with you." That was the signal. With that, Halt exploded into action.

Halt lunged at the bandit, startling him and Crowley rushed at the assailants at the bar. The sword is slammed onto the table, scattering the money on the floor. Half of the robbers turned towards Crowley and the other half rushed to their leader's aid, the money all but forgotten.

At the bar, Crowley smiles as he sized up the robbers. Three men, slightly above average build, untrained. And, it seemed, hesitant to attack an old man even when the old man in question had showed some skill. Never mind their hesitation, Crowley would start the dance.

Halt had slammed the leader onto the table and the other two robbers were circling him. One darted towards him and Halt swung his fist into his gut and grabbed the man in a headlock. As Halt was doing this, the other robber jumped on his back.

"Oof!" Halt let out a rush of air. He bent over backwards and slammed the man onto the table.

Halt felt the grip on his back release and he started beating up the bandit in the headlock. The man makes no attempt to fight Halt even a little and Halt looks over at Crowley.

He sees Crowley punching the bandits, and instantly it's like they're young again. Fighting Morgarath, reinstating the corps, beating uo bandits. It all comes back to Halt and when he looks over at Crowley and his hair is bright red again instead of the dull grey. Crowley looks over and catches Halt's eye. He sees Halt as he first did fifty years ago. A dark haired, scowling Hibernian beating up a criminal. It's like no time has passed.

Barely two minutes pass and all the robbers are on the floor unconcious. The cook fled to grab the nearest authority and Rosa was looking shocked pressed up against the bar.

Crowley looked at her. "I told you we'd take care of those men."

All Rosa could do was stare at him and Halt. She had thought their offer was a joke. The door burst open and in walked a ranger. She stared at the mess the two men had made and then stared at the two men. Halt was holding his back and Crowley seemed to be nursing a black eye.

"You know these men are wanted bandits, right? You're going to have to fill out some paperwork for this incident."

Crowley called back to the ranger. "We know Maddie, we know."

Halt groaned at Crowley. "We're never going to get to retire are we?" Not that Halt was complaining too much, but if he kept fighting strangers, Pauline would be displeased.

Crowley gave a tired smile, holding back a wince as his grin split his bruise. "Nope!"

[oneshul]

Vayaytsay: An Evening with Laban, Jacob’s Father-in-Law

Come in, come in, Stranger! Welcome to my humble tent. I am Laban, sheikh of this little tribe—look around my home! As you can see, I have two daughters, Leah and Rachel, a fine son-in-law, Jacob, and grandchildren enough. Sit here, by the fire; it will stop your shivering—yes, our Aramean desert nights can get cold enough, I’ll tell you! Ha-ha! Here, Leah, my dear—fetch our guest a big bowl of that red-bean stew—that will warm your bones, I’ll wager!

The sheep in the paddock outside? Oh, you have sharp eyes, to count all those spotted-and-speckled sheep? Um—to speak truth—and I never do otherwise, trust me—they are not mine. They are the property of my son-in-law, that young scoundrel, Jacob, over there in the corner, playing with his baby, Joseph, my youngest grandson. And the other children? Why, they are his, as well. How prolific his wife must be, you ask? Truth to tell, my Jacob—my junior business partner—has, not one, but two full-fledged wives, and two concubines, to boot! That, Stranger, is what makes his family so large—but I don’t fret; they are all my grandsons—oh, and one granddaughter, Dena—where has my little princess got to? I do hope that she is not poking around the tent of that Shechem, again….

How do I manage to feed and clothe all of them? Well, indeed, Stranger, it is difficult—so much so, that Jacob and his family may one day leave my hospitality—(calling to Jacob) how long has it been, Jakey, that you’ve worked for—I mean, lived with me? Over twenty years? (resuming speech with the Stranger) Well, then, I would bet, they might leave—oh, at most any time. Still, I will never forget all the fine years we spent together—Jacob marrying my two fine daughters, taking to concubine the girls’ serving-maids, and building up his flocks! Ha! One could take pride in the accomplishments of such a boy—I mean, man—and I tell you, Stranger, it is as if he were my own flesh and blood! Such pride I take in him….

Any problems between us? (Suspiciously) Why do you ask? You’re not—forgive me—a spy for King Abimelech, are you? Ha-ha! Just joking…. Well, yes, it is crowded here, under my tent, but one must accommodate family, say I. Still, what a curious Stranger you are—you persist in your queries! Well, then, nothing asked, nothing answered, as my father, bless him, used to say—

There is but one area of contention (whispering, while glancing, from time to time, at Jacob, still busy with the infants off in the tent-corner)—this Invisible God that Jacob worships—to speak truth, it puts my neighbors off. They are all good Baal-and-Ishtar worshipers, just like me, the king, and (I assume) yourself, O Stranger. I cannot understand how Jacob can stick to just one God—it makes no sense, if you ask me. Where would we all be, had we not a god of the sky, a god of the river, a goddess of the harvest, and so on? Why, how could one God, no matter how mighty, manage all those different things? We’ve had many an argument on this subject, Jacob and I, and, in the end, must agree to disagree—he is a stubborn fellow, and, truth to tell (there I go again), so am I.

Why should Jacob leave me? Well, it’s been a long time that we’ve been together—and now, with his flocks so large and servants so numerous, it’s using up my precious resources—the grass of the fields, my provender, and my well of water, not to mention those high property taxes I must pay to King Abimelech—don’t get me started about property taxes. The king has promised to overhaul our taxation system, but, just between us, I don’t believe a word of it. Those tax changes never benefit the small tradesman, such as I am. The king always takes the lion’s share; he is, after all, the king. All hail His Majesty, Abimelech! (spits on the ground)

I see that you’ve made short work of your bowl of stew—would you care for some more? No? Well then, I do hope that you’ll join me in a cup of barley beer. Yes? Well then, Rachel! Go fetch me and my guest two cups of beer, from the barrel in the barn—oh, sorry, my dear—I see that you are nursing your new little prince—Stranger! What is a father to do with such recalcitrant daughters? Time was, a man could thrash his children into obeying—yes, those were the good old days….

Will you spend the night with us, Stranger? Charge? No, no charge—what do you take me for? I am but a humble shepherd and farmer, practicing good, old-fashioned Aramean hospitality. Still, I could not miss that fat moneybag on your belt—it clinks when you move—by Baal’s beard, I daresay it’s full of gold, isn’t it? Oh, you won’t say—yes, yes, none of my business; you are right. But your fingers and wrists  sparkle with jeweled rings and bracelets of pure gold!. Would there be a copper or two in your purse for me, Honest Laban, for your drink and sup? Ha-ha! Just joking, Stranger….

Rabbi David Hartley Mark is from New York City’s Lower East Side. He attended Yeshiva University, the City University of NY Graduate Center for English Literature, and received semicha at the Academy for Jewish Religion. He currently teaches English at Everglades University in Boca Raton, FL, and has a Shabbat pulpit at Temple Sholom of Pompano Beach. His literary tastes run to Isaac Bashevis Singer, Stephen King, King David, Kohelet, Christopher Marlowe, and the Harlem Renaissance.

[atoutlines]

The Great Sacrifice (John 12:1-11)

Characterized By Its Costliness (v1-3)

“Six days before the Passover, Jesus therefore came to Bethany, where Lazarus was, whom Jesus had raised from the dead.” (v1).

According to the chronological timeline of events, “six days before passover” is referring to the Saturday afternoon/early evening prior to the Passover.

Jesus is back in “Bethany” again, which is situated less than 2 miles from Jerusalem, the location where Jesus performed the miracle of all miracles by raising Lazarus from death.

“So they gave a dinner for him there. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those reclining at table.” (v2).

Is this the parallel account of Mark 14, Luke 10, and Matthew 26?

This “dinner” could very well have been at Simon the leper’s house (Mk 14:3) since it isn’t specified (“they gave”).

The only detail that matters to John is that Lazarus, Martha, and Mary are present in order to connect this account with what had just happened in chapter 11. Jesus had a deep affection for these siblings (11:5). 

“Mary therefore took a pound of expensive ointment made from pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. The house was filled with fragrance of the perfume.” (v3).

Martha served the dinner, Lazarus sat at the table with Jesus, while Mary appeared with “a pound of expensive ointment” (the equivalent of 11 ounces of pure liquid from the nard plant, grown exclusively in India).

John’s descriptory term of the cost is underwhelming (polytimos - very costly). 

This perfume most likely had been a family heirloom, passed down through the generations. 

John provides details about how Mary would use this perfume: for anointing Jesus’ feet.

According to the other gospels, she would anoint his head as well, but the feet are what matter to John, connecting this with the account in the next chapter of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. 

This act would signify the utmost expression of self-humbling devotion and love, regardless of the cost. John is ultimately directing our attention to the most costly sacrifice that would take place in just a few days. It would cost Jesus his reputation, his fellowship with the Father, and ultimately his life!

Characterized By Its Consequences (v4-11)

“But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (he who was about to betray him), said ‘Why was this ointment not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?’” (v4-5).

“Judas” who was one of the original twelve “disciples,” an insider to the life and miracles of Jesus. But he was not a true disciple and would soon hand Jesus over for 30 “denarii.”

It comes as no surprise when he takes up issue to Mary’s sacrificial act for Jesus. In fact, he has his mind on the money that Mary wastes. To him, Mary squanders the equivalent to a year’s wage. He is incensed. His motives seem well-intended though, since in his mind the money could have been “given to the poor.” 

Duty will never determine devotion. It must be derived from devotion, or else it will be nothing more than good deeds.

“He said this, not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief, and having charge of the moneybag he used to help himself to what was put into it.” (v6).

Judas’ true character is revealed in the moment.

Also revealed are  the extreme differences between the motivation of Mary and that of Judas. 

Mary was willing to give her most valuable possession while Judas aimed at how he could gain.

“Jesus said, ‘Leave her alone, so that she may keep it for the day of my burial. For the poor you always have with you, but you do not always have me.” (v7-8).

We must take into account that Jesus is drawing attention to his impending sacrifice!

Whether or not Mary knew it, she was not only performing a kingly anointing but also a burial act upon Jesus. 

Opportunities to serve and honor the poor would always be present. But the opportunity to be with him as they knew him would soon come to an end. There is always a sense of urgency that comes with following Jesus!

“When the large crowd of the Jews learned that Jesus was there, they came, not only on account of him but also to see Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. So the chief priests made plans to put Lazarus to death as well, because on account of him many of the Jews were going away and believing in Jesus.” (v9-11).

The consequences of Jesus’ sacrifice will ultimately always lead to extreme reactions.

Some reject, like Judas. Others believe, like the “many Jews” causing the chief priests to desire to kill Lazarus, since they viewed him as the cause for all of the conversions. 

What we see more than anything are the consequences that take place as a result of Jesus’ sacrifice. 

The question then becomes, what consequences does Jesus’ sacrifice have on my life?

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Can you do 04 for the winter prompts x jurdan?? I'd love you forever.

so it’s been approximately 84 years since i received this ask, but it inspired me so much that it sort of spiralled out of control, and now it’s gonna be the start of a multichapter fic! thank you for your patience and for the inspiration 🖤💫

Content Warning: Cursing, mild mention of panic attack (to skip, stop reading between the ~~~~~)

Part I- Slow Burn

I, Jude Duarte, third year at Royal Greenbriar University and soon-to-be reigning Top Scholar, am in a hurry.

It’s rush hour. The pavement is slick with sleet and packed with important people in fancy suits. They brave sheets of freezing rain that lash down from the angry October skies with an unending canopy of black umbrellas.

I don’t carry my own. Umbrellas aggravate the chaos of mornings in Insmire, and I don’t need to add another to the mix.

Luckily, I am short. Manoeuvring through gaps in elbows and shoulders does not take much effort on my part. It’s the briefcases and patches of ice which make running a bit of a challenge this morning—but then, I have always enjoyed a challenge.

As I tear through the crowded streets of Insmire, I only know one thing: No amount of wind or hail or people can stop me. And if anyone gets bludgeoned with my thirty-pound backpack as I weave through the throng, well, that’s on them.

Cold air slices through me with every heave of my lungs, every pounding thud of my boots on the sidewalk. My legs are sore from yesterday’s fencing practice, but I savour the sweet ache and forge on.

I am used to this rushing, for I am always in a hurry. It sometimes feels like I’ve been in a hurry from my very first breath. As if I’m constantly trying to catch up to something just out of my grasp.

My twin sister, Taryn, and I were born in a hurry.

So excited were we to join the ranks of men, we surprised our mother half to death by wandering into the world nearly four weeks early.

As a result, we spent the next several weeks of our lives as tiny things in incubators—a little sickly and terribly jaundiced. This was how our mother always used to describe it, at least.

Ever since then, I have been invariably late to everything. Mostly, I blame it on the incubators. And the jaundice.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, being always late is a trait I can only attribute to who I am as a person. It is as much a part of me as the tip of my left ring finger is not.

I sometimes wonder if that’s exactly the crux of it; that just like my fingertip, my punctuality has somehow been taken from me, too.

I have heard of twins absorbing their siblings in the womb. I can’t see why personality traits should be any different. Especially since Taryn and I had to spread them so thinly between two of us.

And Taryn is always perfectly on time.

I risk a glance at my watch. A tiny crack runs up the glass. It’s been there for ages, but I am still nettled by the sight of it and the unbidden memory it stirs.

It’s because of this tiny crack that the watch’s face is now fogged up from the inside. I can barely make out the three little golden hands racing each other toward my tardiness.

Seven minutes past eight.

I am really very late. Or, I know I will be, at least.

Technically, if I go straight to the Silhouette Gazette now, I will be right on time for my interview.

But I can’t go straight there. Not when I haven’t had coffee.

Without my fix, I won’t be able to string together even one sentence. Much less make it through an entire interview with enough charisma to snag the internship position I so desperately need. Since I am not very charismatic to begin with, I’ll need all the help I can get.

Everything depends on my getting this internship. If I don’t, there’s no way I’ll maintain my near-perfect GPA, no way I’ll graduate summa cum laude or Valedictorian of my class.

And then I’ll have to go into something boring. Like publishing. A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I shove between two men wearing long coats and flat caps. They grunt in shock and disapproval. I hardly feel the zing of pain as my shin collides with something hard.

A briefcase flies out of its owner’s grip, crashing onto the pavement a few yards away. I don’t stop to apologise.

“Bitch!” One of the flat caps shouts after me.

Yes, I agree silently, hopping over the felled bag. I am very much that.

If I had the time and breath to tell the men just the same, I would. Instead, I flip them a rude gesture over my shoulder and don’t turn around.

I’m already ten paces away when a dull throbbing starts on my leg. It radiates from where I know there’ll be an unsightly bruise tomorrow. But bruises are a thing for future Jude to handle.

There is no way I will let what happened last year happen again. Second-year was a fluke. A one-time thing.

I will get this internship, take back my rightful title of Top Scholar, and keep it until I graduate—just like my mother did. I absolutely refuse to be beaten out by some preppy moneybags prick.

Or a bit of hail.

Before flying out the door of my flat this morning, I did a quick search on Google Maps, the results of which yielded the quirky little coffee shop I now see in my line of vision.

The White Rabbit sits mercifully in all its three-story glory right across the street from the newspaper’s office building. If luck is on my side, if I hurry, I should have just enough time to grab a cup to-go and make it with a minute or two to spare.

My thoughts are all jumbled as I barrel through the glass doors.

A white-haired barista stands behind the counter at the back of the shop, taking a customer’s order with an unbearable amount of cheer for a Monday morning.

The queue isn’t too bad, maybe three people long. I send up a quick thanks to whatever power of the universe might be in charge of coffee queues.

It smells miraculous in here—freshly ground coffee and something buttered and flakey. Suddenly, I am too warm.

I make a beeline for the back of the queue, shucking off my hat and gloves as I go. I’m unzipping my coat, a difficult task with hands full of knitted things, when a wall of black blurs into my periphery.

I don’t have a second to react before that wall smacks me right in the forehead. And collides everywhere else.

A scalding liquid sloshes down the front of my shirt. I stumble backwards, gasping at the pain.

There is a very loud “Fuck” followed by an equally as loud “Shit!”

I am not sure which curse fell from my lips, but I know it was one of them. All I can feel is this dreadful sting. It spreads like a wildfire across my chest.

Perhaps, I’d cursed both words. The pain certainly warrants it.

“Are you alright, dear?” a dark, silken voice asks. A pair of beringed hands steady me, grasping my shoulders with the barest of touches. As quickly as they appeared, like that they are gone. And then they are handing me a wad of brown paper napkins.

“Here,” the voice says.

I snatch the proffered napkins and look up at my assailant.

Perfect. Just perfect, I think with a scowl. Of course the person who spills their drink down my blouse has to be stupidly attractive.

The man before me is so beautiful it’s almost cruel.

A crown of crow dark curls circles his head, framing his oil slick eyes and sharp cheekbones. His is an unnecessary sort of perfection that sets my teeth grinding.

He’s clad in all black, save for his coat—a beaded brocade of black and crimson silk with quilted red lapels. From the breast pocket, a beaded scarlet brooch in the shape of a dahlia dangles in ostentatious splendour.

There is something familiar about him I can’t quite grasp.

For some inexplicable reason I amount to probable insanity, I cannot stop my gaze from flitting to his mouth.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

His lips look like two full flower petals. I’m plagued by the inane thought that they might feel just as soft. If I can only reach out and—

I shake my head.

Concern creases the man’s brow now. To my horror, I realise I haven’t responded to his question. I’ve just stood here, dripping and sticky, for who knows how long. Staring. Like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” I grit out through barred teeth and my own mortification. I pat at the stain hastily with the wad of napkins. “I’m just great.”

It’s useless, of course.

The stain isn’t coming out, I’m late to my life-altering interview, and to make matters worse, I still haven’t had coffee. Not to mention, my chest burns in a way that makes me tempted to scrap everything in favour of a doctor’s office.

~~~~~

That’s when panic seizes hold.

A strand of pearls tightening around my throat. I am sure it means to strangle me because I cannot breathe.

My heart takes flight, battering my ribcage as if it intends to escape entirely. A trail of sweat trickles down my forehead.

I am going to be late. I am going to have this horrid stain on my shirt. I am going to fail this interview. I am going to fail this year and myself and my family.

There’s something heavy sitting on my lungs. I am both hot and cold, here and not.

Tears prick my eyes. I will them not to spill over, but of course, my body betrays me. I swipe furiously at my cheeks.

Everyone in the coffee shop plus one unfortunately attractive dude must be staring, watching as I teeter on the edge of full-blown hysterics.

“Hey,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude croons, but I don’t see him.

I try to draw even breaths. And fail. And fail again.

~~~~~

I’m barely aware of the hand that guides me to a corner of the coffee shop. It’s darker here. A bit quieter, too. I notice a large bookshelf obscuring the alcove from the main seating area. Away from prying eyes.

“Just relax,” the man says. “It’s going to be okay. Are you hurt?” He looks inclined to place his hand on my shoulder again but thinks better of it when he sees my expression.

I want to punch him in his stupid face. Maybe I should. It’s only fair, given the circumstances.

“Relax?” I scoff, hating the way my voice cracks. “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes and I’m fairly certain my would-be boss won’t appreciate my being late. Or this sort of oversharing.”

I make a wild gesture at the stain on my chest, ignoring the slight tremor in my hands. I am acutely aware of the fabric’s transparency there. Today was not the day to wear a bright purple bra.

A moment passes before a smirk slips into place on Unfortunately Attractive Dude’s hateful mouth. He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a once over.

“You sure about that?” he drawls, and now I am positive I’m going to punch him. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you, sunshine, are no longer having a panic attack.”

Indeed, the tightening in my throat has waned. But as keen an observation as it might be, I would first run my hand through with my fencing sabre than admit he is right.

“I wasn’t having a panic attack,” I say too quickly. He produces a smug expression that is just as bewitching as it is infuriating.

He knows what I’ve said is a lie. I know it’s a lie, too. Very deep down. In some dark forgotten place inside me where things that don’t want to be admitted go.

The man grins as if I should be grateful. I am decidedly not.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I say, taking a step toward him. “But don’t pretend to know me. Because you don’t.”

He lifts a brow—the worst kind of dare. “Don’t I?”

“No,” I say. I hope I come off more menacing than I feel with my tearstained cheeks and conspicuous underthings on display for all the world to see.

“Pity,” he says, still wearing that stupid smile. “You seem delightful.”

My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think.

And apparently, I don’t think—because I take another step closer.

The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop.

He towers over me, lithe and angled, face limned in shadow. He’s unflinching and returns my gaze with equal distaste.

My heart skitters wildly, stumbling one beat over the next like it knows it’s been spotted by something with sharp claws and jagged teeth.

In the unclosed space between us, a glittery treacherous thing ripples.

I am suddenly very glad for bookshelves.

I should leave. I should go to my interview before I do something I will regret. Before I ruin everything. I should walk away.

Then, I do the opposite of that.

“I’m the farthest thing from delightful,” I tell him, shooting a dagger-filled glare from beneath the hood of my brow. “Which is why I’d strongly advise against getting in my way again. And don’t call me sunshine.”

Something smells familiar; like a forest in winter. Like cedarwood and myrrh. With a jolt, I realise it’s him and dig my nails into the meat of my palm.

He chuckles, raising his hands in defence. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t happen again. But at least come with me. I think I can help.” He juts his chin toward the back of the coffee shop, presumably towards the toilets.

I wrinkle my nose.

This can’t seriously be some kind of come-on. I don’t have time for unsolicited advances right now. I don’t even have time for solicited advances.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spit, and he flinches. “First, you give me third-degree burns. What’s next? Chop me up in the alley out back?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “As appealing as that sounds,” he says. “I’m shit with knives.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort.”

“Better with fabric, though.” He gives an unbothered shrug. “I was going to offer to get that out for you.” The man nods, seemingly unfazed, at my chest. Heat rises in my cheeks again.

“You’ve done enough already,” I snap.

Maybe I’ll just wear my winter coat through the whole cursed interview. Even that would be a better solution than this conversation.

I turn on my heel to leave, but the man catches my wrist.

Bad move, I think.

I’m contemplating dragging him out of this alcove by the ear so I can punch him in front of every customer in this coffee shop when, to my surprise, he lets go.

The man rakes a hand through his dark curls, heaving a great sigh.

“Wait. Just…” he starts. “Look, I feel bad enough as is. Let me make it up to you. It’ll take five minutes. You’ll only be a little late to your interview, and you won’t have to deal with a dry cleaner’s bill.”

I snort. I haven’t been able to afford dry cleaning since I stopped living in Madoc’s house two years ago. I will likely have to throw this shirt away if I can’t get the stain out with a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

“I’ll buy you a coffee for your troubles while we wait.”

I consider him for a moment. He seems sincere enough, though attractive people always seem sincere, even when they are truly not.

Now, though, I don’t really have much left in me to care.

I want the stain out of my blouse, a vat of coffee in my system, and a teleportation device that can transport me to the sixth floor of the Silhouette immediately.

If this man is a willing rung in the ladder to get me even two-thirds of those things, I will consider it a blessing.

“Fine,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll take a large cappuccino. Extra shot of espresso. And a shot of caramel. To go.”

“Wonderful.” The dazzling man smiles his dazzling smile. “Follow me.” And with that, he leads the way out of the alcove, a gleeful bound in his step.

I already regret my decision.

*****

AN: thanks for reading, my loves! hope you enjoyed. this is the first part in my multichapter Jurdan College AU called “We’re All Mad Here”.

[oneshul]

Cross-posted from OneShul.org

Come in, come in, Stranger! Welcome to my humble tent. I am Laban, sheikh of this little tribe—look around my home tent! As you can see, I have daughters, a fine son-in-law, and grandchildren enough! Sit here, by the fire; it will stop your shivering—yes, our Aramean desert nights can get cold enough, I’ll tell you! Ha-ha! Here, Leah, my dear—fetch our guest a big bowl of that red-bean stew—that will warm your bones, I reckon!

The sheep in the paddock outside? Oh, you have sharp eyes, to count all those spotted-and-speckled sheep? Um—to speak truth—and I never do otherwise, trust me—they are not mine. They are the property of my son-in-law, that young scoundrel, Jacob, over there in the corner, playing with his baby, Joseph, my youngest grandson. And the other children? Why, they are his, as well. How prolific his wife must be, you ask? Truth to tell (there I go, again), my Jacob—my business partner—has, not one, but two full-fledged wives, and two concubines, to boot! That, Stranger, is what makes his family so large—but I don’t fret; they are all my grandsons—oh, and one granddaughter, Dena—where has my little princess got to? I do hope that she is not poking around the tent of that Shechem, again….

How do I manage to sustain them? Well, indeed, Stranger, it is difficult—so much so, that Jacob and his family may one day leave my hospitality—(calling to Jacob) how long has it been, Jakey, that you’ve worked for—I mean, lived with me? Over twenty year? (resuming speech with the Stranger) Well, then, I would wager, they could leave at most any time. Still, I will never forget all the fine years we spent together—Jacob marrying my two fine daughters, taking to concubine the girls’ serving-maids, and building up his flocks! Ha! One could take pride in the accomplishments of such a boy—I mean, man—and I tell you, Stranger, it is as if he were my own flesh and blood! Such pride I take in him….

Any problems between us? Why do you ask? Well, yes, it is crowded here, under my tent, but one must accommodate family, say I. But you persist in your queries! Well, then, nothing asked, nothing answered, as my father, bless him, used to say—

There is but one area of contention—this Invisible God that Jacob worships—to speak truth, it puts my neighbors off; they are all good Baal-and-Ishtar worshipers, and I cannot understand how Jacob can stick to just one God—it makes no sense, if you ask me. Where would we all be, had we not a god of the sky, a god of the river, a goddess of the harvest, and so on? Why, how could one God, no matter how mighty, manage all of those different things? We’ve had many a set-to on this subject, Jacob and I, and, in the end, must agree to disagree—he is a stubborn fellow, and, truth to tell (there I go again), so am I!

Why should he leave me? Well, it’s been a long time that we’ve been together—and now, with his flocks so large and servants so numerous, it’s using up my precious resources—the grass of the fields, my provender, and my well of water, not to mention those high property taxes I must pay to King Abimelech—don’t get me started about property taxes. The king has promised to overhaul our taxation system, but, just between us, I don’t believe a word of it. Those tax changes never benefit the small tradesman, such as I am. The king always takes the lion’s share.

I see that you’ve made short work of your bowl of stew—would you care for some more? No? Well then, I do hope that you’ll join me in a cup of barley beer. Yes? Well then, Rachel! Go fetch me and my guest two cups of beer, from the barrel in the barn—oh, sorry, my dear—I see that you are nursing your new little prince—Stranger! What is a father to do with such recalcitrant daughters? Time was, a man could thrash his children into obeying—yes, those were the good old days….

Will you spend the night with us, Stranger? Charge? No, no charge—what do you take me for? I am but a humble shepherd and farmer, practicing good, old-fashioned Aramean hospitality. Still, I could not miss that fat moneybag on your belt, and your fingers  and wrists  sparkle with jeweled rings and golden bracelets. Would there be a copper or two in your purse for me, for your drink and sup? Ha-ha! Just joking, Stranger….

Rabbi David Hartley Mark is from New York City’s Lower East Side. He attended Yeshiva University, the City University of NY Graduate Center for English Literature, and received semicha at the Academy for Jewish Religion. He currently teaches English at Everglades University in Boca Raton, FL, and has a Shabbat pulpit at Temple Sholom of Pompano Beach. His literary tastes run to Isaac Bashevis Singer, Stephen King, King David, Kohelet, Christopher Marlowe, and the Harlem Renaissance