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piyush2002 · 1 year ago

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HAIR SALON

In the world of beauty and self-care, hair salons stand as timeless havens where individuals transform their looks, boost their confidence, and indulge in a touch of pampering. The evolution of hair salons reflects not only changing beauty standards but also the dynamic nature of the beauty industry itself. From traditional barbershops to modern, trendsetting salons, this article explores the journey of hair salons, tracing their roots and examining the contemporary trends that shape the industry.

Historical Evolution of Hair Salons:

Here is a brief overview of the historical evolution of hair in pradeep signature salons:

1.Ancient Civilizations:

● In ancient civilizations such as Egypt, Greece, and Rome, personal grooming and hairstyling were important aspects of daily life.

● Wealthy individuals often had personal hairdressers or slaves responsible for their grooming.

2.Middle Ages:

● During the Middle Ages, hairstyles became more elaborate, and women often sought the services of hairdressers and wig-makers.

● Barbers and hairdressers were often the same individuals, providing a range of services including shaving, haircutting, and wig styling.

3.Renaissance:

● The Renaissance saw a revival of interest in personal grooming and fashion.

● Wigs became highly fashionable, and hairdressers gained prominence in European courts.

4.18th Century:

● The art of hairdressing became a recognized profession during the 18th century.

● Wig-makers and hairdressers established formal shops, catering to a growing clientele.

5.19th Century:

● The 19th century witnessed the emergence of the modern hair in pradeep signature salon.

● Hair salons became social hubs for women, providing a space for conversation and relaxation.

● The development of hairdressing tools and products, such as heated irons and curling tongs, contributed to the evolution of styling techniques.

6.Early 20th Century:

● The 20th century saw the rise of beauty culture, and beauty schools began to offer formal training for hairdressers.

● Hairstyles and trends evolved rapidly, influenced by Hollywood and the emergence of fashion magazines.

7.Mid to Late 20th Century:

● Salons continued to grow in popularity, and hairstyling became an integral part of personal grooming for both men and women.

● The development of new hair care products and styling tools further transformed the industry.

8.Late 20th Century to Present:

● The late 20th century and beyond saw a diversification of salon services, with the introduction of spa treatments, nail services, and other beauty services.

● Signature Salons became more specialized, catering to specific clientele and offering a wide range of services beyond hairstyling.

9.Technology and Social Media Influence:

● The 21st century brought technology into the industry, with online booking systems, digital marketing, and social media playing a significant role in salon promotion.

● Trends in hairstyling are often disseminated through social media platforms, and clients frequently bring photos from the internet to salons as inspiration.

10.Sustainability and Inclusivity:

● In recent years, there has been a growing emphasis on sustainability in the beauty industry, with salons adopting eco-friendly practices and products. ● There is also an increasing focus on inclusivity, with salons recognizing and celebrating diverse hair textures and styles.

The evolution of hair straightening salons reflects broader societal changes, technological advancements, and shifts in beauty standards over the centuries. From humble beginnings as simple grooming spaces to today's multifaceted establishments, hair salons continue to be integral to personal care and self-expression.

The Artistry Behind Hairstyling:

The artistry behind hairstyling is a dynamic and creative field that combines technical skill with artistic expression. Hairstyling goes beyond just cutting and arranging hair; it involves understanding the principles of design, color theory, and personal aesthetics. Here are some key aspects of the artistry behind hairstyling:

1.Creativity and Vision:

● Conceptualization: Hairstylists often start with a vision or concept for a hairstyle. This could be inspired by current trends, client preferences, or the stylist's own creative ideas.

● Imagination: Creative thinking is crucial in hairstyling. Stylists need to visualize the end result and think outside the box to create unique and innovative looks.

2.Technical Proficiency:

● Cutting Techniques: Mastering various cutting techniques is fundamental. This includes precision cutting, layering, texturizing, and creating different lengths and shapes.

● Coloring Skills: Coloring is an art form in itself. Stylists need to understand color theory, techniques like balayage or ombre, and be able to customize colors to suit individual clients.

3.Knowledge of Hair color Textures and Types:

● Understanding Hair Texture: Different hair textures (straight, wavy, curly) require different approaches. Stylists must know how to work with the natural texture of the hair and enhance its qualities.

● Hair Types and Conditions: Knowledge of different hair types and conditions helps stylists choose the right products and treatments for their clients.

4.Communication and Consultation:

● Client Consultation: Effective communication is crucial. Stylists need to understand clients' preferences, lifestyles, and comfort zones to create a hairstyle that suits them.

● Educating Clients: Stylists often educate clients on hair care, styling techniques, and product usage to help them maintain their hairstyles at home.

5.Adaptability:

● Trend Awareness: Staying updated on current fashion and beauty trends is essential. Being able to adapt classic styles to contemporary trends or create entirely new looks is part of the artistry.

● Versatility: Hairstylists should be versatile, capable of working with various hair and makeup salon types, lengths, and styles.

6.Attention to Detail:

● Precision: Attention to detail is critical in hairstyling. Whether it's achieving a perfect cut, creating intricate braids, or blending colors seamlessly, precision is key.

● Finishing Touches: The final touches, such as styling, setting, or adding accessories, can elevate a hairstyle from good to outstanding.

7.Passion and Dedication:

● Love for the Craft: Passion fuels creativity. Hairstylists who are genuinely passionate about their craft are more likely to experiment, innovate, and push boundaries.

● Continuous Learning: The world of hairstyling is ever-evolving. A commitment to continuous learning and skill enhancement is essential to stay at the forefront of the industry.

In essence, hairstyling is a form of art that allows individuals to express their creativity while enhancing the natural beauty of their clients. The best hairstylists seamlessly blend technical expertise with artistic flair to create personalized and visually stunning looks.

Conclusion:

Hair stylist salons are dynamic spaces that seamlessly blend artistry and science, transcending the boundaries of mere beauty services. They are sanctuaries where self-expression is cultivated, individuality celebrated, and well-being enhanced. As these establishments continue to evolve, their role in shaping and reflecting societal attitudes towards beauty and personal care remains indispensable. In the art and science of hair salons, every strand of hair becomes a brushstroke in the canvas of personal identity.

#hair salon

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the-pixel-architect · 2 years ago

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Hi there, lovely. Love LOVE your nail salon!!! I'm facing an issue with some items showing up blue, unfortunately. Specifically the adorable heart mirror and the chairs which sits on either side of the nail tech table. could you maybe help me figure out how to fix that? thank you so much.

Hiya! Yes, I had that issue in Live mode also. The chairs seem to be recolors and are missing a mesh. This won’t harm your game, I downloaded them from a 4t2 creator, but I only took the chairs and they may have been slaved to something else. Just delete em, or download the whole set 😇

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resmarted · 2 years ago

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one time nidia and i were smoking a blunt about to go swimming talking about nail salons and at one point i blurted out that i stopped going for a while bc i was convinced they're all slaves and launched into the statistics of how all those happy endings places are actually women taken off ships that can't speak any english getting gang raped into submission and made to work 18hr days for no pay. then i was like whoops sorry that's not like a fun thing to say on a pool day

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6claud · 5 years ago

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getting ur nails done sucks im never doing it again

#it just ruins ur natural nails and then u have to keep getting them done over and over again #ur just a slave to the nail salon lmao

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 4 years ago

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Early on Sunday morning I was heading to university for a class when a group of women came running out from the women’s dormitory. I asked what had happened and one of them told me the police were evacuating them because the Taliban had arrived in Kabul, and they will beat women who do not have a burqa.

We all wanted to get home, but we couldn’t use public transport. The drivers would not let us in their cars because they did not want to take responsibility for transporting a woman. It was even worse for the women from the dormitory, who are from outside Kabul and were scared and confused about where they should go.

Meanwhile, the men standing around were making fun of girls and women, laughing at our terror. “Go and put on your chadari [burqa],” one called out. “It is your last days of being out on the streets,” said another. “I will marry four of you in one day,” said a third.

With the government offices closed down, my sister ran for miles across town to get home. “I shut down the PC that helped to serve my people and community for four years with a lot of pain,” she said. “I left my desk with tearful eyes and said goodbye to my colleagues. I knew it was the last day of my job.”

I have nearly completed two simultaneous degrees from two of the best universities in Afghanistan. I should have graduated in November from the American University of Afghanistan and Kabul University, but this morning everything flashed before my eyes.

I worked for so many days and nights to become the person I am today, and this morning when I reached home, the very first thing my sisters and I did was hide our IDs, diplomas and certificates. It was devastating. Why should we hide the things that we should be proud of? In Afghanistan now we are not allowed to be known as the people we are.

As a woman, I feel like I am the victim of this political war that men started. I felt like I can no longer laugh out loud, I can no longer listen to my favourite songs, I can no longer meet my friends in our favourite cafe, I can no longer wear my favourite yellow dress or pink lipstick. And I can no longer go to my job or finish the university degree that I worked for years to achieve.

I loved doing my nails. Today, as I was on my way home, I glanced at the beauty salon where I used to go for manicures. The shop front, which had been decorated with beautiful pictures of girls, had been whitewashed overnight.

All I could see around me were the fearful and scared faces of women and ugly faces of men who hate women, who do not like women to get educated, work and have freedom. Most devastating to me were the ones who looked happy and made fun of women. Instead of standing by our side, they stand with the Taliban and give them even more power.

Afghan women sacrificed a lot for the little freedom they had. As an orphan I weaved carpets just to get an education. I faced a lot of financial challenges, but I had a lot of plans for my future. I did not expect everything to end up like this.

Now it looks like I have to burn everything I achieved in 24 years of my life. Having any ID card or awards from the American University is risky now; even if we keep them, we are not able to use them. There are no jobs for us in Afghanistan.

When the provinces collapsed one after another, I was thinking of my beautiful girlish dreams. My sisters and I could not sleep all night, remembering the stories my mother used to tell us about the Taliban era and the way they treated women.

I did not expect that we would be deprived of all our basic rights again and travel back to 20 years ago. That after 20 years of fighting for our rights and freedom, we should be hunting for burqas and hiding our identity.

During the last months, as the Taliban took control in the provinces, hundreds of people fled their houses and came to Kabul to save their girls and wives. They are living in parks or the open air. I was part of a group of American University students that tried to help them by collecting donations of cash, food and other necessities and distributing it to them.

I could not stop my tears when I heard the stories of some families. One had lost their son in the war and didn’t have any money to pay the taxi fare to Kabul, so they gave their daughter-in-law away in exchange for transportation. How can the value of a woman be equal to the cost of a journey?

Then today, when I heard that the Taliban had reached Kabul, I felt I was going to be a slave. They can play with my life any way they want.

I also worked as a teacher at an English-language education centre. I cannot bear to think that I can no longer stand in front of the class, teaching them to sing their ABCs. Every time I remember that my beautiful little girl students should stop their education and stay at their home, my tears fall.

A Kabul resident

#afghanistan #taliban #south and central asia #world news #Kabul #women #girls and women #political

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katierosedreams2 · 3 years ago

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Not what I thought...

“How much longer do I have to pose for your photo shoot? These shoes are killing me!” I said.

“Not much longer. Your such a little sissy!” Said my girlfriend. Or at least I thought she was.

“I’m not a sissy!” I said angrily, but it just sounded girly.

“Well, you look like one!” She said smugly.

“No, I look like a slut! And why is this thing locked on me? It’s so small and it hurts!” Somehow, sounding more like a girl.

“Exactly, you look like a little sissy slut. It even has a better ring to it! And that is a chastity device. I told you, it's so you don’t get hard and ruin my photo shoot! And it’s small because you have such a tiny little dick!” She said so bluntly

Pouts “ no i don’t” I said meekly.

“Yes you do! That cage isn’t even an inch big and you fit in with room to spare! That’s why I picked you!”she said so blunt it was confusing.

“What do you mean?”I said, sounding like a bimbo, too confused to feel insulted.

“I picked you because you look just like a girl! You sound like a girl, you move like a girl and, with that pathetic excuse for a dick, you might as well be one! So, as a service to you and to every woman on earth, I’m going to make you one!” She said, like that was a good thing!

“What?!? You want to make me a girl?!?” I said, confused.

“Yes! I pretty much already have!” I mean we have only been dating for a few months. We have never had sex. I don’t think you ever have. You do whatever I say, you go to the salon, we talk about makeup and clothes, you get your nails done, and you wear whatever I tell you to. You clean the house, you cook all the food and I’ve never gone down on you, but you are always ready to get on your knees and serve me! You're pretty much a girl already!” She said in a matter of fact way.

“ That’s it! I’m done! I’m going to get changed and we are through!” I said, sounding more like a whiny girl!

“Your not going anywhere! Not unless you want me to unlock that little clitty of yours. You’ll do exactly what I say when I say it!” She said in a demanding tone.

I just froze mid stride.

She took another picture.

“That’s what I thought. You were never really my boyfriend. But you will be my slave now!

My little sissy slut. That’s why your dressed this way. We are going to the club and you need to find as many men to please as you can. After all, you love to get down on your knees and serve! Now it will be exactly what you deserve, cock after cock. I won't let you leave until your stomach is filled, your face is dripping, and your outfit is covered in real man's cum.”

-Katierosedreams Og Cap

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thighs-of-betrayal-blog · 4 years ago

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Bad Day Turned Great

Request: The reader is the girlfriend of Tony Stark and she had a bad day and when she comes home from work, Tony has cooked dinner and has a bath for her running, and the next day he treats her to a day of relaxing, to the hair salon and the nail salon, and at the end of the day they go on a date night, with a lot of fluff thanks

A/N: Thank you so much for the request, @maximeevansblog! Tony would definitely do this and go all out to try and make you feel better. I hope you enjoy! :)

Also, I just hit 200 followers and I want to say a big THANK YOU for all of the support and love on my writing. You are all truly the greatest and I appreciate it so much!!

Pairing: Tony Stark x fem! Reader

Warnings: none, pure fluff

The sound of your bag being thrown onto the floor echoes throughout the house. Without even thinking, you’re heading towards your bedroom, wanting nothing more than to curl up in your bed and go to sleep. To say your day was bad, was an understatement. Work was horrendous, with your coworkers not doing their part, your boss complaining about unfinished work, and every client you’ve talked to having an attitude.

As you head towards your room, you’re stopped halfway by Tony, who’s wearing an apron.

“Hey, honey. Where are you going?” Tony asks.

“To bed,” you reply. “I’m done with today.”

Tony steps in front of you and places his hands on your arms. “Whoa, hold on, honey.” He gestures towards the dining room. “I made dinner. Your favorite.”

Right as he says that, your stomach rumbles. You haven’t eaten all day because of all the work you had to complete.

Knowing you should eat, you grab Tony’s hand and head toward the dining table. What you see, almost makes you cry. Laid out on the table are flowers, two plates of food, and glasses filled with your favorite wine.

You turn to look at Tony and hug him. “Thank you, love. I really, really needed this.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” Tony walks over to one of the chairs and pulls it out. “For you, m’lady.”

Sitting down in the chair, you laugh. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Tony winks at you and then sits down in the opposite chair.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

Sighing, you shake your head and take a sip of wine. “Maybe later, when I’m less pissed off. Right now, I just want to eat this delicious looking food and stare at your handsome face.”

Tony stops eating to pose. “Is this good?”

Laughing, you chuck a piece of food at him. “I should’ve known saying that would go straight to your big ass head.”

He pouts and clutches his chest. “Insulting me after I’ve slaved away to make this dinner for you?”

“You probably had Jarvis help make most of it.”

Jarvis’s voice speaks up in the room. “You would be correct, Ms. Y/N.”

Tony scoffs. “I got sold out by my own A.I. Unbelievable.”

“Hey, the food is great,” you say. “Seriously, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. The night doesn’t end here, though.”

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After eating dinner, Tony leads you to your shared bathroom. When you walk in, you notice the bath is already filled, with lit candles scattered around the room.

“I had Jarvis fill the bath water while we were finishing dinner. Just in case you were wondering,” Tony says.

“I actually was just thinking exactly that,” you say, looking at him.

Tony gives you a quick kiss. “I’ll leave you to it. I would join you, but I figured you’d want some time to yourself.”

“I’ll see you when I get out?” you ask.

“I’ll be waiting in bed.” Tony turns to leave.

You walk over to him and kiss him. “Thank you, Tony,” you say, pulling away. “I love you.”

He caresses your cheek. “I love you too, Y/N.” He turns back around and opens the door to leave. “Enjoy, honey.”

After the door shuts, you strip out of your clothes and get into the hot water, sighing as you sit down in the bath.

“I could stay here forever,” you whisper to yourself.

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When you wake up the next day, Tony is waiting for you in the living room.

“Hey, honey, sleep well?” he asks.

“Mmm, I did. Did you?” you reply as you walk into the kitchen, starting the coffee pot.

“I always sleep great with you by my side.” Tony walks into the kitchen after you and kisses you on the cheek. “When you’re finished with your coffee, get dressed. We have a few plans today.”

“Plans?” you ask. “What’re we doing?”

“You’ll see,” he says as he walks away, heading towards the garage. “Meet me outside in 30 minutes!”

Realizing you still have to get dressed, you quickly pour coffee into a mug and run back to your bedroom.

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A hair salon comes into view as Tony parallel parks the car on the side of the street.

“Am I getting my hair done?” you ask.

Tony puts the car in park. “We are getting our hair done. I scheduled us both for a trim.”

He gets out and opens your car door, reaching his hand out to help you out of the car.

As you enter the hair salon, you are immediately seated next to Tony, the both of you getting your hair trimmed at the same time.

“Keep this same style,” you hear Tony say. “The wife thinks it’s sexy.”

The hairdresser laughs and you look over at them. “Tony can make anything look good,” you say.

You all continue conversation until both of your hair is finished.

Tony goes up to the front to pay, and then grabs your hand and pulls you to the front door, leading you down the street to a nail salon.

“I’m getting my nails done now too?” you ask.

“Again, we are getting our nails done,” Tony says.

You look at him in shock. “You’re getting your nails done?”

He looks at you offended. “Of course I am. My feet could use a pedicure.”

Both of you laugh as he holds open the door for you. A young woman leads you to two seats in the back, where you both sit down and put your feet up.

You lay your head back and look at Tony. “Have I ever told you how great you are?”

Smiling to himself, Tony nods. “All the time. But, it wouldn’t hurt to hear you say it again.”

“You’re the best.”

He looks at you, nothing but love in his expression. “So are you.”

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The final stop of the night leads you to a dance studio. You follow Tony into the building, confused as to why you are there.

“Uh, are we picking someone up here?” you ask.

“No, this is date night.”

You follow Tony into a large, back room, where six other couples are standing in front of an instructor.

“We are dancing?” you ask, finally understanding what’s happening.

Tony grabs your hand and pulls you onto the dance floor. He guides your hands to rest around his neck, while he grabs your waist and moves you in a circle.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Resting your head against his shoulder, you sigh. “It’s everything I needed and more.”

The dancing instructor walks to the front of the room and speaks up. “Alright, everyone, let’s gather around. We’re going to be learning a few swing dance moves.

You pick your head up. “Swing dance?”

Tony chuckles and tightens his hands around your waist. “Better get ready to move, honey. Even if we look like idiots trying to dance, at least we will be doing it together.”

#tony stark x reader #tony stark fluff #tony stark fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #tony stark one shot #tony stark imagine #tony stark x y/n #tony stark x you #tony stark #marvel #marvel imagine #robert downey jr #tony stark oneshot #iron man

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gravelgirty · 4 years ago

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Malicious Compliance

Somewhere

Stuck between a pinch and common sense,

A man in a government office was forced to say yes to Tiny Houses

Because the homeless were somehow their own fault, and yet they were paradoxically a problem he had to suffer, because the very sight of ragged tents and crazy vets wrapped in newspapers was an offense to his very eye.

And he thought of problems like fleas, I guess,

Or lice

Things that, if ignored, would eventually grow in numbers,

Overwhelm,

And eat him.

I like to imagine his fear of being devoured,

A bloated bureaucrat

Buried under a carpet of fleas or ticks;

Vermin chattering in human speech

He didn’t want to be eaten

But there was the ethical conundrum of letting the Homeless live.

What a stumper.

I don’t know his name,

Or where he lives,

But how I wish I did.

Because I’m watching kids here,

Building a tiny house for training hours

They aren’t allowed to use it

Or sell it

Or give it away

Just a Tiny House To look at.

Because the government has a specific number

Of planks

And screws

And nails

And specific shingles and brand of paint

(You can’t buy the window on sale

Or substitute a latch)

And if a Tiny House is missing any of these written-down items

The government will pull its funding.

Malicious Compliance.

I wonder whose job it is to count the nails

Tenpenny [nail] pincher.

Or do they tow the Tiny Houses on a freight scale when it’s all finished to make sure the weight is within the correct paradigm?

The whole thing was designed by the spiritual descendants of George Washington, who was dedicated enough to count the number of clover seeds on his plantation’s teaspoon, and just as thriftily starve his slaves to the grave.

But malicious compliance works both ways, and there are students here, so young, their grandfathers remember the day they, the tiny shrimps, learned to whistle and abandon Soviet Rule.

A student works at a nursing home, driving the carless to a barber shop or salon

It takes him all day to serve six people.

He talked to his instructor

And they found a brute of a camper, Frame solid, floor rotted out.

(Because moss will grow even on your sideview mirrors in the Pacific North Wet)

He bought it for a song,

And it sits in the back, growing a hardwood floor

And instead of a bed and kitchen,

The camper is collecting a row of salon chairs,

Sinks,

And a place to sit and drink a cup of coffee.

We have food trucks, he reasons. Why not a traveling hair salon?

When they’re finished,

It will be up to code

And the volunteers are standing by

Because there are beauticians and barbers and cosmetologists taking night classes on the other side of the parking lot here.

Malicious Compliance

Is a seasoning both full of salt and sugar

bittersweet, not bitter.

And best of all,

What they’re doing

Counts towards their college credit.

Which has got to gall the bureaucrat, to think that his government (re: HIS) money is paying for the new generation to admit there is a problem with serving the elderly, the infirm, and unable.

This thought, this quiet need to cheat the numbers of the game, seems to be everywhere.

I take the bus, watching the new trolley lines carve into the asphalt through Hospital Avenue, and stop by the bicycle shop. A young woman runs the joint on odd days, one of the few fully certified female mechanics for Tacoma. She’s never owned a driver’s license or car.

The shop she works for opens to all, and the colder the weather, the more the doors are open.

Passing out tools and spare parts

For people to fix their bikes, or mobility scooters, or however they get by,

Or just sit in a chair in the corner, between the bin of free clothes and bottomless coffeepot,

Eating instant soup and drinking tea,

Absorbing the ambient humanity,

Recharging,

So when they walk back outside,

They will be able to remember they are human

And not invisible.

They will briefly have the strength to make eye contact,

And remind the human on the other side of the sidewalk,

That they exist, too.

Malicious compliance

Can be served with a smile.

If this spoke to you, feel free to buy me a coffee. I drink a lot of coffee as I juggle multiple jobs, college, caretaking, cat-sitting and basically trying to head off the Crazy by being too busy for Crazy to come calling.

#Malicious Compliance #poetry #fighting back quietly

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papersong · 4 years ago

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Chicago: Chapter 1

Kyojuro Rengoku x Reader Reader is a female demon(?) from Japan. Teen rating for now.

..........

You've traveled the world from Heian Japan to Renaissance Italy. By the time the 1920's find you in America, you think you've seen it all. Then, the dead man appears in your living room with hair like fire and a hole in his stomach, his blood ruining your favorite carpet, and you're not so sure of anything anymore.

..........

After the Mugen Train Arc, Rengoku Kyojuro wakes up halfway across the world in Prohibition Chicago, where you're a fast-drivin', gun-totin' bootlegger.

You're also one-thousand-something, and the flame Hashira brings uncomfortable reminders about the start of your immortality as a medical testing slave in 12th century Japan. Maybe it's time to reconsider the country you've sworn you'll never return to. Read on AO3

A thousand years ago, you crawled out from your grave in Heian-Kyo. You followed your all-consuming hunger into a fresh grave, popped the lid off the coffin, and devoured the corpse like slightly stale sardines from a can. The flavor wasn't good or terrible, just like the discarded preserved fish you remember from scavenging trash with the other medical nuhi last fall. You take another bite. Then, your brain catches up with your stomach.

You stare at the half-eaten face of the human being in your claws. You taste iron on your lips. When you finish spitting between screams, you run. You stowaway on a ship from Japan to Goryeo. You make enough money to charter your own vessel to Great Yuan, where you spend a century trading the silk road from Dadu to Istanbul, wandering the desert where no human can live to tempt you. As your falcon delivers the news of the Red Turbans driving out the Mongols to your sheephair tent, you find the blue spiderlily blooming from the desert sands of Garagum.

You split three centuries between the desert, the Universities of Cambridge and Oxford, and La Sorbonne. In 1492, Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue, and you perfected your master's medicine in your Parisian greenhouse. As Ponce de Leon sought the Fountain of Youth, you stepped into the sun for the first time in three centuries, your visage unchanged since the doctor first injected you with the medicine he would later use on Muzan Kibutsuji.

At the turn of the 15th century, you learned to paint and sculpt from Da Vinci and Michelangelo. In the 16th century, you sat in the Globe's Pit to watch Shakespeare's plays premiere. In the 17th century, you debated Rousseau and Voltaire in Madame de Pompadour's salons. After Europe became saturated with the memories of those you've loved and lost, you venture to the New World.

Over the millennium, you've traveled the world from Heian Japan to Renaissance Italy. By the time the 1920's find you in America, you think you've seen it all. Then, the dead man appears in your living room with hair like fire and a hole in his stomach. His blood ruins your favorite carpet, and you're not sure you know anything anymore.

You're trying to drag the body to the garden when you feel his chest stutter with the intake of breath. He's alive. Without thinking, you break the skin of your right wrist with your left nail. You press the blood to his lips.

It's been decades since you last turned a human. You've forgotten how much the process takes from you. Kyojuro's body hungers for you more than you had hungered for blood when you'd first woken. His wound needs your blood to rebuild his body. You're drained until you collapse on his chest, your last thought of his comforting warmth, like the first touch of sunlight on your skin two centuries ago.

..........

You wake in the middle of the night. Your eyes adjust. You reorient yourself in the darkness.

Your skin's sticky with sweat and blood. There's a man under you. He runs hot. You prop yourself up on his chest and scoot away. You may dress like a flapper and run gin, but you're no floozy.

The parlor's ruined with blood. Your maids come on Tuesdays. You're a bootlegger, not a gangster. The girls'll get scared by the blood, so you have to clean overnight.

Your maids won't disturb the unconscious man if you tell them you've a guest sleeping in, so you carry him to a guestroom. He's no longer bleeding. His wounds have closed, so you slash up his ruined shirt and clean him with it before tossing the clothes in the fire.

The white "destroy" character stands against the black fabric before it all burns. You wonder what the man's destroying and what nearly destroyed him, but you figure you'll ask when he wakes.

When you turn back from the fireplace, you're startled to see a pair of eyes staring at you, so bright they could be glowing in the dark.

"Kawaī!" Your unexpected guest shouts with enough volume to shake the room before rolling over and falling back asleep. You blink. The room rumbles with his snores.

While he sleeps, you break his outburst into syllables. You haven't been to Japan since you left, so you must reconcile his modern accent with your Heian Japanese. Ka-wa...

Oh. You cover your mouth, laughing softly. He thinks you're pretty. You're far too old to flush like a schoolgirl with a handsome youth, but he thinks you're pretty.

..........

You drag the rug to a bathroom with a tub. As you run cold water over the hand-woven silk, you remember when you commissioned your carpet in Kankorum: the noise of the open air bazaar, the clink of gold coins in your gloved hands, the warmth of the sun at your back. You no longer remember the year, except that it was before you could walk in sunlight. You can't remember the weaver, except you recall she was a young woman with callouses on her hands and a twist in her spine, aged beyond her years by backbreaking labor at the loom.

When you open your eyes, you're back in Chicago, the cicadas calling into the night, your unexpected guest snoring softly next door. You prop yourself up with your wet hands on the marble tile, listening to the night for a moment before you drain the first tub of bloodied water, keeping the tap on while you run downstairs. After wiping the floor clean, you drain the tub a second time as you bleach the floor under the carpet.

The carpet's soaking in a third tub of water by the time you start the shower, tossing your clothes aside to be burnt with the dirty rags. You scratch the blood out of your hair, wiping the mirror free of condensation every wash to check your reflection. Once your hair's finally clean, you start on the blood covering your skin. If you're quick enough, you might still be able to catch an hour of sleep before sunrise.

..........

Kyojuro senses a demon. It's right next to him. He slams open—whoops, wrong door. That's a closet. He tries again, leaving the bedroom for a tall, western-style hallway.

This isn't the Butterfly Estate. When'd he get moved to a western mansion? He'll figure that later.

Now, he follows the sound of water and the demonic presence. He stops at a shut door. The knob doesn't budge—locked. He kicks down the door, wood splintering under his feet. There, behind the curtain—

"Demon!"

Kyojuro tears away the shower curtain. His slayer instincts tell him to kill. The being before him has taken thousands of human lives. Death weighs down the air like—

Wait. Is that death, or the moisture in the shower? Kyojuro doesn't sense Blood Demon Arts, illusions, or killing intent. He's not seeing any demons, either, just a human-looking girl with—

Stop. Back up.

Locked door. Running water. Shower. Girl.

All the blood in Kyojuro's body rushes up into his face. He goes redder than the tips of his hair. You slam his head into the shower wall.

............

"I am sorry! I will take responsibility!"

In your thousand years, you've had your share of surprises, from stepping onto the New World for the first time, to watching man taking flight, to—whatever this is.

You're in a bathrobe, thank the Lord. The ginger-blond—Samurai? Bushi?—kneels in your garden. You don't know what happened in the shower, but it felt like a switch flipping. One moment, he was ready to murder you. Now, he looks ready to commit seppuku, kneeling on your bathroom floor, head bowed, hands on his knees while the sky starts to blue with morning.

"Please stand."

"Yes!" he springs to his feet. You jump back at the sudden movement. Kyojuro stills. You can't tell if he's regarding you like a small animal about to startle, or a predator ready to spring. Maybe both?

"What are you!" he demands. "You have a demon's presence. You feel like death! But it's old, like you haven't eaten a human in years—"

"What is—" you try to speak up, but the man talks over you. He comments on everything, from the state of your bathroom (The floor is cold!) to the scenery outside (The flowers are blooming!) to his self-awareness (I do not know where I am!)

You watch the way he carries himself, back straight, shoulders squared, arms crossed over his broad chest. Definitely a warrior.

You're used to being ignored by men like him, so you wait, letting his monologue wash over you. You have all the time in the world, after all.

You take a seat on the edge of the bathtub. The room goes quiet. The bushi looks at you.

"You're in Chicago, Illinois, United States of America. What's a demon?" you ask, remembering his shout when he broke down your bathroom door.

Kyojuro's eyes meet yours. You're caught under the full force of his fire colored gaze, which seems to glow in the dark with its intensity. He's unarmed, but you feel power pointed at you like a loaded gun, the bushi's finger on the trigger, the sights lined. He's ready to fire.

"I don't know what you mean, calling me a demon," you repeat, your voice clear and calm in the darkness.

Kyojuro reads your lips. He takes in your expression. There's no hesitation in your voice or avoidance in your gaze. You're telling the truth.

You're a demon who doesn't know what demons are.

What does that make him?

He doesn't feel monstrous. When he woke, Kyojuro didn't hunger for blood or human flesh. He felt no different than usual, which is why he chased the presence of a demon, hunting you down.

Coming down from his adrenaline now, Kyojuro realizes that he's a little different. He feels a little stronger, moves a little faster than he remembers. When you threw him into the wall, he recovered more quickly than a human can. The bump on his forehead's already feeling better.

There's no other explanation to how he's seeing from both eyes now, his stomach repaired with no scarring. You turned him into a demon. He had been dying. Now, he's fine. He doesn't even feel like death, because he's never eaten a human being.

This feels wrong, too normal, too easy.

"Are you sure you're a demon?"

You sputter, clutching the bathrobe tight to your chest.

"You—you ran into my bathroom, screaming demon. I don't know what a demon is. How would I know if I am one?"

The fire-haired man furrows his thick, forked brows. In that booming voice, he tells you of demons and demon slayers, Hashira and Twelve Kizuki, Muzan Kibutsuji and the country you'd left nearly a millennium ago.

You drop onto the edge of the bathtub as you listen. The energy of his voice washes over you, the excitement from earlier wearing off. Almighty Lord, the hour's too early and you're too sleep deprived for this.

Kyojuro watches you blink sleepily, leaning against the wall you broke with his forehead. The rest of the moisture evaporates from the bathroom, clearing the air so he can focus on your presence.

You're not a demon like Nezuko. Your energy is threaded with the human lives you've taken. But death doesn't weigh you down like Tamayo. Your essence is lighter, faintly threaded with the scent of flowers—lilies? Kyojuro closes his eyes and sees blue. He tells you he's a demon slayer and you nod lazily, like that's nice but none of your business. He finishes speaking and you yawn.

Your head tips back to expose the pale column of your throat.

He wants, suddenly, to run his thumb over your skin, and he doesn't know what to do with his wanting.

Dawn breaks. Sunlight spills through the window and over your features. You don't move from your spot.

The light stretches over to him. Morning passes over the healed wound in his stomach, the left eye he can now see out of.

"What are you?" Kyojuro asks. "What am I?" he murmurs when neither of you burn.

You close your eyes, pinching the slight bridge of your nose, "That—is a long story."

..........

In the 18th century, you cured your reliance on human blood, so you get to know Rengoku Kyojuro over breakfast. You fry eggs and bacon, and fry eggs and bacon, and fry more eggs and bacon because Kyojuro eats for ten. As you cook, he migrates from your dining room to the kitchen, standing beside you where he can eat as soon as the food cools off from the grill. At this rate, you'll have to telephone your grocer to come tomorrow instead of Saturday.

"Tasty!" Kyojuro exclaims between bites with the same exuberance as when he called you pretty.

At first, he looked suspicious of your food. You pointed out that he watched you cook. He took a first bite, then a second, and now he's on his fourth plate. Though the boy says he's twenty, he acts younger than he looks, approaching life with apparent joy that you've never been able to manage in all your centuries.

It makes sense. Kyojuro hasn't said as much, but his build and the way he carries himself makes you sure he's from a bushi bloodline that persisted after the Meiji Restoration. He's well-fed, well-clothed, and well-trained to serve his Emperor or the Diet from birth.

Unlike him, your first twenty years were spent starving, sick, or both. The shogunate plucked you from the streets to stab needles in your skin, draw test tubes of your blood, and collect slices of your flesh. Their doctors loved you because you were too weak to fight back and too strong to die, at least until you got the injection that would be adapted for Muzan Kibutsuji.

You died despite all your master's promises. Or maybe you just seemed dead enough to bury. You remember nothing between the treatment flooding your bloodstream like ice in your veins, and waking in the unmarked grave with that terrible hunger.

You tell Kyojuro of your journey from Kyoto to Chicago, omitting the gruesome brutality of slavery, the filthy truth of poverty, and the gnawing anxiety of running for your life. You give a sanitized version fit for a young bushi.

Kyojuro takes in the information without looking at you. He's washing your dishes, his sleeves rolled back to expose muscular forearms. He tries to keep his smile neutral, but you're too old to not see the hardness in his eyes, the set of his shoulders that speaks of preparation to strike.

Fine porcelain makes for a sharp blade once it shatters.

"You ate humans before you found it," Kyojuro notes when you describe the blue spiderlily.

"Yes," you admit and you wait.

When you dressed, you tucked a silver pistol into the waistband of your trousers. People like you and him are hard to kill, but you're loaded with sundowner bullets. If he tries you, you're ready.

Kyojuro passes you the cleaned frying pan.

"Do you regret it, eating people?"

He keeps up the hard smile, and you can sense yourself being evaluated for our worthiness to live.

You could lie to him. You should lie to him. All your self-preservation instincts scream for you to lie.

But Kyojuro is also a young man starting a new life in a new world. You know better than anyone how people can be robbed of their free will by lies and ignorance as well as whips and chains. In that instant, you make a decision that will define you.

You towel dry the pan and put it down, freeing your hands to reach for the gun. Then, you tell Kyojuro the truth:

"I regret nothing. I only ate people who deserved it."

His thick eyebrows narrow.

"Who deserves it? How could thousands of people—"

Not thousands. Tens-of-thousands.

"I'm a millennium old. I've been around the world. A lot of people try to take advantage of a young foreign girl traveling alone at night. I ate the people who assaulted me first."

The monsters you've known aren't demons; they're human beings.

Kyojuro blinks at you with the surprise of a young man who's never had to fear being raped and murdered in the dark. Eventually, he shakes his head.

"You didn't have to kill them!" he declares. "Human criminals can be sentenced in a court of law!"

Spoken like a true bushi, since the warrior class had been Japan's law officers. You smirk, imagining Kyojuro as a copper.

"People make laws." What if a copper beats his wife? What if the murders take place in the slums, where nobody cares to enforce justice? "Not all people are good. Not all laws are good, either."

"Bad people should be brought to justice! Bad laws should be changed!"

But reform takes time, like the Demon Slayers' mission. In the meantime, it makes sense to protect others using whatever means you have, including your demon powers.

"Can you swear you've only fought in self defense!"

"I've also fought in defense of others."

Kyojuro dries a hand on his trousers and takes your arm, his grip strong, his skin warm.

"Then you're a good demon, like Kamado's sister! Come home to Japan with me. You can protect people—"

Your own smile drops like a curtain falling over your emotions.

"No."

"Why not!"

You bite your lip.

Kyojuro is so, so young, and you do not know how to tell him: you've never heard of the Demon Slayers. That's no surprise—nobody's heard of the experiments that made you, either. Shoguns and Emperors and Parliaments tuck people like you into unmarked graves, not the anneals of history. You're acceptable sacrifice in the name of progress, and sometimes, acceptable sacrifice returns to bite them in the ass like the mistake that became Muzan Kibutsuji, who is not your problem. You're not bushi like Kyujuro. Slave girls don't follow bushido. Your country used you up and threw you out; now, it's their turn to reap what they sowed.

You smile sweetly at Kyojuro, an old habit from masters who beat in that girls like you should smile for your betters.

"Nobody ever protected me."

Your voice is calm, your smile flawless, but those are the words of someone small, weak, and helpless. Kyojuro's father slayed demons, but his mother raised him to defend the weak. You're a weak demon, and Kyojuro doesn't know what to do with himself.

In the hours that you've known each other, you turned Kyojuro into a demon. You bashed his head into a stone wall. You admitted eating humans without regret.

But you also healed his injuries and asked nothing in return. You dressed and fed him after he assaulted you and tarnished your honor. You told him the truth of your history and your choices, despite knowing he was a demon slayer.

During his first mission, Kyojuro said that life is a series of decisions. You never have unlimited options or unlimited time to think, but what you choose in that instant defines who you are.

In the milliseconds after you speak, Kyojuro makes a decision that will define him.

"I'll protect you!" he declares with the innocence of youth and the invincibility of warriors.

He did say that he would take responsibility for you, after all. Kyojuro keeps his promises. He takes your smaller hands in his and smiles at you, sun-bright.

You laugh in his face.

The shogunate of your era made armies of young men like him. When you left Japan, you learned that this happens the world over. Across countries and centuries, empires rise and fall under tides of blood from people like Kyojuro, young, hopeful, and foolish enough to adhere to chivalry, to noblesse oblige, to bushido, to believe their drops in the bucket can save the world.

You've lived through too many promises made and broken, met too many youths like him. For everyone you've reeled back from the brink, there's one hundred where you watched the light leave their eyes in despair or in death. Kyojuro is young. You are too old to believe men like him.

The morning sun rises into the cloudless sky. While you don't believe him, you don't pull away when he runs calloused thumbs over the ridges on the back of your palms. You don't resist when he hesitates briefly before setting your hands on his chest.

You are old, but some instincts are older, from the dawn of humanity and the childhood you cannot remember. Kyojuro's hands smooth down your arms from your biceps to your elbows to your waist, drawing you to him until he's wrapped around you, his chest warm and solid beneath your hands. You feel him breathe, his red-yellow hair tickling your forehead. His hand pats gently along your spine like he's reassuring a child. Your fingers curl involuntarily into his shirt. Kyojuro smells like sandalwood and pine and the homeland you cannot forget. You don't believe him, but you want to.

#papersong writes #kimetsu no yaiba #rengoku x you #kyojuro rengoku #kimetsu rengoku #rengoku kyoujurou #rengoku kyōjurō #rengoku x y/n #kyoujurou x reader #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kny rengoku #demon slayer

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red-arrowe · 4 years ago

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Then today, when I heard that the Taliban had reached Kabul, I felt I was going to be a slave. They can play with my life any way they want.

#afghanistan #taliban #south and central asia #world news

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dog-day-morning · 4 years ago

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WHEN DOGS CRY

Ezekiel 3:1-4

3 Moreover he said unto me, Son of man, eat that thou findest; eat this roll, and go speak unto the house of Israel.

2 So I opened my mouth, and he caused me to eat that roll.

3 And he said unto me, Son of man, cause thy belly to eat, and fill thy bowels with this roll that I give thee. Then did I eat it; and it was in my mouth as honey for sweetness.

4 And he said unto me, Son of man, go, get thee unto the house of Israel, and speak with my words unto them.

The children of God thirst for the word of God, but there's a drought in the land for the Devil comes to steal that word from you. Behold, the days come, saith the Lord God, that I will send a famine in the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord: And they shall wander from sea to sea, and from the north even to the east, they shall run to and fro to seek the word of the Lord, and shall not find it. We are a rebellious house who have walked in the ways of sin forgetting the will of God. The Father was the same today as He was yesterday. Our temperament, and faith can change with the current of the wind or something we may perceive as being better than the Father’s love which is what Satan wants you to believe. When Yeshua fasted for 40 days and nights Lucifer came to Him while He was weakened thinking He could get the Son of God to forsake everything for his deception.

Luke 4:6-8

6 And the devil said unto him, All this power will I give thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomsoever I will I give it.

7 If thou therefore wilt worship me, all shall be thine.

8 And Jesus answered and said unto him, Get thee behind me, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.

How can you give me something you never owned? Derek Chauvin is appealing his court conviction without a lawyer, and no money. This is Satan’s downcast people, the wicked kingdom of Babylon that's falling apart in front of the whole world. Satan has no kingdom, we’re taking back everything they've taken from us including our dead, and slaughtered children. The drought will end with a Jubilee celebration of God's people who have been without, and the curses shall fall upon those who have persecuted us from the beginning. If you thirst your souls will be quenched by the waters of God, His Spirit that will enable the downtrodden to overcome and overwhelm ourselves including our enemies, the inner me; YOU!!! Satan will not go down without a fight, he's unrighteous, salty, and afraid of the judgment that's coming to this earth that will consume our open enemy without us having to lift a finger.

The dead in hell shall be given back to the Lord of host that is the army of Israel who will fight the enemies of Israel as we have been a homeborn slave to all of the Earth. We have bowed down as a broken people to all men with no one to care for our plight save our Lord. To see people defend the institution of WS is a cancer to your spiritual process that needs to be fixed before the Day of Judgment comes to claim those who are puffed up before the Lord. The missing white woman syndrome is a frustrating reality we witness throughout the year. People should be concerned about their missing loved ones, but you must realize who are the one’s going missing at an alarming rate. Becky, and Mai Ling do not have more precedent over Tanisha, or Quantasia yet they are the ones the public is asked to search for more than a Black child or woman. Asian nail salons that partake in sex trafficking on the sly use Black women as well as Asians against their will to facilitate their male, and female patrons. There are no Happy Endings for these women and children. God loved Israel when we were without fault, and could do no wrong before Him while the rest of the world compounds, and exacerbates our issues. If he didn't love us He wouldn't reprove or chastise us. In order to reign with Christ you will suffer with Christ. We suffered at the hands of our Egyptian Brothers including Esau while Esau revised the world’s history to favor him which is an abominable sin. We were children who sucked milk from our mother’s teets. Now the Lord has been feeding us meat to strengthen our spirit for what lays ahead .

Ezekiel 16:4-13

4 And as for thy nativity, in the day thou wast born thy navel was not cut, neither wast thou washed in water to supple thee; thou wast not salted at all, nor swaddled at all.

5 None eye pitied thee, to do any of these unto thee, to have compassion upon thee; but thou wast cast out in the open field, to the lothing of thy person, in the day that thou wast born.

6 And when I passed by thee, and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live.

7 I have caused thee to multiply as the bud of the field, and thou hast increased and waxen great, and thou art come to excellent ornaments: thy breasts are fashioned, and thine hair is grown, whereas thou wast naked and bare.

8 Now when I passed by thee, and looked upon thee, behold, thy time was the time of love; and I spread my skirt over thee, and covered thy nakedness: yea, I sware unto thee, and entered into a covenant with thee, saith the Lord God, and thou becamest mine.

9 Then washed I thee with water; yea, I throughly washed away thy blood from thee, and I anointed thee with oil.

10 I clothed thee also with broidered work, and shod thee with badgers' skin, and I girded thee about with fine linen, and I covered thee with silk.

11 I decked thee also with ornaments, and I put bracelets upon thy hands, and a chain on thy neck.

12 And I put a jewel on thy forehead, and earrings in thine ears, and a beautiful crown upon thine head.

13 Thus wast thou decked with gold and silver; and thy raiment was of fine linen, and silk, and broidered work; thou didst eat fine flour, and honey, and oil: and thou wast exceeding beautiful, and thou didst prosper into a kingdom.

He said thou wast exceeding beautiful. For every woman who looks at the European standard of po, broke, and boney as a standard of beauty don't. Love your thick lips which they pay thousands of dollars a year to get, and maintain. Breathe through your flaring nostrils that the Father gave unto you in order to run, and never grow weary. Love your wide curvaceous hips, big thighs, and thick, lovely hind they pay a Dr. in Atlanta tens of thousands of dollars every so many years to look like Shantell from the hood who was blessed in the womb with a body they get augmented in order to try and look like hers, and by all means if you're deeply melinated with dark skin do not bleach your blessing. Melanin Is responsible for our higher intelligence, those hips, and that beautiful derriere, your brother's athletic prowess, the ability to endure the hell we've endured for these hellish 500yrs. You don't have to be darkly melinated to succeed in the world of athletics or academia. Florence Joyner Griffith set a record in the 1988 Olympics that still stands today. Katherine Johnson helped pave the way for the first American astronaut to successfully orbit the Earth. Melanin is called the God particle for a reason, it can't be duplicated or created in a lab. Thanks to cloning they can produce this element close to its essential form, but not to God’s precise design. Men have been trying to manipulate God's works through science without considering that He is Spirit. I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me. They're trying to circumvent the Father’s work carnally, that's' the crux of the problem. I said all of this to say this. They have used us like lab rats from the Tuskegee Experiment, back to days of slavery when they experimented, and operated on Black women without using anesthesia, to this day with this COVID-19, catastrophic, doomsday annihilation that got out of control, and became a global pandemic that was only supposed to affect the African Diaspora. The Chinese are first cousins to Esau. They are descendants of Japheth along with the Canaanites including the other tribes of the Earth whom Israel has blessed. I may be beating a dead horse so shoot me. This is what's coming down the pipes after God has had enough of the blood shedding of His people.

Revelation 6:10-11

10 And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?

11 And white robes were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellowservants also and their brethren, that should be killed as they were, should be fulfilled.

Those of us who have been slain, and suffered on this Earth who had a relationship with Christ will receive a robe of white. People are still going to hell like the police, neo Nazis, klansmen, KKKARENS, KKKENS, your 10yr old nephew Man Man. All of those who hate, and persecute Israel and our kinsman. After God has seen enough of this world's abuse of His children, that's when you'll see the miracles, signs, and wonders that will scare the junk out of everyone's pants, skid marks and all. There will not be a zombie apocalypse. What will happen is a Nightmare on Everywhere Street. This is the war they asked for.

Zechariah 14:12-14

12 And this shall be the plague wherewith the Lord will smite all the people that have fought against Jerusalem; Their flesh shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongue shall consume away in their mouth.

13 And it shall come to pass in that day, that a great tumult from the Lord shall be among them; and they shall lay hold every one on the hand of his neighbour, and his hand shall rise up against the hand of his neighbour.

14 And Judah also shall fight at Jerusalem; and the wealth of all the heathen round about shall be gathered together, gold, and silver, and apparel, in great abundance.

The Mark of the Beast. We will spoil them by taking everything they've stolen from us globally. The colonization of Alkebulan is almost over and you have to believe these truths. The West, and the Far East have colonized the continent, whoring it out for its resources giving nothing back in return except paper, ink, and dust. I don't ascribe to the faith or religious doctrine of the Sabeans (Muslims) that came from the Bible of the Hebrews. The Israelites took nothing from the Quran, it didn't exist. My skepticism makes me suspicious of the biblical scholars who claim that Yeshua went to the Far East (Asia) while on Earth to study which is a misnomer in itself, He's all knowing. He may have journeyed there, but He said I come for my people Israel, and told His Apostles to minister to them only before His final ascension. I'm not trustworthy of those who are inclined to lie about everything including the world's history that is Black history. The Bible has hundreds of books that were purposely left out of the original 66 books that revealed more truths about God's people that are in the libraries of the Vatican. They will be revealed before or after Vatican city is decimated by the Father. The truths we seek will not come from a book exclusively interpreted by men, people lie. It will come from the Lord’s Spirit. Satan's time is up, and he's trying the saints who suffer not because of his torment, but for the testimony of Christ. We have been chosen by God to lead those who have deceived the world through clever deception and manipulation. Our souls are consumed with many insecurities that were intentionally placed in our spirit by men who understood how feared we were in the Old Testament because of the anointing. They have oppressed, and suppressed our powerful anointing before the Earth with a tactical methodology that if it wasn't for the Lord it would've consumed us before man. The word of God does not separate us from the love of God, it embraces, and keeps us safe with the blood covering of His Son.

Hebrews 4:12

12 For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.

Those who rebuked the word of God will have to answer to the Lord on the Day of Judgment. People in the last days are walking away from God's will like stubborn goats. Satan will lead you away from God blindly before those who'd rather believe in a lie to foster confusion, and a selfish mentality that's unhealthy for your soul. Israel. You are blessed by the Father to overcome, forgive, show a selflessness that others do not, giving of your sustenance to bless another, sacrificing for a greater cause that's greater than oneself. I tell you things that are written in the Bible you refuse to discern or cannot determine that are coming upon us. They are meant for this day, this hour, at this time. God will lead us out of the darkness into His marvelous light. Do not don't forget that this is Tribulation. Be prepared for calamities to hit us back, to back, to back, harder, and worse than the previous as a warning He's coming for His faithful. No man can judge himself worthy of the Kingdome. Pray for one another with a fervency. This will be the day of reckoning for the unrighteous who have sought innocent blood, and the provision God set aside for His children. This battle shall be fought by the Father’s host army that is not Christian?!! I worship in the Christian faith, but I desire to know the truth. I, and many of you are in search of the Lord's truths that we’ll find in the appointed season which is coming, but this battle is the Lord’s

Ezekiel 37:7-10

7 So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone.

8 And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon them, and the skin covered them above: but there was no breath in them.

9 Then said he unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.

10 So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army.

It amazes me that people still don't believe after what we've witnessed the last 40 or so years. Maybe it’s somewhat my fault. The Father works in mysterious ways. Man's flesh will melt inside of his loins, he will tremble in fear, and faint after witnessing hell on Earth; God's wrath. I’ll see you when I can breathe. Good evening, Elohim. 9/26/2021

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justasparkwritings · 4 years ago

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Wake Up Call

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader (but really you can lift out Namjoon and put anyone there)

Genre: Slice of Life / Angst

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Swearing maybe 1 time, Discussion of police brutality/murder, Discussion of the trauma black and brown people are enduring, Discussion of the Chauvin verdict, Discussion of lives lost due to being black

Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: It’s a bad omen whenever I call Namjoon in the morning.

Note: This is heavy. This hurt to write. This hurts to read back. This is my reality. This is not me using police brutality to amass a following or gain notoriety or become anything other than what I am. This is meant for me to process, and for anyone of color who might be feeling the same thing as I am. This is meant as a way for me to process, as are so many of my other stories. This is my grief.

Namjoon knows that whenever I call in the middle of the night, or first thing in the morning, something is wrong. He couldn’t call it beginners luck, or intuition. Rather a series of events that had resulted in a pattern of behavior from me, his beloved. A call in the morning meant something had gone wrong between me waking up and returning home from work. A call in the morning meant I am a volcano of emotions, either crying, laughing, or both, distraught or exhausted, anxious or depressed. It means that across the globe, working on Pacific Time, something nearly catastrophic had occurred.

A call in the morning, unless previously scheduled, has always been a bad omen.

The first time I called him in the morning, my period was late. Like late late, to which he reminded me I had switched birth controls and that could’ve been the problem, it was.

The second time, I was having a slight mental breakdown. I’d been sick for months with a variety of ailments, was worked to the bone and crumbling at my desk.

The third time, Atatiana Jefferson was murdered by police in her home after a neighbor called a non-emergency number to report that her door was open.

The fourth time, Ahmaud Arbery was murdered by two white men while on a run.

The fifth time, Breonna Taylor was murdered in her bed while sleeping.

The sixth time, George Floyd was murdered by police in broad daylight, crying out for his mother stating the simple fact that he couldn’t breathe.

The seventh time, I was in hysterics, sobbing relentlessly into the receiver. I couldn’t handle it, I couldn’t handle another protest in tear gas, I couldn’t handle my kin fearing for their lives, I couldn’t handle the thought that my niece would have to sit through the talk. I couldn’t handle the idea that Namjoon and I would have to sit with our children, go over the rules and procedures for interacting with authority, prepare ourselves day after day that they could not come home. That no money or wealth would protect them if their eyes were shaped like his, their nose wide like mine.

What could he do? What could he say? He and the rest of Bangtan could throw as much money at various organizations as they could, watching ARMY meet it, raise it, push others to donate.

But what did that do, other than show the world these black lives were worth more in death than life? That we’re worth nothing unless we’re imprisoned or in the ground? What did it do to fix the system, to abolish the inherent nature of police, originally created to patrol slaves? What did it do to protect black and brown bodies, to ensure their safety, to demand their lives be worth more alive?

Nothing. It did nothing.

He had gotten mad at me, why wasn’t I grateful that ARMY came through? Why wasn’t I glad that Bangtan had seen the news and wanted to help? Why couldn’t that be enough for what they could do in Seoul, sidelined by a pandemic?

He didn’t get it.

The eighth time, I had been in a minor incident and had to interact with the police. I had called my father to my side, a decision that could’ve easily resulted in his death. I called Namjoon shaking, how had I managed to have a successful interaction with the very people who could’ve tossed my father down, knee on his neck, and ended him? Had he driven the Tesla on purpose? Had he rolled up cautiously, in an appropriate August outfit, wallet and identification in his hand, not hidden or masked, to avoid any miscommunication? What was worse, had he done all of this without thinking?

The ninth time I called him, a group of Asian women had been targeted and murdered by a white man. I was calm, I was put together. Namjoon wasn’t. He was inconsolable, he didn’t feel safe, he wasn’t accepting that this could be the reality if we split time in the states and Korea. How could our children be safe if this could happen, what if our daughter was at a nail salon? What if his mother or sister were? What would happen to him, to our future children, if they had eyes like him and a nose like mine? Would they be targeted for having the name Kim? Would their Americanness protect them?

No. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

I asked if he wanted to donate to help.

He nearly hung up, anger seething in his deepest register.

How dare I suggest that money could help?

I had thrown it back at him, and he whimpered. He buckled under the weight of his naivete. It’s one thing to copy black culture and make your fame off the commodification of our bodies. It’s another to watch the blatant racism and sexism we face on the regular basis so blatantly attack your own kind.

He understood.

The tenth time I called, Daunte Wright had just been murdered by police for having an air freshner in his review mirror. He had been murdered under the guise of the officer mistaking his own gun for a taser. He was 20.

The eleventh time, 13 year old Adam Toledo had been gunned down for following the police’s directions. Even when complying, our very existence is a threat.

The twelfth time I called, justice for George Floyd had been served. But I had to wonder, and I asked Namjoon, where was ARMY? Where were their fans? Was this not a moment, a tiny victory, for all minority groups held captive by their abusers? Were we not working towards ending the systems that allowed the white man who murdered eight women, six of Asian descent in Atlanta, the same? Did we not suffer slavery and bondage by the people who will claim this as a monumental step instead of a jury doing their fucking job? How could people who stood by him, who stood by people of his heritage, not stand for those who are bleeding in the street in their own country?

Again, he didn’t know.

He didn’t say anything to assuage my fears, to throw money at it, to give any answer other than to tell me he’s sorry. He’s sorry he can’t fix it or do anything about it, sorry he’s beholden to his company and their latest merger and can’t say anything. Sorry he can only understand a fraction of what I endure in this country, in my body. He was sorry.

I don’t know when I’ll call him in the morning again, the next time a verdict will let a murderer off the hook or will send a guilty man to jail. I don’t know the next time a black or brown person will be murdered by remorseless cops. Or the next time a gunman, with a legal weapon, will murder women because it’s easier to blame them than deal with your own traumas. I don’t know when that moment will come.

But I do know that in the United States, almost 1,000 people are murdered each year by police. That black people are 2x as likely as white people to be the victims, and black people age 25-34 are the highest risk to be murdered. I do know that the murderers of Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, Sandra Bland, Atatiana Jefferson and countless others whose names we do not know, are walking around this country, not guilty.

I know that I will always be afraid.

I know that when I call Namjoon again, in the morning, or afternoon or middle of the night, he will answer. He will listen. He will love me and protect me as much as his money can buy.

I do know that these brothers and sisters murders are not in vain. Rest in power.

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