#sing in stained glass symphonies

[milkolya]

why am i alone in my spiral abt beyonce's song Daughter cmon tumblr gays theres So Much Potential here ......

[columbidae-creature]

how about a jellyfish therian poem? 🪼:3

sorry it's taking me so long to get to these! hopefully you like it, i am a bit sleep-deprived!

Jellyfish

Oh for a moment, I’d like to take cues from Aurelia Not troubled with currents I’ll go where I’ll go My moon-gifted body held spinning–

That electric dance Fluorescent, stinging, blooming As flowers do, as sunsets do– that symphony of stained-glass ocean life

Trailing strings of jewels down ocean’s neck Hydrostatic bells ring Sensing light, a world made of shades And currents

Heartless pulsing, mindless knowing In the halls of ocean-held grandiosity She does not sing her lullabies to many The busy and swift cannot stop to listen, But we do.

The sapphire notes ripple Down through our translucent bodies– Beholden, in form, to a living sound.

[direwombat]

wip music monday

tagged recently by @inafieldofdaisies, @voidika, and @simplegenius042 to share some music inspiring my wips (ty all so much <3)

the fingers in the father's soil verse brainworms have been wriggling today, so here's a song that gives some good syb/billie vibes

Help me, Lord, from these fantasies in my head They ain't ever been safe ones I don't fellowship with these fake ones So let's travel to white chapels and sing hymns Hold rosaries, sing in stained-glass symphonies Cleanse me, Holy Trinity, from this marijuana smoke smell in my hair Say I'm nothin' like my father But I'm the furthest thing from choir boys and altars Double cross me, I'm just like my father I am colder than Titanic water

and here's a billie/solomon song (because it ain't true love if they ain't actively tryin' to kill each other <3)

Lay your head down Down, down My love's gonna pull you down Down, down One shot and you're six feet down Down, down Bang bang bang! I'd do you where you stand So take a look at me, yeah Bang bang bang

taglist:

@marivenah, @statichvm, @cassietrn, @trench-rot, @harmonyowl,

@fourlittleseedlings, @carlosoliveiraa, @purplehairsecretlair, @aceghosts, @adelaidedrubman,

@finding-comfort-in-rain, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @locustandwildhoney, @testyfestyenthusiast, @strangefable,

@alexxmason, @deputyash, @josephslittledeputy, and anyone else wanting to share music inspiring them! (taglist opt in/out)

[polutrope]

10 first lines

Tagged by @camille-lachenille @sallysavestheday @swanmaids to share the first lines of my last 10 fics. Thank you!

If no rating indicated, they are G or T.

Knotting her plush white robe loosely around her waist, Galadriel led the parade of her girlfriends onto the flagstones of Nevrast Nordic Spa. (Holiday prompts, Celeborn/Galadriel + Jumping from hot to cold).

“How disappointing!” Nerdanel said as they stepped out into the crisp evening air. (Holiday prompts, Aredhel/Celegorm + Embarrassing childhood videos).

Amid zoning feud with City Hall, Ambar Metta withdraws funding for Yule Parade. (Holiday prompts, Feanor + boycotting a holiday)

“I think we should go on a date.” (Holiday prompts, Daeron/Maglor + Ice skating, Singing carols)

The night had been a symphony of violence. (And Love Grew)

There was a stained-glass window three times Elrond’s height on the west wall of Rivendell's library, depicting Elwing’s mythical leap into the sea: her naked body arcing to the sky as if in supplication, feathered arms outstretched behind her. (Stained Glass)

“Easy for you to say!” Maitimo protested. (Played, rated E)

Sometimes, when the wind blows fierce from the West and the sea thrashes the cliffs of Vinyamar, Aredhel’s heart longs for the anguish of the Ice. (For Whom His Heart Yearned, rated M)

They look like their mother, Maglor’s little foals. (Scorched, rated E)

Plates heaped high with colourful offerings filled Nargothrond’s long feast table to its very edges. (Underhanded, rated E)

Tagging @cuarthol @melestasflight @ettelene @i-did-not-mean-to @meadowlarkx @elevenelvenswords @curufiin @herinke @imakemywings to share if you like (and have not yet).

[sichore]

@thatwritingho tumblr got me FUCKED UP not letting me edit drafts that has asks in them. fuck. anyway!! I answered 5. a casual kiss in the previous round, so let's do the next step!

6. write about an intense kiss between your ship

exclusive preview of a future scene in paint the sky

“You know you don't have to do this, right?”

“Yeah, but… we gotta, don't we?”

Among the blankets and pillows of her cozy corner, the candlelight catches the glimmer in Jimi's dark eyes as she straightens up a bit. We. Jimi is so fucking tired, he can see the exhaustion in those brown eyes. But she's still here, and Pickles has been seeing the same shit as her, so why not do this together?

“I trust ya, Jimi.” He drops his gaze to their knees, clearing his throat. “So, uh… how do we do this?”

“I guess we just kinda…” Jimi tentatively reaches out and he takes her hands. It just feels like the natural thing to do. Hers are soft, small where he can feel them through his callouses. “Um, close your eyes, and breathe. With me. Let your senses take over and it should just… happen.” Her eyes close first, and she already looks so bare without her glasses. Pickles watches Jimi, taking in all of her in this strange moment of vulnerability. The way her curls spill around her face, even when piled high on her head. Her shoulders gradually relaxing as she breathes, in, out, rising and falling. Her comfortable work clothes with old paint stains. Her gentle, nervous smile. He closes his eyes.

The glow of the candles behind his lids give way to nebulae. He hears the rush of his own breaths, then Jimi’s, then – the both of them, breathing as one. The rush of air becomes the distant roar of the Waves, growing louder. Louder. Louder. The last thing Pickles feels in the physical world is the warmth of Jimi’s hands as their fingers lace together and become indistinguishable, and then he sinks. The Ocean greets them with a dazzling school of stars that flash and swim around them. Everything here is expanded in a way Pickles can’t quite describe, ignoring how he is – was – a lyricist. He doesn’t even feel like Pickles, the drummer, when he’s here. He doesn’t feel like Connor, either, who was once that angry kid who left home with nothing but a bag and a dream. Here, he just is. And so is she. Jimi. Unfamiliar, yet always recognizable. Colors and comets swirl around them in the current but he is only consumed with thoughts of the resplendent one. Long and luminous, she winds around him in wide laps, and the slide of her shimmering scales sing to him a sonata. Consumed with the need to feel, he reaches out to her with arms that are many and crimson. He reaches across galaxies for her and when they finally meet, their serpentine touch causes a symphony to ring out across all creation.

It is an experience unlike any before. They are exquisite and perfect. He feels the slide of himself against her, as her. Scale against sinew against soul, they move among the Waves and into each other. He drinks of her into all that he is and, in turn, pours into her, ruby and rapturous and rippling. The song of their union spreads throughout the universe and all that lies beyond. Chaos and cosmos, combined and complete, to bring forth all that shall ever be. World-devourer, star-swallower, divine and devouring one another, entwined and eternal as they should be.

Between the serpents that coil and writhe everlong is a power, mewling and newborn. The drag of their bodies across it is an orphic orchestra that is unheard of, unpracticed, unobtainable. For now. Discordance reigns and the distortion shatters them and they scream in their separation. Through her thousand eyes he can glimpse his thousand arms that seek her. The great crimson beast once more, rising, raging, reaching for the rhapsodic splendor of his – Lover. Pickles breaks through the Waves and crashes back into reality with a shuddering gasp. The candles at the edge of his vision are as stars, fighting against the rippling shadows of the Ocean that bathe the room. None of it matters. Nothing else fucking matters. His body is burning and drenched with sweat, trembling, volcanic. He breathes in ash and embers and air and it’s not enough, it’s never enough not when they’re so close. It all ends and begins with their entwined hands that hold the power of a thousand suns and he thinks Jimi feels it, too. Curls stick to her sweat dampened face as she gasps for air. A mirror of his own state as she would be, because… because… Why wouldn’t she be? Fuck. Why were they here? Why were they ever apart? What the hell is he thinking? Jimi’s lips are so plush, parted and panting and he remembers how easily she tore into him and the agony of their separation. The fuck. He’s hungry. Starving. He swallows hard, his throat having gone dry. What was he forgetting? His eyes flit over the rapid rise and fall of Jimi’s chest and he remembers the way her heart choked his throat. When he drags his gaze back up to her eyes they are like onyx and starshine and their hands tremble where they hover, still entwined. He tries to speak and all that comes out is a dry, wordless sound. Jimi leans towards him. The separation of their hands is torture because they can’t ever part but it’s a sacrifice Pickles makes to grasp her face and pull her forward. Their mouths crush together in a clash of teeth and tongue that some time ago, far from now, knew only how to consume and now they lap and bite and feed. Pickles kisses Jimi like he’ll never have another drink in his goddamn life. What could compare to this, this fucking – ambrosia on his tongue? Jimi’s hands fist in his shirt to hold him close and her body heat makes stars explode behind his eyes. Sparks fly from her lips to ignite a flame in his belly and he just knows he’s going to fucking combust. He only breaks the kiss when the burning in his lungs becomes too much and he gets light-headed. Even so, he licks his lips, swallows as though to imbibe every little taste of Jimi that he can. “I… shit.” “Mmhm,” Jimi agrees, just as eloquent and breathless. There’s thunder in his ears, he easily finds the rhythm in the pulse. That’s all it was, wasn’t it? A beat he had to map out. A song he has to write. He’s been searching for the melody all this time and there it was. It’s in her, painter, precious, and all they gotta do is lay the track. Harmonize. He pulls her to him again, one hand burying in the curls at the back of her head to brace her for his kiss. The other hand claws at her back like if he can just get her close enough he can smash her into his pounding heart and make it stop. Just kill him already because he’s dying. 

The Waves dance around and through them and they chose to go under, they chose this, and emerged with this insatiable need to be inside of each other. He has no other word for this hunger, this feeling, this absolute loss of self as he became they and his senses burst beyond comprehension into… A sixth sense. The sixth way. Rise above the shell and partake of it anew. The Body.

[Soft OTP Prompts]

[kerrymoncherrie]

Valancy singing🎵

translation:

when the grey fog

envelopes the world

under the bow of wind

the silver strings of rain are ringing

i embrace myself

in the scarf made of dreams

and though the fog

though the rain

I’m running to The Blue Castle

Blue roses bloom on the flower beds of dreams

blue buds are pining to the sky

nightingale is singing the blue symphony

In the blue castle

there are beatiful men

they are kneeling before me

i’m greeting them with the nod of my head

i’m the blue princess

In the blue castle

there are fountains like arabesque or like a rainbow

young men with the blue eyes

is asking me to marry him

in the blue castle the sun is shining behind the colorful

stained glass

over there the prince will confess his feelings to me

[lesetoilesfous]

Fic prompts - "Where you go I’m going, so jump and I’m jumping, since there is no me without you." (for whatsoever pairing or character dynamic you wish to write :D)

My love you KNOW it's going to be Fenders and also I adore you <3

(If you’d like me to write you a da2 fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Anders/Fenris

Characters: Fenris, Anders

Tags: established relationship, post canon, domestic disagreements

Rating: Mature

“You’re not coming.” Fenris’ tone brooks no room for disagreement. Somehow, Anders finds a space anyway.

“Yes I am.” 

Fenris picks up his enemy-friend-lover-acquaintance’s bag and upends it over their bed of the last year. A tinkling crash of potions follow it, throwing up liquids that stain the glass as they swirl around the bowls. With them are a handful of wooden pens, nibs stuffed roughly into them and worn blunt with use, a thick sheaf of torn pieces of parchment, and an old knitted scarf. Fenris drops the now empty bag onto the bed, “No, you’re not.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “Really?” He’s already packing his things back into the old satchel, but his eyes dart warily to his well-stuffed travelling pack. Fenris bites the inside of his cheek.

“It is dangerous for you to come with me.”

Anders huffs a laugh. “It’s dangerous to breathe, for either of us. What makes the border any worse?”

Fenris’ mind is dark with memories, and he will not stain this cabin with them. “You do not know them as I do.”

Anders softens at that, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth shallowing as he steps forward. “That, I’ll grant you. But then there’s all the more reason not to travel alone.” His voice is soft and rough as he speaks. Fenris focuses on his thickening beard instead of meeting the sincerity in his brown eyes. “Fenris?” Anders’ voice is barely a murmur.

Fenris turns away from him, the movement too fast and too explosive for his frustration. Anders flinches, and Fenris wants to kick himself, and doesn’t, taking the restless energy and using it to pace the short breadth of their little cabin. Outside, birds sing in the late morning, and the trees sigh a symphony to the sky.

Above Fenris’ head, strings of dried garlic and herbs waft fragrant from the rafters. Fenris looks at Mercy, propped beside the window look a humble woodcutter’s axe, made strange by the domesticity of her setting. (Like him.) He curls his fingers and uncurls them, feeling the elastic stretch of his lyrium against his tendons. He clenches his teeth so tightly his jaw hurts. 

“I am not meant for this.” He says the words to the wooden walls of the building, and the small half-full basket of firewood beside the window. “I cannot be what you want me to be.”

Anders lets out a breath, and the floor creaks as he steps closer. Fenris’ skin prickles with his closeness, but he doesn’t touch him, just stands behind him and waits. “Who says I want you to be anything other than you are?”

Fenris shakes his head, and feels tears, hot and stinging, prickling senselessly at the corners of his eyes. He gestures abruptly to the cabin: to the basin, and the iron bathtub, and the crooked little bed and its straw stuffed mattress. “I do not how to do this for you. I cannot be a husband. I do not know that I can even be a lover. Not in any way that’s kind. And -” Fenris hesitates, breath catching, as he turns at last back to the mage before him. “I am not sure that I want to.” At this, at last, Anders’ expression crumples. But Fenris has grown weaker than he used to be, and he cannot bring himself to take the opening for what it is. 

“I hurt people, Anders. That is what I do. And I want to hurt them. I am so angry, all the time. For myself. For the others like me. I want to tear these people apart limb from limb so much that sometimes it scares me, and I cannot do that here.”

The words hang heavy in the air between them, and Fenris thinks for a moment that he can feel the clay-like press of blood-soaked sand between his toes on the beaches of Seheron. 

Anders nods, and turns back to his pack, drawing it shut with a toggle. “Right, so I’m coming with you.”

“You’ll be killed!”

“I don’t care!” Anders’ voice is a roar, and outside the chickens hurry squawking away from the cabin wall they’d been sheltering under.

Fenris steps back, for once not afraid of what the mage might do to him so much as he fears what he might do to himself. Anders pushes a hand over his face and through his overlong hair, tugging it hard. 

“I - do you seriously think that my life matters to me if you get killed and forgotten by some slaver on a road in the arse end of nowhere?”

Fenris’ hands feel cold. “I cannot be the reason that you live.”

Anders settles a little, broad shoulders dropping. There’s silver in his hair, these days, and in his beard. “No, and you’re not. You’re not the only reason. But there is no world left in which I let you die without me, Fenris. We go down together or we don’t go down at all.”

“I cannot watch you die.” The admission is pulled from Fenris’ chest on a string of thorns, and it feels like bleeding to admit it. Anders’ expression softens further, and he steps forward, gait stiff with the weather and his bad knee. 

“Yeah, well, you always were a hypocrite.” 

Fenris’ lips quirk, despite the aching in his mind. “Takes one to know one.”

Anders steps closer. “Pots, kettles.”

Fenris falls forward into his lover’s arms, pressing his cheek against Anders’ chest. The man smells perpetually of the sweet, green scent of elfroot. “You are incorrigible.”

Anders presses a kiss onto the top of his head. “You want to fight a one-man war against every slaver in Tevinter.”

Fenris frowns. “When you say it like that, it sounds impossible.”

Anders hums, and his arms tighten around Fenris, his body warm and strong. “Maybe, but we’ve done impossible things before.”

[imagerydreamswordsmemories]

So let's travel to whitе chapels and sing hymns Hold rosaries, and sing in stained glass symphonies Cleanse me, Holy Trinity From this marijuana smoke smell in my hair

[scleroticstatue]

"Heaven," I said enthusiastically.

"Excellent, the angel responded. "We always need more laborers."

"Wait. Laborers? Isn't heaven a place where I get to rest and enjoy eternal martinis and perfect sunsets on the beach?"

"No," the angel laughed. "Heaven is hard labor. You'll work 60 hours a week building roads, mansions, extending the pearly gates, and maintaining the farm. There are also mandatory worship services, prayer sessions, and you'll have to sign up to care for children who died too soon."

My nose crinkled in displeasure. "What is hell, then?"

"Hell has drugs and alcohol you can use to your heart's content, video games, sex, food whatever you'd like is at the snap of your fingers. You never have to want for anything there." The angel sighed, and passed me a form to relinquish my right to heaven and enter hell.

I signed.

The ink looked red.

A demon appeared before me, sinfully attractive. The demon gave me an appraising look and nodded; I could probably get laid if I played my cards right, and if the angel was correct, I would. The demon reached out, looping a thin thread across my wrist, and led me gently away from the angel.

Hell was amazing. It was colorful, bright. Everything was tempting. And I didn't have a time limit. I did everything. I ate, I drank, I drugged. I gambled and won. I played video games and won. Everything was easy. The only challenge came in the sex, if you could even call it that, so raw and animalistic, rutting like rabbits in heat.

But after a few weeks, it began to wear. After a few months, it began to drag. A few years, well, even the sex was lackluster. Everything was boring. Drugs and drink numbed existence, food was good but never satisfied, there were no challenges. No humans. Occasionally, I thought one would be led through, but I never met anyone. And I never heard music.

I'm not sure how long it had been, how long I'd been in Hell, before I couldn't take it anymore. The thread around my wrist were now thick cords, around my feet, wrists, and neck. I stumbled up the stairs, fighting my bonds the whole time, until I reached the gates again.

"Was Hell not to your liking?" The angel said. I shook my head, barely able to speak. "Well, you can't go into heaven like that. You won't be able to work chained up like that."

"How?" I ground out. My throat was burned from the drugs, raw from disuse.

"I can cut them," the angel said, "but it won't be pleasant." I held my arms to them anyway.

The angel sighed but reached forward anyway. The cords of hell burned the angel, sizzling flesh and leaving raw, open wounds behind. Or maybe it wasn't the cords at all, but me, my flesh, burning under the touch of the angel. The cords unraveled, one thread at a time, one drink, one cigarette, one rut at a time. It dripped from me, no longer gold, but soaked red from blood.

Drop

Drop

Drop

The angel looked at me, and I felt they knew everything I had done in hell. I collapsed under the strain of it.

Heaven was beautiful. Hell seemed garish compared to it. Heaven, it wasn't white like I'd thought, but a symphony of rainbow pastels and shining jewels. It was colorful and bright, but nothing demanded attention. The food was delicious, a single morsel satisfying from dawn to dusk. The work was satisfying; every evening I would sleep hard and fast and wake to the sun scattering pink and purple across the glossy mountains and into the trees.

And then there were the others! Other humans, other angels, kind and gentle and working in perfect harmony. And what harmony! We would sing as we worked, my voice suddenly warm and rich, and when we return to our mansions for sleep, the streets we'd paved in gold would hum back the tunes we'd laid them to, and I would fall asleep in my bed to the riffs and lullabies of the craftsmen who made my bed and my walls and the stained glass windows that caught starlight like a game of red rover.

I saw the angel again, the angel that guarded the gate, many times. I would sometimes sit with them, the only other person in all of heaven who knew what I'd done in hell, who saw me through the pain and the torment. I never asked, but I know the answer would be if I asked. I bled enough in hell, burned enough. The blood shed to dissolve those cords had been the angel's, not mine. Sometimes, I see the others come and sit with them, too, and I think we all must have chosen hell. I wonder how much blood they've shed for us. As I sit between the trees and watch them dance, I wonder if, perhaps, I might be allowed outside the gates again, to warm people. To tell them the amusement of hell is empty and it isn't worth the blood to get back, that heaven is much better, hard labor and all. I sit and sing praise to the angel and to God, and the trees harmonize and dance with me.

I think I will ask. If not for them, the others, who will choose hell, but for the angel, so he bleeds less. But for now, I sit beneath the trees and sing.

“Welcome to the afterlife. Do you want to go to Heaven or Hell?” “Wait, you’re asking me where I want to go? You don’t decide it based on how I lived my life or anything?” “Nope, it’s entirely your choice.”

[awsomchurch]

Harmonies of Faith - Exploring the Artistic Tapestry within Church Communities

AWSOM Church CSUF

In the diverse and expansive realm of religious communities, churches often function not merely as venues for spiritual enlightenment but also as dynamic epicenters of cultural and artistic expression. The AWSOM Church UCI is a testament to this, fostering not just worship and spiritual growth, but also nurturing creativity and artistic endeavors. These sacred institutions have a primary purpose to foster devotion and spiritual development, but many, like the AWSOM Church UCI, also place a significant focus on the cultivation of artistic talent and creative ingenuity. This commitment can be particularly seen in the thriving programs dedicated to music and the arts, which grow and blossom within these hallowed places, forming an integral part of their community outreach and spiritual teachings.

One of the most iconic and cherished elements of church music programs is the choir. These vocal ensembles, often comprising dedicated members of the congregation, create a symphony of voices that elevates the worship experience. Whether performing traditional hymns that have echoed through the ages or embracing contemporary compositions, church choirs play a pivotal role in setting the spiritual tone of the congregation.

Choirs are more than mere musical entities; they are tight-knit communities bonded by a shared love for music and a common faith. Rehearsing diligently, choir members not only hone their musical skills but also build deep connections with one another. The act of singing together becomes a form of communal prayer, a shared expression of devotion that transcends individual voices. Church choirs are known for their diversity, both musically and demographically. A typical choir might feature a blend of seasoned vocalists, amateur enthusiasts, and even children, each contributing their unique timbre to the collective sound. This inclusivity not only enriches the musical experience but also mirrors the diversity often found within congregations.

Beyond the human voice, church music programs often incorporate instrumental ensembles, bringing a diverse array of sounds into the worship space. From majestic pipe organs to the delicate notes of a violin, these instruments add layers of depth and emotion to the worship experience. The choice of instruments varies widely among churches, reflecting both tradition and contemporary sensibilities. Some churches embrace classical instruments, creating an ambiance reminiscent of centuries-old cathedrals. Others opt for a more modern approach, integrating guitars, keyboards, and percussion to craft a sound that resonates with younger generations.

Instrumental ensembles not only enhance the musical landscape but also provide opportunities for congregation members to share their musical talents. From solo performances during quiet moments of reflection to full ensemble pieces that accompany grand celebrations, these musicians play a crucial role in infusing worship services with a rich auditory tapestry.

In the realm of religious communions, while music frequently holds the limelight, many organizations like AWSOM Church UCI also acknowledge the profound influence that visual arts possess in communicating profound spiritual narratives. The concept of visual art within the ecclesiastical context surpasses the conventional understanding of religious paintings and sculptures. It expands into a more comprehensive spectrum that embraces modern art forms, photography, and even multimedia installations. These forms of artistry serve as non-verbal conduits for religious expression and spiritual contemplation, providing a unique medium through which the church communicates its ethereal messages.

The walls of a church can become a canvas for artists to convey profound theological themes. Vibrant stained-glass windows, intricately detailed frescoes, and thought-provoking sculptures all contribute to the visual storytelling within the sacred space. These visual elements serve not only as aesthetic enhancements but as tools for conveying complex narratives and spiritual truths. Contemporary churches often embrace a more dynamic approach to visual arts, incorporating technology and multimedia presentations. From digital projections during worship services to art installations that change with the liturgical calendar, these innovative expressions of creativity engage worshippers in new and exciting ways.

The impact of music and arts programs within churches extends far beyond the walls of the sanctuary. These programs serve as catalysts for community engagement and expression, providing outlets for creativity that go beyond traditional worship settings. Church-sponsored art exhibitions, musical performances, and workshops offer platforms for congregation members to showcase their talents and passions. Whether it's a photography exhibition capturing the beauty of creation or a community orchestra bringing together musicians of all ages, these events foster a sense of community that extends beyond the confines of Sunday services.

At AWSOM Church UCI, participating in faith-driven creative endeavors serves as a platform for individuals to express their spirituality in unique and profound ways. It also acts as a catalyst, fostering stronger bonds within the congregation. The inherent collaborative spirit of these artistic ventures sparks a robust sense of unity and shared purpose among the members. This collaboration nurtures and amplifies the understanding that creativity, in its myriad forms, is not just a personal gift, but a divine endowment meant to be shared, celebrated, and cherished within the communal fabric of their church community.

In the tapestry of church life, music and arts programs stand out as vibrant threads that weave together worship, community, and creativity. From the soul-stirring harmonies of a choir to the visual spectacle of a well-crafted sculpture, these expressions of creativity enhance the worship experience and foster a sense of connection within congregations.

At AWSOM Church UCI, they deeply understand that participating in faith-inspired creative endeavors offers a unique platform for individuals to articulate their spirituality in transformative and profound ways. The congregation members find these outlets not only empowering but also effective in nurturing and deepening their faith. Further, these creative undertakings, be it through music, arts, or other artistic forms, act as a dynamic catalyst, fostering robust bonds within the congregation. The characteristic spirit of collaboration inherent to these ventures illuminates and strengthens a profound sense of unity and shared purpose among the members. Through this synergy, the members of this church are continuously reminded that creativity, in all its vibrant forms, is not just a personal gift. Rather, it is a divine endowment that is meant to be shared, celebrated, and cherished within the collective thread that weaves their church community together.

[deeprootedissues]

Broken Promises 2

Thought this was bliss 

Turns out it was a miss

Face up against the glass

Trying to escape the trap

Tearing, clawing my way out

Could have been love

We fucked it all up

Hands tied behind my back

I couldn’t make up for what I lack

My mind was altered 

Tears stained my cheeks

Looked in the mirror and what did I see

You screwed me over, screwed me up

Unscrewed my mind and bolted it shut

These metal screws that you drive into me

Your words I thought were a sweet symphony 

To now only singe me

So let me be without 

It’s better than living in this doubt

[starshipsofstarlord]

i want to write you a song;

Summary: Harry is trying to sing a song, but he is rather distracted by y/n’s new distraction.

Pairing: Harry Styles x reader

Warnings: fluff, Zack is made up but a complete tossed, jealous Harry, minor angst, talk of disrespecting women

Word Count: 1301

Masterlist Link

Y/n was a member of Harry’s team, the work that she produced was that of lyrical discharge, she helped him string words together so that a song could be produced. Anyone could see it other than the two fools that the person in which had inspired them was each other; they really were oblivious, it drove Mitch mad. They would sit at a piano together, their fingertips so close that they could touch as they danced upon the keys, but they didn’t for both of them were too fearful to make that little reach across. Each time they saw each other they wore smiles that looked just like Harry’s pearl necklaces, toothy and a stained white, showing that there were no lingering undertones in any of their behaviours towards one another.

They would sit upon the couch as Harry held a guitar in his ink written hands, creating melodies and tunes that could potentially work. The thing that worked though were them together, they were like an accorded symphony, bouncing off one another with their ideas. Sarah could only roll her eyes and smile at the idiots as they thought the other had no interest, y/n was stuck on the relation between them remaining as friends and she was more than okay with that, and Harry was fearful that he would scare her away if he expressed his emotions. The stride that they were going at was painfully slow, a snail could move faster, but it was their pace and everyone silently agreed to leave them be for the time being.

That was until someone else entered the picture, his name was Zack, and Harry didn’t hate anyone until the moment he saw the tool’s face. It was no secret that he could get jealous easily, and he hadn’t had to deal with such an emotion in quite some time as him or y/n remained single and free of suitors, it was as though they were waiting for the other to say something, but they had remained silent, which filled Harry with regret. He was the brother of one of his security members, so calling security on him was out of the question, and so he frowned as he watched through the glass from the recording room as Zack had the nerve to move closer to y/n, growling into the mic.

Mitch was in there with him, noticing that y/n had lost focus which was rare when it came to working with y/n. He’d have thought that she’d have wanted to listen to how the song that they had written together would fall on listening ears, however she was otherwise occupied enduring the flirtations from Zack, laughing and all. He noticed the stern frown on Harry’s face, least to say the musician wasn’t happy, he was ruggedly biting his lip, usually y/n wouldn’t have been able to glance away from such a sight but she wasn’t even paying attention. “You okay H?”

Harry growled into the microphone, half turned to face Mitch, as he regarded his friend with a displeased answer. “Look at them! I can’t believe that y/n would be interested in a guy that stares at her ass when she walks out of the room, he’s only flattering her with comments about her appearance, he clearly doesn’t know that there’s more to her than that! She’s amazingly smart, she has the most beautiful words to express how her heart feels, she’s the most talented person that I know. If she ever decides to write a song about him the tone would be flat because her standards sure are dropping.”

He scratched his forehead and looked forward, many thoughts processing through his head as she froze, her eyes widened. That could only mean one thing; his mic had been on the entire time and each word that he had said had been enough to pull her from her conversation with Zack, Harry swallowed, consumed by the feeling of doing something stupid and wishing that he could turn back time. “She heard me, didn’t she?” She could hear that too he realised as Mitch nodded, he could see Zack expressively talking to her, he looked rather exasperated and partially furious, but she was biting back.

It all went in slow motion as he watched them lip sync to their own words, he couldn’t hear them but y/n didn’t look overly happy, and that was with her new suitor. Her hand struck against his cheek, and he gulped, racing out as soon as he saw Zach’s hands reach for her wrists, before he could touch her he shoved him back. “I think you should go, think it’d be rather embarrassing if your own brother had to escort you out, wouldn’t it?” With a huff and a sneer the man stormed out, Harry released a sigh of relief until he realised that there was still an elephant in the room.

He had indirectly confessed his feelings for y/n, whom was still behind him staring at his back. She took in a breath, reminding him that she was still there, passing time waiting for him to say something, he appeared guilty as though he had done something wrong when he let her see his face. “You deserve better than someone like that y/n/n. We don’t have to talk about it, we can just get back to work; but please never let a dickhead make you blush again, there’s a guy out there that is better than you, you deserve to get treated like a queen.”

“You just said more than any song could…” There was a wide smile on her lips as she gazed up at him, she slid her fingers down so that their fingertips could touch, Harry shyly smiled, having calmed down from his rational moment. “And I don’t think there’s a guy out there, I think he’s in this very room, I just didn’t realise that you- well, you know.” A shrug rolled off from her arms as Harry laughed at the notion, amused by the fact that for all the time that he knew her that this was the first time that she couldn’t comprehend a well descriptive sentence, which was more amusing since it was her job.

“Come ‘ere.” He opened his arms for her to neatly between as he wrapped them around her, applying a soft kiss to her hairline, he felt, ironically enough, golden. He had scared the guy away only for her to go to another, but he was not complaining because he was the man, he could feel a boost racing to his narcissism in the moment. “How about i take you on a proper date and treat you like any woman should be? There’s that sushi place that you love like thirty minutes away?” It wasn’t anything too fancy, and that was how she liked it, normalcy. They usually went there after long sessions of writing, but now there was another intention of it than raining fuel into their creative tanks.

She accepted, and Mitch came out of the recording room after texting Sarah the scoop on what was going on, knocking on the wooden doorframe to grab their attentions. “This is cute and all, but remember there is a song waiting to be sung. Y/n, darling, congrats on getting rid of that idiot, but this one has work to do, work that you helped with. So come on you two, you can be all mushy afterwards.” Both groaned, but nevertheless returned to work, and as music rang out of Harry’s lips, he couldn’t help but smile, dimples prompting in his cheeks. This was their song, emotion dropped from each word as he stared at y/n’s face through the glass.

[elytrafemme]

ON WITNESSING YOUR BROTHER DIE

the revolution of wildfires along the crescent side of a mountain range mar the skin of every last man you trusted & it is as if you can identify through the rot and apathy who you once let cradle you with hands in your hair & the honey-sweet footsteps you took to reach the chapel 

| concertos sink like a remedy / you cannot drink solo acts (through the thick of medicine & potions & mushroom soup) |

stained glass arches of Prime extend a despondent touch of sympathy as you faithfully recall the day your brother said to you that there are men & kings & gods & you would never be any & you asked who could be left & he just laughed because you are the revolution that never learned to play chess & ached & cried for every bit of explosives you heard & could never move your pieces right & everyone is a march but you can never quite learn where your baby feet place into the ash soaked earth like a wildfire that sniffles out into a wisp of ember because it strayed too far from the trees

| there is a man in a red cloak & a boy in your red bandana / both like clockwork with its human side hidden as if redstone has not adapted to walk across this earth / & you have to sympathize with your brother for deconstructing himself until he is red powder & symphony of ticking & you brave the firestorm to ask 

why are you man & king & god 

all that we swore not to become? |

there is a fire in a pit and a boy with his hand in yours & he is your best friend in the finely pressed lines of a suit & his pinky links with your pulse & that is enough for you to say all that which you will never say because men like their secrets & your best friend is a man & you are a boy

| you are broken for your lack of hubris / you will never bring your brother back |

when you reunite, you think awful bitter words & you cannot lead with honey-sweet footsteps after your sour plum pit was pried out with evergreen nails & your boots are untied & he watches you fumble to fix them & you want to scream 

i hope you never become a politician again & i wish it were easier while you were gone & i need an older brother to be unkind to me & i will die in your stead to make you proud & i have clawed out of death with the hands we both share & this is our nature isn’t it & there is a wildfire on the crescent side of a mountain & i miss you & i hate you & i love you & you are a brother to me & i wish i never witnessed your death & the birds call your name & i do not know if it is a lark or a crow & we were named after wildfires / or rather, the aftermath

| is your brother truly dead if you only ever saw the flame? | 

a man & a king & a god all sing for a dead country

& the trinity of your brother’s machinations all arise to mourn for himself

[lastconcourse]

Tornado Recipe UltraJune

(Symphony Futility in Z major)

Unstageable play

Regiondirect→Camereye stood parallel

A kitchen in an upper middle class home. It’s a dim noon. The counters+sink are lit by adjustable lamps on two aluminum racks overhead. In the middle of the room there is one center island; marbletopped, with two wood doors that open for access to inner-cabinet storage. The sink is in the back at stage right. There is a window above the sink. The Readers can see on the outside that there’s a dreary dusk sky, plus a cloud above. All the cabinet doors are white, the sinkfaucet is gold color, the cabinet doors are gold color. A rack of silver soupladles+spatula+tongs+whisks+tablespoons is mounted on the wall over a blender and beside a black air fryer. Right side: Out of the refrigerator come both hum and icerumble sounds. A windchime sings in parallel with nearing thunder.

(egg timer, stove, junk drawer full of rubberbands, unused tools, a tape measure, whole drawerfull of clean knives+forks+spoons, a dishwasher, a spice rack with one hundred flavors, a microwave, )

Flying soup ladles calmly stir a pot of boiled tin foil. The air fryer cheerfully pops its door open. A gantry crane lowers its chain from the ceiling, on the hook is a red wicker basket full of leather wallets. Two big bowls spin slowly like tops on the center island, one full of ice cream and the other full of fresh soup. The airfryer drops its door open and slides out its metal rack. A forklift made out of an exercise machine takes the basket and dumps the wallets on the airfryer’s rack, which is stuck out like a tongue. A flying pair of tongs with biplane wings serves rolls of bread from a tray out of the oven. The air fryer timerknob is now switched on and the timer is making its quick chatter sound. Icecream and Soup bowls drift and bounce together a bit like careening tops, and now the leather bakes.

Regiondirect→Stage right (Begin ruination of a birthday lunch)

A cardboard box full of embarassing memories is spilled down the stairs: Thousands of ruled paper sheets with awful poems written on them go wafting into the kitchen where they float around and fold into paper airplanes, then they land on the center island in perfect rows like jets on a battleship.

Poemjets: We’re here to attack your confidence with this cringey reminisence.

A stolen medalion flies through the air and crashes into the stained glass sconce of an antique wall lamp which is mounted in the living room: Sconce is shattered when it hits it. Shard after shard of red and blue crystal-cracked glass falls into a steel cauldron on a wheeled cart on a line of railroad tracks sitting on the carpet: The cart drives and the cauldron is taken to a forge by the fireplace where the glass is melted down and poured into a mold that shapes it into a skull: This forms the skull of a clueless fool, this is the first and most important skull.

Blue+Red Glass Shards

Blae+rued Gless Sharides

Blaew+Rueld Gleessh Shparides

jBlaw+Ruelld Gleetssh Sparidens

jblaw+rulled Gleethss Spaidens

Jblaw+krulled tGleeths Spidens

Jlaw skulled tleeth Spienes

Jaw skulled Tleeth Spines

Jaw Skull Teeth Spine

Jaw, Skull, Teeth, Spine

Regiondirect→Stage middle; from mouth of humanactor one

(activate buffoon here)

Foollessclue:

I am going to get this job. Before they mock me and I evaporate. I am going to get my job. j’andob→And keep my job once I have it; I will have a job: this job I am applying for, I will not be mocked or evaporate→ I am applying for a lifetime career→My choices are God’s design→I am not a deadbeat+/or wastrel ‘l ‘el ‘l ‘rel ‘l

Regionpoint: High up at stage middle:

Four cabinets above a stove open and reveal a long television screen behind them, the screen plays a panorama video of the inside of a grocery store on a time lapse, rapidly showing shoppers moving around and down aisles through a full day. So the commerce source of groceries plays inside the storage destination of groceries.

Regiondirect→Stage left+downstage

Foolllessclue walks like a desk, heavily skulking: A Huge wooden desk in the office room walks like a heavily skulking crab from its place in the office into the doorway of the kitchen. The desk Stomps and sprouts two claws made of stationary: Protractor joints, fountain pen fingers plus inky venom in nibs and two eyeballs on stalks that are webcams.

Deskrab: I make my next shell out of your hard work and notes. If you ever do any hard work again.

Foollessclue stands in the doorway and contemplates going back to bed. Then an idea comes to him:

Foollessclue: Eureka! Wow! Golly! Lord Almighty! The truth has arrived!

A wrecking ball made out of a soccer ball weighing six tonnes falls from the ceiling and crushes the center island: obliterated the bad poems, marble landing strip, and cabinets, instantly.

Chunks of marble fall into a plexiglass gutter and the camereye view changes

Regiondirect→ Camera is now low and pointed upwards: the reader can see through the stage floor to where a plexiglass gutter runs from stage right to left, with cold green water thrashing through it toward a previously hidden now→revealed underground room where a cashregister with bulldozer tracks and an abacus with centipede feet are seen watching the deluge of marble chunks and water fall from a sewer pipe above them into a trough before them.

Hot water spinning in a blender elsewhere.

Rock and Water dropping top right to bottom left.

Cash register bell ding sounds when the drawer pops→slides.

The cash register reaches out with a thin alu-wire appendage, picks pieces of marble out of the wet junk, and carefully organizes them into its drawer compartments. The abacus keeps record while a gooseneck lamp uses square chalk to write mathematical figures on the wall.

Two haggard bowls spin slowly like tops on the plot of the destroyed center island: Now one is filled with pinecones+dry ice and the other full of burning coals+dominos.

A bookshelf gets into a fistfight with the front door. The front door comes unhinged and walks backwards into the stage right of the set while the bookshell follows it and throws punches with arms made out of desk lamps. Sound: of bulbs shattering on punch-contact. The door topples against the fridge: KO. The Shelf keeps punching with lampfists until the door is busted full of holes, then the door breaks almost in half and crumples on the floor up against the fridge.

Regiondirect→ Camera cuts back up to oblique angle of Foollessclue frantically scribbling ideas in a big leather planner

Foollllessclue: I will invent a way to cure all diseases: I will socialize with the society. I will take pictures of every single thing that has ever existed. I will get a job making Christmas cards.

Foolllllessclue gets on his moped and rushes down to the job office. Each of his pockets is jammed with crumpled social security cards, resumes, a half eaten highschool diploma, and a computer eyeball.

A framed photo falls from the kitchen wall and lands face-down: Nothing breaks. The framephoto begins to crawl around on the floor like a bug and bites at the ankles of a chair which kicks and stomps back. Both of them go in circles around the left side of the kitchen.

The leftover marblewater swirling in the trough that couldn’t be fit in the cash register’s abdomen was scooped up by a bucket held by the abacus and laid out on a table. The gooseneck lamp sprouts a tungsten arm and starts using epoxy and bolts to connect the pieces of marble together, end to end, particle by bit, until the dusty chunks are two long bars. The cash register now takes out a chisel and rapidly sculpts the repaired marble bars into two legs, this makes the first pair of legs.

Marble Chunks Bolts

Mairble Chaunkes Beoelts

Mahirble Caunkes feBoelts

Mahigrbles Cankes febelt

mathigrbles Cankves febet

maThigbles Caves feet

aThighles Calves feet

Thighles Calves Feet

Thighs Calves Feet

Foollllllessclue uses his two marble legs to walk into the job store. But his foot gets caught on the doorway and he trips→and his pockets spill their garbage contents everywhere. ←↑→

A suitcase with eight thick-tired wheels (The front two bigger than the rear six) drives like a semi onto the middle kitchen tile at stage middle: and parks. And honks a horn.

Now there’s a sound of two numberlock clasp unclinching, the hinged clasps pop up: then it’s door-like top half opens on the hinge, it drives back/steers to readjust a bit: top half all open: A water fountain sprays out, cubes of ice and a layer of sleet float in the cold, cold water inside this case. A rope net with many small buckets hung on loops at the knots of its threads, is lowered by a golfclub seesaw, gently, into the case, from where it snatches a small portion of water.

(Certain parts of the rear set walls are actually transparent television screens with translucent texture applied to them to give the illusion of tile and drywall. To give readers in the audience the ability to see scenes in the backyard, the screens are turned off, and are looked through.)

Regionmention: Dry ice smoke still looms around in levels, the whole set has developed it’s own climatology with clouds in layers of various hot smogs. The stormcloud aboutside the windows is now flinging billiard balls onto the roof, and into the windchimes and birdfeeders. The windchimes panic and take flight in an instant, the chime goes off stroking through the sky like a squid, hanger upwards, decorations and metal pipes flexing like thick kite streamers beneath. One of the square metal birdfeeders falls from its hanger and starts spinning aggressively on the grass like a top, then starts cutting the soil like a tornado, then shoots off like a flying saucer, and crashes through the window: slowed by the exploding glass: drops into the sink with a bang-loud clang.

Birdfeeder: I was made to feed dinosaurs, but now I’m run aground.

The hail is destructive: Little bombastic billiard balls coated with razor blades and ice start to punch like bullets through the ceiling of the set, fall down on the floor, and shatter out as colored dust and airborne metal while the kitchen tiles start sliding left like a conveyorbelt.

Regiondirect: → (Pathetic here)

Foolllllllessclue: I need a new pair of arms. See? These two limbs are a fool’s impliments.

The kitchen tiles start to undulate aggressively like a solid white ocean.

Kitchentiles: Out! GET OUT! No more of this nonsense. I am meant to be walked on, I am not a landfill.

The Air Fryer’s door falls open and the ExerMach Forklift grasps and moves the tray of melted, smoking, burning leather-walletpile up into ↑ the air. A sentient cloud of smog floats down like a jellyfish and mingles with the rising fumes of fired leather. The sinkfaucet tries to spray the wallet tray with water to put the flames out but only succeeds at waterboarding the birdfeeder in the sink.

A huge pair of hands both wearing motorcycle gloves descends from the ceiling; fingers pointed at the back of the stage, one hand at stage right+one at left, they descend on the rack of burnt leather. A cabinet door above bangs excitedly. The blender swirls hot water. The ExerciseForklift bows and condescends→moves to stage left→into the shadow a bit. Readers see the gloved hands scoop up the leather and stretch it: Outward streetching burnt, charred moneywallet, streeetching out a whole rectangular platterworth. Down below, hot coals and smokey dry ice are getting flung everywhere when the two bowls get mad and attack each other. Up above the GlovedHands form the hot wallet material into two arms→starting at the elbows and strexpanding outward toward the hand and shoulders. A flying pair of tongs with helicopter rotors hovers over and helps be blacksmith→it pulls and sculpts out the leather to form two palms and ten fingers. A third hand holding a bottle of wood glue descends between and squirts it in the folds of the leather and a serpent made out of thick twine with a blowdryer for a head is charmed by a tornado siren to rise out of a low cabinet. The blowdryer snake sprays heat onto the glue to dry it: This is the first pair of arms.

Wallet Leather Ash

Wallcet Leathear Ansh

Wallicet fLeatohearm Andsh

bwallicep florhearm hAndsh

ballicep forhearm handsh

bllicep forearm hands

Blicep forearm Hand

Bicep Forearm Hand

Foollllllllessclue: I will use my arms to get a job making Christmas cards. I will mail my Christmas cards to every person on Earth. Everyone will love me. I’m going to make a lot of money. Money will be given to me out of love. People will pitty me. I will make money from love.

Stage right side of the kitchen implodes in a shower of blasted apart ceramic plates, tossed around silverware, twigs + leaves off tree branches, atomized drywall; flung up tiles. The whole upper floor comes down

Regiondirect→

A set of bedroom furniture is dropped into the destruction. a king size bed plummets with sheets+blanket flapping.

The Cash Register, Abacus, and Lamp respond with alarm to the sound of destruction above. A dark storm cloud, floating not more than 15 feet above the ground, coasts through the exposed hole in the house and then starts to rapidly pour floodsurge levels of water into the kitchen scene. Eventually the water reaches the translucent gutter and starts to pour from high right to low left into the secret room belonging to the Abacus, Lamp, and Register.

Abacus: We’re going to drown. I guess I can count the water by volume.

Lamp: This downpour is erasing my chalk. I can’t work in a flood.

Register: I will rust and jam shut. The marble will be lost within me.

A huge billboard with the words “Too Bad So Sad" and "I Don’t Feel Bad” written in bright blue on a yellow background crashes through the stage wall from right to left like a battering→ram: tosses bedsheets, wood and tree chunks around while swinging across the set.

Regiondirect→From stage right (With happiness)

Foollessclue runs into the kitchen waving around a stack of Christmas cards while loudly exclaiming “I have the solution! I have the answer! I will find success and happiness!” Right as the ceiling collapses and buries him under the entire set. The water continues to rise until the whole room is a flooded half-floating landfill. Burnt things and wall studs floating on rain. The lights extinguish. Try again.

[portraitofadumbassonfire]

HELP ME LORD FROM THESE FANTASIES IN MY HEEEAD THEY AIN'T NEVER BEEN SAFE ONES I DON'T FELLOWSHIP WITH THESE FAKE ONES SO LET'S TRAVEL TOOOO WHITE CHAPELS AND SIING HYYMNS HOLD ROSARIES AND SING IN STAINED GLASS SYMPHONIES CLEANSE ME HOLY TRINITY FROM THIS MARIJUANA SMOKE SMELL IN MY HAIR

[princesssarisa]

Cinderella September-through-November: "Poor Cinderella" (1934 Betty Boop cartoon)

This classic '30s cartoon was not only Betty Boop's first appearance in color, but the first color cartoon Fleischer Studios ever made. It was their answer to Walt Disney's success with his three-strip Technicolor Silly Symphonies.

Because Disney had an exclusive contract with Technicolor at the time, though, the Fleischers used Cinecolor instead: a two-strip process which produced only two colors, red and blue-green. But even with this limited palette, they create a charming little fairy-tale world with what another reviewer has described as a stained glass-like quality, and with lavishly detailed, beautiful storybook backgrounds, even though most of the characters are drawn in Fleischer's usual bouncy, cartoony and slightly grotesque style. To show off the color to the fullest, even Betty/Cinderella's hair is colored red instead of its usual black. This cartoon also makes good use of the stereoptical camera, Fleischer's equivalent of Disney's multiplane camera designed to give the animation more depth: some of the aforementioned lavish backgrounds were actual, physical 3D models, rotated behind the animation cells. Cinderella's ride in her coach to the ball and her whirling with the Prince on the ballroom floor are especially striking examples of this technology.

Technical innovations aside, this is an endearing cartoon short. In no way a definitive Cinderella, but endearing. It faithfully retells the familiar tale in simple, broad strokes. (Sometimes it even simplifies it – for example, there's no Stepmother in sight, only the two Stepsisters.) Dialogue is sparing, with most of the story sung rather than spoken, and the musical style is gentle and sweet, with the waltz-time theme song, "I'm Just A Poor Cinderella" (a guaranteed ear-worm) composed in the style of an old romantic parlor ballad. But the cartoon still finds room for some irreverent jokes, modern references and classic surreal Fleischer gags. Animals and inanimate objects talk and sing here and there: even the pumpkin, just before being turned into a coach, grows a jack o'lantern face and sings about how glad he is not to be carved up for a pie. (A moment that's either charming or creepy, depending on your viewpoint.) At the ball, Cupid wallops the stuffy Prince with a mallet when he sees Betty/Cinderella, sending him sliding headfirst down the staircase to greet her, and a caricature of popular crooner Rudy Vallée appears to sing the theme song. During the slipper-fitting, one Stepsister's big toe grows a face to glare at her as she tries to cram it in. And while this Hays Code-era version of Betty is more demure and less of a sex symbol than in her notorious pre-Code cartoons, there's still a hint of the Fleischers' classic risqué humor. Her magical dress transformation has her rags slowly disappear, revealing a modest long undergarment, which promptly transforms into skimpy, lacy lingerie before the ballgown forms over it.

Rather than the more familiar Mae Questel, Betty is voiced here by Bonnie Poe, who also voices all the other female characters. She shows off her versatility well, not only providing Betty's signature New York-accented cutie-pie voice, but also the screeching of the two Stepsisters and the lovely rich alto of the elegant Fairy Godmother. The few male voices are allegedly provided by Jack Mercer, best known for voicing Popeye.

Is this one of the greatest Cinderella adaptations? No. But is it charming in its own right and a groundbreaking classic in Betty Boop's cartoon catalogue? Most definitely yes!

@ariel-seagull-wings, @superkingofpriderock