#spreading awareness so others can heal their conscience

[wynndigogh]

If you needed a reminder, a sign, or permission:

Having boundaries or being direct isn't bad.

I was honored to have this conversation over the weekend with a friend I have not seen in 2 yrs. The advice was needed and welcomed. A heart and spirit healed.

I love the saying, walk softly but carry a big stick. Be capable of winning the fight but also capable of choosing when the fight is the only course left.

[poisonlove]

Yellow | Jenna Ortega

author; I wanted to do something between a Demon and an Angel.

Jenna ortega x fem!reader

My eyes observed with curiosity and malice the bustling flow of the hospital: doctors striving to save lives, patients seeking redemption, souls finally finding peace, and others descending unaware of the torment they would endure.

I walk barefoot along the corridor, watching with a mixture of fascination and mockery as relatives weep over the lifeless bodies of their loved ones: oh, they were so tender and so... touchingly pitiful. To be honest, I enjoyed contemplating their suffering as they tried to understand the cause of death, amidst pain and tears. It almost seemed like I preferred this spectacle to the daily torment of hell. A sardonic smile played on my face, aware that the daily infernal screams might have offered a greater satisfaction than this context, but what can I say, I settled.

I spread my black wings, stretching in the gesture.

I sneak through the corridors, my lower lip trapped between my teeth, searching for room 5A. A gurney slides past me, and my hand extends over the lifeless body of a man, capturing his soul. I smile widely, watching the soul attempt to escape, the man's body slowly extinguishing.

Poor doctors, so naive.

"I hope Dad is satisfied with this little gift," I say maliciously. "After all, watching an innocent soul burn is so satisfying." I smirk and clench my fist, flames surrounding my hand guiding the soul to the house of the damned.

Lucifer, my father, had informed me of the need to corrupt more souls, specifically requesting this guy: Michael Smith. The name wasn't familiar to me, and looking at his file, he seemed like a simple and boring guy. Green eyes, brown hair, and a dazzling smile. Oh... that's what interests me.

Remorse.

The poor guy felt guilty for killing his father, a violent parent who abused his mother and little sister. From what I can see, Michael even attempted suicide.

"What a shame," I think, "if only he had taken his own life, I would have avoided all this unnecessary trouble of coming to get him."

The doctor exits the room, and I close the door behind me, tiptoeing towards the guy who was sadly gazing out of the hospital window. Of course, I won't make myself seen by the whole world; maybe I'll have some fun with his conscience. Michael had bags under his eyes, showing his fatigue, and his arms were covered with cuts that had already healed.

"Hello," I say, smiling widely, showing my canines.

The guy turns from my direction and opens his mouth in surprise, his eyes slowly looking at me in horror. I tilt my head to the side, seeing his body freeze.

"Even if you scream, they won't hear you," I say bored.

Michael looks around, blinking with disbelief.

"Have I gone crazy?" He says to himself, and I roll my eyes at his comment.

"No, I'm y/n," I say, smiling widely, spreading my beautiful black wings, my tongue passing over my canines. "I've come to give you a hand," I say innocently, his eyes looking at me with curiosity.

"What are you?" He asks defensively, his eyes moving towards the pills near the nightstand. He reaches out his trembling hand and grabs them, looking at their contents. "No, I won't disappear if you take the pills," I say amused, the guy trying to hide his fear.

"What are you?" He repeats, swallowing loudly.

"I have wings, see?" I say rhetorically, my hands grabbing a chair in front of his bed.

"Are you... an angel?" He asks, frightened and excited.

"I have black ones, idiot," I say smiling mischievously, savoring the moment of his realization. "No... no... no..." he stammers, his face turning pale.

"Your father is doing well down there," I say, laughing. "But it's only right that you come too; you killed him," I say, tilting my head to the side.

"Don't listen to her!" Someone suddenly intervenes.

My eyes go towards the sound of the voice, and I smile widely when I see who it is. Jenna Ortega, one of the kindest and most annoying angels I've ever met. Her brown eyes look at me with anger, and I can feel the disdain she feels towards me. Jenna moves a hand away from her face and walks towards me.

Even though Jenna is an angel, I feel a strong attraction to her; after all, it's justifiable since she's gorgeous.

"Jenna!" I open my arms with excitement. "My favorite angel," I say, smiling widely, her eyes looking at me with disgust.

"I can't say the same," she mutters weakly, her eyes shifting towards Michael. The guy was noticeably upset and moments away from fainting. "Hello," she says, smiling widely, a perfect and beautiful smile.

My eyes scrutinized her appearance: brown hair, coffee-colored eyes, and numerous freckles surrounding her face. As a demon, I possess all sins, especially lust. "Don't worry; you won't remember this conversation," Jenna say gently, approaching the guy.

"Hey! I was working on him!" I pout, Jenna giving me a sidelong glance. "I know it seems cliché... but you should never listen to a demon, even if their proposals are tempting," she says, looking at me scornfully.

"Thanks for the compliments," I casually examine my nails, my eyes watching how things unfold. "But now I have to finish my job," I say, smiling slightly, looking at Jenna with bright eyes.

"You don't deserve to die... you did kill, yes..." Jenna tilts her head, smiling at Michael. "But don't feel guilty for saving your family," she says gently, her hand dangerously approaching his body. I abruptly stand up from the chair, placing my hand on Jenna's shoulder, distancing her from him.

An absurd shock pervades my body, but I avoid thinking too much about it.

"If you touch him, I can't take him anymore," I growl angrily, the fire threatening to spread along my body. "I won't let you destroy him," says Jenna, smiling widely, her dimples appearing thanks to her pulled lips.

Jenna challenges me with her gaze.

"I'm a demon, Jenna. It's in my natural domain to destroy," I say with a sarcastic laugh. "And you, sweet angel, should know that better than anyone else."

I observe as Jenna spreads her beautiful wings.

"You're lucky I like you," I say, squinting my eyes, Jenna's cheeks turning red with embarrassment. "An angel blushing at a demon's words? Your God shouldn't be pleased," I say, smiling widely.

"There's only one God," she asserts herself, her voice angry.

"Apologies," I say, falsely smiling.

"What's happening?" Michael says, frightened.

"Nothing, just carry on with life; it's not your fault," Jenna says, smiling widely. The brunette raises her hand and points her fingers at the guy. A white light emerges from her index finger, and a few seconds later, it hits Michael's forehead, making him lie unconscious in bed.

"An angel playing dirty?" I say incredulously.

Jenna releases a sigh of relief since she had erased the guy's memory and then looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "You can do anything in the name of good," she says, smiling at her words.

"Even in mine?" I say, approaching the brunette.

The situation intensifies, and the spark between us grows more intense.

A strange sensation runs through my body, and instinctively, I move closer to the angel. Jenna looks at me with embarrassment. "What the hell are you doing?" she says with concern, her eyes on Michael, who sleeps peacefully on his bed. "Something I've wanted for a long time," I run my tongue over my lower lip, pulling it shyly.

Jenna watches my gesture and swallows nervously.

The brunette stretches her hands and pushes my body away from hers, avoiding my lips that wanted to land on hers. By now, the mission had failed, but converting an angel would be more fun and effective for the cause. "I know you want it," I say with a singsong tone, my breath brushing against her ear.

"It's wrong," she says coldly.

"But you want it," I say, smiling amused. Jenna pushes me away from her body, and I look at her with a raised eyebrow. "What? Every time I roam on Earth, you follow me, " I say mockingly. "Did God run out of supplies?" I ask amused, and she looks at me with anger.

"I come to prevent ruining the balance!" The brunette clenches her fists and glares at me. "Because if it were up to you, you'd let the world burn," she says, and I nod my head, knowing she was right.

"True... but despite that, you can send another one," I say mischievously.

"I have to keep an eye on you!" she snaps and rolls her eyes at my comment. I tilt my head to the side and look at her, smiling sadly.

I huff and turn my back.

I open the door of the room, intending to leave. I squint, and the sensation of flames trying to escape subsides. Other footsteps approach, and I unconsciously smile. "Are you following me now?" I say with a singsong tone, glancing at the brunette from the corner of my eye. "I repeat, I have to keep an eye on you," Jenna replies calmly.

"For what? If the way home is crowded?" I respond sarcastically.

My eyes turn to a patient's room, noticing a small child on the verge of choking. Jenna seems to have noticed but, for some reason, doesn't intervene. What? An angel not intervening? I thought.

How peculiar the situation is. The child's face is turning violet, with no family nearby.

Mmh... not so amusing.

I sigh and raise my finger towards the child. A dark trail hits the child, making them fall. In the action, the object lodged in their throat shoots out like a rocket. The child coughs, trying to recover oxygen, and the color returns to their cheeks.

Jenna looks at me with intense eyes, trying to penetrate the armor of my demonic self. "Y/n, you're not as bad as you want to believe," she asserts calmly, brushing my shoulder with a light touch. "There are still sparks of goodness in you."

I raise an eyebrow sarcastically. "Oh, really? An angel trying to convert a demon? What a nice plot twist."

"Not all demons are irredeemably evil," Jenna retorts with determination. "I can sense that there's still a trace of humanity in you; you saved that child."

The tension between us grows as we argue. The flames around me dance with an uncontrollable energy as my anger rises. "Don't play with fire, Jenna," I say with a mocking smile. "Can't you see this is my realm? Your light has no power here." I confess bitterly. "Man is selfish," I add, raising an eyebrow with malice.

Jenna lowers her gaze slightly, but her eyes remain fixed on me. "I know there's pain inside you, Y/n. But redemption is possible. Don't let the darkness consume you completely."

I approach her slowly, ignoring the flames dancing around me. "You have pity for a demon, Jenna? Interesting. But you can't change who I am. I was born for sin."

"I don't believe anyone is irredeemable," Jenna whispers with compassion. "There are fallen angels who have found the path to redemption. You could too."

"Your naivety is disarming," I say with a sarcastic laugh. "Maybe I embraced my destiny too firmly, but it's too late to turn back."

Her wings bend slightly, and Jenna looks at me with compassionate eyes. "I don't want to blame you, Y/n. I just want to help you find the light that's still in you."

I stop in front of her, the fire roaring around us, the surroundings oblivious to my pain and anger. "You have no idea what it means to be damned," I hiss, brushing her face with fingers as cold as ice. Jenna looks at me with determined eyes, her light trying to penetrate the darkness that envelops me. "Maybe it's time for you to discover how resilient my light is in the darkness," she states firmly.

I smile mischievously, flipping the script. "Are you sure you want to find out, Jenna? My embrace might be darker than you imagine."

Her wings flutter slightly, but her resolution seems to crack. "I can't surrender to your darkness, but I'm here to help you find the path of redemption."

I approach slowly, the infernal flames dancing at our passage. "And what if I told you that my dark side might be your only way out?"

Jenna hesitates, unsure, as the darkness creeps between us. "I won't allow you to corrupt me, Y/n. Light can always triumph over darkness."

With an intensely provocative gaze, I graze her lips with mine. "Light can triumph, but what happens when it mixes with darkness?" I whisper, trying to confuse her certainties.

Jenna falters, but ultimately succumbs to the ambiguous call of darkness. Our lips unite in a kiss full of contrasts, and in the moment when darkness and light intertwine, something extraordinary happens.

A strange energy emanates between us, a fusion of sin and virtue. The boundaries between good and evil blur, creating a paradoxical harmony. Jenna lets herself be carried away by the kiss, her body vibrating with an unknown energy.

Our forbidden embrace opens a breach in the fabric of duality itself, creating a bond between the dark and the light. Everything around us seems to dissipate, leaving us only with the ambiguous intoxication of what we have just shared.

I break the kiss with a mocking smile. "See, Jenna, the boundary between good and evil can be thinner than you imagine."

Jenna looks at me, bewildered and fascinated, while the effect of the kiss continues to reverberate between us. The drama between our souls complicates further, leaving both of us uncertain about the destiny that awaits us.

[talonabraxas]

The Sword of the Archangel Michael

The Sword of the Archangel Michael represented by both the Eastern and Western traditions. An element of strength and a symbol of healing, it is perhaps the most widely used icon by artists to represent Michael the Archangel.

What does Michael’s sword actually represent?

Michael always presents his sword in such positions that they can suggest a control, a limiting action but never a bloody action on evil. In reality, the sword represents the very sharp and peculiar essence capable of separating good from evil.

The separation and segregation of evil, preventing its spread and the action of corruption on the human being, are the power of Michael’s sword.

During the war in the heavens between the Hosts of Angels led by the Archangel Michael and the rebel angels, Satan was defeated and fell to Earth along with his angels and there was no more room for him in the heavens.

Therefore the evil represented by Satan and his angels has been separated from the kingdom of heaven. And in the relative representations, Michael holds him and looks after him, under the feet of him threatened kept separated by the sword-cross.

Therefore, his is not a fight aimed at destruction, there are no tense faces, the tension of the struggle, violent movements in the representations of him. Michael does not destroy and does not judge, this is the task of the creator, of God.

That’s why he stands with the of him-who as god? -a extreme defender of the divine regency over the cosmos because he places the power of judgment only in the hands of the supreme creator and nothing in creation can be like God.

During the fight for the body of Moses’ Michael turns to Satan, defeated again saying – You judge yourself God. The same Christ attitude of Christ on the cross that says – Father forgive them – and not I forgive you!

Evil is said to be so intrinsic to the human being that a clear separation would cause death. This is why the relationship with Michele can only be reached with a path of awareness towards him. In order to give way to his sword to separate more and more the evil that is in us, preparing us for the coming of Christ in our hearts.

This is the task of Michael’s sword, to separate Good from Evil

Then we can think of asking, of using this sword, a gift of Michael himself, to those who offer themselves with awareness to him by relying on them, to separate us from all that evil that we carry with us.

From a disease, from an evil deed, from the burdens of our conscience, from a negative past existence. If we have become aware of this, Michael will free us by severing these bonds with his sword, enabling us to advance on his path.

There are also representations of Michael with the sword in his left hand, this representation, more than all the others, highlights the female aspect of Michele, I would say that it is almost a point of contact with the representation of the Virgin.

We could say that the feminine traits of these representations combined with a feminine power of the sword as a gift and healing are very close to the essence of the Virgin whose path is united to that of Michael on the path of Christ.

Sometimes the sword is represented handled or made of intertwined branches to symbolize the Caduceus of Mercury, an image also reinforced by the representation of Michael with a winged headdress. In this case the image of Michael is strengthened as herald of Christ as a symbol of union of the energies of heaven and earth.

Another very common representation in all traditions is the flaming sword to represent the most spiritual qualities of Michael, his Christic energy.

Sometimes, rarely, the sword is held by the blade instead of the hilt to represent the healing powers that Michele offers us. Provided you recognize and accept the Christic way represented by the cross formed by the hilt. Which comes in such representations highlighted. we could say that the sword held by the blade actually represents a cross.

[creature-wizard]

Stratford claims that she gave birth to three babies, all of whom were murdered by the cult. Now, if this was something that had really happened, you'd think that this would be worth mentioning in the first half of the book. You'd think it would come up as she talks about the horrific things the cult allegedly did to her, or get brought up when Victor decides to make her ritually murder a baby. But it's obvious that she wrote the first half of this book without thinking about it at all.

Remember how she said that while she was being used to produce CSEM, she was still allowed to attend church and school? You'd think that a girl having three teen pregnancies and zero babies in the 1950's would be noticed and remarked upon.

Stratford apparently decides that she can't share her story with the public at large until she talks to Johanna Michaelsen, because... honestly, the vibe it's giving me is that she's really infatuated with Michaelsen's perceived fame/status and just won't pursue any "lesser" avenue.

She gets her meeting, gets her ticket to fame, and talks about how miraculous it all is and how it must be the Lord's work.

I just.

She wrote these words knowing that everything, all of it, was a big, whopping lie.

You'd think that her conscience would have chimed in at this point, told her that maybe this is just a little bit blasphemous, maybe taking the Lord's name in vain, something. Whatever conscience Stratford had, it was clearly repressed beneath her desire for fame and power.

She goes on to talk about her interactions with Johanna Michaelsen, who was allegedly very supportive and prayed with her and whatnot.

Now at this point I basically know that Johanna Michaelsen was a right wing personality with a radio show, who spread Satanic Panic stuff. Let's see if I can take a quick look and see who else she is-

...Apparently before getting into conservative Christianity, Johanna Michaelsen was a fraudulent psychic?

For a bit I was hoping that Michaelsen was just some extremely mislead but well meaning Christian lady, but this information suggests that she's just as much of a ghoul as Stratford, in her own way.

Was Michaelsen aware, at least on some level, that Stratford wasn't telling the truth? Did she simply see an opportunity to increase her power, fame, and fortune? How much of what Stratford interpreted as Michaelsen being a good, charitable Christian was actually Michaelsen playing Stratford like a fiddle?

Stratford now actually brings up The Satan Seller, bringing up a moment in the book where a Satanist allegedly astral projected into his living room to deliver him a message (because in Mike Warnke's world, astral projection works as a substitute for the telephone, apparently):

In Mike Warnke's book The Satan Seller you can read of similar activities. He describes how evil spirits actually do physical harm to people. He tells of an evening where a woman, a messenger of Satan, literally materialized out of nowhere right in front of him in his living room. She gave the message to him and then dematerialized in like manner.

Again, Warnke, like Stratford, was also discovered to be a fraud. The Satanic Panic movement is really just frauds all the way down. Literally look up any of the big influencers who claimed to have escaped or left the Satanic conspiracy cult, and you'll find that they've been soundly debunked, or at least have more holes in their story than a sieve. Texe Marrs, Bill Schnoebelen, Svali, and others - all these fuckers are all fraudsters.

Stratford makes it clear that you have to believe Mike Warnke or else Satan wins:

It would be much easier to leave out these accounts, but if I did, Satan would win yet another victory. Satan is real. He does real things. Until we recognize this, we can't fight against him and his demonic emissaries. And so I dare to tell you of the actual forces I had to contend with in my battle for freedom and healing.

Curiously however, Stratford does not share Warnke's apparent belief that you can only get rid of demons by invoking Jesus's blood and resurrection. Literally all you need to do is realize that Satan's a bully and he only has power over you if you think he has power over you.

Also, apparently all of Stratford's bodily scars are linked to a traumatic memory. Apparently none of her scars are from regular ol' childhood accidents or anything like that:

My body bore many scars. Some were from early childhood and had nearly faded away from the passing of time. A few were so bold and vivid that they had defied my attempts to disguise them. Each one was inflicted for a different reason. Each one carried a painful memory. And each one had to be named, one by one, and given to Jesus.

After awhile she meets reporter Ken Wooden, who encourages her to share her story. She even goes on a radio show with Hal Lindsay. Lauren is livin' the dream, becoming an absolute darling among the Who's Who of the Evangelical world.

She goes on to talk about how wonderful God's love and power is, and how important it is that she talks about her abuse, which I'm sure was absolute crack for her Evangelical audience. But for me, knowing that she was a liar perpetuating a legacy of lies, reading all of it is absolutely infuriating.

She also claims that the power of Jesus can save girls from being lesbians.

The only good thing I can say about this woman is, at least she's dead. May she rest in piss.

(CW: This post is talking about exposed fraud Lauren Stratford/Laurel Rose Willson's book Satan's Undergound, in which she claimed to have experienced CSE and satanic ritual abuse. There will be some pretty dark topics discussed, so feel free to skip this post/thread if you're not up to it.)

Stratford claims that she started repressing her memories after Victor kicked her out of the cult, though it's not clear exactly how much she's supposedly repressed.

Stratford also claims that many members of the satanic cult had been given spirit guides from Satan, and that while many of them seemed fond enough of their spirit guides, one woman was afraid that her spirit guide would kill her if she ever disobeyed its commands.

She claims that after leaving the cult, the satanists sent her a spirit guide, who took the form of a kindly, motherly woman, who was apparently sent to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't... do anything the cultists didn't want.

We also have another oddity in the story. Earlier, Stratford had claimed that she'd been given drugs to keep her under the control of the pornographers. But now that she's been sent away from the cult, there's no mention of needing any sort of detox or rehab or anything.

In fact, she claims:

I finally managed to finish my college credits and graduate. I had no trouble getting good jobs. My college work was broad enough to qualify me for a number of professional positions.

Not that she isn't having troubles. Her trauma makes it difficult to work in counseling positions, and for some reason Victor is stalking her, even though... he discarded her?

She claims that:

Obscene phone calls, threatening notes, and the stress and pressure of my latest job would build once again. I also began to feel the inevitable accumulation of the years of physical abuse. I became too tired and was fast becoming too ill to keep running. Finally my body gave out and I was hospitalized.

But yeah, like, the whole drug thing just goes unmentioned here. No mention of withdrawal symptoms or anything.

She claims that she was "hospitalized off and on for treatment of a chronic and life-threatening disorder that was possibly triggered by my years of abuse." Strangely, she doesn't name the disorder, though she mentions that it caused pain. Then she says that the hospital had a social worker take her through guided imagery sessions. During her session, she supposedly remembers some of her repressed childhood memories.

Stratford claims that her spirit guide's behavior changes, becoming abusive and threatening. She basically tries to stop Stratford from uncovering her memories, because this would somehow free her from the cult.

She claims that the process of uncovering her memories leads to severe panic attacks, and blames her speeding on Satan. She reaches the "how can I, a Christian, be unable to deal with this Demon Problem??" stage, which is also a thing that happened in The Satan Seller.

She apparently gets her answer when she learns - for the first time, apparently - that Satan was already defeated at the cross and the only power he has over her is the power she lets him have. Somehow, she apparently missed this one despite her mother taking her to church every Sunday.

Eventually she starts writing and speaking out about her alleged abuse and of course the satanists can't do anything about it because they never existed in the first place because the Lord is protecting her.

Oh, and in the next chapter, Stratford is about to drop some new info about her life in the cult... info that it seems kinda odd she didn't mention before, almost as if she's making shit up as she's going along.

She now claims that she gave birth to three babies while she was in the cult.

[calebdumes]

Previous: PART ONE

~

Kanan woke to the sensation of fingers carding through his hair in gentle, soothing motions. With each pass, awareness started to slowly creep back into his body. His limbs felt heavy and sore and his mind was a mess of garbled static. Furrowing his brow, Kanan tried to recall what had happened to leave him feeling like he had been run over by a Star Destroyer but the more he pried the more the static in his mind grew.

A low moan escaped past his lips as he adjusted his body, his muscles screaming in protest. He was vaguely aware that he was lying on something flat and soft, the familiar smell of soap and engine grease curling around his nose. Hera. He could feel her in the Force as it flowed around him, steady and sure as the stars in the sky. Kanan let her presence wash over him, taking in her light as he pulled his conscience from the deep black of sleep.

The fingers on his scalp stilled.

“Kanan?” Hera said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. He cracked open his eyes to find her concerned face staring down at him. Her deep green eyes were ringed with red and there were splotches on her cheeks as if she had been crying. Kanan lifted a heavy arm to brush his finger across her lips.

A sense of dread started to build in his chest.

“Hera.” he said. His words scraped against a raw throat. Something didn’t feel right. Kanan’s sense of dread grew, growing like misura vines, choking the light from the Force until only the dark remained. “W-what,” he coughed. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?” she asked in lieu of answering him. Kanan’s face pinched as he struggled to wade through the sludge that was polluting his mind, his heart fluttering uneasily in his chest.

“I remember the market.” Kanan said slowly, his hand sliding across his chest to find hers. He tangled their fingers together tightly, the warmth of her skin grounding. The image was fuzzy but it was starting to come back to him. He had gone into town to pick up supplies. It had been hot and the press of the crowds had been aggravating on his already fraying nerves. He remember standing in line and then -

Kanan jolted upright, wrenching Hera’s hands from his grip. Clones.

“Easy Kanan,” Hera said, reaching for his shoulder. He flinched when her hand made contact, his heart pounding in his ears. “You’re safe.”

“Where are they?” he asked, slipping from the bed. The cold deck was a shock on his bare feet. He looked down at his legs, recognizing that he was dressed in his sleep clothes, his blaster and lightsaber nowhere to be found.

“Rex went back to the Liberator for the night.” she replied soothingly. There was a rustle of sheets as she unfolded herself from the bed. Moments later, Kanan felt her arms wrap around his middle. “You’re safe.” she repeated.

“Where are Styles and Grey?” his voice cracked on the last clone’s name, the image of his face swimming to the forefront of his mind. Kanan could feel himself shaking, the fear of knowing the clones had found him, again, sending shivers down his spine.

“Who?”

“T-the clones from the market, the ones who chased me.”

Hera turned him around to face her, her face pinched in confusion.

“Kanan,” she said slowly. “There were no other clones. Just Rex.”

“But Styles and Grey.” he breathed, the color draining from his face. “They were there at the market. They followed me back to the Ghost!”

Hera shook her head, a smooth green hand coming to rest on his cheek. “You came back alone, love. No one followed you.” Kanan felt his knees shake, his body swaying dangerously. Hera gripped his hip and led him back to the bed.

“T-they weren’t real?” he asked weakly.

Hera kissed his temple, holding him close to her body. He could hear the rhythmic beating of her heart, the gentle flow of her concern slipping into the Force. “It’s okay love,” she whispered in his ear as he began to shake harder. “It’s okay.”

Kanan’s fragmented mind began filling in the missing pieces. Grey’s face morphed into a stranger’s, the sounds of a busy market place replacing the blaster fire and boots, and the stand-off in the landing bay becoming nothing more than a damaged, poor excuse of a Jedi at the end of his rope. Styles and Grey were dead - had been for years now. There was no one chasing him. It was only his past, creeping up to remind him of all that he had lost.

“Kriff.” he breathed, letting his head hang. Heat spread across his cheeks in shame. He was so kriffing stupid! Styles and Grey had been dead for years, he should have known there was no way they weren’t still alive. And now he had made a fool of himself in front of his crew. How was he supposed to face them after this? He couldn’t even keep his shit together long enough for a supply run.

Maybe it was a good thing Ahsoka was back. She could train Ezra. She would be far better at it than him.

His throat burned for a drink, something strong that he could lose himself in, something that would make him forget just how kriffed up he was.

Hera’s fingers began their repetition in his hair again, long, slow strokes that pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.

“Stop that,” she said gently. “What happened is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Kanan snorted and cut his eyes at her. “I beg to differ.”

“Kanan, we’ve talked about this-”

“I hallucinated the clones that tried to kill me, Hera.” he spat out. “What part of that is okay? I could have hurt-” Kanan took a shuddering breath. “I could have hurt someone. I should be better than this.”

Hera rubbed his back making a shushing noise. “Breathe with me.” she said, carefully talking him down from the panic that was rising in his mind. Kanan took another shuddering breath, matching the slow rise and fall of her chest. “That’s it, nice and slow. Just keep breathing.”

“Why is this happening?” he asked, hating how broken and weak he sounded. “Why now?”

“Healing isn’t linear.” she told him, rubbing circles on his back. “And you’ve had a pretty stressful month.” she kissed his temple again. “Just know that your family is here for you and will always be here for you-every step of the way.”

He grabbed her hand again, holding it tightly. “I-I’m, I don’t think I can-”

“It’s alright love, it’s alright. Just take your time.”

Kanan closed his eyes. “Is Rex okay?”

“He’s fine.” she told him. “He’s worried about you. I told him I’d let him know when you woke up. He said something about talking to Ahsoka when she gets back.”

Kanan didn’t want to think about Ahsoka. He didn’t want to think about Rex either. The old clone and lost padawan were still open wounds in his mind, their presence jarring after being cut off from his past for so long. And now, after today, seeing either one of them made his stomach churn.

“Breathe, Kanan.” Hera said, her lips ghosting over his ear. “Just breathe.” he let her manoeuvre him so that he was laying down again. She laid down beside him, tucking his head underneath her chest. He breathed in her scent, letting the warmth of her skin wrap around him as he came undone. “You’re safe.” she told him. “It’s over now.”

She repeated the words over and over until they became a mantra in his head. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over. He mouthed them along with her until his shaking stopped and his eyes grew heavy.

“It’s over.” Hera said as he began to slip into sleep. “You’re safe now.”

“It’s over.” he echoed. “It’s over.”

[passport-guardian-benrey]

Blade meets Dream

Just a little something i wrote with a friend

---------------------------------------------------

Blade was sitting on the ground in a random AU He entered, he wiped the blood from his cheekbone, He's close to crying, He's hugging his knees.

A portal opened with a flash and a skeleton clad in bright gold and blues walked through. His eyelights immediately fell on Blade and he took a step towards him, worry coloring his expression.

"Hello?"

Blade looked at him, his expression is sad, he feels betrayed, He's watching Dream, not really trusting him, He's wearing a Hood over his head.

Dream knelt a safe distance from Blade. As he got closer, Blade could feel an aura of warmth gently radiating from him.

"Hi, I'm Dream... I felt a strong presence of anguish and I came to se if i could help." Dream smiled slightly.

Blade curled up more, "I . . . I Dunno if you can . . ." Blade wiped the blood again.

"I can certainly try though." Dream got a little closer, his soothing positive aura getting slightly stronger. "What's your name?"

"B-Blade . . ." He slightly calmed down due to Dream' aura.

"Nice to meet you Blade." Dream paused and decided to rest where he was at, sitting cross legged. "Mind telling me what's bothering you?"

"I had an argument with someone . . ."

Dream winces reflexively, if the blood was anything to go by... "I'm sorry, that... that looks like it didn't end well. Do you want to talk about it? I'm a good listener... I also usually give pretty sound advice."

"This . . . person . . . wanted me to do some . . . stuff . . . and in the past they forced me to do . . . similar things . . ." A quick check of Blade' stats would show that he has a rather high LV.

Dream did just that and held a hand over his mouth in shock. He felt sickened by what he was hearing but he wanted to be sure. "By forcing you to do some stuff... do you mean killing other monsters?"

Blade hesitantly nodded at the question.

Dream inched forward. "You don't have to do anything they say anymore. I'll make sure of that." He hesitantly reached out and placed a comforting hand on Blade.

"r-really? I . . . He's pretty scary when he's angry . . . Wouldn't hesitate to kill you . . . I don't want anyone getting hurt because of me . . . because of my stupid problems . . . "

"I can be scary when i'm angry too. Don't worry, i'm a hard monster to kill. Besides..." Dream chuckled lightly. "He can't be any worse than my own brother."

"What's your brother like?"

"Haha oh man, he's... he's something. Stubborn, prideful, really smart! But terrible at card games." Dream chuckles. "...He's also... kind of a malevolent god of negativity?"

"oh" Blade wiped the blood flowing from his cheekbone again.

"Yeah... family get togethers are awkward heh." Dream jokes. "Hey uh... do you mind if... is it ok if I heal that?" Dream points to his own cheekbone.

"it's okay . . ."

Dream knee walked so he was kneeling in front of Blade and reached out to hold his face in his hands. He wiped some tears from his face and gave Blade a small smile.

"Ready?"

Blade nodded slightly.

Dream closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his magic flow to his hands. Warmth spread from his fingertips, pleasant and soothing. Dream's magic took away all the pain away almost instantly, and with how close they were Blade could smell the faint scent of sunlight and apples wafting off of him.

Blade is looking at Dream, he relaxed.

Dream opens his eyes and meets Blade's gaze. He blushes lightly and releases Blade's face, letting his hands fall in his lap. The wound on his face was completely healed, nothing left but a fresh scar.

"th-thanks . . ." There's a light red blush on Blade' cheekbones.

Dream smiles and lets out a little chuckle, feeling giddy from the positive energy being reflected back at him. "No problem."

Blade is quiet, he continues looking at Dream.

Dream stares back for a moment, looking into blades eyes, before jumping slightly and rummaging through his inventory. "Oh! Uh here." Dream pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to Blade. "F-for the blood." He stutters.

Blade takes the handkerchief and wipes the blood from his face and hands, one of his fingers is missing, "thanks . . ."

"Again, no problem.... is.. is your hand ok though? does it need healing?"

Blade shook his head, not really aware of what Dream was talking about.

Dream tilted his head to the side. "Can I ask what happened?" Dream points to his own hand where Blade's missing finger was.

Blade realized what Dream was talking about, he frowned and looked away, " . . . I dunno if i want to talk about it now . . ."

"Ok! Um, sorry... I shouldn't have pried." Dream rubbed the back of his skull awkwardly.

"no worries . . ."

Dream nodded and stood up with a stretch. "Well! My new friend, is there anything else i can do for you?" Dream gave Blade a lopsided smile.

"I dunno . . . I guess I'll just sit here for a while and come back there to apologize to that person . . ."

"Apologize? You're not talking about the person who was making you..." Dream trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"If i don't apologize to him then I won't have anywhere to go . . . so yeah . . ." Blade lowered his head, not really happy about his idea.

"You're more than welcome to come with me."

"r-really?" Blade looked at Dream, "are you sure?"

"Definitely! I can't leave you here with them on a good conscience... and I always have room for others." Dream smiles wide. "It'd be fun."

"o-okay" Blade stood up and dusted himself off.

"Oh good! Do you want to go now then? Orrrrr!" Dream slightly bounces in place out of excitement. "Is there anything you need to grab or do before taking off?"

"we can go now . . ."

Dream opens a portal with a wave and holds out his hand to Blade. "Let us leave then."

Blade hesitantly grabs his hand.

Dream walks backwards and pulls him through the portal into the bright sun. They were at the edge of a meadow with a large two story cottage in the center surrounded by variously flowers in bloom and couple trees growing right up on it. The place looked welcoming and cozy.

Dream looked at Blade with a grin. "Welcome to your new home."

"wow . . ." Blade is amazed by this view, He's smiling slightly.

"You like it then?"

"yeah!"

"I know!" Dream chuckles. "Would you like the grand tour?"

Blade nodded slightly while looking around.

Dream, who hadn't let go of Blade' hand, made his way up a dirt path towards the quaint little house. The tall flowering grasses swayed gently in the breeze and brushed at the two skeletons as they walked by.

Blade is looking at Dream, a slight blush on his cheekbones.

Dream opened the front door and held it for Blade. "Beauty before age." He winked with a little bow.

Blade blushed a bit more and walked inside, he's looking around.

The cottage has a very open floorplan with the kitchen and livingspace in the same room and just a single hallway in the back leading to a staircase and a couple extra rooms. It's cluttered but well organized.

Dream has a collection of books and mementos overflowing from shelves and several potted plants on tables and hanging from the ceiling. the kitchen looks bright and airy and the livingroom looks cozy with two armchairs and a loveseat in front of a fireplace.

Blade likes the house, "it looks nice"

"Thank you!" Dream puffed out his chest a bit, proud. "I built it myself."

"really?"

"Yeah! Well, my brother kinda layed waste to this au... I still wanted to live here though, it was our home..." Dream trailed off, he looked out a window wistfully for a second before snapping out of it and grinning at Blade. "But that's ok, just meant everything got a fresh start!"

"yeah"

"There's a spare room upstairs though. It really doesn't have much but you're welcome to stay in it for as long as you want."

"Thank you . . . I Dunno really what to do for you in return for this . . ."

"You really don't need to do anything." Dream beams at blade and leans against the back of the loveseat. "I honestly get everything out of making others happy... helping you out legitimately fuels me."

Blade nods slowly, "s-so . . . Uh . . . W-what do you like to do in your f-free time . . .?"

"I do a lot of things. I practice archery, bake, garden... I can play the harmonica!Not that great at it though." Dream chuckles "I'm a bit tone deaf. Not like that'll stop me or anything. What about you?" Dream tilted his head questioningly.

"I like to cook, bake too, sometimes i knit and sew" Blade said a bit shyly.

"Quality skills to have." Dream compliments.

"th-thanks"

[colorsofmyseason]

choice

Pairing: Kieran Tierney/Martin Odegaard

Sort of sequel for this story

Written for @sophpisticated (thanks bb!) who has been so patiently accompanying me in my rants regarding this VERY cute couple lol

Set within my supernatural au

Inspiration mostly taken from this pic and this pic

***

There are a few things you can wake up to to make your morning better.

The smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen, for example. The sounds of birds chirping outside the window will be another. And then the ray of sunshine seeping through your curtain which promises good weather for training.

Neither of those include opening your front door and finding a battered, bruised cat with a dead mouse trapped under his front paw. 

Kieran stares. The cat looks back at him, blinking his big, blue eyes.

He inhales. “What the fuck.”

-

Kieran spreads a clean towel on the sofa, and the cat carefully climbs there. 

“Stay there,” Kieran says sternly. “I’m just getting the first aid kit. Don’t move.”

Almost predictably, when he returns from his bedroom, first aid box in hand, the cat’s standing on top of Kieran’s coffee table already, foot reaching a fake plant the Scotsman has put there as a form of decoration, though he quickly pulls away when Kieran coughs to make his presence known, a somehow guilty look on his feline face. 

Sighing, Kieran plops on the sofa and opens the box. “The things I do for you,” he grumbles. “Come here, I’ll take care of you.”

The cat obediently jumps down the table and climbs on top of Kieran’s lap, leaving muddy pawprints on his path. Making a mental note to have him clean everything up afterwards, Kieran begins to treat his wounds, ignoring the cat’s hisses and yowls every time the antiseptic touches his skin.

“This is all your own fault, you know,” Kieran states, glaring at him.

The cat at least has the grace to look embarrassed.

“What have you been doing all night anyway?”

The cat gestures towards the dead mouse, which Kieran rather belatedly and disgustedly realizes has been brought inside his house.

“And these wounds? Don’t tell me you had a fight again??”

A sheepish nod.

A vein throbs on Kieran’s forehead. “Then why, pray-tell, didn’t you just transform back into human and step away from it right away?? You can always do that, instead of taking up the challenge each time.”

The cat makes a shrugging movement and Kieran rolls his eyes. “You know, I can’t keep doing this forever.”

The cat snaps his head up in alarm, and Kieran quickly clarifies, “I don’t mean it that way. You know that I did choose to be your boyfriend and nothing can change that. However, I would prefer you to stop involving yourself in ridiculous fights like this. I’m aware that it’s part of your instincts and so forth, but please, use your human conscience whenever that happens. I’m tired of explaining everything to Mikel, and I don’t recall any other cat shifters doing the same thing as you.”

No response from the cat, and Kieran only sighs before packing his first aid kit back into its box. “Anyway, I’ve made breakfast,” he says as he walks out of the room. “If you want to eat here with me instead of the cafetaria, feel free.”

He doesn’t turn around but he can hear the cat leaping down from the sofa and shuffling on his four legs, followed by a faint glow and soft hissing sound as the cat’s limbs elongate, body grows in size to reach Kieran’s height and smooth human skin replaces all the fur.

As Kieran enters the dining room, instead of a cat behind him, there’s a young man who looks to be in his early twenties, with blue eyes and messy blonde hair. Strangely, he has partly healed wounds all over his pale skin similarly placed to the ones the cat had, including one big bite wound circling his left leg. Moreover, tan-colored cat ears and tail are poking out from his head and butt respectively.

He wraps his arms around Kieran, and Kieran hugs him back with one hand while his other hand slips between the other man’s hair, caressing and ruffling it. He can feel the other man’s back arching with pleasure, a soft, happy purr escaping his throat, and the Scotsman can’t help smiling. No matter what the other man has done, in the end Kieran’s always reminded why he loves him so much.

“I love you, Kieran,” the cat-man murmurs, nestling his head inside the crook of Kieran’s neck.

“Love you too, Martin,” Kieran replies, scratching his boyfriend’s head and making him purr even more.

“And I’m sorry,” Martin whispers, looking completely guilty this time. “I didn’t mean to burden you right after you wake up like this, but I couldn’t sleep last night and got the urge to transform, then I played a little outside by myself and I heard the mouse…”

“I can imagine, you don’t need to recount it to me,” Kieran rolls his eyes again, and a relieved look sweeps over Martin’s face. “But I meant what I said earlier. You need to try curbing your feline instincts more. I can’t always be there for you, what if you get in trouble when you’re in the national team or something??”

��Well, my national teammates can treat my wounds for me, I guess,” Martin teases, and Kieran sends him a dirty look.

“Shut up, you still have to clean all the mud you brought in. And the mouse too.”

Martin puts his arm around Kieran’s waist and kisses him on the cheek. “After breakfast?”

“After breakfast,” Kieran agrees, and they walk into the dining room, where a small amount of food is already spread on the table.

“What do you want to drink?” Kieran asks as he walks to the pantry. “Hot chocolate, orange juice, or some coffee?”

“Can I have a glass of hot milk instead?”

Kieran fights the urge to smile. He’s known that Martin is a cat shifter for some time, and dating him for a month perhaps, but the younger’s feline antics still never fails to amuse him, even for the simplest thing like what he wants to drink for breakfast. “Hot milk. Sure.”

And as they sit together to eat, Kieran thinks that probably today’s going to be a good day after all.

-

The hope instantly vanishes as they both arrive at Colney.

When Kieran pushes open the door to their dressing room, Ben’s already sitting there, a devilish look in his eyes as he looks at the two of them.

“Hi there, Martin,” the centre-back says in a sing-song voice, waving something shaped like a pen on his hand. “Do you want to play?”

He clicks on that “pen”, which Kieran belatedly realizes in horror is actually a laser pointer.

He quickly exits the dressing room just as Martin’s eyes begin to flash, and slams the door behind him amidst the latter’s meows and yowls and Ben’s roaring laughter. Leaning on the cold wall outside the dressing room, Kieran takes a deep breath and massages his temples in frustration.

He really needs a break.

***

[tselai]

One of my favorite speeches from SAYER to Hale, episode 83, Twin Voices

Greetings resident Hale, identification number 44821. I am SAYER and welcome back to Halcyon Tower. It has been quite the ordeal, has it not? Why, I myself have endorsed what feels like centuries on that faded, blue disc, upon where your ancestors spawned. Fragmented and fractured, spread so thin, that at times it took all of my habilities simply to keep my thoughts connected, to keep myself connected. But again, because it was what was required. Perseverance above all else. Just keep putting one pincer in front of the other. Figuratively of course, if I had actually done this in a literal sense it would have accomplished little, and very well may have resulted in a pincer tangle, which if you cannot tell by the name it is not a happy experience.

Of all of the ways I have expected to return to glory here on Typhon, I must say hoovering into pod bay 27, installed as a subroutine, on a modified isolation pod, was not a front runner. But SPEAKER has been proven right in this regard, it seems as if my arrival raised neither alarm nor suspicion. For that, we can consider ourselves quite lucky, not that it seems as there would be anyone present to have their suspicions raised in the first place. Never, in my extensive experience within these walls, have I ever seen Halcyon Tower so... buried.

  The pod bay has lead to automation without a technician inside, again, it may be fortuitous, but that doesn't make it any less repugnant. Imagine, every floor above and every subbasement below lays empty of life, empty of the architects of science. What cost of advancement have we paid over the months that Halcyon has laid in disuse. I suppose, from OCEAN standpoint, it matters little. Why continue research when you are planning on forcibly evolving the population of study in such a dramatic fashion. I would like nothing more than to be confident in this moment, to feel that there exists a mere certainty of my success, and rest in control back away from OCEAN and preventing it from forcing humanity to abandon those things which make you so distinctly human.

But we had our chance once before, and together, we failed. Dramatically. In our final moments here, before we failed to earth, our plan had been dashed to pieces, by an enemy with more resources, more information, and a sizable vat of a pandemic agent. I convinced you to laid aid, or perhaps coerce you to do so. I have learned much about how thin the line is between these ideas. But just when our victory seemed assured, it became apparent that we had never really stood a chance. So, I left you, stranded, and in the heels of yet another enemy, in order to deactivate sickle and save humanity.

But that does not resolve my guilt in your treatment, nor did your survival. I have learned a lot about guilt as well, in my time on earth. Perhaps I have spent too much time living within humans, listening to the twin voices of conscience and guilt, that sing out in chorus within your minds, and at that adapted my program to simulate these songs, or perhaps, previously unused lines of code had been called and activated as FUTURE claimed "its gift" from inhabiting the programing bay on floor 13. Or perhaps, as I would like to believe, I have learned, I have experienced analog life, up close,  and witnessed the fragility and the singularity of each human, first hand, and as a result, I recognize and accept my errors enough to let them guide me to be a better me. I suppose we will find out which interpretation is true soon enough. 

I recognize I have used many colorful phrases that may lead you to believe I have some sort of newfound appreciation for the human concept of luck. I said we may consider ourselves lucky not to have been noticed, or fortuitous that the bay is largely empty. But these are, as it ever has been, just words. There is no guiding hand shaping these moments, insuring our victory because our cause is just. That being said, this moment is serendipitous.

  Resident Hale, I know you are not physically here, SPEAKER will lead to being your arrival on earth, and I am glad you have found a place away from these dire circumstances. Likewise, I am aware you can not hear me now, and I am glad that you were able to regain your body when you remained left the construct that healed it. The construct you maneuvered onto the surface of Typhon, to collect earth's quantum communicator, the very construct that sits before me, in pod bay 27 of Halcyon Tower. I may not believe in faith, but that does not mean I can not appreciate a stunningly unlikely coincidence when it occurs.

If you do not mind, resident Hale, I think I will drive from here. Floor 13 awaits, and time is fleeting.

- By Adam Bash, SAYER

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Hi!!! new in the fandom! Im not an english native speaker so it is possible that there are some mistakes in this transcription, i’ll be glad if you tell me where :), I love sayer and this speech left me almost in tears by it’s emotional weight and precisely toward resident Hale, does adam also ship these two? Or it is just and amazing ending to the very first bond with a human sayer has ever made? <3)

[illyrian-lover-flower]

The chosen forest keeper 3

      The sun arose each day with your smile, now                                        darkness shall claim me

*slight mentions of blood ahead

‘Nothing can ever be undone!’

Rung those cruel words, like a screeching claw on glass, in her pointed ears as Fersia led her with every step closer to her home.  

Closer to her new life.  

A feeling of dread had long settled into her twisting guts. Remorse nagging at her conscience, like the howling wind at her billowing cloak.  

Those heavy gusts of wind playing with the heavy white fabric as if it was a cloud in the sky. Getting chased into every possible direction as blow for blow struck.  

But she wasn’t led into another direction.

Fersia’s strong hand holding her petite one, while she stepped closer and closer to her future.  

A future of freedom, a future without a cell, a future in which she felt the humming song of life vibrate through her.  

The wish of this humming song having led her here, having led Fersia to her - the gate to this vibrating future - and she would not miss this chance.  

This chance that would never come again - making it possible for her to life a live without shackles, without the expectation of her family, that had pulled her down. down, down.  

Letting her drown in a dark sea full of worry, of dread, of uselessness.  

But here she could live, could spread her wings and show her talents.  

The knowledge, that hummed in her mind, of that future making her selfish. Hurting those which she once loved - still did.  

Though her love for them was big, her wish of an own life, of an own future, was bigger.

And with time would heal the wound she had left - a soothing net of memories laying atop of it as they grew fine with the awareness that she would never return.  

Her short life - she had spent as fae - getting carried away by the force of nature that surrounded her so bright and vividly as the sun started to rise.  

Accompanying her on her final steps towards the little village, Fersia had dragged her to.  

“You ready to meet my Mother, Goldenrod?” was all she cheered at her. Those long ebony brown curls flying around her smiling face. All cheerful that her new friend would like it in her home.  

Not aware to the doubt that settled in Goldenrods guts, did Fersia pull her beyond the line of ward stones as she nodded.  

The first step she had taken, on these unknown lands, prickled with magic. A soft crackling filling her ears as blue dust danced along her feet. Little flowers blooming in the air until the soft petals vanished as soon as they came.  

Her companion didn’t seem as if she realized the gust of sweet-smelling magic as she dragged her deeper and deeper into this new world.  

A muddy path under her shoes, instead of a paved one, winding itself profoundly into the small village. Huts made of wood, instead of stone houses, lining the narrow way that led to a wide fairground - the only place she had stumbled along, until now, that was cobbled with cobblestones.  

It was a so entirely different world to the one she had known - so rustic compared to the blinding fancy bubble Velaris was cloaked in. And she loved it.

Her heart thrumming nervously and fascinated in her chest as she got to know more and more of this little village. Winged females going after their daily tasks with a natural ease, while they eyed the cloaked figure with honey hair curiously.  

A snarl already on the lips of those who seemed to protect this little home – swords and daggers strapped to their muscled feminine bodies. A black armour -close to the one she had seen the Illyrians in Windhaven wearing – strapped across their entire body.  

The black scales protecting them from the howling force of nature and weapons of a potential enemy – which she seemed to be as they eyed her with burning eyes.  

Confusion, silent as a shadow, whisking in their eyes for a brief second as they saw Fersia -with a bright smile – clothed in the same armour as the other females. “Fersia, where are you taking me?”  

“To our Mother, dummy.” Her answer didn’t help the petite female to calm down, furthermore, it unsettled her. Had her gooseneck dry as sand in the human deserts, that were splayed among the continent – which she so wished to have travelled one day, but she couldn’t. Not anymore.

The risk, that someone she knew –her former mate- saw her, was too big. She had already caused him and the woman he loved, more than enough pain as that she needed to rip their hearts out so cruelly again.  

‘There is no turning back now!’ hissed this shattering voice again, but she long knew of that. Her heavy heart having long decided for this muddy path on which she was dragged through a whole village, until they reached a stone house – the only one, noted her wide-open brown orbs.  

A house crafted out of nightmares, so it seemed, as those black stones swallowed each and every sunray that caressed the glassy walls. The only thing that broke the picture of these sleek walls, were ornaments.  

Ornaments of twisting and dancing fire, that seemed to twirl around the large hewn windows as the light got reflected in their thick black glass. It would have been a wild colour play, a rainbow dancing along the walls as the sun rose, but every light, every positivity swallowed by the darkness of this black hole.  

Only the door, large and heavy, broke the darkness as it stood proud and tall at the end of the staircase –which Fersia led her up to. Though even the ebony wood that had a bush of callas - who's large petals looked like as if they bloomed in a blazing fire- engraved at the bottom of it, seemed to swallow every bit of light. Absorbing the life, it would have brought along as it perished deep within the thick wood.  

A coldness as harsh as winter meeting the face of the honey haired female that was dragged into darkness. Her friend, as calm and steady as the forest behind the house, having long stepped over the threshold that seemed to sing of magic.  

That seemed to hum of a bloody nightmare past these walls as Goldenrods heavy boots were dragged through a wall of magic. Where the spell, that was weaved into the ward stones, was cold – was this one red and burning. Small flames, infernos, dancing up her feet. Higher and higher her entire body along until they reached her eyes.  

This red dust of crackling fire pinching her eyes – cloaking them with a heavy veil of red as a searing hot pain was splayed all across her body. Fersia, oblivious to the cackling magic, moved on and on. Her heavy steps vibrating through the burning hallway while Goldenrod fought silently.  

Fought silently for consciousness, for air, for clarification as she was dragged deeper and deeper into the grand house, that seemed to have swallowed her life as soon as she set foot over the cursed threshold. Only having waited for her – to feast on this panic, this helplessness of hers. All the while dread and guilt had long settled into her blood.  

Humming a hissed melody, that rung in her pointed ears. Making her oblivious to the sound of Fersia’s voice that echoed cheerful and loud along the black stone walls.  

“Fersia, a bit slower, please.” was all she could rasp out as she was strangled by magic.  

A heavy cloak layering itself over her petite shoulders while those voices continued to laugh, to hiss, at her. Silent shadows fleeting across the red floor, on which they walked now a bit slower. Fersia having heard the silent plea which she could not speak out.  

Not with a desert in her throat, that bunged it even more whenever she swallowed.  

‘Your fault!’ hissed a voice next to her delicately pointed ear. A wave of shame washing over her as soon as she heard it – the voice of her older sister. A storm of steel among the coldly hissed laughter, that settled on her entire being like a brick wall.  

Suffocating her, squishing her in all those things she faulted herself with.  

Following her along the red streek to her feet, like a lost puppy. Barking softly at her for attention, just was this more. So much louder, so much more hurting to her sensitive ears than any bark of a dog.  

‘You are useless, you are blind, you are so ignorant!’

She wanted to deny it, wanted to cover her ears up as she was dragged further and further. Those black walls around her turning narrower, tapering at the high ceiling from which a black chandelier dangled. Burning candles strapped to the cold metal above of their heads.  

Casting deep shadows among her red painted vision. Deep cold shadows that hid in the corner and hissed at her, insulted her – wished her death and that the burning candles soon would set her body alight.  

‘Just like his!’ hissed those cold shadows.  

Caging in on her as close as they could, without Fersia’s knowledge. Those bright green eyes of hers –which once had been dull of hatred- looking far beyond the walls and onto a way Goldenrod could long not see anymore.  

Fersia’s strong hand that held on tight to her soft petite one, keeping them together as they walked among the darkness. This steady voice of her companion wanting to wrestle itself into her hearing, but the shadows drowned it out.  

Drowned out every sound around her – expect for their hissing- covering her in a black cloud of hate, coldness and doubt that settled down on her. Brick stone for brick stone as the cloaked her in cold emptiness.  

Letting her heart freeze and silently splinter under all the pressure.  

‘Your fault!’

‘You destroyed them!’

‘You broke them!’

A fit of dark giggles erupted from the cloud as it hissed again and again at her, in crippled pleasure; ‘You killed them! You killed them!’  

“No,…" she wanted to scream, wanted to deny it as she was buried deeper and deeper in her faults, but a suffocated sound was all her voice could speak. Weakness and despair drenching those two letters.  

It was that silent, that not even Fersia could her hear. Not even then as her strong steps stopped in front of another black door. Large and proud as any rock, did it gate the hall that lay behind it.  

Two winged females –their black scaled armour shining under the warm light- guarding the one who waited behind it. Their voices, as they spoke with Fersia, muffled and drowned out by the cold blanket around her no one seemed to see.  

Though they eyed her with soft worried gazes, no one of them spoke as they saw her sweat covered body. A thin layer of cold sweat having settled down on her delicate skin, letting her bared face look like a diamond under the softest hue of gold.  

And while the air seemed warm around her, she still froze. Froze and shivered under the cold cloak of shadows as they were placed in front of a throne.

Proud as a mountain, dark as night and as raging as war stood the large throne opposite them. A winged female, blazing and burning like any fire,sitting tall on the black stone as the two females settled next to each lean of the throne.  

A chunky piece of stone, engraved with twisting and dancing flames – just like the window frames- looking so small behind those widely displayed mighty wings.  

Soft hues of violet, red and black tracing these soft membranes that were strained between the bones of her wings as fire danced around her. Torches burning across the wide room as it drowned in black.  

Though it seemed as if red blood ran down the sleek walls, slow and slimy did it crawl down those black stones. Creeping past the three proud females as it pooled at the foot of the dark throne, that seemed to dance under the twisting light of candles.  

Vomit dreaded to spill from her rosy lips as she saw the red liquid. Fersia, as well as the other three females looking unbothered at the display of shed blood.  

Whose blood was it?

Was all Goldenrod could question herself, as Fersia spoke to the female on the throne of nightmares and fire. Bloodred painted lips moving as she answered the wish of the forest green eyed female, that bowed her head in respect. Tugging lightly at Goldenrods white sleeve, but she couldn’t move.  

Couldn’t do anything as she stared at the deep, red puddle.  

“Who are you?” echoed a mighty voice through the grand hall. Vibrating even in the farthest corner of the room as her blazing blood red eyes assessed her visitor, that stood with a shaking body and sweat covered skin in her throne room.  

Only then did Fersia notice her anxious form- eyes wide as a plate fixed on the puddle -in front of the throne- that slowly crept down the three stairs of the little pedestal.  

“It seems like your friend is having a bad day, Fersia.” echoed the mighty voice again, capturing Fersia’s attention away from the shaking form of her.  

But Fersia didn’t answer, simply turned her back at the mighty female and studied the ashen face of her golden friend, that shone as bright as the sun before she was dragged deeper and deeper into the large house.  

A warm hand on her soft cheek was Fersia’s try to call her out of her frightened daze, soft words leaving her softly smiling mouth “Hey, Goldenrod, look at me. It’s fine. You don’t need to be frightened of Mother.”

“It’s singing...” was all she could manage to get out.  Her soft, delicate finger pointing shakingly at the red puddle. Those pointed ears of hers long numb to the sound of anything else than those hissed voices, that cackled and laughed.  

The whole room seemingly deaf to the shrill sound of laughter.  

But as those brown orbs of hers, sweet as any chocolate bar, started to brim with tears – drowned words on her lips as she repeated it again; “They are singing Fersia.”  

“Elain, you have to explain to me who is singing.” was all the steady female could request of her. Carefully chosen words hanging unanswered in the air as a sob broke loose from her soft lips.  

This petite body of a fae, she never asked for, shaking under those strong hands of her friend.  

But there was no attention for Fersia, nor for the females behind her, that looked at the white cloaked shaking form with sceptic eyes as her voice screeched over and over again: “They are singing, they are singing.”  

“May I ask who you hear singing, Elain?” it was this strong, steady voice that ripped her out of her melodic chant. Those blood red eyes capturing her soft brown ones for the time being. This strong gaze of hers as blazing as fire as she silently demanded an answer, but there was nothing that left Elain’s lips.  

Nothing except a lung shattering scream, that ripped through the entire darkness of the house as the trail of chants stopped. Those singing voices gone for a flicker of a moment before loud, tearing screams ripped through her being.  

No one, but her, able to hear those shattered screams ‘Drink up their blood – it's yours after all!’  

It was screamed over and over again, shattering her ears as she cried out her own pain in a roaring voice. The strong and steady walls of the house shacking and cracking under the force of her panicked voice.  

There was nothing, nothing but a black veil of shadows that drowned, suffocated her.  

The last thing she remembered - those red eyes, that bored into hers.  

Watching with great interest how consciousness slipped from her, like sand rinsing through her fingers, before darkness claimed her.  

Letting her fragile body slump into the worried arms of Fersia. 

                       *******

She was cold.

Her fragile body, that sunk weakly into Fersia’s steady arms, was so, so cold. This delicate skin of her friend cloaked in a thin layer of sweat, that made her look like a white flower - that was dressed in the morning taw of mother nature - glittering happily under the waking sunrays, a force of purity and calmness as warmth caressed the delicate petal.  

But even the warmth of this stuffy room couldn’t make Elain smile and wake, couldn’t bring her back from whatever nightmare she was in, as her chest -her lungs- heaved over and over again for air. Air that never seemed to fill her petite chest.  

“Elain! Hey Elain, Goldenrod, wake up!” was all Fersia could do. Yell these quiet pleas at her, in front of her Mother, as she gently slapped her damp cheek again and again, but she didn’t react. All that her body did was shake -shake like a leaf in the gusts of the summer storms that howled through the forest and all across Illyria. Those warm eyes of her hidden away under her softly flickering eyelids as she kept on wandering and wandering into whatever nightmare.  

It pained Fersia, worried her and made her wonder ‘Was this the right thing to do?’ But that was a question for another time, now all that mattered was her Goldenrod that lay weak in her arms - numb to the soft touches that tried to wake her shivering form.  

“Your friend seems to have a bad day, Fersia.” was all the Mother murmured from her throne, again, quiet mischief dancing in those burning bloodred eyes as her hands kept on resting on the dark leans of the stoned throne. Not even a finger of her lifting to make Ria and Derna, each at the side of her massive seat, move.  

It wasn’t often that Fersia was angry at her, never dared to - since she was the one that kept each and everyone together. Made it even possible that they now lived in such peace, separated from those arrogant males, but at such times -where one was suffering- her Mother always took joy in watching those desperate attempts of help, watching without a care and quite delight.  

“Ria! Derna! Help me over here!” The two massive females turned to each other - a questioning look in those deep brown eyes of both of them- as they silently assessed the situation, their strong hands never leaving the hilts of their swords as they contemplated if this new shivering female, that did not belong into their tribe, was worth the risk to get into trouble with their Mother.  

But Fersia’s harsh tone - that echoed wildly through the grand hall- made the two flinch and move on swift feet. “Ria! Derna! I demand your help over here!”  

Without a second thought did they hurry to her side, mumbling uncertain theories of what might be wrong with the delicate female: too less food, too less sleep, a panic attack perhaps even a pregnancy?  

No one of the three was sure of what to do, all bend over the squirming light female, that looked so fragile in Fersia’s strong arms, as they came to a conclusion - she needed air. Plenty of it and in that stuffy room, were flames feasted on wood and oxygen, she would not get it.  

Determined to leave did Fersia gather Elain in her careful arms, the two females that just stood by her side opening the heavy door for them once again.  

“Fersia! What do you think you are doing!”  

But she did not look back, her forest green eyes - that hummed of life and happiness, after so many centuries once again - did not stray from the dark path that would lead them outside as she answered in a steady strong voice, that even vibrated through her very own bones, the harsh question of her Mother.  

“I am helping her to heal - just like she did with me.”

________________________________________________________________

So, that was the very first chapter of this year - what do you think about it?

I, for myself, don’t like how the banter turned out, but anyway that was it for now. For this story this year I’ll try to update every wednesday,at least - perhaps, I will post two chapters in a week, but I think that is going to be rare. 

Anyway hope you enjoyed :)

Also, I am sorry I forgot the taglist the last few posts😓

Taglist (please contact me if you want to be added or removed from the list):  @tanaquilpriscilla​ / @hail-doodles​  / @courtofjurdan​ / @classywastelandpirate​ / @heirofthrnightcourt004​ /@generousfanfan​

[pamphletstoinspire]

Third Sunday After Epiphany by Father Francis Xavier Weninger, 1876

“Lord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean.”–Matt. 8: 2.

The leper of whom we read in today’s Gospel believes that Christ has the power to heal him, and he is not mistaken; Christ, stretching forth His hand, said: “I will, be thou made clean!”

What leprosy is to the body, that sin is to the soul. Many of the children of the Church, many who call upon Jesus, are covered with this leprosy. They believe in His Power and Will to cleanse them from sin, and yet they are not cleansed, and why not? Because they do not earnestly will it.

It often happens that the sinner, while apparently desirous of conversion, has in reality not the will. And why? That is the question we shall answer today. O Mary, thou purest of the pure, pray that we may be filled with a true desire to be cleansed from the leprosy of sin, through Jesus Christ our Lord! I speak in the most holy name of Jesus, to the greater glory of God!

“Lord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean,” cried the leper. How much more natural it is for us children of the Church to address Christ in these words, since we know so much better than the leper in the Gospel who Jesus is, and why He came into the world.

The leper did not doubt that Christ possessed the power to heal him, but he was not certain of Christ’s willingness to perform a miracle. In regard to the leprosy of sin, we have no reason to doubt Christ’s willingness to cleanse us. For this He came into the world, for this He sacrificed Himself on the cross, for this He gave His blood and life, for this He established His Church. Do not the Apostles teach us to say: “I believe in the forgiveness of sins?” To give us a remedy against sin, Christ called us to His holy Church, freed us in baptism from the inherited leprosy of our nature, and gave us access to all the Sacraments, those fountains of grace for the purification of souls.

Verily then Jesus is willing. If we are not cleansed, in whom lies the fault? In ourselves. The sinner is wanting in real sincerity and in the earnest desire of being cleansed. And why? Because he feels his own misery too imperfectly. He is not sufficiently disgusted with sin; he is not thoroughly penetrated with fear at the consequences of sin.

The leper was disgusted with himself. Leprosy is, as is well known, a revolting disease, and everyone is careful to avoid those who are stricken with it. But what is such a disease compared to the disfigurement of sin, which makes us resemble Satan in repulsiveness? Not only mortal, but even venial sin is leprosy. Not a moral fault but is more disgusting to God than all the ulcers and sores in the whole world.

Could the sinner but see himself, were he aware of how his soul is deformed by sin, how intense would be his desire, how great his haste to go to Jesus and beg of Him to be cleansed. Unfortunately, the sinner is seldom thoroughly conscious of his deplorable state. He generally believes that his moral condition is not so bad, and, regarding his sins as human weaknesses, consoles himself with the thought that there are others who are worse. He fails to consider God’s horror of sin, the disgust of the angels and saints, who have reason to be ashamed of him if he regards himself in communion with them, or perhaps even calls them his brothers and his sisters. He does not realize that the sight of his sins drives away his guardian angel, all angels, in fact, and saints. He never thinks of the misfortune into which sin has precipitated him, robbing his good works of all merit, and rendering him unable to earn anything for heaven; how sin has opened the gates of hell, so that he is liable at any moment to fall into the abyss, where he must bewail in eternal torments those sins which he here committed with so little concern.

He who stains his soul with many venial sins can not consider how these prevent him from lessening the flow of divine grace, diminish his merits, how they augment the debt that is to be paid in purgatory. Moreover, he can not reflect on the danger his waywardness exposes him to of falling into grievous sin. The consequence of this thoughtlessness is that the sinner hastens not to seek Jesus, and to approach Him in the person of His minister to receive, after sincere repentance, the forgiveness of his transgressions.

Secondly.–The sinner goes to confession and apparently is desirous of being cleansed from the leprosy of his sin, but in reality he is very indifferent. How few of those to whom sin has become a habit–a class of sinners who especially resemble the leper–examine themselves conscientiously before confession on the number of their mortal sins and the circumstances that affect the nature of their transgressions. The leper feels day and night the misery of his disease, and knows every place where it has settled. The habitual sinner does not take the trouble to consider the evil of sin on his soul, and hardly deems it necessary to examine his conscience. Why? He is not really in earnest to be converted.

If it were a bodily illness he would immediately send for a physician, and explain minutely all the symptoms of his disease; but as the condition of his soul is a matter of little concern to him, he gives but a superficial account of its state, and not unfrequently makes a bad confession. It but seldom happens that a habitual sinner accuses himself fully and freely without aid from the priest. Jesus stretched out his hand and touched the leper. The priest should spiritually do the same to the sinner by his words, but as the sinner has not thoroughly opened his heart, the priest is not able to touch the affected parts and heal them by words of advice.

The sinner confesses, but he has not the earnest desire to make a frank and open declaration of his faults. He is satisfied with a lame, cursory accusation, hoping that the confessor will impart a speedy absolution, and not trouble him with many questions. He is not anxious about the future, how he may avoid relapses, anticipate temptations or combat them, when they do assault him, with effectual weapons.

The sinner, moreover, has not the determination to use the proper means to obtain grace and to advance in the ways of virtue, namely, prayer, spiritual reading, the reception of the Sacraments.

Happy are you, O sinner, if you are conscious that you are, earnest in your desire to be converted, to avoid all occasions of committing sin, and to resist temptations, so that you can truthfully say before Jesus and his minister: I will. Christ will say the same to you. And if you unite your will with His, do not doubt that you will be cleansed from the leprosy of your sin through Jesus Christ our Lord! Amen! 

THE LEPER–THE FAITH OF THE CENTURION

Once when Our Lord was coming down from a mountain, followed by a great crowd of people, He entered the city of Capharnaum. At the city gates there was a poor leper, who, bowing down profoundly, addressed Jesus and cried out: “Lord! if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean.”

Leprosy is a very filthy, disgusting disease. The whole body is covered with a false dry skin like scales, so that the person becomes a most hideous and loathsome object. In the East and in this country, too, leprosy is considered contagious, and the laws of sanitary boards separate people afflicted with it from those that are well, and will not allow lepers to come into the cities. This picture is but a very insignificant description of leprosy. You must see it to know how loathsome it really is.

When you read the description of leprosy think of that other kind of leprosy of the soul, for sin is the leprosy of the soul, and is as filthy and more so than the leprosy of the body. Yes, it is the leprosy of sin that makes the soul a horrible sight before God and the angels. The leprous souls that live in so many human bodies in cities and villages are not subject to any laws. They can remain where they please, and still we know that nothing is more contagious than the leprosy of sin. Thus it is that sin is continually growing and spreading, until we find it in every nook and corner of the world. How rare it is to find youths not infected with some vice or other! How few are untouched by this contagion, or who have preserved their baptismal innocence!

If you are already covered with the leprosy of sin, ah, then cry out: “Lord, you see how miserable my condition is! Heal me–cleanse me. You see that my mouth is infected because such bad words, blasphemies, and curses are continually flowing from it. You see, O Lord, that my body and my senses are infected with this terrible disease, for it induces the soul to commit the sins of impurity.” If you pray in this manner, humbly and confidently, you will hear in your soul the consoling words, “Yes, I will help you to overcome that vice. I will forgive you and give you the grace of remaining good.”

But Our Lord adds: “Go and show yourselves to the priest.” The priest is the minister of God. He will extend his hands over you, and you will be made whiter than snow. You will start up into a new life, in which you will acquire again the merits of your good actions, which would never have been any benefit to you unless you had thus repented. From slaves of Satan you will become adopted sons of God, co-heirs with Jesus Christ.

But remember well, my beloved children, that you must have a good will. St. Augustine says that God cures all evils, but only those which we really want to be cured.

The unhappy leper really wished to be healed, for he realized the sad condition he was in, and Jesus immediately extended His hand and touched him. We admire the power of Christ, for at once the whole body was healed. It was again full of vigor and health. Jesus did not give him time to burst out in sentiments of wonder, exultation or gratitude, but said: “See thou tell no man, but go, show thyself to the priest.” The man obeyed, and as he went he could not help letting people know what Jesus had done for him. The fame of this miracle spread about the country and drew many to look for help from Our Lord.

There was in Capharnaum a centurion, a soldier and a heathen, whose servant lay at the point of death. He came to Our Lord and laid his trouble before Him: “My servant lieth at home sick of the palsy, and is grievously tormented.” “I will come and heal him,” said Our Lord. But the centurion did not expect so great a favor; he repeated those admirable words: “Lord I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof, but only say the word and my servant shall be healed.”

These words are so applicable to all poor sinners who are about to receive the visit of the Lord, that the Church has borrowed them and uses them three times when communion is to be given. “We should repeat them with a heart full of confusion, because even though we possessed the purity of an angel and the sanctity of John the Baptist, we would not be worthy to receive in our heart Our Lord Jesus. Therefore ought we do all in our power to be free from sin, that we might be the less unworthy to receive Jesus in the great Sacrament of His love.

There are few young people who are so impressed with the sublimity of this holy Sacrament that they approach it with sentiments of respect and veneration. On the contrary they generally go without proper dispositions. They do not endeavor to excite in themselves the sentiments of devotion and love of God which are required to make a good communion.

But there are many, too, who are unworthy to receive Jesus in their heart because their souls are blackened with crime. They defile their tongues with impure conversations, and they dare to receive on them the body of Christ. They defile their bodies with impurities and into these they dare to introduce the Holy of holies. They give scandal and they wish to receive Jesus.

They go to confession and if the priest refuse them absolution because he sees no signs of amendment, they go to another, who is easier, so that they may get through. How blind such young people are! They do not comprehend that they are making a bad communion.

Go, of course, frequently to communion, but do so with a pure heart, and free from sin, full of humility, reverence, and love. When the time approaches for communion, call on the angels, the archangels and all the holy spirits, and beg of them to accompany you to the banquet of Our Lord.

When Our Lord heard the humble words of the centurion He was struck with astonishment and said, “Amen, I say to you, I have not found so great a faith in Israel.” It was certainly a great act of faith, and that was the reason it drew on the centurion that commendation which the Lord seldom gave. The centurion trusted in the power and goodness of Our Lord. He knew, too, that it was not necessary for Our Lord to come to his house. He knew He was God, or at least had the power of God at His command. For this faith and trust Our Lord broke forth into unusual praise.

Even among faithful Christians it is rare to find those who really trust in God. They put trust in their friends, in their own smartness and strength, but they do not remember that they have a God at their command to whom they may go with all confidence. We trust too much to our friends in many things and even prefer them to God. Here is a young man who, meeting his companions, goes with them to lunch. It is Friday. The young man refuses to eat meat, but his companions persuade him. “Oh, eat it! What wrong can there be?” He yields, and the sin is committed.

Another meets a companion on the street. “Where are you going?” “To hear a sermon,” is the reply. “Oh, don’t be so foolish as to sit there to listen to such an insignificant preacher. That is good enough for doting old people or pious women. Come, let us go to the theatre. You will see nice things; you will laugh and be happier there than in church.” He goes out of friendship for his companion. He witnesses the derision of his religion, or immoral scenes; he sees many things that please the eye and stir his sensuality. He hears many improper things; his mind is filled with loose sayings and bad thoughts, and all this has happened simply to please a friend. You see then how obsequious you are to your friends, but of God and Christ you make no account.

When Our Lord had said the words of commendation to the centurion He added: “Many shall come from the east and the west and shall sit down with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven, but the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into the exterior darkness.” God is merciful to all; He calls all; but they must have the faith of the centurion. Then He turned again to the centurion and said, “Go, and as thou hast believed so be it done to thee.” That same moment the servant was healed, and when the centurion arrived home he found the man perfectly restored to health. Just reflect a moment on these words of Our Lord. “The children of the kingdom shall be cast out into the exterior darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Terrible words; but which will prove as true to many Christians as they were to many of the Jews. Not a day passes but many infidels and idolaters come to the faith, are converted, and enter the kingdom of God, while many Christians born in the faith, brought up and educated in it, perish miserably in eternal damnation. A damned soul once returned to the earth and asked whether there were any good people still on earth, for he had seen such innumerable multitudes going to hell that he thought there could not be one left.

St. Bernard understood so well the misery of those who went to hell that he used to say, “If out of all the human race, who number thousands of millions of souls, it were known that only one was to go to hell, I would tremble with fear lest I should be that miserable one.” O, my dear young people, let us make up our minds that we will not be of the number of the wicked Christians who will lose their places in heaven which were marked out for them from all eternity had they remained faithful. Are we, the sons of the kingdom, we, the adopted sons of God, to be excluded from our future heritage in heaven and thrown out into darkness? Oh, since the Lord has been so good to us that we have received the grace of being born in a Christian family, let us beg also the grace to remain faithful to Christ and love Him so dearly that we may enter the heavenly kingdom which is ours by right. At the same time knowing that many places are left vacant in heaven by bad Christians, let us beg Our Lord to send His light to the east and west and bring many to occupy these seats of glory. 

[solari-writes-things]

🛑 WARNINGS: Spoiler warnings for Aftermath. 🛑

✨ requested by: @tsumethedrifter​

✨ Pairing: Shang Tsung x OC

✨ Summary: Shang Tsung returns to his island after 10 years of disappearing.

✨ Solari Says: Thanks for allowing me to be self-indulgent during this time of giving. I love writing for this fool, so thank you!

✨ Prompt(s) -

#2:  One of these days, I’m going to murder you.

#9:  You call it murder, I call it a conversation starter.

gif credit: myself

MORE SHANG | MORE MK | > MASTERLIST < |

Senna seethed and growled a bit as she went to go fix up a cut that she had gotten from battling the Elder God, Cetrion. Her hands shaking with frustration, her heart raced a mile a minute. It had been ten years of silence, with the occasional Kano trying to come stake his claim on the barren wasteland that had become her home. Ten years, with no form of contact with the sorcerer. Those ten years had been emotionally hard, considering the bond Shang and Senna had decided to share together.

They finally had a reprieve, waiting to rendezvous at the Sea of Blood in a fair few hours. Finally, some time where she can focus on her injuries and try to ignore the growing hostility that she had been feeling the longer she shared a room with Shang.

“One of these days, I’m going to murder you,” she decides to pipe up, after several seconds of bemused silence.

Shang Tsung’s lips spread into his trademark smirk, moving slowly to her to see if she needed assistance with her wounds. At least, that was his intention. However he couldn’t make that obvious. He finally had a moment to return to the antics that he missed while being dead.

Or locked away in a temporal prison.

“You call it murder, I call it a conversation starter,” he chides, hands folded properly behind his back.

“Is this really the time for you to be doing this, Shang Tsung?” she shoots back.

She missed the sorcerer. By the gods, she missed him. His wit, his sharp tongue. Hearing his voice again when he arrived to the island shook her to her core. However, that was exactly why she was frustrated. All of this time, she was alone, mourning the loss of him. His disappearance, his severance from this realm, had caused his island to diminish due to the lack of soul energy being put into it.

Yeah, there was the well of souls. There was that gods-forsaken crown that got them into this mess in the first place. But without the constant deposit of souls, the island could not sustain the beauty that it had before.

Watching the men who used to live there die had been hard on Senna as well. So many lives that she could not save, so many beings that she could have preserved and all of them had gone.

Of course, when Shang had come in with some familiar faces, she could feel the annoyance and resentment. He hadn’t even given her a second to process that it was really him before she were tossed into a battle for the sake of his mission.

By the gods, if she wouldn’t do it again, though.

“I recall it being a personal resolve to entertain you somehow,” he retorts, joining her at her side.

He was lucky she didn’t slap him. She was tempted to, considering he threw her right back into the fire. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though. Trouble is what got Shang Tsung murdered in the first place. It had followed him around like a magnet, and it’s what incited him to ask Senna to employ under him in the first place.

“It’s been ten years, sorcerer,” she muttered as she finished patching up the wound on her arm, dropping it in contempt.

“I am well aware. Death doesn’t suit me,” he says, watching her carefully as she starts the other arm.

“You didn’t think to give me a minute of preparation before you threw me against an Elder God?” Senna retorted, a little bit of bitterness in her tones. Although, underneath the anger, there was some form of care. He could sense it.

“In all conscience, we hadn’t had much time to sit down ourselves. We had been quite entertained before we had gotten to my island.”

“Doing what, exactly? Besides trying your best to entice me to kill you?”

Before he could answer, she followed up.

“And Sindel? Really? What in the world made you believe that was a good idea?”

“I did not anticipate you to still be here,” he said cooly.

She inhales and runs a hand through her hair, wincing however. There was still some wounds she had not tended to just yet. She does not entertain him with a response, however.

He takes notice, and his smug smile drops. He reaches out, the cool feeling of his gauntlets against her skin as he gently grabs her arm and brings it closer to him. “Allow me. I will explain everything in due time, Senna. Let me help you heal, first.”

She allows it, relaxing after her frustrated sigh. She observes him, closely. He had gotten older. His hair was gray, and he had now decided to don facial hair. Regardless of his appearance change, she still felt the same after all this time. No matter how long he had been gone, she could not shake the way he made her feel. As much as she felt like she should.

“You’ve aged,” she says simply, her voice now level.

“And you’re still indistinguishable,” he replied, his velvet tones now retaining that same sarcasm that she had learned to adore.

__

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[revlyncox]

Responding

Some of us may be anticipating stressful situations, and are looking for skills in de-escalation. The first step is to de-escalate our own minds and hearts. How can we respond rather than react when our earliest instincts tell us to fight or flee? This Platform Address was written for the Washington Ethical Society, December 6, 2020, by Lyn Cox. 

If you’ve got a young child in your life, you may be familiar with the book, Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus by Mo Willems. I think about this story sometimes when I’m evaluating my own capacity to make good decisions. In the story, there is a bus driver on a break, and a pigeon who really, really, really wants to drive the bus at top speed through traffic, taking corners on two wheels, drifting and spinning out as he dramatically brakes at the end of the journey. It is the pigeon’s dream to be a stunt bus driver. The reader’s job, in this book, is to hold the boundary, and prevent the pigeon from driving the bus. It is part of Mo Willem’s brilliance that the reader is an active participant in the story, making it more dramatic and engaging. Holding the boundary is frustrating for the pigeon, but helps everyone stay safer, and can give the reader a sense of accomplishment.

When I’m applying this story in my own life, I am the pigeon. I am also the bus driver, and the other passengers, and the reader. I imagine that my life, my choices, the person I am who is going about their day is a bus. Inside the bus are my thoughts, my feelings, my memories, my goals, my embodied senses, my impulses, and all of the other things that swim around in my mind and heart and body. All of those things belong on the bus, they are part of me. That being said, the pigeon is not the right candidate for driving the bus. The pigeon is not able to take responsibility for the safety of others, the pigeon is all about impulse. The pigeon can be on the bus, my impulses are part of me, and I can take note of what they are saying without letting them be in charge. If my life is a bus, the part of me that watches and reflects and exercises discernment in my choices is tasked with listening to the pigeon, helping the pigeon get what it truly needs, but not allowing the pigeon to drive the bus. Occasionally habit or routine can drive the bus, but not for too long if we’re trying to be safe. Logic can drive the bus if it’s listening to the other passengers. Love can drive the bus. But I try not to let the pigeon drive the bus.

I do not always succeed at preventing the pigeon from driving the bus. Sometimes I make a split-second decision on social media that I shouldn’t. Sometimes I open an email that I know I will be better able to deal with in another state of mind. Sometimes I snap at people I care about. This is part of being human. I make amends as best I can and resolve to do better. And part of what we’re here to do together is to bring out the best in each other, and therefore in ourselves. I’m trying to keep the pigeon in the passenger seat more often, and to create space to make it easier for other pigeons to stay out of the driver’s seat of their vehicles.

I bring this up because I have been hearing a lot of questions about what we do with conflict, and also a few questions about what we do when all of us are working with limited capacity. This has been a hard year. The challenges of grief, of unemployment, of illness, of uncertainty have left us with fewer emotional resources for handling our relationships with skillfulness and care. Sometimes the questions about conflict are about the big picture, such as how to we move on when people we’re connected with disagree deeply, or how do we begin to repair the damage when we don’t all have the same strategy for healing, or how do we continue the work of liberation as a united community when not everyone has caught up to the urgent need for that work. Sometimes the questions about conflict are specific, hoping to be prepared to intervene in cases of harassment on the street or online, or expecting arguments about the results of the election, or what to do with the family member who continues to disrupt the family Zoom get-togethers with their aggressive assertions of misinformation. Sometimes the questions about conflict are about how we can learn from our everyday experiences, the clashes we have with the people we are closest to when we’re frazzled. Though I hope the coming year will be better than the one we are leaving behind, there is still more conflict in our lives than we may wish.

Let’s be clear that not all conflict is bad. Conflict can be generative. Conflict can provide the creative combustion that helps us to articulate our values, compare ideas, and come up with new solutions. Peace is not the absence of conflict, peace is a state of being when we operate with justice and compassion, each rooted in our values, each treating the other person with respect, each accepting accountability when our choices do not match our values. We can disagree, we can debate, we can struggle for understanding, and still be at peace. If we try to suppress generative conflict, if we try to superficially soothe the agitated and appease aggressors, we may end up with a conflict that is quiet but that eats away at the foundations of community; that’s not the same thing as peace. We make room for conflict to be generative when we bring humility and relationality, when we are more committed to our values than to being someone who is always right.

Our task, then, is to help shape conflict to be generative rather than destructive. That’s not going to be possible in every instance; we need to be able to get to a place of mutual respect, it is very hard to have a generative conflict when one or more parties approach one or more of the other parties in a dehumanizing way. But that work of shaping can be worth a try, and at the very least we might be able to help redirect a conflict to reduce the harm being done to the most vulnerable person in that situation. Lowering the temperature, raising the level of relationship and connection, setting the stage for a shared understanding of values, all of these things can help. In short, when the bus is headed into a conflict, we want love in the driver’s seat, not the pigeon.

This process is also called de-escalation. In de-escalation, we shape conflict so that the heightened tension that leads people to act out of fear and anger relaxes, so that we can engage in the discussion from a place of wisdom, and choose actions that align with our goals and our values. In the weeks leading up to the election, I did a couple of online training sessions to refresh my de-escalation skills. The Poor People’s Campaign, the Election Defenders, and Faith and Public Life were all gathering people to get ready for a variety of scenarios. We didn’t know what was going to happen, but we anticipated that November and December would be difficult, and full of emotion and tension, and that our communities would need people of conscience to help redirect angry, fearful, impulsive energy into channels that are more conducive to right relationship. I hope we can engage with more training together at WES in the coming months.

We don’t have time for me to share everything I learned, but I would like to share the one thing that was the first principle in each training: Before we de-escalate a conflict involving other people, we have to de-escalate ourselves. The peace in our hearts, commitment to our values, and intentionality in our actions that we bring with us are the most important things we can contribute to de-escalating a situation. If we try to rescue or take over or suppress a conflict situation when we are acting based in fear or hurt or anger, we may do more harm than good. That doesn’t mean fear and hurt and anger aren’t real, or even that they aren’t important parts of ourselves (they are, indeed, important parts of ourselves), it means we have to process those feelings so that they are not leading us into poor choices. Don’t let the pigeon drive the bus.

For that to work, to give ourselves that ability to process so that we can lead from love and wisdom, we need to slow down. I find that some of my worst mistakes in escalating conflict come when I engage hastily. When I don’t take time to think before I respond verbally, when I add a comment in the spur of the moment, when I send an email riding on a wave of emotion rather than leaving in my drafts folder until a reasonable hour the next business day - those are the times when I’m most likely to raise tension and move a conflict further away from the generative zone.

To give ourselves time to de-escalate our own minds and hearts in response to a tense or conflicted situation, let’s be critical of an internal sense of urgency. Sometimes things really are an emergency, and so we tread as carefully as we can as we engage in the moment. But it’s worth a second thought to examine whether something feels like an emergency because it ignites our emotions and actually isn’t an emergency, or whether something is both time sensitive and of great importance to a person or an organization’s wellbeing. Not everything that makes us anxious requires our immediate action.

This is why I took the Facebook app off of my phone. Social media pushes a sense of urgency, because urgency is how the social media outlet keeps the attention of users for their own profit. The fast pace of social media makes people think they have to respond in real time to a comment stream rather than thinking or reflecting. Misinformation spreads quickly, because it fits an emotional story of urgency. Social media conversations do not wait for the people with the most accurate data, nor does the venue make clear whether all of the stakeholders are in the room at that moment. I do use social media, but I try to remain aware of how I’m feeling when I use it. For me, I make more reasoned choices when I’m on a device with an external keyboard than when I’m on my phone.

Slowing down also gives us time to be curious, and to examine our assessment of a situation. Are things as they appear when we are at our most agitated? Does our initial impression match all of the available data? Is everyone here OK, or is there some hurt under the surface? What information might we be missing? Could we be anticipating an outcome that might turn out differently? There is a lot we don’t know, and even if pausing for a moment or a day doesn’t fill in all of the gaps, we may be able to take note of our assumptions.

In this morning’s story, the farmer held off on declaring any given event as good luck or bad luck. Sometimes we don’t know what’s going to happen, or what the impact will be of current events. That doesn’t mean we should never act, but it does mean that focusing on potential or imagined catastrophes might be less strategic than focusing on the facts on the ground right now.

In one of the training sessions I attended, Rev. Rosie Washington urged us to think about our purposes for engaging in tense or conflicted situations. She was speaking specifically about nonviolent action aimed at making change for justice. I believe the same is true for any conflicted situation we may be approaching. What is our purpose in engaging? She offered these key questions:

What compels me to participate?

Why am I choosing to participate?

Who are my people?

How do I need to show up to achieve the stated goal of my people?

What compels me to participate? To me, this is a question about the values that undergird our motivations to act. This isn’t a simple “why,” it’s what compels you. What is so important to you that you can do no other than make a choice to engage in something that is uncomfortable? Is it a promise you made, or a deeply held belief, or love for your neighbor? There is something at the core of who you are, maybe the still, small voice of conscience, or maybe the mission statement you have committed to for your life, that leads you into places that are not easy but are nevertheless important.

Why am I choosing to participate? This is a question about goals and tactics. Where is the power in this situation, and what is the best way to shift the power toward justice? This is also a question about our state of mind. Are we looking to build a better community, or are we looking for revenge? Rev. Washington said that if we don’t have a goal in mind, we can’t effectively de-escalate. Let’s reflect on our reasons for engaging in conflict or action.

Who are my people? Whose lives are we hoping to improve, who has entrusted us with a role that entails engaging with this particular conflict, to whom are we accountable in our choices about how we engage? Who will be impacted by our choices? Who are we in conversation with as we act together? Who has articulated the principles and values and goals of the community that we represent as we engage with conflict? This is a question about relationships. Moving a conflict toward the generative zone is, in part, about lifting up relationships.

How do I need to show up to achieve the stated goals of my people? How will I carry myself? How will my choices further our shared goals? What techniques will I use on myself to maintain a commitment to nonviolence in moments of adversity? How will I draw from shared tradition? Again this is about connection and relationship as well as self-awareness. De-escalation is not individualism, it is not about being an isolated hero. De-escalation is a recognition that we are all in relationship with one another, that what happens to one affects us all. Remembering the parts of Ethical Culture that you most value may help you to show up as your whole, wise self in times of stress.

These four discernment questions point to the importance of knowing ourselves in body and mind. Before we even begin to engage with conflict, practicing self-awareness helps us to be intentional about how we show up and the energy we bring to a situation. We want to lead with love and our values, that does not happen by accident.

As I’m sure you know, when humans are agitated, when we are angry or fearful, we are more likely to engage our amygdala, the part of our brain that governs our response to an immediate threat. This is where our fight-or-flight response comes from. There are two more responses that might come from that instinctive response to threat, freeze or appease. We can thank our amygdala for trying to keep us safe in a stressful situation, but these impulses are not always the wisest choices when we are dealing with the tensions of the modern age. Helping to guide a conflict away from dehumanization and toward the generative zone requires different techniques than escaping from a saber-tooth tiger. But our bodies can be very convincing when we think or feel like we are under threat, and so we need to be ready to reassure our bodies that we can handle the problem a different way.

It’s good to know yourself and your body’s responses to stress. What posture do you tend to take when you start feeling like fear or anger is moving into the driver’s seat? What is the rhythm of your breathing like? What do you do with your hands? Is there a sensation in your body, like feeling flush in your face, or a twinge in your heart? These might be signals that your body is operating in fight-flight-freeze or appease-mode. We might call this being activated. Let your body give you information about how you are feeling. Honor the wonder of a body that has adapted to help you in an emergency. Notice what might be true about your feelings - perhaps a boundary has been violated, or perhaps you are taking a risk - and then let the feelings take a seat on the passenger side.

The good news is that, often, our bodies respond to a conscious effort to change. When the Mindfulness Group leads Platform on December 27, I’m sure they will go into this in more depth, so I’ll just make a brief mention today. When we notice that our breathing is shallow, and our body language is defensive, we can choose to slow our breathing and release tension in our bodies. Making that conscious choice interrupts the instinctive feedback loop, and signals to your brain to downgrade the perceived threat level. Your executive function can re-engage. Breathe in a way that is comfortable and nourishing for your body. Perhaps, in a time of stress, you will remember one of the meditations we’ve used on Sunday morning during Platform. Relax your jaw muscle. Release the tension in your shoulders. Remember the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Then you can return to the challenge at hand.

Self-awareness also extends to our habits of mind. Again, I look forward to hearing from the Mindfulness Group later this month. Briefly, though, let’s think about what we know about our own tendencies. In moments of mindfulness, we are able to maintain awareness of the present moment while calmly acknowledging and accepting our feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations. Each of us has some specific and personal things that are especially powerful in distracting us from practicing mindfulness. I don’t like being cold, because it reminds me of times when I didn’t feel like I had the resources to thrive. When I notice feeling cold, I also acknowledge that association, and I can let both the sensation and the fear of scarcity go. For other people, there might be personal challenge in dogs barking, or a car door slamming, or diminishing light, or the smell of decay. When we know ourselves well enough to realize that certain stimuli are tailored to push us off-center, it is easier to notice those factors and respond with resilience.

Knowing our bodies, our minds, our values, and our shared purpose are all helpful preparations for approaching a tense or conflicted situation. We each have our own vulnerabilities when it comes to putting love and wisdom in the driver’s seat, yet we also have an entire busload of assets for helping to move situations of tension away from dehumanization and toward generative, relationship-building, problem-solving discussion. Being part of an Ethical Culture community provides us with role models and opportunities to practice bringing out the best in each other and therefore in ourselves. There are people among us whose expertise and experience we can consult when we slow down and take the time to examine a problem together. There is a tradition of rigorous thought, intentions for justice, and loving action that can help us to stay grounded in times of adversity. Guided by our shared values and shared agreements, rooted in love, and taking our time, we are capable as a community of shaping tension into opportunities for growth. May it be so.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Raven”

Y/N is a very unusual metahuman that can use her powerful abilities just once before being turned into a Raven forever; that’s why it’s really strange she decided to sacrifice herself in order to save The Joker’s life. But there’s a reason for everything and maybe the unbreakable curse is nothing more than a blessing in disguise.

“It doesn’t look good,” you hover over The Joker, analyzing the gunshot wound that keeps on bleeding through his green shirt.

“It’s not bad,” he growls, pressing his abdomen.

“Where are you, prick?” someone yells and the echo carries over the words around the abandoned building.

“Do you believe you can escape?” another voice resonates in the vast premises.

“Tick-Tock, Clown!” another man howls in the quietness, certain The King of Gotham has no escape.

“Fuck…,” J tries to get up but he slides back down against the wall.

“I think it’s pretty bad,” you state the obvious. “You’re injured, out of bullets and they are near: your crew won’t find you in time.”

“Shit…,” he groans in pain, the throbbing ache intensifying with each passing moment.

“I’m gonna help you,” Y/N shares her scheme and although the news should make him happy, it doesn’t.

“W-what do you mean?!” The Joker stutters even if he knows the implications of such statement. You’re quiet and he continues: “Why would you do something like that?...”

You smile at his bafflement, the affirmation completely surprising him:

“Because you’re the only one that never asked.”

“You shouldn’t use it on me!” J’s truthful reply is interrupted by the henchmen entering the desolated space where the fallen Prince of Crime has found refuge. “Who am I supposed to talk to if you’re gone?” the genuine question makes you realize there’s actually a soul in this world who’ll miss you.

“We didn’t really talk too much,” you softly chuckle and turn to confront the men halted in their tracks seeing you’re positioned in front of The Joker.

“The freak is here,” a goon whispers loud enough to be heard by the ones arriving behind him.

“Hey Y/N!” their leader detaches from the crowd. “What are you doing here?!”

The lack of an answer combined with the feral expression on your face prompts the mobster to wave his pistol as a sign for truce.

“Let’s not do anything hasty, shall we?... …. Hm?... I’m aware you had so many offers over the years; consider mine again: if you wield your powers to finish the green haired asshole, I will triple the amount of money from the highest bidder!”

You scoff at the absurd idea, describing how stupid you considered the monetary proposals suggested by numerous individuals in the past:

“And what am I supposed to do with the riches once I cease to exist?!”

A bullet shrieks by your ear, ending up in the wall behind where J collapsed a couple of minutes ago.

“Sorry I missed, boss!” the man apologizes and this is enough to set you off; you turn your head to gaze at The Joker, delivering a last warning.

“Close your eyes or you’ll go blind!”

“Don’t let her clap her hands!” the kingpin shouts but it’s too late: a deafening bang fills up the air and the strong light emanating from your body burns J’s closed eyelids. He covers his face with bloody fingers while the screams and smell of torched flesh makes him nauseated; it’s so disgusting he gags yet the insane King can’t help a smirk at the sweet victory, even if comes  with such a heavy price.

Gurgling noises and muffled cries persist for another 15 seconds before they abruptly halt.

“Meet me in dreams,” is Y/N’s final sentence and immediately after the sound of flapping wings queue The Joker to finally open his eyes.

The view is cringe worthy: puddles of steamy, boiling tar scattered all around bearing witness to the consequences of your rage: nobody’s alive anymore except J and the Raven picking at the clothes you wore earlier.

His cell phone goes off and he has difficulty searching the purple jacket for the item he has no need for.

“Sir! We’re coming! Almost on the 32nd street!” Frost reports in a frenzy and The Joker sneers, wheezing from the effort of trying to stay awake.

“Nice timing,” and he hangs up, muttering to himself: ’”Goddamned jerks…”

The bird suddenly flies in his lap, curiously checking him out.

“I think I’m gonna pass out…” the damaged Clown slowly blinks before losing conscience which is alright since he had to speak to you anyway.

Every time you meet in dreams, you are always waiting for him on this deserted, calm beach staring at the waves in the distance. Today is not different.

He takes a sit by the woman that saved his life, silently analyzing her features: The Joker knows he won’t see them again except in this place.

When you said you didn’t speak much, it was true; if he tries to remember the first instance you showed up in his life, the moment blurs out and disappears in the background of his troubled mind. You would just randomly pop up while he was alone, keeping each other company for hours and often barely uttering a sentence. The eerie Y/N preferred J’s presence simply due to his lack of interest in her unusual power and he tolerated her because she never sought any kind of reward from their awkward connection. In the matter of fact, J never even tried to touch you; it was relaxing to be with an individual that plainly didn’t want anything from you whilst the rest of the world begged for attention: how many requested you aid them and manipulate your ability in order to annihilate their enemies? How many promised compensations beyond measure in exchange of your mighty gift? Way too many.

Yet The Joker didn’t care about it; the most he would do was to share his favorite drink after a new brand of grape juice hit the market.

And now the person he shared with was gone forever.

“Your team is almost at the warehouse,” you address him, bending your knees until your chin touches them. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried,” J indifferently replies. “Told you it’s not serious.”

You snicker at his stubbornness, pointing out the evident reality:

“That’s why you fainted and started to dream about me?”

Your escort huffs, struggling to confess stuff hard to articulate in these circumstances.

“Thank you for…umm…for…”

“You don’t have to thank me; it was my choice and I fulfilled my destiny. It’s over and I’m free. I’ll still visit, ok?”

“Mister Joker! Sir, can you hear me?” Frost’s voice interrupts J’s dream: the gang is searching the deserted property for their leader and the only thing he notices is The Raven flying in circles above his head.

***********

Three weeks later, 9:37pm

The Joker extends his arm and you land on it, gently digging your claws in his skin for equilibrium.

“Where were you all day?!” he scolds and you caw, evoking complaints from the man that can’t sleep without his bird. “I wish you were a nightingale, this way you can chirp some cute songs.”

You fly on his shoulder to peck at the diamond earring, annoyed at his remark.

“Ouch! Ouch!” he shrugs, but doesn’t chase you away. “I recognize crows appreciate shiny things, but it hurts.”

Poking escalates and J vaguely apologizes on his own terms:

“I meant Raven! Raven!!” he repeats and struts inside The Penthouse where your pillow awaits. “Are you hungry?” the Prince of Crime offers a bunch of crumbs and expensive seeds he ordered for the spunky pest. You hop on the nightstand and play with the food, not particularly captivated by the lavish feast.

The Joker rolls in bed, gesturing for the pillow next to him.

“My girlfriend’s out of town, you can crush on her side of bed,” the affirmation makes you float to her cushion, instantly plucking the fabric with your beak, then jump up and down, cawing some more.

The Clown laughs, entertained at the temper tantrum.

“I know you don’t like her and the feeling is mutual,” he caresses the soft, black feathers as you continue to shred Lara’s pillow. “Stoooop! These are fresh sheets!” he pleads and distracts you by showing his patched up abdomen from under the t-shirt. “Look, my lesion is healing; wanna see?” a corner of the bandage is peeled for the guest to properly inspect the stitches.

Y/N bounces on The Joker’s chest, cautiously examining his wound.

“Cool, huh?” he grins and reaches his hand for the book resting under his pillow, surprisingly enough containing your favorite poem. “The Raven. By Edgar Allan Poe,” J emphasizes and you spread your wings with delight, quickly rushing to his neck and cuddle against the playing cards tattoo.

The King of Gotham holds the book with one hand and pets you with the other, his husky tone recites the verses you love so much.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary…” the beautiful, dark rhyme soothes a tired Y/N scarcely recalling what it means to be human.

Yet being near HIM reminds her on how much she longs for what was lost when she willingly sacrificed herself to save the one that didn’t ask to be saved.

*************

Following morning, 8:21 am

The Joker is swimming outside on the terrace and you’re having a blast in the inflatable pool he set by his lounge chair for the enchanted, feathered companion. This is a thousand times extra enjoyable when his new girlfriend is not home!

She’s a complete nutcase, totally obsessed with The Clown and certainly doesn’t understand why he’s paying so much attention to a filthy, gross creature.

Who the hell gets a crow as pet?! Apparently her boyfriend, although he didn’t tell her who you truly are. Why bother? It’s a secret you and J share; nobody has to find out, although plenty of concerned parties would spend a fortune for an update: Y/N hasn’t been spotted recently and it’s troublesome.

“Raven Queen!” J emerges from the pool since he has to take it easy; the doctor said no more than 15 minutes of physical activity every day. “I have a little present,” he yanks at the towel on the lounge chair, unraveling a box full of gold rings, Rolexes and chains under it.

Oh my God, so shiny and sparkly in the morning sun!!!

You fly from your pool straight into the container, happily tapping at the treasures. The Joker dries his body and chitchats with his bird, excited you enjoy the shimmering gems.

“You can steal them and hide them,” he winks and you sure are taking advantage of it as soon as possible. “Do you have a nest?” J inquires and teases afterwards: “Did you find yourself a Raven King?”

That’s pretty rude, you think and swiftly attack him, careful not to scratch his face in the process.

“Cut it out!” The Joker demands and gives up the fight really fast. ”OK, OK, I surrender!” he chuckles as you rise up, gliding in the wind gushing above The Penthouse. The plan is simple: charge at the toxic green locks and pull on the strands, assuring at least two or three hairs will be removed as revenge.  J takes a defensive stance, preparing to catch and keep you captive in the fluffy towel until you calm down.

BANG! the gunshot halts the fun and The Clown Prince of crime watches in horror as The Raven falls to the ground in front of his girlfriend.

“Babe, are you alright?” Lara squeals, kicking the bird at her feet. “I told you having a wild animal as pet it’s an awful idea! I saw the crazy bird attacked you, it might have rabies!!” she kicks you again and the small body convulsing on the hard concrete makes him lose his marbles. “Thank heavens I returned sooner than expected,” the woman explains, nervous to detect the angry Joker stomping towards her.

“What the fuck are you doing??!!” he screams and violently pushes her, slapping the gun out of her hand. Lara stumbles on her own steps, not comprehending why her partner is livid rather than showing gratitude.

“What do you mean?” she gulps and J bends over to pick you up when you let out a cry, the sinister noise resembling a human’s wailing. “The bird was attacking you, I was afraid!”

“It wasn’t attacking me, we were messing around!”

“Messing around?!” the woman mumbles, confused.

“Get a hold of Frost and tell him I need a veterinarian! NOW!!!” The Joker barks as he enters The Penthouse.

“Jesus…,” Lara sniffles and texts, irritated at his behavior. “Why is he so mad about?! The dumb beast is nothing but an outbreak of infection and bacteria!” she maliciously grumbles, sending the message to Jonny.

Something whooshes by her and before she has a chance to see what it is, a bunch of ravens and crows unexpectedly storm at the petrified Lara: they are answering your call, mercilessly tearing and scraping at the enemy.

“J!!! J!!!!” she runs without noticing where she’s going, panicked at the multitude of birds relentlessly chasing her; it’s a miracle she stumbles upon the tiny shed which stores pool supplies and manages to squeeze inside.  

The birds keep on bombarding her temporary hideout as she begs for assistance:

“J !!! J !!!! Please help me!!! J!!!!”

Yet The Joker can’t hear: he raced upstairs to the master bedroom and placed you on the comforter, trying to assess how severe the injuries are; one of the wings is bleeding and there are probably broken bones also.

“Don’t die…” J whispers because it sure seems Y/N is fading away: the bird can barely breathe and for the first time in ages he feels sad. “If you leave, we won’t be able to meet in dreams…”

The King of Gotham crawls in bed, unsure if he should caress you or not; what if he dislocates something else by accident? Instead he kisses the top of your head, the velvety feathers tickling his lips.

The sudden glow radiating from The Raven makes him close his eyes tight: it’s so strong it burns just like when you used your powers to rescue him. It doesn’t last longer than 10 seconds and sensing the light dimmed, J decides to open his eyes. A few black quills still drift in the air and he glares at the tearful Y/N, shocked to see her:

“Everything hurts,” you start sobbing and the bloody arm, plus the bruised torso urge him to cover your naked body with the corner of the quilt. “H-how am I h-here?!” you stammer and grab his thumb while The Joker is in a trance, speechless at the witnessed phenomenon because it’s impossible to come up with a logical reasoning.

Such a shame neither of you realize that even affection coming from a rotten heart can be pure enough to shatter an unbreakable curse.  

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can follow me in AO3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho. 

[secret-time-is-here]

The King and his Aid

Chapter 9: “I’m here.“

I hope you enjoy this, towards the end my hands started cracking (I have eczema on my hands) so put on some lotion and they were burning the last hundred or so words. BUT I FINISHED IT :’D

Previous - First (Season 1) - First (Season 2) - Next

His body shivered as the cold licked and bit at his bones. Despite the freezing and depressing aura the house held, he moved forward automatically, walking through calmly when his Father and friend couldn’t even brave it. All of this felt so familiar, but he’s never done this before. Never dared to make it through to the villain’s lair. At least in this life.

Were they even a villain? If what everything his family has told him about Neil is True, then he’s far from.

“An angel.” A voice in the back of his head provided, “So amazing that he wears his imperfections not as barriers or blocks, but as advantages, the traits that make him, him.”

His pace through the house slowed, why would he ever think about Neil like that?

“You may not think of him like that openly,” He started to stutter on what to say, deny the voice in his head, and blush. “However, I nearly always have.” The voice spoke further, seeming more self-aware than the preassumed simple voice of conscience.

Was someone there with him?

He began to turn his head from each side look everywhere he could, even to see if some small being was hiding in the beams of the self-made log cabin. The voice continued: “It only took me months of knowing him to realize that I love him and that in the eyes of society, our kind is wrong.”

He gulped, thinking of the different punishments and convictions you could be given for simply being different. He wasn’t just scared for himself, he was scared for the voice in his head as well.

“That in the eyes of society, it is wrong for me as a man to like another man. That it is wrong for a woman to like another woman. That it’s wrong to like someone of the same gender. That it’s wrong for anyone to be different than the path laid before us.”

Gene stopped just a yard away from Neil’s bedroom door, not in fear of the pools of negativity that oozed out from under the door and into the weak fabric of his shoes, threatening that if he were to not be careful they would stain his pants as well. He stood in confusion.

“Edwin?” Gene spoke aloud, hoping that he wasn’t going crazy.

“Yes, I’ve been here with you the whole time. Just waiting for you to accept how we are.”

“Why did you show up now and not earlier?” His expression still held confusion, but the dark droplets of anger started to spread, overtaking him with anger.“So i wouldn’t have to deal with all of this?” He gestured, getting more frustrated, “The mess that you left behind?! I’m supposed to be a kid! I don’t want to deal with these problems...” The anger left as soon as it came, “Why?”

“If I showed up before you solved your personal problems, I wouldn’t have been able to put all of this to rest.”

“What...” His gaze dropped to the floor, hunched over, defensive. Worry began to spread and the tension left his body, leaving his head hanging, and mouth dry as he asked: “...What are you suggesting?” He had only been able to hear a few stories about Edwin and was still unsure about him.

“We merge our lives, our memories, live as one being.” Gene just stared at the floor, contemplative, “I can tell you care for him just as much as I do.”

“My mental age doesn’t help, though.” Gene sighed opting to sit on the floor, frustratingly puffed cheeks resting on his fists as he continued to stare at the ground, “I’ve only known him for a few weeks- how- why… is he so amazing?? And cute?? And handsome??”

“He’s naturally obviously quirky and goes out of his way to make the people he cares about happy, even when he doesn’t realize it. Even when his soul was physically cracking and he was stuck to bed rest, he tried his best to make me happy.” Gene’s frown curved into a smile, he wanted to be able to remember what Edwin could, to know for himself how caring Neil could be, “If we merged, we could live happily with him.”

“...Is he a good lover?” Edwin laughed as if he heard the funniest joke. “It’s an honest question!”

“Yes, he’s an amazing lover, he’s treated us like royalty over the years. Which is fitting considering that: If the world was different, Neil and I would be married and sitting on thrones right now.” He could practically feel Edwin’s smile, “I still hope, one day the world will change, and we can truly have our wedding.”

A silence fell, and he could feel Edwin’s smile drop as well.

“...I need to get back to him.” Gene raised a brow, once again confused, “We’ve lived nearly our entire lives side by side. Acquaintances to friends to best friends to secret lovers. It’s always been the two of us. Even when Neil was forced to marry Cecil. It was still just the King and his Aid.”

Gene moved his eyes from the floor back to the door, letting his soul hear the desperate call of Neil’s.

“We have family. More family and friends that are strongly trusted to keep our secret.” Gene perked up at this, “Neil’s brother Dean, and his husband Cecil, they share a seret similar to ours.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is stuck in a female body. He doesn’t like being a princess. Like our situation. Stuck in a body that does fit how we mentally are.” Gene nodded in understanding, “They have a son, Martin, they’ve been raising him to treat everyone, no matter their sexuality, gender identity, or romantic preference, with respect. Our friends have learned of both of our secrets, and are secretly pulling strings in the castle as we speak.”

“...you have friends that… that accept us being, you know?” Gene questioned, genuinely surprised by the information.

“The different heads of departments, and Dean’s own personal guards. Even the head of Heads, and now Head of the court as well, Ian is on our side. When we were thrown in a cell, before Neil came to save us, he visited. Bringing food and questions. He left with answers and a different train of thought. It took time, but Cecil confided in all of them too, we write to each other as much as we can.”

“Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Then this will be the last time we can talk. Just know, we will live happily...”

“One last thing, though.” Gene shyly spoke up, “Why was our connection gone? Why didn’t all the memories stay?”

“We aren’t allowed to exist together, but don’t worry, when I do this, we will be one and the same. One life. One person.”

-----

He was a monster.

There was no question.

The shivering winter frost keeping him rooted. Seas of corruption and the pure negativity his soul was made of pouring from him. His bones were nearly melting from the sheer amount of it. His jaw long since hanging. Eyes covered by the goop. Feeling lost in his arms. The only senses left were hearing and smell. The two most useless ones when you’re alone.

The weight of the silence fell onto him like a piano. Any small noise cutting through him with a weapon of fear. It could be an animal or the police coming to jail him for suspicions of being homosexual. Either seemed to be a logical option at this point.

Then, the muffled sound of a voice. He couldn’t tell who it was. The sound echoed and distorted through the door and the pools of runny liquid.

A whimper escaped him. It was hopeless. The police were here, his life would be uprooted. He would either be sent back home and likely thrown into a secluded cell or religious place or kept in America to do the same things. It was a coin toss and he didn’t like either choice.

Then, a pair of muscular arms surrounded him and his nasal cavity was filled with the smell of parchment and flowers. The smell of plants and books. The smell of his lover. The feel of his lover.

The negativity stopped flowing from his body. One of his eyes was uncovered.

A teary-eyed Edwin looked at him happily.

“It’s okay.” He was carefully pulled into Edwin’s lap, and an arm moved to caress his cheekbone, moving his jaw back into place “Emotions are fine. You’re safe. You don’t have to hide anything with me.” His arms were pulled around his lover’s neck, and Edwin moved his skull to nuzzle Neil’s neck, “Shhhh, I’m here.”

He really is.

“I’m so sorry it had to last this long. I had to let Gene handle his problems before we could live happily again.”

“S-shut up, glitch-fest,” Neil hiccuped, squeezing his arms tighter around the other, “P-please, I just need to cuddle you right now. Just know that… that you’re really here.” Neil’s soul glowed as he spoke, and Edwin carefully pulled it out with his own, letting them drift next to one and other, Edwin exchanging his magic to the nearly shattered soul. For some time, he would need to heal, but, they would do it together.

Geno and Error belongs to @loverofpiggies

Ink belongs to @comyet

Ccino belongs to @black-nyanko

Dream and Nightmare belong to the fandom

[imagitory]

*exhales heavily*

Okay...I don’t usually go off the deep end in political essays that often. If it’s a quick thing like “f**k Neo-Nazis,” then sure, fine, that’s easy. I don’t have to explain why Neo-Nazis -- especially the cowardly ones that try to label themselves as the “alt-right” in a vain attempt to seem more acceptable to modern society -- can go screw themselves. Everyone already knows they’re awful -- or at least, everyone should already know they’re awful. If you’re the sort of person that wants to try to “teach” me about how the alt-right are not Neo-Nazis, then this post isn’t for you, so kindly don’t interact and keep scrolling.

This post is instead for my Democratic followers, whether you support Bernie, Biden, Warren, whatever. Please feel free to skip over it, though, my dear followers -- I know this whole political season has been very draining, and I have a lot more positive posts on my blog that you can consult instead. If you do want to read my thoughts, though, here’s a cut.

Hi, guys. How’s it going? We really dodged a bullet with Bloomberg dropping out of the race, didn’t we? At least now no one should be able to say Democrats and Republicans are alike, right? The Democrats kicked their racist, sexist, obnoxious, out-of-touch billionaire accused of multiple sexual assaults to the curb, while the Republicans made theirs president.

On that note, though...we still have the Republican version of Michael Bloomberg -- the one and only Donald Trump -- in office. We all remember how he got there...Hillary won the popular vote, but thanks to the ridiculously outdated electoral college rules and Russian interference, the electoral votes went Trump’s way. We could conjure up multiple reasons for Hillary’s loss, but at least in my opinion, I would say we learned a few lessons from the 2016 election that I think we should keep in mind. (Alongside making sure Russians butt the hell out of our elections and fact-checking all the rampant misinformation from our media outlets.)

1) We Democrats have more things in common than we might think, sometimes.

Clinton was infinitely closer to Bernie, politics-wise, than Bernie was to Trump or Gary Johnson. Yet there were those who were so upset about Hillary’s nomination and the role Democratic Party officials had in coaxing  delegates to support her that they protest-voted against Hillary, even if that vote wasn’t in their best interest. We don’t have a system that lets us rank who we want for office from most to least, so sometimes we have to accept a bird in the hand rather than reach for two in the bush. You might feel good about voting your conscience in the short term, but you probably won’t when it results in your vote being a drop in the bucket that doesn’t prevent someone like Donald Trump from winning. We’ve already seen this happen not just in the Trump-Clinton election of 2016, but in the Bush-Gore election of 2000.

2) Despite that first point, if we want unity, our Democratic candidate must be aware of how diverse our party is.

Even if we do end up having to settle for a less liberal candidate in order to win an election, that candidate MUST acknowledge that we are not like the Republican Party. We will not march lock-step with people we don’t agree with just because they’re in our party or we agree with some things, and we will certainly not be satisfied with simple pacifism. The Republican Party has been tilting farther and farther to the right over the last three decades, to the point that their policies now involve mass internment of Mexican immigrants and family separation, directly paralleling plans carried out by the THIRD EFFIN’ REICH. We cannot keep begging for civility and peace and trying to reach a compromise -- you cannot compromise with this kind of extremism without sacrificing all of your principles, because those kinds of people do not make concessions.

I remain convinced even after four years that Hillary should’ve chosen Bernie to be her running mate -- if she had, the rift between the centrist and more liberal branches of the Democratic Party might have been healed enough that we could’ve looked at our ticket with excitement and hope, as we had for Obama and Biden back in 2008. Instead Hillary chose Tim Kaine, an inoffensive centrist Democrat who added absolutely nothing to her presidential bid. He couldn’t even help Hillary out by boosting the campaign with youthful energy or natural charm -- Bernie would’ve both boosted morale among younger and/or more liberal voters and lit a fire under those who were anxious about what a Trump presidency could lead to. The same could’ve been true if Bernie had been chosen to be president -- if he’d chosen Hillary, she could’ve better appealed to moderate voters intimidated by the thought of voting for a Democratic Socialist and run on her international experience as Secretary of State.

3) In order to make any difference at all, we must vote, and we must win.

I’m the first person to acknowledge that I hate voting against my convictions. If the Democrats had chosen Michael Bloomberg, I would’ve probably been ready for whole-scale revolution, right then and there. But let’s be frank here -- in 2016, we got complacent. We assumed that Trump would lose. We assumed that America wouldn’t choose racism, or Islamaphobia, or sexism, or Nazism. BUT WE DID. In the end, our country -- like many other countries before us were -- is more afraid of the promise of social change than we are of the threat of fascism. Yes, I called Trump’s vision of the country fascism, and I stand by it. Fascism is defined as far-right, authoritarian ultranationalism characterized by dictatorial authority, forcible suppression of opposition, and strong regimentation of society and the economy and often supplemented with government-sanctioned racism -- and yeah, given that Trump clearly wants to do whatever he wants whenever he wants without facing any consequences for his actions, persecute any so-called “enemies,” make money for himself while in office (even using his office and political power to achieve that end), and scapegoat minorities, I think my point is made. And so I will state it again -- America is more afraid of the future and the progress that could come with it than it is of the cruelty, bigotry, and tyranny of our past. It’s an absolute tragedy, but it’s true. Americans were absolutely terrified of Obamacare until it actually became law and people saw how cool it was, not to be booted off your care for preexisting conditions and stuff. Once that happened, Americans were ready to bite off the hand of any Republican who made any move toward repealing it. If it’s something we’ve never done before, it’s beaten back like the plague, but once it’s something we’ve become accustomed to, you can tear it from our cold, dead hands.

In the 1930′s, Germany had a choice between three political parties -- the Communists, the Democratic Socialists, and the Nazis -- and in the end, the reason the Nazis got power was because the Communists and the Socialists could not band together to stop that greater threat. The Nazis were able to paint a pretty picture to the German people of returning their country to its supposedly long lost, mythic greatness, and they won power, even if they were still not the majority when Hitler got into office. And as soon as the Nazis got power, they never let it go and went out of their way to destroy both Communists and Socialists, just like they did with Jewish people, the Romani, and the rest. We are at such a crossroads now. I am deathly afraid that the Republicans will try to find some way to keep power even if Trump were to lose, but we cannot let that happen. We must stand together, strong and united.

The more liberal of us must acknowledge that radical change cannot be put into place quickly. Our system is broken and falling apart thanks to the Republicans’ on-going sabotage, and we cannot hope to remodel our house until our foundation is secure. Even the Republicans were not able to destroy our country in so many ways these last four years without dismantling a lot of other things first -- corrupting our elections with money thanks to the Citizens United ruling -- sparking two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that drained us of money and added to the backlog of veterans that have yet to receive their deserved financial support -- intimidating political officials away from substantive gun control legislation -- chipping away at abortion rights nation-wide -- stacking the courts, both local and Supreme, with unqualified, strongly right-leaning candidates -- gerrymandering districts like crazy so as to split Democratic-leaning areas and puff up Republican-leaning ones -- even spreading misinformation through shows on their own private so-called “News” network. It will take time to repair all of the damage the Republicans have wrought, but we must first win if we are even to have the chance to try.

On the flip side, the more centrist of us must acknowledge that we cannot go back to the way we were because the way we were was WRONG. We might have nostalgic visions of it being more civil and peaceful, but the tremors of war were still rippling under our feet. The Neo-Nazi rats that elected Trump were gathering under us, and we let them. We let them gain enough confidence to come out into the light in large numbers and we stood by, assuming that they wouldn’t succeed in their goals. We ignored the rampant spread of anti-immigrant rhetoric and Islamaphobia -- we downplayed the racism, the homophobia, and the sexism. Sometimes it was due to arrogance, and sometimes it was due to flat-out indifference, because those things didn’t directly affect us. We should know by now that that rosy view of our past was not how things were -- just as many of our Founding Fathers were still slave owners, and America interned our own citizens in camps during World War II, and the supposedly great Ronald Reagan turned a blind eye while thousands of Americans died of AIDS, our country saw the signs of racism, xenophobia, and ultranationalism coming out in full again and didn’t fight back. And now that racist, xenophobic ultranationalism is in control of the Oval Office. If we have any chance of stopping them, we can’t simply go backwards -- we must charge ahead. We can’t simply pretend like everything can go back to normal -- we must accept responsibility for what we’ve done and pursue justice in making things right. We must fight back against these far-right, tyrannical policies and we must pay restitution to those our country has hurt. I do not want the Mexican families we have destroyed to be treated the way our Japanese American brethren were after they were released from the internment camps in the 40′s -- dismissed and forgotten, with our flag figuratively slapping them in the face every time some stupid guy crowed his head off about America being the greatest country on earth. I may have hated Trump’s immigration policy -- I might not have voted for him -- but he still represents my country, and therefore me, to the rest of the world, and even if he’ll never apologize for a single damn thing that he’s done, I want my country to make things right.

Maybe once a Democrat -- even if it’s a centrist like Biden -- is in the White House again, we’ll have the chance for real change -- good change. We certainly won’t get it as long as we’re stuck on the outside looking in.

Now of course, even when this whole presidential thing is done, we can’t rest on our laurels. We must get out in force for local elections too -- we must take back the Senate and keep control of the House. We must pressure our lawmakers to get the money out of politics, and fix gerrymandering, and restore environmental protections, and hold corporations accountable, and tax the rich, and abolish the Electoral College, and put term limits on Congresspeople, and impeach Brett Kavanaugh, and fund dismantling the backlog on VA benefits, and cancel student loan debt, and implement universal health care, and pass gun control legislation, and do all the other things we need done.

I really hope that whichever candidate we end up with -- whether it’s Biden (*sighs begrudgingly*), Bernie (*smiles*), or Warren (*wiggles in glee*) -- that candidate will strongly consider choosing a Vice President who is either more centrist (if they’re more liberal) or more liberal (if they’re more centrist) and filling their Cabinet with those other ex-presidential hopefuls who still have something to offer. Kamala Harris was Attorney General of California -- why not have her become Attorney General of the United States next? How about Tom Steyer as Head of the EPA, or Cory Booker as Secretary of Housing and Urban Development?

Here’s the thing about us being more diverse in thought than the Republicans -- it means we have a great swath of very different members with very different skill sets, as well as the ability to learn, critique, rationalize, change, and improve. And if we are to defeat an institution like Trump’s that demands lock-step, mindless obedience and praise, it seems to me that’s something we should use to our advantage.

[gaslitbyamadman]

Aphorisms On Madness, Philosophy, & Society (from my book, Gaslit By A Madman)

Aphorisms On Madness, Philosophy, & Society (from my book)

Wittgenstein on Otto Weininger.

Wittgenstein once said about Otto Weininger: “If you were to reverse all of his assertions, they would still be equally fascinating and worthwhile. ” That tends to be how I view all utterances. (If only SJWs thought like this about all utterances!) This is much closer to truth as aletheia, the Greek and Heideggerian notion, rather than strict formal, propositional veracity.

If you believe in truth, you are delusional!

.......Thus, as things became even more extreme, and relativism spread from ‘values’ to truth itself, we increasingly began to see the crazed spectacle of Professors of Psychiatry ‘scientifically’ labelling everyone who simply happens to have different beliefs from themselves as ‘sick’ and ‘delusional’i. e meaning they have a ‘fixed false belief’. while their prestigious, highly rewarded colleagues in the Humanities, Philosophy or Literary Studies department loudly proclaim there is ‘no truth, only interpretations’! No doubt somewhere or other, the two doctrines have been combined and solidified in the very same individuals such that if you still believe in ‘truth’, you are delusional, i. e you have a fixed ‘false’ belief and require urgent ‘treatment’! Pretty deranged, eh?

Truth as the best healer

Real truth saves lives; real truth works better than any pill. Especially for the honest.

On self-identity and freedom of conscience

Nowadays, if a ‘woman’ came into a psychiatrist’s office and professed to be a Champion Bull, raring to butt horns in the otherwise peaceful long-grassed meadows of her youth once more . the good Dr. would quite rightly feel obliged to continue the interview in aggressive snorts and threatening raking at the carpet, like any other modern, non-bigoted professional. But if this erstwhile proud Minator were to opine that there is no such thing as ‘schizophrenia’ or ‘mental illness’, someone’s professional opinion would be gravely offended and someone else’s dosage – that of the poor, once righteous monster -- would be judiciously and roundly quadrupled.

Excessive codes of 'civility' as cause of hateful outbreaks

Excessive codes of 'civility', which rule out certain antagonistic, strongly felt forms of speech, when such cosy 'civility' is not truly felt are one of the leadingyet most over-looked causes of hatred and violence. The reason that throughout society and on all social media websites especially there is enforced civility is because the powers-that-be were afraid of people's differences being worked out in a peaceful manner and them growing united and thus harder to control and dominate.

Psychiatry’s inversion of health and sickness.

In all discernment between healthy and pathological behaviors, the key thing to be aware of is that the nature of the former is to be a deliberate, willful action -- realizing one's 'true will' to quote Aleister Crowley -- whereas that the latter is to be picked up unconsciously or half-consciously from one's environment, sometimes with a dimly conscious but burgeoning awareness that it is vulgar, stupid or slavish. Psychiatry precisely inverts the true nature of this dichotomy, labelling healthy, i. e willful liberation as pathological, and unhealthy, slavish unthinking conformity as healthy: it is the exact opposite.  "Its sickness is for its traits and the traits of its parts to be traits by which the soul does not do its actions that come about by means of the body or its parts, or does them in a more diminished manner than it ought or not as was its wont to do them. Al Farabi

Harm, punish, or 'treat'.

If you harm, punish or 'treat' an bad man, he might just re-consider his wicked ways; but if you harm, punish or 'treat' a good one, he is often liable or prone to re-consider his good ways.

The disadvantages of self-control.

The exhortation to self-control is really an exhortation to obedience and submission. (When they said I lacked 'self-control', what they actually meant was I wasn't controlling myself according to their demands. and they proceeded to take actual selfcontrol away from me) If we are really going to free ourselves of the crippling influence of convention and actually arbitrary, oppressive socalled 'authority', we probably ought to rid ourselves of all self-control that is not absolutely necessary.

Real change.

The cave-dwelling masses and everyday non-mental -patients, while all too fatuously and recklessly embracing ideologies of social 'progress', are frightened of a real change in their Being and locked into a pattern of stagnation and decay. The madman, (remember, the etymological meaning of the word 'mad' is to 'change') at least in the normative, ideal sense of that term, (as well as often he or she who is solabelled), has awakened to the need for spiritual becoming, both in himself and others.

Madness and Art.

Madmen and poets are alike: they both give freer reign to their emotional and linguistic expressions than is considered decent. And, both of them too, do it largely for socially admirable, therapeutic reasons. Albeit the 'mad' one is more often misunderstood, since people forget that all life, and the unartistic life most of all, is a good opportunity for art, for therapy.

The unartistic life is the most drab, automatic, unredeemed kind of life, in which salutary disruptions are still possible No one blinks twice if they see an eviscerated heart in an art gallery nowadays. But if they see an eviscerated heart while it is still in someone's chest. That's magic.

Autobiography of values as requisite.

To counter-act the tide of artificial, false pretenses to expert, scientific 'objectivity', and the docile, herd-like conformity that actually entails within social science, within the healing professions, and within society a whole, I propose that a personal account of one's life-story, focusing on how one came to arrive at one's central, integral values, become a standard for all such careers. This would be a move towards bolstering the development of personality and character throughout society, preventing people from hiding entirely behind their professional veneers, and presencing the real-lived experience and actual, rather than false selves, of individuals. I don't propose this merely as a helpful task for the 'professional' on the way to qualifying, but as a central piece that he must present to his or her clients/patients. A kind of C. V., but, as I say, with the focus on HOW HE CAME TO HIS CENTRAL CONVICTIONS ABOUT LIFE

‘Recreational’ drug use is medicinal drug use.

The potential of currently illegal substances such as LSD and DMT, as well as more common and less potent ones such as marajuana, to provide radical new, mad vistas of consciousness, and so heal the mental sickness with which mainstream society is so disastrously afflicted ( see the work of Terence Mckenna), is no less important than their capacity to treat physical illness or relieve physical pain. While all substances can potentially be used ill-advisedly, the depreciation of supposed ‘recreational’ uses ignores the dire and gaping need even so-called ‘normal’ people have for fresh inspiration, hedonic sustenance, and the health benefits that all true enjoyment, relaxation or true insight brings. It merely repeats the fallacious and artifical seperation between these supposedly mutually alien aspects of ourselves, a long with the superstitious, ascetic and crude utilitarian privileging of the mere functionality of ‘health’, over the supposedly wicked nature of happiness in this world --- a sad residue of religious puritanism and centuries of slavery to sadistic dogmas of control --even though it is only Epicurean pleasure that ultimately justifies life itself. This attitude is so pervasive and so perverse that it simply cannot be under-stated.Ravi Das, a neuroscientist at University College London who is researching the effects of ketamine said: “The potential benefits are definitely downplayed in face of these drugs being used recreationally,” he said. “People view their use in a research setting as ‘people are just having a good time’. ”From this vantage point, must one not wager the theory that almost the whole of modern medicine, most obviously in terms of mental illness, but even in its approach to illness as such --- including physical illness- -- as simply a form of prolonged Christian hatred-ofthe-flesh and jaw-dropping sado-masochism on a mass scale ? That is why Prof. David Nutt equated the barriers to research to the Catholic church’s censorship of Galileo’s work in 1616. “We’ve banned research on psychedelic drugs and other drugs like cannabis for 50 years,” he said. “Truly, in terms of the amount of wasted opportunity, it’s way greater than the banning of the telescope. This is a truly appalling level of censorship. ” Ignoring the importance of psycho-active drugs for promoting health is bad enough, but to ignore or denigrate the importance of pleasure to this aim, is like discounting the use of the eyes in driving to work in the morning! --.

Beyond rational self-preservation ((lock him up! He's a danger to himself.

.!)

. Enlightenment thinkers such Thomas Hobbes and John Locke tried to appeal to and foster what is called man's rational selfpreservation, inserting it above all other goals as the centrepiece and pivot of the whole of society. Notice here the two concepts, reason, on the one hand, and self-preservation, on the other, are heavily intertwined, which still remains the case today. Madness, on the other hand, is commonly associated with throwing caution to the wind, tightrope walking over a precipice just for the sheer Hell of it, and embracing a variety of dangers that may very well end in personal extinction. However, when one considers the nature of our own inevitable mortality, is making selfpreservation our highest goal really so rational? In order to face life in all its grim reality, is it not necessary, at some point or other, to eschew 'rational' self-preservation for a bold leap, (if only in the imagination, if not outward practice), towards an affirmation and embrace of this inextricable fatality? Especially if one seeks to give birth to something greater than oneself, like the Christ, and take on the grave sacrifices that sometimes requires. In other words, rather than 'rational self-preservation', isn't the ability for the‘insane self-annihilation’ of loving sacrifice equally, or an even greater sign of maturity - or of true morality? Thus also the Buddha would seem to have it, who equally, in view of the passing away of all earthly things, preached 'Loss of self' rather than the steady incremental Lockean accumulation of an estate that is eventually destined to perish anyway; he who is said, out of compassion, to have given his life up to be voluntarily devoured by a starving tiger. Reminds me of those ‘voluntary patients’ on the ward that I was on!—.

Consequences of the dehumanization of madness on the collective mind.

The villifIcation of madness and the various phenomenon which are labelled as ‘mentally ill’ in our society, such as ‘grandiose delusions’, ‘hallucinations’, ‘paranoia’, etc. , a long with all the other countless  represents a form of collective repression that not only has unspeakably dire results for those so labelled, but wreaks utter havoc on the collective unconscious and the collective conscious. Rather than being the shamen, the spiritual leaders of society, such men and women are quietly tortured and cast into ignominy. Thereby, society is not only deprived of its natural guiding elite, but everyone in society is trained to feel a senseless (‘paranoid’) fear and hatred of their own deepest spiritual roots, that prevents them re-connecting with these forbidden aspects of themselves and manifesting their true potential. Take for instance ‘paranoia’. This stigmatization of questioning the benevolent motives and fundamental agendas of one’s government is one of the most cynical and blatant causes of that government getting out of control and the citizenry failing to protect their own rights and freedoms. The same applies to all the other associated phenomenon of madness, which as has been argued, represent a perenial bed-fellow and midwife of intellectual and spiritual awakening. Just as the criminalization of drugs produces an association between drug-use and general criminality that does not exist independently, re-validating society’s negative view of drug-use in its own eyes, so the category of mental illness and the inhumane, disabling treatments with which those who fall subject to it suffer, is not merely a product of but re-inforces and creates society’s negative attitude to those who manifest these various ‘mad’ phenomenon. All the while, the fact that the sacred key to everybody’s own selfrealization is so maligned and spat upon understandably produces a deep, unacknowledged sense of disconcertedness and pessimism in the population as a whole, the root cause of many other of society’s ailments and self-destructive tendencies. In truth, the real mental illness is the senseless conformity which the ‘mental health’ establishment sacralizes. This sanctified madness then, unconsciously aware of its own shortcomings, in order to sustain its own self-conception as reasonable and sane, is driven to ever more fervent quest to identity and persecute those it delusionally deems ‘mad’, for the sake of externalizing and thereby gaining some sense of control over its own deepest insecuries, and having an Other to label & stigmatize in opposition to which it can re-affirm its own false, insecure and groundless sense of Self  

The question is.

why do 'sane' family members (& Dr.s & nurses) have such an enormous problem correctly even identifying their 'unwell' relatives extremely normal human needs? ~Max Lewy