#(mark doesn’t get to have many moments of clarity because if he did a century+ worth of suppressed emotions would slap him in the face)

[stageplayhero]

i don’t know how popular the “egos all living in a mansion” thing is anymore but man i think it would mess with mark’s head. he’s spent years believing his friends didn’t care about him and did nothing to reach out and help him (not saying this is how it went — mark’s perception is very skewed, and for multiple reasons he pushed people away), and then he sees dark and wilford taking in all these other people? that depending on interpretation mark may have had a hand in creating? yeah. he’d probably be very normal and very adjusted about that. anyway

[yoonsshadow]

ETERNAL - i

➳ summary ; They have died so often that death has lost its meaning; hurt so regularly that pain has become inconsequential; lost so much that they hold each other to the light of the stars. They have nothing yet they have everything, as long as they have each other. And, after centuries, they now have her.

➳ pairing ; bts!ot7 x fem!reader

➳ genres ; The Old Guard au; fantasy, historical, action, romance, alternate universe

➳ themes ; angst, fluff, death

➳ warnings ; murder, death, violence, blood, guns, burnt bodies, nudity [nonsexual], nightmares, drugs? [sleeping pills], a bunch of boys being in love

➳ word count ; 4.8k

➳ note ; I watched The Old Guard on Netflix [a serious recommend if you haven’t already seen it] and got hit with major inspiration. Nothing better than found-family and immortal soulmates. I put of a lot of time, effort and love into this, so please treat it with delicate hands. And please, please, give me feedback if you like it. Thank you, and enjoy :)

They have done this before, enough times—too many times—to be familiar with the routine. 

The nightmares, all too vivid and yet frustratingly vague, of blood and pain and death. Glimpses of a face they have never seen, memories that do not belong to them. The lingering thoughts of why another, why now, why at all?

They have done this many times, and yet it never gets easier, never makes sense.

⎯⎯⎯

When they submit to the clutches of slumber, it is beneath the glowing moonlight that shines through the broken ceiling of an abandoned church. Overgrown with vines that hold the crumbling walls together and hidden behind bushes and weeds and shadows, this building will be safe, for them. For now. It may not provide much warmth, or much shelter, but it gives them a sense of anonymity that they so desperately depend on. Right now, it hides them from the world. They are nothing but each other’s, so long as they are here.

Usually, sleep brings peace. Long ago did they learn how to banish demons from their dreams, memories of pasts both true and terrible, and so through sleep they find temporary solace from the demands of their long lives. They hold each other in their warm arms, forget about their worries if only for a brief moment. They are but seven men, seven soulmates, seven loves, existing together without burden.

Until tonight.

It is familiar, the weight that descends upon their chests, pushes against their rib cages. An invisible force both squeezing them and pulling them apart, flooding them with vague images, sounds, feelings. In sleep, they hold each other tighter, safer, but they cannot escape the myriad of memories and thoughts that fill their minds.

A pair of eyes, so brown that they are pure, so dark that they are nearly black, blink at them as sweat begins to shine upon their skin. These eyes are young, but they hold wisdom, maturity, that can only come with death. Witnessing it, causing it, experiencing it. These eyes are filled with desperation in this moment, but also a stubborn determination; they know what is coming, and yet they will continue to fight until their dying breath, as they vowed⎯⎯

⎯⎯a uniform, black, stained with dirt and blood, without any identifying marks. No dog-tags, but a tan line around a soft neck where they would normally hang. Trained muscles behind firm fabric, knowledgeable fingers clutching a military assault rifle. Steel-toed boots, scuffs through the polish, dirt in the seams and drops of red in the laces⎯⎯

⎯⎯heart beating through chest, adrenaline spiking, but something’s wrong, this isn’t supposed to happen, how did they know we were coming? Need to get out, need to get to cover, need to save⎯⎯

⎯⎯the enemies found them, caught them, have them, bound and bloodied in a dark cave or dungeon, they can’t tell. Chains rattle against stone where bodies shift for comfort, but no comfort can be found for bleeding wounds, broken bones, bruised skin. Eyes connect, know they’re saying goodbye, can’t speak but wish they could say something, apologise, curse, plead, pray. By the time footsteps stomp their way in, handgun cocked and aimed at their foreheads, they have already accepted that⎯⎯

Gasps echo in the silence as seven bodies jerk awake, trembling and sweating and aching with pains that another is experiencing. Their minds are still clouded, submerged within their dreams, but they know this routine. They know what they have just seen.

Hands scramble beneath their makeshift bedding as they reach for their journals, their pens, and begin to scribble whatever details they can remember ⎯ eyes, blood, pain, death. They’ve all clung to different images, and they desperately remember everything they can before it washes away with their wakeful clarity.

“I saw, um, eyes,” chokes the youngest, his pencil already sketching the eyelashes with careful precision. “Brown, dark. Looked like a girl’s.”

“She had to be military,” says another. “Maybe special forces? No insignia on the uniform and dog-tags were taken off. Black-ops?”

“I saw a glimpse of a scar on her hand. Might help to identify her.”

“There were others, too; a team. I have a feeling she was the leader.”

“It was a rescue operation, but I don’t think they succeeded. The enemies saw them coming. She was confused as to how.”

“Did you see the gun she was shot with? That’s military grade. It was either supplied by somebody on the force, or they were the force.”

“God, I have a headache.” Seokjin rubs his temples, a pain lingering behind his eyes but never ceding. “Never thought after three-hundred years that we’d get another one.”

Arms curl around him, a sigh breathed into his neck. “Me too, hyung.” Jeongguk nuzzles closer, finds comfort in the warmth of his lover’s broad shoulders. “I feel sorry for her. Now she’s going to have to deal with this too.”

“Hey, what did I say about pessimism?” Namjoon’s pointed look is directed towards the youngest, but the words are for everybody to hear. A reminder. “Our lives may be long, and hard, and difficult to deal with at times. But we have the opportunity to help people, to affect change, and, most importantly,” his eyes soften, “to have each other.”

“Wah, hyung’s going soft on us,” Taehyung grins, leaning his head on Namjoon’s shoulder.

Behind him, Jimin clings around his torso like a koala. “Yeah, those are big words for somebody who so often tells us how insufferable we are,” he agrees.

Sitting up, Yoongi joins the conversation with a voice still deep with sleep. “That’s because you are insufferable. But that doesn’t mean that hyungs love you any less. Eternal life would be extremely dull if we didn’t have you annoying us constantly.”

Taehyung and Jimin smile at each other, eyes glittering with something devious, and something close to love. “You all just bore witness to that,” Jimin says, pointing at Yoongi. “You all heard him say that, so you can’t yell at us for being annoying ever again!”

“Free pass!” Taehyung agrees.

Hoseok, still lounging his head in Yoongi’s lap, rolls his eyes. “Yoongi-hyung said it, but none of us did, so we can, and will, still yell at you.”

The two pout, but question it no further. They could spend centuries arguing over petty things⎯have, regrettably⎯but they’d much rather get along. For now, forever.

“Hyungs,” a small voice whispers into the silent air, drawing attention to where the maknae still hugs into Seokjin’s back. He’s pouting, and they want to coo at him, but his next words break them out of their reverie of adoration. “What about the girl?”

Your ears are ringing when you finally wake, images of your nightmares still clinging to your mind, so vivid, so real. They were filled with pain, and fear, and the bloodied faces of your soldiers as they were shot one after the other. You remember screaming for them, pleading, hoping against hope that they’d listen. But, instead, you had watched them die.

You hope that you didn’t scream aloud, didn’t wake your team. They deserve the rest, even if you couldn’t have it.

Muscles stiff and aching from a restless slumber, you shift in your cot, move to adjust the blanket. But your cot is harder than you’d like, your blanket out of reach. In fact, you can’t move your arms at all.

When your heavy eyelids finally open, you realise why your dreams had felt so real.

The stench of blood and death is so thick in the air that you can taste it, that bitter tang against your tongue bringing bile up to the back of your throat. Your body isn’t just sore, it’s screaming; it’s as though you can feel your muscles re-knitting together after being torn apart. And maybe it’s panic that crushes against your lungs, constricting your airways, or maybe it’s grief.

Because as soon as your eyes land on the dead bodies of your teammates, you can’t breathe.

Your throat is so sore from screaming and crying that the sounds escaping it are torn and scratchy, but you can’t hold them in. Not when you see your friend’s brain splattered over the wall behind her; not when you see your second-in-command holding her hands together, mid-prayer when the shot was fired.

You sob, and yell, and cry out until your throat is raw, and then when you have no voice left, you continue. You may not be dead yet⎯and for what reason, you don’t want to know⎯but you don’t think that you’ll ever truly live after this. How does one move on from their friends, their family, being slaughtered before their very eyes? How does one process the fact that they were left behind?

Through the crushing weight on your chest and the searing pain in your throat, you hear footsteps approaching. The heavy boots do nothing to hide their owner’s steps, impatient and strong, but you can’t find it within yourself to be afraid. The worst thing they can do is torture you some more, maybe even kill you, but you’d welcome death at this stage; you’d welcome reprieve from the sorrow that threatens to swallow you whole.

It’s a man, unsurprisingly, who walks through the mouth of the dark cave, ugly face covered by a mask pulled up to his eyes. He looks at you, something in his half-hidden expression that you don’t have the energy to place, and then says something in a language that you cannot understand.

Heaving a breath and swallowing blood, you meet his sharp eyes. “I don’t understand you.” Your words scratch their way out, hardly discernible, so you try again. “I won’t tell you anything, so just kill me and get it over with.”

This time he shouts, still angry but this time not at you, though he never tears his gaze off your crumpled figure. Like if he blinks, you may disappear.

Once again, hurried and heavy footsteps make their way into the room, a pair of men joining their comrade. These ones are holding guns. You can’t find it within yourself to flinch.

More foreign words are thrown at you, some that seem like questions, but your mind is too rattled, head too sore, to even try to comprehend what they might want from you. Your shoulders ache from where your arms are secured behind you, and your legs ache from hours⎯maybe days?⎯of disuse. So you sigh, level what you hope is a glare towards the two newcomers, and repeat, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Looks exchanged between them, hesitation, and then, “You should be dead. Why are you not dead?”

In a moment of weighted silence, you try to determine if they’re serious. Because surely they aren’t asking you how you are alive while being held captive by them. But they don’t elaborate, so you’re left with an even greater migraine than before. “Are you fucking serious?”

The expletive makes them simultaneously point their rifles at you, and this time, you do stiffen. You may be feeling slightly suicidal right now, but you also have reflexes.

“I don’t know why I’m alive.” The admission is spat from between your teeth, reluctant and bitter. “Why don’t you ask whoever it was that killed the rest of my team?”

“I killed your team,” one of them says. The first one. Without a gun, obviously having thought there would be no threat in entering this dungeon. “I killed you, too, shot you in the head myself. So tell me again. Why are you alive?”

“Maybe you’re a bad shot,” you reply. “How am I to fucking know why you let me live? Now do me a favour, will you? Either let me go or shoot me for real this time.”

You don’t have time to register the sound of the gunshot before the bullet goes through your forehead.

“Anything?”

A sigh is the only response that Namjoon receives. 

“Alright,” he continues, “what do we know for sure about her?”

“Honestly, hyung?” Jimin looks up from the laptop he’s perched at. “I don’t think we even truly know if it’s a woman. We saw her⎯their⎯eyes, but not much else. Like, sure, we think it’s a woman, we’re pretty sure of it, but nothing’s certain. The visions were really vague this time around.”

“He’s right,” Yoongi agrees, never looking up from the screen of his own computer. “I’ve been searching the military databases, but it’s hard to pinpoint covert operations that don’t technically exist. We didn’t get a dog tag number, or an insignia, or even an idea of which country’s military she’s in. I hate to say it, but we might just need to wait until tonight. Get some more pieces of the puzzle.”

This is what Namjoon was afraid of, not that he was expecting anything else. His boys are good, but even they can’t work miracles.

“I feel sorry for her,” Jeongguk hums, cheek pressed into the couch cushion where he’s taken a rest from research. Not that he ever really started; that was always his hyungs’ strong points. “I mean, she’s all alone right now, probably really confused, really scared. I know I was before you all found me.”

That sentence strains their hearts, makes them pause. Jeongguk had been alone for nearly a decade before they had finally found him, lonely and of unsound mind, unaware of the curse he’d been unwillingly given. They’d spent years helping him heal, helping him accept, and now they can proudly say that he is stable and content. Happy, even, sometimes.

You, however. You are in the exact same place that he was. Maybe worse, they don’t know.

Taking slow steps towards the couch, Hoseok gently lifts Jeongguk’s legs to place them on his lap when he sits. He feels the strong calf muscles beneath his fingers as he strokes the uncovered skin, bare only for their eyes, until the young one has relaxed his worried muscles.

“I know it’s hard, Jeongguk-ie,” Hoseok says, voice just above a whisper, soft and yet sure. “I know that we all want to find her as soon as possible, but we can’t just yet. Hopefully the next dream will give us more, but until then, we just have to stay focused. Let’s not get lost in that mental spiral, okay?”

Jeongguk hums, not fully sated with the answer but understanding nonetheless. “M’kay, hyung.”

The comfortable silence in the room following their conversation doesn’t even stretch five minutes before a figure slams into the building, flourishing his arms and announcing his arrival enthusiastically.

“We’re back, bitches!”

Seokjin follows behind Taehyung, closing the church doors after the younger had slammed them open and looking exhausted. “Taehyung chatted with the cashier for half an hour before he even asked for help. We could have been back hours ago.”

“Hey.” Taehyung directs a look at the oldest. “Her outfit coordination was unlike anything I’ve seen this century. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s as old as Hoseok-ie hyung!”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Hoseok asks Seokjin, who is smiling despite himself.

“Definitely a compliment. I’ll admit, she reminded me of that one fashion mogul we knew in Paris. The one...Jimin, you know the one I’m talking about. Red hair, lazy eye?”

“It wasn’t a lazy eye, hyung,” Jimin corrects, “she was just keeping an eye out in all directions.”

“Yeah, anyway,” Seokjin says, “none of that matters. We got the stuff. Took a while, but we got it.”

Taehyung empties his plastic shopping bag onto a wiped-down old table, cardboard boxes falling onto the surface. “I’ve got to say, modern medicine is pretty ground-breaking. I wish we were smart enough to have invented it earlier.”

“Do you think it’ll work?” Yoongi asks, sounding a lot less interested than he actually is. “I wouldn’t think that sleeping pills would affect us.”

At this, Namjoon bites his lip. “Usually, I’d agree with you, but I’ve been doing some thinking. If the pills aren’t hurting us, our bodies shouldn’t heal too quickly; they should still have time to take effect. Just like how we can get drunk but not have liver issues, or smoke but not get cancer.”

“But smoking’s still gross,” Jeongguk mumbles.

“So,” Hoseok ponders aloud, “if we take the pills, it should prolong our sleep so that we can lengthen the dream? Do you think it’ll work?”

“We’ve never been able to test it,” Namjoon shrugs. “The worst thing that could happen is our body processes it quicker than it works, and we have a normal night’s sleep with normal visions. It’s worth a shot.”

“I think a few of us should not take the pills,” Seokjin says. “That way, if the pills really do work, some of us can still wake up normally in case of an emergency.”

Namjoon nods his head in agreement. “Okay. We’ll rock-paper-scissors it tonight. Until then, let’s rest.”

The second time you wake up, you are significantly less disorientated. You know where you are, what has happened and, most importantly, that you should definitely be dead.

You’d seen the gun, heard the click, felt the bullet spilt through your skull. You know what a killing shot is, have dealt a few yourself, so you know that you should not be opening your eyes to an intense headache right now.

An acrid odour drifts through your dazed thoughts, a stench so strong, so unpleasant, that bile immediately rises and spills from your mouth. You don’t have much to vomit, so you spit mostly water and stomach acid onto the ground beneath you as you wretch from your aching throat.

No, not the ground. Something far worse.

When the tears from your eyes clear away and you look to the ground, you see what is digging into your skin, jabbing at your muscles; you aren’t sure why, or how, but you are lain across a pile of bones and scraps of cloth, sizzling flesh still warm to the touch and sticking to you in chunks. You are atop a pile of burnt bodies, unharmed and soaked to the bone with the reeking smell of charred flesh.

Your stomach is empty, and so you can only scramble from the pile and retch.

For several minutes, all you can do is allow your body’s attempt to empty itself on the ground. Even more so than before, your mind is overwhelmed with thoughts and questions and worries, most of which lead to the fact that you are lying naked in the middle of a desert, next to a pile of burnt bodies, unharmed and somehow alive.

You are at least thankful that you are already lying on the ground when you faint.

*

There are seven pairs of eyes⎯brown, warm⎯that look at you, look at each other. Words remain unspoken, for the pupils reveal every thought, every emotion. I care for you deeply, they say, now and forever. The words are not meant for you, not yet, but they feel familiar. As if you have heard them in every past life⎯

⎯Surrounded by trees, a sight which would usually calm you but now only acts as a hindrance, you run through the familiar forest without grace. Bare feet bleed trails of red through the undergrowth, sore arms never dropping the heavy weapons that slow you down so. You should not be alone, never usually are, but now you are accompanied only by your panic and the wolves that chase you. These ones, however, do not howl or gnash their feral jaws; they calculate, the way only a human can⎯

⎯Metal hangs heavy around your lithe neck, skin raw and bleeding beneath its unrelenting grip. Fingers grab into your filthy hair, knotting into your bun. Worthless piece of filth, growls a man. You are not unfamiliar with his tone, nor his insults, though this is the first time you have felt a glob of saliva being spat onto your cheek. Can’t even follow the basic rules. Somebody really ought to make an example of you⎯

⎯This room is bright, brighter than the last, and yet somehow glooms darker than all. Shadows hang heavy in the corner where invasive eyes hide, but you can look only to the man who sits in front of you, posture relaxed despite the tensity that thickens the air. Go on, he taunts as you are shoved to your knees, the pain nothing compared to the fear that fills you at the sight of the executioner’s sword. Show us that smile of yours. Grant the world one more. Grant him, he nods towards another figure who you refuse to meet gazes with, one last dazzling grin. You do not, but you do whisper an apology under your breath, one that will never be heard⎯

⎯Gold silk hangs from your broad shoulders, the fabric draping gracefully down your tall body. Each detail stitched into the delicate robe sparkles in the candlelight, patterns that tell stories of love and power and beauty. Jeonha, somebody says to you, a face that is hidden from your view. I am sorry for this, Jeonha. Gold silk soon turns crimson when the knife plunges into your back. You are not even allowed the courtesy of looking into your killer’s eyes⎯

⎯You had always thought that you would live longer, survive the odds set against you, but you know now, as your mother tends to the gash carved into your chest, that this time, luck is not your benefactor. It is not so bad, she assures, though you know the look in her eyes, see the light in them dimmed with grief of a life not yet lost. You wish to tell her everything, anything, but the words bubble up in your throat and you struggle to spit them out. She knows, though, you can see that she knows, and her calming hand rests over your heart, which beats slower and slower with each moment. I love you, my sun, my son. Rest well. Her hand grows cold, or maybe that is you. For you no longer feel, no longer worry, only close your eyes and fall⎯

⎯Urgency pumps your blood faster, the sound echoing in your ears, as your weeping eyes search around you. Nothing, not the chaos around you nor the wound in your shoulder, can stop your wobbly legs from moving, not when you have to find him. There you are, comes his voice from behind you, and you turn so quickly that you become dizzy. But he is there, wounded yet alive, and he is offering you a smile that you struggle to return. You fall into his arms, he into yours, hold each other with all the strength that you have. And when an arrow pierces through your heart, spearing through his chest, you are connected even when you fall, lifeless⎯

*

This time, you wake with a gasp and a speeding heart, images so vivid still lingering in your mind. Your chest is still sore where your heart lies, the organ heavy with another’s grief, and you are surprised to find yourself covered in your own tears.

Still in the dirt, still nude, still alive, and still confused, you know that the only way to survive is to keep moving. Memories of dreams that had felt so real may plague your mind for a while, but you cannot dwell. You have had nightmares before, strange and also plausible ones, and you know. You know that to submit to the darkness of your own mind is a death sentence in itself. So you stand up, dust off your bare skin, and begin walking in an unknown direction.

You only cast one glance back at the bodies behind you. Your team, in all probability. Your friends. You are leaving them in the middle of nowhere.

This, too, you do not allow yourself to dwell on. Not now. Not yet.

Though the night has long since begun, darkness creeping into every corner of the room, one figure lies awake, thinking. Listening.

He is selfish, he supposes, for choosing not to sleep in a time when it can be so important. He should be allowing the visions to greet him, remembering the details, soaking it all in. Instead, he blinks away his exhaustion in exchange for wandering thoughts. He is not ready to allow another’s memories into his mind; for his to enter their’s. He has unwillingly revealed his sins to far too many already.

Hoseok is afraid. And he is tired.

Around him, his six loves breathe deeply, bodies relaxed in slumber and minds lost to the visions of their eighth soul. Some stir, occasionally, and he is sure he’s heard one of the maknaes whimper, but all is otherwise silent.

He would die a million painful deaths just to ensure that they could maintain this peace forever. He supposes he has, already. But he doesn’t regret it. Not for them.

Though the silence is calming, it also beckons his eyes closed and his mind into darkness. So, in an attempt to battle the tantalising call of sleep, he rolls over, stands up, and quietly sneaks out of the crumbling building they’ve taken shelter in.

The air outside nips at his skin, prickling goosebumps down his back and arms, but it is always chilly at this time of year, in this part of Europe. He forgets which country they’re in. Possibly close to France, but likely somewhere in Italy. He can smell salt in the air, the ocean not far away.

Yes. Italy.

Through thick undergrowth and overgrown weeds he wanders, mind idle and busy all at once. His feet take him around the perimeter of the area⎯a consequence, he supposes, of living a paranoid life⎯but his thoughts are elsewhere. On a girl he has yet to meet. On you.

How will you react, he wonders, to this life? To them? Through the brief flashes he has seen of you, you are a woman who seems steadfast, capable, and determined. But he’d also seen your team; felt the love you hold for them. Will you be able to part from the life that you can no longer lead? Will you eventually accept them as your new family?

There are too many questions, too many things to worry about. This is why he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching him from behind until two arms wrap around his shoulders.

“You should be asleep.” The words are whispered beside his ear, warm breath fanning down his neck. He shivers, but doesn’t respond. “What’s wrong? Let me help.”

Hoseok sags into the strong embrace, allows the arms to tighten around his chest, and sighs. “I’m worried, Namjoon.” Namjoon hums, doesn’t say anything. “Is it selfish of me to not want to see her memories? To not want her in my head?”

A pair of plump lips kiss the tip of his ear. “Perhaps,” Namjoon says. When Hoseok stiffens, he pulls him closer. “But being selfish is not necessarily a bad thing. You are allowed to prioritise yourself every once in a while.” Namjoon can sense that Hoseok is not yet appeased, so he adds, “There are six of us here to take the visions when you can’t. And if you do decide to rest, there will be six of us here to hold you through it. Being selfish does not mean that you are alone.”

“I’m so tired,” Hoseok whispers, and they both know that he is not referring to his lack of sleep. “We’ve all got such baggage, so much hurt, and I wonder if adding the weight of an eighth will be too much.”

“Hey.” Namjoon gently turns Hoseok in his arms, holding him close still. They look into each other’s eyes, see everything that they have grown familiar with. That they have grown to love. “We will also have another person to help share the load. For now and forever, we are in this together. It’s okay to have doubts, or worries, but never forget that you are ours and we are yours.”

Foreheads touch and eyes close, the silence of the night engulfing them as they share each other’s heat. And here, they are okay. They still have fears, still have troubling thoughts, but they are not so bad when they are together.

“C’mon,” Namjoon mumbles. “Let’s go back inside. Whether you decide to sleep or not, we should stay with the others. You know how they can get about cuddle piles.”

This does make Hoseok breathe a laugh. “Okay. And hey, Namjoon.” He presses their lips together in a brief, soft kiss. “Thank you, my love.”

“My eternal,” Namjoon replies.

That night, they both allow sleep to take them. They join the others in dreams of bloodshed, heartache, and death. And they hold each other a little closer. And they are okay.

< prev ⎯ next >

[earliebirb]

too close for comfort

I kinda combined the following two prompts from an anon and @ishipallthings​​ into one fic. I hope you guys don’t mind! 

Sorry it’s taking me a century to go through all the prompts in my inbox. 😔 

I hope you enjoy the fic! 🤍

too close for comfort

steve/tony, fluff, getting together, 2532 words

It was born out of a genuine desire to help, but as with many things in his life, Tony soon finds that the situation is rapidly spiraling out of his control.

It all started because Steve had looked so goddamn sad all the time. The guy seemed to have the tendency to turn every single negative emotion inwards and Tony just couldn’t stand seeing him wound up so tight anymore, like if someone were to poke him in the wrong way he would just snap one day.

So maybe when Steve was seated at the dining table one day, shoulders hunched in on himself and a grim expression on his face, Tony’s resolve to just leave the man alone finally broke and he asked, between sips of his fifth cup of coffee of the day:

“Cap?”

Blue eyes turned his way, ever wary and apprehensive.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but—” Tony set his MIT mug down on the counter and took a fortifying breath. “Do you want a hug?”

Steve blinked a few times. To be fair, it was sort of a non-sequitur.

The perplexed expression taking over Steve’s features made Tony kick himself internally, because of course Steve was going to be weirded out—Tony wasn’t even sure if they were friends. 

Tony swallowed with difficulty, deciding to power through for the moment despite his better judgment, “When I was little, my mom used to give me hugs when I had a bad day. I learned to ask for them from my mom from time to time, growing up, and then from Rhodey during college, and then Pepper sometimes, and I just thought— You know what, never mind, pretend I never said anything, this was stupid—”

“I—” Steve blurted out. Tony paused. 

Steve was quiet for a few moments. The lines of his face crumpled up in an awful grimace, looking like it physically hurt him to speak as he gritted out, “I would like one. If you don’t mind.”

Tony blinked three times in rapid succession. Then he shuffled over awkwardly to where Steve was sitting. 

“So, like, do you want to stand up or do I just lean down? Uh, which one would you prefer? Or—”

Steve took the choice entirely out of his hands when he stood up, tall body towering over Tony. He then proceeded to wrap his arms around Tony tentatively, like he wasn't sure how Tony would fit in his embrace.

Their bodies pressed up flush against one another, the dips and curves lining up perfectly. With his arms curled around Steve, Tony tightened his hold around Steve’s midriff just a little bit, the way Tony liked it when he was stressed out, physical touch grounding him in the moment and reminding him to focus on the present. 

By the pleased and almost involuntary sigh Steve let out, he seemed to appreciate it, too. The cold tip of Steve’s nose brushed against the skin of his exposed collarbone as Steve curled even closer into him. 

They stayed like that for a few heartbeats, soaking up each other’s warmth. Tony could even feel himself relaxing, the tension ebbing away from his muscles. Maybe he had needed the hug just as much as Steve did. 

When Steve eventually pulled back to release him, he looked better. Not like he had been relieved of all of his burdens, but looking less like he was going to cave in due to the weight of the world. The line of his shoulders was less taut, like he had acquired the strength to push through at least another day. 

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve said, voice all low, rough, and unmistakably earnest, blue eyes looking down at Tony in wonder. He looked like he was looking at Tony in an entirely new light and Tony was a little bit terrified to find out just exactly what kind of light that was. 

After all, they had gotten off on the wrong foot, meeting under less than ideal circumstances with tensions running high. 

“Anytime, Cap.”

“Steve,” Steve corrected gently with a kind smile, “please call me Steve.”

“Anytime, Steve,” he said, and found that he genuinely meant it. 

Steve seemed to think that Tony had meant it, too, because after that one fateful hug, Steve sought him out for more. He became surprisingly liberal with physical affection when it came to Tony, going to him for not only more hugs but also other kinds of physical touch: claps on the back, shoulder squeezes, and in one memorable incident that Tony remembers with way too much fondness and startling clarity—hand-holding.

Well, sort of. Steve had been watching TV in the common area on one chilly evening and his face lit up the second he saw Tony walking in. 

“What are you watching?” Tony asked, taking the empty seat beside him on the couch. 

Steve glanced back at the TV screen. Tony took in the sight of Steve, clad in a cozy-looking brown wool sweater and a pair of grey sweatpants, his long limbs lax and back sinking into the couch. His eyes lingered on Steve’s easy smile. He seemed more relaxed, no longer looking like he had a stormy cloud looming above his head all the time. Tony thought that maybe Steve was starting to become more accustomed to the twenty-first century.

Privately, he also liked to think that maybe he had helped in some way to make Steve feel more at home at the Tower.

“I’m not sure, actually. Some animated movie.” Steve shrugged, watching the TV absentmindedly, the colorful lights from the screen reflected in his bright blue eyes. 

As he spoke, he rubbed his hands together continuously, skin glistening under the lights. It was then that Tony detected a pleasant and sweet smell in the air. 

“What’s that?” Tony asked, nodding at Steve’s hands.

Steve’s smile widened at the question. He leaned forward and picked up a small tube that was sitting on top of the coffee table, handing it to Tony.

“Hand cream,” he said. “Vanilla and cinnamon-scented. Bruce finds it soothing and he recommended it to me.”

“Huh.” Tony smiled, inspecting the tube of cream in his hand.

“You want some?”

“Huh?”

“Here, I’ll apply it for you.” Steve snatched the tube out of his hands and turned sideways to face him on the couch. “Give me your hand.”

Tony did so obediently and watched as Steve squirted a generous amount of cream onto the palm of his hand. Steve began rubbing the dollop of cream around with both of his hands, spreading it all over the skin of Tony’s calloused palm—rendered sandpaper-rough from all his engineering work. He also made sure to apply the cream to Tony’s fingers, as well as the back of his palm and down to his wrist. 

All the while, Tony found it oddly difficult to breathe, heart fluttering with Steve’s every touch. When he was finished with the one hand, Steve asked for the other. Dazed, Tony gave it to him.

He continued to rub cream into Tony’s hand, pouring his full attention into the simple task, making sure the cream was spread all the way to the spaces between his fingers. At one point, he paused, frowning down at a spot on Tony’s hand. Tony swallowed, nervous for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint.

“What?” Tony asked.

Steve tilted Tony’s hand wordlessly, showing him a bit of discoloration located on the webbing of his hand, between his point finger and thumb. 

“Soldering iron,” Tony explained, voice tight and breathless. Steve nodded silently, but his eyes lingered on the scar for a few moments. He gently pressed on the healed burn mark with the pad of his thumb before caressing it in multiple strokes, like if he did it enough times the mark would eventually disappear.

“Sorry. I know my hands aren’t exactly the softest, what with all the work I do in the workshop.” Tony flexed his fingers, feeling more than a little bit self-conscious under Steve’s scrutiny.

Steve maneuvered Tony’s hand so that it was stacked atop his own, palm facing up.

“Not soft, no.” Steve shook his head, agreeing with Tony. Using the index finger of his other hand, he began to trace the lines of Tony’s palm.

Then his lips curved up into a soft smile, eyes following the movements of his own finger across Tony’s hand.

“But really pretty,” he whispered, voice hushed. Steve looked at him then, warm blue eyes holding his gaze steadily. “I think your hands are beautiful, Tony.”

Tony distinctly remembers the way he floundered for a few painful seconds, struggling to come up with a coherent reply, before eventually choking out a feeble “thanks”. 

That moment lingered in his mind for days afterward, and Tony started to find himself unable to stop his own mind from wandering toward thoughts of Steve on a daily basis, like the man himself had moved in permanently and taken up residence in Tony’s head.

When Tony’s heart couldn’t stop doing somersaults in his chest after Steve had ambushed him with a random hug one morning as the man made his way to the elevator for his run, Tony decided that all of this had to stop.

That is how he finds himself standing in front of Steve’s bedroom, trying to build up the courage to knock on Steve’s door to tell him that he has to start going to someone else for his fix of physical comfort, because Tony just can’t offer it to him anymore without feeling increasingly like he is taking advantage of Steve, greedily savoring every touch that Steve has been innocently giving him. 

It doesn’t take a genius to understand that what Steve needs is physical touch in general for the sake of comfort, and not necessarily from Tony in particular. Steve just seeks him out because Tony is the one person that has given him explicit permission to do so, the one that has offered him physical affection in the first place. 

Tony inhales deeply to calm his nerves and squeezes his eyes shut. His raised fist is about to rap on the door when said door opens abruptly from the inside. Tony takes a few steps back in surprise. Steve blinks at the sight of Tony, equally as taken aback.

“Tony? What are you doing here?”

“I just— I— Um. That is, I was, uh—”

Tony stills when Steve gathers him into his arms, pulling him close. Steve buries his face in the crook of Tony’s neck, breathing him in before sighing in relief. 

“What great timing. I’m having a terrible day. I was just about to go and find you,” Steve confesses, voice muffled, nose and lips brushing against the delicate skin just above Tony’s collarbone. That combined with the tickling sensation of his warm breath has Tony holding his breath and clenching his jaw to fight an inappropriate shiver from running down his spine. 

Tony’s heart is racing in his chest, blood is rushing in his ears, and he can definitely feel his palms starting to get clammy with sweat. 

“Actually, Steve,” Tony squeaks, “I need you to let me go.”

Steve tenses almost immediately around him, muscles locking tight. Slowly, he releases Tony. When Tony pulls back, he gets a clear look at the evident confusion and concern playing out on Steve’s face. 

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you somewhere?” Steve’s eyes travel down Tony’s body, looking for signs of injury.

“No,” Tony says as he shakes his head with a shaky exhale, “it’s nothing like that.”

Steve’s eyebrows draw even closer together. “What’s wrong?”

“I… don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Steve continues to stare at him, eyes unblinking.

“The hugs,” Tony clarifies, the two words leaving his mouth in a rush.

Steve blinks, processing the information. His mouth opens and closes quietly, like he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Oh,” Steve breathes. Tony thinks he catches a flash of hurt in Steve’s eyes.

“Yeah.”

Concern immediately floods back into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Tony. Did I make you uncomfortable? In any way, at all?”

You made me too comfortable, Tony thinks. 

“No. Uh, it’s not you, it’s me,” he says, and then winces at his choice of words. He averts his gaze, looking at Steve’s chest instead. The weight of Steve’s blue eyes has started to become too much to handle. “I… Uh. It’s just that. I’ve started. Developing feelings. For you.”

After a few seconds of silence, he chances a look up at Steve and finds the man staring at him with an intense look on his face.

Tony quickly drops his eyes back to Steve’s chest. To his horror, he begins to ramble, “Non-friendly feelings for you. I mean, not non-friendly in the sense that I dislike you, because I like you. It’s, uh. More in the sense that I like you... too much. I have feelings. Of the— The non-platonic kind. And, uh, yeah. There. Sorry. I really didn’t want to make things awkward between us.”

Steve continues to say nothing.

And then—

Steve chuckles. Tony’s head snaps up. Upon catching Tony’s eyes, Steve bites back a grin.

“What— Are you laughing at me? Is this funny to you?” Tony asks, quickly crossing the line from nervous and embarrassed to offended. Tony is putting himself in a vulnerable position for the sake of their friendship, okay? He is trying to do the right thing here. He expected a polite and painful rejection, but laughter?

“No, no,” Steve says in between chuckles that manage to slip out despite his best efforts, “please don’t be mad. I just—”

“What?” Tony interrupts, unimpressed.

“I’ve, uh… The truth is, I’ve been finding excuses to touch you for months now,” Steve admits sheepishly, cheeks tinged a soft pink. His gaze drops down to the floor. “At first, I really did look forward to your hugs because they brought me comfort. They calmed me down, made me feel better. But then you kept being so sweet and kind, always checking in on me, making sure I’m okay, even when you don’t have to. And you’re so funny, Tony. You make me laugh even on my worst days, when it seems impossible to, and I just…”

The words trail off and Steve shrugs before meeting Tony’s eyes bashfully. 

“After a while, you just made it impossible for me not to fall for you.” 

Tony blinks, heart in his throat. It doesn’t feel real, hearing that he can affect someone else in the way Steve just described. 

Steve swallows, stepping closer to Tony. Carefully, he cradles Tony’s cheeks in his hands.

“You make me really happy, Tony.” Steve looks down at him, sincerity gleaming in his azure eyes. “And I’d be over the moon if you’d be willing to give me the chance to try to make you as happy as you’ve made me.”

Tony’s throat clicks. When he remembers to breathe again, he replies:

“I’d— Love to,” Tony whispers, low voice fraught with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

When Steve’s lips melt sweetly against his, Tony feels him smile into the kiss, the first of a thousand more to come. 

[trentsleatherboots]

Carach Angren, interview translation Dutch > English

Published in the magazine Rock Tribune, edition June 2020, nr. 192.

Text by Morbid Geert. Fotos: Stefan Heileman.

WILL THE REAL FRANKENSTEIN STAND UP NOW?

At the end of last year you could already read about how we kept close watch on Carach Angren. Back when they were still heavy in the production process, on Halloween Day we went over to Ardeks homebase and studio to see the first glimpse of their new work and later Rock Tribune got invited to listen to the album in Germany. Now it's almost time for 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus' to be shown to the world and that's why we wanted to take an even deeper look. Weaponed with an oil lamp and shovel we went onwards towards the graveyard to uncover the soul stirrings of Ardek. (Text: Morbid Geert)

---

Ardek, the last time I talked to you the songs were still in a very early stage and what we heard was more of a pre production. Did you tinker more afterwards to come to an end result or did you purposely keep your hands off to avoid overproduction?

"In terms of song structures and lyrics not much changed on the premature songs that you heard. What followed however was another production-finish, where especially the mix and mastering made a big change. That last stadia really lifted it all to another plane and you can really hear that."

A FRESH LOOK.

As far as I knew, Patrick Damiani was still fully onboard working on the songs at Tidal Wave Studio in Germany. How important was it for you to pull an extra producer into the process? After all, you are very much at home with that as well? Or maybe not as much as you'd like?

"Back then he worked on drumediting and played the basslines, but his role is way bigger than that. We've worked together a lot and now we're doing something for L'Âme Immortelle, where we vibe together perfectly and know exactly how to handle such a project.  When he takes on production for Carach Angren however, I notice how much better he controls it. He has so much knowledge about drum sounds, mixing,... and he's really specialised in it. It is nice to add that knowledge, it brings a lot of added value. These days a lot of bands record at home and that all makes it a lot cheaper, but a good producer brings a lot of experience and equipment, it ends up with a whole different result. Besides, we left the mix and mastering to Robert Carranza."

That last one is a pretty big name, who among others worked with Marilyn Manson. I can imagine that has a big impact on your budget, but was it worth it?

"I think so. When I listened to 'Killing Strangers' by Marilyn Manson on headphones and heard the bassline, it went so deep that it turned me upside down. Apparently Robert Carranza mixed that album.  Furthermore he does a lot of different things such as make latin music and win grammy's, but in the extreme metal scene he is totally unknown.  However, he wanted to help himself to our record and yes, the price was steep, but I managed to convince both the band and the label… even though that wasn't without some doubts, since all eyes were on me for a bit. I had a good feeling about it and shared it, with the result being having a record now that doesn't sound like the others.  He had a fresh look on our work and thus we could avoid the recognisability of the average metal producer.  There are too many records that when you hear them you know exactly who had their hands on them and in which studio they were recorded.  Contrary to what you might think, there was constant contact with him (Robert) and a lot of talking about how we wanted it to sound. In particular the clarity of the sound is massive and gives it a bit more of a cinematic effect. There was no compression applied where everything sounds constantly loud and where as a listener you'd get easily tired, but the dynamics were preserved."

DIDN'T FEEL LIKE IT ANYMORE.

To refer back to Patrick Damiani: if he does so much and even plays the basslines, do you see him as sort of a 4th band member or is that just a bit too much credit?

"That's not how we see him. He's an amazing producer and musician, who gives us his opinion and helps us out. On the other hand he is not part of the creative process and he isn't on stage with us… but it is a relationship that's been going on for 12 years and something we get a lot out of."

Now I'm saying '4th band member', but after the recordings of your new record ended, your brother and drummer Namtar left the band. Can I ask what happened and if you saw this coming, or whether it was a bolt from the blue?

“In November he recorded his drum tracks and back then everything went fine, but then there came an offer to play at '70000TONS OF METAL'. Since we always looked at the financial side of the band together, we talked about the offer and he was immediately against it.  I thought that was strange and to me it seemed better to sit around the table with three to talk about it. Then it became apparent that he'd been wrestling with it for sometime and in brief didn't feel like it anymore.  We offered him to take a break of a few months instead of just throwing away what we've worked for the last 20 years, but that wasn't a solution.  It wasn't an easy decision, but afterwards we saw it had been an issue for a long time and at that point you rather put a stop to it.  That hit us hard, but you can never force somebody to stay in a band.  To keep our motivation high we played '70000TONS OF METAL' after all with Michiel van der Plicht of God Dethroned as replacement. That pleased us all and he's willing to help us out in the future."

Michiel van der Plicht in indeed an amazing drummer. Are there any plans to keep him in the band permanently or is this an emergency solution and is there an offer still standing?

"I discussed that extensively with Seregor, but together the two of us stay the core of the band. We already have an extra guitarist live and in the studio we will definitely have those people join again, but all decisions will be made by us two in the end.  We want to avoid that other people leave a mark on the band, causing us to lose our individuality (personality). It's about so much more than just making music: the stage decor, our own stage outfits,... for us it is very clear and it's going well, so we only need help to fill in with the music in the studio and during lives."

MILKED OUT?

Let's get to the core of business. At the end of this month is the release of your 6th album, 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus'. Now lends the Frankenstein story itself perfectly for a horror metal band, but I wondered if the story isn't too milked out by other bands… unless you do it with a completely new vision. After all, that's what you did with 'This Is No Fairytale', where Hans and Gretel were transported to the now and the horror became bigger than ever. 

"When we started, I had the same feelings about the Frankenstein story, but there's a twist to it. Everything started for me as a dream, where I flew through an old house. There, I heard dissonant piano tunes and I got sucked into a room where a portrait of an old man hung on the wall. Later I made a drawing of that portrait and it got stuck in my head. When I began doing research for the album months later and even read Mary Shelley's amazing book 'Frankenstein', I found out that there is a theory that when she wrote her book she was influenced by Johann Konrad Dippel, an 18th century alchemist.  Then when I looked him up, he turned out to look like what I had seen in my dream, which personally motivated me to dig deeper. Dippel is an unknown figure for the masses and that's why it seemed fascinating to us to do something with it.  There is fiction and truth mixed in our story. By the way, Dippel lived in Frankenstein Castle near Darmstadt, where he was looking for the elixir to eternal life. He was also a theologist, but he clashed with the church and was therefore cast away. Because he also did experiments on cadavers and sought life extending resources, he would've inspired Mary Shelley for her story. What we did was make a concept around the source of her story instead of following the clichés.  That monster with screws in his head, we've seen it already before…"

Yet it doesn't seem like a concept album, because I notice that you address very diverse subjects.

"It is definitely a concept, since all stories are connected to one another, even if it's not noticeable. 'Operation Compass' is about the North-African desert war between the Brits and Italians. In official documents the Brits were ordered that if there were to be a fallback, to make all sources unusable for the enemy with 'Dippel's oil' (a nasty substance that made water undrinkable but did not poison it, so it was in battle with the Geneva protocols).  In our story it leads to a demonic outburst that went towards the soldiers. So you see, Dippel comes back throughout different moments in history. 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg' is about a real figure that is still alive. He committed necrophilia, killed people and drank their blood, … but is now at large. In our story he lost his ways after reading Dippel's books, which once again links it with the core story. 'Here In German Woodland.', the opening song, is about a boy that gets lost and dies in the forest surrounding Darmstadt, but later comes back and eats his parents. In the closing song 'Like A Conscious Parasite I Roam' it all comes full circle: Dippels life elixir only works for his soul, and his body rots away, so he searches for a guest body and his spirit creeps into that little boy." 

In a few songs, some German lyrics show up. Is that besides the concept also because of the grim sound of the language or is it simply because you live so close to Germany and it has a certain impact? 

"The subject lends itself to it of course and Seregor speaks German very well, which made things easier. And yes, the sound does play a certain role. 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg' sounds way better than the English translation, it immediately sets the right tone."

Some of these stories are the result of reality, but are often at least as gruesome as many fantasy stories: such is the bonus song 'Frederick's Experiments' about the sick science experiments of emperor Frederick II, a man who apparently was not inferior to the Nazi doctors?

"Yes, you can say that he set a good example! Seregor came with the idea and somewhere the story did fit within the total picture, even though we couldn't fit it into the big story. Our label Season Of Mist however asked for a bonus track and that's how we managed to include the song after all."

CROSS-POLLINATION.

What I noticed with the first sneak preview, but what has become clear now, is that Carach Angren this time worked very innovative musically.  Watch out, it is immediately clear that it is from Carach Angren, since you already have your own sound, but at the same time there are noticable things we haven't heard from you before. The title track has a considerable industrial touch and we also hear something from Laibach in it, just like 'Monster'. Is that something you've only recently been getting into or have you maybe secretly been an industrial fan for years?

"It is more recent, even though I've always been appreciative of it. By also collaborating with Till Lindemann for his project Lindemann, I also came into contact with it more and started taking it up unconsciously. Afterwards I got to experiment with it for my solo project and that's how I came up with the song 'Monster'. Seregor tested some things out for singing for that song and it just made sense.  It was very cool to experiment like that, which you should when you're making a record based on Frankenstein…"

It became a musical experiment instead of scientific experiment, but you do create a parallel, yes.

"Inside Carach Angren we like to put a lot of variety in the songs and if you can also give that a different look, then that is something you should try. We ourselves are absolutely crazy about it! Some fans will have to swallow when they hear those songs, but for them there are plenty of old school songs on it."

To come back to Lindemann: he and Peter Tägtgren got you involved since you are so good with classical orchestras and arrangements, but in the end it seems to have become two-way traffic, doesn't it? Have you learned a lot from it and developed other visions? 

"We worked together in a very awesome way and you do learn a lot from that. You grow as a componist, as musician and as producer. It made me compose more compactly and I sometimes pursue slightly less complex songs, like the two more industrial based songs. Always great to be able to take a different approach."

Both those songs have an easier buildup, but in the other songs you go back to the complexity that you left out purposefully 'Dance And Laugh Amongst The Rotten'. Is it a way to generate more contrast?

"In some ways yes, but it depends on how it works out in a song. We tried to make the title track a bit longer, but then the effect fell away and it didn't feel right anymore. But strangely enough I write a complex song like 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg' easier than a less complex piece like 'Monster'.  With less arrangements it quickly becomes hard to keep it exciting(engaging), but seeing as you want to keep the concept to level, you need to have enough variation. The industrial songs sound a bit less complex, but there is a lot happening in the background and they are full of tiny details that make the difference."

MIXING COLOURS.

With the new approach you have opened some doors to maybe do more experimenting in the future. Is that actually your goal or is there nothing reasoned behind it and do such new influences pop up sooner when they seem to be able to improve the song?

"It all almost comes down to what the concept of the album requires. Back when we wrote 'Death Came Through A Phantom Ship' we added swirling waves and custom/adapted sounds to it. With the new record the 'marching' of the pulsing industrial beat seemed to work the best with our Frankenstein theme. You have to see it like a painter who is mixing colours to make a new colour to fit his vision. We don't do any different and we would love to experiment more in the future. If we see what we've already tried with singing now … in the long run we were completely out of control trying to do crazy things."

The singing is indeed a very remarkable part of 'Franckensteina Strataemontanus'. We always thought Seregor had a good black metal voice, but we were very impressed by the way he twisted his voice this time around and helped set the mood.

"We are very happy about that ourselves. He delivered an excellent job and we really pushed everything to get to that point. We actually took several weeks to make sure my home studio was in perfect condition and sometimes Seregor had to redo a certain part up to 10 times to get the result we wanted, but he did it without struggling. A lot of singers that ask so much from their vocal chords are dead on their feet after an hour, but then there is Seregor who gets through the day without complaining, even while screaming his lungs out.  While recording 'Operation Compass' we did however find out it is better to record a deep grunt in the early morning, since your voice is still a bit slow and heavier from sleep.”

MUSIC AS A BOOST.

The whole corona crisis made it so that as a band it is way more difficult to promote an album now, since all concerts got cancelled. Did that have a big impact on Carach Angren or can you make it?

"I myself am very concerned with the people who are really affected by the disease and that is why I can partially ignore the inconveniences for ourselves. Nevertheless, it has a serious effect on the music industry, although that is secondary to me. We are dealing with a pandemic, people are dying and we all have to work to keep everything under control. In addition, it is strange to release an album in a full crisis, but we decided to go for it anyway. It's a cool record and we already started the promotion, so we just keep going. For now, tours are not planned, but that does not mean that we will now stream all kinds of performances to attract attention. We are not that type of band… what is a shame is that our plans for a very cool video clip are now also being abandoned. We had to go to Germany and there are also the social distancing rules, which make such a recording impossible.  But should we really want that and turn it into drama? Of course it sucks to have to promote the release like this, but the whole world is just not what it was a few months ago."

Do you have any alternative ideas to bridge that gap? I know that you guys always have enough visual ideas and there already is a lyric video for 'Monster', but I can imagine that there is more to come.

"We are working on that yes, because last month we made one for 'Der Vampir von Nürnberg' and next month we might take another song in hand. We will keep doing those sorts of things together with some 'making of-' videos that we recorded in the studio, that way we can give the album some extra promotion.  Nothing for us to worry about so… by the way, there is something about releasing a record in times like these. The people have been stuck at home for months and have nothing to do, so if we can give them a new piece of music to listen to to get through the day, then that is awesome too. It would be disappointing for the fans if we just put our new work on the shelf because of this pandemic. Every band should do what they think is best, but we had already started our press campaign anyway and we would also be a lot less driven if we only had to arrive 'with old stuff' within six months or later."

Carach Angren already has a few beautiful video clips which are build up with a real story and don't only have something musical to offer. In addition, there are also the lyric videos, where certainly those for the complete album 'This Is No Fairytale' with comic images by Costin Chioreanu stand out from the crowd. Have you never thought of bundling everything on a DVD?

"We've honestly never thought about that, but that's actually a really great idea! I think it would be nice to bundle everything together and that way we immediately remove some (away) from youtube. That can always be a good idea for the future."

LEARNING SCHOOL.

As songwriter of Carach Angren you may have previously absorbed a lot of influences that shaped you into the musician and songwriter you are today. Can you list the five most essential records or artists that shaped you personally and what exactly were their interests?

"That is a good question that doesn't let itself be answered very easily. In the classical field and orchestras I think Tchaikovsky and Stravinski are very important. They both had a lot of influence on me as a componist. Another important inspiration to me in that respect is John Williams (modern componist famous for his film scores for Star Wars, Jaws, Jurassic Park..) They helped shape me even more when it comes to layered composing, although I don't come close to what they do. As a child I followed keyboard lessons for 8 years, I did a year of conservatory and studied a year of music and media, as well as cinematic orchestration. Those last two were online, but on a serious level and you really had to write pieces for an orchestra. I learned a lot there, but ever since then I kept learning by actually doing it myself, looking through books and analyzing musical pieces.  But if I hadn't gotten the theoretical basis I had as a child, I would've never been able to do this today. On production level I have to mention Nine Inch Nails and, something you'd might find strange, Michael Jackson! If you see how well their albums are produced, and how many layers are incorporated, it's amazingly well done! You can say about Michael Jackson's music what you want, but the way the songs are built up and how much dynamics are in there thanks to the arrangements by Quincy Jones, it is absolutely astounding.  There is no lack of bells and whistles and sometimes, for example, the snare drum comes in in four layers, something you don't hear so loudly even in extreme metal. I mainly listen to those albums as an audiophile to analyze them and see what I can get out of it as a producer. Last week I checked the solo record of Roger Waters, in which I heard effects that seemed to be situated outside the loudspeaker field. Then I want to know how that is done and whether I can integrate it with Carach Angren. That kind of thing is the reverse of the compression they use too often today and you wonder why we don't all go in that direction anymore."

---

Translated by Jeordie/Trentsfishnets.

(For the record, if this interview already exists in English, I will just see this as translating practice C:)

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Maybe Death Gives Up On Us

My Masterlist

Maybe We Meet Again (prequel to this)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: The second and final part of the sequel of In Another Life, set in a Modern!AU.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings:  Mentions of death, descriptions of violence and death, major character death (past), angst (a lot of it), nothing else I can think of.

A/N: So, this is it. Idk how I feel about this tbh, but I hope you’ll like it. Thank you! Love you!!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @1950schick​  @heavenly1927​ @ietss​  

You haven’t seen him in two weeks. After silently dropping him off at his -yours? Is it still?- apartment, you managed to distract yourself working on the information the stone ship, and the identity of the shieldmaiden that lay buried at the center of it, provided for your university, for your investigation.

But each night, when you close your eyes and you still see the wide and scared eyes of the man you love looking back at you in a mix of disbelief and grief, centuries dawn on you, memories choke you, and you are forced to face the realization Ivar, the quick-witted and endearing, guarded and loving, man you’ve known and loved for almost a year was the same one you saw in your nightmares, his knife in your heart, his teary eyes on yours, his lips whispering promises of love.

And so you go to him. For your sake, but, you dare think, also for his.

When he opens the door, you are stunned into silence. Gods, the eyes are still the same, and for so long you hoped that familiarity to be a trick of Fate, and not…not the reality that his eyes were in fact those of the man in your -her?-memories.

“Why are you here?” Ivar asks, and it strikes you how much like the man in your memories he looks.

He always did, but now…now you see the cruelty, the vitriol, the resentment. They were always there, the anger and the explosiveness are still the same but…but there’s an unhinged side to it all, and it reminds you so much of…of those last days.

You close your eyes tight for a moment, clearing your throat and stepping into the apartment.

“I…wanted to see how…how you’re faring.”

“I’m losing my fucking mind, Princess,” Ivar confesses, and where you think he meant for there to be bite and anger and resentment, all you find is desperation and fear and pain. He shrugs, and his eyes cannot meet yours, “Or I’ve lost it already, I don’t know.”

“You’re not going to lose your mind, Ivar.” You point out, letting out a sigh.

“I think I did, you know,” He confesses, hesitantly, a little lost. He shakes his head, running a hand over loose hair -hair that for some reason you expected to see in braids you once knew by heart-, “After I killed Oleg. I think…I ran out of people to blame and I-…”

You interrupt him, even though a part of you clings to his words, clings to the confession like who holds their hand over a burning flame, begging to feel pain if only to make sense of the world.

“Not you. It wasn’t you.”

“Why do I remember it then, hm?” Ivar presses, anger back in his tone, “Why do I remember…remember when I almost drowned on the way to Wessex, when we took Mercia and the Isles and you promised to marry me? Why do I remember when I-…?”

His voice wavers and dies, and Ivar grits his teeth, averting his eyes from yours. It does nothing to hide the agony in his gaze, the tears in his eyes.

You try finding the calm, the certainty, that you’ve held on to ever since you found yourself remembering.

“It is not unheard of, that some people may-…”

“Are you going to start talking about reincarnation, Princess?” He chuckles, but it is watery and broken.

“All I’m saying is that there is proof that cycles repeat. The Ancient Greeks spoke of some souls that given the choice to remain in the Elysian fields, their…Valhalla,” Ivar’s eyes turn to you with sharp focus, and you know he remembers the countless conversations where she wondered on what Valhalla truly meant. Still, you continue, “or return to the living, they chose to return, to live again.”

“That’s why you-…” He takes a deep breath, before he tries finding his voice again. You’ve never seen Ivar so…fragile, with the stance of a man that’s tethered by a thin string onto the safe side of a cliff. He swallows, and meets your eyes again, “That’s why you found me? To prove reincarnation is a thing?”

You shake your head before he is even done asking the question. Because still, past everything, you cannot fathom seeing the fragility in his eyes, the fear that it was a lie.

“I didn’t know you were-…I didn’t know you also remembered.”

“But you took me to y-your grave, to that ship. A stone ship, because you died too far from the sea, from o-our seas,” He shakes his head, as if trying to fight back against the memories that flood his mind, that come pouring out of his lips. “Why did you take me there? Did you hope I would remember? Remember what I did, what it cost me?”

“No, I-…”

He gestures with his arm, interrupting you. His voice raises, his temper does as well, the fury and desperation shining clearly in his pale eyes.

“Why, then!? To torment me, for…for what I did?” He huffs a breath, running his hand through his hair, “You did that plenty, you didn’t have to find me I don’t know how many centuries later to torture me for it, Princess.”

You close your eyes tight, and your hands curl into fists, anything to keep you in one piece, anything to keep you from breaking apart at the seams.

“Stop calling me that. You remember, which means you know what it means.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“‘Princess’?”

You nod, “My father is an Earl, Ivar. You are the Prince.”

“Mhm,” He concedes, and in someone that didn’t know him like you do the way he focuses on spinning the round-handled knife in his finger would be nothing but a nonchalant gesture. But you know better, and so you stay silent. Ivar clears his throat, before he offers, “I could make you a Princess, one day. I-If you wanted.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, and the start of a wide and stupid smile spreads on your lips. Leave it to him to bring up the possibility of one day marrying you like this.

Your hands find the sides of his face, and you bring your forehead to rest against his before you whisper, as softly as you can,

“I have no interest in being a Princess, Ivar,” Before his thoughts can get ahead of him, before he can build a wall so high not a thousand years of war would make a dent on them, you press your lips against his for a moment, before whispering, “But I’d love to be your wife.”

“Do you remember all of it?” Ivar asks, and you frown.

“Why do you ask?”

“Would you have done it?” He asks, and you both pretend to ignore how his voice wavers, “If I hadn’t stopped you, would you have joined Björn against me?”

You know what the real questions are: Was the murder in vain? Was the promise of betrayal nothing but a ruse? Did she die for nothing? Did he have other choice?

You cannot give him the answer, if only because it would mean accepting that he is…him, and that you are…her. And you cannot accept that.

That certainty that it is only memories what returns is what has kept you sane for these past weeks.

“She wasn’t-…”

“Not ‘she’,” He corrects, leaning closer. His eyes burn as they meet your own, “You.”

You still shake your head, pretending to be resolute, “It is not proven that anything other than memories rema-…”

“Why do you insist on denying who you are!?”

Rough fingers trace up and down your spine, and you nestle closer to the warmth, content and sated.

“I always wonder…” Ivar starts, and you hum to signal you are listening, “Why it is you are always so calm, so…courteous with everyone else. But you are always so easy to grow angry with me.”

“You have a talent for getting under my skin,” You confess, pressing a kiss over a new mark that starts showing on his neck, a small little proof that he is yours. After a breath, your lips curve into a mischievous smile, and you drag your teeth over that same, now sensitive, spot. “And I don’t hear you complaining, my love.”

And you realize with gut-wrenching clarity that never changed. Each time his voice raises so does yours, each time his temper flares so does yours to meet it.

And so you raise your chin and square your shoulders, never missing the weight of a shield at your back as you do now.

You take a breath shaky breath before you reply, voice raised and eyes shining with more than fury, “Because if I’m her, that means you are h-him!”

There’s tears making their way down your cheeks, there’s a tremble in your hands you cannot control, there’s a brittleness to all that makes you you, but there’s steel in your spine, there’s ice in your veins, there’s an anger that has lasted centuries singing in your blood.

And so you approach him with certain strides, furious eyes set on his and breaking your own heart with the familiarity of the situation.

The memories make your head feel less clouded, less cluttered, but they make your heart feel like it will break in two inside your chest.

The distrusting edge in his eyes, the cruel twist of his mouth, the cold tone of his voice.

The loud fights where he almost dared you to admit loving him was a lie, wild eyes and demanding voice. The quiet nights where you heard the pleas that you were truly his to keep pressed against your skin in between reverent kisses.

“Means you refused to believe I loved you for years on end!”

Your fist clashes against his chest, but Ivar doesn’t react. It feels like talking to a marble statue, to a distant figure of a past not your own, to a monster you read about in books and saw in your dreams.

The smile as he approached Kattegat’s throne after so long, the way he let go of your hand when it came to view.

The silent demand you make a choice: your people, or him. The refusal to acknowledge it was a choice at all after you decided to stay by his side.

“Means you chose a fucking throne over me!”

Even if your words end in a sob, you still hold on to anger, to grief, to the always bleeding, always stinging wound of betrayal.

Pleas not to bring the Rus army to Scandinavia falling on deaf ears, promises that the Rus is only the means to an end, arrogance coating his words as he vows he can control Oleg.

“Means you trusted that Rus bastard more than your own wife!”

Your fist tightens even more, and your head bows for a moment, before you lift your gaze to find his again. To make your fury and your pain meet his regret and his mistakes.

Your head hurting from so many hours crying in silence, holding onto anger and grief and ruin. Your steps those of a woman sentenced for death when you grab your sword and go meet him, meet your Fate.

“Means I…I…I loved you, and you broke my heart!”

And your hand lets go of the tension, just as your body does, and you stand with your back curved under the pain of centuries. And now your open palm rests against his chest, right over his heart.

The heart you once thought you owned. The heart that was more than once, in more than one lifetime, your most precious possession.

There’s tears in his eyes, there’s a sob making its way past parted lips that try to whisper your name.

But there’s certainty in the sharp movement of the knife, there’s finality in the blade that pierces your heart.

“…It means you killed me, Ivar.”

And the last of your strength, of your anger, of your grief, leave you. It doesn’t feel like defeat, though, it doesn’t feel like being crushed under the weight of Fate.

It feels freeing, like relief after trying to stand under a heavy weight for such a long time. Longer than you remember, probably.

Still, maybe because you were never strong enough to hold on to these memories, to this other life; or maybe because that is what strength is when you taste your own blood in your lips, when you know what it is like to have your heart stopped by the one that owns it; you break.

And your hand on his chest is the one thing keeping you upright, before his free hand settles on your back. Where you would have expected the uncertain hold of trying to soothe you, you find Ivar grips you as tightly as he can, holding you towards him with a mix of gentleness and desperation that speaks of pain and regret and love.

You don’t know how long you cry, and scream, and beg to know why. You don’t know how long he holds you, you don’t know how long you hold him.  

He doesn’t say he is sorry, he doesn’t ask for forgiveness. You only hear him say your name, and three words you can still feel reverberating in your chest.

Says both of those things so many times your name doesn’t sound yours anymore, even though it is, it always has been. Says both of those things for so long his voice breaks and yet with each ‘I love you’ he presses against your skin you hear it louder and louder.

You don’t know when he gently pushed you to sit on the bed, but you did, and you have the strange feeling of being an intruder to the room you and he shared before…before he knew who he was, who you were; before you knew who he was.

A whisper of your name, and you lift your gaze from the comforter you were numbly tracing with shaking fingers.

His eyes are red, and you know yours are too. His breath is shaky, and you know yours is too.

“I am…angry,” You confess, absently tracing his cheek with the back of your fingers, “At you and…and at Fate. A-Aren’t you?”

“Fate brought you back to me,” He whispers, hand trapping yours and pressing a kiss to your wrist, right over your pulse, “I found you again, after all I did, after…what I did to you. I can’t think of this as anything other than…”

“A blessing?” You interrupt, a smirk pulling at your lips, “Awfully Christian of you, Ivar.”

Your tease, weak and burdened by the past as it is, manages to make a smile pull at his lips, to make life return to his eyes, to make hi huff a breath than in another life could have been a chuckle.

You smile too, because you cannot help it. Still, you move back, away from where he sits on the bed, and curl over yourself, your back to the headboard and eyes glued to the digital picture frame that loops over and over pictures of you and Ivar.

His voice startles you from comfortable numbness, “How do you…live with it?”

You frown, “Why would I have the answer?”

He shrugs, “You’ve known for months.”

You can’t keep the bite from your tone when you point out, “I didn’t kill you.”

“You did.” He sentences, voice hoarse and avoiding your gaze. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to find a center, find clarity, find anything past resentment and pain and anger.

Instead of acknowledging his words, you offer, “The theory is that we all return, but…only a few have memories of those times. I talk to some people that…that have remembered too.”

“Does it help?”

“Haven’t met anyone that was stabbed in the heart by the man they loved, so…no, they don’t help much.”

“Anyone that stabbed the woman they loved in the heart?”

“Surprisingly enough, yes,” You sigh, before swallowing past a dry throat. Even if your voice wavers, you confess, “His eyes are familiar.”

“You are a very fortunate man to have her, I hope you know that.” The Rus whispers, dark eyes leaving your husband’s to travel to you. He offers a smile, a smile that speaks of sadness and envy and pain, a smile that for once seems honest.

Ivar keeps calculating eyes on the raven-haired man, and lifts your joined hands to his lips, pressing a deliberate kiss on the inside of our wrist, right over your pulse. Were this any other situation, and it would make a rush of heat travel through you, but now you only watch frozen in your spot as the Viking smiles.

“I know.”

“But you’d do the same thing I did, wouldn’t you? If you found your sweet wife had betrayed you.”

Ivar’s answer is immediate, and the fire in his eyes speaks of anger even if his voice is certain, “She would never.”

Oleg’s eyes narrow, and the smile he offers is once again shallow, once again a lie, once again poison, “I thought so too. Now my heart is broken, and she is in a crypt.”

“My mother…” Ivar starts, a broken sort of wonder shining through his words, “Her eyes are familiar.”

The part of you that even after death refused to stop loving him smiles, and grows warm at the knowledge he now recognizes her.

“Frighteningly so.” You concede with a nod.

“Do you think…do you think she knows? That she remembers?”

“She was once one to see beyond what the rest of us can. I think…I think she still is.”

Ivar sighs, “Gods…”

“It…time makes it make more sense, trust me.” You offer, somewhat sheepishly. What can you say to someone that has just remembered a whole life before this one?

Ivar lays down on the bed, hands at his sides and gaze on the ceiling. You remain sitting, your legs folded before you, your arms holding them close to you, as if to keep you safe, together.

After a while, he breaks the silence, “We were happy, weren’t we? Before?”

You don’t ask which before he means, because the answer remains the same. Before, when he was just the son of some lost legend and you were the unruly daughter of an earl, you loved him and he loved you and you were happy.

Before, when he was leader of the greatest of armies and you were a shieldmaiden known across the land, you loved him and he loved you and you were happy.

Before, even with the weight of defeat on your shoulder and the poisonous snake of dark eyes and darker heart at your backs, you loved him and he loved you and you were happy.

And because Fate granted you another chance, or maybe because the Gods are cruel, you had a before after all those ones. Before, when he was just the man you met in a coffeeshop and you were just a student trying to unveil one of the greatest tragedies -or greatest love stories, depending on who you asked-, you loved him and he loved you and you were happy.

And so the answer is a breath on your lips, light and easy and true, “Yes.”

Problem is, you don’t know what you are supposed to do now. How you are supposed to live with all those befores, with all those afters. With all these memories, memories that make you hate him, and love him, and miss him.

A part of you wishes you would have never known of the past, that you would have never recognized him, or his eyes. But you know even in death you’d know him, you know even in another life you’d miss him.

And so you lay down on the bed next to him, and sigh.

“I never thought you’d…I didn’t take you there on purpose.”

Ivar’s smile is bitter, “Because you hoped it wasn’t me.”

“Need I remind you why, my love?” You point out without missing a beat, too late realizing that is not an endearment you usually use. No…that’s hers. Yours, from…before.

“I haven’t heard you call me that in a long time,” He chuckles. A few beats of silence, and Ivar takes a deep breath, “I’ve missed you. I-I know y-…”

“I understand,” You interrupt him, and in a moment of weakness you reach for his hand. He doesn’t hesitate to return the hold, tight and hinting at desperation. Your eyes fall closed, and you can be somewhere else, in another time, in another life, “I’ve missed you too.”

Ivar takes a breath, and lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a -reverent, familiar- kiss over your fingers, “We can do this, Princess. We can…be happy. We got another chance, I…I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” You promise, and it comes easy to you. Many times you promised him the same, and each and every time you meant it with all that you are. “I…I love you, Ivar.”

“In the last life and this one?”

You accept his words with closed eyes and a huff of weak laughter, but the promise is still true, “And all the ones after.”

He lifts himself up on one arm, leaning over you. He is so close to you that you can feel his warmth, familiar and enthralling and his, and your heart beats so quickly in your chest you are certain he can feel it.

It feels long-overdue, it feels like nostalgia and familiarity and a past you loved; when you lean up and kiss him. But it also feels like new, it feels like hope and thrill and a future you want to discover.

It is Ivar who breaks the kiss first, yet it is him that comes back and presses his lips to yours again, stealing your breath and your heart and your sanity.

When he pulls back again and his eyes meet yours, you notice they are the same and yet so different. Yet the feeling in your chest, the smile that curves at your lips, the love you see shining in his eyes, they are all the same.

“You and me, Princess, in this life and the next,” He smiles, “We will make death give up on us.”

____

So, that is it for this story! I would love to know what you think of this, of the ending, of everything really. Hope you enjoyed!!

As always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you have a great day/night! Love ya!

[lesboinspace]

AtLA Zine Piece

This was written for @atlazine :D I was assigned Air so I wrote this focusing on Aang, but also added as many characters who’ve impacted him as I could~ Look out for leftover sales!

A Hero’s Love

Word Count: 1,998

Rating: G

Summary: About a decade since awakening from his snow globe, Aang prepares himself for his most pressing challenge yet: summoning the courage to propose to the most incredible person he's ever met. With the help of many old friends, Aang will do just that without looking too much like a babbling, love-stricken fool.

Aang fell in love with Katara the moment their eyes met. Of course, he hadn’t known to correlate such awe with newfound love right away, but even as a child he could sense how the waterbender left a mark on him within moments of occupying the same space. The girl's gaze had been full of concern and curiosity, her aura demanding the younger boy's attention even while his chilled mind was rebooting after spending a century as a popsicle.

She was, and still is, the most beautiful soul he's ever encountered. That day, as Katara’s ocean-esque eyes collided with Aang's cloudy greys, he knew she was special. Years later, Aang's feelings for Katara haven't dimmed, only intensified with each second he shared at her side. Now, blossoming into an adult, the Avatar was set on acting out what was once mere fantasy to him when he was young: asking his beloved to spend the rest of her days with him.

But before doing so, Aang wished to spread word of this decision and, consequently, the joy that comes with it. Aang would finally propose to the woman that had saved his life and stolen his heart while spreading the jittery excitement he feels with those who've supported him along the way. Eager to share, the Avatar had soared through the skies once again, saddled on Appa's warm back with Momo perched on his shoulder.

First on Aang's journey had been Guru Pathik. This may seem strange, as the wise man had been the one who previously demanded Aang let go of Katara. However, it’s precisely because of this that the Avatar visited him before anyone else. After the war, Aang never had a chance to return to the guru and question the believed importance of severing ties.

Aang, though he struggled to admit it, harbored a little resentment for Pathik after he went against his teachings. He still respected the elder, but part of him was eager to face Pathik, to stand proud knowing that he made the better choice as a boy rather than abiding by the wise man's ruling. He was determined to marry the one Pathik told him to leave behind, so Aang was as spiteful as he could ever be. Despite this ire, Aang truly hoped that he and Pathik could reconcile over the most pleasant of news.

Upon landing, the two shared some niceties before Aang's desire to open up overwhelmed him. “I’m going to marry her, you know. If I’d listened to you, she would’ve died.” Aang could barely look at the guru when he said this, mixed feelings of avoided grief and desperation swirling about his mind. Pathik wasn’t blind to this, and quickly sat the Avatar down as he began emptying his thoughts.

“Connections to others limit our ability to prosper. Any ties to this world and its people weaken our chance to explore the strength laying dormant within.” Aang did his best to sit still and listen, but he couldn’t cease the curling of his toes and twitching nose. He’d waited a long time to hear Pathik’s explanation, but it was harder than expected to eye the man responsible for Katara’s near-death experience.

He was so restless that Aang was oblivious to Pathik’s similar discomfort. The elder shifted his hands from his knees to his calf over and over again, running his fingertips along the fabric as he spoke. He too struggled to hold eye contact with the man he hurt. “I didn't wish to harm you with my judgment. I thought I was doing what had to be done, both for you and the fate of us all. It seems that… I may have been wrong, in your case at least. I hope you can forgive me.”

With each word Aang’s tight clench of his fists loosened just as the viper’s grip on his heart receded. “I haven't a single doubt that you and your beloved will be very happy together. Cherish her and those you love, young man.” Both men’s gazes steadily rose, meeting for the first time since Pathik began illustrating his convictions that were left wrongly unspoken for years. The guru smiled at Aang, taking in all that the Avatar had become without him.

“Your ties to them seem to make you stronger. I'm sure dear Gyatso would agree.” The conversation dissipated any lingering frustration in Aang's heart, unaware that so much had existed until Pathik’s sincere admission of regret. Aang pulled the elder into a hug when he initially intended to part ways after a stiff, procedural bow. He experienced an unexpected ease wash over him, a tension in his stomach unraveling once his reconnection with the elder appeased his perturbed psyche.

Driven by the gratifying experience, Aang immediately met up with another man from his past— though undeniable wisdom and age is all that connects the two elders. King Bumi jumped on Aang upon his arrival, and the two puffed out giddy, exhausted breaths. The longtime friends discussed the good old days before Aang announced he was planning to propose.

The king was so ecstatic that he moved to tackle him again. However, the Avatar was ready the second time around—though just barely pivoting away. Nevertheless, the king was undeterred. For several minutes he continued to leap at Aang, who somehow managed to stay untouched. He was out of breath until Bumi came to a sudden halt and offered some sort of approving nod, like their game of cat and mouse equated to something far beyond Aang's comprehension.

With that, Bumi resumed his full height and rubbed Aang's forehead as if he were a fortune teller prodding his crystal ball for answers. The Avatar merely stood in silence, holding in a snort while he waited for his friend to finish his inner analysis. “You've grown so much, yet your spirit has remained passionate and humble. You'd be surprised how often power corrupts. You're still the friend I made all those years ago, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm sure that spunky waterbender gal feels the same.”

Aang nearly teared up at the sentiment. Just as he placed a hand on Bumi’s shoulder, the elder grinned before slamming the unsuspecting Avatar onto his back. The two friends continued to run about for hours until Aang insisted for his own safety that they stop. With a tight hug that both men groaned through, laughing through the glorious agony, the king and the Avatar parted ways.

Aang set out to the Southern Water Tribe to meet with the last wise man on his list: Hakoda. The surprise visit prompted Katara’s father to suspect exactly what the Avatar wished to discuss. He ushered Aang into his home, seeking privacy for the topic. “If you’re here to ask for my approval in marrying my daughter, do know that it’s not necessary; Katara is a grown woman who doesn’t need her father cradling her, but I appreciate your sentiment nonetheless.”

Hakoda’s shoulders shook as he emitted a low chuckle at Aang’s wide eyes and tense frame. “Come now, don’t look so embarrassed. Why else would you be here? I don’t suppose you plan to confess your feelings to my son and marry him instead?” The Avatar smiled sheepishly and rubbed his neck, joining Hakoda in laughter.

Just as the men made earnest, understanding eye contact, an ear-shattering scream disturbed the moment. Sokka barged in, gaping like the recent catch of fish balanced on his back. “You’re finally going to do it? Okay, so when are you planning on asking, exactly? Oh, and where? How? I have a million questions, man! Or, wait, I guess I can call you brother now, huh?” His babbling was met with blank stares which quickly melted into bright smiles. The men spoke of the future until nightfall, and Aang said his goodbyes, his soul satisfied at the reciprocated excitement from his closest companions.

Each meeting had left the Avatar with a newfound clarity, and he now feels ready to propose to Katara. Knowing that he and Katara would appreciate the hijinks of it now that time and fear have passed, Aang brings Katara to Ember Island after requesting its theater group to put on the same reenactment of their journeys solely for the couple. As expected, Aang and Katara laugh throughout the entire production.

Aang admires the waterbender’s uncontrollable chuckles and glistening eyes, growing eager for the play to end so he can propose. Once the curtains fall, the couple clap and cheer before Aang tugs Katara out of her seat, guiding her to the beach. The two gaze in silence at the shimmering waters, both sneaking not so subtle glances at each other for a marvelous eternity. Aang almost hates that he has to break their trance for any reason at all, but he just can’t wait any longer—not with how beautifully illuminated she is under the moonlight.

“Katara, there’s something that I want to ask you. The thing is, uh, you see…”

“Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“Hang on, let me get through this,” Aang holds up a palm while rubbing his temple with the other, forehead creasing. The Avatar curtains his eyes, vacuuming up oxygen through his nostrils as if he’s never had any fill his lungs before. “Okay, so when two people love each other very much—”

His hands retract to his center, fingers spreading out and motioning to the air. Aang continues the anxious spasming of his limbs until Katara's words process in his overloading mind. “Wait, what? How did… I mean, who told you?”

“You shouldn’t have trusted Sokka. That goof is terrible at keeping secrets, especially from me.” An airy chuckle tumbles out of the waterbender, recalling the event from just a few nights ago, “I barely looked at the guy before he broke down into gibberish, going from formal venues to invitations or something. All it took was a few seconds of hard eye contact for him to snitch every last detail… and then some. I know way too much about Sokka's love for Suki now, it's kind of disturbing. I'll spare you the trauma.”

With a sigh, Aang smacks the center of his arrow, though his taut expression is quick to dissipate. He shrugs his shoulders, chalking up the reveal to one of Sokka's many charming moments. “Figures. I didn’t even tell him since I was sure he would blab. He was eavesdropping when I was talking to your—um, never mind.” The two share a laugh, but Aang’s nervous rocking on his heels silences both of them. “So, you really mean it? You'll… marry me?”

Katara’s smile stretches further as the Avatar eyes her from under his dark lashes. “Of course, sweetie. If I’d never met you, there’s no way I would’ve discovered half of what I’m capable of. I was able to become strong like my mother wanted me to be, and I even got to help save the world with the Avatar himself. Now, I’m—” She pauses her spiel when Aang’s head tilts to the side, though roses seem to bloom within his cheeks as they burn red. “Okay, okay, sorry. Enough about me.” Clearing her throat, Katara sets her hands on his shoulders. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re everything to me, Aang. I’d be honored to spend the rest of my life with you.”

His face bursting with color, Aang lowers his gaze “I’m the one who’s honored to be with you... I may have saved the world, but you, ya know, saved me and all. And not just from being a snow globe.”

“I know.”

With the promise made between them, Aang and Katara melt into each other’s arms. They seal this new bond with a kiss while a gentle breeze twirls through their bodies. It's almost as if the Air Nomads’ spirits were applauding their pupil, embracing the pair in gusts of caresses like the lovers are the heart of a hurricane.

[niceprophecies]

“[…]the characters who get much more of the spotlight are unarguably the most adored by Good Omens fans—the demon Crowley (played to hissing, sashaying perfection by David Tennant) and his angel co-conspirator Aziraphale (an utterly cherubic Michael Sheen). Having said that, the execution of the duo’s story was something of a shock for a fan like me, who will freely admit to shipping the heck out of the pair for ages, and even reading and writing fanfic to that end. A bunch of it. And also to dressing up as Crowley and Aziraphale for Halloween with my partner. It’s well known that Crowley/Aziraphale shippers are a sizable contingent of the Good Omens fandom, to the point where both Gaiman and Pratchett had made note that they were aware of it, with Gaiman recently noting that fanfiction and its ilk is also Making Stuff Up, which is the same as all writing—though they did say that making the duo a couple was not their intent when they wrote the book.

Which is fascinating because this miniseries is emphatically a love story.

I know, I know: They say they’re friends, what’s wrong with friendship, you friend-hating fiend. But there are endless stories dedicated to platonic friendships between two male friends. (Or male-seeming in this case, as they are truly an angel and a demon, which then ultimately begs the question of whether conventional sexuality or gender should even apply for the two of them, and it likely shouldn’t, but that’s a fairly long digression…) While modern fiction seems to have a hard time understanding that it’s possible for men and women to “just be very good friends”, the precise opposite can be said for queer people. We’re always presumed to be “just very good friends” and nothing besides. Having said that, it is entirely possible for people of the same (or similar) gender to go from being true best friends to being in a relationship of some sort. It is also possible to say “you’re my best friend” and actually mean “I love you” or even “I’m in love with you.”

Exhibit A, when Crowley is making his way to Aziraphale’s flaming bookshop (he doesn’t know about the fire yet), the Bentley is playing Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend”—which is not an ode to frienship in general, but in fact a love song written by Queen’s bassist for his wife. Immediately thereafter, Crowley arrives and opens the doors to the bookshop, and being unable find the angel, promptly has a complete breakdown over the what he assumes to be Aziraphale’s death. It’s not the shock or disbelief over losing a friend that we can see in Crowley’s face, but utter desolation. “Somebody killed my best friend!” he screams, slumped on the floor in anguish. (Again, I remind you, John Deacon’s friend in the song that served as the cue for this whole scene was his spouse.) Crowley then immediately goes to a pub to get trashed, forgetting his plans to escape the Earth before the true Final Countdown because he’s just lost the most important person in all of creation to him… wait sorry, that’s Creation with a capital ‘C’.

The point is (as Crowley would say, drunkenly, before beginning a long-winded aside about dolphins), the entirety of the Good Omens miniseries unfolds with all the beats you’d expect of a romantic comedy/epic, and that is very much the hinge on which its enjoyability swings. It’s not just the song selection—“Somebody to Love” starts playing when Crowley exits the bookshop, believing that he’s lost Aziraphale; violins swell when the demon reveals to the angel that he has saved his beloved books from a bombing during the London Blitz in 1941—but the entirety of the plot. These alterations to the story seem to reach some sort of zenith during the deep dive into Crowley and Azirapahle’s “Arrangement” in episode three. The opening half hour of the episode works hard to create greater context for their six-thousand-year partnership, tracking them through the ages, and finally closes out in 1967 with the angel handing over a thermos of holy water to his dear friend, saying sadly “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

He’s talking about Crowley’s driving. But of course he isn’t, because there is no context on this earth in which the words “you go too fast for me” are about being in a car, friends.

This is the part where the usual suspects roll their eyes because culture has endlessly enforced the idea that queerness is conditional and that “slash goggles” (i.e. viewing not-canonically-comfirmed characters as queer) should be derided and that the only person who should get a say in the sexuality of characters is the author—unless the author flat-out says their characters are queer, in which case, they should have made it more obvious if they expected anyone to believe that.

But this pairing is pretty damned (sorry, blessedly) obvious. It’s obvious in the way the Aziraphale bats his eyelashes at Crowley and grumps about the fact that his pristine old jacket now has paint on it, then smiles beatifically when the demon vanishes the stain by blowing gently on his shoulder—both of them knowing full well that Aziraphale can remove the stain himself with angelic will. It’s obvious in how angry Crowley gets when Aziraphale claims he’s “nice”, and Crowley shoves him up against a wall in a standard intimidation tactic that the angel barely registers as fury. It’s obvious in the way that Crowley sits across Aziraphale with a drink every time they’re out, and simply watches the angel indulge in rich foods. It’s right there even at the start, when the Angel of the Eastern Gate shelters the Serpent of Eden from the world’s very first rainstorm with one of his wings, through they both have a perfectly functional set to themselves.

We’re at a point in time where more and more writers and creators are perfectly aware that fans will see characters as queer whether they are written explicitly that way or not. Being aware of this—and not having anything against queer people—many of them say something to the tune of “you can view this relationship however you like, we’re cool with that”. It’s very nice. To some extent, it’s even incredibly helpful, because being okay with the queering of characters goes a long way in telling homophobic people that their vitriol toward queerness isn’t welcome. But when a huge swath of a fandom is queer, and certain characters are commonly rendered as queer to most of those fans, and then we are given a version of the story in which interpreting those characters as just great buddies is honestly taxing to one’s logical faculties… well, it’s hard not to wonder at what point the “straight” view of said characters is likely destined to become a minority interpretation one day.

Which is precisely where I found myself while watching Good Omens.

This clarity kept turning up and tuning in, even in the terms of their dear Arrangement; after Crowley suggests that they start doing work on each other’s behalves during a run-in in the 6th century, another meeting at The Globe in Shakespeare’s day sees Crowley bringing it up again, only to have Aziraphale try and shoot the idea down. “We’ve done it before… dozens of times now,” the demon wheedles, and he might as well be saying “But we’ve made out a lot lately, I think it’s time to accept that you like hanging out with me.” To make up for sending Aziraphale to Edinburgh, he agrees to infernally intervene to ensure that the Bard’s latest play (Hamlet) is a rousing success—and again, the angel offers up that ethereal smile and Crowley takes it as his compensation, as though it’s all he ever wanted in the world.

People may cry, stop shoving your sexuality in other people’s faces! (They always do, like a reliable clock striking the hour with a very irritating chime that you can’t seem to turn off.) But that’s hardly the point, is it? Because I didn’t say anything about sex, I said they were in love. And I’m having a very hard time finding any evidence to the contrary.

Critics and most of the internet have noticed how romantic the show is. The actors did as well, and talked endlessly of it in interviews. The series gives us longing glances and a messy breakup and drunken mourning and a canonical bodyswap (the stuff of fanfic dreams, my lovelies) where Aziraphale strips Crowley’s body down to its undergarments for the purpose of taunting Hell. At the point when everything threatens to blow up in their faces, Crowley asks—sorry no, he begs—Aziraphale to run away with him. And then when it’s all over, he invites the angel to spend the night at his place, and Aziraphale’s response is “I don’t think my side would like that” which is basically divine-speak for “I came out to my family and they’re not cool with it, so I’m not sure this is gonna work.” This has all the markings of the sort of Shakespeare play that Crowley appreciates: the funny ones where no one dies. And it ends on our couple having a lovely lunch in a fancy locale while a swoony love standard plays on in the background.

It’s odd to think that the fact that it took over two decades to produce a Good Omens series is part of the reason why the romantic aspect seems more unabashed than ever; in the book, plenty of people think Aziraphale is gay and that the angel and demon are a couple, but it’s done with that wink and nudge that was common around the turn of the century. These days, teasing at the idea that your core duo might seem a little gay to onlookers doesn’t constitute a ready joke because there’s nothing particularly funny about that suggestion when queer folks are fighting so hard to be seen and represented. And the lack of those winky moments, the way the story simply takes their codependency as a sweet given, makes Aziraphale and Crowley read even more genuinely as a pair. But if you had told me this was the version of Good Omens that I’d see in 2019, I’d have never believed a word. I was ready for extra background, more story, different jokes, but not this. Not confirmation that there are other angels and demons exchanging information and working together in Crowley and Aziraphale’s reality, but Heaven and Hell have a specific problem with their partnership because they clearly love each other too much.

And sure, you can read the story differently. You can choose to ignore those cues and enjoy a story about two very good friends who help to avert the apocalypse. I’m sure for some, that’s a more enjoyable take. But I’m more curious about whether or not, in twenty or thirty years time, people will think of the Good Omens series as anything but the story of an angel and a demon who spent six millennia figuring out that they should probably buy that cottage on the South Downs together.”

[austennerdita2533]

A/N: Here’s an exploration of Klaus’s final thoughts while dying because why write happy AUs when I can suffer in canon hell instead? Loosely inspired by (THIS) gifset.

**ALLUSIONS TO MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH**

(A03)(FF.net)

Happy reading!

xx Ashlee Bree

There are few constants in this world. Though it’s not the most revolutionary thought to be archived, there is none more relevant to a monster who’s currently stretched thin and waning piece-by-piece into the cityscape, his mind drifting off like flecks of paper as he expends his last gulps of borrowed air into the dusk until he disappears.

Such a stark truth helps to put everything back into perspective. His eyelids can flutter closed with one less regret now because he knows…yes, because he knows…

Hardly anything stays the same here.

The sun rises then sets, only never in the same way twice. Opportunity gushes forward when it should trickle in instead. Blood sustains but it too runs dry the longer his fangs cling to the carotid of some nameless human’s neck, that prayer for help already fallen silent on the tip of a person's tongue so it’s gone before the gods can hear it, before they answer it - that is, if there truly are any gods left.

Perhaps they still exist somewhere, or perhaps they never did?

Klaus wouldn’t know since humanity’s fickleness deletes old beliefs faster than it ushers in grander ones on spools of sacred carpet. He doesn’t care because a thousand years have lapsed, and he’s never seen one. Never heard from one, either. Not a’once.

It seems only the agents of hell reign here. So either he’s indebted to them, or cursed, or he’s a member of their demon dregs? It doesn’t matter which one it is.

There aren’t many consistencies to be found around him regardless. There’s little to no predictability.

Sometimes, though, a giggle will leave its mark in surprise or in dread, in humor or in cruelty, so that it echoes in his head. Not that such a sound matters at all to the wind carrying it like a letter, because how could it? Why would it? There is no promise it shall arrive again before it’s missed.

Thoughts, cultures, foods, and dreams all disappear in the seconds it takes to sneeze.

Klaus snaps his fingers and the Berlin Wall tumbles, he whistles and soon the arctic ice thaws into puddles of boiling salt that raise the seas. Applause turns to duels and duels turn to kisses faster than he can flip to the next Shakespearean act and read it all the way through looking for hints, searching for clues that will tell him what to expect at the end.

Another extinct language is continually born to die in ashes that were made to flicker after they fall. Some embers drift away unseen almost as readily as others which remain behind, stacked higher than gray ant hills. Those are the ones built to thrive and condemn all who come into contact with their illegible numerals in the first place. With no ears to listen, and with no hands to point or shoes to kick it along, the fiery wind above delivers a message that may or may not be read by those who remain below, still standing; the lot of them still stuck in a moment they’ll soon learn to forget because they can, because to survive they must march ahead.

Nothing stops in this world, and Klaus knows it. He’s seen it.

History blows past everything with a wink. He feels the edges spinning away from him day after day - splitting into shreds he’s too slow to catch.

Transience is a terrible companion for a man like him, for all creatures who ache for perpetuity or an anchor of sorts to brace them against the onslaught, but sometimes that’s all there is. Sometimes fleeting brevity is all one gets.

Rain often washes the paint and charcoal from his fingertips, for example. Snow likely cools the fury he wears curled under his breath before exchanging it for mercy, or the precious little of it he still possesses. Hope can be moister than a stick of gum when he tucks it back against his molars, but it never stays fresh. The taste is sweet at first, then more and more sour when the mint decays into chalk along the inside of his cheek and drills a hole of white through his tongue, the bloody thing a grave which opens deeper with every smile and charming word he speaks. Cementing like an abscessed cavity when he must count his losses in soon-to-be-archaic syllables.

New species of flowers proliferate then wither in his palms over and over again. Leaves green before they redden, orange, yellow, and brown so as to hibernate with all the foes he doesn’t know exist, or hasn’t bested yet. Time becomes nothing more than a string of multiplying paragraphs before it starts to unravel at the seams to make it impossible to remember where one fantasy begins, and another reality ends.

Barely anything Klaus touches remains steady. Most of it crumbles, turning to sawdust in his lap.

“Permanent” is neither a word he applies to many things in this universe nor to an existence which has done its damndest to convince him of its rarity.

His whole life already buoys on a globe of volcanic nothings, does it not? He’s observed how it perches precariously on a bed of tepid somethings which is always moving, always changing in a rhythm that quakes until it turns deaf from the relentless pound pound pound of his fists. The fog billows around mountaintops so the centuries pass in a whisper, or so year after year zooms by in a screech so loud it could perforate the eardrums. Yet each one remains special somehow because it cannot be weathered by anything else except progress. And evolution. And transformation.

All the lightness and darkness in him blurs while bourbon drowns the red screams that come from another city’s throat. Then from another…and another…and another…ad nauseam. The cycle continuing in squawking refrain because—oh, how the Endless hurts!

Buildings wobble. Cobblestone rots. Parchment crinkles, yellowing at the edges. Lanterns light a crowded alleyway which soon will be filled with rubble, with parking spaces or picnic tables, with ghosts of people he met too long ago to recount every individual face with clarity.

Hills and meadows and streams, and gravel and grasses and blacktopped streets—they crack beneath his feet the longer he treads on this earth with the continents drifting apart, with the waves crashing back together in a lover’s chaotic embrace because that’s how reunions spark throughout the ages: violently and with no care to preserve the prettiness of the land it once abandoned. And that’s okay. It’s this thirst and hunger for uproar which sprinkles life in destructive beauty. It’s what makes eternal adjustments so spontaneous, so thrilling.

The truth is Klaus is no stranger to changeability.

Nor is irregularity a foreign concept to a cunning mind like his that’s forever plotting, always considering new plans for domination or survival, so none of that scares him. Nothing of the erratic sort can, or should, or will unsettle his thoughts enough to drag him from sleep to brew a war which blazes inside of himself because he’s lost a hold of something the world never gave him, something it never promised he could keep.

He's acknowledged all the while how inconstancy is more likely to web around and throughout him as he continues forward into the eclogues of forever. He’s accepted it, breathed it in like the oxygen he no longer needs.

So what terrifies him isn’t that variables still abound as they always have but that he’s stumbled over something much more disconcerting in the pulse of his own throat, in the wretched tremble of his knees as a single look or word pins him to the floor on all fours, willingly damned like some besotted fool straight out of every bloody Victorian novel that was ever penned. It’s how he’s unearthed a kind of endurability in himself where none should be yet is in spite of all he knows or may confess in truths yanked from his soul like teeth—and that’s her. She’s the singular point of alarm behind everything.

Caroline.

She’s equal parts beautiful, infuriating, and fierce. She’s impossible and inescapable, she’s the answer behind every question he’s too afraid to ask out loud. In the forgotten silence, it’s her voice carrying everything he wants to hear: a ‘so long’ sweeter than a peck on the mouth, a slap of reckoning, a right ‘ol pinch in the arse for being disappointing; light that never dims, never burns down to black; charm and kindness with a dash of audacity, the loveliness of an elbow to the gut when it’s warranted, since it often can be with Mikaelsons around; and hope so pure it covers him like heaven’s own golden sleeves.

Klaus was struck by her the moment they met. He continues to be so every minute, hour, year, decade of time he’s fortunate enough to know her. See her. Wondering about feelings she may or may not reciprocate even as a peculiar heaviness starts to settle over his limbs, then robs him of any action except thinking.

Permanent in a way that will never fade, irrational love for her is the one truly indestructible thing he owns. It belongs to him completely. It’s the thumping heart of his entire universe, but then again...so is she.

However, with Death’s fingertips about to shut a lid over him and all they could’ve been one day, a single thought scratches hauntingly through Klaus’s mind; a final pang shoots across his heart before goodbye rots his lungs for keeps because it’s not until then that he realizes:

Caroline will never learn how much she’s cherished now, will she?

There are few constants in this world. It’s a fact, not a mystery. Yet while physics may write the laws and answers for everything else, for him, she - only she - is a perpetual feeling.

[arecomicsevengood]

Stuart Immonen Superman Comics Circa 1998

There’s a lot of “best of the year” lists that appear at the end of the year, but after that flutter of activity, tied to commercial imperatives, there are moments for reconsideration, as we approach the year to come and ask ourselves what it is we want. So now is as good a time as any to talk about some Superman comics Stuart Immonen drew some twenty-odd years ago. The artist announced earlier this year that he was “retiring” from comics, but this didn’t mean he was going to stop making comics, just that what he did would be “personal” work, in collaboration with his wife. They recently launched a comic on Instagram, and they’ve done some graphic novels together previously, none of which I can recommend.

I do think it’s interesting that these personal works are scripted by his wife, rather than him writing them himself, though; because back in the nineties, working for DC, he took a few stabs at writing. This was done within a framework that must’ve removed some of the risk involved: The four monthly Superman series that together constituted a weekly serial split between different creative teams had him drawing Karl Kesel’s scripts for a few years before he took over a separate title for his own. In my mind, much of the overall plotting would be hashed out at a conference, and then kept coordinated by an editor. Ideally this process would be oriented around what it was each individual creative team wanted to write and draw: Immonen’s artwork was a little softer than his compatriots, a little more likely to seem like he could’ve drawn romance comics in a different era, maybe younger than the others and more interested in youth culture and fashion, probably more likely to admire Jaime Hernandez. Maybe all this just manifests in the context as being the one who could draw women, but in a era where none of the Superman comics are showy about what they do and all aspired to being solid and well-crafted, his were the most enjoyable.

This softness I appreciate in this work isn’t really present in his subsequent work, which is sharper, shinier, where figures and their wardrobes seem consistently sculpted out of plastic. Part of it’s the coloring, but there also seem to be changes in how scripts call for layouts. He’s also maybe working with ink wash underneath the digital coloring and delineating more how he wants values of light to be approached, I don’t know. I don’t really want to diminish the work the man’s been doing in the years I haven’t been reading superhero comics. I can look at the years of intervening work and see how the choices he’s making are confident ones, the result of years of drawing action comics. I haven’t really read any of them, but that’s not to say I wouldn’t.

Still, if you’re anything like me, you probably generally think that comics created by one person are better than those made in a collaboration mediated via a written script, so if I’m going to read anything by the guy, it’s going to be work created under those circumstances. I’ve heard that DC sort of has structures in place against writer-artists: this is why those “Bizarro World” anthologies where they brought in alternative cartoonists forced them all to collaborate with each each other. Maybe this rule was a little looser with the Superman books: After John Byrne relaunched the line in the mid-eighties, both Dan Jurgens and Jerry Ordway would write and draw chunks of their subsequent runs. Otherwise it’s pretty rare: The only other thing I can think of would be that Rick Veitch Swamp Thing run, the circumstances of its ending probably be why they don’t let that happen too often. A little after Immonen and Kesel did the event The Final Night, Immonen wrote and drew a 4-issue miniseries spotlighting the Legion Of Super-Heroes character Inferno. It’s not good or anything, but it does seem to revolve around the strengths or interests I understand him having at this time: It’s a comic about a young woman, hanging out in the mall with a group of other young women, who might be understood as punks, as some are homeless. Before Immonen worked for DC, his initial small-press work, Playground, made in collaboration with his future wife, was described in “punk rock” terms. He states in the Inferno letter column his goal was to make something someone who didn’t read other DC Comics could read and enjoy. I don’t think it gets anywhere near being able to achieve that, it’s confusing on multiple levels. The covers are probably the most memorable part, but because you can track those down easy enough, I’ll include a bit of interior sequential art.

Not long after that, he took over writing Action Comics. I haven’t read that many of those either! I had stopped reading the Superman comics regularly not long before this happened. It was during the time period when Superman had electric powers and a blue costume. I was in middle school. I found out he’d started writing when I found a couple issues in a bargain bin and picked them up, but I didn’t get back in the habit of reading Superman comics, as the story was pretty difficult to follow if you attempted to only read the series with the best art. He also didn’t really work as a writer for that long: After a little while, Mark Millar gets credited for providing scripts.

But a little while back, around the time I wrote that post about why I’m willing to read superhero comics with some degree of hope that they’ll be good, I ordered a three-issue arc that seemed kind of self-contained. Looking online, it seemed like after the whole “electric Superman” story wrapped up with a special called Superman Forever, each of the four monthly books told their own stories, set in different historical eras, for a few months. Immonen’s Action Comics issues had covers suggesting they were united in progressing from one to the other. I was pretty into them, though in some ways it was an unsatisfying experience. The first issue in the arc is drawn by a fill-in artist, the third part focuses on this separate narrative thread- It’s narrated by this new villain, with god-like powers, who I guess was behind the whole “multiple timelines” thing in the first place, so you there’s exactly one fairly self-contained normal Superman comic written and drawn by the dude, though that third issue kinda rules, as aside from the narration, you’re reading all the normal Superman storytelling stuff happen wordlessly, calling attention to the clarity of the storytelling. It might fail to live up to expectations for a third act based on the way serialization has it setting up the next big arc, but as an episode in itself, this would be a pretty fun surprise to come across in your pile of the week’s comics. Which, if you remember that post, was exactly what I claimed to be looking for.

There’s also an original graphic novel that’s a little later still, “End Of The Century,” which seems like it’s partly tying up a long-running subplot in the Superman comics about Lex Luthor and his wife. It honestly has WAY too much plot, and too many narrative threads, and it’s all still fairly generic. While I picked it up hoping to see cool visual storytelling, the amount of story there is to tell gets in the way. The visual art is good, Immonen’s linework shifts to be a little finer. There’s also this weird thing where real images are photographed/scanned and inserted like they’re laying on the edges of the page, which is dumb, but the technology to achieve this effect was probably only recently made available. There’s also some sepia painted pages, and the most likely reason the “graphic novel” exists is because Immonen wanted to do the painted pages and have the time to work on them. That’s as good a reason as it is to try writing comics for a few years because you’ve drawn them for a few years and writing doesn’t seem hard and you would get paid more, and reasoning resulted in work I thought was better than what you usually get.

Ambition is a wild thing, in that it can really just stir inside you feeling frustrated even as you have no idea what you want to do with it in particular. It can easily be applied to other people’s ends. Work might be personal not because of the importance of what “the artist” has to say but because it’s an outgrowth of a personal relationship. It’s worth noting, looking at his career, the importance of cultivated professional relationships: He had those comics scripted by Mark Millar, and decades later they did a comic together which has probably resulted in a development deal and a sizable paycheck. He did two creator-owned comics with Kurt Busiek, largely forgotten I’d say, and then worked with him on a Superman comic which is pretty well-regarded. He’s collaborated with both Warren Ellis and Brian Bendis multiple times. It is sensible to view all those professional relationships as having had their respective culminations, while working with one’s wife is more of an ongoing long-term project.

At the same time: Having someone write for you, and what they see as your skillset, is going to present different challenges than seeing what you can do and pushing yourself, even if the latter results in what can be easily described as failure. It’s fine either way. Career paths in the arts are always going to be weird and haphazard, because there are so many decisions to make in creating a piece of art that progress is never going to be linear. I don’t know if any of these collaborations embraced what I like about his work, but maybe what I like in his work isn’t what he sees as his strengths, but is just what was emblematic of his style at the point in time I was initially exposed to it. The questions of who we are in relationship to others vs. what our true potential is is always up for negotiation.

I think those Superman comics excel because I came to them with very particular set of expectations. Not only can I not expect anyone else to share those expectations, I don’t even really want to convince anyone to have them: There’s no small part of me that thinks of the fact that I tracked them down to write about them is in some ways squandering some bit of potential inside myself I can’t expect anyone else to care about. I don’t know what 2019 looks like, though I hope I won’t spend too much of it looking back twenty years at comics from 1999. I don’t like doing this thing where I try to make something “personal” to rationalize my talking about some some comic while actually just talking in vague generalities because I’m very reticent to talk about myself, but I’ll probably continue to do so. I’m probably not going to spend the next year looking at Stuart Immonen’s Instagram feed. But here at the end of this year, as I contemplate my own inertia and depressive laziness, I have to give an honest accounting and give it up to that dude for putting in the work.

[garywonghc]

Discovering the True Nature of Mind

by Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche

Vision is mind. Mind is empty. Emptiness is clear light. Clear light is union. Union is great bliss.

This is the heart instruction of Dawa Gyaltsen, a Bön meditation master who lived in the eighth century. Bön is the native, pre-Buddhist religion of Tibet, which has incorporated many Buddhist elements. This teaching is a direct introduction to the nature of mind and is not elaborate with ritual. The pith instructions of these masters — their heart advice to their students — are often only a few lines, but these few lines can guide the fortunate practitioner to recognising his or her own true nature as Buddha.

VISION IS MIND 

How do we work with Dawa Gyaltsen’s instruction, which begins, “Vision is mind”? Vision includes everything we perceive, but I suggest that you use what bothers you as an entrance to this practice. Do you have a famous person in your life? The famous person is the one who seems to be born to create a problem for you, as if that were his or her number-one mission in life. Sometimes we feel there are people like that. Such people can make trouble for you not only with their presence, but with one single postcard sent to you. When you see the postcard with their handwriting on it, you are immediately disturbed.

So we begin our meditation practice with this famous person as our starting point. Create a protected environment and sit in a comfortable upright position. Now invite the image of your famous person to come into your awareness. They always come anyway, but this time you are inviting them so that you can look more deeply into this experience. What exactly is this famous person composed of? See the image of the person, the character of this person who bothers you so much. Sense the energetic or emotional presence of this person. When your famous person was born, he or she did not show any physical signs or marks of what you now see. And not all people share your view of this person. What you perceive is your mind, your karmic vision, which is more karma than vision.

So in this moment, instead of looking out and focusing on that person, look inward. Step back and let the experience come in. Do not step forward but step backwards. Don’t go to your office and make phone calls and send emails. Just sit and close your eyes and reflect on this person, and experience what you’re experiencing at this very moment. This is your vision. It is very much in you, in your mind. That famous person is now an image or a felt sense. Perhaps you have a sense of being contracted, closed or agitated in the presence of this person; feel this fully, not simply with your intellect. Sit with the image of your famous person, and with the resulting feelings and sensations, until you recognise that this experience is in you, and you conclude, “Vision is mind.”

MIND IS EMPTY

The next question is, “What is this mind?” Look for your mind. Look from the top of your head to the soles of your feet. Can you find anything solid? Can you find any permanent color, shape or form that you can call your mind? If you look directly, you come to the conclusion that your mind is empty. Some people come to this conclusion very quickly; for others it requires an exhausting search to discover this clear awareness. But this is what mind is. You can obviously pollute that clarity in any given moment, but by continuing to look directly, you can discover that mind itself is just clear. Clear means empty. “Empty” is a philosophical term, but as experience it is clear and open.

So what began as the famous person is now clear and open. If this is not your experience, you are grasping the image and holding on to the experience in some way. Just be. Relax into the experience. Simply be. Mind is empty. When we arrive at the experience of emptiness and vastness through the doorway of the famous person, it is possible to have quite a strong experience of emptiness.

EMPTINESS IS CLEAR LIGHT

Our next question is, “What is this emptiness?” Sometimes emptiness is scary to the point where someone may prefer even their famous person to this nothing where one experiences the absence of self. But this experience of open space is essential. It clears the identity that creates the famous person. In order to clear the obstacle of the famous person, you have to clear the identity that creates that famous person. There is an expression, “The sword of wisdom cuts both ways.” Don’t be scared by this. Remember: “Emptiness is clear light.” It has light. It is possible to feel the light in the absence of the stuff.

Usually we accumulate a lot of stuff in life. Then we have a big yard sale in order to get rid of that stuff. For a moment we might feel “Ahhh …”—a sense of relief at getting rid of our old stuff — but soon we are excited again about all the new stuff we can accumulate to decorate and fill the open space. In your meditation, when things clear, just be with this. Don’t focus on the absence of the stuff, but discover the presence of the light in that space. It’s there. I’m not saying it’s easy to recognise and connect with the light — clearly it will depend on how much you are caught up with appearances and with the famous person. I’m not talking about the clear appearance of the famous person; I’m speaking of the clear appearance of the space.

So when you look at appearance and discover it is mind, and then discover that mind is empty, clear light emerges. When you look for the mind, you don’t find the mind. When you don’t find anything, the Dzogchen instruction is to “abide without distraction in that which has not been elaborated.” What has not been elaborated is that space, that openness. So you look for mind; you don’t find anything. What you don’t find is pure space which is not elaborated. So don’t do anything. Don’t change anything. Just allow. When you abide in that space without changing anything, what is is clear light. The experience or knowledge of emptiness is clear light. It is awareness.

Clear light is the experience of vast emptiness. The reason you have a famous person in the first place is that you experience yourself as separated from the experience of the vast, open space. Not recognising the vast space, not being familiar with it, you experience visions. Not recognising the visions as mind, you see them as solid and separate and out there — and not only out there, but disturbing you and creating all kinds of hassles for you that you have to deal with.

Perhaps you say, “Well, I am very clear about the direction in my life.” Here, you are clear about something. The clarity Dawa Gyaltsen points to is not clear about something; it is clear in the sense of being. You experience your essence, your existence, your being as clear. That clarity is the best. Through experiencing that clarity, you overcome self-doubt.

CLEAR LIGHT IS UNION

From this experience of vast emptiness we say, “Clear light is union.” The space and the light cannot be separated. Clear refers to space, and light refers to awareness; awareness and space are inseparable. There is no separation between clear presence and space, between awareness and emptiness.

We have a lot of notions of union: yin and yang, male and female, wisdom and compassion. When you pay close attention to the experience of emptiness, you experience clarity. If you try to look for clarity, you cannot find it — it becomes emptiness. If you don’t find it, and you abide there, it becomes clear. The experiences of clarity and emptiness are union in the sense that they are not separate. Clarity is the experience of openness. If you don’t have the experience of openness, you cannot be clear. What is clear is that openness, the emptiness. What is empty and open is that clarity. The two are inseparable. Recognising this is called union.

This means that our experiences do not affect our relation to openness. It is usually the case that experiences affect our connection to openness because immediately we get excited and attached. Then we grasp, or we become agitated, conflicted and disturbed. When that doesn’t happen, when our experience spontaneously arises and does not obscure us, that is union: the inseparable quality of clear and light. You are free; you are connected. You are connected; you are free.

This combination experience, whether in deep meditation or in life, is rare. Often, if you are “free,” that means you are disconnected. So this sense of union is important. Having the ability to do something and the ability to feel free, having the ability to be with somebody and still feel a sense of freedom, is so important. That is what is meant by “clear light is union.”

UNION IS GREAT BLISS 

If you recognise and experience this inseparable quality, then you can experience bliss. Why is bliss experienced? Because that solid obstacle to being deeply connected with yourself has disappeared. You can have a strong experience of bliss because you have released something. Bliss spontaneously comes because there’s nothing that obscures you or separates you from your essence. You have a feeling that everything is complete just as it is.

So you begin with the famous person, and you end up with bliss. What more could you ask for? This is the basis of the whole Dzogchen philosophy in a few lines. The famous person you project is great bliss, but you must understand this as your mind, and that very mind as empty. From there, emptiness is clear light, clear light is union, union is great bliss. You can experience this in an instant. The moment you see the famous person, you can instantly see light. But sometimes we have to go through a longer process to see this. It is a question of ability. So this progression, this process, is our practice. It takes time. But there is a clear map.

These five principles can be applied in daily practice. You can do this practice any place, in any given moment, and especially when the famous person is bothering you. When a difficult circumstance arises, of course you could just live with it, or you could try to find one of many solutions. But as a Dzogchen practitioner, this practice of the Fivefold Teachings is what you do. Perhaps you lost a business deal and you feel bad. What does “lost” really mean? You look at that; that is vision. Whether fear-based vision or greed vision, you look directly at that experience. Be with that experience. Then you realise it is mind, and you look at your mind and discover that mind is clear — just clear. Even when we have a lot of problems, the essence of mind is always clear. It is always clear. There is always the possibility to connect with the essence of mind rather than the confusion aspect of it.

HOW WE CONCLUDE

I love this practice very much. On the one hand, it is so practical. It gives you a tool to deal with a very specific situation. On the other hand, it guides you directly into the essence, to the root of yourself. It always amazes me when people fight with one another and say, “Oh, that terrible person. We have been good friends for a long time and I always thought that person was so honest. It took me a long time to discover that that person is really terrible.” So your conclusion is that that person is terrible. Have you heard people say things like that? This is not really a healthy solution. It’s like going to therapy and realising, “My dad was really a bad guy. Now I feel much better.” Of course, you might realise some difficult aspect of your situation, but realising that is not the conclusion. You need to conclude into the essence, conclude into the root, to come to the place in yourself where you realise your mind is clear and blissful and the image that was bothering you has finally dissolved through your meditation.

What is the conclusion here? The conclusion is bliss. “Union is great bliss.” What better conclusion would you want than that? And it will be like that if you open your mind to learn, trust with your heart, and pray. It’s really important to pray, and to pray for a deep experience. Because if what you think is not that deep, the result won’t be that deep either. Through prayer, you open your heart and receive the blessings of effortlessness. The quality of effortlessness is a quality of heart, and devotion and prayer open the heart. So praying is wonderful. It sets up the intention and puts you in the right direction, so when you do the practice of meditation — of directly looking and being with your experience — it will work.

I encourage you to practice this heart advice of Dawa Gyaltsen, to look directly into what is disturbing you and discover the nature of your mind. Through the profound simplicity of these five lines, not only can you heal your day-to-day life and make it lighter and more pleasant, but you can recognise and connect with your innermost essence, the nature of your mind as Buddha.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 

Question: In terms of the experience of “vision is mind,” it seems that our grasping mind, our small mind, is different from the natural state of mind which is clear light. I don’t know how to bridge the gap between the grasping mind and emptiness, because the grasping mind doesn’t seem empty.

Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche: It doesn’t seem empty, but it is. If you look at the ocean you might find it calm and peaceful, or with small ripples, or bigger ripples, or small waves, or bigger waves. All these appearances – from calm to ripples to waves – have the quality of wetness. All are water in every appearance. The appearance of the ocean can never be anything other than water, no matter how terrible or peaceful the ocean appears. In the same way, no matter what vision appears, it is always empty. The essence is always there. The only question is, “Am I able to see it or not?”

Question: It is wonderful when the famous person dissolves, but I still have an obligation to him or her, a responsibility. He or she is my child. So the “famous person” situation may keep recurring. Do I keep dissolving in the same way?

Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche: Sure. The famous person can still be famous without disturbing you as much. The reason we call him or her “famous” is that they really bother you. Do they really need to bother you? No. He or she can be as they are or they can be different, but they don’t have to bother you. We have expectations that things need to be a certain way. Do they really have to be a certain way? No.

Let’s take a situation in which I’m trying to help my child. How am I trying to help? I want him to go to school and study well. So what’s the problem? Well, the child has some difficulty learning. O.K. So I’m trying to do the best I can under the circumstances. If I’m doing that, then what am I worrying about? Some people learn faster, some learn slower. Right?

But the problem is not about the child learning too slowly; it’s that I can’t accept the situation. It’s not about the child; it’s about me. I have some fixed idea about what would be good for my child. This is usually the case. I think, “What I want is good for you.” The child probably doesn’t agree. He might be interested in a completely different thing than I am. But I feel like I’m the boss, and of course I am: I have a moral responsibility and so on. But there is someplace where it is just fine. I need to realise that.

Question: Is it just the lack of practice of recognising that “vision is mind” that makes me feel there is a hook that draws me back to, “Yeah, but that famous person really is mean”?

Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche: I am not suggesting that this is the only way to deal with life. This is one of the Dzogchen ways. It is not a samsaric way, and sometimes we have to deal in a samsaric way. If somebody is trying to cheat me, of course I don’t like that. If somebody asks me for something, I don’t mind giving. But if somebody is taking something from me, then I don’t want to give. If that aspect of me seems to be who I really am in this moment, then I will fight or do whatever needs to be done. It’s not a question of one approach being more valid than another. Who I am and what realisation I have determines how skillfully I am able to work. In the end, the real sense of victory is the practice. But in the conventional sense, we do whatever we have to do. We naturally defend and we fight. Sometimes, you defend, you fight, and you still lose. Then maybe you don’t have any other choice but to see it as emptiness! That is a forceful way of discovering emptiness.

[reviewinganything]

Reviewing Shows: Bungou Stray Dogs

I sure watched Bungou Stray dogs! Why did I watch Bungou Stray Dogs? Because, well, It kinda sucks, but in a fascinating way. Or at least in ways that seem like they might be instructive.

The thing about Bungou... the thing about BSD is it has poor tone control. It tries to blend a hyper-real grim mafia story, irreverent comedy, and cool action together. It does not manage this well.

Spoilers ahead, even though spoilers are a fake idea.

So BSD follows a sadboy orphan weretiger (Atsushi Nakajima) who helps out a drowning man (Osamu Dazai), then is in turn helped by the un-drowned man by being a little-bit press-ganged into working for the “Armed Detective Agency,” a para-governmental organization with a rare and valuable permit to operate with use of members’ super powers.

The premise set up in the first two episodes seems to be that we’ll be joining this wacky cast of characters in the detective agency as they solve crimes involving strange powers with their own strange powers. This is not the arc the show winds up following. Instead the show winds up involved with the Port Mafia (why is it the Mafia and not Yakuza anyway?), the local super powered criminal organization, and their open conflict with the detective agency. Then, in the second half of the show, it introduces a foreign criminal organization called the Guild which the Mafia and detective agency team up to fight.

Oh, I haven’t had a chance to mention that the show’s large cast of characters are mostly named for famous authors from the early 20th century. Every character with a super power — simply called abilities — is named after an author, and their ability is named for their most famous work. The allusions have only a superficial relation to their power, and virtually no impact on the themes of the show. The man named Hermin Melville can summon a spectral whale that can be cladded with iron to become a ship, because, well, Moby Dick was a whale, I guess, and the novel takes place on a ship. The character Mark Twain has two doll friends named Huck and Tom who help him to aim guns really good because ??? There isn’t much else to say about the use of these names because it really has little impact on the actual story; it’s just baffling, one set of arbitrary decisions among many.

As I said, BSD tries to blend moments of absurd humor, dark psychological drama, typical shonen action, and the flavour of a mystery or crime procedural. Audacious, though similar things have been done (Cowboy Bebop comes to mind, blending humor, drama, suave action, and ambiguously moral characters with former ties to criminal organizations well), but BSD bungles it.

For example, at the end of episode three Atsushi and two of his detective agency friends have a run in with the main muscle of the mafia, Akutagawa, and all three are impaled, if not also dismembered, by Akutagawa’s generally sharp darkness powers. The show spends a good several minutes emphasizing the desperation and panic Atsushi feels, along with fanning his “I cause nothing but trouble for people around me, and shouldn’t live” flames. This causes him to black out and go were-magical-tiger, fight evenly against Akutagawa for a bit, then their fight is cut short by Dazai’s ability to cancel abilities. Akutagawa calls off the attack, and has an amicable chat with Dazai over the lead in of the cheerful credits tune. Then the next episode reveals that the fatal wounds of Atsushi’s friends can be healed by the detective agency’s doctor, whose ability fully heals people, but only from the brink of death. Her sadistic enjoyment of hurting to heal is played for laughs.

On paper this doesn’t necessarily not work. But the show plays the drama so dead serious, and the humor so absurd it doesn’t come together as a gestalt. It forever feels like disparate elements being stitched together in one high contrast package. The grittiness of the psychological fear section doesn’t mesh with the empowerment and adrenaline of the super-power action (Atsushi heals himself and becomes invulnerable to things like bullets when a weretiger). Trying to portray the mafia as a ruthless villainous organization doesn’t gel with them also calling truce and chatting for a little while before walking off. Trying to raise the stakes and suspense of an action scene doesn’t gel well with a character who can magically and comedically heal people from fatal wounds.

Speaking of the Port Mafia and wanting it both ways, BSD tries to play this morally grey area, and it winds up breaking the show. The Port Mafia are clearly evil — they extort, they assassinate, they’ll nonchalantly kill dozens of innocents in their way —but we spend a good chunk of the show following their members escapades, and we’re clearly supposed to empathize with them.

There’s a hard break from the main story at the beginning of the second half of the show. For four episodes we watch a new character, Oda Sakunoske, as he follows an apparently traitorous member of the mafia. We’re introduced to him drinking in a classy bar with Dazai (back when he was in the mafia). He is the lowest ranked (yes, singularly low ranked, I guess) member of the mafia because he refuses to kill. Then at some point the enemy organization he’s looking into murders five orphans Oda had taken responsibility for after some other mafia killing spree.

Clearly this moment is supposed to make us feel sad, and sympathize with Oda when he makes it a suicidal quest for vengeance. But we spent all of a minute with the children, and Oda is already a man compromised by working with the mafia. Again, on paper there’s space for this sort of morally dark story telling. But the sheer earnestness with which it shows Dazai scream-mourning for the kids by the flaming wreckage is embarrassing. "Do you feel sad for this man? Are you sad five children are dead?” Nah man, not when they’re being used as a cheap emotional beat with 60 seconds of set up, dude.

So then after Oda’s four episode arc we enter the phase of the show where the Guild (all named for western authors) shows up and threatens to take over their city and the mafia and detective agency begrudgingly work together against them. I suppose the theme of Japan working together to fight off foreigners who want to profit off them is fair enough, even if it’s some sort of cultural allegory since they’re all named for authors, but I don’t get what associating half of the Japanese authors with an the bloodthirsty mafia really gets you. It doesn’t seem very well thought out.

The theme the show overtly ends on is one of wanting/needing acceptance of your friends/peers/cohort, and of trying to be a good person even if you’ve killed dozens of people. Which, huh. For the 13 year old whose power was used against her will by the mafia to assassinate 23 people, okay, I can understand where you’re coming from. It was against her will, she’s very young, she deserves a second chance. But when applied to Dazai, a man who apparently willingly worked for the mafia, and quit only because his friend died? Not to mention that Akutagawa, the mafia guy who kills several dozen dudes on screen throughout the show is the one who’s arc is completed when good-guy senpai acknowledges his strength. Uh???

Once again, it offers this sort of retribution with a hopefulness and clarity of intent that feels very out of place for the content of what’s happened. The denouement is a party at the detective agency. It’s all very fun and full of several gags, and it’s a tone that doesn’t fit the themes they’re trying to discuss. It’s like they either don’t trust the viewer to appreciate a show that settles in a mood for a while, or they don’t even know how to control the tone.

Ultimately Bungou Stray Dogs is lesser than the sum of its parts. The animation and music and sound are fine, parts of the plot are fine, some jokes are funny, some drama works, some action is cool, exploring the need for acceptance and of trying to do good despite your past are good, and using a dozen famous authors as loose jumping off point for characters is a bit high-school but fine enough in concept, but the parts wind up detracting from one another. Ah well, it was at least interesting enough for me to watch through.

[firstumcschenectady]

"Afterlife?" based on Job 14 and Mark 12:18-27

I want to start today by asking for your trust – particularly from those who are here particularly for the baptism.  I do know that the first hymn and the scriptures have been an odd match for a baptismal Sunday so far, and it is going to get worse before it gets better, but it IS going to get better, I promise.

The question of “what happens after we die” is relevant to us for two separate reasons.  One reason is entirely personal: we want to know if we are simply mortal and if we cease to exist when we die.  The other may be just as personal, in a different way:  we want to know if the connects we have to those who have died before us are still alive or if they only feel that way.

Both of these are good reasons to want to know, but nevertheless, we don't know what happens after death.  And our believes about it end up being profoundly personal. If we are looking at afterlife through the lens of the Christian Tradition, there are three big questions people to disagree over:

Does afterlife exist?

If there is an afterlife, do both heaven and hell exist, or just heaven?

If both heaven and hell exist, how are people sorted between them?

While many people have deep conviction about their answers to these questions, and believe their answers to be the “normal” ones, the truth is that Christians have disagreed about this for about as long as there have been Christians.

For centuries, Christianity has taught about afterlife and the existence of heaven and hell, all while arguing about the means of sorting people into each.  Yet,  there is also a large group of Biblical Scholars who think that we've gotten those assumptions wrong.  They say that 1st century Jews, Jesus, and the earliest Christians did not believe in heaven and hell the way we do.  At best, heaven and hell were temporary resting places while waiting for bodily resurrection that would come along with the Kindom of God on earth.1  More commonly, people believed that there was nothing until the moment of universal bodily resurrection, which they expected to come within the first generation after Jesus.  For some others the perspective of Job 14 was accurate:  humans die but at least God doesn't.

For the most part, I think afterlife is an aside to Christianity.  The goal is to build the kindom on earth, not in heaven.  However, the reality of deaths of those we love and the looming reality of our own deaths don't let us go.  We really want to know, and for many people, what they believe about afterlife profoundly connects to how they understand God.  

Now, this is the fifth and final sermon in a sermon series comparing the salient points of Moralistic Therapeutic Deism, the tradition of the Christian Right, and what I've been calling “Jesus-followers”.  (That final group is us.)  Moralistic Therapeutic Deism was discovered through sociological research on the belief system on teenagers, and we have reason to believe it is the default belief system of most Americans.  Unfortunately, as we've found, its a rather problematic belief system, at least in my opinion.  It consists of 5 intersecting assumptions:

"A god exists who created and ordered the world and watches over human life on earth."

"God wants people to be good, nice, and fair to each other, as taught in the Bible and by most world religions."

"The central goal of life is to be happy and to feel good about oneself."

"God does not need to be particularly involved in one's life except when God is needed to resolve a problem."

"Good people go to heaven when they die."

Today we are looking at the 5th and final point, “Good people go to heaven when they die.”

Of course, if you asked most people what Christians think, that would be a key part of the answer, “good people go to heaven when they die,” but – of course - our tradition is far more complicated than is generally known.

Historically, I think the concepts of heaven and hell came into clarity in the 3rd or 4th century, as that's when the fights over who went where really picked up.  So let's look at our three questions:

Does afterlife exist?

Christians of good faith disagree about this one.  Some, including some in this community, say, “no.  This life is all there is, so let's make the best of it instead of pretending there is more.”  Others, including some in this community, say, “I think so.  I've had some experiences that lead me to that conclusion and/or it just feels right.”  Still others simply aren't sure.  Because the “word on the street” about Christianity so profoundly conflates belief in God with belief in afterlife, I feel the need to say this explicit: all of these are faithful statements that are congruent with knowing a loving God through Jesus.

So, the second question, which presumes an answer of “yes” to the first one about afterlife existing.  The second question is:

2.  If there is an afterlife, do both heaven and hell exist, or just heaven?

I'll admit that I nuanced this one to lead to a particular answer.  While I'm not always confident about afterlife (and yet sometimes I am, it is a confusing place inside my head), I never think there is a hell.  It just doesn't make the tiniest bit of sense to me that over the long run anything but God's grace could win out.  I read one time a suggestion that people continue to have free will after death, and so if heaven is unity with God, people can take AS LONG AS THEY WANT to get there, but in the end, they will because grace wins.  Put another way, I simply don't believe in a God of eternal punishment, it is incomprehensible to me.  That said, I think most modern Christians believe in a heaven and a hell, and most of them think it is heresy not to.  (oh.  Well.)

I think that for most people who believe that “good people go to heaven when they die” and the unspoken but obvious corollary “bad people go to hell when they die” there is a desire to believe that there is fundamental justice in the world and that bad things are punished and good things are celebrated and even if we don't see evidence of that on earth, it will get balanced out later.  I can understand a desire to believe that!  

Now, for me the third question is null and void, but since Christianity has spent the past 1600-1700 years fighting over it, I guess we should take a moment to hear the arguments. ;)

3.  If both heaven and hell exist, how are people sorted between them?

Possible answers:

In order to get into heaven you have to BELIEVE the right things ( “Justification by FAITH.”) This is the primary perspective of the Christian Right, although it intersects some with the next idea.

In order to get into heaven you have do DO the right things.  For many of those Christians there is a list of good things and a list of bad things to guide behavior. ( “Justification by WORKS” or “Works Righteousness.”)  

In order to get into heaven one must be baptized.  This is often even subconscious now.  This is one of the strongest arguments for infant baptism.  It is also one of the strongest arguments against it.  Some in this mindset will claim that only baptism in their PARTICULAR part of Christianity will matter.  However, when Christianity was much younger, this often resulted in people refusing to be baptized until the very last moment.  (I think, in fact, this is the historical basis for the Catholic ritual of last rites.) They thought that once baptized all their sins were forgiven, and if it was done late enough they wouldn't have time to sin.  I'm not kidding.  This was very common practice.

In order to get into heaven we need God's grace, and God's grace given to us results in our ability to have faith.  (“Justification by grace alone though faith.”) UMC option Thus it is not what we do or do not do; nor what we believe or do not believe that results in our welcome into heaven.  It is simply God's nature.  This does raise a rather large question about those who do not believe in God though.

As a reminder of how complicated all of this is,  I do not think that our Gospel lesson supports or disproves any of the schools of thought.  Rather, it urges humility.  The Sadducees were trying to trick up Jesus, and they brought him a tricky question in order to do it.  The question supported their belief about what happens when we die, but Jesus' answer did not let them trip him up.  He says, ““Is not this the reason you are wrong, that you know neither the scriptures nor the power of God? For when they rise from the dead, they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like angels in heaven. And as for the dead being raised, have you not read in the book of Moses, in the story about the bush, how God said to him, ‘I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’? He is God not of the dead, but of the living; you are quite wrong.”

This passage keeps me humble.  I don't know what it means, I don't know what heaven is like,or if it exists, and that's OK.  Many of us are not same worldview as moralistic therapeutic deism who say  “good people go to heaven when they die” or the Christian-Right who say that and have clarity over who counts as “good.”  Many of us simply don't know what happens after death.

I think that at the core, the questions of if afterlife exists or not and whether there is cosmic justice are really questions about existential anxiety.  That is, as beings who are conscious and who know we are mortal, we struggle with the reality that someday we won't be (at least in this form) anymore.  

I think that our shared, all the way back to Jesus, Christian Tradition offers Jesus-followers two ways we can respond to existential anxiety and the claims of the other traditions.  If we are about continuing the work of Jesus – about building the kindom and inviting others to be partners with us in building the kindom – then our work does not end with our deaths any more than Jesus' did.  This is not same as individual afterlife, but is really powerful in a different way. Certainly the ways that each of us work towards the kindom is unique, but the end goal is shared, and after we are gone others will be following up on our work with theirs … until the kindom comes.

The other piece of our response to existential anxiety is simply trusting in God.  Whether or not we cease to exist at the end of our lives, God and God's memory will still hold our lives, our loves, our actions, our thoughts, and our feelings.  And, whatever is on the other side of the proverbial curtain – God IS and God is GOOD and what will be is possible to trust in.

And that brings us full circle to say, that while I know it is awful to acknowledge death while celebrating a new life, I am happy to say that the kindom building and the goodness of God will outlast even the life of the baby baptized today life and thanks be to God for that!  Amen

1 (http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2008/april/13.36.html?paging=off)

[alltimebestbooks]

Best Three Books

1. Becoming: Now a Major Netflix Documentary

The intimate, powerful, and beautifully written memoir by the United States' former First Lady that inspired the major Netflix documentary

'I found myself lifting my jaw from my chest at the end of every other chapter . . . this was not the Obama I thought I knew. She was more' Independent

In a life filled with meaning and accomplishment, Michelle Obama has emerged as one of the most iconic and compelling women of our era.

As First Lady of the United States of America - the first African-American to serve in that role - she helped create the most welcoming and inclusive White House in history, while also establishing herself as a powerful advocate for women and girls in the U.S. and around the world. She dramatically changed the ways that families pursue healthier and more active lives, and stood with her husband as he led America through some of its most harrowing moments. Along the way, she showed us a few dance moves, crushed Carpool Karaoke, and raised two down-to-earth daughters under an unforgiving media glare.

In her memoir, a work of deep reflection and mesmerizing storytelling, Michelle Obama invites readers into her world, chronicling the experiences that have shaped her - from her childhood on the South Side of Chicago to her years as an executive balancing the demands of motherhood and work, to her time spent at the world's most famous address. With unerring honesty and lively wit, she describes her triumphs and her disappointments, both public and private, telling her full story as she has lived it - in her own words and on her own terms.

Warm, wise, and revelatory, Becoming is the deeply personal reckoning of a woman of soul and substance who has steadily defied expectations - and whose story inspires us to do the same.

'A rich, entertaining and candid memoir. And overall Obama's a fun person to sit alongside as she tells you the story of her life . . . it is as beautifully written as any piece of fiction' i

'A genuine page-turner, full of intimacies and reflections' Evening Standard

'Offers new insights into her upbringing on the south side of Chicago and the highs and lows of life with Barack Obama . . . a refreshing level of honesty about what politics really did to her' Guardian

'An inspirational memoir that also rings true' Daily Telegraph

2. The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck

In this generation-defining self-help guide, a superstar blogger cuts through the crap to show us how to stop trying to be “positive” all the time so that we can truly become better, happier people

For decades, we’ve been told that positive thinking is the key to a happy, rich life. “Fuck positivity,” Mark Manson says. “Let’s be honest, shit is fucked and we have to live with it.” In his wildly popular Internet blog, Manson doesn’t sugar-coat or equivocate. He tells it like it is—a dose of raw, refreshing, honest truth that is sorely lacking today. The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F**k is his antidote to the coddling, let’s-all-feel-good mind-set that has infected

American society and spoiled a generation, rewarding them with gold medals just for showing up.

Manson makes the argument, backed both by academic research and well-timed poop jokes, that improving our lives hinges not on our ability to turn lemons into lemonade, but on learning to stomach lemons better. Human beings are flawed and limited—“not everybody can be extraordinary, there are winners and losers in society and some of it is not fair or your fault.” Manson advises us to get to know our limitations and accept them. Once we embrace our fears, faults and uncertainties, once we stop running and avoiding and start confronting painful truths, we can begin to find the courage, perseverance, honesty, responsibility, curiosity and forgiveness we seek.

There are only so many things we can give a fuck about so we need to figure out which ones really matter, Manson makes clear. While money is nice, caring about what you do with your life is better, because true wealth is about experience.

A much-needed grab-you-by-the-shoulders-and-look-you-in the-eye moment of real talk, filled with entertaining stories and profane, ruthless humor, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F**k is a refreshing slap for a generation to help them truly lead contented, grounded lives.

3. The Intelligent Investor

It is a widely acclaimed book by Benjamin Graham on value investing. Written by one of the greatest investment advisers of twentieth century, the book aims at preventing potential investors from substantial errors and also teaches them strategies to achieve long-term investment goals.

Over the years, investment market has been following teachings and strategies of Graham for growth and development. In the book, Graham has explained various principles and strategies for investing safely and successfully without taking bigger risks. Modern-day investors still continue to use his proven and well-executed techniques for value investment.

The current edition highlights some of the important concepts that are useful for latest financial orders and plans. Keeping Graham's unique text in original form, the book focuses on major principles that can be applied in day-to-day life. All the concepts and principles are explained with the help of examples for better clarity and understanding of the financial world.

Combination of original plan of Graham and the current financial situations are the reason behind this book��s preference today’s investors. It is a detailed version with several wisdom quotes that are likely to change one’s investing career and lead to the path of financial safety and security.

[newstechreviews]

When the British East India Company set sail to explore—and exploit—the riches of the world in the 1600s, it was based out of an unpretentious London house. How it grew from that to toppling mighty kingdoms “is the most improbable story of a corporate takeover in history,” says acclaimed historian and author William Dalrymple.

His new book Anarchy: The Relentless Rise of the East India Company explores how the firm, with its own military wing, “executed a corporate coup unparalleled in history,” and in doing so tacitly points to the dangers of unchecked corporatism. He also writes about how India’s subjugation started not with the British government but with a for-profit corporation that later spread its wings across Asia. In doing so, it helped to build a British Empire that, at its peak, was one “on which the sun never sets.”

Dalrymple spoke to TIME about the lessons to be learned for the modern world.

Why did you decide to write this book now?

I thought I was writing a history book but it seems I have written a pamphlet about the future. In my proposal for this book in 2013, I wrote that there is no modern equivalent to the East India Company. But at the moment, it certainly feels relevant to what is happening in the world. Suddenly we have a corporate mogul in the White House, which I didn’t know in 2013. The issues with big tech and big data are dominating U.S. politics. All these things which were not particularly live subjects when I began have suddenly become very relevant. It is completely accidental.

What would you say is the underlying message of Anarchy?

It is about the potential power of corporations. Today, a modern corporation like Google or Facebook doesn’t need to have armies and military regiments like the East India Company did. They are listening to every word we say. And that’s more dangerous than any military.

This book is also the one that took you the longest to complete. Why was that?

The Company is a moving target. It starts off in the 17th century as a libertarian dream of pure, unbridled capitalism. But by the end, it has become a sort of public-private partnership that is eventually nationalized and then goes on to become an imperial power. So it is different things at different times, morphing into new forms and shapes. It was a challenge to weave a coherent narrative out of this story.

Did the research and writing spring any surprises on you?

I wasn’t surprised by any of the outrageous things the Company did. But I was surprised by the outrage it generated back then in Britain. The reaction to it was very contemporary. The language that is used against the Company is similar to what we use now about our fears of the power of Google, Facebook and other companies that transcend sovereign boundaries and wriggle their way out of the laws of sovereign states.

What lessons can we learn?

The East India Company was a trading company that became very powerful and started running territory and no longer had to import bullion because it taxed Indians and used the profits to buy and sell to Britain. It certainly is history’s greatest warning about the power of corporations and the ability of corporations to change forms to avoid legislation.

Corporations, as Elizabeth Warren is saying in her campaign speeches, are changing so fast that we need new laws to keep an eye on them. And [look at] what’s going on with Facebook—Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez cross questioning Mark Zuckerberg on what exactly Facebook’s rules on censorship are and how far it intervenes in the political process. These are issues which are hugely relevant today and have their origin in the first corporation that engaged in politics, that toppled states, that was engaged in regime change abroad, in corporate bribery and lobbying.

What would you say is the legacy of the company?

When historians talk about the legacy of Empire, they mention democracy, tea, and cricket. I think you can argue very strongly that there was a much more profound influence on the modern world and that was the joint stock company, which dominates all our lives all around the world. The East India Company in many ways shaped the modern corporate world. The corporate world that we see around us has its origin in the misbehavior of the Company.

Outside of India, the story of the Company is dominated by the opium trade. By the 1800s, there was opium being grown in Bengal and Bihar in India which was being shipped to China, in what is undoubtedly the largest narcotics operation in history. Then the Opium Wars were fought to preserve the right to have narco sales, leading to the conquest of Hong Kong. So, in a way, the ongoing chaos in Hong Kong is also an indirect legacy.

Empire building played a huge role in the rise of the West. Do you think it will be Asia’s turn?

It has already happened. China is the world’s second-largest economy. The only question is how fast India will catch up. Despite the current economic crisis, I am certain that India will make the jump that China has made. It may just take a little while to get there. Economically, I am an India optimist. Politically, much less.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity

[itsfinancethings]

November 05, 2019 at 10:53PM

When the British East India Company set sail to explore—and exploit—the riches of the world in the 1600s, it was based out of an unpretentious London house. How it grew from that to toppling mighty kingdoms “is the most improbable story of a corporate takeover in history,” says acclaimed historian and author William Dalrymple.

His new book Anarchy: The Relentless Rise of the East India Company explores how the firm, with its own military wing, “executed a corporate coup unparalleled in history,” and in doing so tacitly points to the dangers of unchecked corporatism. He also writes about how India’s subjugation started not with the British government but with a for-profit corporation that later spread its wings across Asia. In doing so, it helped to build a British Empire that, at its peak, was one “on which the sun never sets.”

Dalrymple spoke to TIME about the lessons to be learned for the modern world.

Why did you decide to write this book now?

I thought I was writing a history book but it seems I have written a pamphlet about the future. In my proposal for this book in 2013, I wrote that there is no modern equivalent to the East India Company. But at the moment, it certainly feels relevant to what is happening in the world. Suddenly we have a corporate mogul in the White House, which I didn’t know in 2013. The issues with big tech and big data are dominating U.S. politics. All these things which were not particularly live subjects when I began have suddenly become very relevant. It is completely accidental.

What would you say is the underlying message of Anarchy?

It is about the potential power of corporations. Today, a modern corporation like Google or Facebook doesn’t need to have armies and military regiments like the East India Company did. They are listening to every word we say. And that’s more dangerous than any military.

This book is also the one that took you the longest to complete. Why was that?

The Company is a moving target. It starts off in the 17th century as a libertarian dream of pure, unbridled capitalism. But by the end, it has become a sort of public-private partnership that is eventually nationalized and then goes on to become an imperial power. So it is different things at different times, morphing into new forms and shapes. It was a challenge to weave a coherent narrative out of this story.

Did the research and writing spring any surprises on you?

I wasn’t surprised by any of the outrageous things the Company did. But I was surprised by the outrage it generated back then in Britain. The reaction to it was very contemporary. The language that is used against the Company is similar to what we use now about our fears of the power of Google, Facebook and other companies that transcend sovereign boundaries and wriggle their way out of the laws of sovereign states.

What lessons can we learn?

The East India Company was a trading company that became very powerful and started running territory and no longer had to import bullion because it taxed Indians and used the profits to buy and sell to Britain. It certainly is history’s greatest warning about the power of corporations and the ability of corporations to change forms to avoid legislation.

Corporations, as Elizabeth Warren is saying in her campaign speeches, are changing so fast that we need new laws to keep an eye on them. And [look at] what’s going on with Facebook—Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez cross questioning Mark Zuckerberg on what exactly Facebook’s rules on censorship are and how far it intervenes in the political process. These are issues which are hugely relevant today and have their origin in the first corporation that engaged in politics, that toppled states, that was engaged in regime change abroad, in corporate bribery and lobbying.

What would you say is the legacy of the company?

When historians talk about the legacy of Empire, they mention democracy, tea, and cricket. I think you can argue very strongly that there was a much more profound influence on the modern world and that was the joint stock company, which dominates all our lives all around the world. The East India Company in many ways shaped the modern corporate world. The corporate world that we see around us has its origin in the misbehavior of the Company.

Outside of India, the story of the Company is dominated by the opium trade. By the 1800s, there was opium being grown in Bengal and Bihar in India which was being shipped to China, in what is undoubtedly the largest narcotics operation in history. Then the Opium Wars were fought to preserve the right to have narco sales, leading to the conquest of Hong Kong. So, in a way, the ongoing chaos in Hong Kong is also an indirect legacy.

Empire building played a huge role in the rise of the West. Do you think it will be Asia’s turn?

It has already happened. China is the world’s second-largest economy. The only question is how fast India will catch up. Despite the current economic crisis, I am certain that India will make the jump that China has made. It may just take a little while to get there. Economically, I am an India optimist. Politically, much less.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity

[fblikeshayaris]

Most Popular Mother's Day Quotes 2017 - { Mother's Day }

Mother's Day

Mother's Day is a celebration honoring the mother of the family, as well as motherhood, maternal bonds, and the influence of mothers in society. It is celebrated on various days in many parts of the world, most commonly in the months of March or May. It complements similar celebrations honoring family members, such as Father's Day, Siblings Day, and Grandparents Day.

In the United States, celebration of Mother's Day began in the early 20th century. It is not related to the many celebrations of mothers and motherhood that have occurred throughout the world over thousands of years, such as the Greek cult to Cybele, the Roman festival of Hilaria, or the Christian Mothering Sunday celebration (originally a commemoration of Mother Church, not motherhood). However, in some countries, Mother's Day has become synonymous with these older traditions.

 Mama was my greatest teacher, a teacher of compassion, love and fearlessness. If love is sweet as a flower, then my mother is that sweet flower of love.

— STEVIE WONDER

God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.

— JEWISH PROVERB

When my mother had to get dinner for 8 she'd just make enough for 16 and only serve half.

— GRACIE ALLEN

I remember my mother's prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.

— ABRAHAM LINCOLN

My mother is a walking miracle.

— LEONARDO DICAPRIO

Children are the anchors of a mother's life.

— SOPHOCLES

The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.

— THEODORE HESBURGH

If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands?

— MILTON BERLE

A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.

— TENNEVA JORDAN

Being a full-time mother is one of the highest salaried jobs... since the payment is pure love.

— MILDRED VERMONT

A suburban mother's role is to deliver children obstetrically once, and by car forever after.

— PETER DE VRIES

Mothers hold their children's hands for a short while, but their hearts forever.

— UNKNOWN

All mothers are working mothers.

— UNKNOWN

A mom's hug lasts long after she lets go.

— UNKNOWN

As is the mother, so is her daughter.

— EZEKIEL 16:4

Men are what their mothers made them.

— RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Most mothers are instinctive philosophers.

— HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Who is getting more pleasure from this rocking, the baby or me?

— NANCY THAYER

The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness.

— HONORE DE BALZAC

Of all the rights of women, the greatest is to be a mother.

— LIN YUTANG

No matter how old a mother is, she watches her middle-aged children for signs of improvement.

— FLORIDA SCOTT-MAXWELL

When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.

— SOPHIA LOREN

An ounce of mother is worth a ton of priest.

— SPANISH PROVERB

Mother - that was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries.

— T. DEWITT TALMAGE

Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.

— OPRAH WINFREY

All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.

— ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.

— ROBERT BROWNING

Kids don't stay with you if you do it right. It's the one job where, the better you are, the more surely you won't be needed in the long run.

— BARBARA KINGSOLVER

The best place to cry is on a mother's arms.

— JODI PICOULT

The phrase 'working mother' is redundant.

— JANE SELLMAN

A mother's arms are more comforting than anyone else's.

— PRINCESS DIANA

My mother was a reader, and she read to us. She read us Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde when I was six and my brother was eight; I never forgot it.

— STEPHEN KING

My mother is my root, my foundation. She planted the seed that I base my life on, and that is the belief that the ability to achieve starts in your mind.

— MICHAEL JORDAN

It's not easy being a mother. If it were easy, fathers would do it.

— DOROTHY, THE GOLDEN GIRLS

You sacrificed for us. You're the real MVP.

— KEVIN DURANT, AWARD ACCEPTANCE SPEECH

Being a mom has made me so tired. And so happy.

— TINA FEY

Acceptance, tolerance, bravery, compassion. These are the things my mom taught me.

— LADY GAGA

As my mom always said, 'You'd rather have smile lines than frown lines.'

— CINDY CRAWFORD

[My mother] always said I was beautiful and I finally believed her at some point.

— LUPITA NYONG'O

My mom is a hard worker. She puts her head down and she gets it done. And she finds a way to have fun. She always says, 'Happiness is your own responsibility.'

— JENNIFER GARNER

She drove me to ballet class…and she took me to every audition. She'd be proud of me if I was still sitting in that seat or if I was watching from home. She believes in me and that's why this [award] is for her. She's a wonderful mother.

— ELISABETH MOSS

[What's beautiful about my mother is] her compassion, how much she gives, whether it be to her kids and grandkids or out in the world. She's got a sparkle.

— KATE HUDSON

My mom is my hero. [She] inspired me to dream when I was a kid, so anytime anyone inspires you to dream, that's gotta be your hero.

— TIM MCGRAW

If I've learned anything as a mom with a daughter who's three, I've learned that you cannot judge the way another person is raising their kid. Everybody is just doing the best they can. It's hard to be a mom.

— MAGGIE GYLLENHAAL

I would say that my mother is the single biggest role model in my life, but that term doesn't seem to encompass enough when I use it about her. She was the love of my life.

— MINDY KALING

My mother has always been my emotional barometer and my guidance. I was lucky enough to get to have one woman who truly helped me through everything.

— EMMA STONE

Having children just puts the whole world into perspective. Everything else just disappears.

— KATE WINSLET

[When] you're dying laughing because your three-year-old made a fart joke, it doesn't matter what else is going on. That's real happiness.

— GWYNETH PALTROW

Over the years, I learned so much from mom. She taught me about the importance of home and history and family and tradition.

— MARTHA STEWART

[Motherhood is] heart-exploding, blissful hysteria.

— OLIVIA WILDE

My mother had a slender, small body, but a large heart—a heart so large that everybody's joys found welcome in it, and hospitable accommodation.

— MARK TWAIN

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. My mom says some days are like that.

— JUDIT VIORST, ALEXANDER AND THE TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY

[Motherhood is] the biggest gamble in the world. It is the glorious life force. It's huge and scary - it's an act of infinite optimism.

— GILDA RADNER

She raised us with humor, and she raised us to understand that not everything was going to be great - but how to laugh through it.

— LIZA MINELLIE

The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom.

— HENRY WARD BEECHER

Only mothers can think of the future - because they give birth to it in their children.

— MAXIM GORKY

I was always at peace because of the way my mom treated me.

— MARTINA HINGIS

And remember that behind every successful woman is a basket of dirty laundry.

— UNKNOWN

When your mother asks, "Do you want a piece of advice?" it's a mere formality. It doesn't matter if you answer yes or no. You're going to get it anyway.

— ERMA BOMBECK

My mother always said 'Don't bother other people.' I think that's good advice.

— AMY SEDARIS, I LIKE YOU: HOSPITALITY UNDER THE INFLUENCE

Before becoming a mother I had a hundred theories on how to bring up children. Now I have seven children and only one theory: love them, especially when they least deserve to be loved.

— KATE SAMPERI

Blessed is a mother that would give up part of her soul for her children's happiness.

— SHANNON L. ALDER

Mothers were meant to love us unconditionally, to understand our moments of stupidity, to reprimand us for lame excuses while yet acknowledging our point of view, to weep over our pain and failures as well as cry at our joy and successes, and to cheer us on despite countless start-overs. Heaven knows, no one else will.

— RICHELLE E. GOODRICH

They are not kidding when they say that mothers are strong women. We need to be strong in more ways than our children will ever know.

— M.B. ANTEVASIN

My sister taught me everything I really need to know, and she was only in sixth grade at the time.

— LINDA SUNSHINE

There is nothing as sincere as a mother's kiss.

— SALEEM SHARMA

In the end, Mothers are always right. No one else tells the truth.

— RANDY SUSAN MEYERS, THE MURDERER'S DAUGHTERS

I can imagine no heroism greater than motherhood.

— LANCE CONRAD, THE PRICE OF CREATION

A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dates all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.

— AGATHA CHRISTIE

A good mother loves fiercely but ultimately brings up her children to thrive without her.

— ERIN KELLY, THE BURNING AIR

Mothers possess a power beyond that of a king on his throne.

— MABEL HALE

But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begins.

— MITCH ALBOM, FOR ONE MORE DAY

My mother once told me, when you have to make a decision, imagine the person you want to become someday. Ask yourself, what would that person do?

— BARRY DEUTSCH, HOW MIRKA MET A METEORITE

The daughter prays; the mother listens.

— AMANDA DOWNUM, THE DROWNING CITY

Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met.

— MARGUERITE DURAS

Right, except I'm not going to lie to my mom, because what kind of (man) lies to his own mother?

— JOHN GREEN, AN ABUNDANCE OF KATHERINES

A mother is always the beginning. She is how things begin.

— AMY TAN, THE BONESETTER'S DAUGHTER

She rejoiced as only mothers can in the good fortunes of their children.

— LOUISA MAY ALCOT, JO'S BOYS

Clarity and focus doesn't always come from God or inspirational quotes. Usually, it takes your mother to slap the reality back into you.

— SHANNON L. ALDER

A child's hand in yours - what tenderness and power it arouses. You are instantly the very touchstone of wisdom and strength.

— MARJORIE HOLMES

Becoming a mother makes you the mother of all children. From now on each wounded, abandoned, frightened child is yours. You live in the suffering mothers of every race and creed and weep with them. You long to comfort all who are desolate.

— CHARLOTTE GRAY

via Blogger http://ift.tt/2r3f029 Mother Kavita, Mother Poetry, Mother Shayari, Mother-sms, Mother's Day, Mother's Day Quotes, Shayari for Mother http://ift.tt/2r3xr6y May 11, 2017 at 04:56PM