#Pulpit To Pen

[ww2yaoi]

[I caved and started writing a webgott fic even though I'm 23 years late. this ground has definitely been traversed before but I'm an advocate for the webgott 2024 renaissance. here's a taste]

The war is over, and still, David and Joe are butting heads, velvet-shed antlers clashing like rival bucks during rutting season.

David’s not sure what he expected. He thought after the exultation of taking Berchtesgaden and raiding it of its liquour and silverware Joe might lighten up. He’d smiled so much that day, drank vintage champagne straight from the bottle, tore down Nazi flags and ripped them to ribbons. Something had broken in him at Landsberg, David knows that much, but he’d been hopeful that as the war tempered so too would Joe’s ire. Now he knows he’d been naive to think so.

Joe parks the Jeep outside the hotel where they’re billeted and wrestles the keys from the ignition. He climbs out and slams the door without another word, jump boots clomping against the cobblestones as he stalks away. David sits silently in the passenger’s side, Skinny’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head. He presses his lips into a thin line, sucks them between his teeth and bites down.

Captain Speirs had no right to give that order, least of all to Joe. They had no reason to keep fighting, no reason to dirty their hands when the old blood stains still linger. Leave that to the MPs and the military tribunals, their war was supposed to be over.

David gets out of the Jeep but decides not to follow after Joe. He knows the more he seeks Joe out, the more Joe will push him away. Instead, he walks, weaving through the streets of Zell am See, past shops and cafes and chalets all untouched by the ravages of war. Hitler’s home country, the birthplace of so much death and destruction, and it has the ersatz gloss of a resort town. The irony is not lost on David. He’ll write about it later if he gets the chance.

Birds chirp in the trees. Locals stroll past him, well-dressed in their spring clothes and chatting away jovially amongst themselves. They regard him without much fanfare, used to the sight of American soldiers by now. The water of Lake Zell is so blue it makes David’s eyes ache. He fishes his cigarettes from the pocket of his paratrooper jacket and slides one into his mouth, fiddling with his Zippo until the flame sparks and lights the tip.

The first inhale brings David back to the mountains, that cabin on the hill, chickens clucking in their pen. The hit of nicotine had done little to calm his nerves as Joe shouted at the kommandant in his Austrian-tinged German. David had just about jumped out of his skin when the shot rang out and the kommandant burst from the cabin, bleeding from his neck. Joe had bled from his neck in Holland. He has the scar to prove it. Sometimes, when they’re sitting side-by-side in the truck and Joe’s not looking, David will stare at it, curling his fist at his side to stop himself from reaching out and smoothing his thumb over the puckered skin.

He keeps walking, smoking his cigarette down to the filter. Eventually, he comes upon a church, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out. The imposing wooden doors are open to let the tepid May air waft inside. David steps across the threshold and the piquant smell of incense hits his nose, olibanum and myrrh.

The church is empty except for a custodian sweeping the floor by the pulpit, but the man eventually disappears into a room at the back. David sits at the pew closest to the door, the knotty wood ungiving against his back. He admires the stained glass windows, cyan and crimson and gold with the pious faces of saints. The apses vault high above him, the air that rains down from the rafters drafty and filled with dust motes. It would be easy to imagine what this place would look like had the fighting swept through here, but David tries not to. It’s too beautiful a church for that kind of exercise.

David let his Catholicism lapse years ago, before the war even started really. His family was never that religious, only attending services on Christmas and Easter, but David prays now. He doesn’t go as far as kneeling on the tuffet or even interlocking his fingers, but pray he does, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment. He asks God, if there even is one, to take Joe’s pain and put it elsewhere, to spare him the anger and the hurt, the need for revenge that undoubtedly itches underneath his skin. He’s sure if Joe knew what he was doing, sitting here asking his Christian god to save a Jew, he would laugh in his face, but David’s not ashamed of it. If anything, he’s desperate. He’s not sure if Joe is ever going to speak to him again, even though he’s well aware that Joe tends to run hot only to cool back down a few days later.

Maybe this time is different though. Maybe this is what finally breaks the unsturdy bridge David has built between them since he missed Bastogne, possibly to the point of irreparability. He sits there, trying to parse what he feels. Perhaps it would be a relief to let their friendship shatter in his unwieldy hands. No more tiptoeing around Joe’s persistent bitterness, his bad moods that seem to bubble up with the slightest prodding. Then again, David doesn’t think it’d be a relief at all. He’s not even angry at Joe. If anything, he’s upset they’re still here after the Germans have surrendered, stuck cleaning up a mess that was never theirs in the first place.

Sometimes, David is so angry he forgets to breathe. Was he like this before the war? He can barely remember. Back at Harvard, he used to get heated in his classes, arguing passionately with his peers about Proust or Dostoevsky, but he knew how trivial it was even then. It was just a game he liked to play, something to make the hours he spent stuck in lecture halls go by faster. He doubts there’s anything he can do here to make the time pass quicker. There’s probably nothing Joe can do either.

With that, David gets up from the pew and exits the church. He steps back into the golden blare of the Austrian sunshine, headed towards Easy’s billet.

[mthollowell-writes]

Five Lines Tag

Thanks so much to @axl-ul for tagging me in this. Always appreciate you!

Gently Tagging: @kaatiba, @astras-rambles, @ibuprofen-exe, @transman-badass, @northwyrm, @tracle0, @duckingwriting and anyone who wants to participate!

Rules: Find a line in your WIP (dialogue, monologue, description or other; they can be from multiple WIPs) which fits the parameters given by the person who tagged you. Then change one of the parameters and tag some people.

Your Lines:

a line about a building

a line about the weather

a line that includes a quarrel

a line about fear (tis the season)

a line that includes a lie

I'm a bit out of practice with tag games but this looked fun!

My lines:

a line about a building

a line about the weather

a line that includes a quarrel

a line that is shouted

a line that includes a lie

A Line About A Building (Festival of Shadows)

The church itself was an impressive structure with a high gabled roof of the main chapel with frosted windows high up on each side. It allowed natural light to flood the room, bathing the handcrafted pews and deep red carpets that ran throughout it in a warm glow. She heard that the building’s face was positioned to catch the light of the halo moon at the its apex with that white ring encircling the pulpit before widening out to the whole room. Midnight services for their acolytes were a common practice during the Festival for this reason.

A Line About the Weather (Festival of Shadows)

She avoided looking up. Even with her back turned, she could still sense its soft light baring down on her. The halo moon was more unnerving than she anticipated. The lights were bright on the ground but the darkness of the night was absolute. No stars. No satellites. Just the halo moon. It was the full moon, but something blasted a perfect hole in its center. The darkness within was absolute and the thin rim that was left was the most brilliant of whites. It was always dead center in the sky, no matter where she was looking.

A Line that Includes a Quarrel (Gallow Lane WIP)

“How do you know?” Mariela asked, thinking along the same lines.

“It’s single-minded and hungry. If it’s prey is where it ought to be, it’ll have no need to rush.” That response only brought more questions. What’s hungry? How many are there? And how would September even know any of that? But it did make an odd sort of sense. This department’s only goal was to keep them there. Emery didn’t budge. “Then it would make sense to hide then. Not pen ourselves in with no where else to go.” September set his jaw. He was done arguing.

A Line that is Being Shouted (Festival of Shadows)

“Wait!” Hakeem shouted over the line. “I’m trying to help you, Knight. If you’d only cooperate, we could—“

“I don’t need your help,” September broke in acidly. “I did you the favor, remember?

A Line That Includes a Lie (Eyes of God WIP)

It was an accident. She laughed at the lie. What happened to Dale was as much of an accident as his fling with Sue, Kitty, Christine, and every other woman that caught him unawares with his pants down. By his accounting, it was all a mistake. A stumble in the dark. A slip into disrepute.

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

32) dust motes, Martin

The way that stained glass filters sunlight has a way of making everything feel—a little more holy. A little more beautiful. He understands anew, when the frosted segments of Akatosh cast the chapel in bright hues, the sense of serenity the chapel bestows.

The stained glass paints the front pews in bright afternoon oranges and golds, where Sister Oleta dozes next to the cobbler’s little girl. “We are praying, boy,” she grumbles without opening her eyes. The little girl cracks an eye open to peek, ducking her head again in embarrassment and holding her clasped hands over her face when she sees Martin.

Where Sister Oleta is praying in the front pew, he amends mentally. “I wouldn’t suggest otherwise,” Martin says, smiling, and blows a thin speckling of dust off the worn edge of the pulpit. In the light, against the shadows further in, the dust in the air looks like the flecks of gold leaf that cling to one’s fingertips from the front covers of the older catechisms. He draws a slow inhale. Dust in the air, breath in his lungs.

Perhaps it’s only that the right light can make anything beautiful.

The heavy sound of the chapel doors opening interrupts his cleaning and earns a dignified snort from Sister Oleta, mimicked in miniature by her studious little shadow. Eldamil stands squinting under the arch at the shift from bright outdoor sun to the darker chapel interior, his tall spindly frame silhouetted nearly black against the color of the city. His expression shifts as his eyes must adjust. “Brother Martin,” he nods. “I have the Guild’s donations for the month.”

“Ah—thank you.” Martin skirts the pulpit to hurry down the aisle. The small wood crate Eldamil lowers into his arms rattles faintly with the tell-tale sound of alchemist’s bottles. “Let me put these away and I’ll draw up your receipt.”

“Oh, do allow me to assist,” Eldamil says with a cat’s smile, quick. “I didn’t make any of these; it’s the least I can do, I’m sure.”

The hues of light in the chapterhouse are much less bright, much less variegated, but not unwelcome. Martin sorts and Eldamil tallies, head bent and shoulders stooped to accommodate his height as the pen scratches over the page. “Have you been well?” Martin holds up a bottle to inspect the smudged label—handled wetly while the ink was yet drying, it seems.

“Fairer than ever, Brother Martin.” He peers over the tops of his glasses frames at the bottle, then offers, “Allergy warning—wheat in that one.”

He sees it, now, the feathered shapes more legible once the meaning is supplied. “Thank you,” Martin sets down the bottle. “The constitutionals have been helping, then?”

Eldamil flickers another smile, somehow more obfuscated than the bleeding of the ink on the label. “You’ve no idea.”

“It’s good,” he says, watching him, curious, “to find a fresh perspective. A change every now and again refreshes the mind, I’ve found. Did you find anything interesting, exploring the streets afresh?”

“Many things,” Eldamil waves a hand. The curve of his mouth does not falter. “Odd, isn’t it, how people perform the same routines, take the same paths every day? Nothing changes, nothing new. No one really knows the place they live in.” He huffs a laugh, the light catching a glint off the lenses of his glasses. “No one really knows their neighbors, for that matter. Do we, Brother Martin?”

The last bottle tallied, his signature on the receipt. “No,” Martin says thoughtfully. “But isn’t that why we make the effort? There is always something to learn.”

“There is that,” he agrees. He scans the receipt before nodding, satisfied, and folding it to tuck into his shirt pocket. “Thank you for this. And for the privilege of assisting.”

“Please,” Martin lifts the emptied crate, amused, “I appreciate it. Let me carry this to the door for you. It went much quicker with the help—you seem singularly focused, lately. You are well?”

Some note of surprise flits across his face, then is subdued by his usual composure. “Yes, I promise. No need to waste your priestly concern on me, Brother. I suppose I am…” Eldamil pauses, adjusts his glasses, almost embarrassed. “I am only a little—a little excited. I am making myself ready,” he says at last. “I have a friend, coming to visit soon. That’s all. I’d like to show him all the new ways to walk the streets I’ve been learning. All the—small things, to appreciate, you understand.”

He does. It’s a nice thought to share with someone. He thinks of his own little discoveries of wonder, things to pause and point to. Dust in the air. Flecks of gold leaf. It’s only that people so often take it as doctrine instead, from his mouth. Martin walks him back up the short flight of stairs, the colorful chapel light welcoming their return, warmly dazzling. “I hope that your friend enjoys the city.”

Eldamil’s gaze lingers at the front of the chapel, where Sister Oleta has acquired three more small students tugging at her skirts with a thousand whispered questions that she shushes: There’s an order to these things, you lot; finish your prayers. He smiles without teeth, as blooming and golden as the motes still suspended aloft. “I think he will.”

[lullabyes22-blog]

What are mel and sevika's favourite attributes of silco, be it physical or just in general?

Interestingly, their thought process whenever he shows up is the same:

"There he is. That bastard."

(Derogatory)(Lustful)(Affectionate.)

In terms of physical appearance, Mel develops a fixation - and then a fascination - with his hands. She finds herself sketching them doing various things: gripping pens, peeling fruit, caressing surfaces.

There are also a few furtive sketches where they're, um, fondling non-PG rated stuff...

His voice is another favorite attribute. This man is a natural public speaker, and a gifted wordsmith, who understands the way resonance can reel a listener in. If he wasn't inciting revolution from the pulpit, he'd probably be sitting on a rock in the middle of the sea, luring sailors to their doom.

In general, she finds his entire persona of sharp-dressed, smooth-spoken, scalpel-tipped wit extremely magnetic. He is the opposite of conventionally attractive, and yet has a way of owning the room as soon as he walks in. Given she is also someone who's studied the nuances of soft vs hard power, as well as how to wield it to suit her ends, it's like watching an exquisitely choreagraphed ballet after years of amateur beer pong.

Also the amount of Big Dick Energy is astronomical. All while serving obscene levels of cunt.

Just... bravo, sir. Bravo

Sevika is repelled by weakness and drawn to power. She's come from an impoverished background, and known horrible forms of abuse, degredation, cruelty and unfairness. She's also learned how to survive and hold her ground despite these anti-blessings, and how to claw her way out from the bottom of society's slag heap.

Then in comes a man powered by nearly unholy fires of self-conviction, who is unafraid to demand equality and respect for them and their home. He's from the same background, has suffered the same abuses, overcome the same torments - and instead of beating him down, it's only pared him into something sharper, smarter, fiercer.

It's like Janna answered all their prayers - but instead of saving them with a windstorm or a flood, she gave them the living ebodiment of a blade to sink deep into their enemy's guts - and twist.

Suffice it to say, she is deeply attracted to Silco's singlemindedness. He's remorseless, relentless and ruthless. And that's the only way they can take back what's owed to them. The fact that he takes no shit and suffers no fools is also inspiring after a lifetime of being told they were less than human.

Physically, she finds his presence at once alluring and unnerving. Young Silco had a sly charm and a gilded tongue - but was rough around the edges in a way that was comfortingly human. This new incarnation is immaculate in every sense, to the point he feels unreachable even in his most human moments. He also has a way of sucking all the air out of the room. She needs periodic breaks to regain her equilibrium because he can get a bit...much...even for her.

That tongue deserves a medal for the good work it does, tho. And he smells great.

Fuck his kid, though. What a little bitch >(

[dungeonofthedragon]

Your Favourite Book: the Game

Sometimes a good book leaves us with a hankering to spend more time in that world. Fanfiction only goes so far- here are ten titles that allow you to adventure with friends in the world of your favourite book!

Angel Mage by Garth Nix

This one doesn't have its own dedicated system, but the author himself ran a game in this world using the $6 rpg Flashing Blades! Given the book was inspired by The Three Musketeers, this makes perfect sense- although you'd need to modify the game a bit to include angel summoning.

Discworld Roleplaying Game by Phil Masters, Terry Pratchett and Steve Jackson Games

Cost: $20.00

I can imagine an entire campaign revolving around the Unseen University, or a one-shot about the antics of the Watch. This game runs on the popular GURPS system which, like many other games, uses only six-sided dice. You've probably got a bunch of those lying around at home already!

Dresden Files Accelerated by Evil Hat

Cost: $17.50

This game uses the lightweight Fate: Accelerated system, making it very easy to learn. Character creation is incredibly flexible- if you can think of a character or archetype within this setting, you can play it in this game.

Good Society: a Jane Austen rpg by Storybrewers Roleplaying

Cost: $23

Regency roleplaying at its finest. Long, longing glances, heartfelt letters and scandal! Also a good choice for fans of the Bridgerton series.

Rivers of London: The Roleplaying Game by Chaosium

Cost: $29.99

This game is pricier than some on this list, but at 400 pages it's well worth the cost. With just the one rulebook, and several free adventures (including at least one solo adventure!), after that initial investment it's very easy to get in there and get sleuthing.

The game uses the Basic Role-Playing system. If you're familiar with Call of Cthulhu or RuneQuest, you're well on your way to learning the rules!

Stormlight Archive RPG by Brotherwise Games

This game hasn't been released yet, but you can sign up here for a chance to be involved in beta testing!

The Kyme Summit by Malcolm Harbrow

Cost: $5

Change the particulars and you have yourself a perfect little Dune LARP you can complete in a single evening.

The Warren by Bully Pulpit Games

Cost: $12

Suitable for a single session or a multiple session adventure, this game lets you play out the survival horror that is Watership Down (from which I have never fully recovered.)

The Witcher: Pen and Paper RPG by R. Talsorian Games

Cost: $24.99

Be a witcher, bard, mage, or even a doctor! This game does a pretty good job of evoking the feel of the books (and the Netflix series too), but I've only read a free demo myself.

Thirsty Space Necromancers by Grahame (Understory Games)

Cost: None!

This supplement for Thirsty Sword Lesbians allows for narrative-focused adventures in the universe of The Locked Tomb. There are playbooks for necromancers of each of the nine houses, as well as a cavalier playbook.

If you don't already own the base game, you can pick up Thirsty Sword Lesbians here for $15 or nab a community copy for free!

[thisworldisablackhole]

Your Ghost In Glass Drowning to Escape the Fire

FFO: 2000s EMO, POST-HARDCORE, SENSES FAIL / LISTEN

Your Ghost In Glass is a one man solo project based out of Los Angeles, CA which aims to recreate the raw intensity of 2000s post hardcore bands like Senses Fail and... mostly Senses Fail, if we're being honest. Cameron McBride's first EP under the Your Ghost In Glass moniker was almost a perfect recreation of the vibe that Let It Enfold You brought to the world in 2004. It was honestly impressive how he managed to capture the pure essence of songwriting, guitar playing and vocal delivery which made Senses Fail's early material so raucous and heartfelt. Now with his debut full length, Cameron continues to pen his love letter to a bygone era of music which is held so deeply in many of our hearts, with varying degrees of success.

At it's core, Drowning to Escape the Fire is a passionate and convincing resuscitation of emotional guitar driven music with a heart-on-your-sleeve approach to vocals and lyrics. It suffers a bit from a patchy DIY production job, but the fact that this was recorded by one person in a bedroom adds a bit of context and forgivability there. The programmed drums in particular are a bit of an obstacle to enjoyment. Despite providing the album with a solid infusion of energy, the hits are static and not mixed very well. On my first listen, I found the kick drum to be so loud and distracting that it actually made it hard to focus on the songs. It's a shame, because the guitar and vocal takes are so rich and organic, and the artificial drum tracks don't give them the support they deserve. I found these songs actually sounded the best when blasted out of my phone speaker, so your mileage may vary depending on your soundsystem. The whole thing is raw and imperfect, but underneath the flaws lies some seriously infectious song writing and attention grabbing hooks that will have your head bobbing in no time. Cameron's songwriting is at it's best when it's loud and in your face, with songs like "Pistol in a Pulpit", "Cellophane Veil", "Porcelain Heart" and "Don't Look at the Sky" being obvious highlights for their hurricane of dizzying riffs and intense vocal performances very reminiscent of a young Buddy Nielsen. On the flip side, "Hospice" is too barebones and mellow for it's own good, and songs like "Heaven in Flames" and the title track closer suffer heavily from out of place Owl City-esque synthesizers and awkward religious-centered lyrics that miss the mark in their attempt to be ironic or thoughtful. Still, the pros far outweigh the cons here, as the good moments on this album are very well done and offer a high level of emotional engagement.

If you're looking for something to scratch the itch that Senses Fail left behind in the mid 2000s, then Drowning to Escape the Fire will make for a fun, 43 minute blast of nostalgia. Unfortunately, it's staying power is handicapped by the drum production and a few unsavory songs that you might just want to remove from the playlist in order to maximize your enjoyment. Regardless, Your Ghost In Glass is an act to keep your eye on, because I believe with time, and perhaps a real drummer, the project will only improve.

[oldshowbiz]

The Woman's Club of Hollywood is located at 1749 La Brea directly south of Franklin Avenue. It is right in the dead center of Hollywood, California. The venue is sometimes rented out for weddings.

However, their website has completely scrubbed its sordid history.

The LA Conservancy doesn't mention it either.

This ancient building has always had a weird vibe. Well, no wonder.

For ten years, from 1958 through 1968, it was the home base of "Christian Identity" preacher Wesley A. Swift.

He was bankrolled by an anti-Semitic haberdasher from downtown Los Angeles named James Oviatt. The downtown Oviatt Building is also rented out for weddings and the LA Conservancy leads an architectural tour of the building in which they fail to mention its Klan history.

Oviatt gave money to Wesley Swift to help assemble militias in the Antelope Valley for the purpose of weapons training with the ultimate goal of doing violent battle with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement. The organization became better known in the 1970s as the "Aryan Nations."

A sermon delivered by Wesley A. Swift in this venue in February 1965 was typical:

"I have here one of the most unique pieces of writing in a newspaper. This is Baldwin. Black Baldwin. The scum of Negroes today. Called a brilliant writer and a great author and a great intellectual. Well, his kind of intellect belongs in a pig pen. What he says in his writing, in a piece of literature, called literature, that goes into our schools as literature ... every time he sees a white girl - he wants to rape her! He wants to assault every white woman to bring her down to his level, which proves he knows he's not up on your level. And he can only think of depravity and immorality to bring the levels together, that means to bring you down ... He says we don't have any nation, we don't have any flag, but we're going to get one! We're going to get it by violence and bloodshed and revolution! The Negroes gonna rise and take over! And that was in the San Francisco Chronicle last week. You say: what caused all this? It's because we have not heeded divine law and we have permitted those that are not willing to follow the laws of God to gain ascendency in our nation."

During a sermon delivered here in July 1964 he railed against the Civil Rights Act:

"This tyrannical bill known as the Civil Rights legislation which passed the house this week … The house passed a bill ... which is so filled with state and federal tyranny that it denies you and any establishment, even a church, the right to criticize or to disagree with any law relative to desegregation and anti-discrimination! "Makes it all so mandatory that there be prosecution against anybody who violates this law by securing the facts. A church would not be permitted to advocate the gospel of Christ or preach the content of this bible without violating their law as it relates to discrimination against pagan religions and against other gods. "One could not tell the story of the advocacy of God selecting and electing your race to this responsibility of world leadership without a differentiation between races … and if you declare the thing that God is advocating you'd be subject to prosecution!

"Civil rights legislation, which is not civil rights, but wrongs to the great Christian majority intended on mongrelizing your race and destroying your faith and reducing your nation ... to ... an elite core of evil … I think it should be a basic Christian project of every Christian to do all that he can to see that the persons who would surrender the liberties of these United States into the hands of the dictatorial authorities [are not re-elected]."

From his La Brea Avenue pulpit, Swift ranted against the changing immigration laws of the mid-1960s:

"Why do they want to destroy our immigration laws? Because immigration laws are the result of the Church's recognition that if we permit a flood of immigration into America of pagans and Africans and Asiatics that can out vote and out maneuver Christians, that they'll take over America and our freedoms will go!

"If you don't think this is the strategy, then you turn very carefully and examine the texts … which these Swedish and Negro Communists wrote."

Swift frequently invoked terms like "freedom" and "liberty" in defense of his view point and characterized Civil Rights laws and anti-bigotry as "tyranny."

He delivered horrific, racist sermons right here in the heart of Hollywood every single Sunday for a decade - and I have yet to see anyone acknowledge it.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

by Ray Rhodes | Charles Haddon Spurgeon urged preachers to employ the pulpit and the pen for useful purposes. His exhortation applies today as it did in 1871 when first issued. Listening to Spurgeon will help all who heed his counsel to write clearly, powerfully, and effectively…

[snk-smartpass]

TEXT Vol. 03 Nick’s Notes on Remonstration

It was Minister Nick’s turn to take the pulpit himself that week, and he found himself thinking about what he would say as he carried out this responsibility.

[Welcome, everyone. Today’s lesson will be on the great mercy of Goddess Rose.]

The Wall Religion’s three gods represented each of humanity’s three Walls, and this was the goddess that now needed to be taught most, as the Wall bearing her name had just been exposed to danger.

Nick wanted the words to sound even better than usual, and they would be later printed and delivered to churches around the land. As such, Nick repeatedly wrote and erased the words of his sermon on a sheet of paper separate from his holy texts.

••••••

Many religions—though only a small handful remained within the Walls—had holy texts that were esoteric and tricky to read, and the Wall Religion was no exception. Close readings often turned up no meaning at all.

“…It’s intentionally vague so that it can be interpreted in a way that matches what the masses are focused on, whether the topic is good or bad. If a robbery takes place, it was because the victim lacked devotion. If a believer has a child, it was because their prayers were received. This is how you need to guide their thoughts,” a high-ranking member of the clergy once instructed Nick about preaching when he had just become a minister.

In other words, he had it all flipped around.

It wasn’t that the goddess was the one who saved you.

It was that you were saved, and that was because of the goddess. A minister’s job was to create the reason after the fact.

••••••

[Not long ago, the greatest enemy to the gods, the Colossus Titan, appeared in Trost District. However, the goddess answered our prayers. The Wall was miraculously plugged without being further destroyed. The goddess’s protection was bestowed upon our soldiers…]

Nick got this far before stopping his pen. His pious believers would surely believe this, just as they always did. Now that the attack on Trost District had left its society uneasy, though, this was an opportunity to gain new followers. The now-fearful masses may come running to the church, seeking rescue in religion. How could he give the impression that it was the goddess, not the soldiers who saved them…?

He erased the word “soldiers,” writing “citizens” in its place.

[The goddess’s protection was bestowed upon our citizens. The fact you were all able to take shelter without a single wound is a miracle, just as described in our holy text.]

Nick made sure to avoid any mention of the soldiers who plugged the Wall. At times like this, there is meaning in omission.

••••••

The sermon went well. Nick moved even curious bystanders by the end and joined him in worship. The Wall Religion’s service involved creating three rings, after the three Walls. Believers stand side-by-side, their arms linked.

Long ago - when Nick had joined the Wall Religion and rose within it to eventually become a minister, he had learned the truth of the Walls. The services felt like a dreadful thing in light of that knowledge.

“Let us pray for the security of our three goddesses: Maria, Rose, Sheena…”

There was no place for such emotions, though. Nick needed to lead those before him.

(Whatever the case, the reality was that no one man could change the situation that society and humanity within the Walls had been placed in.)

Nick took the strung-together words of convenience written on the scrap of paper that he called his “remonstration” and placed it in his breast pocket. He too could do nothing but pray.

••••••

SOURCE: Attack on Titan: Short Stories 3

TRANSLATION: Ko Ransom

[sentinels-and-spellcasters]

Tell us more about the scripture ^^

I'm curious if there are any other religions on the continent, or if it's just one major religion that simply varies slightly by region,

have a teaful day!

 Naniaism

Naniaism is the largest and most common religion in the land of Äterra. Its said that The religion cropped up during a time of strife for non magical humans.  The human civilization that had formed from a few of the human tribes (that i have yet to name)  had become dominated by magi. Magi interfered heavily in human politics and along owned 75% of the kingdoms wealth. Large swaths of humans where starving and dying of disease. It contrasted heavily with the civilisations ruled over by magi; and elves witch the human’s had made contact and established trade with in the last century.

The human civilization was the richest it had ever been but also in the most turmoil it had ever been in. 

Resentment of non human and magical folk was at it highest. 

It was the perfect storm of conflicts when a alchemist and physician(who i have yet to name) discovered noticed that a lot of his magi patients where coming in with serious burns that were unable to be healed magically. Doing some investigating he discovered that bacrüm, a small bush that produced red berries, used to treat dyschezia in cattle, caused acidic burns to those born with the capability to practice magic. With experimentation he figured out that even just standing in a room with the plant caused magi to become lethargic and nauseated. non-magical elves and humans born to one magical parent but who themselves were not born with magic, were unaffected by the berries.

Using this knowledge he penned a manuscript that mixed the creation storie from of his tribes religion and sprinkled in other traditions from other human tribes. He truly believed himself to be a prophet of Mother Nania. He believed she had gifted him this knowledge so that would save his people, humans like himself.

 He started by reading his manuscript to a small group of his friends in his home. Eventually word spread and so many people wanted to hear what he had to say, they volunteered to expand his cellar into a massive underground chapple. With pews and a pulpit. He called them his Fold. Like the sheep the berries were given to to expel the filth. He encouraged his Fold to cultivate the bushes he dubbed “mother’s touched” in there homes. Collect the berries and transport them to his underground chapple. His cult followed his instructions without question. Even on the night that pushed the cult into infamy. 

He ordered them to kidnap a local Magi boy (haven't yet named) to experiment on. This boy wasn't skilled enough to defend himself from being bashed on the head and drug to the underground chapple. The Boy was tortured immensely. He had the berries rubbed into his eyes blinding him and he was tied up to be like a practise dummy to find the most effective way to use the berries as weapons. After trying numerous ways, they found out the best way to utilize the berries was to turn them into an oil. The oil won't dry up or rot like smashing or juicing them would. Finally the boy was decapitated, putting him out of his misery. 

The boy’s body was dumped in a part of the city most heavenly populated by magi. On his body a note calling for a total destruction of inhuman kind was found. tp the people who found him it appeared as if he had just been burned and decapitated. The red oil blending in with his blood covered corps. The note told any human sympathetic to inhumans to either join or be cut down along side them. Many humans joined the religion. The magi called on the ruler of the human empire to quell this cult but he was too busy with the many distractions set in place by the political magi to care. The political magi tried to solve this problem but where either murdered by human nobles who were apart of the cult , or they escaped and encouraged  others to escape back to the magi empire as well. Taking the majority of the empire’s wealth with them. Unfortunately a good sized population of magi were too poor to make it back to the magi empire, didn't actually believe in the impending danger, or were too proud to be scared by the human cult. 

The cult grew larger and larger and spread covering the entirety of the human empire. 

The emperor and his family were killed and his brother who was sympathetic to the cult was propped up as the new emperor. 

Angered that he was ruling a poor empire he prepared to sack the magi empire and take back what he felt was rightfully human wealth. He commissioned thousands of siege engines, such as trebuchets, to hurl colossal wooden containers filled with the Holy Red Oil. The containers were so large they could fit a city’s cisterns inside them. Along with fortifying his own cities. 

After 2 years of this preparation with the constant fear that the magi empire catching word of his plans he had eliminated all magi within his borders.  The human’s were still suffering starvation and poverty. the cult leader took a high position in the emperor's court as the emperor's religious adviser. Still many humans in the empire didnt practous the new popular religion. But the emperor  was finally ready to put his plans into motion to attack. He marched on the magi empire.

They knew the human’s would be coming for them so many of them abandoned the major cities including acting emperor and powerful families. After 2 years of experimentation they knew no way to subvert the effects of “mother’s touched berries.

There population’s that stayed to fight were decimated Many fleeing after watching there comrades burn in the oil covered streets. 

The magic universities were destroyed there libraries of arcane knowledge meticulously burned to the ground. 

The magi empire was no more and the human empire grew larger. After a some decades the human desire for more took over. While they were doing better they still wanted more. Spreading across the continent giving it its name  Äterra’Mūteer meaning Land of the Mother. Absorbing the remaining human tribes and smaller human civilizations evangelizing them into Naniaism.

Eventually the expansion stopped. Blocked by the elven territories. 

 They had pushed out majority of the elven populations but the emperor still desired more and desired to envied the elven empire who at this point had become a refuge for all the magi refugees and was still quite prosperous. The magi emperor and his entire extended family warned the elven emperor of the brutality of the human emperor. So a surprise attack would be utterly pointless. The cult leader however told of the elves incredible weakness to human disease. 

The cult leader devised a plan of attack. He had gathered for him 500 flea infested rats packing them into a wooden box witch he had launched into the elven capital. The rats and the fleas spread a devastating human disease to the elves witch at this point had no cure for it. The magi were mostly resistant to human illness so they were largely  unaffected. The elven emperor knew what was to come but he didn't flee. He sent his family away with the magi emperor  and his family and the majority of the magi people elves and human but he stayed and fought. The war lasted quite a while delivering major losses to the humans actually having the human emperor assassinated, but his oldest son tool his place. Finally the elven emperor was defeated and captured. He was tortured to tell where he had sent his family and the magi but he would never give up the location. He was eventually being executed and the establishing of elven enclaves where established in the walled off ruins of the former elven cities. In the human territories that were never elven they were hastily constructed slums. The elves were forcibly converted and were not allowed to practice there old elven religions though some still did in secret until resent times when the ban was lifted and enclaves were promoted areas In which to practice, altho most now just practice Naniaism or no religion at all.  

Naniains worship the human goddess Nania.

Nania created herself. But she was so lonely she began to cry. Her tears fell on the floor and blossomed the world. 

She then wanted to create a people to live on this world.

Her first creation was to be in her image but she mistakenly created what we know as elves.trying again she successfully created the humans. She doted on the humans giving them all her love. Permitting the elves to run free.  but the first elf she created, Arthinre’el, who’s color changed throughout the year, grew envious of her love for the human’s and desired to make a people of his own that he could love and treat just as well. 

Going to her, he asked her to share her power with him. But she refused. Not out of spit but because he wouldn't be able to control it. This angered Arthinre’el. He then plotted to steal her power if she wouldn't give it to him. He stole the tears of life. The tears that held her power that grew the world. He ran far away from Nania spilling the tears creating pools that good magical creatures walked out of. Arthinre’el his in a cave and drank from the tears of life. But instead of being able to create he gained the powers of magic. He went to his elven brethren and told them of the powers he gained. Some agreed to drink and some refused afraid of Nania’s rath and not wanting to betray her. Some gained magical powers and some didn't. 

Arthinre’el then went to the humans and told them of a way to be powerful like Nania. 

Some went with Arthinre’el but some stayed and went to tell Nania. 

The humans drunk the tears. Some gained magical powers and some didn't. 

Well the humans who refused to go with  Arthinre’el finally reach Nania and tell her of Arthinre’el’s betrayal. This angers Nania so much the tears that spilled onto the ground when Arthinre’el was running to the cave, that had been up to this point making good magical creatures that didn’t want to hurt people. Now they turned angry and magical creatures that wanted to hurt people began walking out of the pools. 

Nania came to Arthinre’el and tried to defeat him but HE was too powerful and she was only able to break off part of his soul and cast it into the sky creating the moon. He was able to cast her from the world entirely by shooting a beam of magical energy into her forehead. Creating a constellation of herself in the night sky, a purple star where her forehead where the beam of energy hit her. Many years went by and most people had forgotten their creator. Until one day she saw her favorite creations suffering under those that betrayed her. She was able to reach out and touch a bush with red berries. bestowing upon it the ability to cut deeper than magic can reach

Other facts about the religion

Naniaism is represented by a purple star flanked of 4 sides by red dots.

Naniaism has different branches that mainly practice the same core concept of loyalty.

Naniaism used to require that magi receive painful and tortuous deaths but after an incident where a magi blew up a large chunk of a city after his wife was tortured to death, many kingdoms band the practice of magi torture to keep there people safe. Though a few kingdoms still stick to the old ways.

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

I didn't mean for it to be thins long!!! i have a few other religions in my catalog so stay tuned for those.

[xanderisbraindead]

fame<infamy lost in translation

I put the lyrics through a translator then back to english and i thought it was funny lmao

I'm the preacher sweating in the pulpit To bring you salvation I'm the salesman selling you the hook and the plan And I'm the one making the demands When you're home alone, you're just dancing by yourself And when you move your head closer, the volume matches the truth Sign-off: "I'm fine in bed, but I'd like to use my pen." ” But that girl, I was fine. , that's what came to mind.

I am a gift from God. How could God ignore my conscience and bless me with such resourcefulness? How do I feel when I think of you? I'm obsessed with the feeling of, "Oh, there's too much blue and green."

When I'm home alone, I can't stop myself And when you put my head so close, the volume matches the truth Sign-off: "I'm fine in bed, but you'd better use a pen." ” The kid says, “Okay,” but it just came to mind.

When I'm home alone, I can't stop myself And when you put my head so close, the volume matches the truth Sign-off: "I'm fine in bed, but I'd rather use a pen in bed." Okay, I understand.” It's okay inside, but it's better to use a pen. You can do it on the bed, but it's better to use a pen. She was okay, but then oh, oh, oh, she went crazy.

[andrewcoopersblog]

Layer Mask Mini-Assignment:

1 of 2:

Lux Luthor:

The background

The 'Interest' pt 1

I predominantly used the ELLIPSE tool to cut out the 'interest', using several ELLIPSES and the ADD TO SELECTION function I was able to capture 90% of the face. To capture the remaining areas, I used the MAGNETIC LASSO, adding those to the selection as well. Once I was satisfied that I had all the 'interest' selected I applied a layer mask, and used the BRUSH tool to finesse the areas around the edges of the head. Revealing and hiding the pieces that had escaped.

The 'Interest' pt 2

To reinforce the idea behind the final image, I cut out the logo using a constrained ELLIPSE so it was a circle. Another LAYER MASK was applied.

It was then just a matter of resizing the 'interests' to fit the background.

2 of 2:

Rev Thomas Burns in the First Church Pulpit:

The 'Interest' and the Background

Initially, I tried the OBJECT SELECTION TOOL to cut out the wax figure of Rev. Burns. The quality of the original image proved to be a challenge for this though, as some of the lighter parts of the background were added to the selection, while similar tonal parts of the figure were excluded. In the end, I used the PEN tool to draw around the outline of the figure, mostly using BROKEN POINTS to maneuver around the various angles. Once I had gone all the way around the figure's outline, I turned the shape into a PATH and then applied a LAYER MASK.

I flipped the background, as the figure became too pixelated when I tried to flip it. After resizing the 'interest to fit the background I used worked on the LAYER MASK with the BRUSH tool to obscure the lower parts of the 'interest' so it appeared that the Burns effigy was standing in the pulpit.

[curtiscroachblog]

God and your work (1)

Word for Today written by Bob and Debby Gass

Thursday 28th December 2023

'Whatever you do, do well.' Ecclesiastes 9:10 NLT

In the Bible, you'll notice that the majority of people worked! And most of its heroes had secular vocations. Isaac developed land, Jacob was a farmer, Joseph served God best by staying in his well-paying government job rather than starting a non-profit, faith-based organisation to do charity work. Daniel was an immigrant who attended Babylon's version of Oxford and grew to be prime minister. Lydia was a profitable businesswoman in textiles.

Conceivably the ultimate expression of how much God values work is Jesus the carpenter. Most of his life, he occupied himself in the building profession, creating benches and tables, and was probably engaged in construction. The word we translate 'carpenter' comes from the Greek word tektón, from which we get our word technology, and would contain the capability to do stone or masonry work. The Bible was penned by workers, about workers and for workers. Work was God's idea. 'The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it' (Genesis 2:15 NIV). The first man, Adam, was a landscaper.

By identifying what you have been called to do in life and giving yourself fully to it, you are as 'ordained' as any pastor who stands in a pulpit. It's a pity we use the word secular when it comes to any kind of work other than church work, because God doesn't see it that way. All honest work earns his smile of approval. When it comes to work, the thing he requires from you is wrapped up in these words: 'Whatever you do, do well' (Ecclesiastes 9:10 NLT).

[grandhotelabyss]

you've probably answered this before, but why were sentences longer in the past? Or, what is the "history" of the English sentence

I'm not really qualified to answer that, not being a linguist or philologist. If I had to attempt an answer, I'd say that the English sentence was initially modeled on the Latin sentence, which was itself, its rolling periods, designed for rhetorical dazzle, for stentorian declamation. To this hypotaxis, which produces the periodic Latinate model of the long sentence, was added the parataxis of the translation from the Hebrew, also written to be declaimed, and disseminated to the masses in the form of the King James Bible. They were long sentences written to be be spoken, whether from rostrum or pulpit—and written with a pen, moreover, which just rolls in its liquescence across the paper and encourages you to flow. Then, in the 19th and 20th centuries, came mass literacy, albeit a lower level of literacy—no Latin, less Bible—alongside that electric revolution McLuhan would hold responsible: telegraph, telephone, television, not to mention the typewriter, which makes you feel not as if the words are flowing out you in a spreading pool but as if you're hammering them with costly labor into the earth. (The computer, with its quick and easy typing, does restore some of the flow-sense.) All of this encouraged lightning-fast and steel-hard clarity in communication, codified in journalistic rules of writing for the newspaper and elevated to a high art in figures like Hemingway and Orwell, not the swells and dales of the Latin- or Hebrew-modeled long sentence—except that, after such sentences began to fade from politics and religion and civic life, they persisted as an aesthetic ideal in many of the modernists and postmodernists, who made a veritable cult of the long sentence. I don't really know, but that would be my best guess.

[dakotaxmp]

❛ it takes a monster to destroy a monster. ❜

&. 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. - [ give it to me ]

//

He taps the cap of the pen he’s using on the plush of his lips as he takes in the statement. Funny.

“Interesting that that expression exists when it also ‘takes a village to raise a child’. Maybe the monsters really aren’t under the bed huh?”

Dakota marks something in the book he’s reading with that same pen because both belong to him. His hazel eyes look at her then and he smirks. He’s got a theory or twelve on what makes a real monster and none involve the beasts and specters that haunt the dreams and darkened streets of their city. The place he’ll always call home back in the states is littered with horrors of real life monsters in the shape of faces you could see in grocery store, behind the cash registers of a beauty supply shop or on the pulpits of places of worship.

“Maybe it’s not monster that it takes to bring down a monster, but someone those monsters dragged into the dark fighting to get back out.”

[gustavorodriguezsugdorzeugovatri]

Romancing the Soul

The birth of a romance begins when a boy writes about breasts, lips and pupils within prism set stones. It dies when pen strokes, key strokes and

mindful joys are only about what can only be felt within graffiti tagged labia walls;

The brick and mortar of belly button ring flesh, licked down to her eternal grout skin overlay of calcium bone; That carnivorous pre-natal channel.

He’s a poetical virgin afraid to be inspired by anything other than female glands, her dyed hair. The shaven flesh of any woman.

But after her sacred periodical pomegranate plumb stains deny his admittance for gratification, he moves himself to seek another romance. This one with words. This affair wades deeper in the waters of lithium paint thinner lacquer and combustible flammable thoughts. Loosed now from the umbilical cord of her,

he’s birthed into a smorgasbord apocalypse of ideas and words

to search out his darkness, his light to throw away or keep away self. To expound on the shame and hurt of his people he sees being as birds bathing morose in the mud of politics and religion. Words that make elementary ears wax eccentric. To expose popularity polls as prepared presidential hikes for approval. Slicing minds that are inbred with patriot

conservative parrot or radical leftist rights; Questioning the ingredients in religious raisin bran bread. The holy rolled psychological tablets of commandments swallowed by sheep and ad-ministered

by wolves on pulpits of lies.

He has time now to contemplate the spelling of or how to annunciate words like,

Believe & Perceive I before E, except after C?

Bold type lie; I before E, Except after C. I before E is, I am before Eden, so are you, accept and see.

A – C – C –E – P – T Another Creation Consciously Evolving Past Trees

The first acronym of the species of man.

For as once he was blind he now perceives that,

If Jesus’ blood was spilled once for the souls of all living, I suppose a woman must bleed once a month to rescue an unborn soul from possibly not having the chance to decide what to believe in.

Now he writes understanding why sex is so over-rated. Not as an act to enjoy but in comparison to what it can birth;

an Einstein, the next Luther King Jr the next Lennon or Marley, Van Gogh, Cesar E. Chavez, or Juarez. The other half of these a rib most believe; yet to him, he perceives it’s the feminine soul’s destiny to walk in the footsteps of Madam Currie or Keller, Kahlo or Joplin, Earhart or Angelou.

So not all women are whores and not all men in power are war mongering, soul caging scoundrels.

If we are to turn back toward Eden, the young poet asks; What are we to believe in?

If not in Our highest of self, should we perceive us blasphemous?