#c. preacher

[sobelowstory]

His wife is with him I presume

Yes. Not that you need to know.

[1sab4lla]

unpure ; art donaldson

the moment you entered the chapel, art donaldson—perfect, revered, untouchable—momentarily unraveled. known as the pastor’s son and golden boy of a devout small town, he was adored, idolized, and expected to be without flaw. but you weren’t there for god, salvation, or belief. you were there for him. and there was something intoxicating about tempting someone so carefully constructed to be pure—something deliberate in your movements, in the way your skirt rode up, in the way you sat just within his line of sight. you knew he was watching, just as you knew he shouldn’t. yet the tension—the push and pull of guilt and desire—felt electric, and impossibly easy. maybe it was wrong, but it never felt like it. not with the way you looked at him.

[fimmeltravis]

Travis Fimmel as Fenton "Preacher" Lang Rust (2024) | dir. Joel Souza

[britpop-band-shite]

CURRENT EVENT

Best britpop person, matchups will be randomised, fairly self explanatory. Submit musicians not bands (ie submit Damon Albarn not Blur). Feel free to judge based off whatever you like. Other poll submissions still open

HOW POLL SUBMISSIONS WORK

literally just send an ask and I’ll make it! You can do a poll on artists, songs, or albums. I am widening the scope of genres, while this blog is focused on britpop I don’t mind if other 90s bands or adjacent artists crop up.

PREVIOUS TOURNEY WINNERS AND INFO BELOW

1st: Blur

2nd: Manic Street Preachers

3rd: Suede

❌ELIMINATED ARTISTS❌

the artist they lost too will be in brackets

Teenage Fanclub (Round 1: Echobelly)

Rialto (Round 1: S*M*A*S*H)

Space (Round 1: Stereophonics)

Gorkys Zygotic Mynci (Round 1: Shampoo)

Ocean Colour Scene (Round 1: Placebo)

Reef (Round 1: Elastica)

Cecil (Round 1: Gene)

Silver Sun (Round 1: Skunk Ananise)

Bis (Round 1: Blur)

Nilon Bombers (Round 1: Powder)

Pimlico (Round 1: Northern Uproar)

60ft Dolls (Round 1: Gay Dad)

The Verve (Round 1: The Stone Roses)

Thurman (Round 1: Ash)

Oasis (Round 1: Pulp)

These Animal Men (Round 1: Salad)

The Lightning Seeds (Round 1: Ride)

Me Me Me (Round 1: Jocasta)

Mansun (Round 1: Super Furry Animals)

Heavy Stereo (Round 1: The Divine Comedy)

Bennet (Round 1: Republica)

Cast (Round 1: McAlmont & Butler)

Hefner (Round 1: The Pointy Birds)

Kula Shaker (Round 1: Manic Street Preachers)

Geneva (Round 1: Marion)

David Devant & His Spirit Wife (Round 1: The Boo Radleys)

Kenickie (Round 1: Lush)

The Seahorses (Round 1: The Bluetones)

Longpigs (Round 1: James)

Denim (Round 1: Catatonia)

Feeder (Round 1: Suede)

Saint Etienne (Round 1: The Charlatans)

Speedy (Round 1: Whiteout)

The Supernaturals (Round 1: The La’s)

Dodgy (Round 1: Sleeper)

Cornershop (Round 1: Supergrass)

Kinky Machine (Round 1: Menswe@r)

Hurricane #1 (Round 1: Shed Seven)

Babybird (Round 1: Paul Weller)

Delicatessen (Round 1: Daisy Chainsaw)

The Auteurs (Round 1: Strangelove)

Embrace (Round 1: Black Grape)

Theaudience (Round 1: Travis)

My Life Story (Round 1: The Beautiful South)

Babylon Zoo (Round 1: Edwyn Collins)

Young Offenders (Round 1: The Flamingoes)

Gene (Round 2: Ash)

The Bluetones (Round 2: The Divine Comedy)

Northern Uproar (Round 2: Strangelove)

Daisy Chainsaw (Round 2: Pulp)

Marion (Round 2: Echobelly)

Black Grape (Round 2: Blur)

Edwyn Collins (Round 2: Manic Street Preachers)

Skunk Ananise (Round 2: The Stone Roses)

The Boo Radleys (Round 2: Republica)

Salad (Round 2: The Beautiful South)

Gay Dad (Round 2: Sleeper)

The Pointy Birds (Round 2: The Flamingoes)

S*M*A*S*H (Round 2: James)

The Charlatans (Round 2: Super Furry Animals)

Menswe@r (Round 2: Elastica)

Jocasta (Round 2: Suede)

Shampoo (Round 2: Placebo)

Travis (Round 2: McAlmont & Butler)

Ride (Round 2: Catatonia)

Shed Seven (Round 2: Paul Weller)

Supergrass (Round 2: Lush)

Whiteout (Round 2: Stereophonics)

James (Round 3: Elastica)

Pulp (Round 3: Placebo)

Paul Weller (Round 3: Lush)

McAlmont & Butler (Round 3: Ash)

Echobelly (Round 3: Suede)

Republica (Round 3: Blur)

Catatonia (Round 3: Manic Street Preachers)

The Beautiful South (Round 3: Sleeper)

Strangelove (Round 3: Stereophonics)

The Divine Comedy (Round 3: Super Furry Animals)

The Flamingoes (Round 3: The Stone Roses)

Ash (Round 4: Placebo/Super Furry Animals)

The Stone Roses (Round 4: Manic Street Preachers)

Stereophonics (Round 4: Blur)

Sleeper (Round 4: Lush)

Elastica (Round 4: Suede)

Placebo (Round 5: Suede)

Lush (Round 5: Blur)

Super Furry Animals (Round 5: Manic Street Preachers)

[rollforjackass]

IVE NEVER LAUGHED HARDER IN MY LIFE

[ptheviking]

Travis Fimmel as Fenton "Preacher" Lang Rust (2024) | dir. Joel Souza

[iamtryingtobelieve]

Ten foot sign in Oxford Street

Be pure

Be vigilant

Behave

[apriltempleos]

preacher: oh wow. woke up to find that we actually got followers overnight, which is crazy because we haven't even posted any real life progress yet (actually, i also woke up to the nightmarish sounds of the building renovations next door but that's besides the point).

8 people might not seem like a lot, but it's a lot more than i thought we would get at all, not to mention overnight! thanks to everyone who's shown interest so far. more april updates later today so stay tuned =w=

[decaflondonfog]

i hate to be a vinyl guy but i just got to listen to ethel cain's ptolemaea scream on vinyl and i'm afraid it was transcendent.

[sobelowstory]

His wife?

HIS DUTIES AS KING, YOU CUCK.

[battleforgodstruth]

How to Converse with God - Charles Spurgeon Sermons

Dear Brethren, I am now on X: https://twitter.com/RichMoo50267219If you are as well, please consider following me there. “Then call thou, and I will answer: or let me speak, and answer thou me.” Job 13:22 King James Version (KJV) How to Converse with God – Charles Spurgeon Sermons Charles Spurgeon Sermon Playlist 2: http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLAFB98CCADC2677AF Link to my “Christian…

[fimmeltravis]

Travis Fimmel as Fenton "Preacher" Lang Rust (2024) | dir. Joel Souza

[jadenvargen]

free online james baldwin stories, essays, videos, and other resources

**edit

James baldwin online archive with his articles and photo archives.

---NOVELS---

Giovanni's room"When David meets the sensual Giovanni in a bohemian bar, he is swept into a passionate love affair. But his girlfriend's return to Paris destroys everything. Unable to admit to the truth, David pretends the liaison never happened - while Giovanni's life descends into tragedy. This book introduces love's fascinating possibilities and extremities."

Go Tell It On The Mountain"(...)Baldwin's first major work, a semi-autobiographical novel that has established itself as an American classic. With lyrical precision, psychological directness, resonating symbolic power, and a rage that is at once unrelenting and compassionate, Baldwin chronicles a fourteen-year-old boy's discovery of the terms of his identity as the stepson of the minister of a storefront Pentecostal church in Harlem one Saturday in March of 1935. Baldwin's rendering of his protagonist's spiritual, sexual, and moral struggle of self-invention opened new possibilities in the American language and in the way Americans understand themselves."

+bonus: film adaptation on youtube. (if you’re a giancarlo esposito fan, you’ll be delighted to see him in an early preacher role)

Another Country and Going to Meet the Man Another country: "James Baldwin's masterly story of desire, hatred and violence opens with the unforgettable character of Rufus Scott, a scavenging Harlem jazz musician adrift in New York. Self-destructive, bad and brilliant, he draws us into a Bohemian underworld pulsing with heat, music and sex, where desperate and dangerous characters betray, love and test each other to the limit." Going to meet the Man: " collection of eight short stories by American writer James Baldwin. The book, dedicated "for Beauford Delaney", covers many topics related to anti-Black racism in American society, as well as African-American–Jewish relations, childhood, the creative process, criminal justice, drug addiction, family relationships, jazz, lynching, sexuality, and white supremacy."

Just Above My Head"Here, in a monumental saga of love and rage, Baldwin goes back to Harlem, to the church of his groundbreaking novel Go Tell It on the Mountain, to the homosexual passion of Giovanni's Room, and to the political fire that enflames his nonfiction work. Here, too, the story of gospel singer Arthur Hall and his family becomes both a journey into another country of the soul and senses--and a living contemporary history of black struggle in this land."

If Beale Street Could Talk"Told through the eyes of Tish, a nineteen-year-old girl, in love with Fonny, a young sculptor who is the father of her child, Baldwin's story mixes the sweet and the sad. Tish and Fonny have pledged to get married, but Fonny is falsely accused of a terrible crime and imprisoned. Their families set out to clear his name, and as they face an uncertain future, the young lovers experience a kaleidoscope of emotions-affection, despair, and hope. In a love story that evokes the blues, where passion and sadness are inevitably intertwined, Baldwin has created two characters so alive and profoundly realized that they are unforgettably ingrained in the American psyche."

also has a film adaptation by moonlight's barry jenkins

Tell Me How Long the Train's been gone At the height of his theatrical career, the actor Leo Proudhammer is nearly felled by a heart attack. As he hovers between life and death, Baldwin shows the choices that have made him enviably famous and terrifyingly vulnerable. For between Leo's childhood on the streets of Harlem and his arrival into the intoxicating world of the theater lies a wilderness of desire and loss, shame and rage. An adored older brother vanishes into prison. There are love affairs with a white woman and a younger black man, each of whom will make irresistible claims on Leo's loyalty. 

---ESSAYS---

Baldwin essay collection. Including most famously: notes of a native son, nobody knows my name, the fire next time, no name in the street, the devil finds work- baldwin on film

--DOCUMENTARIES--

Take this hammer, a tour of san Francisco.

Meeting the man

--DEBATES:--

Debate with Malcolm x, 1963 ( on integration, the nation of islam, and other topics. )

Debate with William Buckley, 1965. ( historic debate in america. )

Heavily moderated debate with Malcolm x, Charles Eric Lincoln, and Samuel Schyle 1961. (Primarily Malcolm X's debate on behalf of the nation of islam, with Baldwin giving occassional inputs.)

----

apart from themes obvious in the book's descriptions, a general heads up for themes of incest and sexual assault throughout his works.

[personae-obscura]

Tag Dump Part 2 - Character Tags

[apriltempleos]

october 2nd 2024: some code stuff

preacher: the original idea behind "APRIL" was that she would be able to pull up word strings from the templeOS god word app on command – this was supposed to be her primary/only function.

we're going to put up a post on templeOS later because it's completely fascinating and i've been obsessed with it for a while, but for now what's important to know is that due to some decompiler issues, it's not really possible to run templeOS on the raspberry pi which is the computer that we are using. scott's here to explain this at length – find a detailed technical explanation below the cut.

scott: Initially I was gonna start coding the whole program in Python starting with the godword random prophecy function. But then after looking into how the original godword program worked on the og TempleOS worked, with FIFO (First-in-First-out) queues, of which I was pretty unfamiliar with, I decided to code the bulk in C because I know C a lot more than Python and the queues seemed easier to implement in C. Pi allows both Python and C coding languages naturally anyways so why not.

The original TempleOS was written in a variation of the C/C++ language called HolyC by Terry A. Davis who wrote the language variant and compiler himself. Because of this, it's hard to decompile it manually to look at source code, or to run it on certain machines. Because of this I couldn't run the actual godword program or TempleOS on the raspberry pi so I knew I was gonna have to recreate the godword function as close as I could (which I initially called "heresyword" lol). After some research, I found one of the only breakdowns of how TempleOS worked by Xe Iaso [1].* They have such a good breakdown of the whole operating system thats really context inclusive and even includes extracts from Terry Davis' actual comments on how TempleOS works which are really hard to interpret actually. * (preacher: btw, i highly recommend everyone read this link. it really does a great job of explaining everything and once again, templeOS is endlessly fascinating so i think it's really worth the read. see the picture below for an example)

So from Xe's blog I found that TempleOS has a public global class called "God" that is used in several areas of the operating system. For godword it loads all words from the database Happy.txt into a separate array and then uses random entropy bits from several areas, including an "internal microsecond stopwatch" and data form keypresses, to choose random words from the word variable and loads them into a FIFO queue, printing them one by one when needed. I was initially gonna recreate this FIFO queue and all these random entropy bits but decided it to be too much complicated work for little result so just decided to generate random words from the Happy.txt using the cpu clock for entropy and save them to a separate .txt file to be called and read later on, acting in place of the queue system.

Sidenote: Xe's blog also had the Happy.txt file which was really useful and which I also realised was just every single word from the King James Bible.

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Three: just as much of a traitor as Judas

tw: minor threats, abuse mention, wounds

“Caught this lamb sneaking ‘round while I was tryin’ to take a piss.” 

The masked stranger’s voice is severe but falls shorter than your father’s tone usually does. It does not bite quite as hard—instead, it nips away at you, taking little chunks with it. Still, you flinch all the same as his boots kick up dirt beside you, pacing impatiently with his arms crossed as he glowers at you over the cloth covering his nose. 

“Don’t mind Riley. He just doesn’t like strangers is all.” 

Shifting on your knees, you settle on your haunches before you can force your eyes to focus on the man on your left again. There’s the urge to lower your head as if before a king, or you’re back in the pews in that bloodstained church, but you fight that impulse as you fold your aching hands in your lap. That unassuming smile is still on his lips and the dissonance it stirs in your brain is frightening. Is he truly smiling or only flashing his teeth in warning? 

“Though, I am curious,” he continues as he taps the brim of his hat on the palm of his hand. “What are you doing out here? Bit late for a stroll. Rather… brave of you to come so close to a camp of unknown folk while you’re all by yourself.” 

“Rude,” you correct. “I-It was rude of me to… trespass. I should’ve known to stay away. I’m sorry, mister, I didn’t mean anything by it. I—well—I should get going. I’ll l-leave you gentlemen alone, I swear.”

There’s a jolt that reverberates through your legs as you attempt to find the strength to push yourself to your feet, but that vanishes the moment the man holds his hand up. Ivory light catches on the silvery calluses on his palms. A hard working man; or so you’d say if Mr. Beckett’s words weren’t still haunting your brain. His rough skin comes from the wood grip of his revolver and the soft throats of unsuspecting victims. There is nothing about this man that doesn’t remind you of the fact he’s a killer; not even that amicable smile.

“Now hold on a moment,” he urges, “you’re not really a stranger though, are you?” His teeth flash brighter than you think is humanly possible as he chuckles and glances at the men that slowly creep around you. “No, we saw you in the saloon, didn’t we? Skittish thing, you are, knocking over your stool. Lost all the change in your pocket and didn’t even stop as the bartender yelled after you. Must’ve been in a real hurry.” 

The change. You were right, though that doesn’t do you any good right now. Still, it stings knowing that something so trivial created a domino effect—that something so simple led you into a den full of wolves. Had you been more careful, you could be sitting next to your mother’s empty seat right now. 

“I… I had to get home to my daddy, he was waiting on me. He’s—uhm—waiting for me at home again. He’ll start to worry if I’m out too long.” Though you’re not sure if it’s entirely truthful, you throw that last bit in as a desperate attempt to notify these men that there is someone looking out for you. That someone will notice if you don’t turn up. 

Don’t you dare return until you do. 

Or, so you hope. 

Your words are as transparent as the stained glass in your father’s church. It’s ignored and completely bypassed in favor of asking you for your name. There’s a small temptation to lie; to create an alias as a way to preserve yourself in whatever way possible. You almost do, until your father’s words bleed from your memory—everything he quoted from The Bible about lying—so you swallow your fear and mutter your name as if it’s a curse. 

“John Price,” the man—this criminal—introduces properly. He holds out his hand for you to shake and you witlessly accept. He doesn’t grab your hand, but instead your wrist where he twists it until your cracked knuckles are on display for all prying eyes to see. His hands are oddly warm compared to you. Superheated enough that he could melt you if he wished. “Looks like you’re quite the fighter.” 

There’s an odd cordolium that strikes you with almost as much force as your father usually does. Unrelenting like the floods in spring, your stomach twists at the notion that someone would look at your wounds and see it as your fault. 

(But they are your fault, aren’t they? You said as much to Mr. Beckett.) 

“I’m not,” you say, tone dripping with desperation. “Please, sir, I really ought to be getting home. It-It’s getting late and my daddy, he-” 

“You know,” John Price interjects, “folk sometimes think women aren’t capable of much. Better if they stay home with the children or doing simple housework. If you’re a society lady, anyway, but out here in the heartlands… well, that’s a different story, isn’t it? You hear all about women murdering their sweethearts, or sneaking around where they shouldn’t.” 

Your mouth fills with cotton as his grip on your wrist stays firm. John Price’s words are dark with a rather canorous—albeit gruff—voice, but his implications leave your tongue feeling arid. 

“Are you saying that… You think that I… would hurt someone?” It’s hard to get the words out, but you force them through your teeth anyway. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “Am I?” 

The masked fellow—Riley?—scoffs as his heavy feet kick at the dirt. “C’mon Price. Just take care of ‘er and get on with it.” 

“Dunno, she doesn’t seem like much trouble,” a smooth voice challenges from somewhere behind you. The speaker captures John Price’s attention for a split second before his eyes are back on you. “Like you said, just a lamb, right?” 

“Is Kyle right about you? How much trouble are you?” he asks. 

Your bottom lip twitches. “I-I try not to be any,” you assure. 

Everything swells within an instant. The flames licking at your back roar and crackle in tune with John Price’s chuckling, and even the coyotes howling seem to crescendo with him. Finally, he releases your wrist as he replaces his hat on his head and you find your left thumb running over the delicate skin just beneath your palm. As he adjusts the brim, he opens his mouth to say something only for his lips to snap shut. Something seems to catch his eye as his gaze wanders down over your neck and to your chest. Your heart ceases in your ribcage like a fish swaying in dead water. 

A flinch forces your muscles to tense as John Price reaches a hand toward your throat. You want to close your eyes as you await your death. Asphyxiation isn’t how you want to go, but you suppose there are worse ways to be disposed of. Yet, there is no clenching of fingers or bulging of eyes—instead, this man gently tugs on the delicate gold chain around your neck, allowing his eyes to settle on the charm attached to it. 

On the crux of your breasts sits a dainty gold cross. Usually hidden behind your blouse, it now glints in the firelight with unabashed glory. For a moment, you are transported back in time when this nostalgic piece of jewelry used to sit upon your mother’s neck. Somehow, it always seemed more distinguished on her than it ever did on you. She wore it day and night—she even wore it in her casket. Hands folded on her stomach and eyes sealed tight, it didn’t seem to shine as bright when tied to her corpse. 

Your grubby nine year old fingers had slipped it off of her neck before they buried her. If your father had ever realized, you’re certain he would have buried you with her that day, but you did not take it out of avarice. She was—after all—your mother; don’t you deserve to carry a piece of her with you? Something more than the blood stained clothes she left behind? 

“Are you a woman of God?” John Price asks. 

You nod. “I am. My… My daddy’s the preacher here in town.” 

Humming, he drops the chain before returning his attention to your hands. This time, he flips both of them over so all your sore and sorry knuckles are on display. He scrutinizes them. Studies the way the skin splits open like he’s contemplating taking a taste—nothing but a scavenger interested in the leftover scraps of you. 

“Please sir,” you beg once more. “I promise I won’t make any more trouble. I’ll go home and you’ll never see me again.” 

John Price shakes his head as he relinquishes your hands back to you. When he stands, he towers over you like a tree does an ant. An infinitesimal being who’s already well accustomed with the crane of her neck. “You’re not going home.” 

Your fear is drowned out by the protest of the other men around you. They’re short and sharp quips that have John Price glaring at them with narrow eyes. You never thought you’d find yourself agreeing with such men—and especially not so quickly—but even your exhale of disapproval slices through their murmurs. 

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Riley hisses as he turns his back to John Price. 

“Please sir, I won’t speak a word,” you attempt to convince. “No one will ever know I saw you here, a-and we’ll pretend like this whole thing never happened.” 

“I bet you’re real good at that, yeah? Pretending as if things never happened,” John Price quips. “Is that what your daddy makes you do when he beats you like that? Act like it never happened so he can send you into town to buy his liquor?” 

When you swallow, it’s nothing but icicles piercing your throat. “He… He doesn’t hurt me.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he snaps. “Christ, I can see the way your eye is swelling up already.” 

Adrenaline has been seeping through your pores so viciously that you had forgotten all about everything your father had subjected you to before this. An instinctively protective hand raises to your cheek where your fingers prod at the tender skin. It smarts something fierce, yet you bite back your wince as your eyes focus back on John Price’s boots. 

You don’t realize just how quiet things have grown until one of the logs being consumed by the flames suddenly cracks. It splits and settles, sending sparks swirling up in the air high above your head before they flicker out like snuffed out stars. There is no more protesting from the men around you; not even the faintest huffs of disapproval. They’ve witnessed your marred skin and smelled the wet iron that seeps from it, yet they can now finally see the infection itself. The way it festers within you, ready to consume you whole lest something is done about it first. 

John Price looks ready to rip the rot out of you with his bare hands. 

“Do you have anywhere you can go? Someone in town who will take care of you besides him?” he asks with so much consideration in his voice he sounds like a different man entirely. 

It’s a laughable question, and you would have let a titter slip past your lips if it wasn’t for the fear that still grips your heart. There are some people who would take you under their wing as if pitying a flightless bird. Mr. Beckett, for example. But your father’s influence reaches far and wide within Penmosa. You wouldn’t subjugate anyone to that type of torture. 

You shake your head. 

John Price hums. “Looks like you’re sticking with us then, little lamb.” 

Somehow, the only protest comes from you. “You don’t have to do that. It’s fine, really, I-”

“It’s not permanent,” he interjects. “No offence miss, but you hardly look roughened enough for the trails we take out here anyway. Are you familiar with Blackpeak?” 

You nod. “Mr. Beckett said that’s the town that… that you’re wanted in,” you answer just as honestly as you do awkwardly. 

He chuckles. “Yeah well… then you’re familiar with Grand Hollow then? It’s a big city. I’m sure you folks around here are familiar with it. It’s on the way to Blackpeak, which is where we’re headed. I’ve got an associate there who can find you work and housing. You could start living. Really living.” 

Dumbfounded, you stare up at John Price as if he’s a prophet. He says it so simply—you’d always thought an offer like this would come pleonastically. Salvation. It’s supposed to come at the tail end of a sermon where your father directs you and the entire congregation to bow their heads and repent for the opportunity of being saved. Truly saved. This inured cowboy—or rather, outlaw—before you hardly seems to be the epitome of Jesus Christ Himself, but perhaps he is your burning bush. 

There is, after all, a fire at your back. 

“You’d… why would you do that for me? You don’t even know me,” you say in disbelief. 

John Price shrugs. “I’ve done more for people who’ve deserved it less.” 

This must be some sort of mendacity. Nothing but a trick of the light or your ears playing games with you. Mr. Beckett told you these men were murderers. Thieves who would steal away your life before you made sense of the blade in your gut. Yet, instead of salivating at the sight of your wounds, John Price seems to have softened. 

“I… I don’t… Thank you,” you stutter. 

He gives you a curt nod in response before his eyes dart behind you. “Soap, get her a blanket. And some food, while you’re at it. Can hear her stomach growling from here.” 

The rest of the night passes you by in a cocainized blur. You’re able to make sense of the cotton blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and the too-tough deer jerky that makes your jaw and teeth ache as you grind it between your molars, but you fall short of truly being able to feel it. The heat of the roaring fire, the susurrus of the men as they discuss what exactly to do with you—they’re all abstract concepts. Ideas you try to catch in the grey matter of your brain just for the holes in your net to be too big. It slips like water between fingers. Flour from a sieve.  

When your eyelids grow too heavy to hold them up anymore, Soap—who you’ve also heard be called Johnny, but really you’re too terrified to refer to the man at all—provides you with a canvas tarp and a few extra spare blankets. No one really speaks to you, except for John Price. The other men look at you like you’re some wounded animal, one they’re afraid will jump out to bite them as if you’re the one with the repeaters and bandoliers. 

As if you’re the one with your face plastered on parchment with the words Dead or Alive beneath your name. 

Your sleep is intermittently broken throughout the night by someone adding more logs on the fire. They clank together as soot squeaks beneath the pressure, forcing you to jolt awake. It’s a different man each time, and still they all mumble for you to go back to sleep when they catch your eyes fluttering open at the intrusion. 

Morning dawns with soft periwinkle clouds and an aroma of black coffee. The robust scent rouses you from your sleep where you’re faced with a pile of dying embers and John Price kneeling over the pit as if to lay them to rest. He fusses over a small pot that babbles with boiling water as he fixes himself a cup of coffee. 

“Morning, lamb,” he greets. 

You blink a few more times before you get the strength—or rather, the courage—to sit up. Every muscle and bone in your body screams at you. It twists and cries at the unfair treatment it received from the previous day, both from your father and from your unfortunate decision to sleep on the cold hard earth rather than back in your vacant bed. Shivering fingers paw at the back of your sore neck as you try to soak up what little warmth remains in your blankets. 

“Sleep well?” he asks softly. 

“No worse than usual,” you quip, which earns you a tired chuckle. 

“Well, I’m afraid it’s all you’re going to get for the day. We’ll be leaving soon.” 

His words hit you like a rising tide. Water slowly lapping at your feet before swelling into waves that threaten to knock you to your knees. 

“I can’t believe I’m really doing this,” you breathe. 

John Price hums as he settles next to the dying fire. His pot still bubbles away, but he now nurses his own tin cup between the palms of his hands. You can see the way the warmth melts his exterior, but it’s still not enough to reach his eyes. 

“I thought you’d be more excited,” he notes. 

“Excited?” you repeat sourly. How insane of him to think you’d feel giddy over leaving everything you have ever known behind you to rot in the dust. 

He shrugs. “Usually people are eager to leave the people they hate.” 

Absentminded fingers curl around the golden cross of your necklace. He uses such a strong word to attempt to explain your emotions. Hate. Disdain. Abhor. You don’t think you’ve ever felt such things for anyone in your entire life—least of all your father. 

“I don’t hate him,” you correct. 

“Oh, you do,” John Price scoffs. “You just don’t realize it yet.” 

Despite your narrowing eyebrows, you do your best to hold off a glare at this scoundrel. He only smiles in response as he holds up his cup. 

“Coffee?” He takes a sip from the cup when you shake your head. “Right, we’ll be leaving in twenty minutes. Should make peace with your… situation before we leave, yeah?” 

John Price wanders off and leaves you alone to defrost next to the dying remains of the fire beside you. You allow yourself to soak up the morning for only a few moments before you’re putting yourself to work. You roll your blankets up the same way you watched Kyle—the gentleman who attempted to defend you last night—roll them, and when you can’t get it quite as tight as he can, he relieves you of that duty with a smile before wandering off to his horse. 

The air is strange this morning. It pulses with each beat of your heart as you stand in the center of a now dilapidating camp, looking at the men around you. Only a handful of hours ago you were sitting at the dining table with your father. Now look at you. No better than an apostate to him, wandering off with strange men. Just as much of a traitor as Judas. 

You’re yanked out of your thoughts when a bag is dropped at your feet. Yelping, you spin your body until you’re face to face with Riley. He looks no less intimidating now in the pale dawn light than he did last night in the shadows. You still have yet to see him without that bandana obscuring the bottom half of his face, but the hairs standing up on the back of your neck remind you that you ought to not ask about it. 

Instead, you bring your attention to the floral printed carpet bag that sits in the dirt next to you. Yellowed lilies dance among green threads as the canvas collapses in on itself like it can hardly stand its own weight. 

“What’s this?” you question. 

“Your bag, isn’t it?” Riley deadpans. 

Throwing a cautious glance at the mountainous man in front of you, you quickly kneel and begin to rummage through the contents. An odd palpitation rips through your heart when you recognize your own belongings within this bag—your bag. You recognize it now, flowers and all. A gift from your maternal grandmother when you turned six. She had promised you that one day you’d go out to see the world with your mother. Her promise hasn’t exactly bore fruit the way you wanted. 

There’s everything you need to live shoved inside this bag. Your dresses, chemises, pantalets, even your combs. They’re all shoved in haphazardly with no concern at all for the neat way you were certain you had folded them previously, but you make no mention of it as you zip the bag closed. 

“Where did you get this?” you question as you stand back to your feet. 

Riley raises an eyebrow. “Where do you think?” 

Somehow, you manage to swallow the lump in your throat without choking on it. “Did… Did you do anything to him?” 

“Nothin’ he didn’t deserve,” he replies as he turns his back to you. 

As the boys finish wrapping up camp, you wander the area with your carpet bag in hand. Twigs snap beneath your feet and mourning doves chirp upon ramulose trees and bushes as you peer out over the horizon. The campsite rests at the top of a large hill, giving you a perfect view of the earth below you. Penmosa looks just as small as it's always been, and you can see the sheep in the pasture lazily roam as they chew on fresh spring grass and bleat. Mr. Beckett’s chickens are out again and enjoying their morning stroll and you can’t help but laugh as you watch a carriage pass them by, scaring them and causing them to flap their wings to get away. 

Then, of course, there’s the steeple of your father’s church. Faded painted wood stands proudly above every other building in town like hands reaching up to Heaven. How proud that building is. So cavalier for something that’s soaked in blood. You find yourself thinking an unchristian thought, but you hope that steeple tumbles like The Tower of Babel. 

It’s strange to think that you’ll be leaving this town behind. Throwing it away for a chance to wander off with strange men on the shaky promise of a better life. How can something feel wrong and right at the same time? What brutal moral conflict have you subjugated yourself to? Why aren’t you as scared as you know you should be? 

“You ready, little lamb?” John Price asks from somewhere behind you. 

You allow yourself to stare out at the town for only a moment longer before turning around to face him. He stands with his hat donned and thumbs tucked next to his belt buckle as he watches you with curiosity. 

“Of course,” you reply, though your tone argues otherwise.  Just as you take your first step, the church bells begin to chime. Raucous and clear, they call you to you. They ring, and ring, and ring, and still you walk. You pay no mind to your father or his bells; not even as they beg.

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