#hearing that story about the woman at church telling her she was speaking evil?

[esperqm]

behold! the little bastard woman laying directly on my left ankle

[godhasheardtruthfully]

Purge This Story 16166: A Horror Short by Sam-Amina Matthew-John Bailey

Purge This Story 16166h Rabi Al Thani 1445 / October '23

The following may be a prophecy of Sam-Amina Matthew-John Bailey. Little remains of information concerning her life (which we believe played out in this place sometime around 1444h) save that she was held to be a seer amongst her people & dedicated this (her transfixative work)”—to Ember. Whom I live to see as a mighty king among my people!”. 

This text is delivered as an appendage of songs of Sam-Amina with this warning:

“BEWARE: creative license in play & truthfully we ourselves face evil inclinations. Still. Never doubt when you have lived to see stranger days.” 

Purge This Story 16166h. Psalm1

Annabelle lived 13 years on Earth before becoming impregnated with a whole new world. 

Purge This Story 16166h. Poem 3

“Woe, whoah! Oh woe… That I had died before (I had met this moment.)” 

Four months on as she dips her honey tanned mitts into high tide waters she’ll remember to say

“Praise God I lived to see this momentous day”. 

Annabelle is naked save for clay of the Earth she smears on her body and the remnants of her thick silken cloak which shimmers green in the sun. She is captivated by her baby’s reflection in the pond water. 

Purge This Story 16166. A dirge. 

“Jesus joy of Mans desiring” she plays.

Annabelle’s a gifted cellist who doesn’t see herself as first chair, much less a violinist. Annabelle lacks the charisma she perceives of the violists while reveling in their recklessness.

Besides, Annabelle greatly prefers her private repertoire. The unplayable (sans scorn from others if they could hear). Oh well. Anything is preferable to Annabelle over the piercing pitch that punctuates her skull when the yielding heard of E stringers tune their machines. 

Simmering in the clef with the bassists Annabelle is no choir singer. An ever on Earth orphaned woman. So long as Annabelle remembers her birth parents are no more. The tales she hears shift. Sometimes a boating accident becomes being eaten by a fish. Life goes on. 

She grows up in The Church. On her worst days she screams 

“I swear to God these people! (Are consuming me, as if I myself were the fattest among the cattle calfs being buttered up for a burnt offering or the wafers served beside wine.) 

This was a life lived in vanity. Horsehairs dragged across suspended metals. The soft/steel meeting is lubricated by imported jade rosin. 

Purge This Story 16166. An Admonition (& forgiveness!) 

Young Annabelle is foolish & fears January as if it possesses the might of God Himself. She is correct, however, in her calculation that the death making angels of Allah themselves are roosting upon her threshold. 

All her virgin life on Earth Annabelle never uttered, or even comprehended, her peoples dominant tongue. Most language utterly escaped her. Her every thought of talking vanished.  Sincere attempts to meet the most pleading, violent, or romantic of advances that this woman ‘aught speak given sanity or reason dissolved upon her most strident attempts at application. Precisely like a dream wherein one finds themselves holding on to the memory of screaming in a universe that physically commands its silence. A cruel muscle memory? 

With quiet comes forgetting. Sometimes Annabelle likes this. 

It is no man that inseminates her. No baby which Annabelle begets.   

Purge This Story 16166 Never Speak of This

He Dog arrived about as soon as Annabelle is granted memory. The Smoking Man she perceives in the closet calls out to her with names worse than the like of herself. Words others pick up. 

This causes her to seek otherworldly refuge. She wonders at first if it is not Satan living in the vent just above the top bunk of the twin bed at the first place where she lived on 16th Court - With the last nearest thing to a family she experienced before being brought to this place.

         “No” she succumbs to telling herself. 

“This is He Dog”.

He Dog is minute but menacing. Rich curls of brown fur with red yellow marbled eyes. Two feet and half one inch upright. 

He Dog speaks an ancient dialect Annabelle alone comprehends well and appears to understand the whispers of her heart. 

Annabelle is immediately trained never to mention He Dog by the reactions of those around her when she shares her experiences. 

“It is okay.” She lies to herself. “He Dog understands me”. In this Annabelle is not entirely wrong. 

Purge This Story 16166 So much for my (/boundaries). 

Ballad, The town of Annabelle’s birth, Is built on a peninsula. The boundary between her people and God knows what exists in the beyond is bordered up by a thicket of trees, reeds, marshy waters and marked by a blood stained rock left by the ancestors of the towns inhabitants. Songs & epics passed through the ages of her people all warning against even nearing the shrub gates into the damp woods of the lost.

Annabelle misinterprets He Dogs ability to quietly listen to her as signs she’s found a beneficent friend. All he’s done yet is listen quietly and murmur to her in a dialect so foreign it’s one of the few things she recognizes. 

She takes him on a walk, one of the many rituals he enforces coercively at the face of maintaining his friendship with Annabelle. This may as well be protection to Annabelle. Under duress Annabelle begins to believe she must do this. 

Purge This Story 16166 Busted

Annabelle doesn’t recognize the urgency of her hunger until pale moonlight is hours past being all that’s left of the sun. Moon beams gently punctuate the pitch black canopy of trees above her. It isn’t her sight Annabelle is following, rather He Dog, who appears to have caught scent of something himself. 

Leaves are all that’s slick under her bare calloused feet. If rough skin sheathes the musician from the hot friction of metal cords on their fingertips what are twigs to Annabelles feet? Cuts to her skin when a Psalm is composed of more than just notes inked on paper? 

“He Dog No! Please!”

The blood soaked stone is rendered dimly visible by daybreak. He Dog is arrested by the border stone. Narcissus mugging himself in the pond water couldn’t be more hellishly captivated as He Dog & that boundary rock. There’s something so transfixing about the forbidden, the vain, the deadly. Annabelle must now learn why that is for herself. 

Fatigue escapes to amazement as soon as Annabelle sees, truly realizes what she is perceiving from before her mahogany eyes, the engraved markings which drink up an inheritance of spilt blood. Even dried up viscous remnants of life don’t cover this up: They make the shape of the sounds she hears. Annabelle is beginning to comprehend literacy. 

Docile no more. He Dog reveals all the ravenous might he’s been biding. “YOU MUST DO THIS ANNABELLE” he gruff’s while biting at her hands. “You are going to do this Annabelle. Listen to me. LISTEN TO ME” he bites at her feet. He Dog is growling.

Purge This Story 1666: Re: Genesis. 

It was fast all too much for Annabelle whose tears of grief overcome her ’til her head rest a’slumber on the stone. 

Annabelle dreams of a deliverance. She sees faces gathering around her. Beautiful perfumed ones with gold sashes & Biblically bright pupils. They are different from the people around town, though many townsfolk are there as well. This company is welcoming of her and feeding her grapes, juicy pomegranate seeds, honey buttered slabs of bread. 

They take her home. To the one she remembers. 

Daybreak anew. And her physical condition is worse for 24 hours of ware. He Dog is grumbling.

“Bell… You know you’re going to do as I command you”. 

She understands perfectly what is written on the rock. She’s spent hours cautiously mesmerized by its recitation. It’s lost meaning to her whether or not He Dog comprehends what lays ahead of her if… 

“Annabelle! Annabelle.”

A new voice. Beautifully carried by the damp morning air. She hears a princess, 

“Annabelle I am here with you”

She hears a Queen. 

Annabelle lifts her loosely braided crown of yellow hairs from the rock, now damp with her spit, snot, and tears along with the ever stubborn blood. She is realizing this voice progenies from her shadow. What is left of her after the sun cuts her body with its ancient starlight.

It takes seven minutes for light to travel at its namesake speed from the surface of the sun to the face of the Earth. It takes thousands of years for the same light to travel from the core of the Sun to its launching surface. Layers of fusion and convection in viscous plasma temper starlight for such a moment. 

It takes Annabelle like no time at all to at least try to seize that God cursed stone once she comprehends her shadows news:

“Do not be scared any longer. I am here. I am telling you to do this.”

The rock is heavy, sunken and grown over into the crust of the Earth. Annabelle appears weak, vulnerable. But she screams. A guttural primal force gathering howl and she picks up that rock.

Annabelle bares it. She thrusts it behind her from across her breasts. Annabelles lungs expand with mossy oxygen. She hurls herself into the unfathomable. Annabelles eyes are beaming in the face of what is ruinous.

Purge This Story 16166 Four Months Later 

Annabelle is amazed at how well her stitches are healing. How soft He is.

[coochiequeens]

“ Fear of male people while in a highly vulnerable physical state is not illogical”

This article is taken from the December/January 2023 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

By Victoria Smith 

In Trauma and Recovery, the psychiatrist Judith Herman distinguishes between traumatic events that are “natural disasters or ‘acts of God’” and those “of human design”. In the case of the former, she writes, “those who bear witness readily sympathise with the victim”. 

When it comes to the latter, the situation is more complex. Here, taking the part of the victim is not a natural response. After all, Herman points out, “all the perpetrator asks is that the bystander do nothing. He appeals to the universal desire to see, hear, and speak no evil.” By contrast, the victim “asks the bystander to share the burden of pain. The victim demands action, engagement, and remembering.”

Victims are difficult people. They disrupt the untroubled narratives we tell ourselves about the world we live in and the people we know. They tug at those threads that are supposed to remain untouched. 

Nowhere is this more true than in the case of victims of male sexual violence. Rape, sexual exploitation and child sexual abuse are not rare; their occurrence is not limited to discrete communities with known ideological flaws. 

It cuts across all social strata, often thriving in settings which self-identify as virtuous and safe: the church, the charitable organisation, the family. To exist in such a setting and demand that others bear witness to your trauma — that they respond, socially and politically, to the harm done to you — is an incredibly challenging thing to do. You are not just asking for care and consideration; you are asking people to revise their most fundamental group narratives, the truths they tell themselves in order to believe they are good and that they belong. 

It is for this reason, I think, that many people sympathise with victims of rape and child abuse in the abstract, but do not want to witness their trauma in the wild. In the minds of others, those who make visible the aftermath of male sexual violence can quickly cross over from victims to perpetrators. Their crime is not one against the integrity of the body, but against the bystander’s own sense of self. 

The story of the Princess Grace Hospital offers one such example. 

In October this year, a victim of sexual assault had a potentially life-saving operation cancelled by London’s Princess Grace Hospital. This was in response to her request that due consideration be given to her trauma. The woman, who had arranged to have complex colorectal surgery, had asked for single-sex facilities, and to be exempted from any requirement to feign a belief that gender identity trumps biological sex while receiving treatment. 

“Fear of male people while in a highly vulnerable physical state is not illogical”

These are not extreme demands. Fear of male people while in a highly vulnerable physical state is not illogical; asserting boundaries can form an important part of recovery. For rape victims in particular, the right to stress the primacy of one’s own perceptions of sex and power — rather than cede to someone else’s insistence that their sex, and their power in relation to you, is whatever they say it is — can be vitally important. 

A private hospital, the Princess Grace boasts of “specialists in care for women’s health”. One would assume such specialists know what female bodies are and, while some may lack expertise regarding the relationship between biological sex, male violence and trauma, most would possess a basic degree of empathy and compassion. 

While issues of human resourcing and the organisation of physical space may yet have made the patient’s requests difficult to accommodate, this is something for which the hospital could have expressed contrition. It is not the fault of the Princess Grace Hospital that we live in a country where 98 per cent of sexual violence is committed by male people and an estimated one in 20 female people have been raped. Nentheless, that is surely something every medical institution ought to take into account when considering how best to meet the needs of female patients.

But representatives of the Princess Grace Hospital were not contrite. On the contrary, on 7 October the patient received an email from Maxine Estop Green, the hospital’s CEO, stating not just that the operation was off, but explaining why:

“We do not share your beliefs and are not able to adhere to your requests and we have therefore decided we will not proceed with your surgery […] I appreciate this is not the communication you were expecting to receive, however HCA is committed to protecting our staff from unacceptable distress and we believe the cornerstone of good patient care is based on mutual respect and trust.”

And there it is. As if by magic, rape victim becomes potential perpetrator, threatening to cause “unacceptable distress” due to her trauma, a trauma now recast as “values” that others — the untraumatised, those untainted by anything so inconvenient as fear — do not share. 

I am not entirely unsympathetic to the problem faced by the Princess Grace Hospital. It is the same problem faced by any institution or political grouping that has been frogmarched into accepting that a woman is anyone who says they are a woman, always and without exception. The trauma of female victims of sex crimes — who cannot switch off their awareness of who is and is not male — does not fit this narrative. 

The visceral, physical response, the unwilled terror at the sound of a male voice or the sight of a male body — all of that contradicts the line that trans women are a special, extra-vulnerable type of female person, as opposed to a just another type of male, with the same physical capabilities and emotional unpredictabilities as any other. 

The argument against trans women in sex-segregated spaces is not based on their transness, but their maleness. People pretend that’s not true, however. In keeping with the “do nothing” preferences of the bystander, many people would rather impute bigotry and bad faith to rape victims than deviate from the “trans women are women” thought-terminating cliché in which they have become invested. 

This investment may have complex roots; perhaps at the start it seemed a low-cost concession (“why not just call people what they want to be called?”), one which didn’t require actual belief (“of course, no one is actually saying …”). Then various other factors — peer pressure, threats of violence, the risk of ostracism, financial incentives — came into play. In the end, no one remembers why they ever expressed doubt. Doubt is for bigots. 

“We should not be surprised how tenaciously people hold onto their myths”

We should not be surprised how tenaciously people hold onto their myths, even when faced with the pain of others. A mother will disbelieve an abused child rather than accept the man she married is a bad person; a congregation will send a girl to a Magdalene laundry rather than admit that the head of their flock might be a rapist. Similarly, even women who call themselves feminists would rather denounce women terrorised into fearing all male people than admit that there is a problem with pretending that maleness is in the eye of the penis-owner. 

This is why “reasonable compromises” are impossible in the trans debate as it stands today. Any admission whatsoever that maleness matters — that it is real and politically salient — is heresy. The faithful will sacrifice the vulnerable rather than lose their religion. 

The degree of shaming to which survivors of rape and child sexual abuse have been subjected in order to preserve the “trans women are women” line is utterly obscene. Women who ask for female-only spaces are told they must reframe their boundaries; that they are obsessed with genitals; that they are weaponising trauma; that they have the wrong values and the wrong perception of reality. It is vital that they are vilified. Stop to consider their pain and you, too, might start pulling at the thread of the dogma. 

Because this is the sad truth of modern trans activism: it is completely incompatible with the recognition of female trauma as anything other than a fetish. Genuine female fear of male people is an affront to “I am whoever I say I am”. It is viewed as an attack, therefore all shame must be projected back onto women themselves. Like Medusa with her snake hair, once again the female victim of male sexual violence is made into a monster. 

The patient at the heart of the Princess Grace Hospital story has since had her operation rescheduled, with the original surgeons in attendance. It is a positive ending, as far as it goes. She is not condemned to die for her beliefs. 

But some actions cannot be retracted. The email sent on 7 October was not just an operation cancellation. It was an act of shaming, the same shaming to which victims of sexual trauma have been subjected throughout history for daring to suggest their truths matter more than particular party lines. 

This is the context in which we need to understand the Princess Grace story: as not just related to “the trans debate”, but clarifying the way in which said debate not only replicates but amplifies the traditional, millennia-old shaming of female victims of sex crimes. It is this shaming that enables someone such as Maxine Estop Green to potentially put a woman’s life at risk for expressing her fears. 

This shaming is familiar and commonplace. It is no less grotesque for it. None of us should choose to “see, hear, and speak no evil” when faced with it.

[shammah8]

INVOKING OCCULT POWERS Sometimes, the law of attraction is manifested through the use of occult powers. If you are familiar with my ministry, you know that I have taught extensively on the dangers of witchcraft. We have discussed some of these dangers in previous chapters.

Unfortunately, many Christians are unknowingly engaged in this occult behavior. There are many aspects to witchcraft, but the two we are focusing on in this book are (1) manipulation, control, and domination, and (2) employing the power of evil spirits. These two aspects are often connected.

Have you ever looked at a person and said, “I want to connect with them”? Many of us have said things like that either in our thoughts or out loud. There is actually nothing wrong with a desire to connect with someone, such as a potential friend, a pastor who speaks deeply to our spiritual state, or even a mentor. Yet such a desire becomes dangerous and sinful when people invoke occult powers to facilitate the connections they seek. For example, a man who wants to romantically connect with a woman in a church setting but uses spirituality as a veil to conceal his lustful desires is indeed invoking familiar spirits. Or a person pretending to connect with a ministry for spiritual purposes but actually seeking financial assistance as the only motive for the connection is also invoking familiar spirits.

There are even times when a woman or man will say to themselves about a particular person, “I will have them!”—regardless of whether that person is already married or in a committed relationship. Such thoughts and declarations can open the door to familiar spirits who imitate the voice of the Holy Spirit in order to “confirm” these evil desires as spiritual and justified. The individual desiring the relationship may be deceived by false dreams, visions, and spiritual encounters. Of course, I am not referring to our seeking the leading of the Holy Spirit, which draws us and connects us to people and places for God’s purposes. I am talking about (knowingly or unknowingly) using ungodly spiritual forces to obtain connections that God has not sanctioned or to manifest evil desires.

Whether you are a new or seasoned believer, you may be wondering how to be certain you are hearing God’s voice or how you can differentiate between the voice of the Holy Spirit and the voice of a demonic spirit. I understand that this is a serious question for many believers who find themselves in situations where they are uncertain about God’s will. However, let the following be a guide to you: the Holy Spirit will always lead you into all truth. That is what the Scriptures teach us. (See John 16:13.) Therefore, you may be assured that the Holy Spirit would never lead or tempt you to engage in behavior that is contrary to God’s Word.

Once, a woman came to me for prayer, telling me that God had shown her the man who was to be her husband—except that he was married to someone else. She said the Lord had revealed to her that his wife was going to die, and she and the man would be married.

She insisted that God was leading her to pray for the wife’s death. I told this woman in no uncertain terms that this idea had come from a demonic spirit and not the Holy Spirit. As ridiculous as this story may seem, it actually happened. There are many people in the body of Christ who are bound by such demonic spirits. If you realize that you have been deceived in a similar way, repent immediately and ask God to deliver you from the familiar spirit. There is freedom and healing in Christ.☕KYNAN BRIDGES

[reginakhoward]

Ex-Wives Solos:

I feel like we don’t talk enough about how the little solos each queen has sets up the sexist stereotype they are shoved into by society and then how they are broken down in their song.

“If you try to dump me, you won’t try that again” For Catherine of Aragon, it’s the petty, angry ex-wife. It reminds me of a crazy ex-girlfriend trope where the ex is basically painted as evil for trying to get revenge on her poor, nice guy ex. Then, in No Way, “Please tell me what you think I’ve done wrong... You’ve got nothing to say” totally flips the script, the audience realizes that it’s Henry that is the crazy one, trying to find all these ways to get rid of her be it sending her to a nunnery or saying she’s cursed with infertility. No Way shows us that Aragon not only has a right to be angry, but also that she has been biting her tongue this whole time to what Henry has been doing to her, in a show of restraint and strength.

“Why did I lose my head? Well, my sleeves may be green, but my lipstick’s red” makes it seem like Boleyn is using her sexuality as a weapon. Anne has been characterized this way in much of history, she is the classic “Other Woman”, the whore with “the plan to steal the man”. In DLUH, we see a different side of Anne, one where she seems a lot less calculating, more helpless and clueless. Superficially, this throws her into yet another stereotype, of the “Dumb Blonde”, so to speak. Looking deeper into the lyrics, however, a lot more is revealed. The people making many of the decisions are the men in her life. Her father tells her to get ahead. Henry pursues the relationship, breaks things off with the church, and cheats on her. Anne is subject to the environment she has been thrown into, reacting to things instead of acting a lot of the time. She “didn’t mean to hurt anyone” (although she does make many decisions that do hurt people), but pays the price of Henry’s insanity.

“Jane Seymour, the only one he truly loved” would make Seymour the “Perfect Wife”. She’s doting, she’s dutiful, in the picture perfect relationship. She has the perfect husband, she has the heir to the throne, even in death, she has the queen’s funeral (the only one out of six to receive it), and buried beside her love once he passes. However, in Heart of Stone, we see that not everything was as easy as it seemed. “You can tear me down”, “I’ll stand the test”, and the other descriptions of turmoil show that Henry was not as good to her as we’d like to believe. Although perhaps, in his own fucked up way, he did love her, he did not treat her well. Many like to say that Seymour was not abused and shouldn’t win the “competition” because she didn’t have to deal with much from him, but reading between the lines shows that she dealt with his abuses in silence. She was not weak, but she wanted so desperately to make it with him and Edward, that she stuck it through until her untimely end.

“But I didn’t look as good as I did in my pic” implies that Anna of Cleves A. believes that and B. accepts it, which is a stark contrasting point in Get Down. From the beginning of Get Down she paints the picture that while, yes, what happened to her is awful, she did not lie down and accept what Henry decided was to happen for her. She used what happened and made her life amazing, far more wonderful than it would’ve been if Henry was still involved in her life. Although historically this could be far from the truth, Six Cleves is one bad bitch flipping that rejection and making it a victory.

“Lock up your husbands, lock up your son, KHoward is here and the fun’s begun” is one of the most apparent flips once we get to AYWD. It’s carried through the song, as at first Katherine is “wanting” (don’t get me started on the statutory rape here) her encounters, but then we quickly learn the truth. She leads us to believe, like Henry believed, that she was a promiscuous woman not worthy of the throne, until we realize she was only a girl who was taken advantage of. Her stereotype is a very well-known and believed one as much as Anne Boleyn’s, so it’s refreshing and heartening to see the musical portray it in a different way for the KHoward character, and I’m so glad they did it this way.

“I’m the final wife…. I’m the survivor” For Catherine Parr, all she mentions in her intro is that she was the final wife, the one who survived, and other things to do with her being Henry’s 6th wife, or one of the Six. When we get to IDNYL, we are introduced to Catherine as a person, the things she did, the people she affected, outside of Henry. We are shown HER real story, not reliant on anyone else. Parr sets us up to believe that she was merely one of Six in order to make the reveal of her breaking off/having agency even more impactful. She went from one dimensional to 3D this way, which I think was a really cool way to segway into giving all the queens agency in the last part of the show.

Overall, I think it’s a really cool device that was used through the show, because of how rooted it is in our perceptions. Most people have a preconceived notion of these queens from their real lives and our understandings (or lack thereof) of what happened to them. For Six to break those really emphasizes how they are telling their own stories, “taking back the microphone”, and freeing themselves from abuse, which is always a story the world needs to hear. 💕

[midnightstar-90]

Live Laugh Love ~ Pilot

Masterlist | Taglist | Request

Georgie Cooper x Reader

Summary: 9-year-old Sheldon Cooper learns that having a brilliant mind doesn't always help growing up in Texas.

Warning: None

A/N: I wrote 2,587 words! I loved being able to bring my creations to life. I hope to do more in the future.

Y/N and Georgie are in Georgie's room when Mary calls the two teens down for dinner. They head down the stairs and into the kitchen. As they sit down in their chairs, right next to each other, they hear Mary yells towards the garage, "Shelly, dinner's ready!" Mary starts serving the table as we wait for Sheldon. George yells out to Sheldon after a couple of minutes, "Sheldon! Don't make me come in there!" Y/N and Georgie sit there engaging in a hushed conversation about the movie they watched together earlier that week. Missy soon gets tired of waiting for Sheldon, and yells to Sheldon, "Sheldon, if you don't get in here, I'm gonna lick your toothbrush while you're sleeping!" Sheldon quickly responds with, "Coming" before rushing into the house to eat.

Sheldon enters the house, and he quickly sits down with the rest of his family, who are all sitting around the table. George waits for the boy to sit down before saying, "What the hell were you doing in there?" Mary calls George's name with a calm yet angry voice. George notices and responds with, "What?" Mary gets onto George for his language. "What language?" George asks Mary before turning to Sheldon, "So?" "I was having fun with dimensional kinematics", Sheldon says responding to his father. Hearing this, Y/N and Georgie look at each other and roll their eyes.

"Just at admit it, he's adopted," Georgie says to his parents after turning his attention away from his food. Sheldon turns to Georgie and says, "How could I be adopted when I have a twin sister? Think monkey, Think." Y/N chuckles at Sheldon's insult towards Georgie. Georgie gives Y/N a glare. Mary breaks the fight between the boys by telling them that no one was adopted, but Y/N. Mary realizes what she says and sadly looks at Y/N. Y/N just shrugs and goes back to listening to the people she called family. Y/N was sad about the reminder of the situation that occurred when 11 years ago but didn't let the comment affect her.

"I wish I was.", Missy comments under her breath. "That can still be arranged.", Mary tells Missy before telling the family that it is time to pray. George expresses his irritation with a groan, causing Mary to give George a very stern look. Right before the family starts to pray, Sheldon puts on a pair of mittens. George groans again which makes Y/N chuckle. "Leave him be," Mary says defending her youngest son. George argues, "He can hold hands with his family, it won't kill him."  "We don't know that." Sheldon says before looking at Georgie and asks, "Did you wash your hands before dinner?" "Shut up," says Georgie defensively. Y/N finally speaks up, "Hey, I have to hold his hand to pray every night, whether his hands are washed or not." Georgie glares at Y/N again, and Y/N and Missy laugh and high-five each other under the table. "I hold his hand Y/N, hence the mittens." Y/N playfully rolls her eyes at the comment. The family holds their hands together and prays.

After prayer, Sheldon takes off his mittens and starts eating with the family. Mary asked everyone at the table if they were excited to start school on Monday. Sheldon is the first to respond with an "I am". Missy then responds to Mary's question with an "I guess so". Y/N is third to respond with, "I guess. The only thing I like is hanging out with Georgie and the fact that I am in Art this year". Ever since Y/N moved into Cooper's household, Mary noticed that the one thing Y/N loved more than hanging out with Georgie was how creative she was. At church, Y/N would sing like angel. When Y/N thought Mary wasn't looking she would dance her heart out. Y/N also had a sketchbook full of really cool art and a notebook full of wonderful poems and stories. Mary knew Y/N was gonna have a successful life, and she hoped and prayed that Georgie wouldn't mess it up for her.

Georgie was not happy about starting school. "How can I be excited when he's gonna be there?!" Georgie complains. Sheldon boasts, "Don't worry, I won't be in the ninth grade for very long". George tries to help Georgie by saying, "Never mind him, you and Y/N just focus on your practice". Georgie is on the football team and Y/N is on the cheer squad. "How am I supposed to do that when he's in the same grade as me?" "Just ignore him. At least you'll have me there, except for 5th period. I have art" Y/N reassures her best friend.

"All I know is he's not in the same grade as me anymore, and I am thrilled," Missy says before getting a kick in the leg and glare from Y/N. Sheldon sarcastically says, "Good luck with your finger painting."Missy responds with, "You're gonna get your ass kicked in high school". Mary yells at Missy about her language. Sheldon says, "I'm not going to be assaulted- high school is a haven for higher learning". Y/N and George both respond with a quiet, "oh, dear God".

"Speaking of God, who's going to church with me tomorrow?" Mary asked. George says he can't make it because he has to meet with the other coaches. Mary asks if they could meet after church which George responds with a, "no, we can not meet after church". There is an awkward pause before Mary asks Georgie. Georgie tells his mother, "I have to study my playbook." before looking to his father for approval. George nods at his son, while Y/N looks down at her food with a sad expression, wishing that Georgie would have gone with them. "I have to practice my cheer performance, but I can do that after church. It would be nice to go back," Y/N tells her godmother, which puts a big smile on Mary's face and a frown on Georgie's. Sheldon also decides to go with Mary. Y/N's face grew a wide smile hearing that Sheldon was going. "Oh! Cheer practice can wait! Sheldon at church will be more fun than any cheer performance! I can just see it now. Sheldon and science versus Pastor Jeff and God." Y/N jokingly says while laughing. Missy brings the conversation back to Sheldon by asking why he's going to church when he doesn't even like church. "No, but I believe in mom," Sheldon said putting a big smile on Mary's face.

When Mary asked Missy if she was going, Missy tried to get out of it, but as I said she tried. "Son of a bitch.", Missy says under her breath. Mary flicks Missy's head and Georgie laughs. George smacks Georgie's head and Y/N laughs.

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Y/N's Pov

Mary, Sheldon, Missy, and I were all in our church clothing, sitting in a pew. The church was full. Everyone except for Sheldon sang Onward Christian Soldiers. Sheldon whispers something to Mary, that I couldn't hear.

Pastor Jeff starts the sermon and Sheldon is still asking Mary questions. "Do you have evil thoughts?" Sheldon whispers to his mother. Mary shh's him but he still keeps going, "I just don't think this part applies to me". "That's fine, be quiet and listen," Sheldon says something else about puberty, causing an older woman to turn towards the boy and his mother. When the woman turns back toward the Pastor, Sheldon asked Missy and me if we had evil thoughts. I respond with a "Not really" but Missy said the opposite, " I'm having one right now". When Sheldon asks what it was, Missy said that she was going to kick him where the sun doesn't shine when we got home. Sheldon tells missy that his balls haven't dropped yet and then asked his mom when his balls would drop. The older lady turns back towards the family and Mary threatens the woman.

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We get back from church and Sheldon instantly goes for the student handbook. I pass Mary and Sheldon to go change. I go into Georgie's room after I change. Georgie is in his normal wear, a t-shirt, and jeans, reading his 'Sports Illustrated' magazine. "You know you have no chance with any of those girls in that magazine, right", I say leaning against Georgie's door frame. Georgie instantly looks up at me and says, "You look good. Maybe more than those girls in my magazine." I'm wearing a black jean skirt, with a nirvana shirt tucked in and a black and white striped long sleeve shirt under it.

Georgie and I laugh at his comment and walk over to his bed. "So, how was church?" Georgie asked while going back to reading his magazine. "It was ok. Your mom almost beat up an old lady for calling Sheldon weird, after he talked about his balls dropping. Other than that, it was like any regular church day." I tell Georgie. "So!", Getting Georgie's attention, "How was your playbook?" I ask Georgie knowing he was lying. Georgie looks at me then back at his magazine. "You know that was not the main reason I didn't go to church. I'm not as invested in church as much as you are, so don't give me that look." Georgie says knowing I was going to get onto him for lying to his mother. I dropped that conversation, and we went downstairs to watch tv and talk.

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When I get downstairs, I see George and Georgie talking, so I walk over to them. On my way there, Mary stops me and asked me if I've to saw Sheldon's bowtie. I shake my head no and continue walking. When I get to the table where the boys are talking, they are talking about football. Mary comes up and asks if the boys have seen Sheldon's bowtie. George tells Mary, "Leave it alone Mary, he doesn't need a damn bowtie." Mary argues back, "It's his first day of school, let him wear what he wants." Sheldon yells down the stairs that he still can't find his bowtie. "Oh dear lord, why's he gotta wear a bowtie?" Mary says walking away.

"Can Y/N and I ride in with you", Georgie asked his father. I sit there eating my breakfast quietly, before looking up when hearing my name. George contemplates the situation, then says "sure". "Everybody's gonna know he's your brother. You can't hide. It's gonna be awful for you." I didn't even know Missy was at the table before she said something. "Tell her to shut up." Georgie defensively tells his father. Georgie tells his son, "She's not wrong" earning a light slap on the arm from me. George mumbles sorry and goes back to his coffee.

We're all eating when Mary storms into the kitchen. "George Junior, give me back that bowtie right now!" She yells. "I didn't take it!" "Don't you lie to me!" "I'm not lying!" "We'll see about that!" The pair go back and forth. When Mary walks back upstairs, he yells for his mother to stay out of his room. Missy smiles and says, "She's gonna find your dirty magazines." "Shut up." "You are not having a good day." I shake my head at Georgie, agreeing with Missy.

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Georgie and I are sitting in homeroom when we see Sheldon walk in. Sheldon calls out, "My father's a football coach, my adoptive sister's a cheerleader, and my brother's a football player!" When Sheldon sees us he yells out, "Oh, 2/3 of them are over there! Hi, Y/N! Hi, Georgie!" Georgie and I put our heads down in embarrassment.

Ms. Macelroy introduces herself and the class. She makes a joke about having some of our family members in her class, which causes a few students to chuckle. She introduces Sheldon and Sheldon raises his hand. When the teacher calls on Sheldon, we hear Sheldon tell Ms. Macelroy who is breaking the dress code. Georgie and I sink in our chair lower and lower as Sheldon keeps talking. She dismisses Sheldon, but he puts his hand up again. Sheldon tells his teacher that she is also breaking the dress code because she has a mustache. Georgie and I sink as low as we can in our chair while the rest of the class laughs.

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Georgie and I are on the football field but on opposite sides. I am with the cheerleaders practicing my moves, and Georgie is with the football players practicing blocking drills. I knew Georgie was having a hard time with starting school with his younger brother, so I kept my eye on him. When I see the fight between him and Albert Stinson, I excuse myself from my squad and follow Georgie to the boy's locker room.

I walk in to see Georgie angrily tearing off his equipment. When he accidentally throws something at me, I quickly dodge it. "You know, if you threw like that on the football field this year, we would win playoffs for sure," I say jokingly getting Georgies attention. "What are you doing here? This is the boy's locker room." "I don't care if the whole team was in here naked, I would do anything to help my best friend when he is down." Georgie sits down next to me. George is watching the whole thing play out. "Do you remember when I was 5, and I missed my parents so much that I had that tantrum?" Georgie nods his head. "You were there for me when I needed you, now it's my time. I've seen how upset Sheldon going to school with us has made you. You have held in your emotions for too long. I know you get jealous when Sheldon gets special treatment. I want you to know that you are not the only one. Missy and I feel that way sometimes, but I have you. I don't need anyone to but you to make me feel special. I guess what I am saying is..." Georgie looks up at me, and I take Georgie into a side hug, "When you feel emotional don't take it out on your team. You have me. Talk to me. We are always together and I don't want to see you tear your life apart over something stupid like going to school with Sheldon."

George comes from behind the locker and tells me to go back to practice. I let go of Georgie and give him a sad look before doing as George instructed.

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We get home, and George stops me at the door. "Thanks. You stopped your practice to help out Georgie. I appreciate that.", George tells Y/N sincerely. "Georgie is my best friend. Now, if he managed to hit me, that conversation would have gone a whole other direction." I say jokingly. George chuckles and lets me go.

I go up to Georgie's room. Georgie looked like he was in a better mood. I went in and talked with Georgie until time for dinner.

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Narrator's Pov

The whole family gathers around the table to eat, but first, pray. When it's time to pray Sheldon surprisingly doesn't wear one of his gloves. No surprise when it wasn't the hand Georgie held.

Later that night everyone was sleeping peacefully, except for Y/N who would find laying right next to Georgie, like they have been for the past 11 years when someone was upset.

[five-miles-over]

Let Me Save You (Thomas Sharpe x Abbé de Coulmier)

Pairing: Thomas Sharpe (from Crimson Peak) x Abbe de Coulmier (from Quills) Not sure if this should be platonic or something more.

Warnings: Mentions of incest, abuse, and murder. Also 1-2 instances of swearing

Summary: While on holiday with his sister Lucille in Paris, Baronet Thomas Sharpe briefly escapes from her vigilant eye only to flee to an asylum and find solace in the company of a kind-hearted priest.

Word Count: 1,691

"I have something to confess."

Thomas placed his snow-covered hands in his lap like a little boy, blinking in the confessional. His chest rose up and down, his breath scattered after this rather unplanned escapade. Lucille never liked going to church. She had always taught Thomas that God was nothing but an evil concept meant to make humans miserable. She hated going to church, and after their mother passed, the brother and sister duo rarely ever attended a service, apart from the occasional Christmas mass.

So what was he even doing here? Had he made the right choice to go to a church in an unknown part of Paris?

No, he shouldn't be here, he told himself. Lucille would be upset if she knew that he was here. Maybe he should leave, before any of the housekeepers noticed his absence. Was anyone even listening, or was he talking to an empty room?

"What is it you wish to confess, good man?" A soft voice responded from behind the somewhat see-through wall. "Speak, for here you shall be protected by the Almighty."

So there was someone listening after all. Thomas swallowed, his throat constricted as if he were choking on his own words. The baronet could feel his heartbeat quicken, and he began to rub his pale fingers together. This was it. Tonight, he would bare his deep, dark soul and seek peace for himself, and no one else.

"Tell me, my good man. Have no fear," the voice goaded.

The baronet swallowed again, simultaneously fighting the urge to silence the priest with a scream. Instead, Thomas turned to his left, daring himself to catch a glimpse of whom this priest could possibly be. Through the weaves in the wooden window, he could see a hint of pale skin - perhaps this man remained indoors most of the time. And the black curls…they almost reminded him of his own. A shame this man chose to devote himself to God; Thomas almost smirked at the idea of damsels mourning how he could never be a husband or a lover. A morbid joke indeed.

"My sister does not know I'm here," Thomas finally muttered after a long pause. The priest complimented Thomas for being considerate and thinking of her, only for the baronet to icily thank him in return.

"Is that all you wish to confess, my good man?

Say yes, the voice inside Thomas's head spoke. Say yes, and leave this place at once. If Lucille finds out…

"I confess…" Thomas blinked, going silent again.

"Yes, go on. Speak freely, my good man," the Abbe repeated.

Thomas crossed his arms and tried to take a deep breath. Instead, his breath grew even more ragged than it already was. Heavens, he wanted to speak…he shouldn't…he couldn't. What if this priest knew her? What if there was someone else in the church - if not her, it could be someone working for her. Lucille always wanted to be in control. By running off like this, he was openly defying her in a way he'd never done before. His hands shivered, suddenly colder and weaker. His muscles continued tensing, especially in his thighs and calves.

Through the wooden wall of the confessional, the Abbé decided to take a different approach. "Are you afraid of your sister?" He asked in a soft voice, sensing the tension and uneasiness of the baronet. "Is that why you have come without her knowledge."

By this point, tears were welling up in Thomas's eyes when the Abbé's voice came through the wall. Was he truly going mad or was the priest still there, waiting for Thomas to speak? He placed a hand upon his fluttering stomach. He felt as if his insides were bubbling up and threatening to fill his throat with bile.

"I…am…afraid."

Thomas panted, realizing the words that had just slipped off his tongue. "I'm afraid of my sister," he repeated, much more audible this time. "I'm afraid of her, and that is why I came without telling her."

The Abbé took a deep breath, glad the man was able to voice his thought. "Why are you afraid of your sister, my good man?"

"I'm not," Thomas immediately denied.

"But you…"

"I KNOW WHAT I SAID!" The baronet shouted, clenching a fist and letting the tears freely roll down his cheek. "I know…I know…"

"Then tell me what you fear," the Abbé softly replied. He placed his palm against the wall, knowing it was the closest thing he could offer as a reassuring touch. "Your words are safe here. No one will know what you have said here, except for God. I promise you."

"I…I…" Thomas sobbed childishly. He clutched his knees while the tears blurred his vision. "I worry she'll find me. She'll hurt me and...she never…she never liked me leaving her sight. She claims it always made her sad. I want her to be happy."

"Your sister will not hurt you, my good man. The Lord protects those who take refuge."

The baronet shook his head. "My sister said that God only wanted to take people's happiness, and make them miserable…that's why she never wanted to pray."

The Abbé insisted, "That is far from true, my good man."

"Then…" Thomas reluctantly began, "Would God have mercy upon a sister with love for her brother? Would he not want to take her happiness?"

"What do you speak of?"

"My…my…my sister, she…my sister and I…we loved each other."

The Abbé nodded silently. He did not want to judge the other man; after all, one could never truly know another's story. "You loved each other."

"Yes," Thomas whispered. "We made love when we were young, she taught me how." He curled his fingers inward, wrinkling the fabric of his trousers. "Lucille told me that our love was the only thing worth preserving, and how everything else in this world meant nothing in comparison."

"I see."

"No, you don't," he asserted. "For so long, Lucille was the only real woman in my life. We lost our mother at a young age, and I married others, but she…there is no one like her. She made me promise not to fall in love with anyone else, and then promised to do the same. I did everything she told me to, everything." Thomas gritted his teeth. "I shared her bed when she wanted me. I fucked her, and let her fuck me in any way she pleased. And worse, I spilled blood for her! I willingly killed people who found out the truth about us, because nothing else mattered! Nothing else mattered except for her, and her love."

Thomas shook his head again, tightly shutting his eyes. "I kept quiet when she poisoned my wives, I kept quiet when she committed her dirty crimes, and I kept quiet when she lied to policemen time and time again! I kept quiet, and now…I don't know how to anymore."

Hearing all of this, the Abbé closed his own eyes and sighed. This man had been through far too much.

"You must be disgusted…" Thomas spat. If not before, surely the priest would have left by now. What was he thinking, confessing his and Lucille's sexual affair to this priest? It was no secret those men condemned incest.

"No, my good man." The Abbé quietly protested. "No. Rather, I am proud of your courage to speak up about these things. God is not angry with you. He sympathizes with your pain and if you take His refuge, He will certainly heal your wounds."

The baronet continued to keep his eyes closed. Aside from a ringing in his ears, the sound of his rapid heartbeat resounded inside his head. And the only thing that kept Thomas from passing out in the confessional at that moment was the priest's level-headed calming voice.

"Are you still here, my good man?"

"Yes," Thomas mustered. "Yes I am."

"Very good," the Abbé smiled a little. "Very good."

"So…what must I do now?"

"Now," the Abbé calmly advised. "You must trust in the Lord. Now that He knows of your pain, He has offered you protection. Wherever you go now, He will be watching you from above. Have faith in this, and let your soul be uplifted."

"How do I know he's there?…He was never there when I was a child," Thomas petulantly retorted.

"God was always there, and always will be," the priest assured the baronet. "You must believe in Him, that He will care for you."

After a long, aching silence between the two men, Thomas finally spoke. "I should go now."

"You wish to go leave - have you more to confess, my good man?"

"No," Thomas answered, this time with a strange sense of conviction. "I have nothing more to confess."

The Abbé nodded again. "You must be feeling immeasurable pain, my good man. Perhaps it would be foolish of me to even begin to imagine what it must be like…but I can promise you that it will pass. One day, it will all be better."

"Thank you, Abbé." The baronet sniffed, addressing the priest the way he knew most French people did. He rose up from the seat and opened the door, only to find the priest leaving the confessional as well. "Not many sinners tonight, I suppose."

The Abbé shook his head, a light smile forming upon his face when he beheld the other man for the first time. "No matter who may come here, no one leaves as a sinner, my good man."

"Thank you again for listening to me," Thomas reciprocated the priest's smile.

"My door will always be open to you, my good man."

"It's Thomas," he softly corrected.

"Enjoy your evening, Thomas." Standing on the tips of his toes, the Abbé air-kissed Thomas's cheeks and then calmly walked away.

And as for the Baronet, he closed his eyes and silently prayed, listening to the Abbé's footsteps fade into silence. God have mercy upon my sister. And protect this Parisian priest from all harm.

[imagine-it-to-be-true]

Fix You - Caius Volturi x FemOC Three Shot: Part 2

Hey guys! So, originally, this story was supposed to be a One-shot. But because of the overwhelming amount of requests I’ve received (thank you so much sweeties, by the way), I’ve decided to make it into a three parter. This is part 2, and the first part can be found on my blog. I’m not sure when I get around to writing part 3 as uni starts back up today, but I’ll try my best not to keep you in suspense for too long. This part is more centred around chaos than romance. Nothing belongs to me (including the GIF) Also, warnings: violence, blood, death.

Andromeda’s POV

The sensations were weird. First, I had been in a lot of pain around my stomach region. I could hardly breathe, let alone express my pain to the handsome-yet-creepy, blonde stranger taking care of me. Though I’m sure he knew. I mean, even I knew I was dying, and he was helpless to save me, so I didn’t bother speaking. I could see the concern in his eyes and hear his sweet whisperings as he stroked my cheeks and wiped away my tears. But these little comforts were not enough to stop the hurt. Then, when I saw him holding a huge syringe, it sent me into panic mode. I never liked needles, not to mention ones which were about to inject unfamiliar liquids into me. But he reassured me it would help, which calmed me down. Not like I could defend myself in that moment anyways. I guess it couldn’t hurt me more. It turned out he was right. After a few minutes, I noticed the pain slowly going away. Maybe it wasn’t the liquid, but the fast-approaching release of death, I wasn’t sure. My cries began to slow, and I could feel more pleasant sensations, such as the pale man stroking my hand with his thumb, gently massaging circles into it. Then, he asked,

“What is your name, omorfiá mou?”

Gasping for air, I attempted to speak,

“Andromeda,” came my whispered reply. With my half-opened eyes, I was able to see his perfect lips draw up in a smile. Focusing on his features, I didn’t even realize that my pain was entirely gone, and I was feeling rather loopy. I watched the man bend down closer to me, brushing my hair back and running his ice-cold knuckles down the side of my neck. Suddenly I felt a sense of vulnerability. I felt his cool breath hitting my ear as he whispered,

“Do not be afraid. You will live forever. You are mine now, and I will never let anything hurt you again.” I was confused and fear began to resurface. I had gotten away from one creep, only to be taken by another. This man scared me to my core. But before I could dwell on my thoughts, I saw him quickly lean down towards my neck, as if he was about to kiss me. That was not what happened.

Indeed, I momentarily felt his cool lips touch the sensitive skin of my neck. But then a sharp pain erupted. Whatever it was that he injected into me was definitely helping. I was aching again, though differently this time. It was a dull, electrifying, fiery sensation, which immediately spread from my neck to my brain, and all the way down to the tips of my toes. My body was on fire, but it was not as intense. If one were to be scratched over and over and over again, pain would increase. This was what I was going through. It was continuous and that was making it worse. An hour had passed, then two, then I lost count. I couldn’t see anything anymore, my vision clouded. Yet I could still hear him. He never seemed to leave. Others would come and go. Time would pass and I would feel needles in my arms. I assume he kept injecting me with whatever it was, which managed my pain; probably morphine. I learned his name was Caius from others who had come in and spoken to him. Caius. What an unusual name. But it fit him.

He had injected so much morphine into me that the dull burning sensation eventually stopped. That, or perhaps I adjusted to it. I could not tell how much time had passed, but by now, it had been a while, for sure. I had given up. If it were not for his constant voice, and feeling of his icy hands touching my own, I would have believed I passed on. But eventually, my vision slowly began to return. I hadn’t felt injections in hours, and no pain returned, which was strange.

The entire time I lay there, presumably dying, I thought of my life. Who would miss me? I had no parents. Both died in a car crash when I was 12. I was in the back seat and miraculously survived. Given no time to adjust to the tragedy, I was immediately placed in a foster home in New Haven, where I experienced endless amounts of bullying. But as with all foster children, my stay was temporary. For the next five years, I bounced from one home to the next. This made me reserved, quiet, and untrusting. I was socially awkward and had very few friends. My main comforts came from the company of animals. Truthfully, I got used to this solitary existence, finding that I expressed myself better through storytelling than the spoken word. In fact, my unfortunate childhood did not impact my standing at school. I was always a good student, and this landed me a fully paid scholarship to NYU where I completed a double degree in journalism and history. The lack of family and friends allowed me to dedicate all my time to my studies and work, which was conducting research for my professor. Then, after graduating, I decided to make a drastic change and start fresh with a move to Europe. For the last two years, I had spent my time travelling several countries and writing articles on historical artifacts, buildings, and churches. I sold my stories to networks as a freelance historical journalist, living alone and moving often from place to place. In fact, Volterra was my last stop in Europe before I planned to relocate to Egypt and focus on Pharaonic history there. Not many of Volterra’s tourists knew about the building I had been photographing, which was off the main street and down an alleyway. It was not glamorous, but historic, which drove me to it. That is where I was and what I was doing when I was suddenly grabbed and dragged into a dark alleyway.

My life had been flashing before my eyes over and over again. I wanted to live. To do better. To be better. I was sick of being alone. So, when my vision began returning, I was filled with motivation to live. Really live. Finally, I could focus my eyes. I stared up at what appeared to be a bed canopy. It was velvet, and dark red in color. To my right, I could sense the smell of burning candles. It was so prominent that it made my nose burn. My hands were balled into fists, grasping the cotton sheets and I could see that I ripped holes in them. How much pain was I in that I ripped a bedsheet with my bare hands? I then noticed something strange. I was not breathing. Since when was I not breathing? This frightened me immensely, and I bolted into an upright sitting position. As I did, the bed violently shook. The canopy swayed as if it would collapse at any second. Did I do this? I’m a weak little girl who couldn’t even fight off a drunk man in an alleyway, how was I doing all this? I heard a sound to my left and immediately snapped my head towards the source. It was a young woman – girl more like it – that I did not recognize. She had strange red eyes, much like my rescuer. But she frightened me more than him. There was a certain evil surrounding her, I could sense it. How, I did not know. All I knew was that she did not wish me well.

“Hello, Andromeda.” She spoke coolly.

I looked at her, suspicion and confusion painted over my face.

“H-how do you know my name?”

“Master Caius told me.”

‘Master?’ that sounded strange. Not something a girl would call a man. What was this, a sex trafficking operation? Before I could speak, she continued.

“He has been by your side. He will return any minute now. He went out hunting for you.” She spoke like an information-giving robot: just spewing facts, unmoving, her expression unchanging.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Hunting… that’s not necessary. I- I don’t eat meat.” Her expression finally changed. Her smirk transformed into a creepy smile, and she let out a laugh.

“Believe me, dear girl. It is not exactly meat he will be returning with.” She turned on her heels and stormed out of the room. Two guards opened the bedroom door for her and shut it as she left. So, they have my room guarded. I guess they aren’t going to let me leave.

I was not in a hurry; I needed to see Caius. Thank him. And ask him how he was able to fix me. Was I remembering correctly that he bit me?! What a strange thing to do. I looked down on my stomach, which was completely injury-free. Then, I reached my hand to the back of my neck, trying to feel any bitemarks there. Nothing. What the hell? I did not understand. I had a lot of questions and needed answers, the most pressing of which was why my throat was on fire. I would have asked the girl, but something in me yelled to keep my distance from her; that she was dangerous. Slowly, I stood up from the bed, noticing that the white dress I had on when I was shot was no longer on me. Instead, I wore a soft, white nightgown, with lace on the collar. It seemed like a typical garment from Tudor England, or something. It was unlike anything I had seen in any mall or shop. Come to think of it, the entire room had a historic, gothic feel to it. The décor resembled a royal palace.

My feet hit the marble floor and I began walking around the room, making my way to the bookshelf. There, a massive assortment of books awaited. However, they were not the typical books one would find in a normal home. These were all historic and ancient. I picked up a copy of the Iliad. Looking at the bindings, I could tell the book was old. More interestingly, it was still written in Homeric Greek – not a language many would be able to read. Whoever this belongs to was most definitely smart.

Suddenly, I felt the burning in my throat worsen. The sensation intensified to the point where I was nearly panicking. Ready to run for the doors and ask the guards for help, I heard footsteps approaching.

The door swung open, and the man… Caius walked in. No longer dying, I could properly admire his features. He looked perfect, truly. Not a single flaw on his face or skin. His nearly white, blonde hair carefully combed back behind his ears. He moved towards where I was sat in an armchair and knelt in front of me. Immediately, I was filled with a calmness. It was like I was home. I cannot describe it completely, but it was as if all problems were erased, and I was safe. This was the second time I managed to judge a person based on feelings, all within the last few minutes. First with the young woman from earlier, and now Caius. Before he could speak, the feeling was gone, and replaced once again with unease and danger, as I watched the young woman reappear, dragging a man by his wrist. Behind her, the guards entered the room and stood on either side of the man. I could feel that he was not dangerous, as the fear was practically radiating off him. The woman stepped behind him and gave him a push towards me.

“Dinner,” she stated coldly. I looked from her to the frightened man, to Caius. I could see annoyance on his face, as he turned to her and spoke.

“Must you, Jane? Do you not know of patience?”

“Forgive me, Master Caius. You were not one to show patience often, and I do learn from you.” She stated simply.

When Caius turned to me, I was grasping my throat, which was burning almost unbearably. “What is happening?!” I choked out.

“I know this will not make sense to you right now, and I will explain everything, I promise. But the only thing that will stop the ache is if you drink blood. You need to drink this man’s blood.” Caius whispered to me, out of earshot of the poor man.

I froze and looked at him with wide eyes, face in complete and utter shock.

“WHAT?! What did you just say?!” I exclaimed, not believing what I heard.

He sighed and leaned in once again, whispering. “In order to save your life from your injuries, I was forced to turn you into a vampire. You need blood, and you need it now. Trust me.” He tried again.

“I WILL NOT! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!” Hastily standing, I pushed him away. My intention was to give him a normal, hard push so that he gets the message. But nothing prepared me for what happened. When I pushed him, he went flying across the room and hitting a marble column, which shattered on impact. Immediately, the room was filled with noise and dust as the column went crashing down around him. I pushed myself into the corner of the room and watched in terror. That impact would have killed an elephant. Yet Caius, simply rose, brushing dust off his blazer and pants. The evil woman – Jane as he called her – appeared emotionless as she turned her attention from Caius to me.

“Fine. More for us then,” she said. What followed, was simply too much for me to handle.

First, I heard Caius yelling, “Jane, NO!” In one swift motion, she tore the frightened man’s throat with her teeth. Blood gushed out from the wound, spilling all over the white marble floor. I screamed in terror. But what was even more terrifying than the poor man’s death, was the smell of his blood. It was driving me crazy. It was like nothing I had ever experienced it. I craved it. Needed it. And was so close to taking it all for myself. But with any remaining strength I had left, I stopped myself. This was not me. I was a vegetarian because I cared for the well-being of animals. There was not a thing in the world which would force me to do anything to harm another living soul. So, I curled up in a ball in my corner and rocked back and forth, trying to focus my senses on anything other than the delicious smell of blood.

“I will deal with you later. Take him and leave, now!” I heard Caius’ voice. “You are not to come here again; you are not to see her! Now go!”

“Yes, Master Caius.” I heard her disgusting, venomous voice once again as she left. The doors closed and the room was filled with silence.

I momentarily thought Caius left too, but then I felt the sensation of safety return to me.

“How did I do that?” I ask with a shaking voice.

“You are a new vampire. For the first few weeks, you will be stronger than the rest of us. This will pass, and you will adjust.” He said gently.

I continued hugging my knees and rocking. Caius continued.

“This is not how a newborn should experience the first moments. But Andromeda…” he hesitated, “You need to feed. If you do not, it will only get worse. Your awareness will seize to function, and you will eventually kill more than you would have otherwise.”

With no response from me, Caius reached for my hands, placing his own over them. This woke a rage inside of me. I grasped his wrists and pushed him backwards. His back hit the wall, not as hard this time. I began speaking.

“You did this to me. You made me this… this… monster. This is on you. You should have let me die. Now, because of your selfish need for heroism, I will murder countless others.”

We both rose to our feet. He gently approached me again, saying my name, but I held my hand up to block him. “Get out. I don’t ever want to see you again. I hate you.”

With that, I pushed him towards the direction of the door. He paused,

“Andromeda-”

“GET OUT!” I picked up a glass vase and threw it in his direction, and he finally left. I sat down on the cold marble tiles, pressing my back against the wall, and screamed in agony.

[a-queer-seminarian]

Jesus flipping tables: a more accurate & respectful reading

This post shares a large chunk of chapter two of Amy-Jill Levine’s book Entering the Passion of Jesus. (Read the whole chapter as a PDF here.) Levine is a Jewish woman who is also a Professor of New Testament Studies.

Levine combats traditional readings of the text with their antisemitic layers by evincing how Jesus’s anger reflects the anger of his predecessors Jeremiah and Zechariah — an anger focused not on the simple fact that sacrificial animals were sold in the Temples’ outer courts, but on the way the Temple (like many of our worship spaces today) had become a safe place for corrupt oppressors, who behaved as if their daily atrocities would be overlooked by God if they paid for a sacrifice every now and again.

TL;DR: to sum up Levine’s points, she evinces how:

Jesus’s whole table flipping, whip-wielding stunt is more symbolic than practical (echoing similar stunts pulled by his people’s prophets).

Some have argued Jesus is mad about gentiles not being allowed to worship in the temple, but they very much were welcome. (There were places and rituals off limits to them, just as there are certain things non-members can’t do in our own worship spaces, like take communion or be on a committee). 

Jesus wasn’t pissed about animals being sold in the temple’s outer courts; that was normal and logical. There’s also no evidence of exploitation or unjust prices, so he’s not angry about the poor being cheated here either.

Jesus did not reject the Temple, or its laws & rituals! He followed them himself and helped restore people to them. (He even has “zeal for his father’s house.”)

Jesus also isn’t condemning the high priest or other priests with his actions here. That’s just not in the text; plus Caiaphas’s worry about Jesus’s actions inciting political violence that could harm his people were reasonable.

What Jesus is communicating with his table flipping and whip-wielding: he’s upset that the Temple is as “a den of thieves,” a place where people who sin and oppress in their everyday life feel perfectly comfortable, instead of feeling called to repent and reform. His words hearken back to previous prophets with similar concerns.

And finally, in the version of this story told in John’s Gospel, Jesus seems to be looking forward to a time when the Temple is no longer needed, for all places will be sacred and God will speak directly to everyone of every nation -- once again, Jesus is hearkening back to previous prophets who looked forward to the same thing. This is also a concept that the Pharisees were into, so stop depicting the Pharisees as “evil” or “backwards” or completely at odds with Jesus! (One key difference between Jesus’s vision and the Pharisees’ if of course that Jesus identifies a “new temple,” his own body.)

One last thing: if you’re unfamiliar with the various Gospel versions of the “temple cleansing” -- Matthew 21:12-17, Mark 11:11-17, Luke 19:45-46, and John 2:13-17 -- or want to reference them as you read this post, visit this webpage to read them all.

Without further ado -- the excerpt from Levine.

________________

The incident known as the ‘Cleansing of the Temple’ is described in all four Gospels. Most people have the idea--probably from Hollywood--that this is a huge disruption. When we see this scene depicted in movies, we find Jesus fuming with anger, and we inevitably see gold coins falling down in slow motion. Everything in the Temple comes to a standstill. ...But we are not watching a movie: we are studying the Gospels. 

Here's what we know about the actual setting. We begin by noting that the Temple complex was enormous. It was the size of twelve soccer fields put end to end. So, if Jesus turns over a table or two in one part of the complex, it's not going to make much of a difference given the size of the place.

The action therefore did not stop all business; it is symbolic rather than practical. Our responsibility is to determine what was symbolized.

For that, we need to know how the Temple functioned.

The Jerusalem Temple, which King Herod the Great began to rebuild and which was still under construction at the time of Jesus, had several courts. The inner sanctum, known as the "Holy of Holies," is where the high priest entered, only on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, to ask for forgiveness for himself and for the people. Outside of that was the Court of the Priests, then the Court of Israel, the Court of the Women, and then the Court of the Gentiles, who were welcome to worship in the Temple. 

The outer court, the Court of the Gentiles, is where the vendors sold their goods. The Temple at the time of Jesus was many things: it was a house of prayer for all nations; it was the site for the three pilgrimage festivals of Passover, Shavuot/Pentecost, and Sukkot/Booths; it was a symbol of Jewish tradition (we might think of it as comparable, for the Jewish people of the time, to how Americans might view the Statue of Liberty); it was the national bank, and it was the only place in the Jewish world where sacrifices could be offered. Therefore, there needed to be vendors on site.

Pilgrims who sought to offer doves (such as Mary and Joseph do, following the birth of Jesus, according to Luke 2:24) or a sheep for the Passover meal would not bring the animals with them from Galilee or Egypt or Damascus. They would not risk the animal becoming injured and so unfit for sacrifice. The animal might fly or wander away, be stolen, or die. And, as one of my students several years ago remarked, "The pilgrims might get hungry on the way." One bought one's offering from the vendors.

And, despite Hollywood, and sermon after sermon, there is no indication that the vendors were overcharging or exploiting the population. The people would not have allowed that to happen. Thus, Jesus is not engaging in protest of cheating the poor.

Next, we need to think of the Temple as something other than what we think of churches. A church, usually, is a place of quiet and decorum. ...The Temple was something much different: It was a tourist attraction, especially during the pilgrimage festivals. It was very crowded, and it was noisy. The noise was loud and boisterous, and because it was Passover, people were happy because they were celebrating the Feast of Freedom. ...We might think of the setting as a type of vacation for the pilgrims: a chance to leave their homes, to catch up with friends and relatives, to see the "big city," and to feel a special connection with their fellow Jews and with God. It is into this setting that Jesus comes.

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Driving out the Vendors 

...It seems to me that Jesus, in the Temple, was angry. But what so angered him? I hear from a number of people, whether my students in class or congregations who have invited me to speak with them, that the Temple must have been a dreadful institution; that it exploited the poor; that it was in cahoots with Rome; that Caiaphas, the High Priest in charge of the Temple, was a terrible person; that it banned Gentiles from worship and so displayed hatred of foreigners; and so forth. ...Some tell me that the Temple imposed oppressive purity laws that forbade people from entering, and so Jesus, who rejected those laws, rejected the temple as well. No wonder Jesus wants to destroy the institution.

But none of those views fits what we know about either Jesus or history.

First, Jesus did not hate the Temple, and he did not reject it. If he did, then it makes no sense that his followers continued to worship there. Jesus himself calls the Temple "my Father's house" (Luke 7:49: John 2:16). ...

Second, Jesus is not opposed to purity laws. To the contrary, he restores people to states of ritual purity. Even more, he tells a man whom he has cured of leprosy, "Go, show yourself to the priest, and offer for your cleansing what Moses commanded, as a testimony to them" (Mark 1:44; see also Matthew 8:4; Luke 5:14). 

Third, Jesus says nothing about the Temple exploiting the population. As we'll see in the next chapter, when we talk about the widow who makes an offering of her two coins, Jesus is concerned not with what the Temple charges, but with the generosity of the worshipers. 

Fourth, we've already seen that the Temple has an outer court, where Gentiles are welcome to worship. They were similarly welcome in the synagogues of antiquity, and today. They do not have the same rights and responsibilities as do Jews, and that makes sense as well. When I [a Jewish woman] visit a church, there are certain things I may not do. We might also think of how nations function: Canadians, for example, cannot do certain things in the USA, such as vote for president; nor can citizens of the USA vote in Canadian elections.

As for Caiaphas...Caiaphas is basically between a rock and a hard place. He is the nominal head of Judea, and he is supposed to keep the peace. Judea is occupied by Rome, and Roman soldiers are stationed there. Caiaphas needs to make sure that these soldiers do not go on the attack. He needs to placate Pilate, and he needs to placate Rome. 

At the same time, as the High Priest, he has a responsibility to the Jewish tradition. Rome wanted the Jews to offer sacrifices to the emperor...but Caiaphas and the other Jews refused to participate in this type of offering because they would not worship the emperor. The most they were willing to do was offer sacrifices on behalf of the emperor and the empire.

When Jesus comes into the city in the Triumphal Entry, when people are hailing him as son of David, Caiaphas recognizes the political danger. The Gospel of John tells us that the people wanted to make Jesus king (John 6:15). Caiaphas has to watch out for the mob. Caiaphas also has to watch out for all these Jewish pilgrims coming from all over the empire celebrating the Feast of Freedom, the end of slavery. When he sees Roman troops surrounding the Temple Mount, Caiaphas has to keep the peace. And Jesus is a threat to that peace. But none of this has to do directly with Jesus' actions in the Temple. He is not at this point protesting Caiaphas's role.

Sometimes I hear people say that Jesus drove the "money lenders” out of the Temple. That's wrong, too. Money-lending was a business into which the medieval church forced Jews, because the church concluded that charging interest was unnatural (money should not beget money). Yet people needed, then and now, to take out loans. The issue for the Gospel is not money lending but money changing. These money changers exchanged the various currencies of the Roman Empire into Tyrian shekels, the type of silver coin that the Temple accepted. We experience the same process when we visit a foreign country and have to exchange our money for the local currency.

So, if Jesus is not condemning the Temple itself, or financial exploitation, or purity practices, what is he condemning? Let's look at what the Gospels actually say.

According to Matthew, Mark, and Luke, ...the concern is not the Temple, but the attitude of the people who are coming to it.

In Mark's account Jesus begins by saying, "Is it not written, 'My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations?" (11:17). Indeed, it is so written. Jesus is here condensing and then quoting Isaiah 56:6-7... Jesus' rhetorical question should be answered with a resounding “Yes!"--for the Temple already was a house of prayer for all people. More, he is standing in the Court of the Gentiles when he makes his pronouncement. ...Thus, the problem is not that the Temple excludes Gentiles. 

Already we find the challenge, and the risk. Are churches Today houses of prayer for all people, or are they just for people who look like us, walk like us, and talk like us?

How do we make other people feel welcome? Is the stranger greeted upon walking into the church? Is the first thing a stranger hears in the sanctuary, "You're in my seat"? When we pray or sing hymns, do we think of what those words would sound like in a stranger's ears? ...

Matthew and Luke drop out "For all nations," and appropriately so, for they knew it already was a house of prayer for all nations. Matthew and Luke thus change the focus to one of prayer. And prayer gets us closer to what is going on in the Synoptic tradition.

___________

Den of Thieves

Jesus continues, ‘But you are making it a den of robbers’ (Matthew 21:13). Here he is quoting Jeremiah 7:11: “Has this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your sight?”

A "den of robbers" (sometimes translated a "den of thieves") is not where robbers rob. "Den” really means "cave," and a cave of robbers is where robbers go after they have taken what does not belong to them, and count up their loot. The context of Jeremiah's quotation -- and remember, it always helps to look up the context of citations to the Old Testament -- tells us this.

Jeremiah 7:9-10 depicts the ancient prophet as condemning the people of his own time, the time right before Babylonians destroyed Solomon's Temple over five hundred years earlier: “Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, swear falsely, make offerings to Baal, and go after other gods that you have not known, and then come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say, ‘We are safe!’ -- only to go on doing all these abominations?" 

Some people in Jeremiah's time, and at the time of Jesus, and today, take divine mercy for granted and see worship as an opportunity to show off new clothes rather than recommit to clothing the naked. The present-day comparison to what Jeremiah, and Jesus, condemned is easy to make: The church member sins during the workweek, either by doing what is wrong or by failing to do what is right. Then on Sunday morning this same individual, perhaps convinced of personal righteousness, heartily sings the hymns, happily shakes the hands of others, and generously puts a fifty-collar bill in the collection plate. That makes the church a den of robbers -- a cave of sinners. It becomes a safe place for those who are not truly repentant and who do not truly follow what Jesus asks. The church becomes a place of showboating, not of fishing for people. 

Jeremiah and Jesus indicted people then, and now. The ancient Temple, and the present-day church, should be places where people not only find community, welcome the stranger, and repent of their sins. They should be places where people promise to live a godly life, and then keep their promises. ...

___________

Stop Making My Father's House a Marketplace

John's Gospel says nothing about the house of prayer or den of robbers. In John's Gospel, Jesus starts not simply by overturning the tables, but also by using a “whip of cords" (since weapons were not permitted in the Temple, he may have fashioned the whip from straw at hand), and driving out the vendors. Jesus when says to the dove sellers, "Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father's house a marketplace!" (John 2:16). He is alluding to Zechariah 14:21, the last verse from this prophet, "and every cooking pot in Jerusalem and Judah shall be sacred to the Lord of hosts, so that all who sacrifice may come and use them to boil the flesh of the sacrifice. And there shall no longer be traders in the house of the Lord of hosts on that day."

In John's version of the Temple incident, Jesus anticipates the time when there will no longer be a need for vendors, for every house not only in Jerusalem but in all of Judea shall be like the Temple itself. The sacred nature of the Temple will spread through all the people. He sounds somewhat like the Pharisees here, since the Pharisees were interested in extending the holiness of the Temple to every household.

The message is a profound one: Can our homes be as sanctified, as filled with Worship, as the local church?

Do we “do our best" on Sunday From 11 a.m. to 12 noon, but just engage in business is usual during the workweek? Do we pray only in church, or is prayer part of our daily practice? Do we celebrate the gifts of God only when it is time to do so in the worship service, or do we celebrate these gifts morning to night? Is the church just a building, or is the church the community who gathers in Jesus' name, who acts as Jesus taught, who lives the good news? 

Jesus' words, citing Zechariah, do even more. They anticipate a time when all peoples, all nations, can worship in peace, and in love. There is no separation between home and house of worship, because the entire land lives in a sanctified state. Perhaps we can even hear a hint of Jeremiah's teaching of the "new covenant," when "no longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, 'Know the LORD,’ For they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the LORD; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more" (Jeremiah 31:34). Can we envision this? Can we work toward it? ...

[nikthehybrid]

The Beauty Within: Chapter One

Here is the first chapter, finally! Thank you @damonsbitchx for helping with this story! And thank you @bonnbonnbennett for having patience while I take forever to post this!

TW: Lucien Castle is a canon typical creep.

Link to the prologue at the end.

3,198 words

Chapter One

Lucien Castle sauntered down the main road of New Orleans. Everything seemed pathetic compared to the luxury he was used to living in. He smirked at the various women who ogled him as he walked by. Nothing stroked his ego more than the adoration of those around him. His near constant companion, Marcel Gerard, was kept around because he kept up a steady flow of compliments. As he wandered around, the most beautiful woman in the French Quarter walked right in front of him without bothering to pull her nose from the book. 

“Marcel, that woman, right there is perfect for me. She’s gorgeous,” Lucien declared. Marcel raised his eyebrows in shock. He couldn’t believe that Lucien thought he had half a chance with Camille O’Connell. She was entirely too smart to be seduced by the likes of Lucien. 

“I wouldn’t say perfect for you. She’s an independent thinker you know. Don’t let her appearance fool you, she can handle herself,” Marcel said with a slight chuckle, though he wasn’t surprised that Lucien didn’t listen to a word he said.

Camille continued walking, mildly aware of where she was going. She was used to being talked about by now, but that’s not to say she didn’t still hear the hushed voices and quiet giggles when she walked around the city. She subtly glanced in Marcel’s direction upon hearing his quip, smiling to herself. She couldn’t see why every young woman in town fawned over Lucien, the appeal just wasn’t there. She didn’t dwell on the subject too long most days, she had far more interesting topics to think about.

Marcel could see the irritation building in Lucien that Camille had ignored him so blatantly. It made his stomach twist with fear but he stayed quiet. It was better to live in fear than to be hated by such a volatile man. He was known to have a temper and little patience for those who did not live to serve him. 

“You know what, how about I go talk to her for you? Maybe she’s just intimidated by you,” he said, trying to sound as much like an admirer as possible. Lucien smirked at him and nodded before strutting off to one of the local pubs where he was well known. Marcel pulled a face when the man was out of sight before he hurried to catch up with Camille. 

“Sorry about him. I would say he’s harmless, but we all know that’s not true. He seems to be wanting to go back to war and I would say good riddance if he would actually leave,” he said to Camille as he followed her. Camille listened as Marcel talked, the things he said being mildly amusing. She continued to walk but she did put her book down to her side. 

“I’m definitely used to it, but I have to ask, if that’s how you really feel about him why do you continue to hang around him?” She glanced at him briefly, her eyebrows raised. Marcel let out a sigh.

“It’s not something I’m proud of, but I don’t have anyone else in life. He’s been a friend since childhood and after my father was killed I just stayed around him,” he said with a sad sigh. He looked around and tried to make it obvious that he wasn’t trying to hit on her. Then Marcel cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m not just trying to follow you. But I will leave you to be on your way. I will tell Lucien you didn’t engage with me. I apologize if he comes knocking at your door.” He quickly veered off another street and walked in the direction of the pub that Lucien had entered. Marcel couldn’t help but feel incredibly awkward being the perceived middle man. His favorite solution was to disappear until he was able to collect his train of thought.

“Thank you,” she responded as he was walking off though she wasn’t convinced he heard her words. She frowned to herself but decided not to let the men consume any more of her energy.

Yet as she started walking again, Camille went back to reading as she walked towards Rousseau’s. She’d not met many kind people in the city but Marcel was a surprising exception. Upon arrival at her job, she quickly  shoved her book into her bag and clocked in  but she still found her mind wandering to Marcel. She had an overwhelming desire to help him. Lucien was a snake and it would break her heart to see a man like Marcel be corrupted by such evil.

As Camille walked behind the bar, Lucien gracefully entered Rousseau’s, perfectly timed as he had intended, and sat down at the bar. He watched Camille like a hawk as she served various patrons as they came and went. He didn’t care much that Marcel had told him she was uninterested. Lucien knew without a doubt how his friend really felt about him and knew he would never set a potential new friend up with him. So he intended to speak to Camille and sort everything out, to show her that he wasn’t the villain of the story.

 “Camille! Darling, I was wondering if I could have a quick little word,” he said loudly. He smiled at her but as he watched her walk towards him the smile turned to a smirk. Lucien chuckled as she attempted to pretend he was doing anything other than flirting with her. The longer he stared at her, the more it began to feel as if he were trying to stare her into some sort of submission. Slowly his grin turned predatory. “I’ll take a bourbon, neat. Do tell me what Marcel has told you about me that causes such an aversion to my charms.” He laughed a little as he waited for his drink. Lucien saw no point in hiding the fact that his ego was just as inflated as his wallet.

“I’ll be right back with that,” she replied with a stiff smile. She hoped to dodge his question entirely by the time she turned with his drink. While at the bar, she served a couple other quick customers while she poured Lucien’s drink and then hurried back over with his drink in hand. She set it on a square white napkin on the bar and glanced at him. “Anything else I can get you?” Lucien scoffed at her attitude and rolled his eyes. 

“I honestly would like to know what is so repulsive about me. I could give you a very good life. You would never have to work at this wretched establishment ever again,” he drawled, sipping his bourbon, “just have one drink with me, that’s all it will take for me to change your life. I promise I’m really not so bad.”

“Look, you are a perfectly handsome man and clearly you have a decent amount of charm. I’m happy for you. You’re just going to have to accept that your charm and good looks aren’t for everyone. Now, is there anything else I can get for you? I do have other patrons waiting on my service,” Camille snapped. She stared at him wondering where all that had come from. She definitely didn’t plan on saying any of it, but she didn’t regret the words and the truths that they held. Lucien stared at her with his mouth slightly agape. No one ever spoke to him that way, especially a woman. He sneered at her and tossed back his bourbon. He threw a wad of bills at her and stood in one fluid motion. 

“Keep the change. It’s not worth my time to pick it up,” he said. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the bar.

She winced as the bills flew at her face and rolled her eyes at his response. Her eyes followed him as he stomped out. She felt relieved knowing there was a good chance he wouldn’t come back anytime soon. The bewildered stares from customers pulled her quickly back to reality, so she bent down to collect the money and swept the napkin along with the glass from the table. Then, she rushed back behind the bar. 

Kieran O’Connell had been on his way home when he saw Lucien in the bar where his niece worked. Narrowing his eyes, he walked into Rousseau’s passing closely to Lucien as he did. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the other man before he approached the counter. Being a priest didn’t mean he had to pretend to like weasels like Lucian. He gave his niece a soft smile before accepting the glass of water she gave to him. 

“I just wanted to stop by and say that I was going to be heading out of town for a bit. I am traveling to another town to help get a new church up and running,” he said with another big smile. “I would ask if you’re going to be okay, but I see that you can handle yourself just fine.”

“Of course I’ll be okay,” she laughed softly and smiled up at him while she wiped down the bar. “How long are you going for this time?” She wasn’t used to being alone most of the time, but she didn’t see her uncle too often to warrant not being fine while he was out of town. Still, she would worry about him nonetheless. They looked out for each other, so she felt like it was her job to take care of him to an extent. Kieran shrugged a little bit. 

“I’m hoping it won’t be more than a week. It depends on their congregation size and needs,” he explained. He looked around the bar and noticed that everyone was leaving Camille alone except for Lucien. “Do I need to have a talk with Mr. Castle about harassing you? I don’t want that to become a regular thing you have to deal with. Especially when Marcel sits back and does nothing.” She frowned, glancing around briefly as she cleaned glasses and put them in their places.

“Marcel is kind, he tries his best. I can see that. Lucien just comes on a little strong, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m fine, I promise,” she said as she smiled reassuringly at him. The last thing she wanted was to worry him before he left town. She truly was fine for now. Kieran cocked his eyebrow at her but only nodded. He knew that she would be okay, he was just overly protective. After her brother had spiraled into a voodoo induced psychosis, he did his best to keep an eye on her. 

“Well you are better at seeing the good in people than I am,” he chuckled softly finishing off his glass of water. Then he stood and put his hat on. “I will see you in a week Camille. Keep out of trouble.” Kieran smiled and walked out of the bar. He knew she was too much of a free spirit to stay totally away from trouble.

Marcel nodded to Kieran as he walked into the bar and gave him a slight nod. Then he took a seat on the stool that the priest had just vacated. He was holding the left side of his face and he kept his head bowed as he ordered a drink from the other bartender. She laughed softly and waved goodbye to her uncle then moved down the bar to help a couple other customers. After a few minutes she spotted Marcel and shuffled back over. 

“Hey, Marcel,” she greeted him with a smile. “You just missed Lucien.” Marcel looked up at Camille and revealed his bloody lip along with his eye that was swelling shut. He let out a humorless laugh. 

“Unfortunately I didn’t miss him entirely. But I have to say your attitude towards him is refreshing, even if it means getting punched,” he said, though the look in his eyes said that he didn’t find it nearly as funny as he was trying to pretend. Camille gasped seeing his wounds, cupping her hand over her mouth. 

“Oh my god, Marcel, Lucien did that?” Camille gasped as she frantically grabbed a clean towel, dumping some ice into it and handing it to him with a concerned frown. “The next time I see that man he’s going to get a piece of my mind, Marcel, this isn’t okay. I’m so sorry.” Marcel quickly reached out and put his hand over her small one. He gently shook his head as he pressed the ice to his face, wincing ever so slightly. 

“Don’t. Camille, I’m begging you, just leave it alone. Don’t make him angry and eventually he will lose interest and move on to someone else. It’s okay, it’s not like this is the first time he’s kicked the shit out of me,” he said softly. “It’s nothing compared to what my father used to do.” She sighed in frustration, frowning as she inspected his eye. 

“Marcel,” she pleaded. “That’s not good enough, you need to get away from him. I’m not going to just sit by while he abuses you.” She continued cleaning while she spoke, coming back over to inspect his wounds ever so often. Marcel shook his head at the idea of her confronting Lucien. He knew the man very well and worried that he would hurt Camille in some violent way or another.

“Please listen when I tell you to let this go. I don’t want him to hurt you. And before you say anything yes, I know you can handle yourself. If it were anyone else I would worry,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. She stood in silence, wiping the counter before she responded. 

“Fine, I’ll let it go if you agree to let me help you,” Camille insisted. She eyed Marcel curiously, hoping he would accept her help. She gently reached out, taking the towel of ice from him, replacing it with a fresh one she’d just made. Marcel gave her a weary stare. He didn’t want to risk that Lucien might hurt Camille, but he also knew that she was extremely persistent and he knew she wouldn’t give up anytime soon. It would be better to know what her plans were as opposed to worrying she might go off on her own to confront Lucien. 

“We can discuss things over dinner,” he agreed. “But! That does not mean I am accepting your help on the spot. All it means is that I am willing to discuss our options.” Camille stared back at him for a couple moments, contemplating his offer. 

“Deal, I’m free tonight after I get off,” she said as she tilted her head, and smiled cheekily before moving down the bar again to help some customers.

Marcel chuckled and finished off his drink. He really liked Camille. She was a genuinely good person which was hard to find. He ordered a bit of food and ate while he waited for her shift to end. It seemed safer to stay in Rousseau’s as opposed to braving Lucien’s wrath in some dark alley all alone.

At long last, Camille emerged from the back room with her jacket draped over her arm and her bag in hand. The last few hours had passed surprisingly quickly which had come as a welcome surprise. Normally the shift that ended as the parties began seemed the longest. However, she was glad the be escaping the commotion of Bourbon Street for her quiet apartment a few blocks over.

 “So, are we staying in or going out?” She beamed, stopping next to where he was sitting. Marcel stood slowly and smiled. 

“Staying in sounds like a better option. I’m not in the mood to entertain the rest of society,” he chuckled. He offered his arms teasingly to Camille. “My lady.” Marcel dramatically bowed to her. Camille laughed softly, taking his arm. 

“I like your thinking, kind sir,” she humored his act energetically. “You can call me Cami, by the way. My friends call me that.”

“What brings you to our lovely cursed city, Cami?” He joked lightly as he led the way out into the street. As they walked he was continually surveying things to make sure that Lucien wasn’t following them. He wasn’t in the mood to get his ass kicked twice in one day.

“I moved here to be closer to my uncle after my brother... passed away,” she replied, trailing off. She clung to his elbow, noticing how tense he was. She glanced around briefly, observing different people walking the street. “Have you lived here all your life?” Marcel nodded as he continued to make sure he didn’t recognize anyone around them as Lucien’s clique. 

“I grew up here and then lived on the streets for a time after, well after some shit happened anyway. Then I got old enough and got a job. When I met Lucien he sucked me in with never being hungry or worrying about a place to live,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize what he was until it was too late.”

“What he was? I mean, I can see why you feel indebted to him, but you deserve to be treated with respect, Marcel. You always have a choice, especially when you have friends,” she said as  she squeezed his elbow gently.

“He’s exactly like my father. It’s why I didn’t notice how bad things were until recently when I started becoming the person he was taking his rage out on,” Marcel said. He let out a pained sigh and gave her a sad smile. “I do deserve respect, but I can’t seem to convince myself of that until someone else points it out.” Camille frowned when he smiled at her. 

“I wish there was something I could do. There has to be some way to run him out of town or something. I see him in Rousseau’s all the time hitting on girls and I just--” she trailed off. “What is he even doing here?” Marcel let out a heavy sigh. 

“He’s here simply to entertain himself. Though I have a sneaking suspicion he’s looking for something in particular. He’s started shutting me out which can only mean that whatever he has planned is going to be catastrophic,” he whispered. Then he stopped suddenly. “Cami, isn’t that your uncle’s horse?” He pointed to the horse galloping towards them at a breakneck speed, momentarily forgetting about Lucien. She furrowed her eyebrows as she observed the change in his expression. She whipped her head around at his words, staring in horror. Quickly, she let go of his arm and walked a few feet forward with her hands out. 

“Woah woah!” She cried out as the horse skidded to a stop just a foot from her. He was wildly disturbed, anxiously bouncing around and grunting. He had fear in his eyes, she could see it as she grabbed his face to try and calm him down. She glanced back at Marcel in distress, wondering what she should do or where her uncle was.

[youralternantpersonality]

Welcome My Dear Friend

Warning: N/a

A/n: You know me, I got to write a novel before you can get to the great stuff. I think I keep getting the movie and books mixed up. If I did, sorry. But just enjoy it lol, that's all that matters, right?

Tags: @pillowjj @summeerrr

***

Y/n POV:

I'm walking through the streets of Ontario, Vanity on one side and her "boyfriend" of the month on the other. Ever since the loss of Leo, she's been happily carrying out her dream of living her college experience that she never got to act out. Comes to find out, Leo wasn't her mate; he was her stalker from when they were human. Long story short, they went to college together in the '70s, and he was obsessed with her. One night, lurking outside of her dorm, he was attacked by, you guessed it, a vampire. So, like the trifling ass he was, he attacked her and basically held her hostage all this time. Abusive and manipulative—she wanted a way out. She wasn't expecting wolves to be real, but if she could thank them without getting killed, she would.

Anyway, it has been a little over six months or so since that faithful night in La Push, where I was never seen again. I never got to say goodbye to my family and friends, and when I found out that there was a search for me going on, it was hard to watch. My family and friends posting photos on social media, talking to the police, and holding a conference, all of it broke my heart.  We head back to our hotel room thanks to David—wait, was it David? Yeah, I'm going to say David—who graciously paid for two. Unfortunately, no matter how far apart our rooms are, I can still hear them. Fucking vampire hearing. Oh, if you hadn't figured it out, Vanity changed me. I honestly don't really know if I am mad or not. On the one hand, I am pissed; I'd rather be dead than be the walking dead, feeding off people—I prefer the criminals if I'm honest. But I'd rather not have my body lost in a ditch somewhere or parts of it in a shark's mouth.

Regardless, I really want to go back home, but I don't want to leave Vanity. If I had to describe her, I'd say she is like Harley Quinn. Rambunctious, emotional, kind of stupid but smart, party animal, and promiscuous. All of which attracts her victims. Whereas, there's me, the complete opposite of her—I ground her and keep her from being irrational, and she makes sure I "live a little" since I try not to go on a killing spree and I'd prefer to not have my first time with some random guy who I might accidentally kill. Again, I'd prefer to go after the major criminals, male or female, and not the innocent bystanders. I may or may not do active searching in the area for criminal records. I leave the petty crime alone; it's the others with no sense of morality that I play with.  A few hours later, Vanity knocks on my door and tells me that we're heading out.

"Where’s David?” I said, swinging my bag over my shoulder and looking around. She gave me a look and rolled her eyes but smiles.

“His name is Kyle. I assume my next victim will be named David?” She looks up at me and smiles. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. I have this weird ability to know things. I don’t know how I know it, but I just know it, you know? Almost like an enhanced intuition. Not like a psychic, but I just…know what’s next. Harley Quinn Jr. over here is basically a succubus—natural raw talent to draw men in. I mean, yes, vampires can do that naturally, but she could wear a mask, and her voice calls them in.

“I guess we’ll see in the next coming days. Or weeks,” I say, looking ahead leaving the hotel. “So, I can assume that we’re leaving Kyle back at the hotel and heading somewhere? Outside of Canada?”

“Yes, my dear, you are absolutely correct. How about South America? I’ve never been outside of the U.S. That bastard never wanted to. It was ‘unnecessary’ and ‘we have everything we need here,’ pathetic ass.” she says, rolling her eyes at the thought of him. I laugh and change our course location.

“How about Italy instead?” I say, getting a better feeling. She stops and looks at me and smiles.

“Oh! Even better! But we need to be careful.” She said in seriousness.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with Italy?”

“Well, the Volturi is there. Remember how I was telling you about these vampire police/mafia? Well, that’s them. They live in Volterra. I think we can visit, but staying there longer than a week, well really 3 days, may raise a red flag.” Vanity said.

“So, visiting the castle/church is basically out of the question?”

“Yes. They stay there, and the better we lay low, the more fun we can have. Why did you say Italy anyway?” she looked up at me with curiosity. We step up to an ATM machine and take out enough money from Dav-Kyles card and then discard it somewhere where it won’t be found.

“Do we really need to know that answer?” I said, looking at her with a smile. She shakes her head and laughs as we continue onward towards the bus station.

“You need to eat before we stay near anyone.” She tells me. I nod my head and search out for my next meal. I listen to my intuition and walk ahead of us. Weaving around people, turning down different streets until I come upon a high-class looking neighborhood. I calmly walk down the street listening for my next direction.

“Take a left on 5th, then right on the first alleyway. They’ll come,” my inner self said. I follow as instructed and wait. Vanity stopped questioning the things I know and follows along with it. It never led us in a bad situation, and she learned I wouldn’t put us in one. Believe it or not, she’s not evil, misguided maybe, but not bad. Speaking of being evil or not. Here comes our meal.

It was a man, a woman, and a child around six. I looked at Vanity, and she looked back at me. We nodded our heads and waited for the perfect moment. The man, “5’8” dirty blond hair, lanky, with tattoos across his body, was walking in front of the woman and child. The woman—who was “5’3”, long brunette hair with pale skin—was walking together with a little boy with black curly hair, big wide eyes, and dimples. They didn’t see us in the corner of the alley watching them. The man turned around, and before he could do anything, Vanity was behind him. The look on the woman’s face was in a state of shock. Vanity grabbed him by his collar and tossed him near the garbage bin. I looked at the woman, then at the boy, and walked towards her while Vanity was having her meal. I could hear a struggle, and I blocked the little boy's sight.

“Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” I smiled. We walked back in the direction they came from, finding a frantic mother looking for him. We retrieved the little boy to her and walked back to where her lover (I assume) would be dead at. As we rounded the corner to the alley, I shoved her and made sure she saw my face before I ended her life. Like the life she and her trash partner in crime almost took. Discarding the body and gaining enough fill to complete the bus ride, we head back and proceed to Italy.

~~~

“Remind me to never get on a plane again,” I told Vanity as she skips through the terminal.

“Oh, come on! It wasn’t that bad.” She said sarcastically.

“I’m going to ignore that comment. Now that we’re here, you can lead the way.” She smiles and proceeds to give me the rundown of what we need to do and where we need to go. It didn’t take long to find willing victims to help us. After going to the bathroom to switch out our contacts, we sat at the airport's bar and waited. It wasn’t long afterward that two men walk up to us and proceed to have a conversation.

“My friend and I are stuck here until we can get a hotel room. Somehow, our reservation didn’t go through, and so now we’re stuck. You wouldn’t by happen to know any hotels nearby that aren’t too expensive, would you?” Vanity said, laying it hard on Thing 1 while I played the shy and sad yet worried friend to Thing 2.

“Of course, we do. How about you guys come back to ours, and we can help you get settled in. We’re here on business, and we could use some company while here.” Thing 1 said. We smiled as if we were so grateful and played the willing idiots they thought we were. We left the bar and headed towards their car and to the hotel. We checked in and proceeded to the room. Vanity and I shared a look at one another and smiled. We weren’t going to kill them; we just needed to use them. Then what Vanity does next is entirely up to her. Over the next couple of days, we convinced Thing 1 and Thing 2 to buy us separate rooms but proceeded to see them. It was currently eleven at night, and Vanity and I decided to head towards Volterra. We checked out and went on foot, going unnoticed to others around. Once we hit some wooded areas, we set sail. About an hour later, I was given instructions.

“Turn left, go up a hill, sharp right, then wait.” I do as instructed, and Vanity follows. She asked what I was doing, and I just pointed to my head. After coming to the location, we wait.

“I know there’s a reason, but is there a reason as to why we’re here?” I look at her and shrug my shoulders. Not long afterward, we hear footsteps running towards us.

“Don’t be afraid.” I hear, and Vanity’s face pops in my head. I grab her hand and give her a smile to ease her worry. I let go of her hand as we come upon four figures. Not even 30 seconds later, I hear

“Hot damn.” I look at Vanity and watch her look at the bigger guy of the group. He smiles, and she smiles back at him. I hid my smile behind my hand and try not to laugh out loud. The big boy goes around the blonde little girl in front of him and steps up to her.

“Hello there, I’m Felix. What might your name be mia bella” he says, looking down at her. ‘Ol boy is huge, and I mean Vanity has to lift her head all the way up to look at him. She smiles at him and raises her hand towards him to shake.

“The names Vanity handsome.” She says, giving her signature smile that brings men weak to the knees. They smile at one another, and the little blonde girl announces herself.

“Felix, let's go. Aro will be expecting us.” And they runoff. Felix rolls his eyes and puts out an arm for Vanity to grab and acknowledges me to follow. We make it to the castle, and we are directed to the three kings Vanity has told me about. And dear God, are they some ugly ass people. Aren't Vampires supposed to be pretty?

Long story short, Vanity found her mate and is basically forced to stay here. I, on the other hand, have no need or want to stay here. Aro can read people's minds by touching them (ew) and picking up on my wanting to leave. No amount of coercing will get me to stay. Vanity understood, but I did promise to stay for a while. Just long enough to know that If I leave, I know Vanity would be safe. But by the time I chose to leave, I was instructed not to.

“You’re staying!” she said/asked me, jumping on my couch while Felix stood in the doorway. I smiled and shook my head.

“No, but I will stay for a little while longer,” I said, tapping on my timple. She nodded her head and hugged me. “Plus, I’m still iffy about Felix here. How do I know you won't hurt her?” I said, half-joking half-serious. But with a smile. He smiled back, understanding the underline warning in my tone.

“I promise you, I would kill myself before I hurt a hair on her head.” I nodded my head.

“Remember, I’ll know if something is wrong...” I said, looking at him.

“And that’s why I love you!” Vanity said, hugging my neck. “Did I ever thank you for choosing Italy as our destination?” I laughed and nodded my head.

“Only about a thousand times.” We continued to talk until Demitri came to let us know it was almost mealtime. We left and went to the main room. Felix and Vanity joined them as I spoke to the receptionist. All of a sudden, I notice three people leaving. A human girl and two vampires I recognized from Forks.

“Bella?” they stopped and looked at me. Her eyes widen as she recognized who I was.

“Y/n?! Wha-what, what happened to you?!” before I could respond, Vanity and Felix come back out, hearing the conversation.

“Well, I changed.” I shrug my shoulders. Alice and Edward are just as surprised, and Vanity breaks the awkwardness.

“Hi! I’m Vanity. Who are you guys?” she asked sweetly. I respond to her.

“This is Alice and Edward Cullen, and the human girl is Bella. We all lived in the same area as each other.” She nodded her head. She looked back at me and gave me a sad smile. We realized this is why I didn't leave when I necessarily wanted to.

“Come on. You can tell us everything on the way.” Alice said sweetly. I hugged the shit out of Vanity, and she gave them a warning as I gave Felix earlier. We grabbed some robes and headed back towards Forks. I have a lot of explaining to do.

~~~

Once we landed, I texted Vanity and talked to Alice, Bella, and Edward. I told them I will explain everything when we get to their house. Within an hour of talking to them, I figured Edward and Alice out quickly.

“Be careful of your thoughts and actions...” was the first thought. “He’s a Mindreader” was the second. And “She’s a Psychic” was the third. Edward was slightly standoffish from me knowing, but Alice was ecstatic. It was amusing. She and Vanity would be great friends, trouble makers, but best friends. When we pull up to their house, I notice the rest of the family waiting outside. To say that they were shocked, seeing me is a stretch. The same questions Bella had in Volterra was written on all of their faces. So we proceeded inside to where I explained what happened after my disappearance a few months ago.

“So, I guess I should start from the beginning...” and I proceeded to tell them what happened that night with Vanity, Leo, and the three wolves that came after us. How Vanity decided to throw me into the water and swim off with me. How I basically drowned, and she changed me while underwater. Biting every central artery area and swimming off with me. Now, how did I survive? No idea. It was painful. The transformation and the added pain of not breathing were so frightening that I passed out. We made it to land not too far from the cliff, and she ran towards Canada, unknowing to the wolves. There is where we stayed for the next few months, back and forth from Canada to Alaska and back. I explained what happened and why we were in Italy and how I made a full circle in under a year. Before anyone could ask a question, Edward called out,

“Jakes here.” I looked at him in shock. “You have to hide,” Edward said to me. I looked at him as if he lost his mind.

“What? Why? I won't hurt him. Jakes, my friend.” I said defensively. Believe it or not, I gained significant control over my thirst thanks to my ability. Learning to listen to it helped me better than expected. It took a while to trust it completely, but I’ve learned to do so.

“Y/n. Jake isn't the same Jake as before. He’s...changed.” Bella said. Oh no... the last time I heard that I lost my best friend. I shook my head.

“No...don't say that. Jake wouldn't know as long as I have my contacts in.” Before anyone could say anything, there was Jake, outside looking nothing how the Jake I knew before looked. He was outside asking for Bella to make sure she isn't a “leech.” What the fuck? I went outside to see what the hell was going on, and that’s when Jake saw me. I looked at him and saw why they said he was different. He changed, just like Jared did.

“Y/n! Is that...is that you!?” Jake yelled/whispered, looking at me. I smiled a wave awkwardly.

“Hey, Jake.” He looked in disbelief.

“Hey, Jake? Hey Jake?! You disappear for six months and come back as, as, THIS! And all you can say is HEY!!!” I flinch, taking a step back. “Did that girl do this to you?” I looked at him, confused.

“How did you know about that?” I asked. He shook his head and backed away. A few seconds later, he shifted...into a fucking wolf. Now it clicked together with why Jared went from friendly to hostile. Jake ran off into the woods and howled.

“Jake is going to tell Sam. Prepare to meet up with them,” Edward said. Which Rosalie responded with an eye roll and a sarcastic “Great.” Something tells me that things are about to get real interesting.

 Part 1: Hello My Dear Friend

Part 2: Goodbye My Dear Friend

Part 3: Welcome My Dear Friend

Part 4: Why My Dear Friend

Part 5: End My Dear Friend

Request Open! (Go to the description bar on my page to put one in)

[xxisxxisxxis]

Special Preview: Gateway Drug | 1989

Hi:) I hope everyone had a good day! This is something coming up very soon in the story.

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.

.

"Now, you and Nikki are like the poster children of what not to do when you get married." Howard Stern says and I rub my lips together, holding back a laugh as I shake my head. "Yeah, yeah, and you know it."

"Well, we shouldn't have gotten married as young as we did--that's where we really screwed ourselves ove--"

"--You were seventeen when you two got married weren't, you?" 

"Nineteen. Jesus, no, I was nineteen." I correct him. 

"Two years, same difference." He shrugs. "Was he high at the wedding? He was stoned outta mind at Tommy's, I heard." 

"He wasn't on anything when we got married. His deal with the really heavy stuff wasn't until a few weeks after we got married." 

"That poor man." He says, shaking his head slightly. "Perfectly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, meets a hot girl, settles down some and not a month into the marriage he's so miserable he gets on heroin." He adds. 

"Dude, shut up." Duff laughs it off and I roll my eyes, chuckling to myself as Howard points his finger at me. 

"You're trouble. You gotta be, that's all anybody can say about you, you know that right? 'She's a hot chick but she's trouble'." 

"I'm not trouble." I deny it. 

"Well, maybe not now 'cause you got a kid, you can't just go out and kick peoples asses anymore." He points out. "Well, no, no I take that back because you did a number on Bobby Dall and Bret Michaels while you were pregnant, didn't you?"

"Okay, that's…" I trail off, sighing, trying to think. 

"Yes or no, that you tore them a new one when you were still knocked up?" 

"I did, but it wasn't, like, a physical altercation, I don't think they would've hit me because I was pregnant." 

"I think they didn't hit you because they figured they'd have half of the sunset strip rock scene on their backs." He adds, going back to what he said earlier about not believing Duff and Nikki were the only rockstars I was sexually linked to and Duff coughs, taking another puff of his cigarette. 

"Probably." I agree. 

"So, that's confirmation you've rolled around with--"

"--I didn't say that." I argue. "I know a lot of those guys through Nikki and the boys and so I'm friends with a lot of them so if they caught wind I was hit when I'm pregnant, they'd probably be pissed." I explain. 

"What even happened in that situation, why were you pouring beer or piss or whatever the hell it was on Bobby and Bret?" He asks next. 

"Slash had said something about posers in a magazine." I tell him. 

"And we shared a publicist, not anymore, but anyway, Bobby and Bret--apparently--had approached her and was grilling her over what Slash had said and she made the smart comment that she didn't understand why they were so threatened by us when Guns hadn't sold 500,000 records, but they were selling millions, and according to her, Bret and Bobby poured beer on her for it, and she was really upset so me and the guys sent her a card and some flowers and Viv had heard about it and...took it into her own hands." He tries to hold his grin back.

"You don't say." Howard says it, brows raised. "How did your husband feel about this? Because I feel like you get yourself into some stuff when he's either stoned outta his mind or in rehab--does he normally keep you on a leash and pretty tame because you seem to fly off the cuff when he's not available." He says next. "I'm noticing a pattern." 

"He doesn't keep me on a leash." I reply. 

"Unless you want him to." He counters and I can't bring myself to even respond to it. "Is it because you're lonely and want attention when he's not around?" 

"No, that's not--"

"--'Cause I can give you attention if you'd like." He says next. 

"No, thank you." I dryly say. 

"Are you into stuff like that, though, I mean really?" 

"What stuff?" 

"Leashes and weird things like that."

"I--"

"--You gotta be to be married to someone like Nikki Sixx." He crosses his arms. "Well, take that back, because he cheated on you with that wild Vanity chick, right? So, you probably were his vanilla companion and he went to her for the unspeakable stuff." 

Ouch. 

"He was with her for drugs." I state. 

"Oh?"

"I wouldn't get high with him or find it fun to lay around and find new ways to cook substances so that's why he was with her--to have somebody to do drugs with and have this whole romantic thing going." 

"So, you were good in bed together? He wasn't bored?" 

"If Nikki finds something boring he doesn't do it. If he thought I was boring in bed he'd honestly stop and go find something better to do." 

"Ouch." 

"Yeah."

"But that's good for you, though, because you know he's not bored with you. He likes sleeping with you. Not that I can blame him. You're hot--what'd he think of that Playboy cover you did? Was he into it or…?" 

"Not really because we weren't really on speaking terms because it was right after some stuff happened and...yeah. I don't think he didn't like it because I was doing it. I think he was still mad over other things going on." 

"I was certainly into it." He says. "Wish you woulda shown more but, whatever, I'll take what I can get, Miss Modesty." 

I roll my eyes and he smiles. 

"I have it pinned to my ceiling." He adds. "I have fun with myself while looking at it at night, you know." 

Duff nearly chokes on his water. 

"You're awful." I tell Howard. 

"How tall are you?" 

"5'10"." 

"God," he huffs out, glancing at Duff. "You lucky bastard." He says next and Duff chuckles. "Yeah, laugh it up, I hate you. I hate Nikki, too--I especially hate Nikki because he's been getting to do some things to you for years that every man in the continental United States and some parts of Europe can only dream about." 

"What are you even talking about?" Duff can't help but laugh at the specificity, and I can't help but to, either. "Are you on anything?" He asks him. 

"I'm not on a damn thing--just high on the feelings I'm getting being in the same room as her." He replies, clearing his throat. "You were how old when you two started dating?" 

"Seventeen." I reply. 

"Was he your first sexual experience?" 

"I'm not answering that." 

"He was wasn't he?"

"Howard…" 

"Oh, my God. Seventeen. That must've been nice. You were still innocent church girl who didn't even know what sex was, I bet." 

"I knew what sex was." I argue. 

"That lucky, lucky, lucky bastard." He says it again. "I'm pissed that he cheated, by the way. I couldn't cheat on you. I feel like it'd be physically impossible to imagine myself with another woman except you--right now, at least." He says and I wrinkle my nose. 

"You're a pig." I tell him. 

"Don't make me get the chains and candle wax out while you degrade me, 'cause that turns me on." 

"You're sick." 

"I wouldn't mind being next in line to have a kid with you." He says next. 

"I hate you." I say flatly. 

"You want more kids in the future? With Nikki, obviously, unless you three just have some threesome thing going." He motions to me and Duff. 

"No, no, we don't...I'd like to have kids with Nikki, yeah." I reply. 

"Really? How many?"

"Quite a few." 

"We talkin' two, four, six, eight, how much is a--"

"--About that many, yeah." 

"Eight?" He raises his brows, shocked. 

"About four to six, maybe." 

"Six kids?" 

"Sure."

"Do you like being pregnant? I feel like that subconsciously comes from a freak part of your brain that's into pregnancy." 

"Why is everything sexual to you?" 

"You're deflecting."

"I'm not into pregnancy I just want a big family. I'm the only child my parents had and I want Monroe to have a lot of brothers and sisters." 

"Does Nikki know you want six kids?" 

"Yeah, we've talked about it."

"And he's good with that number?" 

"Yeah." 

"Answer this question for me." 

"Okay."

"Did you mention wanting six kids with him while making love, because I guarantee anybody in bed with you is gonna agree to murder if you ask them." 

"Why do you keep tying it back to sex, Howard, dude, chill." Duff tells him. 

"I'm just making a point." Howard tells us. 

"It wasn't during 'making love'." I say. 

"I don't believe that." He states. "Because no man is gonna agree to six kids unless they're distracted by what the kids are gonna be coming out of--that's a weapon for you women and you guys use it knowing we're paralyzed victims."

"Oh, my God." I mumble. 

"The same vagina that got Nikki Sixx to get married, is the same vagina that had Duff McKagan risking his brand new career on a big tour, is the same vagina that convinced Nikki to stay and have six more kids despite you being completely crazy." 

My face turns bright red, my eyes closing as I hold back a nervous chuckle, and I can tell Duff's getting aggravated. 

"Why do you want so many kids--the real reason." Howard asks. 

"The plan is to milk as many from him as I can and then file for divorce and collect alimony and child support." I say, sarcastically. 

"Seriously?" 

"No, Howard." I scold him for even considering that's a possibility.

"I honestl--no, you know what I think? I think what I hear about you being wild and crazy and evil is completely true, and you just keep stomping your heels down on these guys' throats and torture them but they let you get away with it because you're sexy and have a hot body and whatever poison is between your legs is like heroin." 

I feel a punch to my stomach but push it aside. 

"Oh, please, if that were the case I'd be getting anything I wanted and wouldn't have had a husband who was strung out for years." 

[godsporncollection]

Saturday Morning Session

(personal commentary in italics) (sorry for how inconsistent i am at this, i’m trying new medication, so my focus comes and goes unpredictably, but i didn’t want this to take weeks)

Russel M Nelson -  strengthen your testimony (?)

"I understand better what he meant when he said 'behold, i will hasten my work in this time.'" 

Y'all have been strengthening your testimonies and i, and your children, thank you. did that inclusion of "your children" feel off to anyone else?

I can see the work on the temple outside my window and that makes me think about how we need to remove the old debris from our lives. I too think of the temple as 'old debris' that should be removed from my life.

"the gospel is a message of joy" I cannot roll my eyes hard enough

that was short. what was the topic? blab for a five minutes?

Dieter F. Uchdorf - god is Among Us

I had to move lots when I was a kid because there was a war on. i thought about the missionaries who came to the country of their enemies to bring us the gospel.

i was a kid in a war-torn country > missionaries > god has not forgotten us > we will be heirs of god > how could we complain when we have that? > the atonement > mistakes are okay, just gotta keep repenting.

what would jesus teach if he was among us today? the same thing he's always taught. "the savior always teaches timeless truths, to everyone, a message of hope and belonging, a testament that god has not abandoned his children that god is Among Us."

jesus says to love one another and to be full of charity towards all men. i would like to see it.

anyone else feel like these talks are just. empty? like, they're not feeling it either?

if jesus came into your home today, he would see into your heart and i'm gonna waste a couple more minutes by expanding on that. one look into his eyes and we would be forever changed by the realization that god is Among Us.

back to me, i wish i could go back and tell myself to stay on the right track because god is Among Us, so i'm gonna tell you instead. god is Among Us.

"line upon line" *gag*

god is Among Us

Joy D Jones - abuse is wrong unless you use it to teach kids about the gospel

"have you ever wondered why we call 'primary' 'primary'?" as someone who understands how language works, no.

because kids are importanter than everything else

god trusts us to be nice to our kids; that means no abuse, even if we're angry. whoever needed this reminder should be shot.

hey, maybe you can "combat the evils of abuse" by not fucking raising your kids in an abusive cult!

analogy of a kid who fell out of bed because he "didn't get far enough in" = he wasn't indoctrinated enough, with awkward collage of pics of kids for a minute.

eyring said to get 'em while they're young

love all the pics of black people that try to say "see? we don't think black people are inherently evil (anymore)!"

analogy of a soldier in boot camp. drill seargants are mean, but that was necessary because apparantly it's the only way this guy can learn how to hide. also, apparently this guy is "our friend". not my friend, thanks.

"how can we do the same for our children?" don't fucking act like a drill seargent to your kids! ffs

"wouldn't we rather have them sweat in the safe learning environment of the home than bleed on the battlefields of life?" first of all, fuck you. second, dramatic much? third, fuck you, kids shouldn't have to learn about life in a hostile environment. does this woman have kids? are they okay? fucking hell, five kids were raised by a woman with this mentality. what a bitch.

"eternity is the wrong thing to be wrong about." i got news for you. of course, if i ever spoke to this machine, that topic wouldn't be my top priority.

I need a fucking drink.

Jan Eric Newman - teaching the gospel is good, but you can't force a testimony on others

anecdote about a local old woman getting birthday gifts. she taught us some good things when we were growing up, so thanks, sister davis.

another teacher, at college, was a "master teacher." he loved me and the lord. he taught me to learn doctrine on my own and that "changed me forever."

just sayin', if you're taught how to learn on your own, but didn't exercise enough critical thought to gtfo of this cult, maybe the teacher wasn't the best.

it's good to have good teachers.

the ancient nephites and lamanites had good teachers, and "there was no contention among them!"

"how can we teach more like the savior and help others become more deeply converted?" nope, nope. nope.

1st, "learn all you can about the master teacher hismelf." so, we're sticking with the term "master teacher." cool. doesn't sound weird at all.

ask yourself questions about how he taught, then do that.

read "teaching in the savoir's way."

2nd, use bullshit stories. oh, no, it's a story about how somebody is grateful for the pandemic because her adult child read the BoM for the first time during it. she said it had made "literal miracles."

3rd, "remember that conversion must come from within." guess jan and "joy" should have compared notes before speaking.

"children inheret many things, but a testimony is not one of them. we can't give our children a testimony any more than we can make a seed grow; but we can provide a nourishing environment, with good soil, free of thorns that would choke the word."

Gary E. Stevenson - kindness

story about a study where rabbits were fed a high-fat diet, but those under the care of a loving researcher didn't gain as much weight.

only christians can intuitively understand that this means there's a reason to be kind to others.

jesus said love one another.

addressing primary kids - be kind. here's a story about a kid who stopped being a bully because the bullied kid said it hurt.

to the teens - social media makes bullying worse, clearly satan is using social media against your generation. do what you can t make these spaces safer. if you're a bully, "stop it."

to the adults- "we have a primary responsibility to set a tone and be role models of kindness (get wrecked "joy"), inclusion and civility."

from ballard- "i have never heard members of this church to be anything but loving, kind, tolerant and benevolent to our friends and neighbors of other faiths." k, but, like, you know it's not just a difference of religious belief that’s the problem, right?

i'm heartbroken to hear about prejudice against blackasianlatino people or of any other group. i love how that section was really only about race, with a blanket "any other group" thrown in as an afterthought so they can't be accused of being homophobic.

in the winter of 1838, jo smith was in prison and why do you think that happened, gary?

church members were driven from their homes and the residents of a town across the river gave them food and shelter. that generosity saved the lives of many of them.

god is a compassionate care-giver.

Gerrit W. Gong - disjointed anecdotes of human experiences, idk

i miss my dad. he was adventurous, except regarding food.

i saw a guy be mean to a lady selling ice cream. he smashed all of her cones. the image of her trying to salvage the cones haunts me to this day.

story of the good samaritan.

be like christ this easter.

"we recieve inspiration as we counsel together, listening to each person, including each sister and the spirit."

does this guy have a topic?

he’s is just giving a list of random human experiences and parables.

*displays a lack of understanding of instagram.*

he's listing something throughout this, like, he keeps counting, but i have no idea what and his voice is making my adhd medication run away, so i'm not listening to this again.

Henry B. Eyring - temple worthiness

today i'm feeling light and hope, like the first day i went to the salt lake temple

i'm an oblivious fucker who didn't notice my name being pinned on me, so i thought the woman who greeted me was an angel because she knew my name.

thought he could remember being in the temple before, but a voice that was not his own (that's how you know it's true and not something he just told himself) told him he was remembering heaven.

confused "holiness to the lord" with "this is a holy place." i know both phrases use the word 'holy', but like, those contexts mean separate things.

i also had this feeling during my wedding in the logan temple.

i think henry should get checked out, he suffers from frequent hallucinations and it's good to know how your brain works differently from others when in a leadership position.

during my wedding, i had a vision of a house and the officiant said to live in a way that you can walk away easily. a year later, my father in law bought the exact house and my wife and i lived in the guest house for ten years. then i got the call to move somewhere else on assignment from the church and we walked away easily.

scripture from jesus about temples.

if you're unworthy in the temple, you won't be "able to see, by the power of the holy ghost, the spiritual teaching of the savior that we can recieve in the temple."

"when we are worthy to recieve such teaching, there can grow, through our temple experience, hope, joy, and optimism throughout our lives. that hope, joy, and optimism are available only through accepting the ordinances performed in holy temples."

i forgot how simple a baptism is, so i'm gonna tell you how amazed (and a little concerned) i was when my youngest daughter stayed to do baptism for the dead for all of the names on the list that day. maybe i'm just super comfortable in the water, but that doesn't sound hard, actually. i used to almost enjoy doing those.

quotes the primary song 'i love to see the temple.'

remember to be worthy so you can live with your family forever.

[shirtlesssammy]

9x17: Mother's Little Helper

Welcome to the other side and welcome to the Misha-directed episode! Yay! 

Then:

Crowley’s got what Dean wants

Now:

A woman comes home to an ungrateful husband asking what’s for dinner. He then complains when she tells him it’s meatloaf. She then complains back with a candlestick and a severe beating. Ngl, I was rooting for the wife there. 

Sam invites an overstressed Dean to help with the case. Dean wants to stay and search for anything on Abaddon. 

Sam heads out alone. He gets to the sheriff’s office and starts with the routine questions. The sheriff really didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Also, they find the wife has hung herself in jail. There’s bloody writing all over the jail cell walls. 

Sam checks in with Dean. He’s not very chatty. He’s also reliving a highlight reel of the Mark in his mind. 

A young man accepts a ride from a passing van. 

The kid knows the driver though, so it’s all good. Well, until the van lights up and we hear screams. 

The kid, Bill, later wanders into a diner that Sam’s enjoying dinner at, and starts devouring leftover food on the counter. Billy snaps at the waitress, and Sam defends her. He then knocks over a glass, and stabs the poor waitress through the hand. Sam knocks him out. 

The boy ends up in the jail, where there are plenty of other normal people, enjoying a little downtime. 

Sam splashes holy water on Billy, and asks what he is. “Clear,” he responds. “Of everything.” 

Sam calls Dean and during their conversation, realizes the people in this town are acting like he did when he was soulless (well, Sam, not quite. You didn’t randomly kill people that pissed you off. Note to future me: Write a comparison post about how Sam at his core is different from others without a soul.) Sam asks for Dean help, but Dean’s got to keep researching. 

Dean ends their call and Crowley pops up to say hi. 

Sm hears a woman arguing with the local law enforcement about demons. (I love that Jenny O’Hara is in Supernatural. She’s in EVERYTHING so I guess it only makes sense.) Sam sits down to talk with Julia, and learns more about her experience with demons. 

She’s confused why he’s willing to listen. He tells her that he’s more open minded than most. She guesses that he’s a Men of Letters. They came to her town in 1958. 

Flashback Alert

Julia, a nun in 1958, answers the door of her convent. Henry Winchester and Josie Sands are there to greet her with a letter. 

Dean meanwhile, plays a game of pool alone while Crowley picks his brain about the blade, and what it was like to kill Magnus. 

For Excellent Directing Science:

Crowley thinks Dean is scared. Dean doesn’t refute him. 

Julia continues her story. Henry and Josie were there investigating a murder-suicide of sorts. One of the nuns killed two people before jumping from the church bell tower. They speak with the Mother Superior, and they are allowed to roam the abbey in their investigation. Julia is their guide and takes them to the nun’s quarters. 

While walking, Josie and Henry talk and complain about the tasks they have to do before being fully initiated into the Men of Letters. 

They find the nun’s room covered in washed away blood and an etched in symbol that Josie recognizes as knights of hell. 

Julia hears a noise later that night and finds a man with black eyes in a habit dragging someone up the stairs. She turns to run and gets punched by another fake nun.

She wakes up tied to a chair, along with other victims. As other victims are removed from the room one by one, Julia weeps. Suddenly, Josie and Henry burst in with exorcism spells and holy water blazing. The demons inhabiting the nuns smoke out, but Mother Superior walks in. She’s impervious to Henry’s exorcism and intrigued to learn that they’re Men of Letters. She decides to possess Henry in order to infiltrate the Men of Letters. Josie begs her to stop, and offers up herself instead. She loves Henry in a terrible, unrequited fashion. The demon introduces herself as Abaddon, the Knight of Hell. She possesses Josie.

While Abaddon decides to head off to infiltrate and destroy the Men of Letters, she leaves the other demon nun behind to continue their evil work. 

Sam’s intrigued by this Abandon connection, and tries to figure out what she was up to. He looks at a security camera shot of the nunnery van, and decides to investigate. Julia tells him that it’s been closed for years. Perfect for a shadowy demon enterprise, then!

Dean, meanwhile, sidles up to the bar with Crowley. He’s firmly in denial about the Mark, but Crowley has a clear idea of who he thinks Dean is - “a chip off the old Mark of Cain.”

Crowley insists that they’re in the fight against Abandon together, and the sooner that Dean embraces his true Cain-adjacent nature, the better. He leaves Dean to brood at the bar, clasp the Mark of Cain through his jacket, and enjoy bitter flashbacks.

Dean spots another flanneled individual at the bar. He’s fondling a rosary and sporting a large hunting knife. As Crowley heads to the powder room, the guy follows. Dean manages to stop him just before he heads into the men’s room. “You’re packing a knife to a demon fight and you don’t stand a chance,” Dean tells him.

Dean warns the guy that when Crowley’s done killing him, then he’ll go after his family, friends, and entire life. Adequately warned, the guy sheaths his knife and heads out of the bar. Dean orders Crowley to clear out of the bathroom, and they reconvene outside. Crowley tells Dean he was enjoying a shot of sweet, sweet human blood (and emotions) in the bathroom…but that he recognizes the signs of addiction in Dean as well. Specifically, Crowley recognizes the itch of longing for the First Blade in Dean. Dean insists that he’s ready to take down Abaddon no matter what, and then he takes off. Once Dean leaves, the “hunter” in the bar emerges to talk to Crowley. It turns out he was a test to see if Dean would save Crowley’s life. “He’s ready,” Crowley says, and smiles.

Sam pulls up outside of the old convent. It’s run down and cluttered, but the van is parked outside. He finds sparkling jars lined up on a shelf. 

The van driver from earlier tries to accost Sam, but Sam makes quick work of him. Unfortunately for Sam, the old nun from earlier hurls him across the room. She looks at the sparkling jars and calls them souls - if the jars break those souls are going to fly right back to their bodies. Sam recognizes her from Julia’s story - she’s still a minion of Abaddon after all these years. 

Agnes villain-speeches Abaddon’s big plan to Sam: they’re harvesting souls and turning them into demons so they can win Hell’s crown. Abaddon has soul harvesters everywhere. She tries to harvest Sam, but Sam pulls out his cell phone and starts playing a recording of an exorcism. She drags herself to the phone and smashes it before she smokes out, only to be stabbed moments later by the demon-killing knife. 

Sam frees the souls.

The souls zip out like Tinkerbell, and head for the people locked up in prison. Remorse and horror overtake them. I continue to insist that we need a team of trained, dedicated counselors for victims of supernatural trauma. 

Sam and Julia catch up after the case. He asks her why she didn’t warn Henry about Abaddon. Julia flashes back to Abaddon personally threatening her and warning her to stay quiet. She left the order, overwhelmed with shame. Sam tells her that all she told him has saved people. 

We flash back one more time to Henry and Abaddon back in the car and ready to head home. Henry remains passionate about the Men of Letters cause. And Josie? Josie feels like “a whole new person.” Dun dun DUN

When Sam arrives back at the bunker, Dean’s back to research. 

They exchange short updates before Sam tells Dean that he’s re-evaluated his position. Abaddon IS priority number one. She’s creating an army, and must be stopped.

These Quotes Sparkle Like Souls:

Maybe everyone has a different reaction to losing their soul

Unless Abaddon likes 10-cent wings, stale beer, and the clap, I doubt that she's here

I prayed and prayed, but God didn't answer my prayers. Henry and Josie did

Nothing like Cain? What's in that bottle? Delusion? 

I’m going to go water the lily. Care to cross streams?

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[tinydooms]

Original Short Story: written in early 2016 while I was minding the doors at Handel and Hendrix in London (in my glamorous past life). Content Warnings: demons, assault, demonic sexual assault, murder.

The Death of Andromeda Ashton

Now darling, you know that there is a big empty house on this property, away up past the formal gardens; you can just see it from your window when the leaves are down from the trees. Ashton Manor is its name, so called because my ancestor, Joseph Ashton, built it centuries ago, when Queen Anne ruled this isle. A solid English manor house, with wings stuck on it during the reign of the Georges, built of grey stone and with hundreds of windows peering down at us like so many curious eyes. It is the country seat of the Ashton family and has been for almost three hundred years. But we do not live there. Not anymore.

I can see impatience in your face. I know all this, is what you’re thinking. Patience, dear one, for I am going to tell you why.

They were great collectors, the old Ashtons were, and as the years went on they filled the Hall with all manner of treasures, ancient books and paintings and sculptures from far off lands where strange gods were worshipped and men look nothing like you’d believe. Every generation of Ashtons contributed to the Collection, until one day, one of them brought home something monstrous.

The house is empty now, its windows stare unseeing; its treasures are locked up and guarded by an aging caretaker. All know that it is abandoned, most of its treasures still inside, though some were safely moved to London around the time Queen Victoria died. But never, in eighty years, has anyone broken in to steal anything. There are too many stories about the place. You’ve heard some of them, of course. The crying that can be heard in the east wing. The singing heard on stormy nights. The dark figure that prowls the corridors and the woods by the park, thinning the packs of rabbits that live there. The woman sinking into the lake. Yes, I can see by your eyes that you know of what I am speaking.

Her name is Andromeda Ashton. She lived here many years ago, when the house was an open and happy place. She was the darling petted baby daughter of older parents, born when her elder siblings were almost grown and had thought their parents were passed the age of engendering children. Her eldest sibling, Henry, was already well into his first year at Cambridge, her sisters away at school. The closest brother in age was Edward, seven years older than she, a quiet and thoughtful boy.

Now, because she was the baby, and in no small part because she was a beautiful, intelligent little thing, Andromeda was given license to behave in ways that were most unusual for a girl of her class in that time. She had a governess and a tutor, learned Greek and Latin from childhood, and could always be found prowling the family Collection or reading books by great explorers and renowned antiquarians. By the time she was eighteen, Andromeda was widely considered to be one of the brightest Ashtons for a generation. What a shame, people said, that she was not a boy and could then use that pretty head of hers. What a shame such remarkable intelligence was all for naught.

They need not have feared, for Andromeda had plans for making her mark upon the world, in the form of her family’s Collection. She may not be allowed to attend Cambridge like her brothers or study theology like Edward, but she was allowed and encouraged to contribute something to the Collection. And it would be more than just her portrait, which showed a slim, wind-pale girl with dark hair and eyes, gazing at the painter with a fiery intensity. No, Andromeda had not spent her life reading the tales of antiquarians for nothing.

Now dearie, you know that there are many stories of ghosts and legends in these parts. The hills are as dotted with stories as they are with sheep. On the eve of her nineteenth year, Andromeda began to collect them. With her father’s blessing and the help of her former governess, a project was begun: to compile the county’s folktales. It was no small task. For months, Andromeda could be seen riding from farm to farm, speaking to laborers and landowners alike, and writing down their stories. The Crone of Tetley. The Wailing Well of St. Edmund’s. The Fenbury Witch. She recorded them all, never realizing that she herself would one day become such a whispered story.

“I don’t know how you sleep at night, after hearing these tales,” her mother said once.

Andromeda smiled. “They are not true, Mother! They’re silly superstitions that came about because people in the past had no learning. People tell stories to ascribe meaning to what they do not understand, that’s all. There’s no truth to them.”

This, my dear, was Andromeda’s firm belief: that superstition had given way to science, and that all the ghostly tales of the past, while amusing and interesting, had a rational explanation. It was to be her undoing.

Now, as is sometimes the case with amateur antiquarians, Andromeda began to be curious as to the truth behind these stories. There was one in particular that caught her fancy, and that was of the Chalice of Tilbury St. Bartholomew. What’s that? The what? I knew you would ask; it’s certainly not talked about anymore. Not since-no, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The story goes like this: centuries before, at the time the plague first appeared in England, there was an alchemist who thought he could escape the illness by coming to the countryside. And where did he come? Why here, of course. Tilbury St. Bartholomew, though in those days the name was rather different. It was whispered that this gentleman-I use that term lightly, for he was no such thing-continued his strange experiments in his cottage, and that he not only practiced alchemy, but the dark arts as well. You’re skeptical, I see. So was Andromeda. What were considered the dark arts then is known as science now, of course. But for all that, the villagers were afraid of him. It was said that he conjured devils, and that one such devil was contained in a silver cup he kept with him in his bedroom, ready to do his master’s bidding. Village maidens dreamed of a dark shape coming into their beds at night, bending over them and stroking their hair. The alchemist leered at them in church on Sundays, leading to speculation that his demon was kept for the hunting of women. Unease and unrest grew in the village, yet the alchemist continued his work unmolested.

But when the plague finally came to Tilbury St. Bartholomew-for no part of the country was left untouched-the villagers said it was the judgments of God upon them for allowing an evil sorcerer to live unhampered in their midst. The alchemist was dragged from his home and burned at the stake. The village maidens breathed sighs of relief, for though the plague raged about them, the dark creature came to their chambers no more. The alchemist’s cottage was burned, too, and the silver chalice was lost. No one knew what became of it.

Andromeda, though, had her suspicions. She was a learned young lady, and figured that there had to be some record somewhere of a necromancer and his effects. I don’t know what sort of research she did, but one summer evening, when her brother Edward was visiting from his Cambridge seminary, she asked him to ride out with her. No one knows where they went, but when they came back, Andromeda looked quite pleased, and shortly thereafter presented an ancient silver goblet to the family.

Why did she want it, you ask? Why, if such demonic stories were attached to the thing, would a young lady wish to bring such an object into her home? Come, child, haven’t you been listening? Andromeda was not a believer in such things as demons. She was an active and intelligent young lady, and it rankled that she could not use her brains to their fullest capacity. A book was all very well and good, you see, but a treasure such as this cup was a real asset to the Collection, and it gave her a measure of fame, besides. She wrote the card for it herself. Silver chalice, English, circa 1330. What a find! Everyone in the family and many people outside of it admired the discovery.

All of this is common knowledge. You can find Andromeda’s book in any bookshop in the county, and the local historians will tell you about the silver goblet. They will also tell you that the goblet has been lost under strange circumstances, and when pressed for an answer, they will sigh and tell you it was a great tragedy. For you see, darling, very few people know exactly what happened to the Ashton family in the months following Andromeda’s discovery.

Most of what I know comes from Edward’s personal diaries, and they are to be treated with much caution. He lost his mind that year, you know. But I think he was saner than anyone knew.

Nothing went right for the Ashtons after Andromeda’s discovery. First Mrs. Ashton, who had never been strong after the birth of her daughter, succumbed to illness, soon followed by Mr. Ashton, so that Henry, the eldest son, living in London, found himself head of the family. That was in September. Then there began to be problems with the livestock. Horses went mad, sheep began to die for seemingly no reason, and the gamekeepers reported outrageous amounts of dead rabbits and birds in the woods. The servants began to complain that tricks were being played upon them, for it seemed as though they were being pinched and grabbed at by unseen hands. Edward recorded in the days that followed his mother’s funeral, was the sense of being watched when you knew you were alone, of a cold breath at the back of your neck, the creak of a chair that only creaked when sat in. There was a presence in the house, he said, and everyone knew it. But no one spoke of it.

Andromeda was not spared. Alone in her room at night, as she lay in bed, she felt the gentle caress of fingers across her cheek, in her hair, running over her body, cold as a breath of winter air. She told herself that she only imagined the icy kisses on the back of her neck, on her shoulders and breastbone. They were the products of a fevered mind, surely, imaginations brought about by grief at the death of her parents. She ignored the caresses. What’s that, darling? She must have been very brave? Yes, or very foolish.

By late November, the events had become too real to ignore. When serving tea to visitors, Andromeda would feel whispery fingers on her thighs, and moments later her stockings would loosen as her garters untied themselves. Something tugged her hair as she brushed it, or grasped her hand as she reached for a pen. At night, the sensation of someone cuddling close to her became unbearable, until she jumped for a light, gasping. And then she would hear it: a soft, cold laugh.

At last, after one such night, Andromeda swallowed her pride and told Edward what was happening. He was a priest, or nearly so; of course he would help her.

“It has only been since we brought home my goblet that this has happened,” she told him as they walked through the portrait gallery. “But artefacts cannot truly contain demons. Can they?”

Edward rubbed his hand through his hair, eyes straying to Andromeda’s portrait, swinging in its frame against the far wall. “We cannot know what devilry a sorcerer can conjure when he goes against God. I fear we made a mistake in unearthing that cup, Meda.”

“What must we do?”

“We must put it back where it was. As soon as possible.”

They agreed that Edward would write to one of his teachers, Reverent Dr. Padgett, to come assist them in exorcising the demon. The letter was duly dispatched. The reply came by telegram the next morning: Dr. Padgett would arrive that evening on the six-thirty train. They would commence their business immediately.

That afternoon, Andromeda asked the servants to leave the house for the night. She found them eager to do so. None of them liked to say how relieved they were to be away from the house and its unseen occupant. At half past six, the head footman was dispatched to the station to collect Dr. Padgett. In the back of the carriage was his own trunk, for he had no intention of remaining alone with the family in the house once he had safely delivered the doctor. It was a cold, windy evening, and later he said that his master and mistress could not have picked a worse night to be alone in that house.

All of this is fact; you can find the records in the village police archives, if you’ve a mind to. But what I’m about to tell you know, darling, are the words of a madman. You see, the only two people who know what happened in that house are Andromeda and Edward, and the latter was in no fit state to speak coherently of what happened for some months afterwards. Besides, his tale was dismissed by doctors and magistrates alike as being too unbelievable to come from a sound mind.

What Edward said was this: believing that Padgett would soon arrive, he and Andromeda set about making preparations for the exorcism. The house was empty, but the air around them seemed heavy, oppressive. As there were no servants to light the lamps, they sat in near-darkness. Their black mourning clothes must have made the scene even darker. Once or twice, Edward felt as though something touched the back of his neck, but there was no one there but Andromeda, sitting on the sofa by the window, peering out into the windy dusk.

“Perhaps we should bring the cup here,” she said, at last. “Perhaps Dr. Padgett will be willing to go out with us immediately.”

“Certainly,” said Edward. “Shall I go for it?”

“No.” Andromeda stood, smoothing her black skirts. Edward says that her hands were shaking. “I feel certain it has to be me.”

Though neither of them said it, the fact hung in the air that Andromeda was the one to have meddled in what she should not. Still, Edward, being a kind soul, rose from his seat and put her arm through his.

“We will go together. Come now, little sister, chin up. Everything will be all right.”

The silver cup was in one of the many rooms that housed the Collection, deep in the bowels of the cold house. I’ll show it to you one day, if you like, through the window. Night was falling fast as they walked through the halls, the strong wind driving dark clouds before it as it screamed around the manor. The lamp in Edward’s hand flickered in the draught, and his diary says that it was with some relief that they gained the Collection rooms. Leaving Andromeda by the door, Edward moved across the room to light the lamps, thinking to bring some cheer to the evening, if cheer were at all possible.

It was as he was lighting the lamps that Edward heard the screams. He ran to the door to see Andromeda lying in the corridor, beating at something unseen with both hands. He ran to assist her and all at once found himself picked up and flung back into the room he had come from. Undaunted, he picked himself up and made to run to his sister, only to again be thrown down by the unseen creature. It must have been terrible, fighting such a force while Andromeda’s shrieks echoed through the halls. Edward says that she twisted this way and that as though grappling with something. He made for her a third time--and this time, Andromeda was thrown down on the floor, gasping, and the thing, the monster, the demon, grabbed Edward by the neck and dragged him back into the Collection room. He was sure it would kill him. But it did not. A moment of white hot pain, and Edward found himself pinned to the floor with an arrow through the leg. Where the dart came from, he did not know. He could not move. Apparently satisfied that the young priest would prove no further nuisance, the thing returned to Andromeda. Helpless, crying with pain and horror, Edward heard his sister’s screams renew, growing more and more awful until they were drowned by a low, terrible laugh. Then there came the sound of a body dragging, and Andromeda’s shrieks faded as she was carried away.

Dr. Padgett, arriving an hour later, found Edward, alive but in a terrible state. Having asked his driver to wait at the door, Padgett was able to send for a medical doctor, and a search was made for Andromeda. It did not take them long to find her, for though the wind continued to buffet the county, there was no rain. You know where they found her, of course, my dear, for you can see her there still, some nights. She was in the lake, just under the water, her dark hair a loose cloud around her, her heavy black frock covered in hundreds of tiny gashes, her shoes and stockings gone. Her eyes were closed, her skin bleached of color in the green water. She was quite dead.

For months afterwards Edward screamed in the night, howling that the monster had come for him. Certainly in the mornings he was covered in scratches that had not been there the day before. A team of doctors agreed that his mind had been shattered by his sister’s murder, for they did not believe that anything but a mortal man could have done such a vicious thing to the Ashton children. The best thing for him, they told Henry, was to retire to the coast in the care of a nurse. And so Edward never returned to Ashton Hall.

And the cup that had started the horror? Dr. Padgett conducted a search for it, but it was nowhere to be seen, though Edward swore it was in the room when they were attacked. No one knows what became of it. Perhaps it had gone, and the demon with it. I see the doubt in your eyes, dearest, and I have to agree with you.

Ever after, the servants whispered that there was something still haunting the rooms and corridors of the hall, and the gardeners swore they saw Andromeda slipping out of the lake on icy winter nights. Henry’s family certainly never felt comfortable in the Hall, and so it was shut up. And so it has remained for these eighty years, and who knows if we will ever return to live in it? But one thing I know for certain: on nights when the wind blows and the moon is dark, shapes can be seen moving in the windows of the Hall. And out in the lake, a dark-haired Victorian lady floats just underneath the water. Watching. Waiting.

[okageshadowkingfannovel]

Book 1. The Boy Meets the King

Chapter 1.

In a normal unsuspecting kitchen, a former adventurer stands before a stove, stirring the contents of a pot and humming to herself. In her early forties, she’s a warm, pleasant looking woman with pony-tailed reddish brown hair and soft brown eyes. She might have been the hero of this story about two decades ago, but her adventures are long since passed. The only adventures for her today are those of being a devoted wife and mother, and that means preparing dinner.

It’s just after lunch and suddenly, the younger of the woman’s two children bursts into the kitchen. She is a slender pretty girl with strawberry blond pigtails and vibrant green eyes. She is Annie, a teenager, but also, not the hero of this story. In fact, she has very little interest outside of keeping herself popular amongst the teenagers of Tenel village and finding a satisfactory boyfriend.

“Hey Mom, what’s for dinner?”

“Oh Annie,” Mom starts while casting a smile over her shoulder, “you just had lunch not too long ago and you’re already thinking about dinner?”

Annie twists a dainty finger into the strands of one pigtail. “I was just asking. It smells so good. Tell me, Mom. I wanna know.”

At this moment, the woman’s eldest child enters the kitchen, but it takes her and Annie a too long moment to notice him.

“Well, I’ll say that- Oh! Ari!”

“See? Ari’s come to find out too.”

The boy called Ari is 16 years old. He has a sapling like frame - slender, scrawny, almost seeming bendy. Shaggy red hair falls in long locks around his face and across his forehead, and his large eyes are emerald green. He’s wearing a blue striped sleeveless shirt, a black vest with gold clasps and a skull patch on the chest, and long khaki trousers. He doesn’t speak up much for himself and the whole town of Tenel agrees that his most notable quality is how unremarkable he is.

That being said, this quiet ordinary boy is the hero for this peculiar tale.

“Come on, Mom! What is it? It smells like stew … or steak?” Annie carries on.

“Well, what do you think it might be, Ari?”

Ari courteously sniffs the air, shrugs, and answers. “I don’t know.”

Mom looks slightly disappointed that her son gave no guess, but she smiles anyway and says, “well, tonight’s dinner is … a secret!”

Annie rolls her eyes. “Mom! That’s so unfair.”

“Oh! That reminds me, Ari. Your dad found a funny bottle on his way home last night. It’s right there on the table.”

She gestures towards the kitchen table where, seeming very out of place upon the normal white table cloth and next to the three branched candelabra, there indeed sits a strange looking bottle. It is a gaudy purple with an intricate green pattern necklacing the thinly tapering opening. Two handles spring out and curve down to the bottom to make for easy carrying. Four large, candy like turquoise gemstones are embedded into the bottle’s curves.

“We can’t get the cap off,” his mother admits, “don’t you think it’s strange?”

Observing more closely, Ari notices the cork very firmly shoved into the opening.

He reaches out a finger and pokes it.

A low muffled moan sounds from deep within the bottle.

Ari leans in and sniffs at the cork.

All he catches is an overwhelming waft of mold.

Finally, he firmly grasps the neck of the bottle and pulls at the cork.

But it won’t budge, not even a wiggle.

“See?” says his mother, abandoning the stove to draw closer to the bottle, “I wonder what’s in there.”

There’s a sparkle in her eyes, a far off wandering look, a hint of the curious adventurer she used to be.

“Mom!” Annie breaks her mother’s reverie, “it’s pointless to keep a bottle we can’t open. Throw it away.”

To strike her point, Annie flips a pigtail on the last word.

“Ah! Well, let’s see … What should we do?”

Their mother hesitates a moment in thought. And then, she lights up with realization.

“Oh! That reminds me! I forgot to pick up bread! But I can’t leave the stove. What should I do?”

Before Ari can make any sort of suggestion, his sister steps over him.

“Oh darn, I wish I could help you out, Mom, but I have a test tomorrow and I really need to study. My future is on the line!”

With that, Annie turns around and makes a dash out of the kitchen.

Unsurprisingly, Ari notices the sounds of her footsteps are heading out the front door instead of up the stairs to her room where her school books lay waiting.

“Well then, Ari,” says his mother, “go down to the bakery in the village and pick up a loaf of bread for me. They’ll just put it on our tab, so you can just run in and grab it. Thank you, dear.”

His mother turns back to her stove and her humming. Ari is about to leave the kitchen when she whips around again.

“Oh! While you’re out, why don’t you stop by Town Hall and see your father.” She turns back to her cooking, wistfully, “ah, my love, hard at work. If only I could see your father in action. Such rapture …” she trails off to herself.

Feeling repulsed and uncomfortable with his mother’s personal musings, as teenagers ordinarily do, Ari finally leaves the kitchen.

The family home is a mansion that lays like a sprawled out reptile just south-east of the village of Tenel. It sits fatly in a clearing of pine trees, just a stone’s throw from the village road. It wears jagged stones in various states of grey, reaches tall, dizzying pointed towers up to mingle with the tree tops, and caps itself with crooked blue shingles. It keeps itself company with a dried up fountain in the front courtyard, a tiny, but ancient ancestral graveyard, and a huge, thick, wooden gate at the entrance to keep all of it in.

Ari steps out into the courtyard, shielding his eyes from the sunlight already beginning to sharpen through the trees as afternoon slips into evening. He notices Annie waiting for him at the top of the stone steps that snake down to the front gate.

“So, did she tell you what’s for dinner?” she asks, blocking his path, “come on, tell me.”

“What happened to your homework?”

Annie starts to tease her pigtail with a wiggling finger.

“Well! I’m going out on a twilight date with Morris before dinner. To polish my feminine airs, I have to build up experience while I’m young. My book says so too …”

“What kind of book says that?”

“It’s one of Mom’s old books. What was the name again? … Oh! ‘Controlling Guys Made Easy.’”

Before Ari can protest, Annie spins around and skips on down the stairs.

“Anyway, enjoy your errand, Ari!” she calls before disappearing through the wooden gate.

Ari sighs, figuring there was little he could have said or done to make things play out differently.

With hands in pockets, he lazily makes his way over to the small graveyard by the pathway. He likes to say hello upon passing the three residents. The stones are so old that most of the lettering has been worn away, but Ari makes out what he can and makes up the rest:

‘RIP Nameless Hero - Well, we think he must have a name, but nobody asked him.’

‘Man who drank, gambled, and died from poisonous fish - just as he planned. RIP’

‘Person who touched the knowledge of the Library.’

After 16 years, Ari still knows nothing beyond these half-deciphered inscriptions, but he gives his regards all the same. When satisfied, he heads on through the big wooden gate that leads him to a meandering dirt path. It winds through the grass, between rotted logs and small rocky hills, untangling Ari from the clusters of trees until it finds the main road. A nearby sign helpfully points out to any casually passing tourist:

‘North: Tenel Village/Church

West: Tenel Field & Madril

East: Nameless Dwelling’

Ari wonders if his family will ever decide to name their house so the sign could be a bit more specific.

“Hmmm, Nancy? Or Connie?”

At the crossroads stand two boys about Ari’s age, Levi and Nathan. Dark haired Nathan is the pudgier fellow, while Levi is lanky and alight with flaming orange hair.

“Huh?”

“Whoa!” Nathan exclaims, his fat frame jumping, “Oh! It’s you. You scared me, Ari! When did you get here? I didn’t even notice.”

“Ari, you look real gloomy,” says Levi, “hey, you know what? The circus is coming to the field over there tomorrow night!” He gestures vaguely in the direction of Tenel Field.

“Really?” Ari replies noncommittally.

“I, I, I’m definitely gonna ask Julia out this time! I, I, I will do it! And me and Julia are gonna go out on a romantic date!”

“I wonder who I should ask out,” Nathan muses in the face of his friend’s determination, “Ari, why don’t you ask somebody out too? It’s the circus!”

Ari chuckles and shrugs his shoulders in what he hopes is a ‘cool, but not caring too much’ display. “Sure, I’ll just narrow down my list a bit and ask one out.”

It doesn’t come off as cool as he hoped.

“Ha!” Levi bursts, “I bet he doesn’t have the guts to ask a girl out! Ha ha ha! Chicken!”

The skinny boy goes the extra mile and begins flapping his arms and clucking.

“Anyway, I better get on over to the village,” says Ari before the soul crushing embarrassment can descend, “got an errand to run.”

“You’d better go quick then,” says Nathan, “they’re closing the town gates earlier and earlier. The ghosts and monsters from Tenel field have been wandering closer to town, I heard.”

The hauntings and prowlings of Tenel Field are nothing new to Ari’s ears. All his life, he’s heard the townspeople complaining about the beasts and deadly things that roam wild and how it’s getting worse every year. Ari hears most people, especially the older ones, blaming it on something evil going on out West in Madril that’s driving the wild things nutty. It’s gotten to the point where Tenel’s posted a sentry on the path between Tenel and the field to keep kids and the like in town and to warn everyone if something should wander in. Ari never gives the matter much thought, reasoning that interesting things like monster encounters only happen to interesting people. And it’s so rare to see ghosts come floating in out of the field.

But the sun does seem ever so slightly lower than it was when he first stepped out of the house.

“Right, I’ll be quick.”

With that, Ari leaves them to their great girl debate and heads toward the main gates of Tenel. For now, the entrance is wide open, yawning its welcome to any passerby bored enough to visit the little town. But later, as it gets darker, the gates will eventually be shut and locked, as Tenel residents cling to the illogical belief that doors and locks can keep out ghosts.

As he enters, he notices a pretty blond girl in a white dress standing by the inn and looking absentmindedly off into the distance. Further putting his errand on hold, Ari walks up to her.

“Hey Julia.”

She doesn’t respond.

Ari waits patiently.

It’s alright. I’m used to being ignored.

Julia looks on for another moment or two. Ari continues waiting.

Any day now …

“Huh? Oh, Ari!” she says, her gaze finally shifting onto him, “I was daydreaming. Sorry about that. Hey, did you know the circus is coming tomorrow night?”

Julia and Ari have been friends since childhood, and though time and puberty have pulled them in different directions, they still consider themselves at the very least good friends. Typically, Julia isn’t so spacey - it’s just an ‘Ari thing.’

“Yeah, Nathan and Levi mentioned it.”

“Isn’t it great? It’s the circus!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.”

She looks at him, blue eyes wide and expectant.

“I mean,” he continues, “really great. Very exciting.”

She still says nothing. He waves a hand in front of her eyes, wondering if she’s sunk into another daydream. He does have that effect on people sometimes.

“So, aren’t you gonna ask me to go to the circus with you?” she says suddenly.

“Oh! Well, yeah,” Ari stumbles, “um, I mean, I need to check in with my folks, but … would you … would you like to …”

Before Ari can finish his bare minimum of a question, Julia takes a step back and giggles.

“Sorry, Ari.”

Without even knowing the rest of the sentence, Ari can tell she doesn’t seem very sorry.

“Somebody else already asked me. If you’d have asked me earlier …”

Ari thinks about maybe saying something in protest or in his own defense, but decides it’s not worth it as she makes her way past him.

“Um,” she says, pausing before she walks away completely, “Some time soon, Ari, I … I need to tell you something important … so … see you.”

She takes off running, disappearing fast into the town - an impressive feat given its small size and even smaller populace. Ari isn’t sure what to make of Julia. Teenagerdom is difficult enough to navigate for himself without the complex enigma of teenage girls thrown into the mix. As with most problems, puzzles, and peculiarities, Ari shrugs and carries on with his business.

As he passes it, Ari notices the sign on the Parm Inn door:

‘CLOSED due to water shortage - not that we get any guests anyway. Ha! - Parm Inn Landlord.’

The posting has been there for several weeks. Similar notices decorate the doors of ‘Tinkers,’ the blacksmith and ‘Gulp,’ the bar:

‘Can’t do business without water. I’ll be sleeping. - Tinkers Owner’

‘Closed due to shortage! And for those who owe me money, PAY UP QUICK! - Gulp Hostess.’

Ari can only wonder how much longer before these places will have to close for good. Tenel is already pretty small. Any smaller and they’d have to start calling themselves ‘a small cluster of houses and shops’ instead of a town.

“Ah! Ari!” someone suddenly exclaims.

Ari turns to see the butcher standing outside his shop, just across from the inn. A man with an egg like figure and neatly parted brown hair, the butcher breathes out a heavy sigh as he clutches at his chest.

“You gave me a fright, Ari. I didn’t notice ya standing there at first.”

“Sorry, Mr. Kellogg.”

“Shame about the water shortage, isn’t it? Thankfully, we’ve got some stored up for emergencies like this, but we’re getting mighty low. Can’t say how much longer we’ll be able to stay open.”

“Yeah, I wonder what’s caus-”

“You like beef, Ari?”

He is a little startled by the question.

“Oh, well, I don’t dislike it, sir.”

“I’ve got a great deal on ground beef. One pound, 20 sukel. Figure you might not be able to get any tomorrow - if we can’t open, I mean.”

A few minutes later, Ari walks out of the butcher shop with a wrapped up pound of ground beef under his arm and his wallet 20 sukel lighter.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” calls Mr. Kellogg as he locks the door to his shop to leave for the day, “get home safe.”

Ari waves as the butcher turns to make his way home. He doubts he’ll have business there, but Ari hopes the butcher is open tomorrow. As he makes his way towards the bakery, he passes by two men deep in conversation and nervousness.

“Oh dear, this just won’t do. The water supply has stopped and almost all the stores are closed. It’s under investigation now … do you think it might be related to ghosts?”

“All I know is they’re saying there are tons of ghost problems in Madril. And they’re a big, machine town. Totally different class than Tenel. If they can’t handle the ghosts and monsters, we don’t stand a chance.”

The other man nods weakly, looking very pale. “We’ll be in big trouble.”

Ari remembers his mother’s suggestion couched in wifely affection and decides to go visit his father. He passes Gulp, Tinkers, the miscellaneous shop known as ‘The Other One’, and several homes. All the way in the back of town, atop a small hill, is the church and right beside it the Tenel Village Office. The church sits quietly and patiently, having been unused and unvisited for several weeks now. Ari thinks the cream color of the tall rounded church towers is starting to look like spoiled milk. Green stains are creeping up the sides and the forest surrounding Tenel is starting to reclaim it.

A sign before the tightly shut door reads:

‘Until further notice, please do not enter the church. - Tenel Village Office’

Feeling helpless in the face of such a polite, pathetic notice, Ari walks over to the Tenel Village Office.

Inside, the village office is busy and hectic. Immediately, Ari spots his father sitting behind his usual desk at the front, but all around him, people rush and run and flitter about like a swarm of frustrated, inconvenienced bees. Even their talk sounds like buzzing.

Ari carefully navigates his way towards that front desk. Ari’s father is a short, stringy sort of man. He parts his dark brown hair straight and neat down the middle, and he looks at the world through thick, soda bottle glasses. He has the look of a man who believes in aliens and psychic phenomenon. If one were to ask him about such things, he could easily go on for hours. Ari can attest to it. His father stares intently into a stack of pages in the middle of his desk. He stares as if staring hard enough will burst the pages into flames or cast them into an alternate dimension where he doesn’t have to look at them anymore. Ari is sorry to see these efforts aren’t working.

“Oh! Hello there, Ari. Here to see your cool father at work?”

Ari rolls his eyes, but still smiles.

“What d’ya think? Too cool for words, huh? I redefine ‘cool.’ Ha!”

Now the smile is starting to fade. Ari’s father has perfected the art of being too corny.

“Sorry, sorry,” his father chuckles, “as you can see, the office is in a bit of a panic over the water shortage. We’re doing everything we can to find the cause, but …”

As his father trails off, Ari sees his shoulders slump and behind the happy-go-luck dork that is his father, Ari can see the exhausted Assistant Manager.

“On top of that, the Classification Tables will be arriving soon from the Royal City. That always puts the office on edge.”

Ari knows vaguely about the Classification Tables. His father has cursed it multiple times throughout the year. Supposedly, the village office sends a character report of each Tenel resident to the Royal City and then the city sends back a huge packet of tables that identify and categorize each and every citizen. Ari frequently asks his father how he is ‘classified,’ but his father usually responds with some corny joke.

‘The Assistant Manager’s son.’ ‘The eldest child at the Nameless Dwelling.’ ‘Some Shady Guy.’

So, Ari doesn’t really ask about it anymore. He just accepts that the Classification Table causes his father a lot of headache and woe. Once, Ari tried asking one of his father’s coworkers what the purpose was of the Classification Tables. Her response was unsatisfactory.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there! You’re the assistant manager’s son, aren’t you? Well, the Classification Tables, they … well, they … they maintain order of course! They help the town run smoothly. Why else would the Royal City have us do all this? Now, please leave me alone. I’m quite busy.”

So, Ari understands the weight when, on top of the water shortage problem, his father says he also has to deal with the Royal City’s Classification Tables.

“Anyway, what’s for dinner?” his father asks suddenly, the joy lifting his shoulders back up from their slump, “Ah, I wanna go home. I miss your mom.”

Ari chuckles. “No idea. She wouldn’t tell me. Says it’s a surprise.”

“Ha, yeah, that sounds like your mother.”

“She asked me to pick up bread.”

“Oh! Well, you better get moving, son. It’s getting dark out. The town will be closing soon.”

“Great seeing you, Dad,” says Ari as he turns to leave, nearly crashing into a speeding intern.

Ari steps back outside and, just as his dad said, the dark is noticeably beginning to descend on the town. He rushes down the hill to the Bakery, hoping the owner hasn’t decided to close doors early due to the dark looming in. The bell above the door clangs to life as he rushes in. Despite that, the husband and wife who run the Bakery carry on with their personal business, not seeming to notice Ari standing in the doorway. He steps up to the main counter where the wife stands, her back to Ari as she sorts through the baked goods on the back shelf.

The smell of freshly baked bread is intoxicating, filling Ari with warmth until the harsh pang of hunger in his stomach drives it away.

“Excuse me,” he says.

The portly Mrs. Bakster is singing to herself as she counts and pokes at the remaining pastries. It’s not a very good song and Mrs. Bakster isn’t very good at singing it.

“Hello? Mrs. Bakster?”

“Huh?” Finally, she whips around. “Oh! It’s you, Ari! Don’t I always tell you? A boy should speak up!”

These types of reprimands are nothing new. Mrs. Bakster has many opinions and is very keen on sharing them.

“Now, now, don’t harangue the boy, dear,” calls Mr. Bakster from across the shop, “don’t mind her too much, Ari. She’s got a sharp tongue, but a soft heart really.”

Ari smiles good humoredly, simply wanting to get the bread and get home for dinner.

“You’ve come to pick up bread for your mother, right?” says Mrs. Bakster as she reaches over to a shelf and pulls off a fine, golden colored loaf. With speed and finesse, she neatly wraps the loaf in paper and then, gently hands it to Ari. “Here you are. Don’t squeeze it too much. Don’t want to crush it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bakster, thank you.”

“By the way, Ari, before you go, I wanted to ask - anything bothering you?”

“Now, dear!” chides Mr. Bakster.

“Come on! Keep your chin up, boy!” Mrs. Bakster carries on, ignoring her husband, “girls like the assertive ones, you know? And I know you’ve got a lot of potential, Ari. You can be anything you want. You just got to assert yourself, and girls will be all over you.”

Ari smiles and nods, backing away slowly.

“Alright, alright. Get on home and get that to your mother. I’ve got a dinner to get ready and a husband to feed, you know.”

“Yes … thank you, Mrs. Bakster. You too, Mr. Bakster. Have a good evening.”

Ari turns and whips out the door before the baker can be inspired with another round of opinions. Once outside, Ari is surprised to find Annie waiting.

“Ari, you done with your errands? You’ve been gone forever.”

“Sorry, yeah. I’m done.”

“What’s the matter?” she asks, and then eyes the bakery, “oh, did she lecture you again?”

Yeah, sure, make me relive it, why don’t ya?

The thought translates into a shrug.

“Let me guess,” says Annie playfully, “Oh, Ari, you’ve got to speak up for yourself more. You practically blend into someone else’s shadow.”

Ari gives her a brotherly glare.

“Oh well, at least there are some people around here who see some good in you … Julie, for instance.” Annie giggles mercilessly. “You lucky guy.”

All the way home, Annie teases her brother about the baker woman’s “advice” and Julie’s “affections.” But Ari takes it all without a word, wondering to himself about lots of different topics from that busy afternoon. He thinks about the water shortage and about his classification from the Royal City and about Julie picking someone else over him and about what it actually means to ‘blend into someone else’s shadow.’

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 • Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12 • Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 - Finale

NOTE: Okage Shadow King is owned by Sony Computer Entertainment and Zener Works. This novelization is purely a fan-work and the writer claims no ownership over the characters, general plot line(s), etc.