#so crawling out to say it was about YOU reads less like defamation and more like a confession

[timeisacephalopod]

On a total side note tangent I will say I didnt read Heard's piece that Depp sued over defaming him but if I have my facts straight she didn't even name him in the piece she wrote so like if he read "I became the face of domestic violence" and came running out screaming "you're defaming me!" it was weird that everyone read that as Heard defaming Depp and not as a confession of domestic violence from Depp?? Like I don't know many people who would be so offended their ex said they were in an abusive relationship that they'd come running out of the woodwork to claim they were the unnamed ex that was written about and they were the victim of a hit piece that never mentioned them by name?

Sounds more like he intentionally used the legal system to further abuse his victim and it's really god damn weird that it took uncomfortable texts from Depp to Marilyn Manson of all fucking people for people to realize the guy who was really willing to say he was the unnamed abusive ex was, in fact, abusive.

[rose926]

FYI, THIS IS A FICTIONAL WRITING I WROTE ABOUT THREE MONTHS AGO. THE STORY CONTAINS VIOLENCE AND PROFANITY. THEREFORE, IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THOSE THEMES PLEASE DO NOT READ. NEVERTHELESS, IF YOU TOOK THE TIME TO READ MY AMATEUR STORY, I THANK YOU.

I cranked my head up and peered out the trapdoor’s apertures with a sense of both novelty and renewed optimism. My light at the end of the tunnel grew slightly dimmer when I discovered nobody was there.

What?

What the hell was that?

WHO the hell was that?

It was a voice! A real male human voice!

Did that sound come from a person who can help me? Or is it the same voice of the cruel man who threw me in this jail? Deep and minacious, it sounded like he was the one who spoke.

Who the hell was that?! Was that him?!

…

Shit!

I’ve waited a while with my head up and there’s still nothing! My mind screamed at me, begging to emit a harrowing cry for help. Yet, my throat was too raw to emit any sound other than winded wheezing.

My hands gripped my skull, threatening to rip each individual hair from my own scalp.

Oh god, there’s still nobody opening that goddamn door!

...

My eyes widened. Realization hit me harder than a bullet.

...

It was my imagination, wasn’t it, that sound?

The voices in the head are acting up again! The voices in my head were that voice! Those sick inputs filled me with a sign of hope in a hopeless situation, just for them to let me down! Those bastards! Giving someone hope and taking it away is the worst thing you could do to a person!

Being imprisoned not only echoed those strange voices in my skull, but also in this room filled with nothing, but debris.

Shit!

I could’ve sworn I heard my right-side brain being so boisterous, telling me to smack my head on those cement walls- that I ran my wrinkled hand down- until I bleed to death.

Maybe, just maybe, I could reach that trapdoor if I made my last attempt to leap with whatever remaining strength I had left. Maybe try to investigate it again for the millionth time.

My knees croaked, as I deliberately picked myself up to my feet. I tightly clenched my teeth at the feel of shoe-less, gnarled feet pressing down against inhospitably cold cement. My attempt at investigating, resulted in me bending my left leg, twisting my ankle, tumbling down into a broken wall, and trying to support myself on broken shards of glass. Frantically, I glanced down at my hands, now painted red and housed to dozens of shards of glass.

Great.

For how little I stood up since I've been thrown in this oubliette, a toddler had better footwork or at least knew how to walk more properly than myself. Not being able to saunter is an embarrassment that I don’t have to hide from anyone, besides cameras. If there were any security cameras, the bloke on watch duty must have had a good laugh at the poor man in the cellar trying to merely move a bottom limb.

Speaking of the bottom limb, my left ankle looked like a red Adam’s apple, but instead of it being on my neck, it was on my foot. Blood leaked from the place where I ripped open my skin from “90-degreeing” it. What was left of my ankle was undefinable. It was so drastically covered in blisters, that it looked more like a giant plum than an actual body necessity. Of course, it hurt like hell. Of course, my eyes watered more than the Amazon river from the pain. Of course, my body was too outworn to heal this significant of an abrasion. Although it was excruciating, the injury was partially overshadowed by the agony of my f*cked up hands. Glass is meant to be left in manufacturing, not left in between each of my goddamn metacarpals.

I couldn’t touch them nor touch them with anything, without pushing the fragments deeper into my skin. Now, as the injuries radiated through me an unbearable sense of anguish, I couldn’t even crawl. Another aspect of my plight was that my own throat refused to utter a single line of defamation. I desired to say a few things to the neurotic wretch who locked me in here for his own amusement. Even though I could not speak, replaying in my head like a broken record about how much I hated him, worked almost as well. Oh, how unimaginably much I despised that putrid piece of shit.

I was well acquainted with how my kidnapper looked; lanky, old, and especially psychotic. He wore a frock coat underneath a plain white shirt and donned a top hat over his slicked-back grey hair, which concealed his senior-like appearance. The man possessed a slim body structure and was most likely retired from being an exceptional basketball player. Overall, he looked like a rusty “lady-magnet” in his formal outfit. If he was younger, not crazy, and I was a woman, I would certainly be interested.

Despite his fashion sense, there’s nothing about the dude that I found esteeming. I mean, if a person kidnapped you and incarcerated you in a grotty chamber, then chances are you ain’t gonna like them. The only memories I had with him were filled with dread, slasher smiles, and helplessness.

I can recall the time the old man locked me in this cell.

I don't remember what happened before, but all I knew is that I was scared, terribly scared. My breaths became shallow and my heartbeat quickened, as I watched the guy peering back at me with a toothy grin. The man narrowed his eyes out of disdain, before tucking a lit cigarette in between his yellow fangs and sauntering towards my limp body. He stepped in a slow rhythm, each one of his steps more passive than the first as if he was in no hurry to confront me. Visibly terrified, I crawled away from the odd stranger, until I felt my blood run cold.

My back just hit up against the wall. It was the end of the line.

I tightly closed my eyes, expecting him to take a knife to my throat or gun to my head. However, what I was least expecting was that he would begin shouting. I felt a mix of relief, surprise, and terror in his little fuss. I opened my eyes to see him towering over me, like a predator to their prey. His hoarse voice and vulgar choice of words felt like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. He held his cigarette in a clenched fist, standing so near, that he practically wove it in my face. The smell of smoke caused my nose to wrinkle in disgust. I couldn't help, but wonder how people could enjoy dumping such stuff into their own lungs.

Knocking me unconscious with a bottle of “Stolichnaya” that he pulled out of his frock coat pocket, was the last thing I can remember the man doing. Before I knew it, I wound up in this dingy cellar with nothing, but the clothes on my back.

“Looks like you're in quite the dilemma,” I heard a familiar voice say, as I snapped out of reminiscences. “Having those hands must be unpleasant.”

I quickly scanned the room, trying, but failing to find the source of the voice. I took my panicked spectacles off the room and onto my so-called “unpleasant” hands that the voice talked about. My eyes widened in affliction at the sight of how bad my injury had gotten.

Oh, shit!

My hands were bafflingly sanguinary. I gagged at the sight of bone manifesting through thin tissue, just barely holding down my paltry breakfast of two saltine crackers. How could I have forgotten that my hands were practically converted into reflective daggers?

Claret rained down from the glass wounds, a pond of it spreading over a fair portion of the grubby cellular floor. My muzzy head spun, not sure whether it had more concern in the mysterious voice who could conceivably offer me an escape or my body trauma.

That voice sounded more real than the first, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t in my head. It was probably my imagination! My stupid, idiotic imagination! I’ve lost my fucking mind, haven’t I?! I lost my mind! Lost it, I say!

The minute I entered this hellhole, I was forced to watch my own sanity gradually deteriorate before my eyes, like an old book to a candle wick. It was as if I was chained to a lone theater seat with no eyelids, compelled to watch a dreadful movie premiere for all eternity.

When you're alone in a dreary vault, you’ll invariably find a way to entertain yourself, which includes watching yourself go completely bonkers with mental hallucinations.

I looked down, my shirt stained red from laying in a pool of my own blood.

[yanara126-writing]

The Miracle of Verdant Vorlas

It's time for Eothas to truly show his presence in the most effective way, and Waidwen is prepared to do whatever is necessary. It doesn't go quite as planned.

Read here or on Ao3

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

Waidwen had known this day would come. He’d not known that it’d be today, but it didn’t surprise him. This was the biggest crowd he’d drawn yet. Of course they’d choose a time when they’d have an audience. Yes, he’d known, he was prepared for whatever they’d put him through. He could do this. They could this.

You’re afraid. It wasn’t a question, just a calm statement, holding no judgement but simple understanding.

Yes, he was afraid. He watched the guards push through the people and wanted to hide in a corner far away. (Where his father wouldn't reach him.) He felt something warm creep over him, almost like the idea of a hug. He let himself sink into the feeling for just a few seconds.

You don't have to do this alone. I will be with you the whole time. And wasn't that part of the issue. The temptation to just give in, to let Eothas take over, to draw back and hide from the pain that was sure to come. He knew Eothas would let him, if he asked. But no, he wouldn’t be a hypocrite. The change he was about to bring would hurt, and he would face it like all the others. And the time wasn't right just yet. They might know how to make an action grand, but so did Waidwen.

The guards arrived and climbed up the speaker's platform. He didn’t resist when they forced him to his knees. He winced when they pulled his arms behind him and put him in chains, but still didn’t object. The crowd on the other hand became more unsettled by the second. There were cries of protest, but no one dared actually intervene. The guards weren't known for their mercy towards rebels.

When they were sure he was secured, the enforcer stepped on the wooden platform. He was a short, round man who looked like he would be faster rolling than walking. Seeing him made Waidwen's blood boil again. He let the anger drown out the fear and forced a tight smile onto his face.

“Chains, really? Doesn't that seem a bit excessive?” And it was. He was just as emaciated as the rest of the common people here. He hadn't eaten properly in weeks and probably wouldn't have been able to tear even the thinnest rope. Not that he thought the other man would be able to, he doubted there were any muscles under all that fat. Fat he’d gained by starving his people, while they toiled on fields each day.

“You’re the one claiming to be a god's avatar.” The man sneered down at him as if he was little more than dirt on his shoe. Oh, how he wanted to burn that arrogance of his hanging-cheek-face. Preferably literally. But that’d be overkill and would cost more energy than the maggot deserved.

“In that case chains will hardly hold me, no?” He said with a grin Ondra's fiercest sharks would be proud of. It was incredibly satisfying to see the doubt creeping into those pig eyes. May the pigs forgive him for that comparison.

“We’ll see about that, blasphemer!” The man was spitting more than talking, with most of it landing on Waidwen, who sneered in disgust and vowed to find the nearest river to take a bath as soon as this was over.

Indeed, we will. ‘See about that or take a bath?’ The presence flared up lightly in a warm and soft way that Waidwen had come to identify as amusement. Both.

“Now, blasphemer, we will recount your crimes, so that the people you mislead will see what an atrocious heretic you truly are!” Oh, this would be interesting. What they lacked in compassion, they certainly made up for in creativity. He’d heard many interesting explanations that he knew now were utter horse shit. The famines for example. Their payment was meagre on account of supposedly missing profits. The truth was, their pay had steadily declined ever since the Dyrwood had won it’s independence. The harvest was by no means good, but had been unchanging for the last hundred years.

The enforcer pulled a scroll out of his bag, broke the seal and cleared his throat. Not that it actually helped him. The people didn't seem inclined to listen to him defame their champion. They only grew quiet when Waidwen let his eyes roam over them. It didn’t help the enforcer’s confidence and Waidwen allowed himself the satisfaction of it.

“Now listen closely peasant, for you stand accused of the following crimes before his majesty by divine right the ferscönyng: Intoxication!” As if there was anything else to do in this shithole aside from starving and drinking, if you could even get your hands on something, that is. Not that he’d done much of the latter in recent times. He hadn’t touched a bottle since that day in the field. There were more important things to do.

“Animancy!” Still not terribly interesting. He didn't have the funds to attempt such a costly practice and everyone knew. No one here did.

“Exhuming the dead!” Yes, because clearly digging up corpses is what someone inhabited by the god of rebirth would do. He rolled his eyes.

We could. Though I have to admit, I never tried my hand at actual necromancy. Waidwen snorted quietly at that.

‘And we should probably leave it at that.’

Probably.

“Cruel statements to a child!”

“As opposed to your letting them starve?” Waidwen turned his head just enough to give the man a questioning, but no less condescending look. The crowd stirred again. The guards stepped forward, hands threateningly on their weapons. The people grumbled but stood down. The enforcers spluttered indignantly, throwing his hands around as if to ask the surrounding folk for support against Waidwen’s audacity. When no one reacted, he pulled back and tried to play it off with little success. The mood was clear.

“Consorting with a cean gŵla!”

Ew.

As much as Waidwen wanted to keep up his show of defiance, he had to lower his head at that or everyone would see the slightly deranged grin he was trying so hard to suppress. There was just something about a divine entity saying 'ew' that was much more entertaining than one would think.

I'm glad you find me so humorous. The voice was soft and laced with slight amusement. It gave him comfort to be reminded of some other feeling than his current rage and fear that made his skin crawl. A small part of Waidwen not preoccupied with the situation suspected Eothas' comment might’ve been more for his benefit than an actual expression of opinion. He took a deep breath, put his mask of confidence back on and faced the people again.

“Indiscretion with an animancer!” Waidwen looked at the enforcer again and raised an eyebrow.

“You probably should’ve led with that. After a cean gŵla an animancer seems like a let-down.” The man’s face grew red and he spluttered again. Waidwen did not have time to savour his victory however, when a guard came up behind him and bashed him over the head with the end of his spear. The force of the blow ripped his head to the side. Even through the ringing in his ears he could hear the shrieks of protest from the masses beneath.

“Silence, accused! You are to listen to your charges! Do you see what a villain it is you are lending your ear to? Silence, I say!” This attempt yielded no better results than the first. The crowd quieted down again, though openly hostile now. The enforcer was sweating and clearly uncomfortable.

The ringing in Waidwen’s ears let up and his previously spotty vision returned as a light warmth spread through his head. Careful to not let his quick recovery show too much he blinked and lifted his head again.

‘Thank you.’ Don't thank me yet. I doubt that was the worst of it. Instead of the former lightness the voice was now heavy with something that might’ve been grim anticipation, if the Child of Light was even capable of that. But Waidwen had learned in the last few weeks that the gods were much more than just ideals, or perhaps less, depending on your viewpoint.

“The next of your crimes: Making lewd gestures at a woman!” He was certainly tempted to make lewd gestures, but as far as he was aware, there were no women under the potential receivers. And if there were, he certainly didn't care. His regard for gender had significantly dropped in recent times. Not that he’d ever understood all the commotion the nobles made about it in the first place. The women had to work as hard the men out here and nobody batted an eye about it. Besides, Magran was a woman and he was fairly certain she would rain fiery vengeance on anyone who would dare treat her like some delicate flower.

I would indeed advise against that. Though I fear in our case it would hardly make a difference. What followed almost sounded like a sigh. He was rather trying to avoid thinking about that. Ending the aedyran tyranny was one thing, facing down gods another.

A kick to the stomach reminded him of his current issues and he doubled over, pulling in a sharp breath. He should probably focus on the moment.

“Public Indecency!” A breathless laugh escaped him. “And that from the man who I'm sure will demand my shirt soon.” Another kick set his ribs aflame and nearly toppled him. He could feel the warmth rising again, but pushed it down determinedly. Healing that would be too obvious. He could take some bruised ribs if it meant more effect later.

If you are certain... Eothas obviously wasn't, but would respect his wishes, like always. Sometimes Waidwen was tempted to test out just how far his patience could be stretched. Thankfully there was something else to claim his attention and distract him from that dangerous line of thought at the moment.

At this point the enforcer was profoundly flustered, whether from embarrassment, anger or fear of the increasingly angry mob Waidwen didn't know. Whatever it was, it caused him to choke out the last accusations in quick succession. “Venereal disease! Sabotage! Impiety! And of course, sedition!” The man was breathing hard, as if he’d been the one being beaten. It was obvious that he didn't want to be here anymore than Waidwen himself, but just like Waidwen he didn't have much choice in it either. He’d started this mess and now he’d have to live through it. And they both knew it. He swallowed hard and motioned for the guards to draw a bit closer before continuing.

“Do you deny these accusations?” Waidwen slowly straightened again and let out a few controlled breaths to sooth his sore ribs before answering.

“I’ll deny only the ridiculous ones. I don’t deny the sabotage of the tyrannical regime starving it's people. I don’t deny what you call sedition, because a government that's harming it's own subjects must fall, and it’ll fall by the hands of it’s own suffering people, so that this country may see the light of a new dawn! I don't deny that my actions must look like impiety to you, for you have perverted the faith of Eothas to darkness and despair, and so can’t recognize his light and hope staring in your face!” The speech wasn't quite as impulsive as he tried to make it look. He wasn't terribly good at talking actually, but he also didn’t want to completely rely on Eothas, so he did his best to plan ahead. He was quite good at that, after all, you couldn't properly cultivate land without being able to think ahead and acclimate to changes. Impulsive or not, it did have it's desired effect. The people cheered and the guards couldn't effectively move in without leaving the enforcer defenceless. Waidwen gave himself a bit of time to collect his thoughts and prepare himself, before he spoke up again.

“I stand by my actions. I don’t regret them and have no intention of stopping. But I'm no hypocrite. They are crimes, no matter how justified and I will face the punishment for them.” The no doubt humiliating and painful punishment. A prolonged lashing if he had to guess. He closed his eyes.

‘Please don't leave me through this.’ I won't. You won't feel it, I promise. The words were warm and comforting. They spread a mantle of peace over him and pushed down the fear that was slowly threatening to choke him. He let it happen and sank back into himself to wait out the squabbling facade of a trial to choose an already set punishment. After a few minutes of meditation, he was roused by a sudden increase in volume.

“So it shall be! The accused shall be subjected to 30 public lashes, they are to be carried out immediately!” The crowd roared. If they were angry before, they were furious now. 30 lashes wouldn't necessarily kill him, but with his not exactly peak physical condition it might, or would at best do serious damage. To their knowledge at least.

“I consent.” He didn't raise his voice any louder than his usual speaking voice. He didn't need to. It’d been one of the first things Eothas had taught him, how to speak with authority. Everything grew silent around him. The common people stared at him in horror and he forced a slight smile on his face. It became a bit easier when he felt another warm caress, like a steadying hand on his back.

The enforcer had obviously no idea how to react. He was staring at Waidwen like the rest, the scroll still in hand. He’d expected the calm to break at the reveal of the sentence. He’d expected protest, curses, anything, but not this unbroken acceptance. How someone could so confidently agree to be being beaten half to death, he didn't understand. Unless the man wanted to martyr himself? That would be very inconvenient, but there was no dignified way back anymore.

Behind him Waidwen could hear the man breathing heavily and he imagined the blood red face sweating bullets, but didn't deign to look at him. Instead he let his gaze wander over the crowd in front of him. Most were men his age, some were older and he could even see a few mother's with young children clinging to their skirts. All of them were dressed poorly, some with hardly more than rags. They stared at him with desperate eyes in gaunt faces. His determination rose and this time it wasn't because of the Divinity bonded to his soul. This was the reason he had agreed to this insanity. He would make everything better for these people, no matter the price. No other child would suffer as he had.

We will make sure of it. A promise ringing with their shared conviction.

He’d weed out the pests that had taken root here. One after another, starting here and ending wherever necessary.

Finally, life seemed to return to the people around him. A guard stepped onto the podium carrying a solid wooden pillar so large it was impressive he could even lift it. With a resounding thump the pole was set down. Someone removed the chains from his arms, only to wrench them forward and above his head. The chains came on again and were fastened to the top of the pole where an iron ring just for this purpose was hammered in. From the people below he could hear shuffling and quiet sobs. With his arms in front of his face he couldn't see them, but what he heard was enough.

Suddenly he felt a cold knife at his ribs, slicing off his shirt and into his skin, leaving a shallow but burning cut. And while that was painful, that had also been his last halfway decent shirt. The annoyance at having to find, probably make, another one was far better to concentrate on than the fact that he could hear someone unravel a whip.

The first hit took him by surprise, even though he knew it was coming. He heard the snap of the whip and the people's outcry and then felt a short pressure pushing him forward a little, but just like Eothas had promised, there was no bite to it. Instead it felt like someone had drawn a line of warm honey over his back, or at least what he imagined that would feel like.

The second hit added another stripe, and though the feeling itself wasn't painful, Waidwen couldn't help but remember the last time he’d been whipped. It’d been more than four years ago, but he never forgot any of them. The last time had been only weeks before his father had died, and perhaps he'd known and wanted to make one last impression, because that time had been by far the worst. They'd argued the whole night and he'd skipped mess the following morning, watching the dawn from a nearby hill instead. When he'd returned, father had waited for him with the belt. Waidwen hadn't complained, it wouldn't have accomplished anything. The beating he'd taken that day had left him unable to move properly for days.

The third hit came with a pain that he knew wasn't real and only came from his memory. It didn't hurt any less for it. In some corner of his perception he could feel the presence in him shift a little with something that almost seemed like guilt.

The fourth hit came slower, more hesitantly. He concentrated on the warm, almost viscous feeling the blows left on his back instead of the pain he knew should accompany them.

After the fifth one they stopped entirely. Waidwen heard the shuffling of feet and agitated whispers behind him. He tried to take a deep breath, to anchor himself in the here and now, but stopped and winced when his sore ribs protested.

The whispers stopped and the enforcer spoke up with a voice so trembling it almost made the fear worth it. “The... the point has been made. Be thankful that we are so merciful to end your deserved punishment early. Let it... let it be lesson to you, next time we'll... we won't be so merciful!”

Oh no, he wouldn't let them get away that easily. Waidwen called upon Eothas and, as always, He obliged. When Waidwen spoke next, Gaun spoke with him: “No. You will reap what you have sown. You called for a punishment, now it must be finished.”

The feeling of the hard wood under his knees faded away, as did the weight on his arms. What remained was an all-encompassing buzz and the peripheral awareness of what was happening around him. Peripheral, but absolute. He didn't see, but he knew the people the people were staring with awe and terror. He didn't hear, but he knew some of them were uttering prayers. Just as he knew the majority of fear stood behind him. He knew one of the guards had a young daughter, who’d just received her ordination to the priesthood of Eothas. He knew another one was a follower of Woedica and was currently reconsidering his faith. And he knew the enforcer was stewing in his own terror, slowly realizing that he'd never had any real control over the situation in the first place.

Waidwen was aware of the whip hitting the ground and the soldier who'd held it stepping back, even though His ears felt like they were filled with cotton. He knew the man did it out of fear of divine vengeance against his recently deceased son. Just as He knew, the man who picked it up, hoped for a promotion back to Aedyr. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the power suddenly at His disposal. The power of a god.

All of his former fear bled away into nothing as the vastness of Eothas’ being overtook his senses. What remained was absolute conviction. The limits of His consciousness were fuzzy and the small part of him still aware of himself was deeply uncomfortable, but the majority was entirely overwhelmed by the feeling.

They had joined before, but never with this intensity. The only time that had come close was in the very beginning, in the field, and that had left him unconscious for hours. But not this time. This time They had something to prove, and nothing would stop Them.

So the punishment continued. They knelt on the ground and waited. Every hit heightened the already tense atmosphere. They didn’t count the blows; They didn’t need to. The people around Them knew, so They knew. Time passed both incredibly slow and immensely fast. It felt like everything around Them was in sharp focus, yet so inconsequential that time didn’t waste itself on it.

When the whip fell for the thirtieth time, the last bond keeping Their power restrained fell away. Instead of keeping it concentrated in Themselves, They let the floodgates open and the energy surged out into the physical world. With nerves that didn’t quite feel like they belonged to Them, They felt heat a human body shouldn’t be able to withstand, heard a bubbling and following clank, saw a blazing light illuminate Their surroundings, emanating from Them. An eternity passed in a second, spent finding Their place in the physical form They now shared. Only there was no sharing anymore. No Them, just a single entity with a single purpose.

The people saw none of the intricate mechanisms behind the merging of two very different souls happening right in front them. What they did see was a divine miracle without comparison. As soon as the last stroke had been dealt, Waidwen’s body was engulfed pure light. The metal chains glowed red and melted off His arms, falling to the ground unheeded. The light was bright enough to illuminate even the furthest and darkest corners, leaving no place to hide. Many of the onlookers fell to their knees, including some of the guards on the platform. Those who didn’t were either completely rigid or scrambling to get away. The man, if he even still was a man, in middle of the commotion didn’t seem to notice either way. He rose from his knees with a fluidity and grace that made the spectators question if He’d really moved at all. When He spoke, it wasn’t any louder than before, but His voice most definitely wasn’t human anymore. It carried such power, that it continued to reverberate deep in their souls, long after the words had reached their ears.

“See now, your suffering was never meant to be. You were deceived by those meant to deliver my will, betrayed by those meant to carry my lantern to guide you. But the world will be dark no longer. Hear what is said today, follow my guiding light, and rise above your existence as victims. Fill your hearts with splendour, for the time has come to let your actions shine brighter than their falsehoods. Banish all fears and unite with all who wish to see the light as you do. By the hands of hope the dawn of a new day shall rise over Readceras and you will be my harbingers.”

No one dared so much as breathe throughout the speech. After almost a minute of silence, a young man jumped to his feet, cheering and screaming praises. Like a wildfire it spread through the masses and soon the town square was filled with screams of joy. No one was still anymore and the air was filled with excitement. A god had spoken, and no in uncertain terms. The time of meek submission was over and the feverish anticipation of the coming fight permeated the atmosphere. With a god, their god, leading them, how could they lose?

The being their god and champion had become still stood on the stage, overlooking the scene. The satisfaction of an accomplished goal filled It, nothing else was of import. After all, what could possibly be able to stop It now?

Suddenly the world split again with violence. The being was gone, back in It’s place were a human and a god who’d just been violently torn apart and were now struggling to fit back into their former shapes. The edges where the essence of their souls had been split were raw and coated with a feeling Eothas wasn’t quite able to identify in his confusion.

Waidwen meanwhile howled with pain. Something had left a deep burning gash across his back and with reflexes gained from more angry brawls than he wanted to admit, he thrust his elbow back with as much force as he could muster. His arm met resistance and a soft crunch was heard, followed by a pained shriek and the thud of a body hitting wood. Waidwen took no notice of it. He was gasping in pain and desperately scrambling to make sense of the situation. Something hesitantly rose in him and he automatically latched onto the familiar presence. Eothas carefully returned the gesture and the bloody gash across Waidwen’s back closed under his cautious attention. With the biggest distraction out of the way, Waidwen noticed that he wasn’t the only one shaken up. Where Eothas usually felt like a steady thrum of energy, his essence now flickered erratically.

Behind them someone groaned and Waidwen immediately spun around, suddenly reminded of where he was. On the ground lay the guard who’d whipped him, holding his bleeding and shattered nose, a bloodied sword on the ground next to him. The rest of the delegation stood frozen in fear. At being presented with a new task, Waidwen quickly pushed the last few minutes to the furthest corner of his mind and did his best to look as imposing as possible in his rattled state. He stepped determinedly over the writhing guard on the ground and cornered the enforcer. He glared down at the man who cowered beneath his gaze and looked like he’d just pissed himself.

“You’ll take your men and return to the governor. You’ll tell him that he has one chance to leave willingly. If he doesn’t, he’ll have to face the wrath of the people he terrorized. And mine.” He all but growled the last two words. The enforcer nodded hurriedly and scrambled to get away, but Waidwen grabbed at him the collar, holding tight. “Aren’t you forgetting something,” he said pointedly and gestured at his trembling assailant. At the enforcer’s shaking sign two other guards stepped forward, grabbed their now sobbing companion and dragged him off the stage as fast as they could. Only when they were out of sight did Waidwen loosen his grip. The other man took his chance and fled, almost tripping on the steps down in his panicked haste.

With the message passed on, Waidwen noticed that there were still more people. The commoners had gone quiet again when the light had died down and had watched the happenings with confused attention. Now they were staring at him, both awed and confused about what they should do now. They were looking to him for the guidance he’d promised. Only Waidwen was as confused as they were and not exactly at his best at the moment. Eothas was strangely quiet and both of them were hesitant to interact again after what had just happened, their essences dancing around each other like two flames in the wind.

Waidwen himself had trouble remembering the exact course of events. It felt removed from him, like he’d watched it happen through a thick fog. All that remained was a profound sense of unease and the fear of losing control again. Trying to get his bearings, he couldn’t do anything but stand and feel awkward. Once again he was very aware of his own shortcomings. He was just a farmer, he’d never learned how to lead and the one who’d promised to help him had pulled back so much, that the only affirmation of his continued presence was the vague unrest, that didn’t belong to him, simmering through.

A light breeze passed through and Waidwen shivered, reminding him that he was still half naked, making him even more self-conscious than before. He’d never been ashamed of his body, but now with over a hundred people staring at him, he could feel the blood shoot into his face.

Suddenly he felt a soft weight being placed on his shoulders and flinched. The weight turned out to be a guard’s purple cloak and when he turned around, he found that two knights had stayed, looking about as uncomfortable as he felt. One of them was missing his cloak and holding the pin with the emperor’s crest in his still raised hands. They looked at each other shortly and with a sudden burst of determination the other one also pulled off his pin and they both hurled it to the ground, shattering it. They looked up to Waidwen again, a hesitant spark of hope in their eyes.

The wordless declaration of loyalty rattled something loose in Waidwen and with a start he straightened, pulling in a deep breath. He had a job to do. He thanked the knight, pulled the cloak closer and started organizing the people. Now that they’d made their official debut, everything had to go fast or it’d become a lot bloodier than he wanted to. While delegating the different tasks that needed to be done, he mentally poked Eothas, who immediately started, as if being woken from a trance.

I apologize. I shouldn’t have left you alone. The voice sounded more sheepish than Waidwen had ever heard from him. Somehow Eothas not being his usual confident, righteous self, disturbed him almost more than the actual situation. The idea that He might not know what exactly they were doing any more than Waidwen, was more distressing than he’d ever expected.

‘It’s fine. I’ve got it handled now.’ That sounded like a lie, even to himself, but Eothas didn’t comment on it. They both chose to leave the dragon in room unmentioned. Both them were disturbed by the loss of control they’d just lived through. And though both of them knew, thanks to the connection they shared, neither wanted to admit it.

‘Do you think we can do it?’ Waidwen surprised himself with the sudden seed of doubt, but with how unsettled he was, maybe he shouldn’t have been shocked.

I think with that presentation, there will be few people who will try to stop us from freeing Readceras. Not exactly the answer Waidwen had wanted to hear, but he didn’t doubt Eothas was aware of that. Freeing Readceras wasn’t what he was worried about. He felt awkward and at times unfit for the task, but he knew they could do it. The two knights had been a surprise, but a welcome one. It showed that some of the upper classes could be convinced to follow their cause. Now that Waidwen had come down from his adrenalin high, that gave him a healthy dose of confidence that he’d be able to end this with less bloodshed than he’d feared. What would come after was what scared him.

He was tempted to pry, but at the same time he feared what he’d find. Instead he decided to take it as advice and focus on the present. There was enough to do now. Messages to send out, people to convince, supplies and especially provisions to organize. A successful rebellion didn’t run it itself, that notion had cost the few revolutions before him their victories.

‘And maybe I’ll even be able to find myself a shirt before this is all over,’ he added mentally and arranged the cloak differently, when another shiver passed through his body. Then the cold let up and a gentle, familiar warmth spread through him, accompanied by another quiet apology. Waidwen tensed, but when nothing else happened, he relaxed and enjoyed the tender feeling wrapped around him, much softer than a cloak could ever be. Yes, they could do this. And whatever had happened today, they’d be able to handle it, together.

Together.

[scripted-dalliances]

Rest In Peace: Chapter One

Title: Rest In Peace

Chapter: 1

Summary: A part of Faithless Fairy Tale, a more in depth look at how they brought Laura back to life. Appearance of old faces, creation of new ones and if you’re looking for canon, it left a long, long time ago. If you squint you might be able to see some pieces from the book.

A/n: This is less a labor of love and more like a violent attempt to get this beast of a story out of my head. I attempted to shave and shape it into something other people might be able to read and enjoy. Did I succeed? I honestly don’t know, this is what happens when I’m left to edit by myself. If it’s trash, I apologize. 

“All you need is someone to believe. Really believe. And maybe a new story, right? A reinvention. A rebirth.”  - Faithless Fairy Tale

+

Laura promises pretty things out of her wicked dead mouth, and to a degree he already believes them. Why wouldn't he, after watching her slay Grimnir with his own blade to save the likes of him?

Make no mistake, he's not deceived by her, he hasn't forgotten who she is. Mad Sweeney knows the mettle of Laura Moon, even minus the stolen war god’s blade and his lucky coin. He is not blinded by her one act of mercy to think she isn’t the same woman who crushed his balls in her palms like fucking walnuts.

Who huffed pesticide under hot tub tarps and crawled out of her own grave. 

He is not stupid.

She is a bitch, she is a crass little thing, but there isn't enough strength in his bones to deny she inspires him. To anger. To stand against the tide. To lower himself right down to her level; to tussle in the mud of blasphemies, insults and filth. Everything about her, pulls and demands something of him. Whether good or bad, whether it is her's by right or not, he hands it over.

(He does it with hard hands, with spite and bitterness. With love.)

The sirens of old could sing their pretty little hearts out, but it's only Laura's voice calling him a pussy that could drive him overboard. The reason unclear; to prove her wrong, to chase her, or just so he could drown himself and be done with her.

Not even he knows.

(So of course he agrees.) 

Mad Sweeney sighs deeply, a man condemned to be saved and hangs his head.

“Yeah, alright you mad bitch. Let's hear your theory.”

+

It takes work. Scratch that. It takes a whole fuck ton of work. Most of which starts with research, that Laura herself demands he be involved in.

The deal is this: She will pray to him, not the old fashion way mind you. With tiny offerings of milk and bread, sweetened by faith. Laura has grand plans, she'll write a book, she'll go on tours reading to kiddies and to anyone who listens.

She promises to sue General Mills for defamation of character if they let her.

She will do it until someone else proves to do it better, and then her part of the deal is done. Problem is she'll only do that if he helps brings her back to life in the first place. Properly this time, in her words. No half-assed plans or maybes.

(His part no surprise, is the difficult part)

Laura of course makes it even more complicated. Refuses to go into this blind, ignoring Mad Sweeney's advice that this will only slow them down. She needs faith, not answers to a bloody pop quiz.

Ostara does the best she can to help, giving them access to her many libraries filled to the brim with books on resurrection, from the gods that bestow it and several ones that involve the opposite. Nestled in many of them are testaments to her growing bitterness. Written in the margins with hot pink ink, little notes of what is a lie, what is a cop out and who took credit where none is due.

She is one of the kinder goddesses, there's more love in her heart than not, but the years of abandonment has made spite grow in her like weeds. Perhaps that's why she takes a liking to Laura's plight, she knows intimately what it's like to be buried and forgotten, to emerge from that grave and still stand. Maybe in the shadows instead of the light, but still there regardless.

Ostara does what many of the patrons of faith have done before, when the faith becomes dry and thin, she makes the best of it. After all, start asking for more than what is owed is what started a war, and she has seen what comes from that.

They all did.

Little Laura Moon, with a stolen blade and a heart made of stone. Who saw new gods and old, strong and weak alike and found them all lacking. It is in her, they have seen the true face of the faithless, the mortals who make or break them, and an end they can not escape.

Whether she knows it or not, Laura has become a judgment no god wishes to cross just yet, and that's perhaps another piece of the puzzle why Ostara gives them so much help. She never says as such, never says a single double-edge word to Laura or Sweeney, but still in rankles on him. The not knowing.

“This is more than what you owe me.” Sweeney tells Ostara, one afternoon when Laura has buried her head in some ancient tome -probably in a language she can't even understand- and isn't paying attention to him. It's not a secret that he's cashing in a favor from the goddess for just being here, but he feels like it's asking a lot. To lean on her good heart, her open doors and know that a storm will hit sooner or later.

(Grimnir might be dead, but the war is far from over. There are still the new gods, the old bitter ones and a whole bunch of fucking traps the old bastard set up in case of his end, that will have to be dealt with.)

“You stopped me from ruining what I loved most.” Ostara tells him, with a soft haunted look, “Too long I've been harboring this...resentment. We all have, but what for? The old days are just that. Old. Maybe I miss the power, but stealing spring is on par with a child throwing a tantrum for attention. That's not me.  So, maybe I'll work a different angle, maybe it won't work.” She shrugs her delicate shoulders. “Either way, I'm going to do it as myself. I'm going to honor all that belief, from the first believers that made me a goddess, who were the first to pray to my name, from those who kept true even when the rest of the world didn't. I can't turn my back on those chapters of my story. Otherwise, who am I?

He doesn't have an answer, it's too soon to be a bastard and remind her of all the fears that drove her to Odin's side in the first place. The weakness, the abandonment and death. Was she ready for that? Were any of them? This isn't a job, there's no step below god, either you are or you aren't, and then you're gone from this world.

Sweeney looks over at Laura Moon, with her moldy flesh, stitched together with cheap glue, bits of metal and string like some sort of bastardized dollar store version of Frankenstein. With all ten of her nails cracked and peeling, the heavy stench of her rot that floats with every breeze; makes even his iron stomach clench and roll, how it lingers as a constant reminder of her late state of decomposition. As if it wasn't obvious when she constantly had to pull maggots out of her ears, mouth and nose.

Maybe Ostara has the right frame of mind.

To keep true to yourself or accept a true end. 

There are worse things than death after all.

+

The weirdest part of all this, you know besides the slaying of Grimnir by a dead girl, of him playing fucking librarian and taking tea with the goddess of Spring while a storm builds; is watching Shadow Fucking Moon blush for Ostara.

It's so fucking weird that he can't even insult the bastard for it.

He'll just sit there silently, watching as the two canoodle -and there is no other words for it, because Shadow will be polite as a nun, and Ostara will just sit as close as she can with a beaming smile. They whisper and giggle like children do when they have a crush and Sweeney doesn't even know where to start with how fucked up any of this is.

It also is fucking awkward as shit for him, because it's not just him in the room when this happens. Laura is there too. Making it a test, a competition of strength of will between him and the bitch dead wife. Whoever had to leave the room first in disgust, lost. 

He lost every god damn time.

Whatever happened to her heart when Shadow failed to believe in her over Grimnir (just for a second, for one painful second, but to the dead that’s forever), has either frozen it or broke it. She doesn't mope or cry, thank Christ above, but she doesn't act jealous either. She is hell bent on other things. Like bringing herself to life.

And testing him with her stupid theories.

He hates it as much as he delights in it.

“Kiss me. Ginger minge.” She demands, hands on rotted hips and dull eyes looking up into his, with absolute venom even as she attempts to flutter her lashes and smile up at him. Shit, she just might actually spit acid at this point if he dared comment about how terrifying she looks.

“Fuck off, no.” He tells her. He doesn't have a point to prove, he just doesn't want to do it.

Not like this.

He drops the book he was not so secretly not reading, and childishly kicks at a pile near her in his attempt to get away. Moving to a different room to keep a stupidly long table between them. Not that it would do much good. She still has his strength, all his luck, and she all she has to do is get one hand on him and he's a dead man. Ha.

“You said you wanted to test my theory!” She screeches like a banshee at his retreating back.

“That was before I knew it was fuckin' batty!” He shouts right back. “That was before you started acting all sweet -horrifying by the way, thought your brain had literally rotted out of your fucking ears! Acting all delicate and soft, telling me to kiss you. Jesus fuckin' Christ, no woman! NO!”

Laura chases him around the awkwardly large dining table, and he won't deny he smiles a bit, when her hip catches a sharp corner and curses at him like it's his fault.  

“Well, excuse me for trying to be nice. I thought it would make this easier!”

“Well, you thought wrong, dead wife.”

It's at this, she snaps. Honest to god, snaps, and flings herself in his direction like a damned hellcat.

Sweeney attempts to run away, but she is small and quick, with hands like a fucking honey badger on crack. Her fingers claw into his shoulder, etching into the jean material like it was nothing but silk. Once she has him there, it's a losing battle, as she clings in with the rest of her body soon after.

They fight all the way down. He attempts to throw her off, but she digs her sharp knees into his ribs. Hard enough to bruise, right until she has him on his back, with her legs clutching down on his sides like steel clamps.

With no tenderness, her clammy hands are gripping his head, all the fingers braced to keep his skull still. Forcing him to look at her as she struggles to plant one on him.

“Let.Me.Kiss.You!” She growls, leaning in only to find him squirming more. She gets his nose, his beard and cheek, ghosting over each but never for long enough. “Are you going to turn into a fucking little toad or something? Christ, I am not asking for your virginity, princess. Just a damn kiss!”

Sweeney tilts his head, strains his neck and wiggles like a dying fish, calling her every name in the book and then some that aren't. He does it in English and Gaelic; all between his gritted teeth but none of it moves her. In the end she claws to keep his face down, digging her razor blade nails into the flesh of his cheeks until he screams.

“Fine! FUCK! I said fine, dead wife! DO IT!”

Laura releases her grip and glares down at him, gets close enough for him to gag slightly on the scent of death and decay that surrounds her -but she doesn't kiss him.

“First tell me why you are acting like such a prude over a single kiss.”

“Oh. Sweet mother of Christ above. Does it matter?”

Laura smirks, and proceeds to squeeze with her thighs around his middle. He screeches something foul, and is seconds away from feeling his guts burst like a fucking water balloon when she eases back. Planting her ass on his hips with no shame.

He will deny it until he is fucking blue in the face, but he likes her weight. Her strength. All wrapped up in a tiny package.

“Tell me or I will literally squeeze it out of you.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

Laura clenches, her face smug when a second later he is screaming once more.

(What he doesn’t know is that she likes when he screams, likes the way he bristles and burns, there is something beautiful in the way he strains so hard against her that the veins in his neck pop and pulse.)

“ALRIGHT YOU FUCKIN' MAD BITCH, I'LL SING. I'LL FUCKIN' SING. NOW STOP BEFORE I PISS MYSELF!”

Laura does, because ew.

Delighted in getting her way once more, she is content to wait for him to catch his breath. Merely tracking the beads of sweat on his brow and the way they trickle into his flaming red hair.

“…ah…fuck…” he pants. Licking his lips while looking away from her. Seemingly shutting his eyes in pain, more pain than he was mere seconds ago in. “I didn't want to kiss you…like this. With you making it all business and shady like, like it's a fuckin' handshake.”

“Oh.”

>

[clairekatswritingcorner]

Her Guardian Angel

Word Count: 5,102

Summary: Alexys discovers a stranger in her house who ends up turning her whole world—and her heart—upside down.

*Author’s Note*: A commission for @bad-blue-moon-rising! I always love writing for her because her ships are just so great and lovely ;~; this is yet another fantastic one, involving an angel and a prophecy that was destined to bring them together. Beyond adorable and heartwarming and cute!! I hope you enjoy!

Another day had come to a close, and Alexys couldn’t help finding herself a little relieved. She was headed home from work, following the same route she always did, acting more on autopilot than anything else. As much as she enjoyed her job, doing what she could to save and heal as many animals as possible, sometimes even she needed a break. She needed time to recollect herself, to recoup after a long day of dealing with all the people and animals that had crowded the clinic. She often soaked in their energies as they mixed in with the other smells and sounds that swirled around her. She was a fairly sensitive person, both socially and emotionally, and being around too much commotion for too long tended to wear her out.

Even the simple, short stint of silence she had on her way home was refreshing. It wasn’t unusual for her to finish her shift late, often staying after hours to help wrap up last minute duties or manage emergency cases that had come in just as they were closing. She was never one to turn away a patient, no matter the circumstances; she had always been the type of person that put others before herself.

Sometimes she was glad to be able to offer any kind of aid in the first place, but occasionally she’d overtax herself in kindness. In those cases, it was nice to make her way home after night had fallen, blanketing the world in its quiet shadow. She loved basking in the beauty of the glittering night sky. An inky black expanse dotted with pinpricks of dazzling stars that complemented the moon’s gentle glow. It was so infinite, and so radiant, and so peaceful…sometimes she wished she could disappear into that sky and become a star of her own.

Such wistful, silly thoughts must have been a byproduct of her exhaustion. They were childish, and outlandish, and unrealistic…but sometimes the best thing she could do for herself was indulge in the impossible. She’d always had a lot of impossible things to ponder on thanks to her father. A man who many had criticized, whose memory was marred by their defaming rumors, who was dismissed for his philosophies and the prophecies he preached. Even if Alexys hadn’t entirely settled her feelings towards her father and his beliefs, the idea that he was truly crazy had never crossed her mind. At least not entirely.

Thomas Daggett was a smart man, an irrefutable fact that was evident by the intricacy and complexity of his writings. Essays and books and folders full of warnings about Heaven and angels and a coming crisis…yeah, on the surface it all sounded like some sort of dream, or eccentric speculation. But between reading his works and recalling what she could of her own hazy memories, her suspicion only continued to grow. She was able to piece things together about him, and about what he’d been saying all along, that cast considerable doubt on his apparent lack of credibility.

As eager as she was to uncover the truth of her father’s teachings, she still couldn’t discuss her discoveries, her postulations, her interpretations with anyone. Having to maintain such strict silence only became more frustrating with each new finding she made. She knew it was best to keep to herself, especially concerning the nature of this particular subject matter. But she couldn’t seem to shake the thoughts and feelings that pestered her, whose influence only intensified with time. Maybe she was taking things too far, just like many had accused her father of doing; look how well that had turned out for him. But she also figured doing some investigating, some theorizing of her own couldn’t hurt, right? She hoped it wouldn’t; she certainly didn’t want to end up falling prey to the same unfortunate fate.

Getting sidetracked by all that complicated nonsense ruined the relaxation she’d been looking forward to enjoying on the way home. Finally arriving at her apartment, she glanced at the sky once more as she approached the front door. Her eyes fell upon the austere sight of the moon and an eerie chill seized her spine, making her skin crawl. What an unexpected sensation, and an unwelcome one at that…maybe this was just going to be one of those nights. The kind where things felt off, and she couldn’t really sleep, and she knew she’d be going into work tomorrow with even less rest than she had the day before.

She sighed and pushed the door open, shuffling inside and putting her belongings away as she switched on a few lights. She was hoping to feel some sense of relief from whatever oppressive force had affected her outside, but something still felt wrong, unnerving, uncomfortable. She was on edge, body tense and senses sharp; it almost felt like she was being watched. She hadn’t seen anyone outside when she got here, and all the lights in her apartment were off when she’d come in. Her fatigue must have been taking a greater toll on her than she thought.

She took a few deep breaths and tried to settle herself, focusing her senses on the things around her. Tangible things like the couch, the side table, the lamp. She glanced at the coffee table that was situated in front of the couch, currently littered with the papers and books she’d chosen to sift through this week. Maybe she shouldn’t think about those and risk the possibility of her thoughts becoming even more unsettling and jumbled. She went to the couch and pulled a blanket over herself, closing her eyes. Surely she just needed a little rest, that was all; she’d be back to her normal self in no time.

But with her eyes closed, her nerves only seemed to worsen. There was something in here with her, something in the same room, something she’d missed. Had she stared right at it and not noticed, could she be hallucinating something sinister due to the amount of exposure she’d had to her father’s research? She wasn’t sure if she wanted any answers, or if it would just be best to force herself to sleep through this inexplicable episode. Maybe she really was more tired than she’d assumed and was already falling asleep, suspended in the limbo between awareness and unconsciousness. Such circumstances could easily explain away the cause of this overwhelming paranoia, this atmosphere of fear, couldn’t they?

“Alexys?”

Her eyes shot open and she sat up straight, clutching the blanket with white knuckles. There was someone here, or at least something, some sort of sentient being that knew her name. Her eyes whizzed around the room looking for the source of the voice, ears trying to remember and relay which direction it had come from. Eventually her gaze fell upon a desk in the corner of the room, yet another surface that was piled with books and papers and other evidence of the work she’d been dedicating herself to in her spare time. Her lungs froze and heart pounded as she examined the unfamiliar form that had become her temporary company.

“Alexys Daggett?”

“How do you know my name?”

Her voice trembled as much as her body, but thankfully she’d managed to get that question out. The form remained perched on the back of the desk chair, at least that’s what it appeared to be doing, and if it was an animal it may not have been that bizarre. But if it was an animal that spoke, she couldn’t judge by those standards, and although it was still mostly obscured by shadows she started to think whatever she was looking at resembled the form of a man. His voice had certainly sounded that way, and the more effort she dedicated to figuring out exactly what she was looking at, the less she had left over to panic with.

A grown man perched on the back of her flimsy desk chair while it sat unaffected, like there was nothing on it. Maybe she really was having a vision, or hallucination, or a dream; this certainly would have been the most realistic one she’d ever experienced. Part of her wanted to get up and turn on another light nearer him, so she could properly see what he looked like, but she was too paralyzed by fear to even blink. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, though, as if he was an old friend who’d stopped by for a visit. But she was sure she’d never known anyone who acted or sounded like him, and when she finally saw his face she confirmed she’d definitely never seen him before.

He stood up on the back of the chair before stepping to the floor with an ease and grace that startled her. Perhaps it shouldn’t have, considering he’d just been balancing his entire weight on the back of such a weak object with supernatural steadiness. He was simply dressed, like any normal guy you might pass on the street, and he had shoulder length red hair with a matching goatee. In her opinion he was very handsome, but she wasn’t sure now was the best time to be having such thoughts, since he also happened to be an intruder that had broken into her home.

“How did you get in my house? Who are you?”

As the gears in her brain started turning again, she was hit with a fresh wave of confusion and panic. She scrambled to the edge of the couch, getting as far away from him as the furniture would allow. She thought about climbing over the back of it for a moment, using the seat as a shield between them, but when he started moving toward her, her limbs locked up. What was he going to do to her, why was he here, why was all of this happening? A small part of her mind wondered how he’d managed to get in without leaving any kind of visible damage or disturbance, but she was currently dedicating more attention to self-preservation than determining the logistics of his break in techniques.

“Calm down, calm down,” he spoke with a soothing voice, holding his hands up in a gesture to demonstrate he meant no harm. He knew before he’d even come he probably wasn’t going to be received well; he almost never was, considering the nature of his arrival. People weren’t particularly fond of discovering such an unexpected intruder in their home, and were usually even less fond of what he had to say. “I’m not going to hurt you. There’s no reason to panic, I’m not here to do anything bad to you.”

“Tell me who you are!” Alexys demanded, grabbing a pillow and holding it in front of her. If nothing else, it could serve as a momentary distraction if she ended up having to hit him with it and make a hasty escape. “What’s going on, I don’t understand what’s—”

“You’re not supposed to understand,” he informed her, coming to a standstill. There wasn’t any point trying to get closer to her while she was like this; he needed to gain her trust. “I mean, it makes sense that you don’t understand. It’s to be expected. And I know I’m not something you expected either, but please, you need to hear me out.”

The longer he dodged the subject, the more worried Alexys became. He seemed to recognize the mounting panic in her eyes and started speaking again before she could make her demand a third time. “My name is Simon. I’m an angel.”

Well, he wasn’t being very angelic right now. “Is that some kind of joke? Angels don’t break into people’s homes, and if you really were an angel, wouldn’t you have wings—?”

Once she got started her interrogation was like a steamroll, so Simon jumped in at the first breath she took. “It’s not a joke. I am an angel, and I do have wings, but I don’t think showing them off for you would make the best introduction. Look, I’m not here for me, I’m here because there’s something I need to tell you, something you have to hear.”

If he’d been willing to show her, at least it would have solved the mystery of whether or not he was lying; but maybe he had a point. It wouldn’t do her any good to find out the truth just to get overwhelmed and transition into another fit of hysterics or something. She honestly didn’t know how she’d respond if it turned out he was telling the truth, or if he showed her something like that…she was still just trying to get over the shock of someone breaking into her home. He had been doing that weird balancing act a moment ago, but maybe that was an illusion, or a trick of the light? Too many questions, too much confusion; Alexys was starting to give herself a headache.

“Am I correct in assuming you are Ms. Alexys Daggett, daughter of Thomas Daggett?”

An alleged angel who also happened to know her father’s name…now things were starting to get too coincidental. Alexys relaxed a little, but only a little, adjusting into a more comfortable position. Her fingers were starting to ache from her iron grip, and she’d twisted her spine in a weird angle against the back of the couch. Now she was starting to breathe a little easier, and think a little clearer, but the more she was able to comprehend, the more apprehension pooled in her gut. Her father hadn’t had the most pleasant relationship with such heavenly beings, at least according to what she’d read in his writings. If one really was standing before her now, she may be in more trouble than if he’d just been a regular burglar.

“What’s going to happen to me if I say yes?” That was a safe enough answer, right?

The redhead narrowed his eyes a bit. “I can’t tell you until I know if you’re really the person I’m supposed to deliver this message to.”

Going back and forth like this was already agonizing, and there was something about this man…the way he spoke, the air he carried. Now that she’d had a moment to breathe, Alexys realized she really didn’t feel any sense of danger coming from him. At least, nothing that he was going to direct at her. “Yes, I’m Alexys Daggett.”

He nodded and continued. “Once again, I’m Simon. Just in case the first introduction didn’t stick. I’m an angel, the same kind you’re probably thinking of, and I’m here to give you some very important news.”

Important news from an angel? Was she turning into a prophet now? “And what kind of news could an angel possibly have for someone like me?”

“The stuff you’ve been reading, the information your father left behind,” Simon gestured to the clutter on the coffee table. “It’s all true. The adversity he faced, the circumstances that led to his death, all the things he feared and fought against. Your father wasn’t a liar, and he wasn’t crazy, he was just an unfortunate soul that was forced into the midst of all this. And now, that position has been passed to you.”

“Position? The position of being thrown into some sort of incomprehensible mess?” Alexys asked a bit sarcastically, but Simon’s tone didn’t change.

“The heavenly realm isn’t as heavenly as people think it is. Not anymore. Storms have been brewing, conflicts mounting; a terrible war is coming. Your father knew about it, and although he was damned from the start, it was all part of God’s plan.” It sounded like a speech from some overzealous religious fanatic, but Alexys recalled reading about the things he mentioned in her father’s books; her blood ran cold.  

“You are his daughter, and you’ve inherited his legacy. In other words, whether you want to or not, you’re involved in this. You adopting your father’s role is another essential part of God’s plan. Even if it’s not a very pleasant one, it was inevitable.”

“So, I’m going to die just like him?” This was definitely turning out to be worse than if he’d just been a petty thief. “I’m going to face the same fate?”

“The way things turned out for Thomas was regrettable, to say the least,” Simon admitted, almost seeming a little melancholy having to recount such events. “But that’s why I’m here now. Or at least part of the reason. You are correct in assuming that you will end up encountering the same threat as your father. The position you’re in is a risky one, one that almost guarantees enemy interference at some point.”

“What sort of enemy could angels be fighting?” She realized after she’d spoken how silly her question sounded. “I mean, are you telling me that demons are going to start coming after me?”

“Not a fight between angels and demons—a civil war between angels.”

Alexys’s eyes widened. “What does any of this have to do with me? Why didn’t this position end with my father?”

“It’s just how things are meant to be,” he reiterated cryptically. “But there’s no need to start panicking. Like I said, I was sent here with a purpose. That purpose is to protect you, to guard you from the threat looming on the horizon and lurking in the shadows.”

She was getting all sorts of answers from him, but none of them were as straightforward as she would have liked. More than that, she wasn’t even sure if she could believe any of it, if she should…but if he was wrong, did it really matter? If he was right, going along with what he said was essential to her survival, so perhaps she’d be better off just doing that. There was no denying many of the things he’d said corresponded with things she’d gleaned from her father’s writings, the experiences he’d left behind as a warning more than anything else. She’d never entirely doubted her father despite all the pejorative things she’d heard about him. Maybe all of this was validation of the hope she’d secretly held in her heart for him all this time.

The more she thought about it, the more she started to consider that things might not be so bad after all. She didn’t want to be used as a bargaining chip in some feud between supernatural beings, but if this guy was going to stick around, maybe things would be better than she expected. At least for a little while. As awful as that sounded, it wasn’t just because she found him attractive (although that was definitely part of it). There was something about the look in his eye, the aura he emitted that filled her with a calm unlike anything she’d felt before. No worries or stress or disappointment lingered in her body, not as long as he was here. Then again, this feeling could have been nothing more than another involuntary reaction to the ludicrousness she was being presented; but something in the back of her mind encouraged her to take his words at face value.

Even if she decided to believe him, how was all of this going to work? Was he going to live with her, follow her everywhere she went, monitor her every move from dawn to dusk, even as she slept? She enjoyed the comfort his presence provided, but he was still a stranger claiming to be an angel, and it wouldn’t be wise to jump to any conclusions too fast. Just because his answers seemed to coincide with the things she’d learned from her father, shedding some light on the incomprehensible nonsense that he’d been ridiculed for in the first place, she still needed some sort of reassurance, some kind of proof. In her heart she wanted to have faith in this man’s words, and she felt like she really could entrust him with her life. But she needed to know more about the person who’d be serving as her guardian angel (quite literally) before she gave her full consent.

“Let’s say I accept what you’ve told me and decide to go along with this plan.” She crossed her arms, trying to make her expression more neutral and unreadable. “I still need to know more about who and what you are. You claim to be an angel that goes by the name of Simon, was it? Why were you the one sent to protect me? What exactly is this protection going to entail?”

“My name is Simon,” he repeated once again, stepping around the coffee table cautiously. The quiet, careful girl didn’t react in any noticeably negative way. He took that as permission to approach her, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. “And I am an angel in every sense of the word, or at least the one you recognize. I use this appearance on Earth so that I blend in, don’t draw attention to myself. I have to work discreetly, keep the evil angels off my trail, especially since I’ve been working in such close proximity to people like Thomas and yourself. You’re both essential to bringing this contemptable conflict to an end before it gets out of hand. Some of the information your father discovered through his experience and research is extremely valuable, and extremely dangerous. That is, if it fell into the wrong hands. There is a truly terrible dark soul that exists, and it’s managed to make its way here, to the mortal realm. Just by the name I’m sure you can predict what kind of threat such an object poses not only to the entirety of humanity, but existence itself.”

“It doesn’t sound very pleasant,” Alexys agreed, once again squeezing the pillow she’d set in her lap. “It’s not inside me or anything, is it?”

“No, absolutely not,” Simon answered with a vehemence that alarmed her. “You would know if it was…I would know if it was. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be here to protect you, but to dispose of you.”

“Well that sure makes me feel better,” she quipped with a fearful tremor in her tone.

Simon got back to his explanation before she could start worrying again. “Excuse my wording, sometimes I get a little carried away when I discuss stuff like this; I don’t usually share it with humans. And it’s important for you to understand the gravity of the threat we face; how dire the situation has become. All hope isn’t lost; the fact that you’re sitting here with me right now is evidence of that. Things have only deteriorated in your father’s absence, and it was impossible for me to contact you before the time was right. But now I’ve spoken to you, I’ve delivered the message I was instructed to pass on, and I can be here to protect you. With you on our side, under the watch of those that can help you, I’m sure things will start to turn in our favor.”

“What does this dark soul have to do with me?” Alexys asked, her voice still quivering. “And you never explained exactly what it is you’re protecting me from.”

“Just knowing about its existence puts you at risk,” he elaborated, trying to make his tone more understanding and comforting. “Learning what you have from your father and now me, the knowledge you possess is invaluable and desired by everyone involved in this conflict. You needed to be aware of it in order to play your designated part, something you’ll come to understand over time, but not before you’re ready. Right now, knowing what you know is enough. But it’s also enough to get you in trouble, to make you a target of the malicious angels that want to get their hands on that soul.”

“Other than being evil, what makes it so special?” She tilted her head in curiosity. “Why don’t they just steal another sour soul, something easier to obtain.”

“This dark soul contains a power unlike any other. It has no counterpart in all of creation, and its power can be harnessed as a weapon that will change the tide of this war in favor of whichever side ends up claiming it. Naturally, the enemies who want to create a sort of second Hell on Earth, cannot be permitted to have it. Armageddon really would come to pass if they did. They want to wreak havoc on humanity due to how favorably God looks upon his creation rather than them. They’ve been corrupted by envy, and bitterness, and there’s no reasoning with them. They’re going to fight until there’s no one left to keep doing so, or we manage to gain the power to stop them for good.”

Alexys took some time to reflect on all he’d just said, resting her head on the pillow and staring at the couch’s dull upholstery. Simon started to think she’d zoned out, and he was going to have to do something to snap her back to reality, but she started speaking before he had to. “So I’m part of a fatal feud between angels just like my father was. His involvement ended up being his downfall, and now the only one left to fill his spot is me. I have to do that because I’ve looked into the things he left behind, which happen to include information about the nature of this conflict, whether I realized it or not. Since I never completely doubted him, there was always a risk I’d find out the truth, and now I have. And both he and I have something to do with finding this dark soul, practically the only thing that has the power to prevent this war or cause it. The angels that want to cause humanity harm will try to take advantage of what I know, and what I can do, so now you’re here to make sure they never can or will.”

“That just about sums it up,” Simon nodded, a little more relieved now that she appeared ready to cooperate with him. “I may not look like a very formidable body guard, but I promise I’ll never let anyone or anything hurt you. Apart from how much you mean to this cause, I don’t like seeing innocent lives being taken or wasted just because of petty otherworldly squabbles. I guess petty might not be the best word, but the rebel angels aren’t fighting for a noble cause. Their behavior can’t be tolerated, and neither can any harm coming to you. I know this seems very intimidating, and scary, and complicated, but you don’t have to do anything more than you’ve already done. You’re aware of the truth, you know where you stand in all this, and now you’ve got me to watch you like a hawk. I’ll make sure nothing ever even comes close to bothering you.”

Such knightly words…they made Alexys blush. She covered her cheeks with the pillow, peeking at the redhead lounging across from her. He spoke clearly, and softly, and regarded her with tender eyes. He’d answered her questions to the best of his ability, and now he vowed to preserve her safety at all costs. She’d never had anyone dedicate or even offer a level of devotion remotely close to this before. She knew he was just doing his job, at least that’s what he’d said, but she also couldn’t help feeling a little flattered. She couldn’t help repeating the thought that he wasn’t that bad looking, either.

On the other hand, Simon really did care for her. It surprised him, the way he felt when he’d first laid eyes on this human girl. Going about her life like always, completely oblivious to the chaos that was closing in around her. He wished she could have held on to that peacefulness, but he also knew that all of this was happening for a reason. It was necessary, as disappointing or upsetting as that may be, and he thought about the possibility of trying to find a way to make this up to her.

Now she was responsible for the same struggle that had claimed her father, ruining both his potential in life, and his reputation in death. It was a grim sacrifice, one that Simon wished could have been avoided, but this time he’d make sure it was without fail. The timid girl that sat before him was a treasure to be guarded, a jewel to be defended, a life to be preserved.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I will be staying with you from now on,” he interrupted the silence, yanking Alexys out of her thoughts. “I’ll try to make myself as scarce as possible, if you’d like. I noticed you’re not living with anyone here, so at least you won’t have to come up with any stories or excuses. I won’t pester you any more than I have to, and I’ll do everything I can to make this transition as smooth as possible.”

“I really don’t mind your company,” she blurted, the red in her cheeks deepening. “I mean, it’s not going to bother me. You staying close to me. I don’t do much except for work and shop and hang out here, so having someone around will probably just make my life more interesting. Well, I guess the whole angelic war thing is interesting enough, but I’d consider that the bad kind.”

Simon chuckled and gave her a friendly smile; Alexys could feel her heart kick into overdrive. “It’s good to know you don’t consider me part of the bad kind. I know this is sudden, and surprising, and a little confusing, but it will all come together in time. For now, I think the best thing would be for you to tell me a little bit more about yourself. In terms of your day to day life, so I can get an idea of what kind of routine I’ll be adapting to.”

So that’s what they did. The two spent the rest of the evening exchanging idle chatter and learning as much as they could about one another. The air around them changed, from that of tense strangers to old friends. Even if the rest of her life could collapse at any moment, Alexys was happy. When she finally went to sleep, her dreams were filled with the image of that kind angel and a hope that one day she might get lucky enough to know what it was like to be enveloped in his warm, soft embrace.

[yesadividingzero]

“Ten Women I Have Been Warned Against Becoming:

1. The Girl Who Takes Up Too Much Space, always, her shoulders too wide in stairwells, her hips too big in doorways, her voice too loud in classes. This woman does not understand the art of crumbling, of curling herself tight like the spiral of a fern, soft, delicate, unwilling to reach out the ivy of her fingers to grasp onto what should rightfully be hers. This is a beast, an elephant, a moving mountain and she is capable of flattening you, she is capable of ruining you, she is capable of making you feel as small and insignificant in her life as she is supposed to be. You are this woman’s footnote to history, you are her side note in song lyrics, you are constantly interrupted by her with a witty joke you wish you thought of. I asked what the problem was with being a steamroller instead of a sunflower and I was laughed down.

2. The Beautiful One, the long hair or the slim waist or the pretty eyes or the lips like bowstrings. This woman looks good in everything because she’s confident in whatever you put her in. She’ll cut her hair short on you no matter how you like it, she’ll wear high heels and step on your opinions, she’ll look hot as hell no matter what size she is. See, the reason you can’t trust her is because women like this don’t need your permission, they’ll do as they please and get away with it. They’ll say no to you, over and over. Teach your daughters that beautiful means dangerous, teach them to distrust women who love themselves. Equate beautiful with vapid, equate pretty with stupid, take their power from them. Say they’re vain for their makeup, refuse to see them without it. These women are snakes, they are serpents. I said maybe the problem lies with you being unable to control yourself and was told to get off my pedestal.

3. A Bitch. Women are supposed to be ladies in the street but will tear skin under sheets. I’m told: Never raise your voice. Speak gently. Submit. Hold your opinion against your lips and when you admit to it, make sure it comes out as a butterfly wing suggestion. Don’t disagree. Don’t undermine someone else’s authority, regardless of whether or not they deserve your respect. Someone touches you, just move away from them. Don’t hit. Don’t talk back. Be like the ruins of Rome, only beautiful if you can’t hear your quiet death.

4. The Needy One. I have heard how others spit when they talk about how she gave you everything and you shoved it back down her throat until she choked on it, until she came back crawling and asked you what she did, until her palms and knees were scraped for want of just a little affection - never be this woman, I’m told, because she’s a joke and the joke is that she dared to have more emotion than you did. The truth is, I’m told, the one who cares less in a partnership is the one who wins. I didn’t know this was a competition.

5. The Cock Tease, certified stripper, how dare that girl look like that and not want me to sleep with her. Lust is always personified as a lady in red with a dress slit up her thigh. Lust is sinful because it’s power, it’s not asking for attention - it’s demanding it. I’m told she is the worst kind of woman, that looking good is supposed to be some kind of shame on her kin. I’m told not to leave the house in such a short skirt, not with a shirt so low, not with a lace back, not with high heels, not dressed like that. My lipstick can’t be too red, my hair can’t be too mussed, I can’t just “turn someone on like that and then leave them wanting.” I mentioned that instant gratification actually ruins our psyche and was told that being led on was “exhausting.” I said that there was a difference between purposefully tricking someone into liking you and just being attractive or friendly. I was told there’s also a difference between coffee and tea but both result in caffeine. I said, “I’ve been turned on in class by the girls I talk to but I didn’t expect anything from them,” and they said, “It’s different, you’re not a man,” but couldn’t explain where that difference was.

6. A Slut, obviously ruined by another person’s touch. It doesn’t matter how many people she’s actually been with, it’s all about the rumors she carries with her. Easy. Harlot. You’ll still try to get with her, you’ll still take her into your bed and kiss her and say things you don’t mean - but you’ll defame her name when you talk to your buddies. My father used to say “A slut is fine for the night, but the virgin is who you take home and marry.” Maybe he didn’t know he was teaching his daughter to hate her sexuality. Maybe he didn’t know that every time she’d be kissed, her whole system would shake until she felt ready to combust, shame and self-hatred shivering against her spine. Maybe he didn’t know she’d disconnect emotions and sex because he always told her, “Boys are different, they won’t care about you.” Nobody said to her that it was okay to experiment. See, the funny thing is, I’m a dancer so I know exactly where my center of gravity is. I know how hard I’ll fall in each direction. Yet out of fear of getting hurt, I won’t let a single person inside of my bed.

7. The Soulmate. Never love romance more than you love being cynical. Never show weakness, never like pink, never think maybe you might find someone nice and settle down with them. Someone will find you, I was told, And if you’re lucky, he’ll put up with you when you start getting old. Never be the woman who believes in happily ever after, never be dumb enough to think maybe someone could love you after all of your mistakes. It has nothing to do with whether or not a family is important to you and you’re in a good place where a relationship would make your life better - you’re not a princess. You don’t get married, you settle.

8. The Girl With Strength, who can outrun everyone and who is stronger than her boyfriend. “See the thing about boys,” says my daddy, “Is that you have to let them win.” I sat at home and read stories about Artemis and wanted to become the huntress, too. I wanted to howl at the moon, I wanted to slay the beasts that bested me, I wanted to rule my kingdom with bloody fists. But girls are never athletes, never supposed to be “built,” regardless of the fact civilizations were constructed on our spines and we made homes in war by the steel of our ribs. Never be strong. We are supposed to wilt.

9. The Lady CEO: because if you choose work over family, are you really a girl? How dare you fight your way to the top through every pair of eyes that bore through your blouse, through every meeting where you were hushed by the sound of someone else talking, through every time someone called you “sweetie,” how dare you yearn for something. Is your husband the stay-at-home one? I can’t imagine how that is going. He’s not a real man, after all. I don’t give it long before the divorce. How dare you decide you’re happy being single. Don’t you know you’re supposed to bear children. Where is your honor? Where is your wisdom? Who cares if you are the leader, the best suited for your position, the quickest-thinking, the one who makes the hardest clients come back again. Don’t you see? Across history, women have been terrible at success. They always lose their man in the end. (When I said, “I would rather be a famous author than a mediocre mother,” I was told, “No, don’t worry, you’ll be a fine mommy.”)

[schmenna-blog]

why parents should learn to actually hear their children out (AKA listen)

i hope i don’t offend any parents who may come across this post, but i feel like they think they know every damn thing in the world just cus they’ve “lived” longer...experienced “more.” this makes me laugh. if only they knew how many lifetimes i, too, had to live through in order to be birthed into this generation. a lucky one at that. or should i say #blessed? for i, and most of my friends, grew up during the rise of technology and better education (book & street), so we truly know how to “talk the talk.” our thoughts translate into words which manifest into reality...now they don’t call it “spelling” for no reason. and 9 times out of 10, we do know what we’re talking about because even if we don’t, we can google that shit. so yeah, while our parents know how/had to “walk the walk” to even give us the opportunities to work magic at our fingertips, softly spoken from our two lips..they don’t know everything. (besides i can watch a youtube video on how to walk if i really needed to).

now don’t get me wrong. i thank God for my parents and all that they’ve sacrificed and worked hard for to provide a better life for me and my sister and our family. i wouldn’t be the person i am today if it weren’t for them (i think i’m pretty dope). but they’re not perfect, and while neither am i, they don’t know what’s exactly best for me and my future. they certainly have the right intentions, and of course just want the best for me. but the moment they can understand that times are changing and life isn’t how it was 25 years ago when they were my age, then maybe we can begin to have a healthier relationship. and i’m not implying that we have an unhealthy one, per say, but rather that it can be improved. matter of fact, your relationships can always be improved. with anyone. boyfriend, girlfriend, best friend, sister, brother, but especially with your mother and father. because like i said, i feel like parents think they know everything. and what happens when people who think they know everything hear something that doesn’t confirm their own beliefs?

they get angry. 

and then they don’t listen.

and when “they” happen to be your parents - the foundation to a happy home - problems can conjure up like a mf.

and especially after speaking (and crying) to my dad while he argued with (but tried to listen to) me like 20 minutes ago (well now it’s been a month or so since i left this post in my drafts), i realized how easily relationships between parents and children can become damaged when parents don’t listen to what their children have to say. and i mean actually listen, not just let shit go through one ear and out the other so they can get their point across (usually by raising their voice).

now now, if you’re a parent and you’ve read this far, you may be thinking, “well my child doesn’t listen to me, why the hell should i listen to them!!! i know what’s best...” first of all, take a deep breath. relax. you’re most likely taking their disobedience personally. for the most part, kids aren’t out here purposely defying their parents’ directions/rules/advice with the intent to piss them off. and for people of color, we know what the consequences can unfortunately succumb to (but that’s a different topic i’d like to discuss on another post), so we fasho ain’t trying to fuck up. but life happens. we’re still young (despite the fact that some of us can risk our lives at war or legally buy tobacco and alcohol) and we fall victim to the pressure or temptation of trying to fit in. 

and then when you really think about it, no one likes feeling left out or ostracized for being themselves...even grown folks. but especially not when we’re young when we just wish everyone could be our friend and we could all play on the playground together or share the colors from the 100+ crayon box with the sharpener that that one “lucky” kid in each class had but kept only to themselves and their “very best” friends. as we get older, kids become less nice and more judgmental. it’s not so easy to be friends with just anyone, especially if you’ve made “mistakes” growing up and people don’t want to be around you anymore, and even worst, spread rumors or talk behind your back.

to all the young peeps reading this, have you ever experienced those days when your parents would ask you how school was or even specifically about a friend, and you told them what happened (i.e. some one wasn’t nice to you in some way or another) and then they automatically told you to stop doing “this” or “that” or to not associate with “those” kind of people? at times, they’re quick to judge before actually hearing out the whole story. yeah, this is what i mean about parents thinking they know everything.

they assume there are “good” people and “bad” people in the world, “right” decisions and “wrong” decisions, “saints” and “sinners.” and they instill those beliefs upon you. well, what if i told you none of that was true? what if i told you, you’ve been indoctrinated your whole life--not only by your parents, but by your friends, acquaintances, and society in general. what if i told you, none of us have the right to judge others especially if we haven’t stopped to reflect upon our own actions and judge ourselves. are you so innocent? have you spoken poorly of someone recently (maybe without intention), and yet felt some type of way about someone speaking ill of you? or maybe you feel others deserve to be defamed for their moral code is lesser than yours? or because you don’t know them personally, so what you say doesn’t matter anyway. well, i guess that means we just don’t need rules or laws in general since some are more worth breaking over others, hm? besides, what sally says of susie, says more of sally than of susie each and every time.

but the truth is, most of us are lost and confused. misguided. seeking truth, peace, love. but at the same time spiteful or pained by another living being or action. some of us are 48, married, with two kids, a roof over our heads, food to eat, clothes on our back, shoes on our feet...and still wonder, “why me? why must i suffer?” and that last thing any parent wants is for their child to suffer as they have. and while we are evolving as a species, and some struggles of the past are not as prevalent in the present, we will still struggle. and our children will struggle. and their children will...just in different ways. 

until we realize that the only way to live life to our fullest potential--peacefully among each other--and live happily ever after is to fight fire with love. to be kind to even those who hate. for in the most general sense, those who hate only mirror what they’ve experienced themselves. and those who use hate as intent to inflict pain onto another are just hurting deep down themselves and want others to feel what they feel. because no one wants to feel like they’re the only one going through it. left out. ostracized. alone. 

and then, we realize that the only way we can do that is through understanding, compassion, and finally non-judgment. if you’ve ever heard something about someone that you didn’t agree with (slightly or immensely), perhaps try putting yourself in their shoes. most people aren’t born fucked up. in fact, i believe every child is born of pure innocence and light. but human nature is kinda fucked up. shit happens, and we lose our way, lead astray, live to work with little play. 

here’s an *extreme* example: but what if told you hitler (yes, adolf with that mustache) loved to paint? and that he painted over 100 pieces and postcards to earn a living during his younger, “pre-dictator” days. and he was pretty damn good at what he did (google a few if you don’t believe me). gifted, some would even suggest. but he was unsuccessful. he was actually rejected from his dream art school not once, but twice. i bet that sounds familiar to some of us, huh? a starving young artist, as they would call it. now some may say he deserved it, he was evil, but i ask, was he always? what if i told you he couldn’t go down the “safer” path of architecture school for he was a high school dropout, and then he lost his mother to breast cancer at the solemn age of 47, and would become broke and homeless in the racist, anti-semitic town of Vienna and eventually enlist to fight in WWI. it truly makes me wonder. have you ever experienced so much rejection, so much pain, so much loss, that all you felt were clouds of grey? that you felt there was no other way but to let fear and anger lead you astray? and hey, if you have something to say because the man i’m describing lacked pigment in his skin or maybe the fact that he wasn’t a woman, then i encourage you to replace his narrative with someone who more so suits your kin, for a similar pattern might surely repeat again.

i mention his story not at all to support his actions thereafter, but only to demonstrate how someone’s past can influence their future, especially if they are not guided with love (not disguised as hate by pride) before it gets to be “too late” and incredible, seemingly irreversible damage is done. we are taught at a young age, usually by our parents, to “treat others the way we want to be treated” and “to be nice” and “to not judge” yet i find that most people (especially parents, and sometimes myself included) don’t always practice what we preach. words are nice and all, but actions speak volumes. 

again, i mentioned how my generation is the generation of youths who know how to “talk the talk” sometimes before we’ve even learned how to walk (let alone crawl), and i find that many people -- young and old -- are “smooth talkers,” especially behind the overwhelming presence of technological screens that we so hide behind when we’re too afraid or prideful to converse in the flesh. and then when we finally do have these important conversations in person, it’s almost as if we’ve forgotten how to properly communicate with each other: we speak to get our point across and to immediately respond to any hint of opposition without actually trying to listen, understand, and arrive at the same page (see eye to eye). i feel this is a prodigious issue that our society as a whole faces--and has been for ages--but all i can truly say is, proper communication skills start within the home. if you as a parent cannot speak with your children (or you as their offspring cannot speak to your parents) without pride/ego/hierarchical position getting in the way, how can you expect to do so with those outside your nuclear/immediate family? with friends? with acquaintances? heck--even with strangers or the masses in general??

i know i’ve been rambling and i tend to go on tangents, BUT! parents, and older figures of authority, especially: it is important to realize that communication is one of the greatest, most important skills to have and instill in both yourselves and your children so they can, in turn, do the same for themselves and their loved ones. and if you do not know how to effectively communicate with your children (without screaming, without resorting to that poor “because i’m the parent and i make the rules” mentality, without violence or threats of violence, or straight up anger/spite) then perhaps you need to sit down with yourselves and brush up on your own communication skills. reflect on how you talk to not only others (besides your children) but to yourself. for all you know, your throat chakra may contain some *major* blockage which may, in turn, result in the unraveling of a myriad of deep-rooted issues you never properly healed from, from your past.

your children are smarter, wiser, more understanding and forgiving than you think (and probably more so than you). listen to them when they try to talk to you. the more you shut them down or dismiss them, the more problems will arise in their mental, emotional, spiritual, and ultimately even physical health. like whitney houston sang: i believe the children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way.

peace, love, light & happiness. always; all ways. namaste.