#(I still love Velvet and Veneer regardless)

[neonun-au]

opening night | vernon chwe

pairing: vernon x reader genre: pure fluff, friends to lovers, musical au warnings: nothing word count: 1.6k

for @followmylane 💐 hey tay! it's me, your carat admirer hehe im sorry it took me a while to get this out. it has been fun chatting with and getting to know you over this little snatch of time here, and i really hope you enjoy this little fic hehe :))

The sounds of the audience as they file into their seats from the entrance filters out to you as you stand backstage, fingers twisting around each other as the nerves grow with each passing second.

Opening night was always brimming with so much emotion.

The feeling of anticipation that had been building up in yourself and in the rest of the cast and production over months of rehearsals was palpable. Each night inevitably ended in everyone gathering together at some unsuspecting restaurant, (loudly) discussing what the best parts of the show were going to be. You could almost taste the excitement in the air—flavoured with concession stand popcorn and fountain soda.

The worries of the unknown that hummed through everyone involved. Regardless of how prepared you felt–how much practise you did, how many times props had been tested and re-tested–there was still always a chance that something might go wrong. It coated the collective anticipation with a thick veneer of anxiety while you waited for the audience to settle into their seats for the show and wouldn’t dissipate until you were bowing, hand in hand on stage, with the rest of the cast at the end of the night.

You lived for these moments. For the soft, humming glee that infected the cast as you got your makeup done and costumes fitted. The adrenaline rush that coursed through your veins at the sound of the band rehearsal. Those few minutes of tense silence just before the curtain lifted for the first act. You swore that there was nothing more terrifying or exciting than those few moments.

But tonight there was something else brimming under the surface for you. A thought more than a feeling. Tinged greyer and greyer with a hint of distress as the seconds ticked down to showtime–’what if he doesn’t show up?’

You hadn’t ever invited Vernon to one of your shows before–due mostly to scheduling conflicts, distance, and a desire to keep him as far away from any potential embarrassment on your part as possible. Finally though, after years of putting it off, you bit the bullet. He was back from university for the summer, aimlessly wandering around the town you both grew up in, and you had finally found yourself in a role that wasn’t merely ‘background character #2’. There was no excuse not to invite him.

“10 minutes to curtain everyone!” You hear the voice of your stage manager as it chirps through your thoughts, pulling you back into the present moment.

“Is he here?” Seokmin asks, leaning over next to you to peer through the curtains and into the steadily growing audience. You feel the velvet of his costume brush against you as he does so.

“I haven’t seen him,” you reply, trying your best to hold back the sigh of disappointment that threatens to escape your throat.

“Maybe he’s just running late?” Seokmin drops the curtain, turning to you with an optimistic grin. You nod and return the gesture with your own half-hearted smile before turning your gaze back towards the crowd.

Vernon was someone that did things in his own time. This was a fact you had come to know (and mostly love) over the many years you had been friends. He took his time, slept whenever, and never felt the need to hold himself to a tight schedule or routine unless he was being paid to do so.

But he was always there for the important stuff.

That time you broke your leg in middle school and he biked from his house all the way to yours with a half-eaten bag of chips and your favourite chocolate bar.

After your first break up in high school, when you called him crying at 10:45pm from the park near your house and he showed up with a speed you didn’t know he was capable of.

When you got accepted to university in a different city from him and you weren’t sure what that was going to mean for the future of your friendship. You hadn’t realised until that moment how much you had depended on him. He was a pillar in your life from childhood. A steady and stable force that kept you as grounded as you possibly could be while your head was always floating in the clouds.

And again after your second break up in uni; when he drove an hour out of his way and took you silently (and immediately) to the nearest Denny’s to fill your face with as many pancakes as you wanted. It was that moment, finally after years, that you realised maybe you depended on him as more than a friend after all. Maybe these break ups were going to remain inevitable until you could fully admit everything you had been feeling towards your best friend. It dawned on you, like a ray of sunlight peaking through grey clouds, as you watched him stare blank-faced and exhausted into a pool of maple syrup collecting on his plate and you couldn’t help but laugh. At him. At you. At all of it. At how all of your worries about not still being friends were for naught as he sat across from you at 1:00am in a sticky, red booth.

Extending the invitation for him to come to your first show was meant to be you dipping your toes into the water of possibility. You didn’t know it when you had given him the ticket–just how much you were anticipating him seeing this side of you. Someone vibrant and alive–doing something you loved. The best version of yourself that you could offer him.

“5 minutes to curtain,” the stage manager calls out, sending another dagger of despair deep into your heart with every word. You had thought this might be another one of the ‘important stuff’. It was for you. But maybe that feeling only ran in one direction.

“Don’t worry,” Seokmin smiles, clapping a solid, gloved hand on your shoulder, “he’ll be here.”

“It’s fine,” you finally let the curtain fall completely. Hope fading as you turn and face Seokmin with as bright of a smile as you can manage. “There will be more shows,” the words feel bitter as you speak them out loud.

“Come on,” he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms, “we have a few finishing touches.” You nod and follow behind him as he weaves through production assistants and other cast members waiting in the wings until he stops dead in his tracks. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” you ask, confusion taking over as you glance around.

“You can’t be in here!” a panicked voice cries out through the wings and you turn towards it immediately.

You feel your heart soar before you even see him.

And when he finally does appear–brown hair tousled and windswept, hands clutching a half-destroyed bouquet of flowers–you think your heart might burst entirely out of your chest.

“Vernon,” you whisper, hiking up your skirts and all but running towards him at the edge of the stage entrance. “What are you doing back here?”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he stops at the top of the stairs–barred from entry mostly by the body of one of your production assistants as he tries to nudge him back out into the hallway.

“Did you run here?”

“Yeah,” he nods, frantically trying to catch his breath.

“Wow,” you laugh, eyes wide with surprise at the rare sight, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run in my life.”

“I wanted to wish you luck,” he offers you a lopsided smile before immediately grimacing and correcting himself, “or break a leg or whatever I’m supposed to say. Sorry.”

“Thank you,” you breathe, feeling all of the emotions of the night building to a crescendo inside of you as you lock eyes with him.

“2 minutes to curtain! Places!”

“I guess I have to go,” he chuckles, glancing at the increasingly annoyed assistant barring the way. “Good lu–break a leg,” he thrusts the bouquet of flowers towards you before stepping back down the stairs and you watch dumbstruck as he leaves.

“Thank god,” the frantic production hand next to you sighs, “I’ll put the flowers in the dressing room. You get in place, the show is about to start.”

You turn to head back into the wings but Vernon’s face won’t leave your mind. On a whim you spin around and race down the steps after him–buoyed by a wave of adrenaline as it courses through you and hums at the edges of your body. “Vernon!” you shout, catching him just outside the door and flinging yourself unceremoniously into his arms.

He lets out a soft ‘whoa’ at the sudden impact and before you can stop yourself you let your soaring heart guide your lips to his.

It only takes a second for him to right himself. To wrap his arms around you and pull you in deeper. He returns the kiss in earnest and you swear there is no feeling that could beat this moment. Not even the terrifying excitement of a first show.

Someone calls your name backstage and you tear yourself away from him, smiling up at the slightly dazed expression on his face before turning and running back into the wings just in time for the band to strike up the overture.

The show ends that night in a flurry of applause and flowers. Exhilaration buzzes through the cast and crew as everyone changes out of costume, wipes off make-up, and discusses the success of the show.

The joy continues to buzz through you as you step out into the cold night air and see Vernon leaning up against a lamppost. He holds his hand out to you as you approach and you take it happily, grateful for the ease in which you slip into a place that maybe you were always meant to be in together.

© 2022, neonun-au, all rights reserved

#seventeen fluff #kwritersworldnet #svt x reader #svt fluff #vernon fluff #vernon x reader #seventeen x reader #svt scenarios #svt imagines #vernon scenarios #vernon imagines

[yeojaa]

so maybe another devil in a new suit drabble 👉👈 maybe jk meeting oc parents or like more interactions w oc and jks parents/sister

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  pg-13.  tags.  mentions of coconut!kook dancing (and the whole reason i wrote this tbh), cute banter, idk.  just a lotta fluff, a lil bit of grinding, y’know.  wc. 2.7k.  beta reader.  none other than @hobi-gif.  i love you always!  author note.  oh look...  it’s me...  posting something...  after sixteen hundred years.  womp womp.  this truthfully didn’t go the way i planned it to but i hope you enjoy regardless!

It really shouldn’t surprise you.  Frankly, it doesn’t.  

But it is a little funny.

There are about six girls gathered in a gaggle around your boyfriend, all desperately vying for his attention as he presents a neatly gathered bouquet to his little sister.  Jisoo’s all smiles, completely over the moon with pride and riding that high as she rightfully should.  (She’d done incredibly well, closed out the showcase with a fluidity you could never even dream of.)  She doesn’t even notice her friends staring at her brother with hearts in their eyes, each one red in the face and not from exertion.

(That, or she doesn’t care.  Maybe she’s grown used to it - the whole having-a-heartthrob-for-a-brother thing.) 

It’s actually quite cute, if only because you know Jungkook doesn’t have eyes for anyone but you.  Can feel it in how he keeps bouncing his gaze back towards you, dimple winking from deep within his cheek each time your eyes meet.  He’s like a child going back to his favourite toy, momentarily distracted by tittering laughter and his sister’s sunny smile but always coming back to you.  The knowledge warms you from the inside out, drags a satisfied smile across your lips.

You wonder whether he notices the attention or if it’s just another part of his life.  (You think he must know.  These college students don’t really hide it well, too handsy for their own good, years of growing up in semi-close proximity instilling a certain confidence in their motions.  That, and because Jungkook is quite possibly the least intimidating person you’ve ever met.)

“Thank you for coming!”  It’s Jisoo, flushed and excitable, round eyes as bright as her brother’s as she crosses to you.  This had been her moment - her time to shine - but you appreciate the effort she makes to include you, finding you within the crowd.  “I was a little nervous but…”  A shrug rolls her narrow shoulders, shakes her dark hair from its loose coil.  

You’d seen her practice before this - watched the long videos she’d regularly send to Jungkook - but seeing her in real life motion was an entire league of its own.  Dancing was her calling, every bit of her made for it.  There was just something lyrical about the way she moved, how her hips rolled, limbs seemingly guided by the rhythm of the music.  A grace you’ve never had, even on your best day.

“You shouldn’t have been.”  You’re beaming right back at her, sisterly reassurance on your tongue.  “You were amazing.” 

Whether she believes you or not - you think she does by how her cheeks grow ten sizes and her eyes are all but swallowed whole by the expression - she’s gracious, accepting the compliment with her blinding smile.  (She really was like Jungkook like that.)  

“You guys should come to a class one day.”  By that, she means a class she helps teach every once in a while.  You’ve heard about it on more than one occasion, seen the choreography posted on Instagram and YouTube.  

Still, you don’t expect that, brows shooting high.  Laughter filters past your teeth, springing off your tongue.  “I am not a dancer and I doubt your brother—”

Now it’s Jisoo’s turn to wear surprise like a neon sign, expression splitting with giggles of her own.  “Wait— have you not seen Kook dance?”  The way she says it is incredulous, Bambi eyes sparkling with what looks like mischief.

“No?”

“Your sister told me something.”

You’ve never seen this particular brand of worry on his face, eyes even more comically wide than usual, whatever words he’d originally meant to speak dying on his tongue.  He looks like a literal deer caught in the headlights, one of his nicknames suddenly very apt.

“What did she say?  She likes to embarrass me.”  True.  Jisoo and Jungkook had a textbook sibling relationship, full of teasing and mockery and copious amounts of love.  “Whatever she said, don’t believe—”

“She said you used to dance.”

“Oh.”  Oh?  You hadn’t expected Jungkook to deflate so easily, relief flooding his features.  “Yeah, I did.  In university.”  He’s utterly unbothered by this knowledge, attention back on the soondubu jjigae he’d been shovelling into his mouth.  “I had some friends who were dancers, so it was good exercise.”

“I want to see.”  

His answer is immediate, despite the heaping bite of rice and stew in his mouth.  “No.”

You whack him across the shoulder, startling him into clattering his spoon on the countertop.  It leaves a messy red streak across marble but you’re dragging his attention back to you with a firm glare, fingers cradled under his jaw.  “I want to see.”

Talent apparently runs in the family, you realise halfway through the third video.  Jungkook moves with the same assured movements his sister does, with power and grace and a confidence that frankly baffles you.  He treats the practice room like a stage, running through the motions so fluidly you almost have trouble believing it’s your man on the screen.  (Not that he’s particularly ungraceful.  It’s just surprising, like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.)

“So, what happened?”  You say it so conversationally, innocently, with eyes that mimic his own.  From the corner of your periphery, your boyfriend shifts, hand flexing over your knee.  There’s the furrow between his brows, the subtle tension in his jaw.  Worry.

“What do you mean?”  

Your own hand waves toward the screen, where the image of Jungkook from over half a decade ago sits paused.  “You were so…”  You’re not sure what you mean.  There are just so many options to describe the literal baby boy on the television.  Young?  Confident?  Round?  (You can’t get over his haircut, though you suppose you can’t hold it against him.) 

Jungkook simply stares at you, waiting for you to find whatever words you want to use.  Despite the uncertainty that swims somewhere in the depths of his eyes, he’s endlessly patient.  Always so soft when it comes to you.

“You had a coconut head.”

Laughter explodes off his tongue, entire face screwing up with amusement.  “Are you serious?”

“You did!”  Admittedly, the cut had somehow worked on him but it’s so reminiscent of grade school haircuts you can’t help but focus on it, too distracted by the glossy sheen to offer much else.  “I guess I get it, though.”

“What do you mean?  Everyone had that haircut—”

“In first grade, maybe.”  He sticks his tongue out at you then;  you scowl in response. 

“What do you get?”  As always, he’s perceptive, immediately aware of your carefully knit brow, the thoughtfulness that fits itself around your teeth like gleaming white veneers and holds his attention hostage.  He’s grown used to it over the months you’ve been together - knows you cling tight to things with an iron grip, turn them over and over until you’ve made sense of it in that brain of yours. 

“The crushes.”  You look affronted, almost appalled at the realisation.  He bursts out laughing, broad palm coming down upon your bare leg in a smack.  (He apologises profusely when you complain.)

“What’re you talking about?”

Your nose is wrinkled, velvet strands dislodged by the shake of your head.  “All your sister’s friends.  They’re in love with you.”  Jisoo had even agreed, laughed about it when you’d commented on it at the recital.  Something about them having grown up with Jungkook, obsessed with the image they’d retained of him since university.  “But you were a coconut.  You wore Timberlands and drop-crotch pants.  You weren’t even that cute.”  An exaggerated shudder slips over your shoulders.  

“I was nineteen.”  As if that makes it better.  Your judgment doesn’t lessen, the lines running the bridge of your nose only deepening.  

“Still.  Embarrassing.”

Your boyfriend truly is the best sport, rolling his eyes at you in the same instance he reaches for you, tugs you closer with broad palms, affection searing into your skin.  “Well, luckily, no more Timbs.  No more bowl cut.”  He nuzzles into the warmth of your neck, spreads your knees wide over his hips.  The sound of his laughter melts into your throat, dresses it in heat deposited by your breath.  “Are you jealous again?”

He doesn’t even get a verbal response to that.  Just a heavy glare and two hands squishing his cheeks.  “Absolutely not.” 

It comes up again in bed, your head on his chest, his hands on your hips.  He asks it quietly, conversationally, with a twinkle in his eye that makes you want to smother him with one of his many pillows. 

“You’re sure you’re not jealous?”

“I’m not,”  you grit, paired with a roll of your eyes and a little snort from your nose.  You really aren’t.  Those girls are inconsequential, irrelevant.  They’ll never amount to what you are to him and that’s just a simple fact.  He’s yours - something he reminds you of day in and day out, both verbally and in action. 

(You love him for it, appreciate it more than you can possibly begin to explain.  There’s a certain bliss to be found in the knowledge that you’re loved.  A warmth that rivals even that of the sun on the summer’s hottest day.) 

“Then why’re you pouting?”  What he really means is why aren’t you smiling.  You don’t pout often - at least not in the same ways he does.  

“I’m not,”  you repeat for what feels like the sixth time. 

“Smile for me.”

You do the opposite - throwing your eyes in an exaggerated circle.  It earns you a pinch to the side, a tender sting blooming beneath ink-strewn fingers. 

“Really—“  When he looks this earnest, it’s hard to deny him,  “you’re sure everything’s okay?”

At most, you can sigh perhaps overdramatically.  Fold your awkward limbs upon his and bury your face into the crook of his neck.  You’re not jealous of those girls, no.   

You’re envious of his talent - the simple fact that Jeon Jungkook is, by all definitions, a golden boy.  God’s favourite, with his heart wrenching smile and easygoing charm and grace that seems almost surreal.  There’s not a single thing wrong with him - okay, except for his bad habit of never answering his phone and always messing up the top sheet and the fact that he absolutely never ever puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube - and it’s absurd.  Utterly, absolutely unfair. 

But you can’t say that.

“Baby,”  he hums, threading the sound of his voice among your hair, tucking the soft syllables behind your ears.  “Talk to me.”

You relent - a little.  “You’re too good.”

“Too good?”  The depth of his laughter rumbles your bones, tickling your insides when it vibrates out of his chest.  “At what?”

A hand gesticulates wildly.  You’re not sure what it looks like, how close it is to hitting Jungkook in the face.  You’ve still got your face pressed to the warmth of his skin, greedily siphoning his sunny radiance with your cheek.   “Everything.”

Despite how he laughs - cackles, really, so adorable and high pitched it’s breathy - you know he knows what you’re talking about.  You’ve given him a hard time about it before.  

“I’m not good at everything, ____.”

He’s somehow even good at making you believe you’re wrong.  That’s a feat in and of itself. 

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Whatever!”  Whether he acknowledges it or not, he’s stupidly gifted.  Everyone and their - even his - mom knows it.  “Don’t believe me then.  I don’t care.”

“Then why’re you making that face?”  It’s almost comical that he’s calling you out for your expressions when he’s the king of funny faces, throwing his features into exaggerated (and adorable) masks.  (Maybe he’d just rubbed off on you?)

“I’m not,”  you huff, exasperated but not quite.  Still soft over his skin, velvet on silk. 

“You’re so cute.”  Sometimes, you think he really is just a child - too happy with putting you on a pedestal and praying at your altar.  Devoting himself to you when you’re nothing but a bag of flesh and bone, dressed in designer fashion and wrapped up with a satin ribbon made from sarcasm and candor.  (Not that you mind.  Who would argue if they were offered such love?)  “I still think something’s wrong but…”

It’s a smart tactic.  He doesn’t press you for an answer, opting to let it linger between you.  Settle like bothersome lint until you offer it yourself.  

When you relent - because you always do, unable to shut out the sunshine that practically pours out of him - you’re quieter.  Not shy, but bashful.  Uncertain in a way you very rarely are.  “I’ve always wanted to dance.”  So much so, you’d begged your parents to enroll you when you were younger.  Demanded lessons upon lessons - only to fail at all of them.  Rhythm simply didn’t exist anywhere in your body. 

“Really?”

You’re pulled from your safe haven, shifted until your entire point of view is filled with Jungkook, his starry eyes and his fluffy fluffy hair.  There’s that look he sometimes gets - full of wonder and adoration - when he learns something new about you.  As if just the smallest tidbit of knowledge opens up a whole new world.  

“Yes?”  You’re half regretting the admission.  He looks like he’s up to something, all the cogs in his head turning in perfect tandem. 

“I’ll teach you.”  

“Hard pass.”

Like a hot air balloon, he deflates, mouth rounding sweetly.  (If you didn’t know better, you’d assume the man was made of cotton candy, semi-sweet chocolate heart where the real organ should be.)  “Why not?”

“I do not dance.”  It’s nothing but a statement of fact, firm and unyielding. 

The pout evolves, swings down into a frown that drags his eyebrows with it.  “You could dance.”

“No, baby—“  So you’re a little frustrated, all your childhood memories pricking beneath your skin.  “I do not dance.”

“Why?”  He’s upright now, tugging you with him as if you weigh nothing.  His way of turning the conversation serious, pulling you from the warmth and comfort of the bedsheets to this.  (He’s still holding you, hooking his big broad hands over your hips, so you don’t mind.) 

“No rhythm.”  Unable to keep a beat.  Two left feet.  The list could go on and on, according to your ballet instructor. 

“Not true.”

Your brow quirks, mirrored by his as if in challenge.  You almost swat at him - so close your hand twitches on his shoulder.  “Very true.”

(Why does this conversation feel so familiar?  It’s déjà vu.) 

“Is not.”  Your boyfriend seems insistent, as if he knows better than you.  (He doesn’t.)  Stares up at you with those pretty eyes and has the audacity to grin when you roll your own, ready to rebuff him. 

Because you’re in bed, the one place where you defer to him whether you like it or not. 

(You do like it, though.  Love it, in fact.  Just like you love him.)

“You’re graceful,”  he hums, bridging the gap between you with a forward roll of his shoulders.  “You’ve got rhythm.”  The hand on your hip grows firm, guides your knees to spread wide on either side of him.  With each brush of his lips - tender little brushes, endlessly sweet and reassuring - he pushes and pulls, dragging you across his lap.  “You can do anything you want.”

You’ve almost forgotten the topic of conversation, preoccupied by how he guides you in languid circles.  How the cotton of his boxer briefs feels against the sensitive inside of your thighs.  The weight that grows between your legs and nudges indelicately against the soft fabric of your thong.

All part of his plan, of course.

“Your body’s the most beautiful thing in the world, ____.”  

When he looks at you like this, you think he might be right.  You’d believe it if he kept saying it, sparking desire through your limbs until they’re jellied and loose.  

(How he sees right through you - cuts straight to the core of your insecurity - you’re not sure.  It feels almost like a superpower, something unquantifiable, unbelievable.  He’s too good for you, always.  So kind and loving, pressing his belief in the form of his mouth, the tender edge of his teeth when he kisses you slow slow slow.)

“You’re perfect just the way you are.”

#anon.eml #incoming.eml #jungkook.doc #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #devil.doc

[bonegender]

Nighthawks

This is for the @countdowntotwinpeaks WONDERFULXSTRANGE Secret Exchange! This fic specifically was made for @cerealninjakat who asked for Dale Cooper and Laura Palmer having coffee together. They have a feeling they met before, or maybe they haven't. If you would like to see the original fic in its original color block formatting, there is a link to the doc HERE

CONTENT WARNINGS: CSA mention, Underage Sex mention, Main Character Death Implied, Timeline Divergence, Body Horror, Psychological Horror

The smell of coffee was pungent, and stinging. That acidic aroma which rose from an industrial maker practically took over the entire diner. As he stood in the breezeway, Cooper relished in the scent so familiar,  so calming and inviting. He allowed himself to get lost in the way it mingled with the undercurrent of a greasy spoon breakfast. The rich, sharp scent of roasted beans mellowed out with the introduction of butter, eggs, toast and bacon. Beyond that was the wispy trails of cigarettes gone by that clung to the nostrils. It was utterly invigorating. This was the thing he looked forward to the most when waking up; a nice hot meal and hopefully, a good cup of coffee.

Dale Cooper returned to himself after his momentary journey on the Smell Express, and realized that he had been standing in the entrance of the diner for a little bit longer than he anticipated. He excused himself, pressing further on into the establishment, eager to find a seat. His stomach whined, just as eager to be filled with the sensory journey he had gotten lost in just moments ago. He knew how good it would feel to have a stomach full of America’s Finest, especially after a long night of work. He deserved it, he told himself. All he had to do was just find himself a seat.

Judging by the morning rush, that was a job easier said than done. All of the booths had been taken up, understandably, by families and couples.  There were a few like himself that simply wanted some time alone; to distance themselves from the rest of the patrons. There were times, however, that he couldn’t help but feel guilty for taking a whole booth as a single occupant, but Cooper always had an excuse at the ready. No one could say he wasn’t waiting for someone. No one could say whether or not  that someone never arrived, and therefore left him to enjoy his meal all alone. Regardless, there would be no reason for such excuses that morning, it seemed. He would just have to see if there was a seat at the bar.

Miraculously, there was. Sitting all by her lonesome was a girl - no, a young woman - of at most eight-teen years of age. She sat, cross-legged, painted nails tapping the surface of the diner bar-top as she mulled over the colorful menu full of delicious pictures of food. Her golden blonde hair curled around her face and shoulders, almost creating a makeshift halo around her head. Lost in her thoughts, she twirled her index finger in her locks only to tuck some of her strands of hair behind her right ear. She knew she wanted a cup of coffee since it was in the morning just before school, but she was having a hard time deciding what, and if, she actually wanted something to eat. The buzz from last night still clung to her insides, and the burn in her nose could be felt all the way to the back of her throat. 

It was then that she noticed someone approaching her. Laura turned her head, bringing her torso with it as she looked at the oncoming presence. The motion caused her hair to sway, knocking it loose from the ear she had just pinned it back with. Her blue eyes locked onto the man and in an instant what hackles she was about to raise softened. This man wasn’t too bad to look at, and his smile could beat the sun out in a competition for the brightest thing that morning. She adjusted her posture, leaning back a little and offering her own smile in return.

“Good morning.” She said, voice slightly raspy from just having woken up not too long ago.

“Good morning to you, miss.” He said in return, voice smooth and dark like a hot cup of coffee.

“Laura.” She insisted, tucking her hair back behind her ear from where it had fallen out, “My name is Laura.”

“Dale Cooper.” He said, placing his hand on the empty bar stool beside her, “Laura, is it alright if I sit next to you?” 

“Sure thing Mr. Cooper.” And with that, Dale Cooper sat next to Laura Palmer at the diner bar. Something about it felt strange, yet familiar. It was almost dreamlike the way their exchange had went. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but there was something disquieting about their meeting. Perhaps it was the shift in her body language, or the way she fidgeted with the hemline of her tweed skirt. 

“It’s Agent Cooper, actually.” He spoke up, pulling his eyes away from her kneecaps. He reached inside of his comically large trenchcoat to pull out his official badge, “Special Agent Dale Cooper, at your service.” 

It took everything in Laura’s body to keep her from letting out a laugh. Special Agent? Was this guy really part of the FBI? A very real look of ‘oh shit’ graced her eyebrows as he actually produced a badge and identification. He offered it to her, and as she took it in her hands to feel it over and look at the picture, Dale took the opportunity to sit down and make himself comfortable. Laura studied the photo and sure enough the overgrown boy scout was set right there next to her. Despite her best efforts, she did let out something of a breath of laughter as she handed back his badge.

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Special Agent.” Cooper laughed. What a nice laugh it was, thought Laura. A laugh that made you want to put your walls down. A laugh that felt like a childhood friend.

The two patrons settled in together at the diner bartop. Cooper took off his oversized overcoat and folded it gently so he could tuck it onto his lap for safe keeping. He looked far more professional with that silly thing off, Laura mused to herself. The way his suit was tailored perfectly to his shape almost made him look like a cartoon depiction of an FBI agent. A true Man In Black, with slicked back hair and serious brows. Well, mostly serious. Agent Cooper’s brow was a bit furrowed as he stared at the menu, but otherwise this man didn’t look like he could hurt a fly.

That, or a very vulnerable teenage girl. 

“What makes you so special, Special Agent?” Laura probed, placing her manicured hands flat on her menu. 

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Laura.” Cooper said rather matter-of-factly. He then flagged down a member of the waitstaff, ordering a coffee to buy himself more time with the menu, “But what I can tell you is that it’s very special.” A mischievous grin smoothed along his lips, and that alone was good enough for Laura. At least for now. 

Beyond his smile however, the special agent felt that persistent air of uncertainty. Did he know her from somewhere? Was she a missing persons case? He tried to get a better look at her without pointedly staring, but that was a rather difficult feat when you were mere inches from another person. His dark brown eyes watched as Laura brought her gentle, delicate, and soft hands around the slightly yellowed ceramic coffee mug. He followed the movement from the bartop, watching almost in slow motion as the white touched the healthy pink of her lips, which was topped with a thin veneer of lip gloss.

The air is heavy with the must of ancient, blood-red curtains. It almost suffocates. Were it not for the grand expanse of zig-zag, black and white flooring, the room would for sure be practically inhabitable. He swallows. He grips the arms of a black velvet arm chair. He squints from the harsh, unyielding light that surrounds him. There is music in the air. A saxophone breaks out against the stifling aura in an attempt to rouse him. Where is he?

A woman sits across from him. Blonde. Beautiful. Bewildering. He knows her. She knows him. Like a ghost, she crosses the floor to embrace him. Her lips: red. Her touch: gentle and familiar. An old friend. She smells of a perfume older than her. He closes his eyes as their lips meet.

The two of them stared at each other, confused. Something had just happened that they had no control over. What was that just now? They asked each other the question with only their eyes. Was it real? 

Whatever it was, Laura kind of liked it. Maybe they were just thinking the same thing? Maybe he wanted her just as much as she wanted him. Her cheeks flushed with color as she remembered the touch from just moments ago. This wouldn’t be the first time she had made a bad decision with an older man, and at least this one seemed much nicer than the others.

Cooper on the other hand turned away. He closed his eyes as he focused on the smell of coffee and the din of restaurant chatter. He gripped the fabric of his trousers, trying to remember the heavy air from that place so strange. Was it a vision? Why had Laura been there? What made them act that way? At this point he knew she was much too young for him to be sharing such intimate touches with her. He knew that she was thinking about this all in an inappropriate light. He had been there, in her shoes, when he was younger. Hot, young, eager to make stupid decisions just to feel something. Eager to mess with others' lives to take back some sense of control.

They were never really in control, were they?

“Hey, it’s okay.” Laura spoke, thus breaking the tension between them ever so slightly. Her smile took the spot of the brightest thing in the room, her eyes soft and understanding, “I get stared at by tons of guys. I’m kind of used to it by now.” It was true. Laura knew she was beautiful. She got compliments all the time on her looks, her hair, her smile. It was not a wonder how she became prom queen. Everyone in the town seemed to love her, or at the very least envy her. She wasn’t quite sure why anyone would envy her, but then again no one really knew who she was. No one in the town, save for those she dealt with, really knew what kind of girl she was. 

Please, she thought, please like me. You’re one of the few people I want to like me.

Cooper dared to look at her once again, the shame of images from moments past still lingering on his mind and on his lips. His dark brows furrowed, mouth drawing to a stern line as he gingerly shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” He started, looking her square in the eye. “I don’t know what came over me. My behavior was inappropriate for someone your age, and someone my age should know better.”  The agent looked around the diner, hoping that maybe there was another place he could move to. He knew what just happened between them was a faux pas, and perhaps the only way to make up for that was to put some distance between them. It wasn’t her fault, none of this was, but there was something awfully wrong about this whole interaction. He still couldn’t shake the feeling of the lingering premonition. Was it a premonition? 

Laura’s stomach practically lurched. Had she done something wrong? There was no shame in looking at someone beautiful, right? Whatever happened moments ago was okay so long as she liked it, right? So long as she actually wanted it? As Cooper looked away, she bit her bottom lip with anxiety. He was going to leave her. She desperately wanted him to stay. For whatever reason, her heart ached at the very thought of having to sit by herself again. Fueled by the sinking feeling of rejection, the young woman reached out to the Special Agent. Her slender hand wrapped neatly around the wrist of his left hand and in an instant the diner disappeared.

The roles are reversed. His hand is around her wrist. Beneath her fingernail lies an important clue. She’s lying down on a table, naked and cold. The light above them flickers and Sheriff Harry Truman sits to her right. Where was she? Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she breathe? She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to be anywhere but here. 

Suddenly, it’s very dark. She’s walking through the woods by herself, late at night. She’s crying, and alone. Was she crying from her vision before? Or was it something yet to come? All she knows is that she wants to go home. She wants to be in her bed, safe from the situation she found herself in. How was she supposed to know where anything was, let alone her home?

“We’re going home.” He says, his face full of determination. She doesn’t understand, but he must know. Cooper’s hand is outstretched, begging for her to take it. The tips of his fingers touch the inside of her palm.

Just as she is about to give up, she sees him. Special Agent Dale Cooper. What was he doing here? Why did he look so old? Why did she trust him?

She screams.

It took a few seconds for them to realize that they were both standing.  Tears were streaming down Laura’s face as she finally came to her senses. Her hands instinctively flexed, curling and unfurling before taking her palms to wipe away the remaining tears from her cheeks. Her cheeks were now flushed with embarrassment as she knew they were making complete fools of themselves in front of so many people. What had gotten into her? Why was she acting like this? What were those visions? Tentatively, Laura dared to look around at the other people that shared the restaurant with them.

No one seemed to notice. Not a single other patron stopped to look, make a snide comment or step in to intervene. These people were a soulless audience, looking everywhere but at them. For a moment, she was awestruck. Surely they had heard her scream. Surely they were concerned for a pretty girl crying. Surely…

It was then that Laura began to understand.

Cooper had a sneaking suspicion that something was awry, but this for sure solidified it. He tried to remember some of the things Gordon and Jefferies had told him about situations like this. Shared visions weren’t unheard of, and perhaps that was what he had felt from her. Maybe she was a special case like he was? Did she dream like he did? The diner around him became nothing more than a backdrop as all of his attention shifted to making sure Laura stayed grounded.

“It’s okay Laura.” He spoke with certainty, “You’re not there anymore. You’re here, in this diner with me.” Cooper offered a reaffirming smile, but he was met with a look of soft incredulity. There were more tears budding in the corners of her uncertain blue eyes, and her brows furrowed in a way he couldn’t quite discern. He reached out for her, hoping to give her something solid to hold onto. Just as his hands made contact, a look of realization and acceptance flashed on Laura’s young face.

Once again they are in that room with the red curtains. Laura Palmer sits in the black velvet chair with Dale Cooper at her side. She understands. Everything has become illuminated as they stare into each other's eyes. Above them is an angel, dressed in white. Her face is serene. 

Laughter fills the room. Tears fall onto a black dress.

“I have to go now.”

The words hit Dale like a bullet to the gut. He felt sadness, guilt, uncertainty, but most of all he felt panic. Something was ending. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it was a bitter end to something far beyond just their brief meeting here. He tried to say something, anything, but before any of the words could come out he felt the warm caress of her arms around him. Laura tucked her head against his shoulder, squeezing him with love and fear. He could feel her arms shaking, trying to hold on to him. He folded, blanketing her in the smell of aftershave and dry cleaning.  

They wept.

“Please,” Cooper begged, his voice fragile and afraid, “Please, don’t go.” He tried to hold on to her but despite his best effort she slipped from his grasp. Laura, once such a young looking girl pretending to be grown, was now someone with knowledge beyond her years, beyond comprehension. Once again, she smiled at Cooper and he could feel his heart shatter like a mug against the floor.

“I’m going to be late.” She told him.

The sounds of the diner started to fade away. The clinking of plates, subtle conversations and echoing songs from the jukebox became nothing more than faint memories as Dale could do nothing but watch her go. Her golden blonde hair flowed behind her almost as if she were floating instead of walking. It was as if raindrops were falling onto sidewalk chalk, washing away the bright colors and erasing what they had created. Dale realized far too late that he was at the end of a dream. What questions he had now were given answers. A dream. The faceless patrons of the diner smiled at him as they continued to melt into his subconscious.  

Dale took a final look back at where he and Laura had been seated. As expected, he saw both of their mugs sitting abandoned. Just as Cooper felt himself slip completely from the dream, a featureless waitress set down a plate of food he never ordered. Viscous, yellow, pallid and abhorrent, the image mocked him as he fell from the scene.

Special Agent Dale Cooper woke, staring at his dark ceiling. He stayed that way for several minutes, holding onto the slurry of emotions stirring in his gut. Laura. He repeated her name in his mind, eager not to forget it. She had to be important. 

Instinctively, he reached over to his bedside table, fishing around for something he knew was there. The plastic felt comfortable in his hand.  With a heavy sigh, he brought the tape recorder close to his face so that he could drearily recall his journey through the realm of sleep. With a simple click of a button, the mechanical whir of the tape touched his ears in the early morning silence. 

“Diane," He croaked, voice peeling open the door to his tired mind, "It's early in the morning, February the 24th. I just had the strangest dream.”

#wonderfulxstrange #cerealninjakat #twin peaks #dale cooper #laura palmer #i wanted to do fancy color blocking but #apparently interacting between mobile and PC obliterates my formatting and moves shit around #SO #you get this instead. #the original google doc has color blocking for certain parts but whatever aslkdjlkfj

[joulethieves]

would you happen to have a balvaan drabble or stellazzio crumb to throw our way? I miss your writing so much 🥺🥺🥺

This ask was sent to me like, weeks ago, and I heard “Stellazzio” and blacked out. Oops.

100 pages, 50k, barely halfway done and I haven’t touched it in three years. I think of her every day.

Here’s a scene from later in the story, where Balthier runs into Penelo in Archades. Earlier that day, Vaan got into a fight with a nobleman over a Dalmascan slur he shouted at her, and it nearly blew their cover.

"You know, Archades isn't so bad. It's bigger than I ever imagined. And so beautiful." A nervous laugh follows. "I guess I always imagined it as this looming cloud that pushed through anything in its way."

Over the short distance of the table, Balthier's eyes flicker. "You aren't far off. Don't let yourself be swayed. You are not the first to fall for the charm of it. The Empire is beautiful, but that's all veneer."

"Vaan told me, you know. About what you used to be."

Damnable Dalmascans. Can’t keep their mouths shut, or in Vaan’s case, off his own.

Did he tell you he kissed me plum on the mouth just last night without so much as a warning? Balthier wonders. But no - Penelo is a forthright girl. If Vaan had told her of that, it likely would have been one of the first few things out of her mouth. He holds her gaze across the table, tilting his chin so that a shadow crosses his eyes.

"Best keep quiet about that here," he says lowly, a thread of warning in his voice. Penelo, thank the Gods, is nothing like Vaan, and needn't be told twice. She nods her head in dissent, and adds quietly.

"Do you ever miss it?"

"No."

The answer is as reflexive as breathing. Penelo dares to pin him with a look of suspicion. "Really? You never get homesick?"

She thinks she is being clever, and it’s high time to clear it up. In any other case, she would be. Here, she oversteps.

"Home," Balthier intones tersely, "is sitting in Rabanastre's aerodome still under the knife after the machinations of this very city nearly blasted it out of the sky for good." He misses Her, suddenly; a swiftness that punches him straight in the gut. Now, more than ever, he is Homesick.

There is a swift desire to curl up on his velvet green chair and thumb through the tattered well-loved novels of his private collection and breathe in the smell of oil and leather, and hear the song of her skystone hum. But only Fran knows that sentiment. He does not deign to share it with anyone but his partner; only she would know a desire so visceral as that.

Penelo, wisely, does not pry further on the matter. "Point taken," she relents, and busies herself by nibbling on a roll. "So when are you going to teach Vaan to fly it?"

Balthier outright laughs. "Since when am I anyone's teacher?"

Penelo isn't impressed, and at this point, his charade is a tired tune on his own ears. She doesn't even humor him, which leads Balthier into a shrug. "... When he behaves himself. Little chit nearly cost us our cover today. Best not rouse him anymore than he already is. As much as he's grown, he still has that temper, I see."

"So you've noticed." Penelo rests her chin on her hand, and pins Balthier with her gaze. "That he's grown, I mean." 

Ah, and there she is, clever again. This time, not so far off. 

She chuckles. "Not sure he'll ever grow out of his temper, though...He's always been protective of me. He's--" she struggles for words here. "He's always fighting everyone's battles. Mine. Tomaj's. Kytes'. Filo's. Even--even Migelo's, when Imperials threatened to close down the shop because it wasn't up to standard." She munches on a bread roll thoughtfully, still avoiding the whiskey. "Sometimes I wonder how he does it. He'd make a good apprentice. I know--I know he gets mad, and frustrated easily, and you both bicker like there's no tomorrow. But I think," she wrings her hands on a linen, rumpling it into a fine mess, "I think he'd really surprise you."

Balthier suppresses a laugh. If only she knew just how much Vaan has the damnable capacity to surprise him. His lips still tingle when he thinks of it.

Regardless, he heeds Penelo’s words, and with some regret he realizes this is the first time he’s shared a one on one conversation with her since this journey began. Forthcoming, brave, loyal; she is everything Dalmasca is, and everything Archades would surely eat alive. 

He wonders if she’d let it. 

She truly must be Vaan’s best friend, then, if she’s advocating for his guidance in their first and only moment he can recall he's ever shared with her. That kind of loyalty is not found in many folks of his ilk. Trust weighs more than gold, and in his line of work, it is more rare than any treasure. 

And then there’s Vaan himself: the street-smart brat, plucky and lacking in all tact, who he found rifling through treasure with grimy hands; the boy who took Addrammalech without flinching; the boy who marched through Eruyt and demanded in the ancient copse where Mjrn had gone. He thinks of the boy who started with a measly Cure in the Bhujerban mines, growing to bring back the dead themselves on Omisace, to saving his own hide in Nabudis.

Most of all though, he thinks of a boy who, after all of that, kissed him on the mouth last night without so much as a warning.

And to all of that, Balthier lifts his glass.

"My dear Penelo, at this point in our journey, I don't think he'd manage to surprise me at all."

Their plates arrive, and they eat in evident relish until the dishes are picked clean and they are happy and full. Penelo pats at her mouth with a linen, and clears her throat.

"Don't tell Vaan you found me here."

Penelo's request is quiet across the table. 

"Your secret is safe with me," he assures softly. The restaurant is nearly empty, though this doesn't surprise him. Few know of this little gem. “Say, Vaan sent me out on an errand for him, as it were. I'm to find him some supper to bring back." Balthier plucks the menu from its perch and hands it back to Penelo. "Find something on there that he likes."

Penelo peruses the menu under the dim candlelight. "This," she points to it, and hands it over to Balthier. "The curry. He loves that stuff. Tomaj would have it on the menu back at home. Just make sure it's--"

"Spicy," Balthier interrupts, before flashing Penelo a smile. "I know."

They share a small chocolate lava cake for dessert, and when Penelo still hasn't touched her whiskey, bless the girl, Balthier plucks it from her side of the table and downs it in one go. She seems grateful for the excuse not to oblige. 

He'll be needing that for the night ahead if he hopes to sleep in the city where Ffamran is buried.

#ffxii #balthier #penelo #vaan #final fantasy xii #my writing #stellazzio

[stevedonnellyfaith-blog]

The Gift of Sacred Art (Post 120) 12-16-15

Sacred art is true and beautiful when its form corresponds to its particular vocation: evoking and glorifying, in faith and adoration, the transcendent mystery of God - the surpassing invisible beauty of truth and love visible in Christ, who "reflects the glory of God and bears the very stamp of his nature," in whom "the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily."297 This spiritual beauty of God is reflected in the most holy Virgin Mother of God, the angels, and saints. Genuine sacred art draws man to adoration, to prayer, and to the love of God, Creator and Savior, the Holy One and Sanctifier. [2502 CCC]

I saw a link on Facebook that my younger brother had liked that, for me, was the equivalent of sticking a fork in a toaster.  I get that sometimes as I scroll through hoping that one of my friends had shared something truly funny, uplifting or thoughtful. I like pictures of family happenings or friendly Californians mostly.  It is good to see which babies have been born, whether it was a boy or a girl, or whether the bundles of joy resemble whichever grandfather I know from the Men of Saint Joseph.  Usually the babies look much cuter, but that is most certainly for the better.

Strolling on my scrolling, I will often stumble across something unlooked for of the powerfully Christian variety or the story of a soldier or fireman that prevents me from proceeding further on my merry way, a story that demands attention, one that cannot be ignored.  Often, though, these posts invite but have attached videos that may take too much time or appear to be chilly mountain spring pools of untold depth of emotional content.  Invigorating – maybe, but also with the possibility of having a dangerous undertow into a nadir of depression.  When the siren song is not too overcoming, I cautiously avoid getting wrapped up in those that appear most dangerous.

Sometimes, though, my curiosity overcomes my caution and I click on the link without stopping and weighing the pros and cons, risks and rewards.  For instance, I continue to avoid the commercial of the old man who tricks his children into visiting him with a funeral invitation.  It is a good practice to take a daily dip into some pool of emotion, bathing equally in happiness, sadness and thoughtfulness, but I try to stay out of the deep end.  Certainly, life without happiness is drudgery.  Sadness, in moderation, provides the perspective to appreciate happiness.  Existence without thought is a never-ending episode of Sponge Bob. Despair seems to result from choosing one of the three pools exclusively.

In this case the link was only a picture of Jesus, not a sad or time absorbing link, but I knew I recognized the piece. I was hooked, but still I could not decide where I had seen the painting or why I found that particular face of Jesus mesmerizing.  I didn’t think it was the picture that Pam and I had gotten from her Grandmother but had never hung.  I am partial to religious art, but the background of the picture that now sits in the “to be hung” stack in the corner of my bedroom was a chocolate that has never appealed to me.  It is kind of a brownish pallet that reminds me of basement veneer paneling from the 70s. Sometimes pieces of sacred art pierce my soul, but the unhung picture that I was thinking of had never laid a glove on me.  

I experienced a similar fascination with the statue of Rachel by the Parish Life Center of IHM.  I cannot walk by it without praying for the healing of mothers who have chosen abortion. The Stations of the Cross in the contemplation garden also draw me to prayer, yet the sculptures of Mary by the same sculptor do not.  Abby, on the other hand, prefers the Marian statues that I remember Father Jim once referring to as spooky.  Art impacts me to a varying degree regardless of whether works are considered masterpieces.  Certainly I can recognize differentiate a Renaissance master work from a velvet Elvis, but spiritual impact often intrigues me more that than the fame of the artist.  For some reason this picture radiated and resonated prayerfulness through me.

Anyway because I was cooling my jets in a hospital ER for a routine IV treatment that Natalie needs about once a year when she gets the flu, I decided to dive in and click on my brother’s link.  I judged the prospect that the video would be depressing, offensive or political to be low and although I didn’t know where I recognized the painting from, I knew that I wanted to know more about it.  The result was about 6 minutes of happiness. I discovered that the painting was The Head of Christ by Warner Sallman, a Protestant artist from the early part of the last century who, up against a magazine deadline, had a vision of Christ that he captured in oil.  He painted a series of paintings of Christ using the visage he had been given to convey a variety of the manifestations of Christ’s goodness. Sallman’s portrait of Christ knocking at the door of a heart made me feel the greatest influx of His love, but it was his simplest painting, The Head of Christ, on the other hand, was the most hauntingly familiar.  I knew I had seen it before and that there was mysterious connection of it to my soul.

Later that afternoon my mother solved the mystery for me. A family print of the portrait hangs in the back portion of her bedroom where I only usually go to get something on an errand for my father.  The print hung for years in my grandparent’s bedroom in Hampton, New Hampshire.  The print was very familiar to me yet I do not remember going into my grandparent’s bedroom more than a handful of times over the years and not at all since 1983.  My mother would not have acquired the painting until nearly the time that we moved to California so my attraction to Sallman’s work is not nostalgia. There is no reason why I should feel a special connection to the painting, but it jumped out at me on a routine scroll down through Facebook, where, thanks to my devout brother, I am confronted with pictures of Jesus routinely.

Upon my return home, I checked on the other portrait as well.  My mother couldn’t understand why anyone would own a picture of Jesus and not display it reverently.  I am guilty as charged.  I found I am a proud owner of a partially flaking print on cardboard of Charles Bosseron Chamber’s Sacred Heart of Jesus.  Once it is hung, the painting will be one of several different rendition of Jesus’ Sacred Heart in my bedroom and it will unfortunately be the third favorite of the three.  That is probably okay, though.  I doubt that I would know which of the two portraits would be more favored by an art critic; my younger brother might hazard a guess as I believe he had a minor in art history, a possible reason for the link. 

I am drawn to the Sallman’s work, though, possibly because it has been present throughout my life, albeit as a very very background influence.  I think it more than possible that each of our spiritual sensibilities is slightly different, like the different reeds used in woodwind instruments. (I think a lot about reeds every time I see the case of Natalie’s unplayed clarinet sitting abandoned on the bookcase next to the table where I take my morning repast.)  I think there is a unique timber to how God has made our souls in relation to him so that if we all choose to exercise our spiritually in the way that he intended, our faith will weave together a beautifully coordinated melody that would serve as a counterpoint to angelic voices.  There is a purpose to the differences of our eyes, emotions and voices that is entailment to our intended contribution to His masterwork of which we are intended to play a part.  We need only cooperate  for our soul to harmonize with the rest of creation.

Note – Natalie is fully recovered and was back to school just in time to play her clarinet at her 5th grade band concert.  She played well.  Maybe music speaks to her.  Also my favorite piece of sacred art is the Madonna of the Streets because it reminds me of Pam for no rational reason, but that is why sacred art is different than regular art.  Sacred art impacts the soul through the eye in a way that allows us to discern more about God emotionally than we can learn with written words.

#God #Jesus #The Holy Spirit #The Virgin Mary #grace #hope #faith love #sacred art #creation #Rachel #Stations of the Cross #Father Jim Sullivan #prayerfulness #Head of Christ #Warner Sallman #CHarles Bosseron CHambers #Sacred Heart of Jesus #soul #Madonna of the Streets