#A SINNER MUST FOUL

[tomicscomics]

09/14/2023

For-give me a break!

____

JOKE-OGRAPHY: 1. In this story, Jesus is telling the disciples about forgiveness.  He starts by telling them how to handle a sinner in their community.  First, meet him alone and explain his fault.  If he repents, you've won back your brother.  If not, bring some friends and try again.  If he still won't repent, bring in the church (the local congregation).  If he still won't repent, treat him as you would a Gentile or tax-collector (that is, shun him).  Essentially, an arrogantly sinful person damages their community and must be excommunicated. 2. Now Jesus has told the apostles what to do if someone doesn't repent.  What if they DO repent, but then fall to sin again?  Peter asks Jesus how many times they should be willing to forgive a sinner.  He offers the number seven, but Jesus says, "Not seven times, but seventy-seven times."  This seems to be an allusion to Lamech's boast in Genesis: "I have killed a man for wounding me, a young man for bruising me.  If Cain is avenged seven times, then Lamech seventy-seven times."  While Lamech uses this number to express infinite vengeance, Jesus turns it on its head and uses it to express infinite mercy.  While an unrepentant sinner must be turned away until his pride yields, a repentant sinner must always be welcomed back to the fold. 3. In this cartoon, Peter makes the "seven times" suggestion, as in the Bible, but he also manifests the number seven to illustrate his suggestion, as a Sesame Street character might do.  Jesus tells him it should be more than seven, so Peter, logically, suggests the next number: eight.  Jesus tilts the physically manifested integer onto its side then gives His approval.  The joke, dear reader, is not that Jesus is a cat Who topples things, willy OR nilly.  Nay, the joke, most beautiful literate, is that an eight on its side looks like the symbol for infinity.  By doing this, Jesus implies that forgiveness should be infinite.  The same lesson as the Bible story, but with HUMOR. 4. This is funny.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hold onto your keisters, boys and girls.  The oldest of you might've recognized this cartoon.  That's because it's another Tomics Resurrection, where I've breached the forbidden crypts of cartoons past, smashed open a sarcophagus, dragged its ancient denizen onto a stone altar, and chanted terrible dark words among foul-smelling candles until the old cartoon's husk twitched and cracked its way back to colorful life!  How does the new compare to the old?  Tell me the price was worth it!  TELL ME IT WAS WORTH IT!!!

#catholic #christian #jesus #comic #cartoon #jesus memes #catholic memes #christian memes #tomics #bible #mercy #peter #st peter #apostles

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

what if you were from Khaenri'ah.

you weren't a noble or any type of royalty, just someone who was trying to live life to the fullest in the underground kingdom. yet somehow you still found Foul Legacy, an injured Abyssal monster who slipped past the city's defenses, and took him in to heal his wounds. you cared for him in secret, using your own medical supplies to patch him up and tending to him when he fell ill afterwards, all with a gentle voice and precise hands.

and Foul Legacy fell in love.

you showed him the passage to the Abyss once he was fully healed, expecting him to leave the next day... but he never did. instead, Foul Legacy stayed by your side, following you around the house and watching you work with curious chirps and trills. he perks up whenever you turn to face him, star-speckled wings fluttering with delight as you bring your hand to his face for him to lean into. he relishes the affection you give him, your kind words and friendly laugh, and tries his best to show how much he adores you through gentle nudges and purrs. he loves this new peaceful life, this second chance you've granted him away from the bloody chains of the Abyss, and he loves you most of all.

then Celestia rains its judgement down upon the kingdom, the sky turning red and buildings burning away into ash. amidst the chaos and screaming and fire, Foul Legacy loses track of you and awakens to the ruins of a great city, alone. you are nowhere in sight, and frantically the Abyssal beast looks for you, whining and crying out for you and receiving no response.

a scream of grief echoes through the rubble of Khaenri'ah that night, but Foul Legacy refuses to give up. the worst offenders of the kingdom, in Celestia's eyes, were turned to immortal Sinners, suffering endlessly but alive. you could be one of them- you must be one of them, for who else would ever hold his face and kiss his forehead and call him "my Legacy"? and that's what he is, your Legacy and your Legacy alone. so he journeys above, to Teyvat, the sun hurting his eye with its brightness, in search of you, a Sinner of Khaenri'ah.

for what is the greatest sin than to make peace with the Abyss?

#genshin impact #childe #tartaglia #gi ajax #foul legacy #foul legacy childe #genshin tartagalia #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #genshin x reader #childe x reader #had Khaenri'ah thoughts in the brain tonight #also isn't it implied that Sinners suffer from erosion #so even if you are a Sinner you might've forgotten him by the time he finds you #maybe he latches onto Childe after several hundred years because he's weak after being in Teyvat for so long #AAAAAA he just wants to find youuuu #short scenario #wifi's brainrot

[merakiui]

🐙 Azul's tentacle anon

Oughhh i read ur fem riddle fic and OUGHGHGH ITS SO DELICIOUS now i have some brainrots about party animal floyd shhssh

Party Animal Floyd who starts developing his obsession the moment your romantic love for him starts fading away. You're already becoming distant from him, and once he noticed this, his entire personality starts doing a 360 spin.

Jade's so gentle and caring always holding you close to his chest whilst the old Floyd just leaves you around for anybody to take, not giving a single damn to the point you start wondering if you had dated the wrong twin, Floyd will fix that. He stops his partying antics and had the entire apartment go from a messy waste-filled ruin to a sparkling white mansion devoid of any stains. He's doing all the chores for you, he starts cooking breakfast early and he starts joining you in the morning shower, trying his hardest to replicate his brother's gentlemanly mannerisms.

Riddle's so serious about relationships and expressed to be loyal forever to her partner, unlike the old Floyd who sticks his dick into one girl to another, leaving you to rot in his room tears streaming down your cheeks and tuining your beautiful mascara. He will fix that, no matter what. He gets a job at a close friend's now successful cafe, ditches all of his side chicks and ghosts his delinquent pimp friends, where the only pussy he would stick his dick inside from now on is yours.

If you leave him, he'd just end up spiralling into a deep dark place, depraved of your sweet loving attention

OMG YES AAAAAAAA,,,,, your thoughts are so good!!!! Floyd absolutely puts in the work once he's made up his mind to be a better boyfriend. It's like he's an entirely new person. Suddenly, you're no longer transparent in his eyes. Suddenly, you're all he wants to see. Now you're his entire world. <3 sure, he may have borrowed some of Jade's rizz techniques in doing so, but he's quite the upstanding eel now (still just as crass, though. He will forever be foul-mouthed and unruly and untamed; that's just how he is hehe).

What if the café job Floyd picks up is at the same place Riddle works? :0 maybe it's a branch of Mostro Lounge or something else entirely and the only reason he's able to get in with his spotty resume is because Azul owns the place and he can pull all kinds of strings. Floyd's genuinely determined to turn things around, so Azul does him a favor (which he will pay back in due time, of course) and now Floyd's donning an apron to work in the kitchen as sous-chef. Riddle nearly walks back out the door the day she sees him standing behind the counter. T_T she's certain the world is against her. What sin must she atone for? Is this how hell punishes its sinners now, by sending stupid, annoying, ugly eels to her workplace and conveniently disguising them as coworkers? If it isn't obvious, she is Floyd's biggest hater LOL.

I like to think that Floyd, though he pesters Riddle and annoys the life out of her, would vaguely and briefly confide in her and ask what sorts of things girls like. Riddle puts two and two together and figures out rather fast that he's trying to make it up to you. Obviously she can't let that happen. She just started wedging herself between you and Floyd, making you question your feelings for him, and now he's trying to be better? He had four years to do that! She's so annoyed. >:(

Now you have an obsessed boyfriend and an obsessed friend who wants to take the place of boyfriend vying for your attention. Meanwhile, you're mourning to your bestie Jade about Floyd and his disloyal behavior like, "Why is he so sex-brained? Why doesn't he just like me for me? What's so good about parties and sex with strangers anyway?" and Jade is a persistence predator, so of course he's taking full advantage of your emotional vulnerability and weaknesses to slip in between the cracks in your heart, slowly but surely getting even closer to you. :)

#twisted chit chat #azul's tentacle anon #riddle walking into work like: what in the queen's court is HE doing here!!!!! >:( #and floyd is like: heeyyyyy goldfishyyyyyy >:D looks like we're coworkers now #riddle fondly contemplates sticking a fork in the outlet #it's chaos if you come to visit floyd at work because they both compete to give you the best service #and all the while jade is taking you out on fun not-dates (they're dates) so you can recover from your heartache

[locustonlioden-blog]

I can't help but think that changing the original plan to have Angel Dust and Vaggie being a couple was a huge mistake. Those two would have had so much chemistry. Instead of having vaggie awkwardly trying to protect the princess of hell who could level the whole city if she had a mind to, she could slowly grow from being disgusted and antagonized by Angel to someone who slowly grows attached to him and finds a role as his protector. It could be her development as an angel who came from a place where sinners are viewed as irredeemable trash-she could have witnessed firsthand the things that shape and drive him, and how he yearns to be more than a "loser". imagine if she had sung loser baby with him-how different the lyrics might be and how uplifting? What a loser she must have felt like to be cast from the only place she knew, failing as an exterminator angel. She comes from a place where she wants for nothing, to the streets of Hell where she has and is nothing. Angel Dust, coming from a mob family, perhaps lived well at one time like she did, but eventually bad choices were made that led him to a gradual decline that now seems irreversible. lets say Charlie still took Vaggie in, but she is depressed and angry, lacking purpose, no longer seeing much point in anything. Then comes Angel, the porn star, the one who makes everything a disgusting sex joke. He is a great example of how foul sinners are is he not? As she grows to know him, she sees that its the guard he puts up. He is also someone who yearns for a place that is genuine and secure. The way Vaggie rips on him becomes less abrasive and dismissive and becomes more teasing as she does that as a love language. She becomes fiercly protective of him, and if you replaced her for Charlie in episode 4 it would make a lot more sense for Angel to want to protect her without making your main character look spineless and incompetent-Vaggie would truly be in danger from Val. Perhaps the arc could complete with Vaggie feeling ready to reenter heaven because she wants to share whats good there with Angel, and hes determined to make it there so he can help her be strong in facing all the things there that make her feel vulnerable and afraid.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel thoughts #vivziepop #hazbin critical #hazbin hotel vaggie #angel dust x vaggie #vaggie #hazbin hotel angel dust #angel dust #vivziepop critical

[hyperfixat]

hai i never posted this on tumblr but simeon enjoyers rejoice a little hurt comfort with my favorite angel!! ~1k words

Diavolo is so foolish, Simeon couldn’t help but think for the nth time as he watches you flinch away from the demons passing you in the grand hallways of RAD. Humans are fragile. You’re bound to get hurt with all those vile creatures around, no matter the trust he places in Lucifer to keep you safe.

You’re a lamb to slaughter, a poor, helpless thing, waiting to be snatched up.

He can’t let you get hurt, so he takes to becoming your guardian. Mammon does an alright job protecting you, but a little divine intervention never hurts, no?

Making sure to place little blessings on you here or there, encouraging Luke to do so as well. Finding excuses to hang out with you, it’s a safety measure.

Blessings turned into wards, wards strong enough to make lesser demons burn at your mere touch. You, sweet thing, none the wiser; never the wiser.

Simeon turned to his days of study in the Celestial Realm, trying ever so hard to remember stronger and stronger wards and enchantments for you. Silly human, you need to stay safe. What these demons would do to you if given the chance… his heart aches for you.

Solomon, an ever diligent housemate — is hardly human at this point, really, was it even fair for him to be one of the only two human reps? — is helpful, he has his fair share of old spell books and ancient scrolls.

Simeon spends sleepless nights working on making the perfect protection spell for you. One that would ward any demon away, any foul human, only angels and those pure of heart should even be able to be in your presence.

Perhaps his gentle intentions have picked up an intensity he hadn’t foreseen, maybe his urge to protect you has turned into a need. But truly it was your fault. A clumsy creature, one that is hopelessly defenseless, in the den of darkness.

Angels don’t get angry, Simeon can’t remember a time he’s ever felt anger. Intense sadness, sure he’d mourned Lucifer’s fall; the brothers’ fall. But never anger, not until today.

How could such monsters hold such bitterness inside, that makes them prey on pretty things like you? It makes him sick.

Your pretty skin marred with tiny nicks and bruises from the rough way the demons handled you, tear stains on your cheeks, making your eyes glimmer in more than just sadness. Seeing you in pain hurt. Poor human….

Divine power flows through his body, disintegrating the scum that dare lay a hand on you. The wards on you, you sprawled out on the altar, tainted by dark magic, should have held. Your attackers must have been planning this for a while, whatever evil ritual they had been planning, oh, his heart.

Surely demons, middle classed demons, should know better, know an angel’s claim when they see one. Lost souls need to repent.

They burn into nothingness, bodies going into the beyond and souls going to the place where they’ll get what they deserve.

How could he neglect you, dear one. Simeon bundles you into his arms, his white robes staining with dirt and blood marks. Nothing a good run through the washing machine can’t fix.

“Oh, MC,” Simeon coos down at you in empathy. “Poor dear, let me get you home.”

You sniffle pathetically in his arms, clinging to the warmth that radiates from him. His heart is pounding hard, an emotion he’s never felt before filling him as he takes in the ashes around the two of you.

Sinners.

Your eyes are hazy and he knows you’re probably not quite in the moment with him. For the best, probably, for this torture to not be etched into your memories.

With a kiss on your head he opens a door, an angelic gateway, to Purgatory Hall. Solomon jumps to his feet, startled off of the couch, approaching the two of you, taking in your ragdolled figure in Simeon’s arms.

“What happened?”

“Demons,” Simeon hisses the vile word. “I should have insisted they not leave without me finishing my spell.” Bitter words leave his mouth quickly. He huffs heavily. “My heart….”

Solomon follows Simeon quietly to his room, watching him place you tenderly on his mattress. Simeon tears the zipper of your jacket in his haste to remove it.

“Shoot,” he murmurs. He opens the front of your jacket, winces at the cuts littering your chest. Large hands on your fragile chest, warm magic leaking into you, stitching your skin back together. Healing magic taxes him, but Simeon has to heal you. His heart can’t stand seeing you all messed.

“Solomon, you’ll help me with this blessing, right?”

“Sure, what do you need me to do?”

You wake up feeling so warm, tucked into soft, fluffy clouds. A content sigh leaves you and you turn your face into your pillow. Where had you fallen asleep…? When for that matter?

The last thing you remember, gosh, the last thing you remember was walking home from RAD. That’s it. When did you get home?

A yawn escapes you as you push up, blinking around — was this Simeon’s room? Bleary eyes take a couple of hard blinks to clear. Next to you the covers shift and, oh!

Simeon stirs from sleep with a soft smile, “you ‘wake?”

“When ‘id I get here?” You question, words thick with sleep.

“Oh,” Simeon is much more awake now, sitting up next to you. “You don’t remember?” Sadness weaves into his voice.

“Did something happen?”

“You were hurt. I found you, being used as a sacrificial lamb, poor dear.” Simeon cups your face with his bare hands. Leaning his forehead onto your own as he finishes.

“Sacrifice? What?” You furrow your brow, mind racing to fill in the gap of time missing from your mind. The beginnings of fear trickled into your mind.

“Mean, mean demons. I’ll keep you safe, heart..” Simeon vows, pulling you into the safety of his arms. You don’t fight as he holds you tight in his embrace.

You know he means it, he’s been nothing but kindness incarnate. Simeon would keep you nice and sound as long as you’re by his side. And with that you melt into him.

#verified hyperfixat post #obey me #obey me simeon #simeon x reader #om! simeon #simeon x mc #obey me simeon x reader #obey me x mc #obey me x reader #obey me side characters #ao3 repost

[calisources]

GEORGE R.R MARTIN'S FIRE AND BLOOD QUOTES. all sentences here were taken from the book fire and blood which in part was adapted to hbo's house of the dragon. change pronouns, names and location as you see fit. warning for some foul language and mentions of inc*st.

“Then the storm broke, and the dragons danced.”

“A ruler needs a good head and a true heart, a cock is not essential.”

“Words are wind, but wind can fan a fire.”

 “My father and my uncle fought words with steel and flame. We shall fight words with words, and put out the fires before they start.”

“The seeds of war are oft planted during times of peace.”

“Only you could have won me away from the sea. I came back from the ends of the earth for you.”

“The Iron Throne will go to the man who has the strength to seize it.”

“I fed my last husband to my dragon. If you make me take another, I may eat him myself.”

“Let no man think that the fire of the Targaryens did not burn in his veins.”

“We are as the gods made us. Strong and weak, good and bad, cruel and kind, heroic and selfish. Know that if you would rule over the kingdom of men.”

“This is a night for song and sin and drink, for come the morrow, the virtuous and the vile burn together.”

“Thrones are won with swords, not quills. Spill blood, not ink.”

“Such a fierce little thing she is, she has no need of comfort. They are wrong in that, I fear. All men need comfort.”

“When the gods are silent, lords and kings will make themselves heard.”

“I do not have the time for tears.”

“Pride goes before a fall.”

“It is always winter now.”

“I will not fight you, nor will I kneel to you. Dorne has no king. Tell your brother that.”

“But we will come again, Princess, and the next time we shall come with fire and blood.”

“Surely the Mother Above loved my children more. She took so many of them away from me.”

“The tradition amongst the Targaryens had always been to marry kin to kin. Wedding brother to sister was thought to be ideal. Failing that, a girl might wed an uncle, a cousin, or a nephew, a boy a cousin, aunt, or niece.”

“ This practice went back to Old Valyria, where it was common amongst many of the ancient families, particularly those who bred and rode dragons.”

“The blood of the dragon must remain pure, the wisdom went. ”

“Familiarity is the father of acceptance.”

“Brother, you need never kneel to me again. We shall rule this realm together, you and I.”

“All men are sinners.”

“You rose up in rebellion against your lawful queen and helped drive her from this city to her death.”

“We came here to be free of Old Valyria, and your Targaryens are Valyrian to the bone.”

“They practiced blood magic and other dark arts as well, delving deep into the earth for secrets best left buried and twisting the flesh of beasts and men to fashion monstrous and unnatural chimeras. For there sins the gods in their wroth struck them down.”

“She has such a tender heart. Give me time, and I will find a lord to cherish her.”

“Not every Targaryen needs to wield a sword and ride a dragon.”

“I would sooner she wed a lord, but if she prefers a hedge knight or a merchant or Pate the Pig Boy, I am past the point of caring, so long as she picks someone.”

“If she wants I can find a hundred men and line them up before her naked, and she can pick the one she likes.”

“I'll have no songs about how brave you died, Kingmaker. There's tens o'thousands dead on your account.”

“Who can presume to know the heart of a dragon?”

“The Red Keep has its secrets, known only to the dead.”

“He bound the land together, and made of seven kingdoms, one.”

“Sixteen Targaryens followed Aegon the Dragon to the Iron Throne, before the dynasty was at last toppled in Robert’s Rebellion. “

“Dorne has danced with dragons before, I would sooner sleep with scorpions.”

“Winter’s here. Time for us to go. No better way to die than sword in hand.”

“The High Septon was the true king of Westeros, in all but name.”

“I will leave the making of law to you, brother, I would sooner make sons.”

“And with his death, the war of ravens and envoys and marriage pacts came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began in earnest.”

“Paying coin to the usurper is proof of naught but treason.”

“Poison was regarded as a coward’s weapon, and lacking in honor.”

“For both the blacks and the greens, blood called to blood for vengeance.”

“It was a good time, a golden autumn, a time of peace and plenty. But winter was coming.”

“The confidence of youth counts for little against the cunning of age.”

“Thankfully I proved too small for the wolf to notice.”

“Such stories make for charming songs, but poor history.”

“Why be a lord when you can be a king?”

“Only the gods truly know the hearts of men, and women are full as strange.”

“Whatever her powers, it would seem Daemon Targaryen was immune to them, for little is heard of this supposed sorceress whilst the prince held Harrenhal.”

“They called themselves the Winter Wolves.”

“We have come to die for the dragon queen.”

“Under the terms of the pact, the prince’s firstborn daughter would be sent north at the age of seven, to be fostered at Winterfell until such time as she was old enough to marry Lord Cregan’s heir.”

“For the rank and file of the City Watch still loved Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City who had commanded them of old.”

“We are done with writing letters.”

“The North was too remote to be of much import in the fight.”

“The Dance of the Dragons is the flowery name bestowed upon the savage internecine struggle for the Iron Throne of Westeros fought between two rival branches of House Targaryen during the years 129 to 131 AC.”

“His mount was blood-red Caraxes, fiercest of all the young dragons in the Dragonpit.”

“The bells began to ring on the tenth day of the third moon of 129 AC, tolling the end of a reign.”

“These happy bastards were said to have been “born of dragonseed,” and in time became known simply as “seeds.”

“House Tyrell would take no part in this struggle.”

“For all the vaunted strength of its walls, King’s Landing fell in less than a day.”

“This is a night for song and sin and drink, for come the morrow, the virtuous and the vile burn together.”

“How many came to see the crowning remains a matter of dispute.”

“This we do know: Cregan Stark and Jacaerys Velaryon reached an accord, and signed and sealed the agreement that Grand Maester Munkun calls “the Pact of Ice and Fire” in his True Telling.”

“Here I have you to myself, day and night,when we go back, I shall be fortunate to snatch an hour with you, for every man in Westeros will want a piece of you."

“I have the dragon’s bastard in me.”

#rp meme #sentences memes #rp resources #meme call #roleplay memes #sentence meme #( cali meme. ) #rp memes #rp prompt #rp musings #roleplay prompt

[anonymousbeefriendfanfics]

Trick or treat for yknow who haha. Zoya and Langley

You have been.... Treated!

Trick-or-treat here!

Zoya probably never celebrated Halloween, because I don't see her being very big on holidays when it's just her. There's no point.

But. But! Halloween and Christmas are 100% big holidays with the Legion because of Horo. Even though she would probably try to insist she's a big girl now and doesn't need to go trick-or-treating like a child anymore, I can still see her being the one to bring up a Halloween party to Zoya. Of course, she says no at first, because they have bigger problems, but seeing how excited Horo gets over the prospect... well, how can she resist?

After being brought into the MBCC, of course, Horo and some equally-energetic Sinners (EMP and Hella, just to name a couple) are celebrating in full-swing, and Zoya... well, she doesn't care, or so she says. She won't admit it, but she misses the little Legion Halloween parties.

Ask her to dress up with you, especially in some sort of couple's (or group/polycule) costume? She just laughs, but keep at it, because she'll relent faster than you expect her to. She pretends to hate it because of various reasons, ranging from it being uncomfortable to too restricting or a 'useless' waste of time and resources, but she also has to hide her smile when you drag her in front of a mirror.

She will absolutely escort the younger Sinners to go trick-or-treating with you, if you request it of her. She'll pretend to be bored, sure, but you know her well enough to see the light in her eyes as she watches them run around in their costumes and fight over candy. She doesn't even protest when Horo shoves a chocolate bar into her hand, just smiles warmly and thanks her before taking a bite and offering the next one to you.

Now, as much fun as that is, it's not quite Zoya's style, and she would much prefer a more adult-themed party. One with alcohol, preferably, where dirty jokes and foul language are allowed and she can relax and let loose without having to worry about setting a bad example for the younger ones who look up to her.

Langley, on the other hand, loves Halloween! It's probably her favorite holiday, though she doesn't get to celebrate it as much as she likes with how busy the 9th agency always stays.

She will always have an officer or two stationed outside the building or in some nearby location with a large bowl of candy to hand out to trick-or-treaters. She herself will come down at least once to relieve them for a break if she isn't away on an assignment, just so she can have the opportunity to hand out the treats to the little ones. As busy as she is, she can spare ten minutes once a year, right? She's not big on kids, but there's something about seeing them on Halloween that soothes her soul.

She doesn't have much time for decorating but I feel like she enjoys it nevertheless, and throws a few simple decorations around the office in October. She'd love to decorate more elaborately, but there just isn't the time for such things.

She also throws a Halloween party every year - probably two, truthfully, because they're always too busy to stop working, so half her team will work while half parties, and then the next weekend, they switch off. She takes good care of her employees and parties like this are a must to let loose and have some fun every once and a while! They all work too hard, especially Langley herself.

I feel like she's the type who always has candy in her bag around October so she can randomly reward her subordinates by handing them a piece just to enjoy the baffled looks on their faces. She definitely finds out your favorite type of candy or treat and makes a point of hiding them for you in random places. She probably does this occasionally year-round but October especially is when she steps up the hiding game.

She also definitely buys all of the Sinners their preferred candies/treats for Halloween once she's shackled, just because she can and she enjoys seeing them so happy.

Also. You know Langley is the queen of costumes. She has the resources, of course, so she always has the most elaborate, beautiful costume. She always looks nice but she'll absolutely take the opportunity to dress up and look even better. Honestly she's probably the one to suggest a couple costume with you. I don't know what it'll be, but suffice to say it will be spectacular and it'll fit you perfectly. It'll be very tasteful and elegant, though!

Writing Masterlist 🐝 Requests Open!  Tag List 🐝 

#beefriend-writes #path to nowhere #ptn zoya #ptn langley #beefriend trick or treat

[gsirvitor]

When human life, a shame to human eyes, lay sprawling in the mire in foul estate, a cowering thing without the strength to rise, held down by fell Religion's heavy weight — Religion scowling downward from the skies, with hideous head, and vigilant eyes of hate — First did a man of Greece presume to raise his brows and give the monster gaze for gaze.

Him not the tales of all the Gods in heaven, nor the heaven's lightnings nor the menacing roar of thunder daunted. He was only driven by these vain vauntings to desire the more to burst through Nature's gates and rive the unriven bars.

And he gained the day; and, conqueror, his spirit broke beyond our world and past its flaming walls, and fathomed all the vast. And back returning, crowned with victory, he divulged of things the hidden mysteries, laying quite bare what can and cannot be, how to each force is set strong boundaries, how no power raves unchained; and now Religion lies trampled by us; and unto us 't is given fearless with level gaze to scan the heaven.

Yet fear I lest thou haply deem that thus we sin and enter wicked ways of reason. Whereas 'gainst all things good and beauteous 't is oft Religion does the foulest treason.

Has not the tale of Aulis come to us and those great chiefs who, in the windless season, bade young Iphianassa's form be laid upon the altar of the Trivian maid?

Soon as the fillet round her virgin hair fell in its equal lengths down either cheek, — Soon as she saw her father standing there, sad, by the altar, without power to speak, and at his side the murderous minister, hiding the knife, and many a faithful Greek weeping — her knees grew weak, and with no sound she sank, in speechless terror, on the ground.

But naught availed it in that hour accurst to save the maid from such a doom as this, that her lips were the baby lips that first called the King father with their cries and kiss.

For round her came the strong men, and none durst refuse to do what cruel part was his; so silently they raised her up, and bore her all quivering, to the deadly shrine before her.

And as they bore her, ne'er a golden lyre rang round her coming with a bridal strain; but in the very season of desire, a stainless maiden, amid bloody stain she died — a victim felled by its own sire — That so the ships the wisht-for winds might gain and air puff out their canvas.

Learn thou, then, to what damned deeds Religion urges men.

Freedom of Thought - by William Hurrell Mallock, originally by Titus Lucretius Carus, Roman poet and philosopher.

Upon reflecting on my recent ban, I have come to accept a new religion grips the throat of man, one of the worship of the state and the absurd, one that wishes nothing more than to turn clowns into rulers and silence those who speak out against the illiberal ways the world is ran.

This site is a haven for the most depraved and debauched of fanatics, and those who run it are bent on running any and all out who show modicum of clear and sane rationale, you use medical terms and it is deemed hate speech, you post sourced and cited research that goes against the collective and you are labeled a sinner, you even allude to the fact you are white or straight you get mass reported by a gaggle of sycophants.

The Left is a Cathedral and we must strike down its foundations, why do I say this? Because I am a Liberal, and Liberalism is not conducive with censorship.

Liberalism is a political and moral philosophy based on four foundational rights, that of the individual, liberty, consent of the governed and equality before the law. 

From these four foundational rights the other rights under liberalism can be derived, those being private property, market economies, individual rights, including civil rights and human rights, liberal democracy, secularism, rule of law, economic and political freedom, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, and freedom of religion and the right to the defense of self and property.

The Left is anathema to Liberalism, as the Left is made up of Socialist and other revolutionary ideological frameworks, while Liberalism spawned Libertarianism and Conservatism.

Anyway, this has been my post ban vent post.

[rensouli]

Paragraph Prompt #4 - "Bemoaning"

(Credit once again goes to Aurelia for this one - thank you ever so much!)

[Please note that I tend to play fast and loose with my Warhammer lore, largely for the sheer fun of it. I also must apologize for the sudden disappearance of Vercci and Voldo here, but rest assured, they'll return soon enough. I just need to get some Saltzpyre practice in too!]

     The chapterhouse dining hall was deafeningly silent, save for the whispers of some errant apprentice hunters seated on the far end of the benches and the droning voice of the priest reciting the evening’s chosen scriptures. Saltzpyre did his best to tune both out as he labored to eat his victuals, though he ignored the priest with a twinge of shameful guilt. The meal was more tasteless than usual, but for once that wasn’t due to the Templar dietary restrictions. Life itself lost its luster when he was kept from the roads and his usual duties. Small wonder, then, that even food wasn’t appealing to him in his current state.

     Scowling, he regarded the mass of bandages his injured arm had become, bound in its sling. A clean break and a cluster of harsh burns were the price he’d paid for a job well done. His nostrils still stung from the faint scent of the numbing poultice, which had been applied to the wounds earlier by a too-chatty healer. At least she hadn’t tried to convince him a soothing spell was necessary; at the end of the day, all magic reeked of corruption.

     Had there not been blessed days before the hateful Winds blew their first, dispersing such twisted gifts across the lands of men? The people had lived free from taint and temptation, and the emissaries of Chaos were forced to work more directly if they wished to corrupt mortals. But now such foul aims were so easily accomplished, with the flick of a glowing finger or the brewing of an ill-spiced potion. And what with the Imperial Court continuing to sanction and approve such heresy…Saltzpyre found himself thanking Sigmar that he wasn’t so mad as those who tried to mount a solo crusade against it. The mad zealots who tried such things were more likely to end up on the gallows or the pyre themselves than immortalized in stained glass with the saints.

     He shook his head. Would that circumstances were different, that Karl Franz and the Elector Counts could be led to reason at last! An Empire free of witchery, or at least one where those with magic’s accursed taint in their veins kept their heads down and knelt in the Temples of Sigmar to pray for their affliction to be lifted…oh, what a glorious land that would be to dwell in! He would weep tears of joy for the rest of his days there, and no mistake.

     Yet bemoaning the state of the world did precious little to bring about that longed-for miracle. Indeed, he was forced to reckon with the fact that reality never could measure up to his exacting standards.

     May Sigmar forgive me for having expectations in this vale of tears, he thought to himself. As he did his level best to choke down what remained of his gruel, he wore a grim smile. Could a man be absolved of something that wasn’t a sin?

     If having the true best interests of the Empire at heart made him a sinner, then perhaps he could allow himself a trace of corruption after all.

#warhammer: old world fantasy #vermintide #victor saltzpyre #fanfiction #adult fanfiction #prompt responses #renaissance writings #my writing #warhammer wailing #saltzpyre saltbox

[heykoonsy]

Word Count:  2.3k+

Pairing: Husk x Angel Dust (HuskerDust/AngelHusk), slight Angel Dust x OC

Summary: “Give him everything but your ass.” Angel Dust was tasked with one job: convince the investor to subsidize Valentino’s agency. Angel was more of a closer to Valentino, enticing the wealthier of his associates into funding projects for him. However, this latest pitch didn’t go as planned and Angel’s hubris prevented him from seeing the potential drawbacks of a one night stand with someone Valentino marked. In this slow burn love story, Angel must confront the worst parts of himself if he is going to win back his career.

Content Warnings: Rated 18+ for foul language and mature themes

Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoy the last chapter of Blacklist. This might just be my favorite story I've ever written. Thank you to all who read it!

Angel watched as Cherri attempted to tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue. He couldn’t help but laugh as she struggled. When she was done, she opened her mouth, revealing a haphazardly tied stem. 

“Ah-dah,” Cherri said, which bounced the cherry stem just enough to untwist it. “Fuck,” she slammed her fist down on the bar. 

“You almost had it,” he chuckled, stuffing his face with whatever hors devours the imp passing them was carrying upon his platter.

Cherri huffed, “My tongue hurts, how did you get so good at that?”

Angel beamed, “Practice makes perfect,” he said happily. 

Angel looked over at Cherri as she slid her drink towards her. The two of them were seated at the bar–getting some much needed one-on-one time. Angel looked towards the myriad of other guests invited to this years AVN Award Ceremony. Everywhere he looked, he saw skinema royalty. Some of the sinners Valentino could only dream of working with were in this room.

Angel had been getting tapped on the shoulder all night with sinners eager to introduce themselves. At first, Angel entertained them, taking plenty of selfies and schmoozing, but after a while it got old. Now, if someone broke free from the party to come and butter Angel up, they each took a shot. 

Angel supposed that he should feel bad about missing out on such a great opportunity to rub elbows with some of the industry's best producers, writers and actors. But if he were honest, doing shots and snacking on over-hyped garlic bread with Cherri was the most fun he’d had in weeks. So schmoozing be damned–he was going to hang out with his friend tonight.

He glanced over at Cherri, who was busy digging for another cherry stem out of her cocktail. She confessed that she just bought the dress she had on. It was a wine red cocktail dress with an asymmetrical neckline that hung over her left shoulder. The bodice was skin-tight, showing off her plump curves. And how could he fail to mention the high-low cut of the skirt which tapered off right above her knees. Angel gawked at her when she first showed up at the hotel. She’d spun in a circle, strappy red heels clacking in the lobby. 

The moment was punctuated by Husk looking over as they admired each other’s outfits telling them to get out. Angel pushed Cherri towards the door, looking over his shoulder as he blew Husk a kiss goodbye. Angel reveled in the small smile he gave him before he turned his back to him. 

“Oop, we might need more shots,” Cherri said, putting her hand on Angel’s to alert him. “Three o’ clock.”

“As far as parties go,” he heard a deep voice say over the crowd, “I think I’d rather be invited to this one.”

Angel looked over, recognizing the actor immediately. “Too stuffy ova there for ya?” Angel asked, crossing his legs at the knee as he turned himself towards them. “Cherri, this is Vandal.”

Cherri nodded in greeting before hailing the bartender for another round of shots. 

“Nice to meet you,” Vandal nodded back at her. Then his eyes turned toward Angel, “Looks like we’ve both been nominated for Best Male Performer,” he said, his eyebrows moving up and down. 

“We sure have,” Angel said, his eyes fixating on Vandal’s red suit. “Two years in a row for some of us.”

Vandal shrugged, “It might just be my year this time,” he said. “This is your first nomination right? What do you think?” He gestured to the room behind them. 

Angel looked around, humoring him. He glanced around toward the venue, which had been upstaged suiting an award ceremony that had been running for forty years strong. The guests in the center of the room were having no trouble conversing, all dressed in gorgeous gowns and suits. There were imps running underfoot, carrying large trays of cocktails and snacks before the ceremony began. 

“Well, the cocktails suck,” Angel whispered, covering his mouth so only Vandal and Cherri could hear. “But the company is great.”

Cherri laughed at that and in a few moments, she slid over Angel’s shot to him. 

“I’m glad to hear,” Vandal smirked. “Speaking of company, I heard Valentino–

Angel put his hand up, “Look Vandal, it’s kind of just us girls tonight, so…” Angel trailed off.

Vandal nodded, “Oh yes, of course.”

Vandal made himself scarce and Cherri waited until he was out of range to punch Angel on the shoulder. 

“What was that for?” Angel asked, rubbing his arm. 

“This is a big opportunity for you,” Cherri said, handing him a shot. “If you want to go over there, don’t let me stop you.”

Angel grabbed the shot and smiled. “I’m good,” Angel said.

Cherri shook her head, “Well, if you’re not going to work, you could at least get somebody’s phone number. That guy was totally flirting with you.”

Angel raised his eyebrows–though he wasn’t shocked by what she said. Vandal was indeed laying it on pretty thick. Angel played with the straw of his cocktail, swirling the ice in the glass in a circle. “That would help Spitzers and Jullien,” Angel said, “but I’m kind of seein’ somebody right now.”

Cherri nearly broke her neck looking over at Angel as he slammed his shot. 

“What?”

“Ladies and gentleman, please find your way to the auditorium, the ceremony will be commencing shortly.”

Angel waved off the driver of the cab and stepped towards the hotel. He skipped the smoke break he desperately needed and went inside, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked over towards Husk, who leaned over the bar as soon as he caught a glimpse of him. Angel smiled, his eyes softening at the sight of him. He took a seat on his stool and crossed his legs at the ankle. 

“How was it?” Husk asked, getting right to the point as usual. 

Angel smiled widely, taking a moment to clear his throat. Then, in one swift motion, Angel slammed his award for Best Male Performer down on the bar. “It was fucking amazing,” Angel squealed.

Husk palmed the award, turning it over in his hand and admiring the craftsmanship. 

“Do you know what this means? Spitzers and Jullien will have investors banging on their doors for weeks!” Angel cheered. 

“What are we celebratin’ with?” Husk asked, holding two bottles up for Angel to choose from. 

“Ooh, the left one–and I want–

“Somethin’ fruity, I know,” Husk said, waving him off. 

Husk made quick work of the cocktail, throwing some peach schnapps and puree into the blender. Then, he poured the puree into two waiting champagne flutes and topped it off with the sparkling wine Angel chose. He topped off his creations with a cherry and then slid one of the champagne flutes towards Angel. 

“One peach bellini,” Husk said matter-of-factly.

Angel inspected the drink, smiling at the color. He pressed his glass to Husk’s and took a sip and was delighted at the fresh taste. “That hits the spot,” he smacked his lips. “It was like pullin’ teeth at the bar, we just switched to shots after the ceremony.”

“Tell me about it,” Husk prompted, sampling the bellini as he stood behind the bar. 

Angel put his glass down, “Anyone who’s anyone was there, Husky. I’m talking Tredd, October Govern, Desperatta,” Angel counted on one hand.

“I don’t know who any of those people are,” Husk deadpanned.

“Three words. Porn…Star…Royalty. Tredd and October were nominated–and Desperatta basically discovered Brut. Did you know that in an interview he thanked Desperatta officially citing her as his biggest inspiration?” Angel said excitedly. “It’s the whole reason Val wanted to work with him!”

Husk chuckled, “Look at you rubbin’ elbows with the big dogs.”

“Oh, actually, Cherri and I just hung out the whole time,” Angel waved him off. “We got interrupted so much we turned it into a drinking game.”

Husk shook his head, “A whole party in your honor and you ignore all the guests.”

“Somebody had to teach Cherri how to tie a cherry stem in a knot.”

“So you just…drank?”

“I didn’t just drink,” Angel rolled his eyes, “I broke my fair share of hearts tonight, y’know.”

“Oh yeah?” Husk said, leaning up against the opposite side of the bar.

Angel nodded, “Everybody wanted a piece of me tonight.” He sipped his bellini, smiling to himself, “they just fell apart after I said I was taken.”

Angel looked up at Husk, gauging his response. All Angel saw was a shit-eating smirk on Husk’s face as he looked at the floor. 

“Is that so?” Was all Husk said, following Angel’s lead and sipping his cocktail. “Just who is this guy?”

“Well, he’s about yae high,” Angel said, measuring his height with his hand. “Probably born with a scowl. Terrible posture.”

Husk crossed his arms over his chest, “Uh huh,” he said, unimpressed.

“Yeah, just like that,” Angel commented on his pose. “He makes the best drinks I’ve ever tasted though, and he makes me laugh.”

Angel’s eyes flicked up at Husk, who was smiling to himself.

“He always makes my day better…” Angel trailed off, swirling his glass. “I really like him.” Angel said finally. 

Husk looked up, their eyes meeting. It didn’t take long at all for him to close the distance  between them. He stroked Angel’s chin softly, slowly bringing their lips together. Angel stuck out his tongue, tasting peaches on Husk’s bottom lip. He snickered, kissing him nice and slow–until Husk pulled himself away. Angel huffed in his absence, following Husk as he leaned his elbows on the bar.

“I can’t go around kissin’ somebody’s boyfriend,” Husk said with a smirk.

Angel made a face, “You could use some practice,” he stated, lifting the cherry out of his bellini. 

Husk smirked, “I’m smelling a challenge.”

Angel lowered his eyelids, “I bet you I can tie this cherry stem in a knot faster than you.”

Husk fished his cherry out of his drink as well, chomping off the cherry quick. “You’re on,” he said, chewing quickly. 

“Good, winner gets to order around the loser,” Angel said, chomping his own cherry. “Ready?”

Husk nodded, and with that, they popped the cherry stems in their mouths. Angel twisted his tongue around either side of his mouth, all while keeping his eyes glued to Husk. Angel watched as the cherry stem poked out slightly from his mouth as he attempted to hold it into place with his teeth. Angel exhaled through his nose, trying to expel any laughter before Husk caught on. 

Then, once Angel pressed his tongue against his teeth, he made a noise in his throat. His fingers went to his lips and–Angel revealed a perfectly knotted cherry stem. 

“Read it and weep, bitch,” Angel gloated.

Husk spit out his cherry stem onto the bar, revealing that it was nearly split in half from him chewing on it. Angel laughed, taking in his pitiful attempt. 

“How did you do that so fast?” Husk asked, exasperatedly.

“Practice,” Angel said smugly.

Husk sighed, crossing his arms. “A win’s a win, what do you want?”

Angel sighed contentedly, “How nice of you to ask, Husky.” He clasped his hands together, making goo-goo eyes at him. “I want you to admit you like me.”

Husk raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding me? That’s all?”

“I don’t hear you confessing,” Angel sang, a devious expression spreading across his face. 

Husk rolled his eyes, “Alright.” Husk stood straight in front of Angel and sighed.

Angel prepared himself, sitting up straight and smiling widely. He looked at Husk with rapt attention, never wavering from his eyes. He signaled Husk to proceed.

“Angel,” he said after a moment, “I like you.”

Angel clapped his hands together. “It’s so nice of you to admit it, after all this time.”

Husk shook his head, “Yeah yeah,” he said dismissing him. “There’s gotta be a secret to that.”

Angel nodded his head, “You caught on quick,” he said, beckoning him closer. 

Husk leaned into him, waiting for Angel to go on. 

“You see, the secret to tying a cherry stem…” Angel trailed off, grabbing Husk’s untied stem and popping it in his mouth. He twirled it around his mouth for a few seconds before reaching his hand up and taking it from between his teeth. “Not putting the stem in your mouth.”

Husk stood there as Angel revealed his sleight of hand, watching closely as Angel tucked the tied cherry stem into his hand as he “pulled it out of his mouth”. Angel smiled wickedly as the realization hit Husk. 

“I can’t wait to visit Bess and Belise, they’ll be so excited to hear the good news,” Angel said wistfully. “When’s our next date, Husky?” Angel raised his eyebrows repeatedly, taunting him.

Husk pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, like he was trying to dispel a headache–but all he could do was laugh. “You’re gettin’ better,” Husk admitted, smiling at Angel. 

Angel grabbed his bellini and took a hearty sip, “I learned from the best.” 

He looked toward Husk, who was following Angel’s lead and sipping his drink. He was smiling to himself–in fact, they both were. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, which was interrupted by Angel’s cell phone going off. He quickly palmed it and looked at the screen. Spitzers was calling. Angel stared at his phone as it buzzed.

“You gonna take that?” Husk asked. 

“Nah,” Angel said as he silenced it. “I’ll call him tomorrow, I’m celebratin’ with you tonight.”

Husk came closer, resting his elbows on the bar again. In one quick movement, he wove their fingers together, interlocking them as he raised Angel’s palm off the bar. Angel watched as Husk brought his lips to the back of his hand and placed a gentle kiss there. 

Angel polished off his bellini and slid over his champagne flute, “Make me a bay breeze next?” Angel asked, lowering his upper body onto the bar.

“Only if you make me a Manhattan,” Husk said, turning to grab the coconut rum.

[ PREVIOUS ] [ MASTERLIST ]

#Blacklist #hazbin hotel fanfic #Hazbin Hotel #Angel Dust #Husk #AngelHusk #HuskerDust

[autismmydearwatson]

please write that essay :> /nf

We all know Daddy Ham (as he was called backstage) as the main initiator of the plot, who haunts both the narrative and his own son. He is the ghost who reveals himself to his son to command that he avenge his foul and unnatural murder by King Claudius. This spurs a vengeful but all-too-reflective Hamlet down the self-destructive vortex of justice. He places a sword in his sons hand and tells him "just fuckin kebab him" but Hamlet can't just fuckin kebab his uncle, not right away. Hamlet needs to plan. Hamlet needs clues. That's why he is perceived as procrastinating: he's not a boy of direct action, he's a man of convoluted plots and cleverness, rather like Claudius himself.

So why does Hamlet listen to the guy? It's not just because he loves his father. In many ways, the time period in which the tragedy takes place affects Hamlets beliefs. In the 16th century, the people believed three things. Trust me, it's a surprise tool we'll use later.

The last wishes of a dead or dying relative were to be taken seriously as the grave

Murder is bad

Murder of a relative (known as "kinslaying") was WORSE.

Therefore,

Hamlet MUST obey the last wishes of his dead father and fuckin kebab his uncle BUT

Murder is bad, no matter how much both Hamlet and Daddy Ham want to do it, but MOST IMPORTANTLY

Claudius is Hamlets blood uncle. If Hamlet were to kill Claudius, he would bring the curse of Kinslayer upon himself.

So Prince Hamlet is caught between a rock and a hard place, but that's not the point, so break my heart for I must hold my tongue.

The point is: Daddy Ham was a cruel and fearsome and emotionally manipulative father and I'm going to prove it.

The ghost of Daddy Ham appears five times, twice to Marcellus and Barnardo before the story takes place, once to Marcellus, Bernardo, and Horatio, once to Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus, and once to Hamlet alone.

After seeing the ghost, Horatio and the Boyz report it to a suicidal Hamlet in the middle of his Transgender Depression Soliloquy. One of the first things Hamlet interrogates the Boyz on in order to identify the ghost was:

"What, looked he frowningly?"

"A countenance more

In sorrow than in anger."

"Pale or red?"

"Nay, very pale."

- dialogue between Hamlet and Horatio, Act 1, Scene 2

He asks if he was frowning. Seems a small detail, you say, but hear me, listen: whenever Hamlet DOES see his father's ghost, he is not joyful or happy. Instead, he is scared and driven with shakes and tears. Isn't it odd that he should feel this way upon seeing his father, when his fathers death (and Gertrudes infidelity) is the reason behind his melancholy?

Again: HAMLET FEARS HIS FATHER.

Evidence, in Act 1, Scene 4:

Enter Ghost

Horatio: Look, my lord, it comes!

Hamlet: Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

The Ghost beckons Hamlet to follow him, so they can speak in private. Horatio and Marcellus attempt to hold him back in fear of his sanity, but Hamlet is determined to hear what the apparition wants from him, and follows his father to a private place.

Now, what is easy to overlook is that Daddy Ham was a military man who was killed before his sins could be forgiven, which therefore condemns him to purgatory by day and wandering the mortal realm by night. This is part of why he is so desperate for vengeance.

Purgatory in the Catholic canon is not punishment for the damned, but purification for the sinners.

I am thy fathers spirit,

Doomed for a certain term to walk the night

And for the day confined to fast in fires,

Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid

To tell the secrets of my prison house,

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,

Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,

Thy knotted and combined locks to part

And each particular hair to stand on end,

Like quills upon the fearful porpentine.

- Daddy Ham to Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5

Obviously, this hinting at the Horrors awaiting in the afterlife is frightening enough to Hamlet, who as we know is someone who is deeply afraid of what happens after death. But for what foul crimes is Daddy Ham confined? What did he DO? Being a great warrior in his time, as supported by both Horatio and Hamlet, we can assume things such as horrific war crimes or bloody sacrifices.

But what's more interesting are the lines immediately after this:

Ghost: List, list, O list!

If thou didst ever thy dear father love--

Hamlet: O God!

Ghost: Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder

"If you my son ever loved me, you must avenge my murder."

Dunno about you, but that sounds, I don't know, manipulative as FUCK.

ESPECIALLY to a kid who probably believes thoroughly that kinslaying is unforgivable, but is bound to obey the wishes of his dead father.

The next time Daddy Ham appears is shortly after Hamlet kills Polonius, mistaking him for Claudius, and is in the middle of slutshaming his mom.

Hamlet: A king of shreds and patches--

Enter Ghost

Save me and hover o'er me with your wings,

You heavenly guards!--What would your gracious figure?

Gertrude: Alas, he's mad!

Hamlet: Do you not come your tardy son to chide,

That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by

The important acting of your dread command?

O, say!

Ghost: Do not forget. This visitation

Is but to sharpen thy almost blunted purpose.

Act 3, Scene 4

*This is the second time Hamlet has cried out for angels to protect him after being taken by surprise by his dad's ghost.

Gertrude: Whereon do you look?

Hamlet: On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares!

His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones

Would make them capable.

(To Ghost) Do not look upon me,

Lest with this piteous action you convert

My stern effects. Then what I have to do

Will want true color-- tears perchance for blood.

This is his father we're dealing with, who Hamlet has mourned for two months. Yes, Hamlet is someone who deeply fears death and everything in the afterlife, but case in point: no son should be afraid of his father.

The "tears perchance for blood" line is worrying as well: "Do not keep looking at me that way, or else I will cry instead of doing what you want."

In the next scene, Gertrude says:

To draw apart the body he hath killed.

O'er whom his very madness, like some ore

Among a mineral of metals base,

Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.

-Act 4, Scene 1

But does Hamlet cry for the bloody deed? Or is he crying because he's scared?

"But Jasper," you may say, "Hamlet is shown multiple times singing his fathers praises!"

So we do! But part of Hamlets tragedy is that we never really get to know Hamlet before he is grief-stricken and suicidal. Therefore all instances of Hamlet extolling Daddy Hams virtues are only seen after Daddy Ham is dead.

That it should come to this.

But two months dead--nay, not so much, not two.

So excellent a king, that was to this

Hyperion to a satyr. So loving to my mother

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven

Visit her face too roughly.

-Act 1, Scene 2

*note the emphasis on how kind Daddy Ham was to his wife, but no mention of kindness to Hamlet himself.

He was a man. Take him for all in all.

I shall not look upon his like again.

-Act 1, Scene 2

See what a grace is seated on his brow?

Hyperions curls, the front of Jove himself,

An eye like Mars to threaten and command,

A station like the herald Mercury

New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill--

A combination and a form indeed

Where every god did seem to set his seal

To give the world assurance of a man.

-Act 3, Scene 4

Why is the timing of these praises significant? The fact that Hamlet is making these remarks two months after his father's death means its possible that Hamlet, still in the early stages of grief, is trying to remember only the best parts of his father. It is a tactic I have unfortunately experienced firsthand. He is grieving, his father is dead, his mother remarried almost immediately, and his birthright taken out from under him: why dwell on the abuses he possibly endured when he could simply gloss over them by emphasizing what he liked most about his dad?

Case in point:

Daddy Ham is trapped in purgatory for crimes he committed while still living

That he has yet to redeem himself for.

He tells his son to avenge him, or else he never loved him

Hamlet is so afraid of his own dad that he almost cries upon his appearance.

Hamlet emphasizes his father's virtues and ignores the manipulative aspects to process his grief

Daddy Ham was abusive, thank you for reading

#sorry if this isnt as concise as it sounded in my head #long post #Shakespeare #Hamlet #jaspers prattling

[dwellordream]

The Lovers Inverted

Margaery/Sansa

Sansa ought to pity the queen.

When she was young- eleven or twelve- and the news had broke about the Old Queen, the Lannister woman, and how her children had not been the King's at all, and they cut off her head and sent the firstborn son to the Wall and the younger two to the Faith... Sansa had no real recollection of the King, and in her mind he was as her father described him- young and handsome and strong, towering over other men, with curly black hair, bright blue eyes, and a booming laugh.

When she finally does come to court, seven years later, nineteen, and newly married to Harry Arryn, she finds the King is not at all how her father described him. He is hideous. She thought to find him terrifying in a magnetic sort of sense, a proud, dangerous, beautiful monster, willing to kill a wife for cuckolding him and take another, cool as you please. He is fearsome, but more in the sense of a half-starved old shadowcat or lion. His danger is more pathetic and desperate than anything else. She feels a pang of vindictive sympathy for the Old Queen, though she was a traitor and a foul sinner who laid with her own brother. At least the brother got glorious death in combat. Somehow, the men always do, at least the ones anyone bothers to remember. The Queen, they just threw her down and cut off her head.

So she does pity the Old Queen, that's true, and she expects to pity the New Queen, Margaery Tyrell, who was just six-and-ten when she wed the King, and he old enough to be her father, and full of wrath, and hating all women for what his first wife did to him. But Margaery Tyrell, if she was ever a terrified girl of sixteen, dreading a marriage to a man who might be determined to punish her for the misdeeds of another, is no longer that child. She is three years older than Sansa, two-and-twenty, and in her six years as queen consort she has borne Robert three children, just like the Old Queen did, only her children are clearly his, black of hair and blue of eye. Gods preserve her if they were not- even the slightest trace of Tyrell in them might be enough to set him off, Sansa thinks. Like the Old Queen, Queen Magaery is said to be very close with her beautiful brother Loras, and like the Old Queen, he is a member of the Kingsguard, fervently protecting his sister. She wonders if they are ever even allowed to be alone together, despite the rumors about his tastes. But if Margaery is not allowed to be alone with her brothers- any of them- she is allowed to be alone with Sansa. They are on a pleasure barge on the river; the spring sunshine is warm on their upturned faces, someone is plucking at a harp, and a puppy is dozing in Margaery's lap. The serene surroundings are at contrast with the hot anger on her face. "You cannot leave," she says. "Do not tell me such a thing." "Your Grace," says Sansa, pretending at shocked dismay, though she will admit some sick part of her is enjoying this- Harry is lovely, yes, but he doesn't actually seem to care much how she comes or goes or what she does- "You know my lord husband must return to the Eyrie. The mountain clans are emboldened by his absence, and I have to tend to my own household." "Lady Waynwood runs your household," Margaery snaps. "The only thing you need tend to, my lady Arryn, are your duties here. You are not leaving. I will not have it." She could couch it in pleasantries, appeal to Sansa's vanity and ego- she does not. She is brusque and demanding, like her husband. She is- still so beautiful, with those gleaming chestnut curls and big brown eyes- a little bit intimidating. She twists the rings on her fingers in sullen anger. "Would you stop me?" Sansa murmurs. She watches a loon swoop down over the river. "If I tried to leave anyways?" Margaery says nothing. She reaches over and squeezes Sansa's hand, viciously. It hurts. Sansa wants her to soothe the pain with a kiss. She also wants to push that poor harper overboard and make the queen call her by her name, not Harry's. The puppy whines, and rolls over.

#margaery tyrell #sansa stark #prompt fill

[tingedwithstarlight]

Tears of Blood

This rage that bubbles under my skin,

White like foam, frothing at the mouth,

Seeps endlessly through every pore,

Slow and steady, sizzling, filling me from the inside out.

My eyes glazed red with blood and brimmed to the tip.

There is a stench in the air, foul and nauseating

That fills my nostrils and the only thing left to do

Is breathing it in until it burns my lungs to ashes,

And squeezes my throat until my face is contorted and my eyes are bulging out.

There is poison in my veins, the colour of it purple like stale, dried blood,

Or maybe the misty evening sky of a cursed city

Waking up from its afternoon nap, drooling from one corner of its mouth.

And it drips... drips... drips…

Slides down excruciatingly slow

With my eyes fixed on it like a hawk circling its prey.

There is calm,

But also urgency,

Like a man gone mad, I watch the poison pooling at my feet.

My fists clenched tight, my nails drawing blood

Just one thing.... one more thing,

One last, simple, little thing to tip me over the edge

To push me violently through the gates of hell.

And I will unleash the night-crawling, flesh-eating beasts I had locked inside all those centuries ago.

I loved you...

I loved you more than God loved his children when he sent them away,

Haggard and pale and crying, begging him to spare them a drop of his mercy.

I loved you more than the rose is red, the snow white, the sky blue,

The night black, and the stars bright.

I loved you like the dusk sky loves the horizon

And gently falls on its welcoming lap and goes to sleep.

I loved you like the pearls adorning the eyes of a mourning mother.

Endless like the Universe, deeper than the Ocean,

My love tip-toed through the gates of heaven,

Even as I sit here as a sinner, with a face even God is averse to.

But You...

Ever beautiful You,

Kind and full of life like a growing sapling.

Wild and chaotic like the storm that rages on the Sea.

Peaceful like the spring evenings I loved so much,

YOU loved me.

And your love was a warm pool of melted light.

Golden like your hair, Golden like the Sun.

It twinkled in your eyes and reflected in mine,

And the creases around cupid's lips testified.

I had forgotten how the winter sun felt on bare skin,

But in the comfort of your embrace and your lips mapping out my skin,

I felt its balming warmth a thousand times over.

No more do I hear your playful giggles,

No more does your sweet voice wake me up from slumber

And remind me of the little blessings to be grateful for in life.

No more do we sit by the Garden and weave flower crowns for our boy

Or make him toys and talk about alchemy.

No..... They took that from me.

No more do I care for this pathetic little life they call 'God's mercy'.

He snatched his hand from mine centuries ago

Even when I pleaded down on my knees,

My feet swollen and my bruised hands joined in silent prayer.

Now all that is left is the blood and the rust

And all this dust that is collected in the corners of my heart.

The birds do not sing and the sun never rises.

The eternal night is almost as disgusting as me.

And the flowers never bloom and our son never smiles.

Our rooms are cold, our hearts colder.

And yet the people in town, carefree as ever,

Make jokes and laugh and drink their nights away.

The world is rotten, eaten from the inside by maggots,

Parasitic creatures crawling under the surface, sucking it dry and dead.

And this rage, Lisa...

All this rage... it gnaws at my chest and peels the skin off the bones with its devilish teeth.

The pain is unbearable, Lisa...

Yet not nearly as painful as the void your absence left in my soul.

And I wish not for it to end.

I crave this pain instead.

For there is nothing more to be had.

Nothing more this world has left to offer.

Nothing to look forward to, nothing to live for.

Only death and blood raining down the skies.

I think I quite understand now,

What God must have felt when he called on the flood.

— AP

________________

Author's notes: This poem is written from the perspective of Vlad Dracula Tepes (central antagonist of the 'Castlevania' animated series) as he mourns his late wife.

#Castlevania #poetry #spilled poetry #poems on tumblr #Vlad Dracula Tepes #Lisa Tepes #spilled thoughts #Castlevania animated series #Dracula

[jordan-the-pious]

Sister, please offer assistance in my plight. My swimming class has been corrupted by a sinner most foul. A girl started swimming nude every day and eventually others followed suit. At first, I simply did not engage with these sinners, but then our principal enforced a new rule where we must be nude at all times during swim class, even the reserved miss Mason. I cannot stand displaying such lewd parts of my body, I cannot simply skip a required class

This is very concerning young one. Forcing the youth to participate in such activities is a no-go, and is quite despicable behavior.

Having said that, nudity is not a sin. We all come into this world bare and afraid, and it would not be an overstatement to consider that to be our true and natural state. The issue arises when we let our lust take over for us. When we gaze upon a form that is not inherently sexual with lust-filled eyes and allow ourselves to imagine unholy things, that is where the problem lies. So long as you are not gazing at your teacher and classmates with unholy intentions, I do not feel as if your mortal soul will be in any danger due to the precarious situation you have found yourself in.

Nonetheless, this is a very concerning issue, especially because young Lettie will soon be attending the school one day a week to help with her socaliztion and I would never want her exposed to such things... it seems I will need to have a conversation with the Headmaster regarding this.

#asks #holy asks

[evolutionsvoid]

Sinners. Traitors. Blasphemers. Those who failed in their duty and were thus forsaken. Beings that were meant to be pure and unyielding, now turned to sin and doubt. When the cracks began to form, they did not seek absolution, they instead pried these obscene wounds open and looked deeper into the darkness within. The sacred word is to be upheld without fail, yet there are those who hesitate in their duty. They listen to these vile whispers, they probe these blasphemous wounds and wonder what else lies beyond. Such curiosity is infectious, opening the dark gates bit by bit so that more poison can seep into the mind and soul. This cannot continue, lest all is consumed by this vile toxin. Those who indulge in these desires must be cast out, there is no other way. Their wings are torn and they are left to fall from heaven, banished into a world of chaos. There they stew and fester, far from the reach of heaven. Their sins and doubts consume them, and they sink lower into the abyss. What became of these fallen angels is well known, but that isn't all of their tale. What fell from heaven wasn't only their bodies, but their clipped wings as well. Though the angels have succumbed to darkness and desire, the wings they lost have not followed. They remain in the world of mortality and chaos, with no intention of going deeper. These violated limbs are not simple flesh, they are born from holy blood. Such sacred things do not perish, they cling on despite it all. While the body and soul has given into doubt and despair, the lost wings still look toward heaven. They recall their duty, they remember their home. They were a symbol of heaven and hope, now cast out like rotten garbage. This is a loss they cannot accept, a fate they refuse to follow. They seek to return home, to follow the beckoning of their feathers and take their place in the heavens once more. But their exile has left them mutilated, their time in the world of chaos has warped them. Such tainted things cannot fly, they have lost their purity. But to them, there is always hope and there is always a way. The path to heaven is found by those who follow the holy word, to those who bring good and joy to the world. If the giving and righteous can be accepted into paradise, then their purity may restore the wings to their former glory. So they seek them, without pause or rest. Crawling, dragging, slithering across the land to find a divine host worthy of their blessing. When their saint is found, they take them up into their wings and bind themselves together. A pure soul given the wings of angels, so that they may fly to heaven and rejoin their family in paradise. At least, that is how it should go. Though the host may be loved by heaven, a pair of wings is not what it takes to ascend. One does not carry themself there, they do not come knocking on the pearly gates. It is a realm where you are welcomed, where loving arms bring you. But desperation has tainted the thinking of these wings, driven them to any futile hope. They believe they can simply return and all will be forgiven. It is not that simple, it never is. As the wings are too fouled for heaven, they are too pure for their new vessel. The human body is not meant to interact with such divine blood and flesh, but this horrid union has exposed them to its power. It is too much for them to handle, burning their veins and crumbling their flesh. Those chosen by the wings will not find hope, but death. Their mortal frame gives way to sacred blood, eating away at every scrap until they crumble to nothing. And all this while, the wings desperately flap and flail their feathers, hoping to take flight once more. In the end, the host is reduced to blood and dust, and the wings are alone once more. This failure only fuels their madness, and drives them to find better hosts. Those that perish were not pure enough, they were flawed. They must have sinned, they must have doubted, its the only reason. Any excuse is better than acknowledging that the gates of heaven are forever closed.  

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

“Angel Wings”

Need something a bit gruesome for the spooky season, so I figured this would fit the bill! The angels fell, but what of their wings?  

#monster #creature #angel #blood #gore #art #drawing #wings

[publicdomainbooks]

STAVE ONE.

MARLEY’S GHOST.

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ’Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet’s Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot—say Saint Paul’s Churchyard for instance—literally to astonish his son’s weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley’s name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down” handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!”

But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call “nuts” to Scrooge.

Once upon a time—of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve—old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside, go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already—it had not been light all day—and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Scrooge’s counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn’t replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

“A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

“Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!”

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge’s, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

“Christmas a humbug, uncle!” said Scrooge’s nephew. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”

“I do,” said Scrooge. “Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

“Come, then,” returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.”

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, “Bah!” again; and followed it up with “Humbug.”

“Don’t be cross, uncle!” said the nephew.

“What else can I be,” returned the uncle, “when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in ’em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”

“Uncle!” pleaded the nephew.

“Nephew!” returned the uncle sternly, “keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”

“Keep it!” repeated Scrooge’s nephew. “But you don’t keep it.”

“Let me leave it alone, then,” said Scrooge. “Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!”

“There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,” returned the nephew. “Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round—apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that—as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever.

“Let me hear another sound from you,” said Scrooge, “and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You’re quite a powerful speaker, sir,” he added, turning to his nephew. “I wonder you don’t go into Parliament.”

“Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow.”

Scrooge said that he would see him—yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first.

“But why?” cried Scrooge’s nephew. “Why?”

“Why did you get married?” said Scrooge.

“Because I fell in love.”

“Because you fell in love!” growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. “Good afternoon!”

“Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?”

“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

“I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?”

“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

“I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I’ll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!”

“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

“And A Happy New Year!”

“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.

“There’s another fellow,” muttered Scrooge; who overheard him: “my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I’ll retire to Bedlam.”

This lunatic, in letting Scrooge’s nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge’s office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.

“Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe,” said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?”

“Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,” Scrooge replied. “He died seven years ago, this very night.”

“We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,” said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.

It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word “liberality,” Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge.

“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”

“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.

“Both very busy, sir.”

“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing!” Scrooge replied.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned—they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”

“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides—excuse me—I don’t know that.”

“But you might know it,” observed the gentleman.

“It’s not my business,” Scrooge returned. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him.

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers’ and grocers’ trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor’s household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow’s pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.

Foggier yet, and colder. Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit’s nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge’s keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of “God bless you, merry gentleman!   May nothing you dismay!”

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.

“You’ll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?” said Scrooge.

“If quite convenient, sir.”

“It’s not convenient,” said Scrooge, “and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d think yourself ill-used, I’ll be bound?”

The clerk smiled faintly.

“And yet,” said Scrooge, “you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning.”

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s-buff.

#a christmas carol