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softlyspector · 1 year

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Midnight Blue

Summary: A year after his mother’s death, Marc travels back to Chicago to face his father. He doesn’t expect it to be easy but he also doesn’t expect it to be so hard. He especially doesn’t expect to find refuge from the hard moments in a little known witch’s shop a few blocks over. And definitely not in one keeping watch over the family’s piano.

This chapter: You and Marc say goodbye.

Tales Untold; Part VIII (end) - Series Masterlist

Pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (minor Steven Grant x Reader and Jake Lockley x Reader)

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings (this chapter): angst and fluff, mental health issues, mentions of past death, mentions of past child abuse

A/N: We are finally at the end! Everyone say goodbye to these two! Thank you for reading and thank you for giving this series as much love as you have. Comments and reblogs are so appreciated! If there are any additional warnings that need added, please let me know.

VIII.

Tales Untold, Chicago 6:56 PM

The radio is on in the back of Tales Untold.

The volume is low, but the sound still travels throughout the shop.

Late summer sun paints the hardwood floor with tiny spots of color. Deep mauves and cobalts mix with cherry red from the stained glass you and Steven had steadily replaced the clear glass with in the shop’s front door. It reminds Marc of the first day he came into Tales Untold, the air teeming with the flight of dust motes and golden light.

He can hear you singing along to the old country song on the radio as you putter around at the back desk, organizing the things the last customer had come in with.

The song is a crooning love song, sweet as candy. It’s the kind of song that wraps around his heart and squeezes, that pulls up nostalgic feelings like teeth from the lining of his stomach.

It sounds beautiful, especially when it mixes with your voice. The sound rolls around in your mouth, the adjustment of your normal cadence to fit the tune of the song.

Marc smiles as he listens, drags the paintbrush in his hand around the border of your mural, careful not to disturb the little design. You’ll do most of the detail work later, taking the paint in around the edges of the design.

You will, or Steven.

He and Jake had proved too heavy handed to be trusted with anything other than the broadest strokes.

Your voice drifts closer, your footsteps creaking along the old wooden floors. You aren’t a particularly good singer, but Marc would gladly listen to you butcher lyrics and notes for the rest of his life.

“Steven’s better at painting than you,” you tease when you reach him.

Marc doesn’t turn, rolling his eyes. “I can stop, y’know, and let you do it yourself, sweetheart.”

You lean against the bookshelf next to him, a smile on your face. The sun slants over your eyes, and you have to squint to look at him. Your whole face crinkles up with the effort. You’re wearing that stupid vintage Cubs shirt he gave you, the one with his good memories. You wear it all the time now, like you’re trying to prove a point to him.

“No, I like watching you, Spector.”

He doesn’t so much as breathe when you wrap your arm around his middle and slide smoothly between him and the wall. “You do?” He asks, just to hear you say you like watching him again.

“Mhm,” you tip your chin up. You’re so pressed so close to him, your nose brushes his, and you go a little cross eyed trying to glance down at his lips. “You look so stern when you’re concentrating on something.”

Marc frowns at you and you laugh. “Scratch that, you always look stern, honey.”

He follows the tilt of your head when you move, careful to watch every slow movement you make. “When you’re finished with the border, we’ll be done,” you whisper, bumping your nose against his. “Can you believe it took us a whole summer? To finish all our little projects?”

A spear of anxiety that doesn’t fit with the moment, that is not necessary, beats through him. “Yep,” he agrees lightly. “Now you can tell me to get lost.”

“You are just not funny,” you accuse as you tug free from his arms and pull him back from the wall so you can both look at it.

The wall is a deep blue. Midnight blue, Marc thinks your friend at the hardware store called it, patterned over it are tight constellations of stars. The stars are clustered towards one side of the wall, nearest the hanging crescent moon in the corner, while an orange and red sun sits directly opposite, long threads of burnt orange and yellow reaching out to them.

The border is nearly finished, decorated with phases of the moon in a pretty gold and white.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? I think it fits the shop better.”

Marc nods. It does fit you better, that was for certain. The blue is calming, softens the interior shop, and is leagues better than the blank wall that had been beneath the wallpaper. The orange of the sun is an ode to your mother, for the orange wallpaper you ripped down.

He squeezes you tighter to his side, paintbrush still loosely held in his other hand. Steven is better at painting, he agrees with you on that, but Marc enjoys it. He especially likes it if you sit with him while he works.

And most times, you did. You sat side by side and worked on the mural slowly, the warmth of you pressing into his side when you leaned into each other.

Your flower boxes had long ago been painted, the flowers Marc salvaged when he broke down the old ones repotted in their new homes. He repointed the brickwork, finally fixed your rusted bell, and made you a new sign.

The neon was a good choice. It's definitely been helping draw new customers into the shop.

“Marc?”

He glances over at you and finds you frowning at him. Before you can say anything he turns to lie the paintbrush down so he can pull you fully into his arms.

“What?” He asks, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

The motion of it is soothing, and you never tell him to stop. It seems to calm you as much as him.

“Summer’s almost over,” you say carefully. “I’ve - I’ve tried to ask Steven about it but…don’t you have to be getting back to London? He doesn’t really seem like he wants to talk about it either” You slide one hand across his shoulder blades, the press of you soft against him. He closes his eyes when you drag your hand up the back of his neck and through his hair.

You muss his curls gently until they loosen around your fingers. A hum vibrates in your mouth and you don’t have to say it for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.

Pretty.

He can almost hear your thoughts.

Let your curls out more, Marc.

Marc nods. “Yeah,” he opens his eyes, “I’ve been thinking about that.”

You swallow and nod back, patiently waiting for him to explain. “I…we gotta go back. To London. At least for a little while. Loose ends to tie up, that kinda thing.”

“Alright,” you murmur. “Well, I guess I already knew that. I guess I’m just wondering what’ll happen with us.” You fidget, a strange nervousness pooling between you.

Marc stiffens, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you shift in his arms again like you’re worried about what his answer might be “Do you want to do long distance or are we going to call this a fun summer fling?”

“A fling?” He blinks at you, tightens his fingers into the fabric of your shirt, like you might disappear right before his eyes. “Do you want this to be a fling?”

He can’t really imagine it’s that, not after everything.

“No,” you smile, “I don’t want that. But the end is upon us, honey. Time marches on either way.”

Something about the way you say it makes him anxious, like you expect it to fall apart.

Marc swallows, “No. I don’t want it to be over. It doesn’t gotta be.”

For just a second, you look surprised. “Okay. We’ll figure it out,” you smile. “Like always.”

You start to pull away but Marc keeps you anchored against him, fingers locked tight into the fabric of your shirt now. His thumbs divot into your hips as he searches your eyes. “There’s nothin’ to figure out. I’m telling you, I want this. I want you. And you’re here.”

“Marc,” you say softly. “I always knew you’d have to leave again. I can’t expect you to pull up your whole life-,”

“Trust me, baby, we aren’t pulling anything up.” Marc cradles you close. “There’s…nothing there anymore.”

You press a worried hand to his face. “You really wanna be in Chicago again? Here of all places?”

For a moment, Marc considers lying to you. He considers telling you it’s all fine, that nothing hurts like that anymore.

He’s been honest with you so far, and things are fine, so he says, “I wanna be where you are. That’s it.” His voice is vulnerable to his own ears. “I don’t care where it is.”

You bite your lip, a troubled look still lodged in your eyes. “What about work-,”

He scoffs, “Baby, we’ve been here for months. There isn’t some job I gotta go back to.”

“You’ll have to explain that to me someday,” you say, cupping his jaw. “What it is you actually do.” Marc leans into your touch. He likes the way your fingers feel on his skin, how soft the pads of your fingers are.

He nods, though he’s not sure how he’ll explain any of that to you. “One day. Just…all you gotta know now is that it’s okay. There’s nothing in London anymore.”

“Does Steven really wanna live in Chicago?” You ask, incredulous. “What about Jake?”

Marc rolls his eyes. “Me and Steven already agree. And Jake thinks he’s a New Yorker, so-”

You snort and then laugh, burying your face against his neck. “Jake is a New Yorker. You should hear him talk about the-,”

“No, I don’t need to hear him talk about the fuckin’ Mets again,” Marc interrupts against your cheek when he turns his face against yours. Your breath fans warm over his skin, and the familiar scent of lavender envelopes him. “And we-,” he emphasizes, squeezing your waist. “-are Cubs fans.”

“Yes, we are,” you agree, pulling back to kiss his cheek and then the corner of his mouth. “I mean, I’ve got all this merch now, and I’ve been to two Cubs games. I can’t say that about the Mets-,”

“It’s only a matter of time before Jake gets you a Mets jersey,” Marc gripes. “And I need ya to promise me you’ll burn it when he does.”

“Asshole,” Jake mutters suddenly from the front window, not looking at you. “Always trying to make me the bad guy.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, “No. I won’t be doing that. Jake’s very sensitive. He would never forgive me for something like that.”

Jake grumbles something low under his breath, clearly embarrassed. “You’re right,” Marc says, just to irritate Jake. “He is sensitive. Very sensitive.”

You cock a brow at him, “He’s listening isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t tease him,” you reprimand.

Jake’s spine straightens with your words, a smug smile pulling over his face. “Protective of me, huh? See, pendejo, I’m more important.”

Marc rolls his eyes again, “He teases me all the time.”

“You need to be teased,” you say softly. “You don’t smile nearly enough.”

Marc thinks you smile enough for the both of them, so he just kisses you.

Somehow you’ve stopped talking about it, about how he’s going to leave, if only for a little while.

He reaches up to cup your face between his palms, strokes his thumbs along the curve of your cheeks, and only pulls back long enough to say, “There’s nothin’ left in London and I wanna be here.”

It goes unspoken between you that he wants to be with you, that they all do.

The radio plays another love song.

Tales Untold, Chicago 4:35 PM

It’s mid September and you have a slight cold.

Your nose is stuffed, and Marc thinks you look cute, rolled up in the duvet and with only your eyes and nose poking out from between the mountains of fabric.

You had wanted him to go stay with his dad, so he didn’t get sick. Instead he’d gone to get you medicine, some little treats. Sprite and crackers to settle your stomach, and ingredients for soup.

He’s going to make you matzo ball soup, because you’d told him how much you loved it the first time he brought his dad’s leftovers to you. You’d said it was the perfect soup, perfect for winter and when you were sick.

You groan at him to go home as he sets out the ingredients.

Instead of doing what you ask or starting on the soup, he toes his shoes off by the door and crosses the room to tug the duvet back.

“Marc,” you croak weakly when he nudges you over and crawls into bed with you. “You’re gonna get sick too. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Nah,” he whispers against the back of your neck, arms circling your waist, “I won’t. I promise.” Your body is hot with fever against his, even though you shiver like you’re cold.

The bed smells like lavender and clean cotton and sweat.

“I told you to go home so you don’t get sick too,” you grumble again into the duvet he tucks carefully back around your shoulders.

“Well, then I did exactly what you asked me to,” he mumbles, rubbing his hands slowly over your shivering body. You’re burning up, but until the fever breaks there’s nothing much he can do to help you. “I’m at home. This is home.” You don’t comment on that, and Marc grins when you huff in annoyance. “Wanted to tell you we got our plane ticket back to London.”

You’re quiet for a long time, and Marc wonders what exactly goes through your head. He can feel you tensing, swallowing back the tears that rise up the back of your throat in an effort to keep quiet and hide it from him.

Marc wishes you would let it out, that you would talk to him about it instead of being supportive without considering your own feelings. He wishes you could talk about it.

But you don’t.

He knows you’re trying to save him from any more guilt, but he also knows your fear, even if you don’t say it. You’re worried he’ll get back to London and remember all the reasons he has to stay away from Chicago, like he might realize you weren’t worth it.

It’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t know how to talk you away from that ledge. He’s not sure how to reassure you that he’ll come back. Even though Chicago is a place of heartache, it’s his hometown, it’s where you are and where so much love and happiness is.

Marc doesn’t say anything, just squeezes you tightly, palms fitted across your belly. “Oh,” you murmur eventually. “That’s good. You have a lot of things you need to sort out.”

“I will come back.” He nuzzles between your shoulder blades. “You know I will. Maybe you can come visit London while we’re there.”

“Really?” You perk up at that. “I’ve never been.”

“If you want,” he presses his cheek to the top of your spine. “You can help with the flat.”

You fold your hand over his, working your fingers between his. “Steven would be angry with me for dismantling his home,” you chuckle lightly.

“You know Steven thinks of here as home now too, right?”

You don’t answer again, your breathing slow and even, carefully controlled. “It is,” Marc says, when you don’t answer. “You can ask him yourself. He’ll tell you. Here is home for us.”

“It’s…but it’s going to be different,” you say lowly. “Of course, you have a place here with me,” you squeeze his hand tightly, reassuringly. “But you’ve been here for a reason. What if everything changes when it becomes permanent? I don’t want you to uproot yourself and then - this is just different, Marc. This is permanent. Maybe it won’t be fun anymore or maybe it…I mean there’s nowhere to go if-,”

Marc drops a kiss to your temple when he leans up above you on one elbow to glance at your face. “I don’t wanna go anywhere. Tell me you know that,” he pleads as you turn onto your back. “Tell me you know what you mean to us.”

Your lips quirk in a small smile, but it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. Your fingers are gentle when you push them into his side. “Of course.”

“You know here is home now.”

“I know here is home now,” you repeat. “For you.”

He leans down to kiss you, even though you laugh and try to push him away. “Where’s home for you?” He asks, mouth brushing yours.

Your hand fits against his chest. “Here.”

A cemetery, Chicago 3:16 PM

The light wavers yellow and warm through branches laden with burnt orange and scarlet leaves, the colors rapidly browning. Marc walks alone between graves, careful not to step anywhere he shouldn’t.

His mind is quiet and though you had offered to come with him, he’d adamantly refused.

You’ve done enough for him over the last few months, and this was something he wants to do by himself. This is something he has to do alone.

He can’t remember the last time he visited his brother’s grave. It’s been years, maybe decades.

He’s never seen his mother’s, not once, though he knows they’re buried quite close together. There’s a plot for his father, and one for Marc too.

Marc, in all his brushes with death, never thought of what would become of his body. Probably because he was so far away from home he’d never considered being buried in the family plot.

The air smells like fall, like fallen leaves and decay. But the day is nice, the sky a clean robin’s egg blue, and the scent of sunshine and the dregs of summer lingers in the air too.

It’s still warm, but the air has lost its heat. Summer has faded so quickly, Marc feels like he’s lost time. He blinked and the days were gone.

But he remembers all of it. Every second with you, in your shop, with his father, in that house that still haunted his dreams. He remembers every second with you, every moment in your apartment and in the shop. He remembers every brushstroke made, every valiantly repointed line in the brick wall, every single drive to the hardware store, every laugh, every dinner cooked together, and every piano note played.

For once, time escaping him doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

He stops in the shade of a tree, leaves spinning down gently in the sun.

It’s an incredibly beautiful day.

Marc is still glad you didn’t come with him, but he does wish he’d gotten to spend today outside with you. You love the sun, and Marc likes to look at you in the sun.

He doesn’t look at his mother’s grave, not yet. He looks only at his little brother, who he’ll never feel like he didn’t fail in some way.

Marc apologizes for not visiting, for taking so long to visit since the last time. Feeling just a little bit stupid, he tells Randall about you. But the cemetery is empty and so he tries not to feel too bad about it. He likes talking about you, in any case. You’re easy to talk about, easy to like.

He says the Kaddish and then crouches to lie two stones at the base of the headstone, one for himself and one from you.

He stays there for a long time, hand braced on the edge of the smooth rock, head bowed. “Sorry,” he says gently, because there’s no one there to hear him, and no one there to tell him not to. “I’m sorry, and I always will be.”

Saying it wasn’t his fault would never make the guilt quite go away.

When he stands, he has to take a moment to swipe the tears away from his face, before he can face his mother.

Even in death she intimidates him.

Like he could still be punished for doing nothing wrong, even now.

A cold chill sweeps down his spine when he finally turns to her grave.

He swallows hard, and thinks of you, how last Saturday you’d gone to the synagogue with his father when Marc hadn’t felt able to. You had come home smiling, with treats picked up from a Jewish bakery you’d gotten and hidden away from him the day before.

Marc thinks of all your small kindnesses, all of the thoughtfulness you applied to everything you did. The way you embraced him and Steven and Jake, and made an effort with his father even though you had no real reason to. You’d had no reason to go with his father, especially without Marc, but still you did.

You listened to all Steven’s long winded stories about Egyptology, and you indulged Jake in his flirting and silent need for acceptance.

There weren’t a lot of people, at least not that Marc could think of, that would do that.

You love him, he thinks he knows that, even if you don’t say it.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just stares down at her headstone and wonders where to start, if he has enough courage to.

A breeze sinks through the cemetery, ruffles the curls at the base of his neck. It reminds him of the way your fingers always tangle there.

“I forgive you,” he says, voice nearly inaudible, almost giving out. He should be stronger than this, louder than this, but it would have to do. “Maybe you don’t deserve it, but I do. I deserve to forgive you and move on. I hope…that you found peace.”

Marc’s hands are in fists, blunt nails cutting into the flesh of his palms.

He closes his eyes and says the Kaddish again before bending to leave a single stone.

Marc turns and walks back through the cemetery.

He doesn’t look back once.

His heart stutters in his chest all the way back to Tales Untold, panic building in the back of his throat. Like his mother would, even now, be able to know he spoke out of turn, would be able to hurt him again.

But you’re waiting for him, lodged firmly on the front step even with the chill seeping into the afternoon air. You tug him into you when you yank the door of your borrowed truck, not even waiting for him to climb out, and the feeling dissipates.

The knot along Marc’s spine loosens, the panic that homes inside his chest eases.

He clutches you tight to his chest and lets out a long breath.

“You did it, hermano.”

“Well done, Marc.”

You pull back and tilt your head. “I’m okay,” he says. “It was fine.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Chicago O’Hare International Airport 2:35 PM

It’s early October, and the first really chilly day has settled over the city.

The skies are slate gray and the clouds hang low in the sky. It’s only slightly oppressive, like the whole cloudbank might come crashing down at any moment.

The terminal is busy, and Marc takes a moment to find a little pocket of peace away from the rush people, the loud noise that is any airport.

“Are you sure you have everything?”

You’re looking at him with big, anxious eyes. “If I don’t,” he says gently. “I’ll be back in a couple months anyways.”

Marc knows you’re trying not to let him see just how upset you are. You haven’t cried in front of him, but he’s heard you try to hide the sniffles from behind the bathroom door more than once. “Yeah,” you rasp. “Of course. I know that. If you left anything I’ll keep it for you until you can come back and-”

“Baby,” he interrupts softly, tucking his passport and boarding pass into his back pocket before tugging you into him. “I’m coming back.”

“Y’don’t know that for sure,” you say suddenly, your breath hitching. “Everything you are now is in London-,”

He shakes his head, pulls back and cradles your jaw between his palms. You’ve given him so much comfort over the past few months, now is the time for him to offer it back to you. “It’s here now, everything I am. It’s with you. I’m coming back. I’m coming home.”

“I just,” you swallow and blink slowly at him. “I just don’t wanna be without you. I don’t want to be alone.”

Marc is sure that the feeling that cracks through his chest is his heart breaking.

“Hey, no-,”

“I just don’t wanna lose you,” you say softly. “I’ve come to rely on you a lot now too. I mean, who else is going to help me unclog the kitchen sink and unpot those stupid flowers for the millionth time? Who’s gonna build me stuff? And what about Steven and Jake? Who am I gonna make stained glass with and who’s going to teach me how to finally drive a manual car-,”

He feels a slight smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “And I wanna…I like having you around. I like all three of you and I like hanging out with your dad. And I like that you live with me and you show me parts of Chicago I never thought to go to and-,”

“Hey,” he interrupts more firmly this time. “We will do all those things. Us.”

“You-,”

“Me,” he emphasizes. “I’ll do all that stuff. Because I’ll be back. We will. Steven and Jake will drag our asses back, if not.” He means to make you grin back at him, but your eyes just go glassy again. “Hey,” he pulls you in. “C’mon, baby. We’ll call you every day. You aren’t losing anything. I promise.”

“Really?” You tug on his shirt. “For real, you promise?”

“I swear.”

“Promise, Marc,” you say into his shoulder when he tucks you into him. The heat of you seeps into him, along with all the things he’ll miss about you. He’s the one leaving, but that doesn’t make it easy on him. Maybe you’d realize everything he wasn’t the second he stepped away. But he has to try, he wants to make things work with you and that starts with going back to London to sort his shit out. “Promises are important.”

“I promise,” he says. “I promise, sweetheart.”

You give him a watery smile at the intense strain in his voice. “I believe you. I just don’t want to have to let you go.”

“Not letting anything go. You’re not letting anything go and neither am I. I’m not going anywhere.” You try to glance away, but he doesn’t let you, just like you never let him give up or look away. “I’ll be back by the new year. No longer than that. Hopefully sooner.”

You swallow thickly and nod. “Honey, you’re gonna miss your flight if you don’t go. Security might be-,”

“Fuck security. There are always other flights. I need to know that you know this is happening. I am coming back.”

“I know, Marc-,”

“You don’t though,” he says, adamant about it and not sure how to explain. “You don’t know what I’ve been through with you. You don’t know how much you’ve…how much you mean to me. I never woulda made it through this summer without you.”

There’s a long pause between you. Your eyes are wide as they search his. Marc doesn’t glance away, determined for you to see before he leaves.

You cover his hands with your own where it lays against your cheek. “Marc,” you lean in to kiss him. “I got you. I love you too.”

He doesn’t manage a response, just tightens his arms around you. “Yeah.”

“You need to go,” you whisper. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Marc tugs you with him, and you follow with a smile until the security area comes into view. “Bye, baby,” he murmurs in your ear, kissing you one last time.

You nod, and smile. “Bye, honey. I’ll see you soon.”

“Right,” he confirms. “Soon. And we’ll call everyday.”

“Of course you will, you promised,” you remind him. “Promised me, Spector.”

You release him gently, and back away a few steps. “I did. We will,” he says, just to keep standing there for a couple more seconds.

You wave and then make a gentle shooing motion. “Get going.”

Marc turns and goes before he can change his mind, before he can anchor himself to you and ignore every responsibility he’s ever had.

He gets in line and valiantly tries not to look back at you, but he can’t quite manage it. When he finally chances a glance back, he expects you to have disappeared like a mirage, like everything that happened and everything he gained had been one long dream. But when he turns you’re still there, watching him.

Marc can tell you’re crying a little, but you smile and wave each time he glances back.

Finally, you disappear from view and the story of you rounds itself out in Marc’s heart.

He will come back, and you will still be there waiting.

He will come home, because that’s who you are.

Once again, thank you so much for reading and for coming on this journey with me. You don't know how much it means that this particular story has gotten so much love from all of you. I wish I were better at explaining, just know that I love and adore all of you. Thank you, from the very bottom of my heart.

I'm going to miss this little world a lot.

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fanfiction

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a-queer-seminarian · 4 months

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Poems for Palestine

Poetry empowers us to imagine liberation that we can then work towards, together. In the latest episode of the Blessed Are the Binary Breakers podcast, listen to — or read along in the episode transcript — Jewish, Christian, and Muslim poems by Palestinians and their supporters.

Some pieces explore the Nativity story through this lens: Christmas joy must break bread with pain, birthing solidarity with all oppressed peoples.

Listen wherever you get podcasts — or visit here for a direct link.

Image descriptions are in the alt text and below the readmore.

A photo of Professor Refaat Alareer with a quote from him reading, “We’ve never been to other parts of Palestine because of the Israeli occupation, but… our parents and grandparents — especially our mothers — have been telling us stories… Our homeland turns into a story. In reality we can’t have it, but…we love our homeland because of the story. And we love the story because it’s about our homeland. And this connection is significant. Israel wants to sever the relationship between Palestinians and the land… And literature attaches us back, connects us strongly to Palestine…creating realities, making the impossible sound possible."

A photo of Hiba Abu Nada with an excerpt from her poem "I Grant You Refuge" reading, "I grant you refuge from hurt and suffering. With words of sacred scripture I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous and the shades of cloud from the smog. I grant you refuge in knowing that the dust will clear, and they who fell in love and died together will one day laugh."

A photo of Aurora Levins Morales with an excerpt from her poem "Red Sea," reading "We cannot cross until we carry each other, all of us refugees, all of us prophets. …this time no one will be left to drown and all of us must be chosen. This time it's all of us or none."

A photo of Basman Derawi with an excerpt from his poem "His Name Was Essa" reading, "Essa means Jesus. My friend was neither God nor prophet, but a rebel soul and humorist, like Jesus. When Essa laughed, everyone laughed. I think joy was his gospel. …I can see him now sitting in heaven nodding, laughing."

#christmas #palestine #palestinian poetry #aurora levins morales #basman derawi #refaat alareer #hiba abu nada #podcast #blessed are the binary breakers #log #winter 2023

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garadinervi · 6 months

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Heba Abu Nada (هبة كمال أبو ندى), I Grant You Refuge, October 10, 2023; translation by Huda Fakhreddine, «Protean» Magazine, November 3, 2023

I Grant You Refuge Heba Abu Nada (trans. Huda Fakhreddine) 1. I grant you refuge in invocation and prayer. I bless the neighborhood and the minaret to guard them from the rocket from the moment it is a general’s command until it becomes a raid. I grant you and the little ones refuge, the little ones who change the rocket’s course before it lands with their smiles. 2. I grant you and the little ones refuge, the little ones now asleep like chicks in a nest. They don’t walk in their sleep toward dreams. They know death lurks outside the house. Their mothers’ tears are now doves following them, trailing behind every coffin. 3. I grant the father refuge, the little ones’ father who holds the house upright when it tilts after the bombs. He implores the moment of death: “Have mercy. Spare me a little while. For their sake, I’ve learned to love my life. Grant them a death as beautiful as they are.” 4. I grant you refuge from hurt and death, refuge in the glory of our siege, here in the belly of the whale. Our streets exalt God with every bomb. They pray for the mosques and the houses. And every time the bombing begins in the North, our supplications rise in the South. 5. I grant you refuge from hurt and suffering. With words of sacred scripture I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous and the shades of cloud from the smog. I grant you refuge in knowing that the dust will clear, and they who fell in love and died together will one day laugh.

Heba Abu Nada is a novelist, poet, and educator. Her novel Oxygen is Not for the Dead won the Sharjah Award for Arab Creativity in 2017. She wrote this poem on Oct. 10th, 2023. She died a martyr, killed in her home in south Gaza by an Israeli raid on Oct. 20th, 2023. She was 32 years old.

Huda Fakhreddine is Associate Professor of Arabic literature at the University of Pennsylvania. She is a writer, a translator, and the author of several scholarly books.

– «Protean» Magazine

#poetry #heba abu nada #huda fakhreddine #protean magazine #2020s

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littlestarsailor · 6 months

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Hiba Abu Nada was a Palestinian poet, novelist, nutritionist and teacher. Her book ‏الأكسجين ليس للموتى (Oxygen is not for the dead: a novel) received second place in the Sharjah Award for Arab Creativity.

She was murdered by an israeli airstrike on October 20 (X). She was 32. Below is a translation of one of her last works. The translation was done by Huda Fakhreddine (X).

I Grant You Refuge

1. I grant you refuge in invocation and prayer. I bless the neighborhood and the minaret to guard them from the rocket

from the moment it is a general’s command until it becomes a raid.

I grant you and the little ones refuge, the little ones who change the rocket’s course before it lands with their smiles.

2. I grant you and the little ones refuge, the little ones now asleep like chicks in a nest.

They don’t walk in their sleep toward dreams. They know death lurks outside the house.

Their mothers’ tears are now doves following them, trailing behind every coffin.

3. I grant the father refuge, the little ones’ father who holds the house upright when it tilts after the bombs. He implores the moment of death: “Have mercy. Spare me a little while. For their sake, I’ve learned to love my life. Grant them a death as beautiful as they are.”

4. I grant you refuge from hurt and death, refuge in the glory of our siege, here in the belly of the whale.

Our streets exalt God with every bomb. They pray for the mosques and the houses. And every time the bombing begins in the North, our supplications rise in the South.

5. I grant you refuge from hurt and suffering.

With words of sacred scripture I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous and the shades of cloud from the smog.

I grant you refuge in knowing that the dust will clear, and they who fell in love and died together will one day laugh.

#palestine #poetry #hiba abu nada

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kitchen-light · 6 months

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I Grant You Refuge by Hiba Abu Nada translated by Huda Fakhreddine 1. I grant you refuge in invocation and prayer. I bless the neighborhood and the minaret to guard them from the rocket from the moment it is a general’s command until it becomes a raid. I grant you and the little ones refuge, the little ones who change the rocket’s course before it lands with their smiles. 2. I grant you and the little ones refuge, the little ones now asleep like chicks in a nest. They don’t walk in their sleep toward dreams. They know death lurks outside the house. Their mothers’ tears are now doves following them, trailing behind every coffin. 3. I grant the father refuge, the little ones’ father who holds the house upright when it tilts after the bombs. He implores the moment of death: “Have mercy. Spare me a little while. For their sake, I’ve learned to love my life. Grant them a death as beautiful as they are.” 4. I grant you refuge from hurt and death, refuge in the glory of our siege, here in the belly of the whale. Our streets exalt God with every bomb. They pray for the mosques and the houses. And every time the bombing begins in the North, our supplications rise in the South. 5. I grant you refuge from hurt and suffering. With words of sacred scripture I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous and the shades of cloud from the smog. I grant you refuge in knowing that the dust will clear, and they who fell in love and died together will one day laugh.

published by Protean Magazine, November 3, 2023

#hiba abu nada #poetry #words #found*#palestine #on the spiritual

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ombre-ame · 6 months

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"I grant you refuge in knowing that the dust will clear, and they who fell in love and died together will one day laugh.”

—Hiba Abu Nada (trans. Huda Fakhreddine)

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translations2 · 4 months

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내 너에게 피난처를 주노라, 히바 아부 나다

I Grant You Refuge

Hiba Abu Nada (trans. Huda Fakhreddine)

1. I grant you refuge

in invocation and prayer.

I bless the neighborhood and the minaret

to guard them

from the rocket

from the moment

it is a general’s command

until it becomes

a raid.

I grant you and the little ones refuge,

the little ones who

change the rocket’s course

before it lands

with their smiles.

2. I grant you and the little ones refuge,

the little ones now asleep like chicks in a nest.

They don’t walk in their sleep toward dreams.

They know death lurks outside the house.

Their mothers’ tears are now doves

following them, trailing behind

every coffin.

3. I grant the father refuge,

the little ones’ father who holds the house upright

when it tilts after the bombs.

He implores the moment of death:

“Have mercy. Spare me a little while.

For their sake, I’ve learned to love my life.

Grant them a death

as beautiful as they are.”

4. I grant you refuge

from hurt and death,

refuge in the glory of our siege,

here in the belly of the whale.

Our streets exalt God with every bomb.

They pray for the mosques and the houses.

And every time the bombing begins in the North,

our supplications rise in the South.

5. I grant you refuge

from hurt and suffering.

With words of sacred scripture

I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous

and the shades of cloud from the smog.

I grant you refuge in knowing

that the dust will clear,

and they who fell in love and died together

will one day laugh.

내 너에게 피난처를 주노라

히바 아부 나다 후다 파크레딘 아랍어에서 영어로 옮김

1. 내 너에게 피난처를 주노라

주문과 기도 안에서.

여기 사는 사람들과 사원의 첨탑을 축복하노라

그들을 보우하기 위해

로켓으로부터

그것이 장군의 명령으로 떨어지는

순간부터

습격이 되어 떨어지는

순간까지.

너와 어린이들에게 피난처를 주노라

로켓이 땅에 닿기 전에

미소로

그 경로를 바꿔버리는

어린이들에게.

2. 너와 어린이들에게 피난처를 주노라

둥지의 병아리처럼 잠든 어린이들에게.

어린이들은 자면서 꿈을 향해 걷지 않는다.

어린이들은 집 밖에 죽음이 숨어있다는 것을 안다.

그들 어머니들의 눈물은 비둘기가 되어

그들을 따라다니고, 모든 관의 뒤를

천천히 따라간다.

3. 아버지에게 피난처를 주노라,

집을 세워 받치는 어린이들의 아버지

폭탄이 지나가고 집이 기울 때,

죽음의 순간 그가 애원한다;

"자비를 베푸소서. 저에게 조금의 시간을 주소서.

아이들을 위해서, 내 삶을 사랑하는 법을 배웠나이다.

아이들에게 허락하소서

저들만큼 아름다운 죽음을."

4. 내 너에게 피난처를 주노라

상처와 죽음으로부터,

포위된 우리의 영광 안에 피신하라,

여기 고래의 뱃속에.

우리의 거리들은 떨어지는 폭탄마다 주님을 칭송하며.

모스크와 집을 위해 기도한다.

북쪽에서 폭격이 시작될 때마다,

남쪽에서 우리의 애원이 시작된다.

5. 내 너에게 피난처를 주노라

상처와 고통으로부터,

신성한 경전의 말들로

백린탄의 쓰라림으로부터 오렌지를 보호하고

연무로부터 구름의 그림자를 보호하노라.

내 너에게 피난처를 주노라

먼지가 걷힐 것과,

사랑에 빠지고 함께 죽은 이들이

언젠가 웃을 것이라 일러줌에.

#from the river to the sea palestine will be free #free palestine #ceasefire now #end genocide #end israeli occupation #hiba abu nada #huda fakhreddine

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edwordsmyth · 6 months

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"1. I grant you refuge in invocation and prayer. I bless the neighborhood and the minaret to guard them from the rocket

from the moment it is a general’s command until it becomes a raid.

I grant you and the little ones refuge, the little ones who change the rocket’s course before it lands with their smiles.

2. I grant you and the little ones refuge, the little ones now asleep like chicks in a nest.

They don’t walk in their sleep toward dreams. They know death lurks outside the house.

Their mothers’ tears are now doves following them, trailing behind every coffin.

4. I grant you refuge from hurt and death, refuge in the glory of our siege, here in the belly of the whale.

Our streets exalt God with every bomb. They pray for the mosques and the houses. And every time the bombing begins in the North, our supplications rise in the South.

5. I grant you refuge from hurt and suffering.

With words of sacred scripture I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous and the shades of cloud from the smog.

I grant you refuge in knowing that the dust will clear, and they who fell in love and died together will one day laugh."

#hiba abu nada #palestine

8 notes · View notes

umbralwaves · 6 months

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I grant you refuge from hurt and suffering. With words of sacred scripture I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous and the shades of cloud from the smog. I grant you refuge in knowing that the dust will clear, and they who fell in love and died together will one day laugh.

#palestine

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missedstations · 5 months

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"I Grant You Refuge" - Hiba Abu Nada