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foreverpraying · 2 years

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On the 23th of September is the feast day of St. Pio of Pietrelcina, priest

Ignacio de Leon y Escosura: Franciscan Monk Reading

Life of St. Pio of Pietrelcina

In one of the largest such ceremonies in history, Pope John Paul II canonized Padre Pio of Pietrelcina on June 16, 2002. It was the 45th canonization ceremony in Pope John Paul’s pontificate. More than 300,000 people braved blistering heat as they filled St. Peter’s Square and nearby streets. They heard the Holy Father praise the new saint for his prayer and charity. “This is the most concrete synthesis of Padre Pio’s teaching,” said the pope. He also stressed Padre Pio’s witness to the power of suffering. If accepted with love, the Holy Father stressed, such suffering can lead to “a privileged path of sanctity.”

Many people have turned to the Italian Capuchin Franciscan to intercede with God on their behalf; among them was the future Pope John Paul II. In 1962, when he was still an archbishop in Poland, he wrote to Padre Pio and asked him to pray for a Polish woman with throat cancer. Within two weeks, she had been cured of her life-threatening disease.

Born Francesco Forgione, Padre Pio grew up in a family of farmers in southern Italy. Twice his father worked in Jamaica, New York, to provide the family income.

At the age of 15, Francesco joined the Capuchins and took the name of Pio. He was ordained in 1910 and was drafted during World War I. After he was discovered to have tuberculosis, he was discharged. In 1917, he was assigned to the friary in San Giovanni Rotondo, 75 miles from the city of Bari on the Adriatic.

On September 20, 1918, as he was making his thanksgiving after Mass, Padre Pio had a vision of Jesus. When the vision ended, he had the stigmata in his hands, feet, and side.

Life became more complicated after that. Medical doctors, Church authorities, and curiosity seekers came to see Padre Pio. In 1924, and again in 1931, the authenticity of the stigmata was questioned; Padre Pio was not permitted to celebrate Mass publicly or to hear confessions. He did not complain of these decisions, which were soon reversed. However, he wrote no letters after 1924. His only other writing, a pamphlet on the agony of Jesus, was done before 1924.

Source of picture: https://nationalgeographicscans.tumblr.com

Padre Pio rarely left the friary after he received the stigmata, but busloads of people soon began coming to see him. Each morning after a 5 a.m. Mass in a crowded church, he heard confessions until noon. He took a mid-morning break to bless the sick and all who came to see him. Every afternoon he also heard confessions. In time his confessional ministry would take 10 hours a day; penitents had to take a number so that the situation could be handled. Many of them have said that Padre Pio knew details of their lives that they had never mentioned.

Padre Pio saw Jesus in all the sick and suffering. At his urging, a fine hospital was built on nearby Mount Gargano. The idea arose in 1940; a committee began to collect money. Ground was broken in 1946. Building the hospital was a technical wonder because of the difficulty of getting water there and of hauling up the building supplies. This “House for the Alleviation of Suffering” has 350 beds.

A number of people have reported cures they believe were received through the intercession of Padre Pio. Those who assisted at his Masses came away edified; several curiosity seekers were deeply moved. Like Saint Francis, Padre Pio sometimes had his habit torn or cut by souvenir hunters.

One of Padre Pio’s sufferings was that unscrupulous people several times circulated prophecies that they claimed originated from him. He never made prophecies about world events and never gave an opinion on matters that he felt belonged to Church authorities to decide. He died on September 23, 1968, and was beatified in 1999.

Source: https://www.franciscanmedia.org/saint-of-the-day/saint-pio-of-pietrelcina

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sanders1665 · 9 months

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I had wondered too deep into the forest,

saw an eagle that had lost its wings,

with an old Lady who's torch flame had died,

at the footsteps to the church of high strangeness,

where a new god was being worshipped,

for the spirit of Animus had found itself a new bride.

The bark of the trees were rotting with green fungi,

it seemed the essence of the river had been poisoned,

the nature of the Mother was also tainted,

and her children cried her name in vain,

there were many birds squawking,

and my journey was labored by heavy breathing.

High above, the sun gave no warmth,

the giver of life went unnoticed,

as its rays usually led my way,

and frosty glares left me feeling colder,

my sense of purpose seemed confused,

and angry voices caused my equilibrium to bruise.

Poked, prodded and pushed by ancient tree limbs,

becoming dizzy with their insistence,

but resolute against their determined authority,

I resisted the obligation to bow in their honor,

seeking a path that was betwixt and between,

to be my own master and servant, not a serf to a king or a queen.

Words flew about the forest with accusatory sound,

viscous, condemning and filled with hatred,

looking for a target and easy prey,

hitting the naive mark without a shield for thinking,

screaming on my right and screaming on my left,

I could see their minds were blindly possessed.

I smelled the fragrance of two flowers,

but they had a hundred different aroma's,

and I became confused with their identity,

for their union had lost its purest sanctity,

natures original creation had been adulterated,

and absolute truth had deteriorated.

Within the forest I espied poachers,

skulking, scheming and scurrying,

helping themselves to the fruits of the trees,

and the hard earned labor of the farmers,

it seemed the wicked unfairly do profit,

while digging deep into an unsuspecting pocket.

There were barren fields with straw men walking,

waving their arms and seeking attention,

they had wandered off the path of focus,

and performed magic tricks with sleight of hand,

while some were being set on fire,

and their ashes would sink into the quagmire.

Down by the river, women had cleaned the hunters clothes,

some accepted their place by the river,

and others had expressed a vociferous desire to go hunting,

while some found their own unique craft,

with applause and respect from the villagers,

and some sailed into new frontier rivers.

Within the forest, a village stood for the high and low,

resentful cries could be heard from the needy,

as gluttonous eyes were met with caution,

and the shouts of the egalitarian were getting louder,

pitchforks were held aloft and torches were being lit,

the lazy and selfish were warring against the hard working and committed.

There was a standoff in the main thoroughfare,

the air was filled with shouting and fists held high,

banners were carried with personal truths on them,

one side shouted that your words hurt are feelings,

and the other side shouted that your words kill our feelings,

as stern looking men were looking to maintain the peace.

The village market had many stalls,

selling their cultural wares to the unsuspecting buyer,

the vendors proclaimed they had what was best for you,

if they were politely turned down,

they screamed with rage, calling you ignorant and bigoted,

I smiled graciously and said no in my head.

There was a members only club in the village,

and old men of tradition enjoyed their privileged lifestyle,

but the village fathers were looked upon with distaste,

envious eyes were looking to dismantle the club,

imagined enemies were sat at every table,

but the real fathers were culture and society.

Poisoned words were carried by the breeze,

and breathed in by the gullible dwellers of the forest,

cherished and defended with their lives,

for baby birds to be carried by their enchantment,

although my shield of truth offered much protection,

the thorny nettles of lies would sometimes taint my complexion.

So many had high horses charging at windmills,

and many had battered armor and broken lances,

as thin filtered visors had restricted their panorama,

deep in the forest could cause you much trauma,

there is beauty in the scenery, but some perspectives have an ugly point of view,

tainting the colors of nature in deep shades of blue.

#my post #spilled words #my poetry #poems and poetry #my poem #spilled thoughts #poetry #poem #new poem #culture #society/community #just an observation

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septembersghost · 1 year

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Lasting legacy of love- right side of history rewarded- giving thanks. twitter. com/historyinmemes/status/1672642654180458497?s=46&t=EYbIfzp2Ta48OGdrioZAig twitter. com/tiamat_amagi/status/1672647367990865921?s=46&t=EYbIfzp2Ta48OGdrioZAig

this is so moving and powerful

As I remember those treacherous times, when uncertainty was our only certainty, I am profoundly touched by the immense strength of character exhibited by the villagers of Chambon-sur-Lignon. They stood tall, firm, and unwavering in their resolve, their moral compass guiding their path. With their quiet defiance and courageous compassion, they struck a blow against the brutal machinery of oppression, a blow that reverberates down through the years, as potent as it was in those dark days. Despite the violent tempest that Nazism unleashed, they chose the path of love over fear, of humanity over hatred. They chose to put their lives at stake to uphold the sanctity of others. This audacity of compassion is as beautiful as it is rare. I am yet to find a more eloquent expression of humanity. The lessons from Chambon-sur-Lignon are not frozen in time. They live with us, in every act of kindness we extend to strangers, in every stand we take against injustice, in every instance when we rise above the labels that seek to divide us. These lessons permeate my soul, a constant reminder that our moral choices define us far more than our circumstances. To say that I am grateful would be an understatement. How does one measure the worth of a life saved, of hope restored? How do you quantify the relief in a mother's eyes, the renewed laughter of a child, the gratitude of an elderly man who saw one more sunrise, thanks to the villagers' indomitable spirit? Their gift was not just of survival, but of faith - faith in the innate goodness that survives even in the worst of times. My last will, the bequest to the village, is a humble attempt to repay a fraction of the debt of gratitude I owe. It is my deepest wish that it serves as a tribute to the people of Chambon-sur-Lignon, nurturing the seeds of compassion, courage, and community spirit in the generations to come. I want it to empower the voices that echo their ancestors' moral courage, and encourage them to pen their own narratives of valor and compassion. As the sun sets on my life, I look back at the journey I was privileged to undertake, a journey that started from the precipice of despair and led to the plains of hope, thanks to the villagers of Chambon-sur-Lignon. They showed us that heroes often walk among us, unsung and unnoticed, their actions writing sonnets of courage and humanity that inspire long after they're gone. Let this legacy not just be a tale of the past, but a call to action. May each of us find the courage to rise above our fears, to uphold the values of empathy, courage, and justice in the face of adversity. Remember, the darkness of the night can't diminish the light of a single candle. The villagers of Chambon-sur-Lignon were those candles in our night. May their light continue to illuminate our paths, inspire our actions, and guide our moral compass. From the core of my being, I say thank you, Chambon-sur-Lignon. Thank you for the courage you displayed, for the lives you saved, and for the lessons you imparted. Your actions weren't just a chapter in a history book; they were a testament to the power of compassion and a compelling reminder of the innate goodness that dwells within us all. Thank you.

#anonymous #letterbox #history #words #may his memory be a blessing

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bluedevilsrpg · 1 year

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CROOKED HOUND

HELMSMAN. M. ( 27 ) Otto Seppäläinen. TW: implied polygamy, death

HISTORY

PRINCE OF A KINGDOM MADE OF MUD - WHERE IS YOUR CROWN, WHERE IS YOUR PROSPERITY? The eleventh son of the fourth consort of a small country made tribute to the empire of the sun - you were brought up with all the wealth that befits royalty. Arrogance begets rot but unlike your brothers and sisters, you do not exalt your namesake with blind veneration. Rather, you ponder the question of the greatness of your nation when year by year, their most valuable assets are relinquished. It is then the curtains part and you see through the corruption, all nobility is akin to over-privileged parasites. The mask of princedom must not fall however, and thus, disguises are synonymous to skin. Only for you, the facade rests invisible, hidden in the crevices of your stoic features, placating with a feigned smile.

Sacrifices must be made for the masses, and the greater good must be carefully manipulated. The cost of one casualty comes at the price of the whole. Your decisions are mediated through the game of human chess - what must be done to save the last of what you love. But where did such scheming multiply? It began with the death of your mother and then it led to the marriage of your sister, wedded to a more powerful empire by the whims of a more affluent man; a decision made by the foolish miscalculation of your father and his consorts. You are the eleventh son and it is you who will remake the world for the people. You are poised in your snarls, machiavellian in your decisions - villainous in every judgment but you will bear the brunt of every consequence. This is the story of a prince who will die; burning hell to bring heaven on earth.

CONNECTIONS

CURSED SOLDIER ⌱ YOU DESIRE TO MAKE DIVINITY OUT OF DIRT AND YOU SHALL DIE TRYING

He was the lone soldier in a battalion of mindless men. You hardly took notice of another soul on a foreseeable path to death. It wasn’t until you learned of a strategic move to protect the woman who sold your sister off to another country that he summoned your attention. You warned him of where he stood, his battles were made in the fields, not within marble palaces. And yet his gaze met your eyes and it was then that you understood that he didn’t care for your opinion, nor did he listen to anyone else’s - not when his decisions resulted in one calculated victory after another. You would have ordered his execution if it weren’t for the many accolades that garnered him prestige amongst your father’s court. It infuriated you to see a pawn mistake his glory wholly for power. But your mind is brilliant and you calculate each choice, eventually you’ll surround him on all sides until he begs for your sanctity.

BELLS OF HELL ⌱ IN THE FACE OF FAMILIARITY I VOMIT IN REVULSION

Children born into a life dictated by their bloodline always resulted in royal decrees of marriage determined by advantageous politics and wealth. That was the original arrangement made between you and BELLS OF HELL. But early on from your introduction, you abhorred her at first look. A woman who was to be your wife was a curse in itself - you never desired the companionship of women nor the romantic pursuits that you watched your father badger for. Hedonism and carnal temptations served as a distraction in your eyes. But beyond matrimonial duties, BELLS OF HELL herself was an uncouth and vulgar woman despite the status of her birth. She was clever in her own regard but your differences made you nothing more than strangers. You were quick to agree on the end of your family's engagement, wanting nothing to do with the nuisance of the ill-bred lady.

MOON BLADE ⌱ YOUR INSIGNIFICANCE SHINES LIKE A GARISH CANDELABRA

Your distaste for your distant family was held against the throats of every new wedded wife and MOON BLADE’s mother was just the same. Every time you watched your father profess his love at the altar with undying adoration splintered the heart of your mother and led to her rotting alone on her deathbed. Such an image stayed in your memories with each new woman that entered the court. The children, their siblings and their mothers had nothing to do with you. She was no different. She was not your sister by blood nor did she hold a flicker of nobility in her lineage. Rather, she was a discarded chess piece that preferred to meddle in the ways of others. You’ve seen the look in her eyes - behind the doe-eyed lashes there is a cunning viper who masks her poison with sweetness. All the others may be blind to it but you’ve always been perceptive, especially if it assured your survival. You watch in the shadows, biding your time - she lives until she crosses a forbidden line and then she too will be another face forgotten within the palace walls.

ANGEL OF TERROR ⌱ EVERYTHING CAN BE BOUGHT, THE ONLY LIMIT IS YOUR IMAGINATION

He should have accepted you with graciousness the moment you welcomed him into your presence. And yet, you were met with disappointment when you saw the same judgment as all others met in his eyes. He did not see the ambition that clenched between the knuckles of your grip on the throne. You’ve reimagined the scenario a thousand times, all ending in his plea for your mercy the moment you arose from your father’s simple throne to another. Nothing would ever end in the conquest of the King’s measly little empire. You saw ANGEL OF TERROR as a means to persuade the masses of your legitimacy even further with the power of his religious fervor. Despite all the wealth that you offered, he miscalculated and rejected it with a foolish scoff. You warned him of his misstep, what you had proposed was a rarity in itself. He was stupider than you perceived - you could’ve given him a kingdom of his very own. Alas, you know better than to waste a second chance with an imbecile.

CROOKED HOUND IS CLOSED & THEIR SPECIAL STAT IS INTELLIGENCE.

#crooked hound.#all.#intelligence.#closed.

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faith-in-democracy · 7 months

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The Divine Decree of Democracy: Unveiling the Veil of Cronyism

In the depths of the human spirit, an unyielding flame burns bright - the fervent belief in the power of democracy. Like an age-old scripture, this unwavering faith has been etched into the annals of history, serving as a beacon of hope for all who seek justice and equality. But amidst the sanctity of democracy, there lurks a malevolent force that threatens to tarnish its very essence: cronyism. Cronyism, the unholy alliance between power and privilege, casts a dark shadow upon the sacred tenets of democracy. It is a pervasive cancer that permeates the veins of our society, eroding the very foundations upon which our democratic systems were built. It is a betrayal of the trust bestowed upon our leaders, an affront to the dreams and aspirations of the common man. Like a manipulative puppet master, cronyism pulls the strings from behind closed doors, its insidious influence seeping into every corner of governance. The deserving are bypassed, while the sycophants and the corrupt ascend to positions of power. Merit is overshadowed by nepotism, and the voice of the people is drowned out by the whispers of the few. But, fear not, for the divine decree of democracy shall prevail, casting aside the shackles of cronyism. It is in the very heart of democracy that the antidote to this venomous plague resides. The power lies within the hands of the people, who, through their unwavering faith and collective voice, possess the ability to cast aside the oppressors and demand transparency and accountability. It is the duty of every citizen to hold their leaders to the highest standards, to challenge the status quo, and to fight for a system that cherishes the common good over personal gain. The scriptures of democracy call upon us to rise above the allure of cronyism, to reject the rampant favoritism that breeds corruption, and to forge a path towards a future where integrity and righteousness guide our every decision. Let us not forget the countless sacrifices made by those who came before us, who fought valiantly to secure the liberties we hold dear. Their spirits echo through time, urging us to stand firm in our resolve, to reclaim the purity of our democratic systems, and to ensure that the powers entrusted to our leaders are used not for personal gain, but for the betterment of society as a whole. In this battle against the forces of cronyism, we must remember that democracy is not a mere concept, but a divine gift, bestowed upon us to safeguard our rights and freedoms. The scriptures of democracy, written in the indomitable spirit of justice, demand our unwavering faith, our steadfast dedication, and our tireless pursuit of a system where integrity prevails and cronyism is but a distant memory. Let us unite under the banner of democracy, with hearts aflame and minds unyielding, as we forge a future where the divine decree of democracy reigns supreme, banishing cronyism to the annals of history.

#cronyism #Scripture #Faith #Democracy

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fishmongeringstudies · 3 years

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eighteen ways to forgive yourself and one reason to try

anyone who had the happy misfortune of speaking to me in the last three months has probably, at some point, been treated to my now-established signature monologue about how my skin is clear, my crops are thriving, and the body living in my closet finally rotted away and was picked apart and carried off by ants. many facets of my life in the spring contributed to this impression. i was eating edible things. i was actively meeting people. i was waking up at the crackass of dawn (a/n: seven a.m.) and going for morning runs and drinking strawberry smoothies which cost even more than the disappointingly expensive boost smoothies of my early childhood. most of these things are, i understand, normal. i am under the impression that the average human being often meets other human beings at places with food and spends significant lengths of time conversing with them. but i am not like the other girls. i am not a girl. i am your coffee machine.

the problem with those freaky little before-and-after narratives that started as a trend on instagram and have since been adopted into the way we narrate our lives as a whole is that for the narrative to work, the before and after have to be really, really far away from each other. in order to create this distance, influencers have historically attacked the earth with shovels, construction vehicles, and shaving razors. but apart from the cost of renting a supersized claw machine and subsequently hiring someone to sit in it, one must also ask the question: why are you digging to begin with?

all of which is to say that i'm bored. i'm bored of being a freaky little human being. i no longer care if i go for weeks at a time without talking to anyone, and i fully intend to go for weeks at a time without talking to anyone because priorities shift, and last thursday (arbitrary) a bunch of mine tripped off the edge of the table and fell into the gutter and died. luckily we have a new gutter now and new earth around it, new flowers, new trees. terraforming in animal crossing is a privilege one unlocks after you trick k.k. slider into visiting your island. i have yet to unlock that achievement. for the time being, i am terraforming my soul.

what are this summer's priorities? priority one: not die from heatstroke (hard). priority two: write (less hard). you see this? there are no humans in this floor layout. i am trying to become god.

and that's what was wrong with spring. i thought spring was a step in the right direction, a step into the great unknown of self-care and personal improvement and half-an-hour-long white yoga mom meditation videos with ad breaks every three minutes. but it wasn't any of those things. i just got up one day and started walking in the other direction. around the same stupid houseplant. i have spent my whole life walking around this stupid houseplant.

metaphor: you spend your whole life walking around a houseplant. sometimes you see different parts of it and you think: wow, these are some cool leaves. other times you see wall and wall and wall and you think: wow, this is a wall. what i am trying to say is that life is both the cool leaves and the wall. life is many other things, too, like electric chainsaws and the niagara falls and half-baked cinnamon rolls which make you question the sanctity of life and specifically yours. life is not one photograph taken in front of marina bay sands in which your ass looks delicious and your skin is especially pink. life is falling out of the frame while trying to make your elbow look sexier than it's ever been before and tumbling down the stairs. life is breaking your leg.

in my happy spring monologue i told everyone i was miserable before i got to america, but things had changed and i was better now and would never live like that ever again. i was wrong. i didn't get better and i haven't gotten worse since spring left. i haven't gone anywhere. i'm still here with my fucked-up spine and my fucked-up sense of humor. a recent discovery: sometimes i want to spend every waking hour of my life in the presence of other people and happiness is the small conversations you have while waiting in line in the dining hall and every breath taken in the presence of another is a gift. other times i want to hole myself up in my room and hammer away at a google document until my fingernails fall off for ten weeks. sometimes i am lonely. other times i want to be alone.

before and after. yes and no. lies! social media is full of lies! i know this because i use social media. believe me. trust nothing you read on the internet.

today i wrote some, listened to podcasts some, and spent an ungodly amount of time on one of the same four puzzles i've been putting together and taking apart all summer. i didn't have a particularly enlightening conversation with anyone. fuck, i barely spoke to anyone at all. when i got bored of my puzzle i watched people wade through the sticky wet afternoon from my third-floor window. later on in the evening, two people met each other on the path leading up to my dorm. one of them took out their airpods and slipped them into their pocket, then held up their hand and waved. 'hi,' he probably said. his friend waved back. they paused for half a second to talk, two figures painted gold by a saccharine yellow sun, then gently parted ways.

life is beautiful. but life is beautiful no matter how you choose to live it. there is no way to optimize the human experience because humans have too many bones to keep track of. i am convinced some of mine go missing in the night and return at the crack of dawn (a/n: seven a.m.) before i wake, slipping into my open, snoring mouth and settling themselves back in their sockets. i am convinced that i have done nothing wrong.

spring was nice. i might have made something flower. i might have mowed one or two bodies down with a lawnmower. but this isn't singapore, this is america, and when you live in america, absurd as it may seem, the seasons actually change. spring died; i watched it happen. i was standing there when it took its last breath and the last of my people-loving peace vanished down the drain with it. spring died, and now making plans makes me anxious again. i'm inclined to horrible bouts of groundless negativity and being outside for longer than two hours at a time makes my head hurt. but i haven't taken any steps backwards, and i haven't fallen off a cliff. spring happened; i was there. i haven't lost the triumphs of spontaneity and fearlessness and joy and the long conversations had with people i no longer speak to. after all, i'm still walking around the same stupid houseplant in the same stupid apartment where the blinds in the kitchen are broken and the floorboards on the left side of the hallway creak and the houseplant in front of the speaker is dead but we all pretend it isn't anyway. it doesn't matter if you're standing in the storage room or on the living room balcony, watching people crawl like ants across the street below. it's still the same damn apartment. you're still the same damn clown. and you're killing it, babe, you're the star of the show.

06.07.21

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cissypc · 3 years

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St. Pio of Pietrelcina - biography from Saint Daily App

This is biography of St. Pio of Pietrelcina

In one of the largest such ceremonies in history, Pope John Paul II canonized Padre Pio of Pietrelcina on June 16, 2002. It was the 45th canonization ceremony in Pope John Paul's pontificate. More than 300,000 people braved blistering heat as they filled Saint Peter's Square and nearby streets. They heard the Holy Father praise the new saint for his prayer and charity. "This is the most concrete synthesis of Padre Pio's teaching," said the pope. He also stressed Padre Pio's witness to the power of suffering. If accepted with love, the Holy Father stressed, such suffering can lead to "a privileged path of sanctity."

Born Francesco Forgione, Padre Pio grew up in a family of farmers in southern Italy. Twice (1898-1903 and 1910-17) his father worked in Jamaica, New York, to provide the family income.

At the age of 15, Francesco joined the Capuchins and took the name of Pio. He was ordained in 1910 and was drafted during World War I. After he was discovered to have tuberculosis, he was discharged. In 1917 he was assigned to the friary in San Giovanni Rotondo, 75 miles from the city of Bari on the Adriatic.

On September 20, 1918, as he was making his thanksgiving after Mass, Padre Pio had a vision of Jesus. When the vision ended, he had the stigmata in his hands, feet and side.

Life became more complicated after that. Medical doctors, Church authorities and curiosity seekers came to see Padre Pio. In 1924 and again in 1931, the authenticity of the stigmata was questioned; Padre Pio was not permitted to celebrate Mass publicly or to hear confessions. He did not complain of these decisions, which were soon reversed. However, he wrote no letters after 1924. His only other writing, a pamphlet on the agony of Jesus, was done before 1924.

Padre Pio saw Jesus in all the sick and suffering. At his urging, a fine hospital was built on nearby Mount Gargano. The idea arose in 1940; a committee began to collect money. Ground was broken in 1946. Building the hospital was a technical wonder because of the difficulty of getting water there and of hauling up the building supplies. This "House for the Alleviation of Suffering" has 350 beds.

App Name : Saint Daily

Link: https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.maruapp.saintdaily&hl=en

#catholic #jesus #saintpadrepio

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englass · 4 years

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Shadows Before Dawn

Pairing(s): Joseph Seed & The Deputy

Warning(s): Grief

Word Count: 1,149

A/N(s): AAAHHHHH, IT’S FINALLY HERE!!! THE FANZINE IS FINALLY HERE!!! 🎉😆🎉 Massive shoutout to @unclefungusthegoat for not only organising all of this, but for allowing me to be a part of it! ❤️ Ngl I was super anxious about signing up to this, to the point that I almost didn’t. If it wasn’t for the encouraging words of my darling @seedlingsinner and the sweet reassurance from @unclefungusthegoat I may have let my insecurities get the better of me; but I’m so glad I didn’t ❤️ It was an absolute honour to be able to work on this and an even bigger privilege to be able to work alongside my amazingly talented partner @deputy-rice-pudding, I couldn’t have done it without you hun!!! ❤️ Now, enough sentimentality. Here’s my entry (and a link) into the Far Cry Fanzine 2020, Tales From The Bunker!!!

– – –

The bunker is an awfully quiet place. A concrete prison where remnants of the past can roam with a newfound vigour; memories brought to life in waking dreams and in the shadows of flickering lights. Free to wander without preamble or disruption as they are glimpsed only by those that remembered them. Their silent reenactments a curse to the guilt-ridden, their unspoken words a jeering echo; the cold halls that they perform in becoming a haven for the dangerous and consuming thoughts that come to heel at their sides like loyal hounds. A breeding ground for the demons that plague one’s own mind with accusing verdicts and anarchist vices.

Everyday a new struggle as ‘what ifs’ and paths untraveled are considered and agonised over, battled with by a wavering resolve and a shaking faith; old wounds perpetually bleeding from the only two living occupants within this stoney tomb, still standing on seperate fronts despite the shared banner that now looms hauntingly over them. If only the shadows of abandoned comrades and lost family did not torment them so.

Joseph knew that this would be tough. Knew that the coming years following the Collapse would be a challenging test. Not only for himself, but for his brothers as well; and for the many that had believed and followed them as loyally as they did. Giving their lives for the protection of their new family, for the sanctity of the Project, and for the future that it had promised them. That he had promised them. Regretfully though, Joseph no longer knew if there was anyone left to believe in that promise anymore; the world above and its occupants all laid to waste in the wake of the great Collapse.

At any rate, his prideful companion certainly did not believe.

The Deputy had been a trying obstacle during the last few months of the Project’s preparations. A constant force of opposition to all they sought to achieve; a catalyst to spark the flame of rebellion, and ignite this Holy War between them all. Joseph had hoped to be able to tame that fire of theirs. To suppress that wrath that burnt like a blazing hellfire within their eyes. To lead them onto a different path, astray from the destruction they would bring and the lives they would take with it. He had glimpsed so many possibilities: he had seen them beside him, seen them as a figurehead within his family. He had seen the good they could do, the hope they could inspire in his people and salvation they could bring to his brothers. He knew the Deputy could save them.

Yet, those visions never came to pass.

Not one day goes by without Joseph thinking of his family. Wondering, under the judgement of God and the scrutiny of silence, how things could have been different. Wondering, under the hungry eyes of his own guilt, if he could have done more to save them. Everyday he replays the news of their fates, remembers the eulogies he did for them, and the nights spent weeping and praying that they did not suffer. Mourning their loss and the final goodbyes that he never got to say to them, their bodies never recovered; and he regrets that everyday. He hates the Deputy for that everyday.

It took him over a decade to find his brothers again, years of fruitless searching and constant heartbreak, and within the course of a few weeks he had lost them all over again. They had been taken from him all over again. All he has left of his brothers now, of John and Jacob, are photographs. Mere snapshots that told you nothing of who they were, of the horrors and hardships that they had endured throughout their lonely lives. Impersonal and tainted by the intentions of the Resistance, marked red by the target that those misguided sinners had drawn upon them. Yet, those photographs are all he has left.

Joseph is alone all over again; the Deputy a mere ghost that walks the halls with tired, bitter glares. Slinking away like a shadow confronted by the dawn the moment Joseph enters the room. A reluctant and wholly unwilling companion that no doubt curses his every breath, just as surely as they curse the day they met him. A sentiment that is occasionally reciprocated.

Which is why it was so surprising to the older man when, in a moment of weakness (his brothers’ photos clutched tight in his hands as silently suffering tears slide down his cheeks and blur his vision), the Deputy wordlessly sits beside him. He startles at their appearance, ever quiet and discreet, as he looks at them. Straightening himself as a weak, but no less caring, smile comes to his face. A slight tremor in his voice as he poses them a small question of delicate concern -- “Is everything okay, my child?” -- forever playing the loving role of ‘Father’; despite the pain that the title now carries.

The Deputy glances at him, shifting uneasily under his curious stare. Fingers picking and rubbing at the thin blanket beneath them, before they look away. An unusual hesitance in their eyes that Joseph is not used to seeing colouring their typically defiant eyes. Now more than ever though they just look exhausted, unsure and strangely distant; bottom lip taken lightly between their teeth, as they appear to debate something that the preacher is not privy to. He lets the silence hang for a moment, old memories and the regrets that follow them silent as Joseph waits for his reluctant child to finally open up to him. Trying not to hope that this is the time that he has been waiting for, the time when they finally start to accept–

He blinks, clear blue eyes widening as he looks to the hand that has cautiously fallen upon his shoulder. Arm around his back, coaxing with the smallest amount of pressure, as they gently lean towards him. Their other arm coming to wrap around him as a fractured breath slips from them, the sound shattering the stilted silence. Before he truly realises it Joseph too is leaning into them. Willingingly accepting this small, and potentially fleeting act of compassion.

He thinks he hears them murmur something, a condolence or apology he knows not, but still Joseph holds the sentiment close. Grips it just as tightly as the photographs of his deceased brothers; the Deputy’s actions alone a much desired recompense.

Truly, it is a step in the right direction, he thinks. A sign of a silent promise made, and the will of God at play. A reassurance that Joseph will get through this; that they both will get through this. He is the Father after all, and they are his child. They are a family now, in this till the end, and together they will surely live to see that promised dawn.

#aahhh #feels so strange now that it’s out there #but #either way #i hope people enjoy it!#it was fun to work on #definitely kept me busy while i was working on it haha #far cry fanzine 2020 #my creepy preacher friend #joseph seed #fc5 #far cry 5 #my writing #fanfiction #fanfic

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shaheemasblog · 3 years

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// Not every girl wanted to be a princess //

I'm twenty years old, and I'm still unknown to myself, yet surviving just because I hope I can catch my dreams . When I turn up the previous pages of my life, it looks so dull and dark , all these twenty chapters I just finished writing has no emotion and no meaning, seemingly those who are going to read this will surely dumb me somewhere midst the garbage . And I don't want to end up myself in a nowhere corner of this Earth . I wanna live my life like I want. I'm hopefull.

But I can't center my thoughts at a point and stand stable because something shatters my Faith. The only realization that I've is that I wasted hundreds of pages and few ink bottles scribbling the lifeless part of my story. What have I done for myself or for the world, nothing absolutely nothing. I've not discovered my potential yet, I'm not aware of my weaknesses still, I don't know what is my passion. And what was I doing for the last two decades of my life, I feel devoured by my own fear. But I'm struggling to kindle that inner fire in me and trying hard to make myself confidant and determined that I no more oblige to the opinions of people around me.

I'm talking to you, yes!!! You who read this, have you felt the same pain, or is it just my insane speculations. I've consented everything my parents asked, I stood up saying answers in the class just because my mother feels happy to hear that I'm a smart student, I've said no to childish fantacies because I heard my parents criticizing another girl like me, I told I'm OK with what I've because I know if I ask for more they would tell me to be satisfied with what I have. I've moulded myself as an ıntrovert and kept silent when everyone went on talking and exploring , when I asked for something I really wanted to do they told you can't because I'm a little girl, and so I've crumpled all my desires and dreams. Is all this my real limitations or something that evolved around me as I was growing. I don't know.

If every human on Earth is send for a purpose, which we call our life then why do you all raise your voice, against a girl's dreams . Ain't she have the right to make her life a beautiful story. If not, then never educate her because it's not easy to convince her that she don't having the privilege to dream a life of her own. It's hard to live under somones dictation for the entire life. I'm a girl, a matured girl, I know what all is going around me, how the world is and what is happening. And I've my own opinions and ideas, my dreams and desires, please let me colour them beautifully.

If a girl is born, there begins her family's bothering for everything and caring for nothing. I really mean it. We're always taught to be a good girl because one day we'll be someone's wife, or daughter-in-law or mother, cook, maid, electrician, plumber, teacher, and all in all of the house looking after everybody's health and wellness. This is a girl's life, she is educated as per her parent's dreams, and sent to another corner of the world even though near her with that sparkling red bangles shimmering over the red mehndi on her pale hands, and the burden of the red vermilion condemning her to accept the sanctity of marriage at just a young age when her dreams and desires were firing bright, but finally she have to live a life where someone lights the path of an unknown road.

Let all girls be their own kind beautiful and their own masters of life, because Not every girl wanted to be a princess. Yes, she is the strongest of you've ever seen, let her live a life like she wanted. Don't judge the way she looks, don't suppress her personality, don't torture her security, don't stare at her freedom. She is someone like you, atleast a human.

// Every girl is a dream //

#poets on tumblr #writing #writers on tumblr #artists on tumblr #short story #reader insert

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sanders1665 · 3 years

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I had wondered too deep into the forest, saw an eagle that had lost its wings, with an old Lady who's torch flame had died, at the footsteps to the church of high strangeness, where a new god was being worshipped, the spirit of Animus had found itself a new bride. The bark of the trees were rotting with green fungi, it seemed the essence of the river had been poisoned, the nature of the Mother was also tainted, and her children cried her name in vain, there were many birds squawking, and my journey was labored by heavy breathing. High above, the sun gave no warmth, the giver of life went unnoticed, as its rays usually led my way, and frosty glares left me feeling colder, my sense of purpose seemed confused, and angry voices caused my equilibrium to bruise. Poked, prodded and pushed by ancient tree limbs, becoming dizzy with their insistence, but resolute against their determined authority, I resisted the obligation to bow in their honor, seeking a path that was betwixt and between, to be my own master and servant, not a serf to a king or a queen. Words flew about the forest with accusatory sound, viscous, condemning and filled with hatred, looking for a target and easy prey, hitting the naive mark without a shield for thinking, screaming on my right and screaming on my left, I could see their minds were blindly possessed. I smelled the fragrance of two flowers, but they had a hundred different aroma's, and I became confused with their identity, for their union had lost its purest sanctity, natures original creation had been adulterated, and absolute truth had deteriorated. Within the forest I espied poachers, skulking, scheming and scurrying, helping themselves to the fruits of the trees, and the hard earned labor of the farmers, it seemed the wicked unfairly do profit, while digging deep into an unsuspecting pocket. There were barren fields with straw men walking, waving their arms and seeking attention, they had wandered off the path of focus, and performed magic tricks with sleight of hand, while some were being set on fire, and their ashes would sink into the quagmire. Down by the river, women had cleaned the hunters clothes, some accepted their place by the river, and others had expressed a vociferous desire to go hunting, while some found their own unique craft, with applause and respect from the villagers, and some sailed into new frontier rivers. Within the forest, a village stood for the high and low, resentful cries could be heard from the needy, as gluttonous eyes were met with caution, and the shouts of the egalitarian were getting louder, pitchforks were held aloft and torches were being lit, the lazy and selfish were warring against the hard working and committed. There was a standoff in the main thoroughfare, the air was filled with shouting and fists held high, banners were carried with personal truths on them, one side shouted that your words hurt are feelings, and the other side shouted that your words kill our feelings, as stern looking men were looking to maintain the peace. The village market had many stalls, selling their cultural wares to the unsuspecting buyer, the vendors proclaimed they had what was best for you, if they were politely turned down, they screamed with rage, calling you ignorant and bigoted, I smiled graciously and said no in my head. There was a members only club in the village, and old men of tradition enjoyed their privileged lifestyle, but the village fathers were looked upon with distaste, envious eyes were looking to dismantle the club, imagined enemies were sat at every table, but the real fathers were culture and society. Poisoned words were carried by the breeze, and breathed in by the gullible dwellers of the forest, cherished and defended with their lives, for baby birds to be carried by their enchantment, although my shield of truth offered much protection, the thorny nettles of lies would sometimes taint my complexion. So many had high horses charging at windmills, and many had battered armor and broken lances, as thin filtered visors had restricted

their panorama, deep in the forest could cause you much trauma, there is beauty in the scenery, but some perspectives have an ugly point of view, tainting the colors of nature in deep shades of blue.

#poem #my poem #poetry #free verse #poets on tumblr #poetscommunity #spilled ink #spilled words #spilled thoughts #people #society/community #politics

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mistress-morgan4 · 3 years

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30[F4M] #NC High Holy Hedonist Mother Goddess Seeks Loyal Weekly Servant For Long Term Worship Arrangement

I’ve heard your prayers my dearest. Your heart cried out to me when you caught a glimpse of the full moon. You wished for a world you’ve only dreamed about; you wished to be taken in hand, firm and warm and lovingly, examined and judged and found - whether you are found wanting, pathetic mortal that you are, or found wanted and cherished by the Great Mother Goddess - you ache to be found.

I’m here, darling. I’ve found you and I’m holding my hand open to offer you a safe haven. You don’t always feel like you fit into the world-at-large; it’s all so disposable and cheap and fast. You crave something in which to lose yourself every day, yearn to find a world far more rich and sensual than any glowing blue screen. You want to be loved but after so many failed relationships you’re not really sure what that would look like. When you let yourself wonder what it would be like - to be loved the way you deeply need but have never let yourself express - those fantasies go to dark humid places, crevices and corners you’re quite sure no one wants to look.

But hark! Beloved, I want to look deep into the hardest places and shine the light of my total acceptance upon you. I want to fill the back of your mind with the sounds and tastes and memories of your time spent in worship. I want you to always be aware and hungry for your next chance to humble yourself before me.

There are many important rules to abide by in order to serve me (but let’s be honest, you’re into that kind of thing.)

All messages of praise and adoration are welcome but like most divine beings I reserve the right to ignore your adulation.

You must read to the end of this post and respond appropriately to be considered.

You will be my servant and plaything to use, command and cherish. You will weep with joy at the honor of kneeling and worshipping my Holy Pussy, my Blessed Bush, the Great Mother writhing in orgasm as she gives birth to the world. I will guide you to reaching new heights of pleasure and I will lovingly, carefully, and thoroughly dismantle your heart, prying you open to see what makes you tick. While we are together, I will own you inside and out. Your submission will be emotional, mental, and physical; your orgasm, when I force you to look me in the eyes and command you to come, will be earth-shattering.

though I will not be constantly available to you. When you have me, you will have all of me, and I will overwhelm you with the force of my presence brought to bear on your pathetic mortal soul.

You must be comfortable engaging in extensive written and verbal negotiations and descriptions of how and why I will use and dominate you prior to meeting. We will cover your kinks, desires, shames, needs, fantasies and limits in great detail as well as my expectations and demands. This is to ensure we are a cohesive fit. I will not waste my time or yours unless we are able to thoroughly please each other, which requires excellent communication. I will not ghost you if I decide we are not compatible - I will clearly and directly explain my decision.

You will never forget that I am the Sacred, you are the Profane. Part of your submission to me requires your enthusiastic performance of chores including and not limited to house cleaning, photo assignments, errands, and other tasks. The experience I am offering is a time investment and my time and attention are extremely valuable.

Every moment you are mine will be intense and meaningful whether you are naked but for a lacy apron and rubber gloves scrubbing my toilet or meticulously sucking my toes while I sip a crisp pinot gris and tell you everything I love and hate about you or wearing a chastity cage while you take my packages to the post office. Every moment you are mine will be a moment basking in the almost-painful radiance of my scrutiny and judgement; those memories will carry you, glowing from the inside out, through the rest of your pathetic mundane life. Your time with me will be the only time you feel fully alive and you will crave it endlessly.

The love of a Goddess is a fearsome and and towering presence and I expect you to cower before me in awe. I have no strong preferences for your appearance; chemistry is chemistry and all are beautiful and stained by mortality in my eyes. In addition to your mundane services I will require your participation in the following holy activities.

Worshipping, massaging and grooming the Heavenly Cunt, the Blessed Feet, and the Holy Flesh.

Pegging. I expect to examine and test the sanctity of your hole and watch you writhe and scream and moan and thank me as you come on my merciful and generous cock. If you are new to pegging we will work up to this.

Orgasm denial. When and If you come it will be at my whim. While I have focused on the warmth of my blessings, as that is my ultimate nature, I can be capricious and cruel to serve the Higher Purpose. (Myself.)

Cock denial. However cherished you are for the whole of your being you are undeniably profane and The neither the Sacred Pussy nor the Sacred Ass will not be violated by your mortal worm.

That said, with time and effort you may be rewarded certain privileges such as cumming on my feet or breasts. You are my acolyte in pleasure, but you will learn that pleasure does not come just with cum.

Total obedience. Your role and my expectations will be discussed in detail in advance and within your time of worship I will expect your total obedience to my wishes. You will have a safeword and will practice using it.

Offerings and gifts. The gifts and offerings you make to me must come wholly from your heart to honor my Divinity and beg for my mercy when I push you to the edge. Regular cum tributes, especially when we are in the negotiations phase, will be expected. As a long term worshipper you will shower me with priceless tokens of affection and gratitude offerings in the form of handwritten notes, prayers, locks of hair, art through which I will guide and inspire you, et cetera.

Many, many more kinks I’m thrilled to describe in even more painstaking detail. However: I am not interested in pure masochism. I am a Hedonist and view all physical and mental suffering as paths to the greatest and most Transcendent pleasure. You should be interested in pain as one of many flavors of control I will wield over you but not the primary method; While I will shower you in the light and love of my Brilliant Presence you should also expect that I will humiliate you for the sake of my entertainment. I want to watch your little cock squirm in embarrassment and glee as I finger your pathetic wet slut hole. I will laugh at your dribbling mortal orgasms, when I allow your dribbling mortal orgasms, and pity that you’ll never come as hard as I do. (But I’ll still try to help you come as hard as I do, it’s quite fantastic.)

- This will be a cerebral, spiritual, magical experience for both of us with the goal of genuinely improving our lives. We will not be entangled outside of this arrangement; we will share the freedom to pursue other entangements provided we adhere to strict safety and testing rules. Again, your worthless little cock will not be permitted the Divine Cunt. In all play we will be safe, sane, and consensual foremost.

Are you still reading? I’m so proud of you darling, you’re an excellent candidate already. This is the kind of steadfast devotion and loyalty I demand from you. My every word is a Divine gift and blessing, a honeyed treat placed on your tongue, and you are helpless to stop devouring me. You are so hungry. You are so thirsty. You are willing to try so, so hard, and give so, so much, and at last I have arrived to save you from your aimless, empty life.

Is your cock hard and straining yet? I hope so darling. I do want to find you - I think we can offer each other so much.

Please continue.

You must format your application as follows. Incorrectly formatted submissions will not be considered.

Message Title: As you wish

Your name

Your preferred title(s) - choose all that apply: Slave, servant, worm, pig, little boy, bitch, slut, cunt, hole, darling, sweetness, honeybear, baby, etc

Or other: What shall I call you?

Describe first time you will serve me. For the sake of your fantasy, I am a red-headed green-eyed BBW. You will receive pictures - lots of them - when I deem you worthy.

What are your hard limits?

Have you ever experienced anxiety or fear during a BDSM scene or during other sexual activities?

What kind of aftercare do you need? (Snuggling, a shower, snacks?)

What is your safeword or do you prefer red/yellow/green?

Why should I choose you, little worm? What can you offer me?

#bd/sm community

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darlinggod · 4 years

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Another story about a feral woman i guess

The girl doesn’t believe in the ghost that haunts the clearing in the forest.

She does not hesitate when she pulls on her cloak in the dead of the night. She makes the short trek to the one place in the world that she knows she will be alone. Despite what everyone thinks, there are no ghosts here. It’s just her and the sky above. The insects are quiet. Sometimes, when she’s fanciful, she thinks they cease to exist for the short while she is there. She finds it endlessly amusing to imagine that they choose to do so out of respect for the sheer force of her desire to be left alone. Contrary to what the people in the village would think of someone like her, she isn’t lonely. There’s a certain stillness that comes with choosing to have no one. She could gobble up the feeling for breakfast and go back for seconds. Loneliness was a pleasure and a privilege and if she’s the only one who sees it, well, she likes the idea of being alone in the knowledge.

So, yes, if she were fanciful, she’d believe that she could affect the very fabric of the universe and erase everything and everyone that isn’t her. But she’s rarely fanciful. Things are alive until they die. It goes from flesh to bones to dust to compost. It’s a grim thought. She revels a little in the terribleness of it. No voice is ever given to them, of course. She is barely allowed to think in the first place.

But when she’s in the clearing, alone, she doesn’t dwell on the fact that life has no meaning and that, even then, she has been made to keep quiet. When she is in the clearing, she shuts her eyes and tilts her head up towards the sky. There’s nothing hindering the moonlight that touches her skin. On those nights, she doesn’t have to be fanciful. She knows the moon is just for her.

She heads into the village the next day. Well, she’s heading through the village to get to the clearing, at any rate. Her visits have grown in both frequency and duration. Sometimes, she feels like she never leaves. As she eyes the throng of people out and about, as she takes in their awfulness, as she remembers the sanctity of her clearing, she forgives herself for the liberties she takes.

The people, the noise, the smells, they cause her such grief, but she charges on. The short trek to her clearing feels insurmountable, times like these. The girl brushes past two older women but slows her pace when she realises what they’re talking about. She ducks into a shadowy corner where she’s mostly obscured and pretends to busy herself with the strings of her cloak, so that she’d have something to do with her hands.

“They saw it again,” the lady with the wideset eyes says, “The ghost in the woods; draped in shadows, eating everything in its path.”

The lady with a crooked nose gasps and clutches at her chest in a motion that is so comically overdramatic, the girl wonders if they are putting on a show for her benefit. The thought sets her heart racing and makes her slink deeper into the shadows.

“How did they make it out?” She pauses. “They did make it out, didn’t they?”

The other woman clicks her tongue. “Of course, they did. How else would I know about it?”

She leans in closer, crooked nose quivering in anticipation. “So, how did they escape?”

“They stayed quiet. The demon won’t come near you if you stay quiet.”

The two ladies let the words hang there for a while. Despite everything, despite the fact that she does not believe them, despite her hating these women, she finds herself leaning in, desperate beyond comprehension to hear what they have to say.

“They are fools,” Crooked Nose decides, “they know what is out there, and yet they venture deeper than they should.”

Wideset Eyes shakes her head, looking solemn. “We shouldn’t tempt fate so. If they keep ruining the peace of the clearing, they will get what is coming to them.”

She cannot help but agree. She’d seen people let folklore and superstition keep them from venturing deeper more times than she can count. This is the first time it is working in her favour.

She has to wonder, though, where those people who had ventured too far were the night before. She didn’t hear a peep from anyone or anything while she was out there. She concludes that they were either much later or much earlier than her. Either way, the clearing was hers. It did not belong to some mythical apparition or to over-curious danger-seekers. It belonged to her. Just ask the moon and the insects that cease to exist when she is near.

There is nothing else keeping her in this town. These people with their flat minds, and incessant gossip, and stupid beliefs. They are nothing. Maybe they could be more, if they allowed themselves. Maybe they could be more if they were allowed. The girl decides that she is not going to sit around and wait for permission.

She’s at the clearing as she was the day before, and as she would be the next day. It is silent as it was the day before, and as it would be the next day. Until it isn’t. She hears them before she sees them. It’s a laugh— not quite cruel, but she is unable to perceive it as anything kind. In her mind, the sound is the equivalent to a slap on the face. She flinches accordingly.

They get louder, impossibly louder, before stopping completely when she finally appears in their line of sight. Maybe they weren’t expecting her, just as she wasn’t expecting them. Well, it hardly matters. She might be ridiculous, but the clearing is hers and her rule over it is iron-clad and merciless. If they did not know before, they will know it now.

She squares her shoulder and looks at them properly. They are two boys. Almost men. If she’d have to guess their age, she’d think they were the same as hers. In any other light, they would be beautiful. In the light filtering out from between the leaves, they look unyielding and villainous. She doesn’t know if they mean her harm. She just knows that a lot of people have. She might be brave and stubborn and selfish, but she is not stupid. A lot of bad things have happened to girls in the company of men. Now they were alone. And as promised, the insects have left her be.

If she were anyone else, if she were anywhere else, she would be terrified. But she is queen and possessor of this small piece of the universe and she would not yield.

In her mind, she unhinges her jaw and swallows them whole. In her mind, they go down without screaming. In her mind, she is justified.

She shuts her eyes. They exist. She exists. They existed. She exists.

She exists.

When she opens her eyes, the boys are gone. If she’s fanciful, she would feel like she had nothing to do with it. The boys saw how much this meant to her and left her alone. If she’s feeling fanciful, there is good in the world, even though she is far from it. Today she feels like being fanciful.

Her heart is a muscle, stiff from disuse. Her mind is an endless void filled with ideas and no one to tell it to. She offers both to the clearing and that’s all she is.

She pulls her cloak— the color of night itself— tighter around her and tilts her head up to the moon, feeling more sated than she has in months.

The girl doesn’t believe in the ghost that haunts the clearing in the woods; she is barely there to begin with.

#writing #prose #writers on tumblr

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yanara126-writing · 4 years

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A Death in Your Name - Emblyn ix Ensios (1/5)

How can one mortal soul be so important to a god?

You misunderstand. I'm not Galawain or Magran, I'm not used to people dying for me.

And yet they do. Some willingly, some not.

Iovara's sister, inquisitor and high priestess of Eothas', has made a mistake, her way of righting it impacts more things than she's expected. Perhaps Iovara has more in common with a certain god than she likes and perhaps Eothas should rethink his actions, or lack thereof, if he doesn't like the consequences.

Read here or on Ao3

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

The apostate was dead. The trial had ended and she had been sentenced to death and an eternity in Breith Eaman, unless she begged for forgiveness from the gods. There was no doubt in Emblyn’s mind that Iovara wouldn’t. Her sister had always been the more headstrong one. Emblyn had only ever followed, at first Iovara and later master Thaos. Even now she didn’t dare defy him.

This time she followed a path she knew well. She’d taken it thousands of times before, since she joined the order and then found her proper place. A place she’d never doubted, even when everything else had fallen apart.

Her boots clacked on the marble floor as she made her way through the familiar hallways. The large windows let the bright afternoon light in to illuminate the walls, but for once she paid it no mind.

When she entered the grand sanctuary, she wasn’t alone. Two young acolytes tended to the room, cleaning up any dirt still left from the last mass. When they noticed her, they bowed in greeting, eagerly asking her orders. Emblyn sent them away with a kind word and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Slower than before she stepped through the rows of well-polished, wooden benches towards the lavish altar. She brushed over the wood with her gloved hands, feeling melancholy set in. Her fingers quickly flinched away, as if they’d been burnt. Tucking her hands into her sleeves she turned away and moved swiftly onwards.

At the alter she took off her fine leather gloves and put them down. It would’ve been rude to pay her respects to the Light of Life with anything less than her own hands.

The candles were already burning, as they always were. Since her ascension to high priestess and inquisitor she’d made sure that there were always some alight, and fresh ones were brought in as soon as the previous were too burnt down. Some of these candles she’d made herself. It was a task far beneath her station, but the simplicity of it helped ground her on bad days.

With a flick of her finger she ignited an incense stick and gently put it into the brass bowl. The red gleam of the stick caught her eye and she couldn’t help but watch it for a while. As simple as it was, it was an undeniable proof of her dedication. Her lips twitched upwards for a short moment. Perhaps she had a little bit of her sister in her after all. The brief moment of levity gave way to solemn silence again.

The hard floor pressed against her knees as Emblyn knelt before the altar. Not directly in front of it, that was the spot for the priest, but further back where the devotees would receive their blessing. Her light robes fell gently over her legs, providing the appropriate modesty, but refusing her the comfort of a layer of fabric between the stone and her skin. Good.

Emblyn folded her hands and stared at the spot of light in front of her. The ceiling was designed to allow a beam of light to fall through and illuminate the place before the altar, where the priest would preach to the people. How often had she stood there herself? How often had she promised the desperate redemption and forgiveness if they just asked for it? How often had she stood there after mass and thanked Eothas for the chance He’d given her?

Her hands started trembling and soon she was shaking all over. She may have been forgiven last time, but there was no redemption after her most recent crime. She’d done what she’d thought... no, what Thaos had thought necessary. Emblyn didn’t know if he’d been right, and she didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter in the end. No end goal could possibly justify her treason.

There, in the first place she’d ever truly found peace, the walls broke down. The shaking became sobbing and she pressed her folded hands over mouth, desperately trying to keep the sound of her violent sobs from filling these holy halls, even as fat tears rolled down her face.

She’d led her only sister not only to death, but eternal damnation. She hadn’t stopped Iovara when she’d left the order. She’d lied straight to Iovara’s face, guided her to Ossionus and right to her doom.

Hot tears trailed down her cheeks as Emblyn let all the atrocities she’d committed pass through her mind. Her chest hurt from her heaving sobs, but she deserved the pain. It was nothing in comparison to what she’d put Iovara through. She should have spoken up at the trial at the very latest. If not as a sister, then as the high priestess of Eothas. What a sham she was to that title.

When her wailing became too loud, Emblyn bit on her finger until she tasted iron. Red blood dropped from her teeth and stained her robes.

Now it was too late. Even if she somehow found the courage to face her sister’s final resting place, Thaos had forbidden her to go down again. He’d sent her away to find solace in her home town. As if Creitum would hold anything but hate and despair for her now, and rightly so. No, the only thing that could possibly still give her hope now, was the breaking of a new dawn.

Hesitantly Emblyn lifter her head to stare at the glittering beam of light before her. She imagined the familiar warm voice filling her head with soft promises of brighter days. Thaos thought she was upset about his revelation. She had been in the beginning, yet with time had come the realization that it didn’t really matter. Her god was still real, if anything the fact that kith had had the power to make him just proved that He was right. Every new dawn, every new spring time would be better than the last.

No, faith was no issue for Emblyn. Which was the reason she wouldn’t ask for Eothas’ forgiveness this time. Her actions were beyond redemption. She wouldn’t besmirch His sanctity by begging for His mercy and compassion when she knew she didn’t deserve it.

Slowly she took her hand from her mouth, giving the damage a short, dispassionate look, before carefully removing her outer cloak. Her tunic she would leave on, to provide at least a modicum of modesty, but the cloak was a symbol of a station she no longer deserved. It didn’t belong to her anymore, and there was no need to dirty it, when her successor would need it.

Gently Emblyn folded the cloak and put it in it’s proper place, under the light, where soon the new high priest would stand. She hoped they would appreciate the duties and privileges that came with the title. Not like her, who had grossly neglected her duty when she had been needed the most.

Tears welled up in Emblyn’s eyes again. She had been so proud at being handed the sacred tokens, had sworn her oath with confidence and had done her job with passion. The position of inquisitor had been a burden by comparison. She hadn’t wanted to prosecute people, but Thaos had convinced her that it was the right thing to do. After all, she would be delivering the worst of all people to redemption. It was mercy to cleanse them and give them a new chance on the wheel. Only that hadn’t been all. She had doubted, but had quashed those doubts with the assurance that her master had never stirred her wrong before. She still didn’t know how wrong she’d gone. Where was the cut to make? At the eternal imprisonments? The cleansing? Or was the whole inquisition a well-meant gesture taken too far? She wanted to believe in her mentor, believe that it was all right, but her world was breaking apart.

The truth wasn’t the issue, rather the fact that there was a truth at all, that it had been hidden by the very man she had trusted above any other mortal. That was what broke her. That, and the fate she had delivered her sister to at his behest, for nothing more than saying the truth. Emblyn didn’t agree with Iovara’s methods, nor with the conclusion her sister had apparently come to, but she had unravelled lies, Emblyn herself had been too blind to see. Iovara hadn’t deserved to be punished for shining a light into the darkness, no one had known to be there.

With her already bloodied hand, Emblyn pulled a dagger from it’s sheath at her hips, carelessly smearing blood on herself in the process. The tunic would soon be sullied anyway.

The dagger itself was simple, lacking the usual ornamentation of ritual weapons. No wonder, as it hadn’t been intended as such. It was a practical piece, made for self-defence, fashioned from high quality steel, and it had served Emblyn well over the years. She’d always kept it in good condition, both because of it’s sentimental value and because she’d learnt the hard way, that having a back up weapon was not optional in the less civilized corners of the world.

The polished steel glinted when she held it against the light. She felt almost sorry for misusing it like that, but it was only fitting it’d be this weapon, that would allow her to do penance one final time.

Emblyn held the handle in a tight grip, making her knuckles go white, and started her confession. Forcefully she grabbed a thick strand of her long, dark hair and sliced through it. She held the bundle of hair now in her fist towards the light and spoke with a shaking voice.

“I have brought shame over myself and neglected my sacred duty. I have disappointed the trust put in me.” The first handful of hair was thrown to the ground, spreading out over the floor. Her chest heaved with supressed sobs and she stared resentfully at the hair before angrily grabbing another bunch and slicing it off with vengeance.

“I have brought shadows to the dawn by spreading lies and untruths to people I was supposed to protect from them.” The next bundle landed on the ground, adding another layer of hair, another layer of shame.

“I have forsaken the people who needed me most and have denied them the saving light of dawn.” Her hand shook more with that cut, leaving an ugly, uneven edge behind. More than half of her hair was gone now, sheared off with only a finger’s breadth left. With a toss the hair in her hand joined the rest on the floor. A few of them were bloody, where she’d touched them with her injured finger.

Emblyn grabbed what remained of her once luscious hair, tugging so hard she could feel a few of them rip out. Trembling she chopped it all off, nicking her scalp in the process, bloodying both hair and cloths. Tears running down her face she couldn’t force out the words she wanted to say and just knelt there, dagger and hair clutched tightly in her lap. After a few seconds she remembered that she had to hurry, the sanctuary wouldn’t stay empty forever. Choking down her desperate sobs once again, Emblyn laid bare her most vile and contemptible crime.

“I have betrayed my own sister, my own flesh and blood, and have condemned her to an eternity in darkness and suffering.” She didn’t have the strength to throw the last of her locks, all energy had left her, leaving only despair behind. It took all her strength to just open her fist and the let hair tumble to the floor in front of her. Emblyn stared at the hair, spread out almost like a carpet all over the marble floor, feeling vaguely sorry for the acolyte who would have to clean it up. But the far more pressing feeling on her mind, was melancholy. Iovara’s hair had been just like hers, dark and silky, a pride they’d shared years ago. The missionaries of the order usually kept few possessions, simply out of practicality, but their hair had been the one material object the two sisters had allowed themselves to delight in.

Slowly Emblyn saw the dark locks on the floor morph into the burnt mess Iovara’s hair had been after the trial. Crusted with blood, sheared off in places and scorched in others, it hadn’t been recognizable anymore. Just like Iovara herself.

Emblyn hadn’t even been allowed to keep the body. She wouldn’t have made a big spectacle out of it, she’d just wanted to properly send off her sister in a quiet ceremony, even if she knew it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Instead Thaos had brought back Iovara’s head, or what was left of it after the fall, and had presented it to the public. As a cautionary tale, he’d said. Emblyn didn’t know what had happened to the rest of her.

But it didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t deserve the kindness anyway, just like Iovara hadn’t deserved her fate. Emblyn could only hope the blank slate of the wheel would be enough to earn her a chance at redemption. Her soul would belong to different person, and she herself would only be distant nightmare. Hopefully. Perhaps her soul was already too damaged by her own atrocities. But in that case she trusted in Gaun to weed out her soul from the cycle.

The dagger was no longer shining when she lifted it again. The edges were red with still drying blood, giving it an ugly rusty colour. Emblyn hoped someone would take care of it later, it would be a shame to let it rust.

Slowly and purposefully she placed the tip of the weapon against her upper chest, between two ribs. She made sure to have a good grip with both hands and steady aim, it wouldn’t do to botch this. She could still feel the tears on her cheeks, yet her breathing had slowed down to the point that her chest hardly moved anymore.

“I give up my life, so that those I wronged may find peace. I hand my soul over to You, to Your grace and mercy. Let my death be my penance, so that I may redeem myself in Your divine light, oh Eothas, Dawn of the World.”

After those words, Emblyn plunged the dagger into her chest with all the force she could muster. She knew she’d fail if she hesitated.

The pain was immediate and hit her with vengeance, but it came too late regardless. The blade had already sunken in to the hilt, scraping bones and piercing soft flesh. Blood was trickling out of the wound, blocked only by steel instead of flesh and skin.

Emblyn gasped, eyes wide, and suddenly the world was thrown out of focus around her as the agony overtook everything else. She hardly noticed when her surroundings tilted and her head hit the floor, as she fell. Palming the knife, she couldn’t bring herself to pull it out. Her strength was fading fast and the world was greying already, what would be the point in trying? Even the pain faded as everything became numb and muted. Somewhere in the distance she thought she could hear bells ringing, but wasn’t certain if that was real or just her wishful thinking, as she laid before death’s door.

The world turned black for Emblyn, leaving nothing behind but a vague, quickly fading sense of relief. The cold marble under her skin was gone, as was the burning agony in her chest. The last thing Emblyn felt before her soul was carefully pulled from her dying body, was a sudden flood of deep sadness, that didn’t feel quite like her own.

She was long gone when the giant double doors opened again and a young acolyte entered, confused at finding a dark room, the candles extinguished and even the windows darkened, though it was hardly sunset. She didn’t hear his scream at finding her broken body on the floor.

Emblyn never knew the chain of events her shame and desperation had triggered, that would stretch over the next millennia.

#Pillars of Eternity #Eothas #Iovara #tragedy #fanfiction #writing #The Watcher #Iovara's sister #suicide warning!#religion #sibling love #finding peace #Thaos #hypocrisy #from everyone really #grief #mourning

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aqualightmeeee · 4 years

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Where I differ from society when it comes to love and friendships.

A relationship is basically someone you are intimate with. I am a demisexual. I don’t go around feeling sexual attraction for every person on the planet. I am also as close to monogamous as I can possibly be. However, every male friendship I have had was almost inspiring to me, like a muse, I wasn’t looking for a person or their things. I was looking for an experience that I can get being close to them, getting to know them well. When I get in a relationship, I end up having to cut down all of that absolute admiration for another person, and deep friendships (there is never a goal of sexuality, mainly cause for me sexuality isn’t a big deal) to a very truncated hello and hi, polite replies, appreciating my admiration for them and appreciating them being in my life. It is almost like being in a platonic relationship frankly, even if they caught feelings that makes them think they are second best to the guy I am with, I never understood that. My choice of being with someone I am dating is completely independent of stories and experiences I have had with them, even if I like them or they like me. There is no competition cause they have their own independent synapses in my mind, and path, and others do not breach in. When I am with someone, a friend or a lover, I am not thinking of the other 400 people I need to get back to. I am thinking of, thank you for sharing this moment, at this point, in my life with me. It sounds so fake and artificial when you express it with politeness, instead of jealousy and envy and asking people to choose between that guy who probably is pedestalized as the main lover, and orbiters. I start getting questions, what do you see in him, you can’t see in us, or as if it is a job interview instead of an organic process of a friendship or connection, which in my head is basically a really high appreciation of the fact I get to share this moment and this place, and this time in the universe with you. That is all I am thinking. Not A is closer to me cause he has a good career, but B isn't. They are all souls , and they are all experiences.

I have the same process that goes for female friendships too, and usually they are okay with me sharing that space with someone else, and unlike male friendships, I do not fear me crushing on them or they crushing on me to end the connect, which for me doesn’t take away from the above process even if I was orbiting them or I liked them. If you get to see a beautiful work of art, or Monalisa, do you fear that millions of other people have gone through the Louvre and seen it too? Or do you just admire the absolute simple beauty of that woman, so elegantly captured in paint, you do the latter. It is the same for me for friendships or even lovers. I am monogamous to a fault, cause love for me is more drowning than admiring a garden, I barely claw out alive, if I felt something for anyone else, I would rather end it than carry on a relationship where I am expected to be committed to one, but when I see a beautiful soul or person, I go through a combination of eureka and euphoria, for that person sharing that space with me. It is a completely different process, but there is no doubt in my head, that it is not a competition. I just admire beauty in people, cause it is so rare to find it.

If I had the ability to somehow have a platonic marriage (physical intimacy for me, strange as it is, can be only shared with as few people as possible) with every beautiful soul I have met that I wanted to keep in my life, I would possibly marry them all. It would be awkward but that is how I see it. It is just celebration of human spirit.

Beyond the above experience, I rarely reach out to people beyond superficialities. I don’t try to get to know them cause making that synapses and tendrils and neurons for them is not worth it in my opinion, enough that other people try to push themselves into the above process, but my mind is a beautiful place, and I like to choose my addictions, muses and euphoria, beyond my solitude and I don’t want to even think about someone who isn’t worth the above. I also value my time, and I want to urgently be somewhere else, discovering someone else on the brief time I have on Earth. I may occasionally get stuck on a particular place or person, but really I want to move on to other things.

A person like me, needs a peak experience map with people she adores , or admires as absolute celebration of humanity to call home, cause that is the closest sense of belonging or home I have ever had to Earth, I always feel like an alien with other people. I can’t do this process with everyone. My soul hurts when I try to do this with everyone. So, the above is not a second place, it is my unconditional awe for you. It is equivalent of me finding the most beautiful minds and going like, thank you, for sharing this beauty with me. I am so grateful you let me know you. I will never forget you, and that love I feel , maybe platonic, but I don’t need it to be returned, it is unconditional, and I don’t need to possess someone to feel I unconditionally adore having them in my life. At the same time, I don’t want to hold people in my life, who get wounded by the above process and feel like they are replaceable, maybe my hunger may move me to someplace else, but for me, I never fall out love of who they are as people. Decades from now, when I meet them again, I don’t want to possess them but that imprint on me, who they were at that time and place, stays on forever in me. This is not something I could say for a job interview. This is me being grateful for every second I was privileged enough to spend time with you, we connected, we found an emotional and intellectual connect that was deeper than anything else, and you tried to possess it, while I tried to look for it more. That is all this is. I am but a humble seeker, and you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen at that time, at that brief space- time overlap we shared in the universe. You will always be that person in my head.

When people force me to explain this process, and break it down to are you friends, fwb, boyfriends, emotional boyfriends, or dating, it just ruins it for me. It just completely misses the point of how altruistic and platonic is this process. (Most of these people who tend to think this way, are not the type of people I want to think about, or share space in my mind, and I feel their need to force themselves in my life is harassment, I don’t want to see most people beyond what they can do for me, it ruins the sanctity of my mind and beauty of my life). Maybe one day I will lose it, and I will become the same bitter and jaded souls who can’t see beauty unless that thing must hurt them violently, or drown them with hormones, or give them superficial titles and money, is a HD9, or just be useful- but for now “flirting” so to say, keeps me alive. It is one of my life’s most beautiful activities that make me feel like I am happy to exist. Even though I don’t go around telling people, or humble bragging about the above, it makes me really happy, and if for my unconditional awe I get to share absolutely brilliant minds that I was privileged to share and manage to get an emotional connect, maybe my life was worth living for after all.

Basically I am monogamous on a sexual level, cause it takes an insane amount of hoops to get me there, and I don’t want to defile me to people, but my mind is on a very platonic level, an experience seeker, and it enjoys choosing my bonds with people, only as long as those bonds are above the one I share with myself. I spend some years as a teenager trying to connect with every single person, and that depression taught me, that I must choose the people I connect to. It is like a little craftbook in my head, and my epicureanism picks up a perfect soul, and souls and beautiful minds, and pins them, at that place and that time, to be the most beautiful thing I discovered in humanity at that point. If I don’t go through this process and find my type of addictions to people, I end up being very cranky and my mind chooses to remain in solitude, so that I can continue discovering things around me, till a person who captures my interests finds me again, and this process, I don’t plan it, it just happens and I am always euphoric and grateful when it happens, and maybe it can be summed down to zillion emotional affairs but it is more a deep friendship, more than horny talk, and whatever that affection is in me, I feel no urge to contain it to one person, or one thing, or possess it, I want to leave those creatures of the world, in the wild, in their complete majestic beauty, only to choose to return to me if they want to.

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magica-pseudoacademica · 5 years

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On the journey to the shrine of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar, we (myself a white cis woman, a Pakistani cis woman, and Saima [a khwaja sira friend]) face persistent snickers, bullying, sexual intimidation, and harassment from security forces and passers-by, and yet the trauma of the world outside dramatically fades as we enter the inner sanctity of the shrine. Amid frenzied circumambulations (for many the pilgrimage to Shahbaz Qalandar's shrine is a substitute for the hajj, the sacred pilgrimage to Kaaba), paths literally part to allow Saima to touch the coffin, and shrine custodians give her flowers to garland the shrine and the space to kiss it. As a faqir, she is seen to embody the barakat or charisma of the saint, as a wali, or a friend of God. This privilege connects to the long history of "eunuch guards" in Islam's holiest places, including at Prophet Mohammad's tomb in Medina and the Kaaba in Mecca. Even in shrines that have recently restricted access to men only (under the government's control), khwaja siras have special rights of entrance (haq) and are fondly referred to by shrine custodians as "God's sparrows." Likewise, shrines that allow only women access, such as Bibi Pak Daman in Lahore, invariably welcome khwaja siras.

Claire Pamment, “Performing Piety in Pakistan’s Transgender RIghts Movement” (2019)

#claire pamment #quotes #islam #pakistan

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lokeanrampant · 5 years

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Let’s go old-school...

Apparently, the list of states is growing. I saw that up to 16 states were looking at instituting these types of abortion laws...and my state is looking at vetoed law called “The Born-Alive Abortion Survivors Protection Act.” Which is just a side-step into all the other dysopian laws that are popping up.

@mizstorge and I were chatting about this cause I’ve been reeling. @mizstorge, you’re going to have to take this and run with it to your friend, cause I have to get some of this out. It’s not clean, it’s not pretty, but it’s passionate. It’s the start of an idea. Just the start.

So. They want to go old-school Biblical on women? Without provisions for religious persecution in the extreme? Let’s go old school, then.

The Bible isn’t the oldest player in town.

Not a chance in any hell that my gods would approve of this nonsense. Taking it down? That they would enjoy. And taking it down by bringing religion full-circle? That would be beyond delicious. Loki would be delighted, as would other tricksters, I am sure. Burn tradition and enforced subjugation. This is a Ragnarok of the world-as-you-know-it and the women are bringing it.

I am envisioning pantheistic centers for reproductive health opening in all of these states. It's technically a church, therefore, tax-exempt, and can provide succor to those in need, which should cover basic medical “family” care. People doing good for the community. Day care, healthcare, food and kitchen, shelter, support, teaching.

There are enough of us. There are enough of us who CARE. Can you imagine the pantheons setting up health sanctuaries for women? I WANT THAT. I want to contact these religious groups who support women's health and choice, and a lot of pagan religions DO, and see if we can get them working on new temples and sanctuaries where basic women's care is provided under religious freedom granted by the Constitution. Contact the Satanic Temple, who has already played this game and won on different fronts, see if they can help us navigate the paths.

I want to see Hera and Freya and Freyr and Eostre and Frigg and Brigid and Bast and all of them. Give me gods and goddesses I don’t know! Bring them bright and shining and furious into new sanctuaries of healing and salvation. I want all the fertility and family goddesses and gods that ever were. I want gods of health and healing. I want gods of family and protection. I want pillars and statues and carvings and art as these places openly support women's health and rights. Statues in all the colors of humanity. Celtic, Egyptian, Greek, Norse, Shinto, African, Slavic, Indian, Iranian, Japanese, Vodun...

BRING THEM ALL.

I haven't had a chance to look into the actual feasibility of the idea. Though I was thinking that medical personnel, who already have doctor-patient privilege, could be "ordained" (? what is the term for pagans?) and thereby have sanctity of confession as well. It would work to have counselors/therapists as well. Wrap privacy so tightly in religion, they can't force information out.

How do we do this? Where do we start? It needs traction. It needs it hard and fast. My sister and I, I KNOW, will be willing to travel to help building these sanctuaries of spiritual and physical healing, of safety, of protection. What legalities do we need to face? What social media and celebrities can promote this? Get is social, get it trending, take it viral.

Can we do this? Is it possible? Please, please, let us do something amazing here. Fight fire with fire and religion with older religion. Let us burn the world down and make it anew. I don't even care if this is a silly or strange idea. It feels good and it feels right. And if it makes someone think of something that works, it will have done something good.

#women's rights #women's health #reproductive rights #reproductive health #paganism #pagans #pagans for health #sanctuary #you want to fight with religion #we'll fight with even older religion #tricksters in the wings

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