Last Seen Blogs
axolotlwrites
Axolotl
keepcalmpilipinas-blog
Keep Calm Pilipinas
skodenglagi
Untitled
norringtondeservestheworld
Sebastian Deserved Better
morkitten
morgan's cool blog
Text
there's a certain madness that seeps in like caustic pine sap where the forest had hollowed you out, judah had known the feeling well ⸺ that he hadn't been quite whole since the day he found salvation, or when it found him. part of himself had to die for the rest to live, what have you traded for divinity? this scene is one foretold by a narrator that had betrayed themself in the first act: riddled an obscurity of self, unreliable. it’s like watching two buzzards pluck away at a corpse, or rather one is already gnawing while the other encircles; no distinction as to who was which. and there is no fear here: no circadian beat humming against his cage of bones.
on this wooded shoulder bordering a nameless town on the fray, there is even ground found. the wild makes you a part of itself, jude knows that now as he unknowingly stands with hitched breath. you may stop sharpening your teeth but it is still instinctual to bare them. mutual guard is found when they finally step out from their momentary refuge. there’s another offer here when she is no longer just an earshot in the distance between them, but rather a fabrication — the father nods in concurrence. in the moment, a wicked thought plagues him: that she too had not forgotten whatever mar faith had left her with, not even out here. “a bit of contraband if you'd deem it that.” arms cross over chest, he isn’t wearing his ivory collar but a tarnishing cross sways in place of it. “water, amish bread, and a little bit of moonshine [ … ] for reasons.”
one warm afternoon in the forest, with @godabsent
two wild things in the brush, one standing on the wrong side of forty & the other taking his place in one wrong way or another. judah knows these woods, was made anew here. consider this as his way of giving thanks back to the land that bore him. though he may not see her now, he is wary of her presence --- the woman in the trees. father does not yet know their name but he calls out all the same, "i uh⸻ y'can come out," jude's lowered to his knees, sliding the twine-bound offering once hugged to his chest across summer-damp forest floor, backing off when he was sure enough. "it's not much, but for such sacrifices god is pleased." there's a wink of jest there, some tinge that even when waxed atop of scripture meant that he was only here out of goodness, or at least that's what he coaxed himself to believe.
#𝐉. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀threads#ft. alice#the post wont cut on the new editor srry this is a lil ugly!#slight gore/body horror tw
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
father knows at his core that god had forsaken them: whether the big man upstairs had up and left when he had sent his only son to be slain for all-kind or what they’d known as god were merely a sheer echo. judah knew that they were the only ones watching over themselves, that if there was any god at all he was already walking among them — that maybe god really was in him, like pa said. good little altar boy reverts to his roots: devours all the divine parts of himself if it meant wholeness. its only in that slight, comfortable disquiet that jude can hear the hum; press an ear to the walls of this disgruntled mar of a chapel & hear its hymn. that fluttering song that attracts congregants so: the knowing that even with their proximity to hell — to that darkness — they could all look up to the sky and find comfort in its expansiveness.
"always," said as if it the were most obvious thing, as if jude thought she could already tell. "i don't think it's about what you feel but how you act to being deterred." that discouragement could be a tool had one chosen to wield it — it held equal power to create & destroy. "the bible says that as long as the lord is your shepherd you shall not want but ... " jude finds no certain stillness until he’s perched a few feet away from her, reclined upon the steps before the pulpit; round gaze peering slightly upward at her. “it's hard to let go of something so human isn't it? it's within each one of us [ … ] down to the marrow — that wanting, i'm unsure if i know what to do with it."
` CLOSED ▸ judah / @jcdas .
the front pew — cypress hewn and honed by the hands of an elderly parishioner, the once-rough wood smoothed by wear alone. the soul of her good work, built into the grain, is a truss of this church. she'd passed only weeks after rebecca had arrived; the pew, then, still had a tooth that tore into bare thighs. but mostly, rebecca recalls her hands — well-veined and untrembling, clasping rebecca's and offering the prayer of solace.
seated in the fruit of those steady hands, rebecca presses closed the folded front page of a flimsy, handwritten hymnal. one of eight copies, only a handful distributed at the service that morning. it's no st. james cathedral, this place of worship built of swollen and half-rotted wood. but, like any good church, it's suited to its surroundings. humble. bare. starved. one would think more people might find god when they're faced with hell. rebecca exhales, smoothing the creased front of the top hymnal. ' do you ever find yourself .. discouraged, father ? ' she asks, head gently bowed. a brief pause. ' — i might mean wanting. two in the bush, i suppose. '
#𝐉. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀threads#ft. rebecca#your writing is a feast for the eyes i can't lie#manipulate. manspread. malewife.
1 note
·
View note
Text
even with this garb that sheathes him, the summer heat clings: all sticky & wet. sweat-slink skin, of what was exposed at least, catches glint when upturned in the light. judah would like to think it true that it was god's hands that guided his own but they both knew the truth. palms seep down, coursing between the ebbs of root & soil, retrieving a familiarly gangly carrot --- turning it over in muddled palms. it was the sort of thing to be expected from an early frost; it would go on to impact a harvest to be had months away. except there was no frost here, only heat & more heat; which was likely what the man had feared greater than much else. there's a low monotone, partly sun-worn & more than unenthused. "like we ought to be less grateful that the summer is everlasting."
even beneath a waning sun, the horrors still seethed --- bridled between the threads of what little good could be coaxed of this place. it was that same desire for virtue that had strung the father & joe together those many years ago. it was not only their likeness that bonded them, but also their proximity. joe harbored within himself what judah had once possessed, and thus he would irregularly orbit the other if it meant a glimpse of what it meant to find contentment in the ordinary.
there is something particularly wonderous about returning to the dirt from wence you came, digging in full palms and ravishing the earth of her fruit. even with his collar bound tight and a fraying sunhat perched atop of a newly silvering mane of curls, a certain ease is found. it's like slipping into an old coat long forgotten in the back of your closet, you know the warmth of its memory before trying it on. that's what this was: reliving something he'd thought forgotten, something that didn't belong to judah anymore. father squints hard against the sun, still maintaining his lowered hunch over the green flowerbed. "nonsense, i can do all this through him who gives me strength." jude does not have to be doctrinal this early in the day, but it was merely his nature. "th'days still young, after all."
#𝐉. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀threads#ft. joe#love that joe is giving father a free show rn#another ugly reply since posts wont cut
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
an early morning in the graveyard, with @cruelitanys
this tall, angular man casts a long shadow. all swathed in the shade of mourning, as if judah were death itself come to tend its bounty of souls; some still fresh & dressed in marble. it's the hour of morning that folks hardly set foot out of their homes ⸻ were oft advised not to ⸻ let alone stand in the wake of those who had come to pass. father kneels here, morning dew still fresh against what little grass had survived the throws of this hellish maw they had all resided in. all bent at the knee, partially shower-sopped waves motion forth when jude bows his head before a notable crude headstone; moss filling all the lonely parts. here lies beloved mary stanton, there's a stinted breath from parted lips, that familiar rot rousing on his tongue when jude had still thought himself to be alone. eternal rest upon her but may she rot in hell.
#𝐉. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀threads#ft. sierra#do with this what you wish eek#the real question here is what did mary do to him!
0 notes
Text
I come from a long line of people with something wrong with them
104K notes
·
View notes
Text
this was no sin father could absolve: unknowing. the human condition was nothing to be condemned and thus judah does not cross his heart nor find it within himself to say a small prayer. head still bows; hail mary full of grace. "do you not think it to be god's will?" it's perhaps not what was wanted to be heard, but what was needed. that even in such times of desolation, and abandonment, was it not god's plan? tongue prods flat against his cheek, perhaps looking for something real to say within the confines of his own stubbled maw. "being here [ ... ] whatever that may mean to you."
a late morning at the chapel, for @ofmisfcrtunes
this chapel may be forged out of hope & hope alone, but it was holy land all the same. that was the very basis of the human condition: the miraculous ability to find something to believe in all the darkest corners of the world. fate had turned itself on it's head & jude had found it within himself to look upon it as a tool of creation. from what was lost, something new was incepted; or much rather, erected. god takes on a new shape from the pulpit, and judah may only be his messenger, but he has taken it as his duty to perform god's will. hearing the confessions of his congregants was a mere morsel of his commitment.
2 notes
·
View notes
Photo
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
while father had not thought himself to be vein, it should be noted that his image had not yet tarnished since that day he crawled out the hollers of the forest. there's a partial draft that billows in when the chapel doors part, not at all eased by the creak of it's frame. father is but a mere shadow amid the candlelight, like a long black tongue that had reached from the pulpit and stretched outward. head cants when the unfamiliar voice beckons in the dark, a flicker of something keen at the corner of his mouth; something keen but not quite a smile. jude could denote the unease from distance alone but the physical cues were enough to warrant placation. "be not afraid [...] i am merely a humble shepherd of the flock," visage softens & there's a foot set forth, half a step taken toward the other. "please — call me father."
── the chapel , jasper & judah !
jasper's relationship with god was a fractured one. if the man was so benevolent, looking over his creations to ensure a plan that twisted and turned in the most calculated of ways, then why had the young smith boy been handed a brain that was wired backwards? why did his followers vilify himself and his boyfriend simply for existing? back in manchester, church on sunday was an immovable force; now, he had circled the chapel many a morning and touched his toe to the doorframe but had never quite broken the seal. "excuse me." he called into the darkness, toward the cloaked figure that moved through the pews as though gliding on air. "are you the preacher here? i, um..." a hand shot to the thin strands of hair jutting at unruly angles at the base of his neck. gently he tugged at a fingerful, a method of self soothing that had been a lifeline in his early years (and continued to be, through those long and dangerous nights). @jcdas
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
one warm afternoon in the forest, with @godabsent
two wild things in the brush, one standing on the wrong side of forty & the other taking his place in one wrong way or another. judah knows these woods, was made anew here. consider this as his way of giving thanks back to the land that bore him. though he may not see her now, he is wary of her presence --- the woman in the trees. father does not yet know their name but he calls out all the same, "i uh⸻ y'can come out," jude's lowered to his knees, sliding the twine-bound offering once hugged to his chest across summer-damp forest floor, backing off when he was sure enough. "it's not much, but for such sacrifices god is pleased." there's a wink of jest there, some tinge that even when waxed atop of scripture meant that he was only here out of goodness, or at least that's what he coaxed himself to believe.
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
even beneath a waning sun, the horrors still seethed --- bridled between the threads of what little good could be coaxed of this place. it was that same desire for virtue that had strung the father & joe together those many years ago. it was not only their likeness that bonded them, but also their proximity. joe harbored within himself what judah had once possessed, and thus he would irregularly orbit the other if it meant a glimpse of what it meant to find contentment in the ordinary.
there is something particularly wonderous about returning to the dirt from wence you came, digging in full palms and ravishing the earth of her fruit. even with his collar bound tight and a fraying sunhat perched atop of a newly silvering mane of curls, a certain ease is found. it's like slipping into an old coat long forgotten in the back of your closet, you know the warmth of its memory before trying it on. that's what this was: reliving something he'd thought forgotten, something that didn't belong to judah anymore. father squints hard against the sun, still maintaining his lowered hunch over the green flowerbed. "nonsense, i can do all this through him who gives me strength." jude does not have to be doctrinal this early in the day, but it was merely his nature. "th'days still young, after all."
STATUS: CLOSED
LOCATION: THE FARM
TAGGING: @jcdas
Sometimes, all someone needed was quiet. Joe had learned, over the years, how to be quiet. The urge to talk incessantly bubbled up within him more often than he'd like - a hangover from the scrawny college kid with a rat-ta-tat mouth and too many ill-formed opinions. But hard work and a beating sun will knock that out of you - that, and working alongside pieces of tough old leather like Becks and Julian.
Joe straightened from his crouch, thigh muscles protesting. Panting slightly, he tossed the handful of carrots into a bucket, then took off a glove to wipe a hand across his forehead. His shirt had long since been discarded and his bare chest was damp with sweat and dirt. Squinting, he looked over at the priest.
"Feel like a break yet, Father?" Joe asked, pitching his voice to be heard over the distant cries of crows. "Or d'you wanna keep goin'?"
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
a late morning at the chapel, for @ofmisfcrtunes
this chapel may be forged out of hope & hope alone, but it was holy land all the same. that was the very basis of the human condition: the miraculous ability to find something to believe in all the darkest corners of the world. fate had turned itself on it's head & jude had found it within himself to look upon it as a tool of creation. from what was lost, something new was incepted; or much rather, erected. god takes on a new shape from the pulpit, and judah may only be his messenger, but he has taken it as his duty to perform god's will. hearing the confessions of his congregants was a mere morsel of his commitment.
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
hamish linklater. cis man. he/him. ⸻ i saw JUDAH PREAKER around THE FOREST, you know? the FORTY-FIVE year old that was driving from HARLAN, KENTUCKY when they saw the tree on the road. JUDE has been here for FIFTEEN YEARS and i think they were A GRIFTER before they got stuck in the town. with the way things are now, they are struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy and seek a way out without losing themselves or dying. lets hope you at least survive the night on their own.
DO NOT PRAY ANYMORE; THE SKY IS DEAF.
full name judah caelan preaker
nickname(s) jude, judd, father ( per his priesthood )
age forty-five
gender identity cis man
orientation repressed bisexual
place of birth harlan, kentucky
date of birth september 14
faceclaim hamish linklater
former occupation career grifter
positive traits benevolent, cogent, steadfast
negative traits pious, headstrong, misguided
moral alignment chaotic neutral
parallels preston teagardin (the devil all the time), the priest (fleabag), john pruitt (midnight mass), sam foster (stay)
current residency the town
current occupation priest ( some meld between catholic with evangelical christian tendencies )
BIOGRAPHY
tw for the following content: religious trauma, forced drowning, child abuse/abandonment, mentions of alcohol & mental illness.
you were an odd child, born to a peculiar family that lived in a little yellow house on the edge of a bluebonnet field. for years, these hues of pallid yellow and lavender paint your life━though they only paled as the years marched onward. your hometown is one that’s never felt quite new, rather, there’s always been a tinge of the past. like that old mining town, you were run down sooner than you knew.
the sacred walls of your little yellow house are where you’d tell your first lies. crosses nailed in each room, wallpaper cracking with temperature and peeling away at the edges. you spent your childhood wondering if it was always like this. soil-covered hands pressed together, you would pray for the unfortunate children down the road who’d just lost their gran. god, you would say, but you knew you were speaking to your father. the shadow in the door frame that stood in that small creak of light, a lean figure stretches out as if you did not see him there. oh, please bring them good graces in this time. let you take the pain from their shoulders. learning to be a ghost in your own home.
taught to behave like a young man ought to, taught to take the deer by the antlers but not to look it in the eyes. you knew only to pray for others, only to care for the world around you, rather than the bruises on your back, or the grazes on your knees━or you mother who left when you were too young to know. the woman who since lived with her new husband, and kids━leaving you and your siblings with him.
you're just a child that first time pa takes you and you watched him wash the sinners clean. you watched them cry out hallelujah and praise jesus, praise your pa. it was your pa’s hands on them, not god’s. pa tells you that god is in you too, and this will be the first and last time a reflection you recognize ripples across the water.
god is in you, boy. so you let your father take you to the water’s edge again once you were a bit older. you can still hear the hum of the hymnals even now. do you hear the word of god? have you believed another gospel? pa plunged you, washes you of the sins not committed at your hand, but rather, those of your mother. because if she could not be there, you would take her place. shoved beneath the frigid surface by the hands of your pa, under the guise that god made him do it, sending his own son thrashing like some wild thing your pa once claimed he could tame.
your father considers it only a miracle of god that you hadn’t drowned that day. you returned to your siblings, sopping wet on the porch of the little yellow house with the peeling wallpaper. you begin to pick at it when no one was looking, chipping away the watery gray floral print to unveil the wood paneling beneath it. life is stripped of its color but at least you're not alone in this suffering. not that it makes it any better that your siblings are subject to your father’s delusions. it stays like this for a long while. seeing your little sister off to the schoolhouse each morning, and making a point of not eyeing the brown and green glass bottles that she would string up on the tree in the front yard like liquor store wind chimes.
now ... your father wasn’t the man you thought him to be. when you're alone you consider that maybe he was always like this and that you were the last to realize, the last one to find complacency in your disillusionment. and while you very well make it out of harlan alive, you only last a short while before you find yourself betwixt in what you've only known to refer to as purgatory. you look a whole lot like pa these days, wearing black & looking like death incarnate, yet you’ve always got a hymnal tucked into the side of your cheek. through all the wretchedness, you are still holy; from where you’re standing at least. after all no monster would ever deem itself as such, this town has turned you inside out, sure, but it has also granted you something your life before couldn't: freedom.
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
sickly wildfire haze, Montana, July 2021
9K notes
·
View notes
Text
t shirt that says YOU DONT UNDERSTAND MY RELATIONSHIP WITH GOD and the back says NEITHER DO I
68K notes
·
View notes
Photo
Hamish Linklater as Father Paul
Midnight Mass (2021) dir. Mike Flanagan
756 notes
·
View notes
Text
history keeps pulling me down
Falling, Florence + the Machine // The Fall of Icarus, Rene Milot // Fallen Angel, Andreas Birath
36K notes
·
View notes
