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eboneeblak · 21 days

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Touched (Short Story)

A supernatural Southern Gothic tale. (6 minute read)

CW: Ableism, Murder, and Domestic Violence

Everything is black, an endless pit of nothingness. In the void, where no constraints exist, I gleefully experience many sensations. The sound of ambiance lingers around me. The air feels…fuzzy on my skin. The cool grassy earth beneath me sinks. Gravity weighs down on my shoulders, rendering me still. I wince. There is a sharpness that pokes at my flesh. Annoyed, I clench my hands and pull!

Go away.

GO AWAY!

“Ophelia, baby!”

I hear a voice from outside, and the comforting blanket of nothingness passes away. Finally, I open my eyes; it is my mother. Her eyebrows furrow with concern. Her velvety, well-manicured hands clasp mine. I see a clothing tag in it.

Stupid itchy tags.

“Baby, Sister Inez was askin’ how

speech therapy was goin’?”

It was dark now, and we were still alone in the church's parking lot. Choir practice only lasts two hours. However, in my mother’s usual fashion, her chatting forced us to stay late. My eyes glaze over Sister Inez, and I notice her scowl. Her burgundy lipstick lips tighten.

“It’s going okay.”

I look down at my shiny black shoes that Mother bought, notice the cute bows, and excitedly squiggle my toes inside.

“Ophelia has only been in it a few

weeks; the therapist says it can take a

while for her to catch up to regular

kids.”

Sister Inez’s judgmental eyes gawk at me, sharp enough to pierce a gaping hole.

“That daughter of yours reminds me of

someone; she was also a little…

different.”

For a woman who proclaims to be so holy and sanctimonious, Sister Inez has barely mustered an ounce of empathy and kindness towards me and my mother since we arrived several months ago.

“We’ll pray and hope she turns out

better.”

Mother and I had to travel across four states to escape my father’s abuse; the place where we are supposed to be safe has yet to make us feel welcomed.

“I’m afraid we can’t pray away what

Ophelia got goin’ on.”

“What a shame.”

My mother’s soft palms began to feel clammy and tense; I must escape this conversation.

“Water.”

I make a beeline for the church.

“Ophelia, don't take too long, dear.”

Cold water splashes into my mouth. A creaky air conditioner buzzes above, and the sound is deafening. I look around, continuing to quench my thirst. New Hope A.M.E. has seen better days; vinyl walls peel away, revealing the 200-year-old frame. Beneath the wooden floors is a mismatched array of new and old bark, with small cracks cascading across the floor, each getting larger and larger….

“What is that?”

It’s a shadow. My eyes lift, revealing a dark figure of a woman. I blink, and she vanishes. A chill shivers throughout me. My body stiffens; a deep scream traps itself in my throat. Slowly, my eyes search the room. Passing the wooden doors, there's a loud creak; instinctually, I follow the sound.

Moonlight beamed through the colorful stained windows, accentuating the dusty pews. As I inch down the aisle, the old floor bends under my weight with each step.

Demons?

My eyes examine the small, quaint church back and forth. The pulpit sits steeply above the congregation. “Minister Hezekiah Thomas” is embellished in gold on an oversized dark cherry chair. It stands tall like a throne directly in the middle of the pulpit.

A foggy memory clouds my mind.

Evil…

Minister Thomas’s boisterous sermon lingers in my head.

“Demons often disguise themselves as human and come to earth to harm us good Christian folk.”, so he says.

But why didn’t that woman hurt me?

Could she be something else?

Gravity rushes past me, I'm suddenly falling. Bracing my hands, I strike the hard floor, wincing in pain. I had just fallen on the edge of a staircase. The red carpet is beaten and worn. Flustering, I push myself up. There's a shrill, almost childlike cry from above, then I see her…

Her eyes glowing…

Her face was veiled in black.

She stands still…

Watching me…

“Who are you?”

Before I could utter the last syllables, she vanished. Footsteps run above me. I dash past the staircase, loudly creaking as I stomp my way up.

At the top, there’s a small corridor. A small bulb dimly lights the hallway. To the right, a door is wide open. Hanging from it is a sign that reads “Minister’s Office.” I catch my breath. A cold breeze brushes past my body. Trembling, I tread inside.

The smell of mothballs burns into my nostrils. Minister Thomas’s office is quaint but heavily decorated. White curtains cover a large window that overlooks the church’s parking. A worn bible is on his desk, and a family portrait is next to it.

I pick it up; it's Minister Thomas; he wears large silver-wired glasses that match his salt and paper hair. Next to him is First Lady Thomas and his four teenage sons; they all smile except for her. I place the framed picture down and notice an open drawer below.

I persist through piles of paperwork until I notice the back of a photo. I turn it around and see a couple, but I could hardly make out their faces.

Quickly, I pull the curtains back and re-examine the photo.

The woman’s smile is bright, her coily hair is pulled tightly into a French roll, and her eyes shimmer with colorful eye shadow. Next to her is a visibly younger Minister Thomas.

“Could this be her?”

I look out the window; Mother and Sister Inez are gone. The office doors slam behind me! A familiar chill touches my skin; a strong force holds me still. I look down and see no arms. My heart palpates. Slowly, I turn my head, quivering in fear.

Large, black, and socketless eyes stare back; a decaying black veil covers her face. What should be her mouth widens, and an ear-splitting cry erupts.

The scream wrestling within me explodes. There's a loud banging on the door. I shut my eyes.

“Ophelia!”

I cry out in terror, stricken with fright.

“Please don't hurt me, demon!”

I am held tighter.

“Ophelia, open your eyes, baby!”

It’s my mother's voice. I open my eyes to see her warm almond ones staring back. Relief washes over me, and I collapse into her arms.

“This girl has no business being in

Minister Emmanuel's office. It is

strictly off-limits!”

My mother's soft, plush skin calms me.

—————————————————————

“What scared you back there,

honey?”

I squeeze Mr. Charlie, my stuffed bear. The old Honda Civic bumps over the dirt road leading away from the church.

“Was Minister Thomas married to

another woman?”

My mother has a stunned look on her face.

“Why do you ask that, baby?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“Just curious.”

She sighs.

“He was a long time ago, according to

Sister Inez. Her name was Violet. She

was quiet, kind of like you.”

“Do you know what happened to

her?”

My mother stares at me through the rear-view window; she grips the steering wheel harder.

“Well, Sister Inez says Minister Thomas always seemed angry at her. Said she couldn't bear any children for him. After a while, she stopped showing up at church. Then, one day, Minister Thomas announced to the congregation that the poor girl cracked her skull on a gardening hoe and died. There was no funeral; she just disappeared, everyone moved on, and he got a new, pretty wife, First Lady Thomas.”

I look down at the photo studying Violet’s face.

“What you got in your hand,

baby?”

I stuff the photo into the pocket of my velvet dress and lean back into my seat. I watch the maze of trees pass us by.

“You saw her poor ghost, too,

didn't you?”

I stare at my mother through her rear-view mirror; slowly, I nod my head.

"I don't believe a garden hoe killed her,

Mama."

My mother rolls down the window and lights a cigarette.

"Me neither, baby."

I sink back into my seat and close my eyes, waiting for a pool of darkness to embrace me and retreating into nothingness. Instead, a pair of large socket-less eyes gaze back at me.

Demons ain’t the only ones harming us.

THE END.

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backdraft-bimbo · 3 years

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couldn't say just how I love you

Sam just wants to feel the warmth of another person right now, and that person just happens to be Bucky.

Yeah, that must be why, he settles; convenience.

Words: 1699

Chapters: 1/1

ao3 link

Sam squints across the shrimping boat as Bucky fiddles with his forearm. He’s barely made an inch of progress with it, yet the guy hasn’t asked for any help so far. It’s kind of ridiculous since Sam–the Falcon for crying out loud–is over here with two capable hands, ten beautiful fingers, and a proficient enough background in engineering to fix Bucky’s shit for him.

Broody Mcgee is either a whole ‘nother level of stubborn when it comes to accepting help, or he’s just a shy person, which Sam finds to be a hilarious deduction. Who the hell’s ever heard of a shy ex-assassin? Plus, this is the same guy who went chuteless out of a plane, flew face first into the trees, and had the wind knocked out of him–with all of it caught on camera. But for some reason, Bucky never asked Sam to delete the footage (before Redwing bit the dust), so he really doubts it’s a pride thing.

Maybe Bucky just needs a push.

“Do you even know what you’re doing over there, Buck? ‘Cause it doesn’t look to me–“

“No, I got it–“

“–like you know what you’re doing. You want some help?” Sam offers, raising his hands placatingly. “No shame. I worked on Redwing for years, so I’ve got my hands around tech before.”

Bucky grips his bradawl tighter, digging rather aggressively into his bionic arm. “No, seriously . I’m fine.” Sam cringes; he’s definitely doing more damage using one hand for repairs. The wires are all crooked in the part where the Flag-Smasher kicked it in–much more internal damage than Sam expected coming out of that skirmish.

“You are a stubborn man–and I don’t just mean that metal arm you've been poking at the last hour. I think the arm is the most agreeable part of you. It doesn’t complain any time I try to help it.”

Bucky groans, slamming his bradawl back on the boat table. “If I say ‘okay’ will you shut up already?”

“Definitely not,” Sam grins. “But your annoyance is noted.”

“Have you ever dealt with vibranium? ‘Cause if not–”

Sam stops him. “You had a titanium arm before, right? The one with the commie star on the shoulder?”

Bucky grumbles out an affirmation.

“Perfect,” Sam says, “how different can they be?”

A look of mild alarm crosses Bucky’s face. It’s kind of hilarious. “Well–”

“Forget I asked,” Sam says cordially, fully prepared to keep messing with Bucky. The guy is just so easy sometimes. He jogs over from the boat’s rusty bow pulpit and slaps his hands together. “C’mon, man, what’s up with your weird ‘I’d rather die than let Sam help me’ attitude?”

Bucky fleetingly glances at Sam, then back at his mangled arm, and furrows his eyebrows in that way he does whenever he’s deliberating whether or not to share something. Sam is unfortunately so used to Bucky shutting down that it comes as a surprise to him when the guy actually speaks up.

“It’s just frustrating, okay?” he says, voice rough and gravelly. “I know it’s stupid, but I don’t think I’m ever gonna be used to only having one arm.”

Sam sobers up a bit. So that’s why.

“I just...wanna be able to fix this shit up to prove to myself that, y’know...that I can do it.”

A few seagulls squawk overhead as Bucky’s words sink in. Sam doesn’t know why he’s never considered the possibility that Bucky might not totally be over losing his arm. Hell, Sam feels kind of foolish for missing it; he used to deal with soldiers coming back from war zones missing a limb or two.

“Nah, man,” Sam says after a thoughtful pause. “That’s not stupid at all.”

Bucky doesn’t respond to that, and Sam doesn’t expect him to. The guy silently shifts his bionic arm so that Sam can sit down and work on it, side-eyeing him like he’s weighing whether or not he should have said anything. I guess decades of being a Prisoner of War and brainwashed HYDRA assassin will do that to you, Sam meditates.

He and Bucky have had their share of falling outs. Hell, just a few days ago they were promising to take separate long vacations apart. They both said shitty things. So what? That doesn’t mean Sam can’t feel for the guy. He catches himself occasionally ruminating all that Bucky has been through and finds that he can’t go too long without needing a break. But that’s Bucky’s life; ain’t exactly like he can just take a pause from it. It sort of breaks Sam’s heart in a way he can’t explain; all those years Bucky can’t get back...

“Sam?”

Sam blinks, not realizing he’d been staring. The shadow of a smile has crossed Bucky’s face.

“Looks like I’m not the only one with the staring problem.”

Sam shakes his head, blinking some more. Geez. What were they doing again?

Bucky looks at him half-expectantly, half-amusedly. He gestures loosely at his arm. “Go crazy, man.”

“Right. Right, the arm.” Sam grapples with the tools splayed out on the splintery table, trying to recall what he needs with an odd sense of urgency. Why the hell is he forgetting everything? Last time he checked, empathy isn’t supposed to instill this kind of reaction.

“Take your time,” Bucky says... nicely? And all right, that’s another Bucky-related thing Sam has to set aside for later. It’s an extraordinarily long list, but Sam’s got shit to do right now. He exhales deeply and focuses all of his attention on the job before him.

It’s easy to get into a rhythm. The slight breeze and white noise waves blend together as Sam zones in on Bucky’s arm, the two settling into a comfortable silence. The atmosphere is sublime for fixing broken things–the Wilson family shrimping boat always seemed to do that. Sam wonders if Bucky feels it too; maybe it’s just his own nostalgia. Whenever Sam thinks of his parents on deck, laughing and telling anecdotes to their relatives...it makes Sam feel like an invincible kid again. He can do anything as long as he can tap into those memories.

When the wires start looking right, Sam can’t tell how long it’s been since they started. The freaking sea, man. Gotta be more careful next time. The sights and sounds of the shore are too hypnotic; before you know it, the seagulls have left and the sun is already setting on the horizon. Judging by the dimmer light, it’s probably early evening now.

Sam looks up at Bucky for the first time in what feels like ages. The guy’s resting his chin on his right hand, eyes closed as the invisible fingers of the breeze comb through his dark hair. And wow, he looks peaceful –a word Sam seldom uses when it comes to Bucky Barnes. The profile view is making him notice things, which is probably why Sam is opening his mouth before better judgement can grab him by the collar.

He stops fiddling with Bucky’s arm and leans forward.

“Dude, you got loooong eyelashes.”

Bucky shifts at that, eyebrows furrowing back into their natural state, and the idyllic moment is broken. All right, so Sam can admit that was a random, out-of-left-field observation probably suited for a different time. But give him a break, he’s been looking at wires for like three hours straight. Sam is nevertheless grateful Bucky doesn’t comment on his weirdness. The guy just glances down at his new and improved arm and gives Sam a stoic nod of approval.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Bucky says. “So, uh, thanks.”

“Still gotta test it,” Sam replies, strangely off-put by Bucky’s honesty. But, to be fair, there’s a lot of crazy new stuff happening today. For example, Sam must be getting old, because the moment he stands up from his chair, hoping to get some blood moving, a rush of lightheadedness washes over him, and he’s forced to lean his hips against the table for a second.

He shakes his head, laughing at himself. “Shit.”

“You okay?” Bucky asks skeptically, staring up at Sam with his big blue eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just test-run this thing, Cyborg Man. I need a nap.”

Sarah must’ve put something in the carrot souffle, because Sam is seriously on a roll with odd behavior today. It might be because it’s Saturday and none of his family are watching, or because he and Bucky aren’t out on a mission for once, but there’s absolutely no justification Sam can think of other than complete self-indulgence for why he wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. With his left hand, Sam lifts up the vibranium arm, bends it back and forth, nods to himself, and says, “Looks good.”

For a second, Bucky is craning his neck back, gaping at Sam like he’s grown a second head. As quickly as that expression comes, though, it’s gone a second later, and Bucky returns to his familiar guise of reservation, shifting his gaze to Sam’s handiwork, a faint tint of traitorous red rising to his cheeks. Sam leans forward farther, sighing heavily into Bucky’s shoulder, like they’re already at this stage of intimacy. But Sam lets the fact that this isn’t as per usual blissfully fly over his head, because he’s tired and sore and can’t give a shit anymore.

Sam just wants to feel the warmth of another person right now, and that person just happens to be Bucky.

Yeah, that must be why , he settles; convenience.

Bucky just sits there silently and lets Sam lean against him, the exhaustion drooping off his shoulders and into the creaky old wood of the Wilson family boat. He shifts for a second, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Eventually, Sam is moving up and away, sliding his hands off Bucky’s body, a strange fluttery feeling enveloping him. He tries not to think about how much he didn’t want that to end, or how badly he misses the touch when it’s gone, but–

For another time, Sam promises himself.

Neither of them say a word as they walk back to Sarah’s.

#sambucky #tfatws #fanfiction #sam wilson #bucky barnes #ao3 #mine

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brittanythescrivener · 5 years

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Behind Trinity Lines - Chapter One: Death of a Warrior

2015

Konstantin pulled the collar of his black leather coat up around his neck and trudged through the deep snow toward the prison looming ahead of him. To his left, he glimpsed a glimmer of color against the weathered gray wood of the buildings. It was a derelict chapel with bright green stained glass windows and a leaning steeple.

Konstantin altered his course and made his way to the ramshackle building. He pushed his way through the door and slammed it shut behind him. The air inside was stale and dusty, but at least the structure provided some shelter from the bitter cold wind howling outside. The chapel looked as though it had been hastily abandoned with pews askew and the pulpit knocked down onto its side. Konstantin righted the rickety wooden pulpit and walked around the structure, his boots loud and heavy on the creaky wooden floor.

He paused near the window and basked for a moment in the sunlight beaming in through the colorful glass. He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer.

His radio crackled to life.

“We’ve been overrun by the natives. Croft is with them. Men are dead and scattered.”

He couldn’t believe it. Croft again. Konstantin bellowed in anger as he hurled the pulpit across the room.

“We should have killed her,” he said through gritted teeth.

Ana was seated at the rear of the chapel. She stood abruptly and said, “You have nothing to show for your efforts. Perhaps she’ll succeed where you’re failing.”

Konstantin spun around to face his sister. “I will not fail.”

Ana approached him in earnest. “Trinity will step in if you do, and you know what that means? I’m expendable. They have no interest in my survival. I need the power of the Source!”

Konstantin’s anger softened. He put his hands on Ana’s frail shoulders. “And you will have it. Don’t lose faith, Ana. This is God’s will. Our success is inevitable.”

“Please, just find it. My time is running out.” She pulled from his grasp and left without another word.

Konstantin clenched his eyes shut and turned back to face the candlelit altar. He folded his hands in prayer and sunk to his knees.

“I’ve come so far. I’ve endured so much,” he prayed. “These final barriers you have set before me, these sins you have forced me to commit . . . they must have had a purpose.” He paused, clenching his hands tightly. “Only you can show me the way. Grant me strength to continue, for her. For you, for Trinity. Please . . . show me the way.”

He opened his eyes when he realized his hands were wet. He opened his hands to find that his stigmata were dripping with his blood.

“Then blood it shall be . . .” Konstantin muttered darkly.

* * *

His palms still dripping with blood, Konstantin trudged through the snow to another large, nondescript wooden shack not far from the chapel. He kicked open the door and found utter chaos inside. The air was rife with the smell of blood and burned flesh, and what few medics he had were running frantically between beds as more and more of the wounded were being brought in.

“I need to see Dr. Wilkens!” Konstantin shouted to anyone who was listening.

He spotted the petite brunette at the far corner of the infirmary and shoved his way through the pandemonium toward her.

“Jo!” he shouted.

She whirled around at the sound of his voice and spotted him immediately. She made her way toward him, and he opened his bloody hands.

“Charlie, you’re in charge here!” she shouted across the room. She pulled Konstantin toward the rear of the building into a secluded examination room.

“Sit down on the cot,” she said. She moved a small stool in front of him and took one of his hands into her own.

“The bleeding won’t stop,” Konstantin said gruffly.

“If you’d let me fix these wounds years ago, they wouldn’t still be doing this,” she scolded softly.

Jo pulled rubber gloves onto her hands and grabbed a medkit from the shelf behind them. She cleaned his wound and wrapped one of his hands in gauze.

“What’s going on out there? I don’t think we are prepared for this many casualties, Konstantin.”

Her question was met with silence. Konstantin did nothing but stare at his palm as a bright red circle of blood began to soak through the gauze.

“K?” Joanna asked again.

He met her eyes and sighed loudly. “We are losing our edge. We have hundreds of boots on the ground, the best weapons and equipment, yet we are losing ground to these savages. And Croft—don’t get me started on Croft.”

Joanna moved her stool closer to Konstantin so that she was sitting between his knees. She wrapped a bandage tightly around his right hand and started working on his left.

“I am failing,” Konstantin said after several moments of silence.

Joanna stopped working and grasped his hand between both of hers. “You are not failing. You’ve said it yourself, this path is not meant to be easy.”

“Ana is fading fast,” Konstantin begged. “Isn’t there something, anything, that you can do for her to buy us some more time?”

Joanna frowned. “At this stage in her disease, there is nothing more that can be done. And especially not out here. I’m not equipped.”

“What if we don’t find it in time?” he muttered.

“You will,” Joanna reassured. “I have faith in you. You are a strong and capable leader. You will succeed.”

He was hardly convinced.

“Konstantin,” Jo said, pulling her stool back and snapping the gloves off her hands, “Do you think that when you find the Source Rourke is just going to let you use it however you wish?”

As far as Konstantin was concerned, pretty boy Rourke could go straight back where he came from. He didn’t appreciate Trinity bringing in that arrogant little prick to run things. Rourke had been nothing but a thorn in his side since the day they met, always calling for status updates and making not-so-subtle threats. He marched into base camp like he owned the place, giving orders as if he’d been the one in charge from the beginning.

“Don’t worry about your little boyfriend. Once I have the Source it won’t matter what he—or Trinity—wants.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“I’ve seen the way he leers at you,” he said, clenching his jaw.

“Are you jealous, Konstantin? You can’t handle a little flirting?” Jo asked with a small smile. “Take your coat off.”

Konstantin obeyed but not without casting her a doubtful glance. He flinched when he felt her fingers pulling at the fabric of his black nylon shirt.

“What are you doing?” he growled.

“The best thing that you can do for your sister right now is have a clear mind. You are wound tighter than an eight-day clock,” Joanna said.

He felt her hands on his bare shoulders, her thumbs working into his stiff muscles. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. His mind was racing with thoughts of her. Of Croft. He’d been haunted by sinful fantasies since they met for the first time in Syria. Every time he was in her presence, he could feel the tension between them. He wanted to hate her. He needed to hate her. She was driving him mad.

Joanna sat back down on the stool in front of him and met his eyes, holding his gaze. The loyalty of this woman never ceased to amaze him. She had stood by him through this whole quest. She was there for him when his marriage fell apart. She was there when Ana was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had dug bullets out of him. She had seen him at his most vulnerable. She was always there. She had never lost faith in him, even when he lost faith in himself. She had loved him unconditionally. She didn’t deserve to be betrayed.

“I did something stupid,” Konstantin blurted.

Joanna raised her eyebrows. “What did you do?”

“Croft. I—I slept with Croft,” he said. He couldn’t believe those words just passed through his lips. Why had he been so damn stupid?

Joanna’s mouth dropped open. “How in the wide world of fuck did something like that happen?”

Konstantin passed a bandaged hand over his hair and said, “It just happened.”

Joanna’s lips fell into a frown. “It just happened?”

Konstantin struggled with his words. “I don’t know how—or why—it just did.”

“So like you were just walking along, doing Commander things, and suddenly—surprise—you put your dick in her?” Joanna spat. Her eyes were wide and wild.

Konstantin lowered his head. “She saved my life. After the bear attack. What I did was wrong . . . but it doesn’t change the fact that I liked it. I like her.” He couldn't believe he had just uttered those words. He did like her.

Joanna choked back a sob. “You know you’ll be shot if anyone finds out about this, right?”

“That’s why you’re going to keep your mouth shut,” he threatened.

“You have just thrown everything down the drain,” Joanna said in a low voice. “And for what? A backwoods booty call with Trinity’s fucking public enemy number one?”

“Joanna, please.”

“You should go,” Joanna said after a few moments of strained silence. “My people need me in there.”

Konstantin opened his mouth to speak, but she shut him down.

“I said go.”

She left the room without another word.

One day later...

Konstantin flew over the Chamber of Souls, pummeling the ruins with missile after missile. The chopper rocked as another fireball exploded in the air.

Konstantin roared in anger. “If there’s anybody left alive down there, I want her dead! That is your last order!”

His rage was like he had never experienced. He was seething with anger, his chest heaving and his face burning hot.

“Konstantin, you’ve got to land. Now. We’re on fire!” Jo cried.

Konstantin silenced her with a violent backhand and said, “No! This is my destiny!”

Jo touched her stinging cheek and said nothing. She unbuckled her seat belt and said, “Let me off, or I'm gonna jump off.”

“Not a chance,” he said.

“Let me off this fucking chopper now before you kill us both, Konstantin!” Jo screamed.

The chopper rocked again, and they started to spin out of control. Konstantin silently prayed as the craft began to free fall toward the Chamber of Souls below. The chopper slammed down through the roof of the ruins, and Jo was thrown violently against the dash panel. He stretched out his arm to grab her, locking his gloved hand around her wrist just as they crashed through another level. The sheer force of the impact ripped Jo away from him, and he watched in horror as she flew through the windshield, shattering it. Seconds later, with a deafening boom, the chopper hit bottom.

* * *

Konstantin couldn’t move. His ears were ringing, and his vision was blurry. Everything around him was searing hot. The craft was on fire. He had to get out, but his legs were leaden. He fumbled with the buckle on his seatbelt and managed to pry it loose. He swung his legs around and crawled from the twisted wreckage of the craft. He was horror-stricken when he saw the windshield had been reduced to shards. What was left of it was dripping with bright red blood.

“No, please, no,” Konstantin prayed. He crawled from the wreckage and managed to pull himself to his feet. He slowly walked in front of the burning chopper and squinted his eyes against the hot, bright flames all around him. The crash had completely destroyed the structure, and rubble lay everywhere.

Konstantin returned to the cockpit and retrieved an SMG. He clicked on the flashlight and washed the light all around, desperately searching for Jo. Just a few yards from the wreckage, he saw her.

She was crumpled on the hard stone only feet from him. Her dark hair was matted with blood. Her left arm was very clearly broken. Konstantin dropped to his knees beside her and rolled her onto her back. He pulled her hair back out of her face.

“NO!” he shouted. He pulled off his gloves and clutched her face in his hands. Her beautiful skin had been shredded by the glass. “Not you,” he begged. “Jo?” he said. He gently shook her shoulders, but she did not respond.

“Say something, goddammit!” he cried. He pressed his fingertips to her neck to neck for a pulse. He brought his cheek to her lips to see if she was breathing. “NO!” he shouted again. “Please, God, why her?”

She was dead. His best friend was dead. Lifeless. Because of him. His brain replayed the last moments he’d shared with her. He’d betrayed her. He’d hit her. Goddammit, why was he so stupid?

He realized then that the pursuit of the Divine Source had completely overtaken him. He didn’t recognize the person he’d become. He’d committed many sinful acts in God’s name in the pursuit of this artifact, and he felt sick. He felt tears, anger, and bile boiling up in his throat.

With tears streaming down his soot-covered face, Konstantin dug a rag from his pocket and began wiping the blood from Joanna's torn face. He smoothed her hair and moved her arms to her sides. He stared at her as the ruins burned around him.

Konstantin clenched his eyes shut and folded his hands. “Please . . . only you can show me the way. Grant me strength to continue. Please . . . show me the way. One last time.”

When Konstantin opened his eyes, he realized that maybe not all was lost. Croft was heading straight toward him, and she was totally unaware of his presence.

* * *

Jo woke with a gasp. She could smell nothing but smoke and tasted blood as she stared up at the sky above. The last thing she could remember was the chopper taking a hit, and she had no recollection of how she ended up where she was. Wincing with pain she examined her left arm. “Fuck,” she muttered. She held it close to her side and willed herself to sit up. She could hear voices somewhere in the distance and watched from afar as Lara prepared to swing her axe at Konstantin’s back.

Lara struck him, and he fell to one knee with an angry cry of pain. He struggled to get to his feet and swung his rifle toward her.

Lara pulled out her knife and drew back her arm. She drove the knife into his chest, butting the heel of her hand against the hilt to drive it in even farther.

Stunned, he dropped to his knees and fell to the ground, resting his weight on one arm.

“This…this was not my destiny,” he said slowly. “I was meant for greatness.”

“This was never your destiny,” Lara said, getting down on one knee beside him. “Your sister let you believe that.”

“I did all...all of this...for her,” he muttered.

An explosion at the entrance of the chamber startled Lara, and she stood up again, knowing it was only a matter of time before the fire engulfed the whole place.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Konstantin shouted. He was now sitting up again. “Wait! Trinity killed your father!”

“No, you’re lying!”

“He begged for his life. He begged for yours.”

“You’re wrong! Shut up, just shut up!”

“He was a pathetic man. I pitied him. I like to think his last thoughts were of you, Lara. Of how he drove you away. Of how he failed you. He would have held you back. You should be thanking me. It’s in your blood, Lara. You’re a coward, just like your father. You don’t have it in you to make the hard choices.”

Lara shook her head in disgust and said, “You’re not worth it.”

Once Lara was out of sight, Jo slowly walked toward Konstantin. He was laying on his side among the wrecked ruins of the chamber, clutching his chest and struggling to breath. Jo knelt down beside him.

“You're...alive,” Konstantin said, beginning to cough. “Go, get out of here before it’s too late.”

Tears were streaming down Jo’s cheek as she shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve got to get you out of here.”

“No,” Konstantin said firmly. “Go! I have failed...everything.”

Jo grabbed Konstantin’s knife and cut open his kevlar vest. She unzipped the leather jacket underneath and saw the bloody wound through his shirt underneath. She pulled off her own jacket and laid it over his chest.

Konstantin shook his head. “Go while you still can. God can’t even save me now.”

“God isn’t going to save you, but I am,” Jo muttered. She got to her feet and grabbed his arm to pull him up. He got to his feet with a groan of pain and slowly walked toward her.

“Here,” she said, pulling his arm up around her shoulders.

She managed to walk him to the crumbling steps leading out of the Chamber of Souls, and they found themselves face-to-face with what appeared to be an armor-clad soldier. He stopped suddenly and shouted something in a foreign language.

“Fuck,” Wilkens muttered.

The words no more than left her lips when the soldier raised his bow toward them and began firing arrows lit with bright blue flames.

Wilkens wrenched Konstantin’s pistol from the holster at his hip and began firing on the soldier, and the sound of bullets peppering the metal armor echoed all around them.

“Get back!” she shouted at Konstantin. She grabbed a rusted piece of metal from nearby and swung it at the soldier, knocking the helmet from his head.

It flew off with a clang, and Jo let out a piercing scream. The face beneath the helmet was covered with metal chainmail, but the eyes were like nothing she’d ever seen before. This soldier was not human—it was something else. The stunned soldier raised his bow in Jo’s face, and just as he drew his arm back, a spray of bullets obliterated his head.

Jo looked up to see Lara standing at the top of the stairs with a rifle. She blinked, and Lara was gone.

* * *

“What a fucking mess,” Commander Rourke muttered as he looked down at the smoldering ruins of Kitezh.

“Think there’s anybody alive down there?” the pilot shouted.

“Doubt it. Put us down in the courtyard over there, and we’ll do a sweep,” the younger man ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

As the chopper began its decent to the ground, the smell of charred flesh burned Rourke’s nose. The smell was unmistakable, and it instantly flooded him with memories of his time in Iraq.

Rourke turned to the small group of men seated in the rear of the chopper. “Gentlemen, fan out and sweep the area. Bring any survivors back, leave the rest behind.”

Rourke was the last to step out of the chopper. The team had their work cut out for them, that was certain. The city lay in ruins, and there were hundreds of men yet to be accounted for.

“Commander, over here! It’s Konstantin,” Rourke's second-in-command Winters muttered. “Or what’s left of him.”

“Shit.” Rourke scanned the area and noticed the body of another person sitting up against a piece of rubble not far from the body. He was entirely covered in blood.

“What do you want us to do with him?”

“Bring him back,” Rourke ordered. He knelt down beside the second body and fell back when his eyes opened.

“We got a live one!” he shouted. He reached his hand out and said, “Are you injured?” Well, isn’t that obvious, dumbass, he thought to himself.

“I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough,” a small voice croaked.

Rourke realized that it was a woman sitting in front of him, the team’s medic.

“Wilkens?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Are there any more survivors?” he asked hopefully.

“There’s a handful of them with minor injuries. I moved them near the entrance to the City.” The Doctor’s glance fell onto Konstantin.

“I—I did everything I could for him,” she said, her voice breaking. “I had no supplies, nothing to stop his bleeding. He doesn’t have long.”

Rourke grasped her arm and said, “We’ll take it from here. Come with me.”

He pulled her to her feet and walked with her toward the chopper.

Wilkens watched as the ruins disappeared beneath them. She sat back in her seat and stared straight ahead of her. Konstantin was laying on a stretcher at her feet with an oxygen mask over his face, watching her. She got comfortable and let her head drop onto Rourke’s shoulder.

“Rourke?”

“Yeah?”

“I quit.”

Rourke let out a chuckle. “We'll see about that, Wilkens.”

I've been writing this for a couple years now but never finished it or had the nerve to post any of it. Special thanks to SpiritWolf00 / embracetranquilityson for posting a magnificent Lara/Konstantin story (Fireflies) on AO3 to get the ball rolling again. Credit goes to SpiritWolf00 for the Lara/Konstantin bear cave reference.

#Rise of the Tomb Raider #lara croft #tomb raider fan fiction #konstantin #rourke

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mx-incognito · 2 years

Audio

(1990)

Heard a sermon from a creaky pulpit With no one in the nave I paid a visit to the synagogue And I left there feeling blame No one could tell me what to do No one had the capacity to answer me

What the world needs now Is some answers to our problems We can't buy more time 'Cause our tender isn't valid If your soul needs love You can get consoled by pity But it looks as though faith alone Won't sustain us no more

Watched the scientists throw up their hands Conceding progress will resolve it all Saw the manufacturers of earth's debris Ignore another Greenpeace call No one could tell me what to do No one had the ability to answer me

What the world needs now Is some accountability We can't buy more time 'Cause time won't accept our money If your soul needs love You can always have my pity But it looks as though faith alone Won't sustain us no more

No one can tell me what to do No one has the capacity to answer me

What the world needs now Is some answers to our problems We can't buy more time 'Cause our tender isn't valid What the world needs now Is some accountability

But faith alone won't sustain us anymore

#bad religion #faith alone #they called it 30+ years ago.#no one listened.#music

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agameforgoodchristians · 5 years

Text

Passing out in church, falling out a window, and breaking your neck (Acts 20:9)

Prologue: A Child in Church

I grew up in a denomination that celebrated Communion (aka the Eucharist) weekly. Before the actual breaking of bread (from a circular, unsliced loaf) and sharing of wine (from a single silver chalice) there was a lot silence wherein I tried not to fall asleep.

During this time, the men of the church would stand and deliver a prayer for the people, the church, local community, the country, and/or the world. And sometimes passive-aggressive statements, clearly directed at someone in the room. And sometimes the prayer felt like gossip, or Pharisaical-praise that the speaker was not like someone else. But mostly it was fine. Boring to a small child (and I have to assume most of the adults), but it was expected and accepted. Most weeks contained some "excitement."

There was one older gentleman who was never asked to preach during the regular service. So he used this time before Communion as his pulpit, always offering a mini-sermon presented in the guise of a prayer. I remember that he was clearly working his way through the book of Leviticus. However, whenever I would make this observation, my parents said it was not polite to draw direct attention to this fact. At least in public.

Obviously, I did everything in my power to avoid this time. Mostly unsuccessfully. When I was able to sneak out of the service, I would hide in the bathroom for as long as I could, attempt to silently play a solo game of foosball in the basement, or carefully head up the creaky stairs to the church library and read whatever looked interesting (apparently building the intellectual bench for these Card Talks decades before seminary). But I had to get out of those services, my current love of Leviticus notwithstanding. I needed to leave because staying and falling asleep was not an option. Death lay on the other side of that decision. And though my church believed in eternal security, there was a real possibility that my parents-- leaders in the church-- would take Deuteronomy 21:18–21 to heart and murder me. Falling asleep during church was one of the “unpardonable sins.”

So When the story of Eutychus was presented in Sunday school, I felt connected to the guy.

On Sermons, Sleep, and Cracked Skulls

On the first day of the week, when we met to break bread, Paul was holding a discussion with them; since he intended to leave the next day, he continued speaking until midnight. There were many lamps in the room upstairs where we were meeting.

A young man named Eutychus, who was sitting in the window, began to sink off into a deep sleep while Paul talked still longer.

Overcome by sleep, he fell to the ground three floors below and was picked up dead.

But Paul went down, and bending over him took him in his arms, and said, “Do not be alarmed, for his life is in him.” Then Paul went upstairs, and after he had broken bread and eaten, he continued to converse with them until dawn; then he left.

Meanwhile they had taken the boy away alive and were not a little comforted.

~ Acts 20:7-12 (NRSV)

The Blame Game

Broadly speaking, there are two camps of interpretive thought on this passage. Two different types of sermons that get preached, and they both revolve around who should be blamed for this situation: Paul or Eutychus.

"The Blame Paul Sermon"

This sermon, usually attempting to be humorous, focuses on the fact that Paul was preaching for too damn long.

Paul is leaving the next day and they assembled observe the breaking of the bread together. In fact, some scholars note this as one of the first recorded examples of Communion being celebrated by the early Church. But there is one problem during this celebration: Paul couldn’t stop talking. He had soooooooooooo much to say. His words, his insights were soooooooooo important, everyone was held captive listening. So much so that that they had to light candles and lamps. So much so that he kept going until midnight.

And then Eutychus, heavy with sleep, fell out of third floor window to the hard ground below, and he died.

There is some debate about this point, but let's be clear: he was dead. Some make the argument that the fall would have been enough for Eutychus to be knocked out and/or concussed, but that he was not dead. But consider the following:

The Greek says that he was perceived as dead by those who got to him first.

The writer of Acts is Luke, a doctor. If he meant to say "he got a serious boo boo on his noggin," he would have communicated that. Instead he said "dead."

"Eutychus" is a Greek name that translates to mean "lucky" or "fortunate." Having Paul there to bring him back to life is more "lucky" than merely being concussed.

Vs 12 makes the point to say that the boy was alive, and employs a litotes when saying the people were “not a little comforted” (NRSV). A litotes is a figure of speech. It’s a form of understatement which uses a negative statement to ironically express a belief about something. Instead of making a direct statement about something, the opposite is said to not be true (c.f. Acts 19:24; 21:39). In other words, the people were VERY comforted and amazed by Paul's action. This reaction makes sense for an actual resurrection, not something that could be solved with bed-rest and a cold compress.

In short, Eutychus was dead. But he died because Paul couldn't shut up. And even after the traumatic turned miraculous event, Paul still didn't shut up. He keeps talking until dawn. And then he left.

The "Blame Paul" sermon can be a call for religious leaders to check themselves:

Yes, you do great work, but at what cost? Have you considered the actual needs of those around you, not just what you think they need?

Maybe you're making a mess of things you'll have to clean up later. Makie sure the gifts you want to use are actually needed in the situation.

Are you putting unfair stress on your laity and fellow clergy due to your actions.

and of course

Stop preaching for so long. No one can follow all of that, you're including too many arcane details that are over our heads, it seems like you just like to hear the sound of your own voice, the Sunday morning service is lacking in other areas because it is monopolized by your sermon. (etc)

The list goes on. And to be clear, this doesn't just have to be a list of gripes. There are legitimate concerns for church organization, governance, polity, and pastoral activities that can come out of this sermon. As well as a lot of humor.

"The Blame Eutychus Sermon"

This sermon, generally more serious, focuses on physical laxity as a sign of moral laxity. That Eutychus' situation is a metaphor for the dangers of not being alert to physical and spiritual dangers. This sermons is in part predicated on the information we have about Paul's life.

Eutychus had to know how important Paul's time was: Paul was running for his life from the authorities, and only had limited time to present Eutychus' community with holy words and instructions. And don't forget, we consider Paul's words to such communities so important we've codified a significant portion of them in the New Testament (as well as a bunch that weren't written by him, but we pretend they should still bare his name. We're looking at you Pastoral Epistles, among others).

With this in mind: Eutychus. Brother. You're getting divine revelations, wisdom from the horse's mouth as it were, and you can't stay awake for that? Seriously? What the Hell dude?

The “blame Eutychus” sermon often ties into the “stay awake” motif of the New Testament: that sleeping is in opposition to watchfulness, as in the case of the disciples in the garden of Gethsemane.

There is also then significance of the lights mentioned in verse 8: they represent the revelation/truth provided by Paul, which Eutychus was missing out of. And there is almost nothing worse in the Bible than denying/ignoring revelation. By this rationale, Eutychus got exactly what he deserved, and was "lucky" that Paul brought him back to life. Since the light/sermon was the most important thing, Paul continued preaching once the young man was back on his feet: nothing should stop the light of God from shining.

The "Blame Eutychus" sermon can be a call for followers to check themselves

It asks the question(s):

What is it you had to do that was so much more important than hearing and following the words of God?

What are those things you're prioritizing over the divine will?

Wonder how that lack of focus will pay off for you? Maybe you'll break your neck. Hope someone is there to put you back together again, spiritual humpty dumpty!"

Both/And Blame

But is there a middle ground? Is it possible for a both/and sermon sermon from this passage?

Yes, Eutychus fell asleep, which fits the biblical tropes and motif of spiritual inattentiveness, but damn it Paul, church leaders need to not place heavy burdens on their followers.

Remember, the author of this passage also wrote the following in Luke:

One of the lawyers answered him, “Teacher, when you say these things, you insult us too.” And he said, “Woe also to you lawyers! For you load people with burdens hard to bear, and you yourselves do not lift a finger to ease them. (Luke 11:45-46)

We're not saying Paul was as bad as the Pharisees... wait. Yes, we are. Paul WAS a Pharisee. So maybe old habits die hard. But here's the point: teachers are required to bring enlightenment to their students and followers, but that enlightenment needs to be presented in a way that can be absorbed. The message can be lost because of the messenger, as much as it can be lost because of the receiver (as shown in the Parable of the Sower).

Perhaps those of us who are followers need to ask what we "stay awake" for, what we attend to, what we feel is important in our lives?

Perhaps those of us who are leaders need to ask whether we are helping or hindering people from focusing on the important things in their lives?

Perhaps we can all do a better job of keeping our heads.

But what do we know: we made this game and you probably think we're going to Hell.

#Acts 20:9 #Sleeping #Falling out windows #Paul #Eutychus #Church #d #Resurrection #Teachers

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