#most of your Jewish friends probably think you’re one bad conversation away from cheering for our deaths | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cecilspeaks · 4 years

Text

162 - “Alpha”

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Fear makes the heart grow louder. And death makes the heart grow flowers. Welcome to Night Vale.

Amelia Anna Alfaro was always the best at everything. On the day she was born, she was named the healthiest baby at Night Vale General Hospital. The doctors had never seen a healthier baby. “What a healthy baby,” they said from behind a bullet proof two-way mirror, as they operated the robotic arms that carefully held the infant aloft. The doctors high-fived each other, missing slightly. The trick, by the way, is to keep your eye on the other person’s elbow. That or glue high-powered magnets to each person’s hand. And all of the nurses cheered from dozens of feet down the hallway, where they were playing with a standard Tarot deck, common in most neonatal units. This cheering was unrelated to Amelia’s birth. The nurses had drawn the ten of swords, which is everyone’s favorite card. It features a relaxed man receiving acupuncture by a river.

Amelia learned to walk at 4 months, and to talk at 6 months. She read Plato’s “Republic” for the first time at age 4. She taught herself German and began to write sonnets in that language at age 7. At age 10, she won her first engineering competition after designing a concrete canoe that could float even on the most turbulent water. There is no body of water in Night Vale, so she had to prove her work using a software she wrote that generated three-dimensional models to corroborate her advanced mechanical physics formulas. She even won the state spelling bee five years in a row, from ages 9 to 13. Her streak was only broken when the spelling bee was canceled, after the sponsors lost their dictionary.

Amelia was always the best, and her mother knew it. Her mother was proud of her daughter, or rather, her mother was proud of herself for producing such a daughter. Or rather, she was proud of both, in a way that was difficult for them to untangle. Amelia’s mother was named Yvette. Yvette could not afford much for her daughter. She worked long hours to earn the respect of her bosses, which (-) [0:04:32] her promotions and larger paychecks, but Yvette had hit the glass ceiling. She did not want this limitation for her daughter. Her daughter would need to be smarter, more talented, and more driven than she. Yvette wanted Amelia’s value to the world to be so great that no one could deny her success.

Yvette recognized Amelia’s specialness and pushed hard to make her even more special, signing Amelia up for athletics and adult learning classes and piano lessons. Amelia sometimes pushed against this. “Mother, I don’t want to” was met with, “But you will, Amelia.” “Why?” was met with, “Because I said so.” “I hate you for this” was met with, “You will love me for it later.”

Begrudgingly, Amelia fulfilled her mother’s wishes. It wasn’t because she understood her mother’s motivation to secure her child a better life, nor was it because Amelia did not have the stomach to fight back. No, Amelia did it because it all came so easy. She was a black belt, a sharp shooter, an academic decathlon champion. She wrote her first novel at age 12, it was called “A Golden Age for Parachuting”, in which an all-Jewish female parachute team wins Olympic gold in 1936 Berlin in front of Adolf Hitler. In the publisher’s rejection letter, the editor said the novel was “immaculately written, however parachuting stories are out of vogue. Do you have anything about magical baseball players?” Amelia did. It was a novel called “One Last Swing for the Tuesday Boys”, but she had written it in German and did not have time to translate the “Dienstag Jungen” manuscript, because she was currently taking a course on bird husbandry.

Yvette enrolled the teenage Amelia in night classes at the community college, where she took English 113, “Sonnets are for lovers”; structural engineering 212, “Buttress is a funny word”; and meteorology 301, “Clouds y’all, amirite?” She earned all As and scores for college credit before she even graduated high school. None of these challenges were difficult for Amelia. She was the best at everything.

But her life was not perfect. Because of the voices. It was the voices that made life hard for Amelia. From birth, she heard the constant chatter of dozens of people. None of the voices spoke directly to Amelia, they just talked and talked about their lives, and Amelia was afraid of the voices and what the voices might imply about herself. She found solace in puzzles, crosswords, nonograms, acrostics, cryptics, Sudoku, which I think is the one where you have to catch a bunch of marbles with a lever operated hippopotamus. Her mother hated Amelia’s puzzle vice. If she caught Amelia doing puzzles, Yvette would make Amelia go practice archery or write poetry or at least listen to classical music. Amelia’s favorite was Van Cliburn’s masterful 1961 record of Rachmaninoff’s “Piano Concerto nr 13: Knuckles on the Black Keys”. When she was thinking through the solution of a puzzle, the voices did not speak to her. All was silent. It was her only time of peace. It was the only time her body could rest and curl up comfortably into her own thoughts. Anything that took her away from her logic problems including music, no matter how soothing, invited the voices back into Amelia’s thoughts.

Amelia was accepted to several top colleges across the country, including MIT, Stanford, Rice and The University of What It Is, but she wanted to stay near her home town and her family, so she went to State. Hey, that’s where my brother-in-law went! Go State! [chuckles] Ahem. She was elected the youngest president of the student body ever at age 17, and graduated valedictorian two years later. Her friends, her professors, her mother all knew the world was Amelia’s. She could become poet laureate or a senator or a supreme court justice or a quantum physicist. But she became none of those. This is not to say Amelia was not successful or that she amounted to nothing. It is to say, the semantics of success were her own and no one else’s. Amelia became an air traffic controller. The voices never told Amelia to become an air traffic controller, they were never that specific. The voices did not tell her to do anything, they simply talked about first dates, about apartment hunting, about their grandmothers’ improved health, about a bad movie they sort of loved. None of the voices talked directly to her, it was simply as though she overheard conversations from lives lived somewhere else. Other people and their quotidian hopes and worries and interests. She tried seeing therapists and psychiatrists. She tried medication to stop the voices, but nothing worked. Eventually she decided they were not harmful voices and that she was not dealing with schizophrenia. She simply heard people talking at all hours about all things, having nothing to do with her. And they never told her to become an air traffic controller. Amelia chose her own career, her own path. Others though the reason was that it was the fist job opportunity to present itself for her. Maybe it was her admiration of aircraft, maybe a moral sense of serving humanity through public safety and comfort. In fact, it was none of these reasons. But it should not be surprising to know that Amelia was very good at air traffic control. She was calm, clear, and efficient. The Night Vale international airport, although when Amelia started it was just a commuter hub, has never had a high volume of plane traffic and almost all of those are departures. There are very few arrivals. My husband Carlos, he’s a scientist and he is also very good at his job, tells me that it’s impossible to have far more departures than arrivals, but I told him, not everything has to make sense all the time.

So, in some ways, air traffic control in Night Vale was easier for Amelia than just about any other class or job or task she’d ever attempted. It appeared from the outside to be far below her capabilities. She held that job for 20 years, even taking over as president of the Night Vale chapter of air traffic controllers’ union. In 2004, she was featured in the cover of “Afformative”, a monthly trade magazine for air traffic controllers. The headline of the article was “You’re cleared for success”. In 2006, she was asked to deliver the keynote speech at the annual Roger Con, a conventional for air traffic controllers and fans of air traffic control. It’s a huge deal, held every year in Orlando. People dress like their favorite airline pilots and wait in long lines for autographs from top flight attendants. There are even panel discussions about everything from the best textiles for seat cushions to secret first class meal offerings. Amelia was the best at what she did. She probably would have been the best poet laureate or senator, but this was the path she chose. She chose this path because of the voices, not from what they said, but what they didn’t say. When Amelia was in the control tower, when she was communicating with captains and co-pilots and navigators, her head was clear. All was silent. It was like those many nights, sneaking a copy of the crossword from the newspaper on the kitchenette and solving it by flashlight under her covers. She became an air traffic controller to be by herself, to become her own person. Her mother was disappointed, but loved her in spite of it. Her professors were let down, but still had many fabulous of their greatest student. Her friends were just happy she was happy.

Things changed on June 15, 2012, when Delta flight 18713 made radio contact. In her tall tower, at her tiny airport, in the middle of a vast desert, in the middle of the American Southwest, an airplane appeared on Amelia’s radar. It was carrying 143 passengers and 6 crew members and was flying from Detroit to Albany over the great lakes of the American Northeast. It appeared briefly, the green dot blinking in and out of existence like the sun glinting off a water ripple. It was almost unnoticeable. But everyone noticed it. Later, Amelia was the only one who admitted to noticing it. The radio transmission was equally brief, a surge of static and only one word, difficult to discern but she heard it. “Alpha” was the single word. The letter A in the Nato alphabet. It was garbled, so maybe it wasn’t that word, maybe it was some more adult variation of “Oh fudge”. Alpha. Oh fudge. It was unclear. Amelia requested identification of the aircraft. She requested further communication, but nothing came. As soon as it had squawked, it had gone silent. But while the radio communication was silent, the voices were not. On June 15, 2012, upon hearing a word that sounded like “alpha”, these myriad conversations returned. No one else in the tower could hear them, but Amelia Anna Alfaro could. And for the first time in her life, she began to speak back to them. Everyone else in the tower could hear that. The voices did not cease. The voices continued for days and days and Amelia tried to talk back with them. As one voice said: “I have an interview on Monday,” Amelia would ask “for what job” or if a voice said, “We went to Palm Springs on vacation,” Amelia would say, “Did you also travel out to the Salton Sea?” But over and over, no response. The voices did not affect the quality of Amelia’s work, but it did affect the perceived quality of her work, and her colleagues became uncomfortable with and distrusting of Amelia.

A month later, Amelia heard that word again from one of the voices. “Alpha”. The same voice that radioed in June. But upon hearing it again, she realizes that they didn’t say “alpha” at all. What they said, coming up.

But first The weather.

[“Skinchanger” by Skeptic skepticdeath.bandcamp.com]

The voices said “Alfaro”. The word had been truncated just as the airplane’s appearance in Night Vale had been truncated. The voice saying the word was the captain of the aircraft, and he had been trying to tell Amelia something. The pilot was trying to tell Amelia that he knew her, had always known her since her birth. He didn’t know how he knew her, just that he did, and he wanted to tell her he had found her. And she should find him. “Where are you,” Amelia asked the captain. “No Where,” the voice said. “Did you land?” Amelia asked. “Yes,” the voice said. “Were there injuries?” Amelia asked. “Minor,” the voice said. “Do you hear the other voices too?” Amelia asked. “Yes,” the captain said. “I’m with them right now. Find us, Amelia.” “Where are you?” Amelia asked again, louder, more scared than before. “No Where,” the voice said, not like the vague concept of in no place but No Where, two words capitalized like the name of a specific place. Amelia felt a tap on her shoulder. It was another air traffic controller. “Uh, boss wants to see you, Amelia,” they said. But Amelia did not go to see the boss. She knew. She knew her time in the tower was done. She grabbed her belongings and walked to the elevator, out across the tarmac to a shuttle to a parking lot and into her car, and no one saw her again. Her friends said she always talked about going back to school to get an advanced degree. Maybe she went to Stanford. Or Rice, or The University of What It Is. Other friends said she had lost all touch with reality, talking to people who were not there, and maybe her mother checked Amelia into the Night Vale asylum.

Yvette says Amelia knew too much, that agents from a vague yet menacing government agency had been to their house and that Amelia must have been taken to a secret location. Representatives from the National Safety and Transportation Bureau in Washington, DC, came to Night Vale two months ago to investigate the disappearance of flight 18713. They are on an undercover mission inside the Night Vale asylum right now, on a tip from Sheriff Sam, to discover more clues into this mystery. Perhaps Amelia is in there too. But I don’t think so. I think she went to find the plane. I think the voices were the passengers on Delta 18713. I think she set out looking for them. Perhaps wandering the desert, the great No Where, to find the people who had been a part of her life since birth.

Amelia. Anna. Alfaro. was always the best at everything. And if anyone will find the plane, she will.

Stay tuned next for our new investment advice show “Billionaire Roulette”.

And as always, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Love means never having to say “you’re a werewolf”.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv transcripts #episode 162 #alpha

68 notes · View notes

dearmrsbitch · 4 years

Text

March 5, 2020 - And the Christians and the Pagans sat together at the table...

Q. Can’t support a pagan friend: I’m a thirtysomething who lives in a midsize West Coast city with very liberal sensibilities that I share. There’s a reason I moved here! I am also a Christian who goes to a mainstream Protestant church. I’ve never seen much disconnect between the two and I have many friends of other faiths, primarily Muslim and Jewish, whose religious functions I sometimes attend, like a wedding or a child’s entry into life or their religion. I value getting to experience these things with my friends and learning more about them, their religions, and the world. I grew up poor in the South but was lucky that we were always clean, well-fed, and warm. A good friend who lived in my neighborhood could not say the same and her unfortunate start in life has affected her ability to thrive as an adult. She is divorced from an abusive husband, in recovery for alcoholism, and trying to support two children with little help from her ex and often active hindrance from her dysfunctional family. Health issues make it hard for her to work, and poverty gets in the way of her work as well, as she sometimes can’t afford a uniform she needs or fix her car to get to work, and has been fired from one position because of her bad teeth that are a result of years of not having money to care for them. I have a lot of sympathy for her and her children.

She has written a few children’s books about her faith and has set up a small independent internet business to offer services connected with her belief system. I would love to support her, but she is pagan/Wiccan. This isn’t exactly a problem, as I don’t think it’s immoral. I just don’t want a children’s book on spells or to spend money on a tarot reading. My old friend spends a lot of time online talking about things like her “marriage” to a Norse deity that just make me roll my eyes in a way I know I should be ashamed about. I could probably get over my aversion to this and at least donate to her nonreligious crowdsourcing page that is just asking for money for utilities and food for her kids, but she also spends a lot of time online talking about how awful Christians are. Just Christians. While I know I’m not fully supportive of her faith, at least I know it’s bad of me to judge her on hers. I would never publicly demean her or her religion, much less do it several times a week. I feel so bad for her and would like to help, but every time I get close to donating, I just think about how much she hates people of my faith. Should I donate anyway?

Dear Christian type person,

Well, I think you’re all being deluded, but that aside....

Look, I’m a hardcore atheist, but when I get invited to a religious event, like a baptism, Bat Mitzvah, etc., I bring a gift, I spend money, I sit through nasty religious wedding services that declare marriage only between a man and a woman and bite my tongue because I don’t want to interrupt my friend’s vows with the priest their mom told them to get or she wouldn’t pay, etc.

If you’re comfy buying a gift for a Bris, you can buy a book from her. Donate it to a library or the Spiral Scouts, or something pagan friendly. It’s all the same. If you’re spending money on a Muslim themed gift for your friend, you can spend money on a Pagan book. Because from the outside, it looks like you’re okay with conferring with other “People of the Book,” but like, fuck them pagans.

Most of your rituals come from the Pagans by the way, your religion at this point, besides the Monotheism (with a trinity?) has more in common with modern day Wicca than you think, except, you all hate gays and women, where most Pagans are cool with that.

Light your Christmas tree, worship your chocolate bunnies.. burn your incense in temple.

Now, let me surprise you. I’m not anymore a fan of Paganism than of any other religion, they just sit a bit higher because they aren’t as much of assholes as the rest of the faiths usually. They drink more, fuck more, dance more, etc. Less hateful usually. But I laugh as much as being married to a Norse god as you do - however, how are those nuns doing that are married to Christ? Cause either you see the hypocrisy there, or you’re just prejudiced because one is you, and one is them. Pagan religions invented the idea of being a “bride of a god,” long before the big three were a blip on the map.

Her ideas pre-date yours, and even if they’re not mentally healthy, you have to remember that they don’t seem normal because you live in a heavily Christian society. A society that she has to contend with on a daily basis. One that mocks her, one that discredits her views. ONE WHERE DAMN NEAR EVERY POLITICIAN LEGISLATES IN ACCORDANCE TO CHRISTIANITY WITH NO RESPECT FOR OTHERS.

People are allowed to be upset about the dominant view of a society if they are a minority group that is essentially - doing nothing wrong. She’s existing as a pagan, and maybe her religious beliefs are that churches should pay their taxes, child genital mutilation should be outlawed, etc etc., and she has no chance to see her religion respected in the same way that yours is. You may be liberal, but, little one, you are still adhering to a system that is overall, highly conservative, demeans women, donates to vicious shock therapy programs that cause teens to kill themselves when they can’t “pray the gay away,” and HIDES THE SYSTEMATIC RAPE AND ABUSE OF CHILDREN. (Protestants too, Catholics just like to rape boys more. Get the sexism there? Our society cares less about the little girls raped in Protestant churches than the little boys in Catholic ones.)

God damn. Fuck. How do you not see this? I have a friend whose husband is a super hippy Christian dude. He had to vet every charity he gave to. You know why? Because even the most progressive looking Christian charities can have their money funneled to gay conversion therapy, or to the Salvation army that turns away gay people and transgender individuals who need a place to sleep. He didn’t find one really good religious charity that he felt he could trust beyond a shadow of a doubt to trust with his parishioners donations. No matter how liberal you are - you still sucking on Chick-Fil-A and acting like bigot chicken ain’t a big deal.

She has a right to criticize the religion as a whole. If she lived in Israel, she’d be upset about Jewish law, in a Muslim country, Sharia law. Because the big three aren’t fair and just in their application of law. Sure she’s got a chip on her shoulder and maybe her whole life is her fault, but she still gets to complain that the dominant religion of the country, one that professes “Love your neighbor,” does not have national healthcare, and churches are basically tax shelters for money that could do so much for all of us, and that evangelicals cheer on the caging of children just because they are brown. If you love Jesus so much, then FUCKING ACT LIKE HIM. Christians in this country, by and large, would be hated by Jesus, loathed even for the sheer hypocrisy. Watch “Jesus Camp,” those are the fucks she’s railing against.

And you, you my dear liberal Christian. What would he say about you? He picked up several people maligned by society and took them in, and fed them, and helped them. He commanded you to do unto others, and do good in his name. And she is asking for donations to help with utilities and food for her kids, and you’re upset because you don’t like her Facebook quotes.

People like you are why I left religion finally, entirely. I realized there was no amount of religion than can make a good person do more good, but religion will make a good person do bad things, in its name.

Mrs. Bitch

#dearmrsbitch #dear prudie #bigots #religious nuts #religious idiots

4 notes · View notes

imaginesmai · 5 years

Text

Ubbe-The sweet baker and the bad biker (SOA AU) (3)

Part three is finished! The series will have five parts. Original idea by lovely @recklesslonelyblond, hope you like it!

I don’t have a lot of time to write lately, so I’m only writting about what I feel really really inspired; because otherwise I wouldn’t get anything done. I’m sorry I’m so absent, I will come back to normal posting in June, hopefully!

Previous parts: Part 1, Part 2

Plot: Ubbe’s life is perfect with you; but it’s about to get shaken up becuase your problematic and nazi neighbours.

Warnings: talking about Nazis so-> discrimination towards black and jewish people, women; too much violence and bad words. I DO NOT SUPPORT ANY OF THIS THOUGHTS OR ACTIONS; THEY ARE PART OF A BAD CHARACTER

Wednesday was being without any doubt the worst day of your week. Usually, you didn’t have problems in the bakery, but that day was hell. First, you had to deal with some painting in the door; you thought about calling Ubbe and ask him for help. He had told you in numerous occasions that he would be there for you always. But it was eight in the morning, and you knew the night before he had a party in the club; so you dealt with it yourself. After getting raw and bleeding hands from scrubbing so hard, the second problem appeared.

Since you came to Charming, the place next to your bakery had been closed. It was a small store that, in that moment, was being filled with a lot of boxes of something unknown for you. Whatever it was, it made people keep their distance; in all morning, you only had two customers, one of them being cheerful Hvitserk.

- Hey, Hvitty. -you smiled softly. -Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in days.

- I’ve been in charge of the porn studio. -the smile on his face tells you everything you need to know. -Turns out Margarethe can-

- Oh god, shut up! -you laughed.- I don’t want to hear what you do out there.

- Your miss, Y/N. -he smiled, walking to the kitchen. -This is too empty today, isn’t it?

- Yeah, I guess. -you shrugged. -I have a few things to do, so I kind of cheer to that. Have you had breakfast?

It was common for Hvitserk to appear in your bakery early in the morning. In the club, the most he could get was some coffee and, if he was lucky, a raw cookie. But when he came to the bakery, you spoiled him like a little kid, and he always ended up with stomach ache for eating so much. You kept talking to him as he stuffed his mouth with muffins.

- What’s on your hands? -he asked, looking down to your hands for the first time. They were still red and shaking; and they hurt so much you were finding it difficult to even make the dough of your new cake.

- Oh, I’ve been cleaning the door this morning. There were some paintings on it.

- That’s not from just some paintings. -he frowned. -It must have been big. Why didn’t you call us? I’m sure Ubbe would have rushed here in his pyjamas.

You blushed at his words, trying to hide a small smile. It was no secret to anyone who knew you that you liked Ubbe; and his little brother, who spent too much time with you, knew it better than anyone.

- I didn’t want to bother anyone. I could handle it alone.

- Yeah, sure. -he mocked. -You should probably have someone look at that hands.

- I’m fine, Hvitty. Really.

- Let me help you with that. -he got up from the shelf he was sitting in and, after putting the last piece of muffin on his mouth, walked towards you. -What are you doing?

- I’m not letting you near this. -you laughed, blocking the bowl with your body. -Last time I did, we had to use the fire extinguisher.

- Don’t remind me. -he scoffed. -I had Ubbe eating my ear for a week.

- You had it coming ac-

The sound of the little bell at your door interrupted you. Happily, you cleaned your hands with a rag and walked outside the kitchen. There were two options; it could be a costumer, who you would be more than happy to attend, or it could be Ubbe. If it was the last one, you day would get a lot better. But it wasn’t your bad biker who was on the door, neither some cute neighbour who came by to ask for some traits. In front of you stood a big man, you could even say an enormous one. He was nearly twice your height and nearly three times wider. What really scared you was the tattoos on his neck; they were all relate with the Nazis. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and black pants, making you think that, if that man gave you a swift kick, he could send you to another dimension.

You didn’t know how much time you spent staring at him when he finally spoke.

- Good morning. -his voice, as you had imagined, was deep and sent chills by your spine.

- H-hi. -you cleared your throat a bit. -How can I help you?

- Are you the owner of this place?

Usually, you were proud of you bakery. You always talked about it like it was your second child; behind Sully, of course. That time, when you nodded, you felt like it hadn’t been such a good idea. He smiled, like he had just received the best news of his life.

- We’re the owners of the shop next to you. -he said. -Just opened today, thought we could have a look around to see who’s going to be our neighbour.

- Oh, and what is your shop about? -you tried to smile but it felt forced even for you.

- Cigars, pures, that shit. I’m Weston, by the way. -he put an arm out for you.

- I’m Y/N, the owner of the bakery. -you took your hand in his, noticing how he used the opportunity to pull you a little closer. -If you need anything, you know where to find me.

- Actually I-

- Hey Y/N, I think I messed up the dough. -Hvitserk’s voice interrupted him.

Hvitserk got out of the kitchen with his hands stained with flour, his hair in a messy bun and with crumbs of cookies in his t-shirt. In any other occasion, you would have scolded him for touching what you told him not to, yet you were grateful for his appearance. Maybe he wasn’t Ubbe, but the SAMCRO’s vest was well known in all Charming.

- I thought you worked alone. -Weston’s voice made Hvitserk look up surprised. -And that the sons were only related with guns and scum, not with bakery.

- What are you doing here? -Hvitserk’s voice changed, loosing the soft tone he used with you. -Get the fuck out, man.

- Hey, I was just having a conversation with my neighbour! -he laughed. -Not that you would understand about business.

- I swear that if you don’t-

- What are you going to do, hm? -Weston moved forwards, and you found yourself nearly running behind Hvitserk. -Your black friends are going to come here and help you? Or have they run back to their country?

- You’re not welcomed here, Weston. -Hvitserk’s hand moved to his gun. -Not here, not in Charming.

- Too bad I already own a shop right next to your baker. -he raised a brow. -I’ve heard that she was Ubbe’s, but I guess you don’t mind sharing, do you?

- Have you not hear me? -Hvitserk moved and placed himself in front of Weston, not showing any fear. -Get. The fuck. Out of here. And don’t fucking come back.

- Whatever you say, big boy. -Weston said before winking at you. -See you later, Y/N.

Hvitserk scoffed when the door finally closed, turning to look at you. You were still in the same position, looking at him with a lot of questions in your eyes. Without making you wait longer he began talking.

Turned out, the sons had already met Weston. He was part of a supremacist white-power gang, similar to SAMCRO, who had just moved to Charming. Along with his mate Darby they had been giving problems to the sons for a while; they were racists, Nazis and all the bad things a person could be, so they had been messing around too much. A few weeks ago they had their first fight with the sons; Ubbe made sure they understood the message by killing two or three guys, and by taking their guns away. However, it seemed that it didn’t work so well on them.

- I think you should close for the day. -he gave you a half smirk. -I’m going to head to the porn studio to finish some things, but as soon as I get out, I’ll talk to my mom and to the guys, I promise.

- Okay. -you said. -Do…Is Ubbe busy?

- For you? My brother is never busy for you, Y/N. -Hvitserk laughed. -He could literally jump out of the window to see you.

- You’re an idiot, Hvitty. -you smiled. -I’ll close this up and take a free day. Do you think you can give me a ride?

While you turned everything off and closed the door, Hvitserk smoked outside. He was worried about Weston. Even if at first it hadn’t been a big threat to the club, he didn’t like the fact that he knew you were close to Ubbe. In the year you had been living there, everyone had taken a liking to you. So he didn’t like the idea of some supremacist idiots talking to you.

Hvitserk had brought the van with him. He was the only son who, although having a bike, preferred to use a car. The ride there was filled with laughs, jokes and a call to Ubbe where you asked him to go to your flat. The younger brother could hear his worried voice and caring tone through the phone, and rolled his eyes. After leaving you in your door and waiting for you to give him the thumbs up from the window, he left. A storm was coming and he was feeling it.

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

Ubbe had woken up early. Usually, he was the one closing after a party, or even sleeping in the couch with some random and nameless girl. He used to love going out until late nights, inviting all types of people and drinking and smoking the weirdest thing. But the previous night, as a girl from the porn studio called Margarethe was talking to him, he could only think about you. He had been busy with the supremacist white-power gang for a while, and he had been spending less time with you. So he decided to leave the girl mid-sentence and went to sleep. When he woke up, he made everything he needed to do so that he could be with you earlier. Until he got the call.

He was talking to his mother when his phone vibrated. At first, he smiled at your name, and he walked out of the room to talk to you. You weren’t the type of girl who asked for him; not that he didn’t like that, he loved it. Yet he found it strange that you were asking him to go to your flat. As the words “problems with some guys” left your mouth, he ran towards his bike and was in your apartment in less than five minutes. Ubbe jumped two stairs at a time, and finally knocked at your door a little too roughly. A happy barking Sully greeted him; but he could only focus on your fake smile.

- What has happened? -he asked as he pet Sully subconsciously. -Is Hvitserk still here? Has he waited-

- No, he isn’t. -you let out a soft laugh, playing with your hands that were hiding in the pocket of your sweatshirt. -And yes, he has waited until I’ve given him the thumbs up.

- He should have waited until I arrived. -Ubbe scoffed.

- Don’t be so harsh on him. -you smiled. -I told him to go.

- I’m being harsh on him because something could have happened. What if those guys had come back? Who were they by the way?

- I’ve prepared some hot chocolate. It’s pretty cold outside, why don’t we sit and we can talk? -before he answered, you spoke again. -I’ve put some cream on yours.

- You’re so good, darling.

He wrapped his arms around your body, noticing just then how tensed you were. You stood like that for a while, enjoying his lips on your head and his warmth. Maybe it was because of the weather or because of Weston’s eyes, but you were cold to the bone. Ubbe didn’t move neither, not even with Sully tried to fit between both of you.

- Everything’s going to be fine, Y/N. -Ubbe said, putting one hand behind your head, and pulling you closer. -I’m here now, nothing’s going to happen.

- I know. -you whispered.

His heart ached at your broken whisper, wanting nothing more than to ran towards whoever made you feel that way and stick his gun into his ass. However, he stayed with you; drank your hot chocolate and enjoyed your company while Sully slept at his feet. He listened to you as you talked about Weston and the bakery’s door.

- I… didn’t thought it was related. -you said as he held your hands, running his thumbs across your raw fingers.

- What was the paint about?

- Random things, but there were a lot of Nazis’ symbols. -you sighed. -Also, there were some rude comments about black people. I don’t- why would someone think like that, Ubbe? That’s not fair.

- They will be out of Charming before you know it, darling. -he smiled at you. -And from now on, I’ll have someone with you always, alright? If I’m not, then a prospect, Hvitserk or Tig will be.

- I’m sure they have better things to do.

- Better than keep you safe? Y/N, I won’t even need to tell them as a president. As soon as I say someone needs to watch over you, they will fight to see who is the lucky one.

- Aren’t you guys wonderful. -you laughed.

- Let me grab the first kid to put something on your hands, hm? -he said as he got up.

- Do you know where it is?

- Of course, darling. -he laughed. -I know this apartment too well by now.

As he walked to the bathroom, he could hear Sully’s paws behind him. The dog loved Ubbe as much as her owner. It had often ended in a playful argument between you and Ubbe, where he joked with you about how Sully was going to leave one day with him. He smiled as he put out the little box, thinking about your conversations. For an unknown reason to him, the conversation flowed randomly with you. You could be talking about serious matters like his club and the next second he would be laughing at something terrible you said. And he loved that.

When he came back, you were trying to put a film on the TV. He found cute how you frowned and crumpled your mouth while you were concentrated on something. Ubbe tapped your head softly and gripped your hands between his. There was a comfortable silence as he cleaned your sore fingers, putting your skinned fingers in some band aids.

- I know what you’re going to say. -you said softly; you were so close that he could feel your breath on his face.

- You should have called me, Y/N. You know I can drop anything if you need me.

- Yeah, but I wanted to do it for myself. -you shrugged. -Do you think you can come with me to the bakery after lunch?

- What? -you said it so low that he didn’t hear you.

- I said that, if you don’t mind, I would like if you would come with me to the bakery. -you sighed. -I-I’ve left a lot of things undone, and this guys are-

- Of course darling. -Ubbe winked at you. -Don’t worry, I’ve some paperwork to do and I can do it there.

- Thanks, Ubbe.

- This is done. -he gave your hands a kiss before pulling back, watching you blush. -You want to go now? We can finish early and have dinner together.

You nodded softly before getting up. Sully trailed behind you, whining as if she knew her owner was leaving. After replacing her bowl of food and water, you walked towards the door where Ubbe was holding up your coat. Something in him made you act; maybe it was his sided smile, his baby blue eyes looking at you with love or the way he always seemed to care for you. It didn’t matter what it was; it made you put your arms around his shoulders and place your lips against his.

Ubbe was still at first, with his eyes open and his heart jumping on his chest. He begged to his brain to do something, but his body was unresponsive. The only thing he could focus was on your hands in the back of his neck and your lips moving against his. Just when you pulled back and looked down, he regained control. Ubbe took you by the waist and kissed you so hard you stumbled over your own feet. His kiss was nothing like yours; while yours was soft and almost shy, his was nearly bruising. The kiss lasted a few minutes, and when you finally teared apart, you kept looking at his eyes with a silly smile.

- I can’t believe I’ve waited so long for this. -he said, not letting you go.

- Well. -you let out a little laugh. -Actually, it was me-

Your words were drowned by his lips again, and you felt him smirking against you. Seemed like, the bakery would have to wait.

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

Two weeks passed by and things didn’t calm down. Next to your bakery, Weston’s business was making sure no black neither Jewish people walked around the shop. You had been witness of a few fights between them and Weston or Darby; a man as disgusting as his friend. In all of them, the son who was with you stopped you from doing something. You were visibly sadder each day, watching how those pricks were ruining the city and your bakery. The only thing that could cheer you was Ubbe.

Since your kiss, he had been spending much more time with you. With the excuse of you needing protection, he spent almost all day in the bakery (and if he wasn’t there, Hvitserk or the prospect was). Ubbe was already living in your house. Those nights when he would stay, he usually slept in the couch; but lately he had been keeping your bed warm, not that you were complaining.

That day had been quiet, as always. People didn’t come to your bakery so much, because they were afraid of Weston and his friends. That didn’t mean you were loosing money; thanks to the club, you had started a delivery service and it was quiet successful. The only problem was that you spent all day in the kitchen.

- Can you pass me the cream, Ubbe? -you asked without looking at him. He was reading some papers on a desk that the boys had moved to your kitchen, so that he could be with you. -Ubbe?

You turned around to look at your biker, who was reading a grey paper with a frown on his face. One of his hands was on his bear, and the other was tapping the desk with a pencil. After calling him one more time and not getting any response, you walked towards him. You put your hands on his shoulders and neck, massaging them slowly.

- Don’t you dare to stop. -he almost moaned. -That hands are a blessing, darling.

- You’re lucky I’m a baker. -you laughed. -What are you so worked up about?

- See this papers? -Ubbe pointed at a file with too many letters. -We were supposed to rent this warehouse last month, but the owner is a pain in the ass. He has sent me the papers but he has forgotten to ask the mayor to sign them.

- Go and ask him yourself. -you moved and sat in the desk.

- Yeah, no thank you. The sons are not the bests friends of the mayor right now. -he scoffed, placing a hand on your knee. -And not everyone is as nice as you with us.

- You’re not bad people Ubbe. -you smiled and put your hand over his. -You are protecting this town, and that’s good.

- Killing and threatening is not from good people, Y/N. -he laughed.

- At least you don’t sell drugs? -you joked.

- Do you think that selling drugs is the top of bad people?

- I think that you’re a good person and nothing is going to change that. -you said.

Ubbe looked at you for a while, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He still didn’t know what he did to deserve you, such a pure and innocent human being who still had faith in him. It felt like the universe had finally given him something good. He got up and pushed himself between your legs, your face being a few inches from his. Instead of kissing you, he placed one hand on your face, wiping a stray of flour off it.

- Maybe is a little soon to say it. -Ubbe whispered, looking between your eyes and your mouth. -But I love you. And you don’t have to say it back y-

- I love you too. -you smiled. -Think I’ve loved you since you came here stalking me.

- Oh, you sure I was stalking you? -he laughed. -Because you gave me free access to your kitchen the second I stepped here.

- Guess your looks of bad boy didn’t work with me.

- God, I love you darling. -he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. -I love you so much.

A little giggle left your lips, and you kissed him again. The hand that was on your face moved to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss, and the other one placed itself in your lower back. You hugged his shoulders and practically hang onto him like a Koala. You had discovered in the past two weeks that your favourite place in earth was between Ubbe’s arms. The way he would engulf you and his lips would fit perfectly in your make you weak in the knees. You were both ready to tear each other’s clothes apart when an awkward cough interrupted you.

Halfsack, the new prospect, was blushing like crazy on the door. You had met him not so long ago, and you regretted asking him about his name; surely, the boy didn’t have any repair into talking about how he nearly lost his dick. That earned him an angry Ubbe chasing him for telling you about it, so the boy was already awkward towards you. After interrupting your make out session, you were sure he wouldn’t talk to you anymore.

- What the fuck are you doing here? -Ubbe groaned, hiding his face in your neck. -I left everything solved this morning.

- Your… mother has heard about the warehouse. Ubbe. President. Sir. -he scratched the back of his neck. -Want you to go to the townhall today, so she sent me here to look over Y/N.

- You can tell her to-

- Hey, you should you. -you interrupted him, smiling softly. -If you don’t, your mother will come barging here. And I think she doesn’t like me already.

- It’s not like that, she’s special.

- Ubbe, let’s not give her another reason to hate me more. -you laughed. -Come on, I’m almost finished here. I’ll close soon and wait for you in my apartment.

- I’ll bring take out. -he pecked your lips. -Promise won’t be long. Halfsack?

- Y-yeah?

- You don’t fucking leave her alone until I get there. -he glared at him. -Unless you want to lose your other testicle, got me?

- O-of course! -he laughed awkwardly.

With a final kiss and a soft smack to your ass, Ubbe left the bakery as he put his helmet on. You went back to your task; finishing the cake for the wedding of Mrs Lowman’s son. She was supposed to pass by that day to collect it, yet she was late. You couldn’t really blame her. Mrs Lowman was a lovely and kind woman, a black one. For you it wasn’t a problem, and it shouldn’t be to anyone; yet for your neighbours it was, and she was kind of scared. You had told her that you could make one of the sons take the cake to her apartment, yet she told you she wanted to collect it herself.

You were working extra hard on it. She had been one of your first costumers and always gave you a tip when she bought something; so you made the perfect cake with the help of Halfsack, who could barely look at you in the eye. It was nearly closing time when you finished. A three-tier cake with a cute weeding couple on the top. You were cleaning the last bowl when you heard some noises outside. Halfsack ordered/begged you with his eyes to stay inside, yet the second time someone screamed you poked out of the door.

What you saw made your heart drop to the floor. Mrs Lowman had a bleeding head with a huge gash on it, and she was on the floor trying to avoid the kicks of Weston. Halfsack was just a few steps away, trying to get past Darby who was pushing him backwards roughly while laughing. Some people stopped by to see what was happening, yet none of them did anything. Because they knew that if they did, they would probably end up dead.

- Hey! -you opened the door fully, more angry than scared. -Hey, that’s not nice! Stop!

You tried to push back Weston from the crying Mrs Lowman, who was only a whimpering mess by then. However, the man was ten time stronger than you, and it only took a swift push to get you on the ground.

- Why don’t you mind your own business? -he gave you an angry glare. -Go back to sucking your white boy’s dick.

- You can’t kick people like that. -you said as you got up. -She has done nothing wrong!

- Black people are the sickness of this country, love. -Darby laughed. -You’re right, the only thing she has done wrong is fucking breathing!

A chorus of laughs followed those crude words. You realised then that Darby and Weston weren’t the only assholes there; between the people looking at the madness, there were at least four more guys with Nazi’s symbols tattooed. There was a moment were the only thing you could hear was Mrs Lowman’s cries, Halfsack’s warnings and that cruel laughs. You weren’t an aggressive person, everyone knew you as the sweet baker, and you were happy with that. But in that moment, your hands moved by themselves; and the next moment, you had a broken bowl in your right hand and a bleeding Weston in the floor.

- Oh, God! -Weston screamed. -I think I fucking got a piece of glass in my eye!

- The bitch broke the bowl on his head! -one of the boys said, and you found yourself in an iron grip by your arm.

- I-I…it w-wasn’t my-y intention, I j-just -you words were messing with each other, and tears were filling your eyes; because the hard grip on your arm or the fact that you had just hit a man, you didn’t know.

- You what?! You didn’t mean it?! -Darby, who was the one shaking you roughly, spat at your face.

- Come on, man, leave her alone. -Halfsack begged, as he was being held back by two guys. -She has nothing to do with this!

- Are you blind? -scoffed the tallest one. -Look at Weston! He has his head open up!

The rest of the voices got muffled off by a white noise and a big pain on your cheek, that made you fall back and nearly crush Mrs Lowman. Before you could think about moving, Darby’s hand grabbed you up again.

- Now you’re crying? -he laughed at your face. -You’re pathetic, just like the black scum.

- You know what we should do? -an angry looking Weston got up, holding a bleeding head. -We should fucking burn her in the oven, like the Jews.

- W-what? -you started thrashing around, not liking the smirks on their faces. -What are you talking about?

- Oh, you don’t know about what Hitler made with the Jews? -Darby laughed. -Maybe Weston’s right, they were whiny bitches and so are you.

- No, no plea-ase! -you tried to get free while they dragged you inside the bakery. -You-u’re insane!

Two guys kept kicking Mrs Lowman who had found strength enough to beg them to let you go, that you had done nothing wrong; they didn’t listen to her, but smashed her head in the pavement so hard you stopped hearing her screams. Halfsack was quick enough to get free and get out his gun. You saw as he shot two of the guys and aimed towards Darby, and you almost smiled in relived.

However, it was cut short when a new man, twice the size of Halfsack, shot him in the back. It was not only one shot; you had to stay put and see how that man shot him at least ten times and how the life left his eyes. As you sobbed, Darby held your chin and made you look at it.

- You see that? That’s your fucking fault. -he was gripping your chin so hard you swore it would bruise. -If you had just stayed like a good whore baking, this wouldn’t have happened. That’s what happen when women get out of the kitchen.

The tears were falling uncontrollably down your cheeks, and you were shaking between Darcy’s arms. His laugh filled your ears until you heard a motorbike. At first, you thought you were wrong; but the panicked face of Weston told you everything you needed to know. Your bad biker was there and he was more than angry.

Want to know more about me? Here is my Masterlist! Feedback is always appreciated!!

#imaginemai #ubbe x reader #ubbe imagine #ubbe #ubbe lothbrok #ubbe ragnarson #ubbe one shot #the sweet baker and the bad biker #vikings x reader #vikings imagine #vikings #vikings one shot #soa vikings crossover #biker!au #biker!ubbe #soa imagine

108 notes · View notes

theliterateape · 5 years

Text

Love or Money, Christians? Which is it?

By Chris Churchill

If you are averse to religious discussions, I warn you now, “Bible Verses Lie Ahead.” Not for the reason you usually see them thrown around, though. I’m not going to judge you here. In fact, being a fan of the Bible for what I see it to be, I strongly value the statement, “Judge not, lest ye be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” Jesus (if that is Your real name...) said that in the King James Version of the Bible, Book of Matthew, Chapter 7, verse 2. There are countless translations, of course, take your pick.

It basically means that your treatment of others; your rules for other people, define how you are judged by God (or Love or the Living Universe, or that most honest part of your own introspection which will reveal itself to you only when you are at your weakest, or any other thing that works for you).t

Now you don’t have to believe in a localized, physical, magical creature that rules over us to follow what I’m about to say. I don’t think of God that way. Here comes another Bible verse. “God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him.” That’s John 4:16b, apparently. Thanks Internet. I truly believe that God is literally Love. Capitalized. Love is the thing that defines the rules of existence. Not just between people but also in nature. Also at the infinite and the infinitesimal level. Animate and inanimate. For me, I recognize it on the subatomic level in things like quantum entanglement and gravity. We may not understand how Love affects anything other than people, but that just means we need to expand what we understand Love to be.

This is for my evangelical friends, of whom I still have a few, and those who might come across this. This is also for those who claim to “follow the Bible” but don’t even know what it says, let alone endeavor to understand what it means. Please take this in the friendly, loving spirit it is meant.

Here’s the thing many who espouse Christianity without actually practicing it seem to have either missed, forgotten, or chosen to ignore. "No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.” That’s Matthew 6:24, New International Version.

You may have missed it because the last time you heard it as a kid, falling asleep in church, it was probably spoken on the ever popular King James Version where, instead of “money” they used the word “mammon.” You didn’t know what mammon was. You fell asleep, thought about football or lunch, or you just let it float away. Anyway, you’re not thinking about that anymore are you.

Especially, in this era of Joel Osteen and all the other televised Mega Churches preaching that “God wants you to be rich!” I’ve always been baffled at this, due entirely to the verse above. How can you pursue wealth with all your being and still be serving God, i. e. Love? You can’t.

Reread that verse. If that doesn’t do anything for you, plug in some variables into this equation. If you are presented with a moral choice, or even a business related choice, you have the option to perform in service of what is best for your fellow human or what will preserve your economic interests. Do you overcharge someone because you can or because everyone would if the could or because they’d do it to you? Or do you not overcharge someone because you honestly know the good or service you offer is only worth so much or that they might need a break or you really like them so why screw them?

You see how one option is in service of money and one is in service of love? Now suppose these patterns were repeated by the same people over and over throughout their lives then, eventually passed on to their offspring. You have two different types of humans. You have the money driven and the love driven. You know what the love driven do in a moment of crisis? They consider what the right thing is to do. You know what the money driven do during those same moments? At the very least, they pause briefly and consider how this will effect their wallet, the economy or some other money related thing. That pause is enough to let the opportunity to do the right thing slip away.

(I’m not saying that all rich people are bad or all poor people are virtuous. There are rich people who get there because they are driven by their work. They love how it allows them to connect to others, to help others, to connect to a greater purpose. And sometimes those driven, effective, successful people get paid for it. As a side effect of pursuing a true love. Not just for pursuing money. Conversely, there are poor people who are just really misguided and really bad at crime. People who chase money to fill the whole they don’t even know they have and at the cost of their seven children, their broken-hearted parents, and society at large. They may never succeed at getting rich, but make no mistake, they love Money and do not serve Love.)

So when the evangelical crowd decides to back a political candidate or government official in their decision making because of money (or as we say in polite political discourse, “the economy,” “the stock market,” unbridled “capitalism”) and instead of Love (empathy, humanity, caring “for the least of us”), they don’t either know or care that they are no longer serving that which they claim to be serving. They’re serving Money. They’re abandoning Love or, as they purport to believe Love is, God.

I preached a short sermon one Sunday as a teen. Something from Psalms. (I couldn’t help but lead with, “I’m a hypocrite.” Just being honest, you know.) I still have a relationship with what I feel “God” means, but not one with any organized faith. Why? Because it seems that most “Christians” these days, at least the most vocal ones, love the label, the cheering for their side, but not empathy, understanding, concern for the “other.” That is to say, they seem to not care about the definition of God as laid out by the Messiah in their guiding book. That definition would be “Love.”

Or to put it in a pithy simple turn of phrase (which seems to work with many people): “Most ‘Christians’ love the rules but are not ruled by Love.”

So when you hear your “ordained” president speaking out loud that he’s actually weighing the financial cost of punishing a country that murdered an American citizen, you’re serving the opposite of God. If you have no problem allowing deregulation of companies that allows them to pollute more or to cut taxes for big business at the expense of those who need it, you’re serving the opposite of Love. If you hear an equivocation on any political point for which he has been paid by a lobbyist with whom his rhetoric aligns, then you know, it’s all about the money.

This is boring to a lot of you, I’m sure. I guess I’m talking to a specific subset of America. Those who hide behind flags and crosses because you’re too scared to have empathy for the “other.” Sorry. It IS fear that causes you to hate and rage and appeal to a paternal, judgmental (but only to your enemies, not toward you), anthropomorphized understanding of God who will quell your spiritual insecurities. It is. You’re scared. And you want Daddy to save you. Well grow up. “Daddy” tried to teach you what was important and you decided judgmentalism, vengeance in your heart, and, well, the love of money was the ticket for you.

A wonderful Jewish atheist friend of mine who is in Heaven now heard me mention that my dad, my grandfather and my great-grandfather were all preachers and she said to me, “Oh, you’re a preacher too.” This was based on my solo comedy shows where I just told stories, did bits, played funny songs on guitar. At that time, my pulpit was the top floor of a place called “Frankie J’s” on Sheridan Road in Chicago. It was a solo comedy and music show I used to do. I told people the truth. I tried to make Love the point. But don’t get me wrong, I was trying to do comedy too.

Sometimes my sincerity would get the best of me, though. As funny as I wanted to be, sometimes I just had to say what I was feeling with no frills, obfuscations or irony. And obviously, I have some background in the Protestant Christian Bible (not those extra books that Martin Luther didn’t like…there was a dragon in one of them, though, wasn’t there? that’s pretty cool). I also have a lot of experience in the world, with people, practicing Love. I don’t know why it is, but I tend to win children, animals, and even the occasional adult human over.

So both the book I was taught to revere and my life experience tells me that in life, it’s either Love (love for your fellow human) or Money (the love of money). In every moment of your life, in every moment of weakness you have, in every thought in your head, and in all your motivations, it’s either Love or Money. That’s the choice.

#money #Christians #bible #Chris Churchill is a great guy if he does say so himself #morality #love

0 notes