Hi, I'm Juniper and this is where I post free-to-read samples of my novels, short stories, & poems! For more info, see my TOS/FAQ.
You can find shitposts and trash @ramesees & my art @snakestry.
Elias isn’t expecting to find anyone in the cathedral at this hour, though he should. Rarely has he come here to find its pews and chapel devoid of life. That said, rarely also is it ever bustling. Mikael’s refusal to hold services since coming of age has baffled the cardinals and even now - two years later - they’re still bickering amongst themselves on how best to handle the situation. Apparently, it's the first time God has ever disagreed with them about something.
This has left the physical body of the church in a sate of limbo where services are never held in official capacity, but bishops occasionally lead small congregations of priests in long, bemoaning sermons mourning the lost guidance of their One and Holy Lord. Thankfully right now, the sanctuary is quiet save for a few laypeople milling about or kneeling in silent prayer.
Seated primly in the first pew of the chancey - as close to the altar as one can get - is Bishop Nils. He along with his vestments are spread across the polished wooden seat like a deflated blimp, as though he had fallen there from sudden exhaustion and was now just waiting for someone to pump the air back into him so he could get up again.
Elias stood next to the pew and postured in the way that Owen had always demanded he posture: hands clasped behind a ramrod straight back, feet spread just enough to distribute his weight for balance, chest puffed. He felt like an absolute ass. It took Bishop Nils nearly a full minute to notice him, and Bishop Nils did so only after expelling a ghastly sigh.
“Oh-!” The poor old man started violently and his splayed robes jumped with him. “Sir Irving,” he said, and began the arduous task of straightening his own back in the pew. He dusted at his stole, which was completely starched white and had no dust of any kind on it. “I didn’t notice you.”
Elias offered him a small smile, because now that he’d done it, he felt a little bad about scaring the Bishop. “I’m only waiting for his Holiness to finish with his prayers.”
Bishop Nils hummed. “You may be waiting some time then, I’m afraid. He’s been in the Chapel hours already.”
“Do you ever wonder who he prays to?” Elias says in a moment of pure stupidity. “I mean, he is God. Who does God pray to?”
To his absolute horror, instead of looking aghast at Elias’s blasphemous question, the Bishop hums thoughtfully and works his jaw as though chewing on a particularly tough piece of meat. “An oft pondered query indeed, young Knight.”
Oh hell.
“There are some who posit that the Vessel itself is only part of the whole, and God in it’s entirety is a concept we simply cannot grasp, much less contain within a single human frame. Other’s hold the belief that God is split between the Vessel and their Knight.” Then the Bishop winks and says, “Though I suppose if that were true you’d be able to answer your own question, wouldn’t you?”
“I can pretty confidently assure you that God is not inside me,” says Elias.
Bishop Nils sighs and deflates again against the pew. “Then perhaps he prays to his other half wherever it is, or to himself, or to some other as-yet-unknown entity outside our mortal abilities to perceive. Such things are not for us to know. “ He casts a wrinkled smile towards Elias. “Though I do enjoy the pondering.”
Elias does not enjoy the pondering, but he does enjoy Bishop Nils, so he says, “Hm,” in the short and thoughtful way the Virtuous sometimes do when they lack the words to accurately express the grandness of their spiritual excitement.
Shortly after this exchange, but not quickly enough to spare Elias the awkward silence of a break in conversation, Mikael emerges from the chapel. His robes are askew as though he’d just hastily thrown them on, and, as he walks closer, Elias notices a sheen of sweat around his neck and forehead. Pale strands of thin hair snake themselves across his skin, and his face is considerably flushed.
Elias bites the inside of his cheek to keep from making a snide comment about Mikael’s prayers as Bishop Nils staggers slowly to his feet. “Your Holiness,” he says and bows as low as his aging back will allow. He doesn't look the slightest bit concerned about Mikael's appearance. Mikael could probably step out of the chapel covered in blood and holding Saint Rowan's decapitated head in one hand, and Bishop Nils would ask if he needed help carrying it.
Mikael smiles in a way that makes Elias think he’s spent years staring at himself in the mirror practicing human facial expressions. “Bishop.”
“How were your prayers today, My Lord?” Asks the Bishop.
“Exhilarating,” Says Mikael, pointedly refusing to meet Elias’s eyes, which are attempting to crawl out of their sockets to get Mikael’s attention. “I find that evening prayers often leave me worn out, but morning chants, prostrated beneath the rising sun - they invigorate the senses.”
Bishop Nils lets out a terrible giddy laugh, as though Mikael has just shared an old joke that only the two of them knew. “That they do, My Lord! That they do!”
Elias clears his throat.
“Ah,” Mikael turns pretending to just now notice Elias standing literally right next to him. “My beloved Knight. Have you come to join me in prayer? I’m afraid I’ve just finished, but I could certainly be persuaded to re-enter the chapel for another session.”
Bishop Nils’ eyes bounce painfully between the two of them, wide and bloated in anticipation of Elias’s response.
Elias barely keeps from audibly gagging. “No.”
A soft wheeze escapes the Bishop and he sits back down on his pew.
“Pity,” says Mikael.
“You’re wanted at the Saint’s Council,” says Elias. “It started twenty minutes ago.”
Mikael pushes the bat-wing sleeve of his vestments up past his wrist to reveal, of all things, a slim, golden watch. “So it did,” he says, and does not completely hide the disappointment in his tone. “Another time, then.” He turns to Nils. “Bishop, it was lovely to see you.”
The bishop scrambles to stand and bow as Mikael turns away from him and floats down the center aisle of the cathedral. Begrudgingly, Elias follows him.
August is dying. That terrible fact alone is hard enough to make sense of without amorous whimsy tangling it into knots - even if I wish it would. Even if it’s almost certainly what August wants.
These thoughts actively terrorize me. I lay awake in the silence of them and remember what August said about my room - how he coveted its smallness. I wonder if he, too, rests sleepless in his bed. If he tosses and turns, or stays perfectly still, fearful of that vast, smothering, darkness.
I don’t mean to, but I find myself walking the halls one night plagued by these imaginings. The coarse rug fibers feel strange and itchy against my bare feet, and there’s a cool breeze that sneaks across the floor boards which I have never noticed before.
Aimlessly, I wander the house. First I go to the parlor which sits just east of the foyer. It hasn’t entertained a single guest since my arrival. Even August, who is known to love luxuriating, chooses to do so in the library or his room before relegating himself to the parlor. I sit on one of the large, embroidered couches and pat it’s arm rest, feeling strangely sorry for it - as though a couch could be lonely. I think quietly, Me too, Couch, and stand.
My wanderlust takes me up to the library. It somehow feels warmer than the rest of the house, despite the dark haze of moonlight enshrouding it. August has asked the maids not to bother cleaning here for the time being, so our work from earlier this afternoon lays undisturbed across the coffee table in the sitting area. Shuffled loose-leaf papers full of my horrid chicken scratch are scattered beside thick textbooks filled with book marks and scribbled notes - August calls this ‘casual reading’.
I think back to my conversation with William and a piece of August comes into stark clarity. “He chose to lose himself in whatever pleasures he could find,” William had said. To distract himself as physically as possible from reality - one where his elder brothers had both died and left the entire world on his shoulders. All these complex books and the obsessive research - this, too, feels like a distraction, if not for the body, then for the mind.
August and I are opposites in more ways than I am able to count - but in loss, we are the same.
To the 10 people still following this old inspo blog: I am re-purposing it to host samples of my writing with which I may titillate the masses, sorry for the sudden revival and immediate pivot!
To the people who may find this blog in the future: If you are wondering why the writing suddenly stops and the rest of this blog is just a bunch of weird random image posts, this used to be an inspo blog!
I seriously want like a couple of these. Non-standard furniture, especially the multifunction or space saving kind, I am a sucker for. Why we not get this more often, make life more efficient people-who-decide-what-furniture-to-sell please.
Traditional and Contemporary Japanese Culture Collides in Striking Photographs by RK
Tokyo-based photographer RK explores the far reaches of Japan, as well as neighboring Asian countries, shooting images that capture both timeless and of-the-moment scenes. RK often includes signs of life in his landscape images, whether a fisherman casting a line beneath a vibrant Japanese maple tree, or a carefree skateboarder cruising down a paved road with Hokkaido looming in the distance. The photographer also highlights the densely-packed nature of life in Japan, from masses of commuters forming a sea of umbrellas to shop owners surrounded by huge selections of neatly organized inventory.
andulkaphoto
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
gummygunk
romaincrisis
