small town churches

Talking to @gutsybitsies about AUs but got to wondering if maybe Suzanne pulls us all up short by disapproving of Jack as a suitor for her baby boy. 

Yes she loves Jack as a person and he’s already had a little piece of her because he looks just like her teenage crush. And of course Jack’s been the world’s best friend to Dicky and so supportive. So it isn’t that she doesn’t love him.

But she’s a small town Southern church mom. Fancy pants folks like the Zimmermann’s seem nice enough folks and produced a mighty fine, kind and respectful son. But lord who knows what they get up to in their own homes and at those big parties she’s always seen in People magazine. She’s since read about Jack’s overdose and though Dicky assures her it wasn’t anything like what the press said, she’s still wary. 

Bitty’s worrying all this time about how his mom will react to him being gay and already already having a serious boyfriend, but what if she were absolutely fine with all of that… but she puts her size 5 Payless pump down hard when it comes to Bitty dating a millionaire ex-party boy whose on the road half the year doing heaven knows what? Whose handsome face and smooth ways (oh, Suzanne) won over her only baby and now Bitty’s gonna be living around all these rich folks thousands of miles away from her, going to these champagne parties and being stuck at home while Jack is traveling and doing God knows what! (Southern bobbed haircut mom spiralling)

So Bitty has to tell Jack that she took one part of the news just fine, but that now Jack’s gotta earn Mama Bittle’s approval. “But Bits, the last party I went to was the Easter egg hunt for the Falcs’ kids. I drank chocolate milk. I went to bed at 9pm. You were there, Bits. You’ve gotta tell her.”

And Coach takes pity on Jack and decides to give him a few tips on winning over a protective Georgia parent. 

Also, I love Jewish Jack/Jewish Suzanne headcanons but I’m not Jewish or religious so I don’t know how that would play out here so if anyone wants to add any then please do.

(I don’t think this will actually happen in canon, just thinking about how funny/awkward it would be)

The Blue Princess and her Red Rose

Pairing: Jungkook | Reader
Word Count: 34.8k (ooops someone’s got a bit carried away hehe)
Genre: PrinceJungkookAU, Angst, Fluff & Smut.

A/N: This is the first story of the five “short” (if you can call them short lmao) stories about Greyria that I’ll be posting during summer. Probably I won’t be posting the next one until a couple of weeks from today, because I have the idea of them all, but none is completely written yet.
I hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think of it! 
Because It’s really long, I fear you won’t be able to read it from your phone or tablet, sorry :(

Summary: After all, he was her red rose, while she was just another one of the many blue roses that grew in the dying gardens of Greyria. 

Tales of Greyria

The best stories - those that speak about past lovers, about untold stories and broken hearts, about beautiful promises of future and happiness that got lost in the wind; those that make you feel happiness, loss, hurt, love, hate, fear and sadness all at once; those that live in your heart for the rest of your days - always have sad endings, my love,” her grandma had always told her when she was just a little girl in a baby pink dress.

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Some have called “This Land Is Your Land” an alternative national anthem. Others say it’s a Marxist response to “God Bless America.” It was written and first sung by Woody Guthrie. Over time, it’s been sung by everyone from Lady Gaga to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Folklorist Nick Spitzer has the story of an American classic.

Woodrow Wilson Guthrie was born in 1912 in Okemah, Okla. He recorded “This Land Is Your Land” during a marathon April 1944 session in New York for Moses Asch, who founded Folkways Records. Guthrie was on shore leave from the Merchant Marines, one of his many occupations during the Depression and war years.

Growing up in small-town Oklahoma, Guthrie heard church hymns, outlaw ballads, blues, fiddle tunes and popular music. The Guthries had been fairly prosperous — Woody’s father was a small-time politician and businessman — but the family unraveled in the topsy-turvy oil economy of the ‘20s and '30s. The Guthrie family relocated to Pampa, Tex., after Woody’s mother was committed to a mental institution for a mysterious nervous condition. That’s when Woody took to the road.

As a boy, he’d already proven himself to be a gifted street entertainer — dancing, playing guitar and harmonica, making up songs as he went. Words and music became a growing passion for him.

The Story Of Woody Guthrie’s 'This Land Is Your Land’

Photo: Courtesy of Library of Congress

Pueblos coloniales de Santander. Barichara . Colombia. 2016

My aesthetic:

Cold, rainy days. Snow would be even better. A cup of hot coffee, hot tea, or hot chocolate. Red fingernails. A long sleeved shirt that covers my hands and half of my fingers. A good book, movie, or calming music (preferably holiday tunes). Fuzzy socks. A warm puppy in my lap or at my feet. A knit blanket thrown across me. A comfy sofa corner. A crackling fireplace. A christmas tree. A window, fogged over by the steam of my hot beverage, with christmas lights dancing in the reflection. The smell of a fresh cut pine tree permeating with the aroma of bubbling potpourri and swirling cinnamon. And the faint sound of a small-town church bell.

Thank God for hometowns. First kisses and touchdowns. Thank God for the county lines who welcome you back in when you were dying to get out. Thank God for church pews and all the faces that won’t forget you. And when you’re lost out in this crazy world, you got somewhere to go and get found. Thank God for hometowns.

Carrie Underwood 

Thank God for Hometowns

This piece that didn’t make the final cut for Out Here Hope Remains, and is loosely influenced by C.S. Lewis’ The Great Divorce, has been sitting in a file for months and I’m just like what the heck, here, have a sad thing.

And Over Kansas the Whole Universe Was Stilled

Jason is outside the church leaning against the trunk of the car, smoking and flicking ash off the end of the cigarette with trembling hands, when Martha Kent finds him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. Just needed some air.”

“I see that,” she says, giving the cigarette in his hand a sharp look. But then she leans against the car next to him and says, “I’m not upset with you. Just wanted to check on you out here all by yourself.”

Jason fights a lump in his throat and shrugs.

“Did Father Marcus say something to upset you?” she asks.

Jason takes another long draw on the cigarette, flicks it again.

“Well, you can stay out here or–”

“I think I was in purgatory. Or limbo, I dunno,” Jason says quietly.

“Oh,” Martha says.

“Everything was gray,” he says. “And it went on forever.”

He can feel how wide his eyes must be, as he stares at the blacktop of the parking lot without really seeing it. He thinks of slate gray rows of houses with slate gray shingled roofs, going on out of sight into the smoky gray distance.

And every road he walked brought more of the same and not a single soul for miles. When he had found people, they had always seemed to forget they were talking to him, or anyone, halfway through their second sentence. He remembers being angry and terrified and pleading with them, only to find he, too, was trailing off and forgetting what he was doing until the other person inevitably wandered away, or he did.

So he had walked and walked and walked through empty gray houses and empty gray streets under a cloudy sky that seemed to have no sun or moon or stars or day or night, perpetually half-lit in an ashy glow. He had found he didn’t need sleep or food or drink, though he’d find tables set with feasts of washed out color. Sometimes he slept anyway, even though he had nightmares about crowbars and the color red, just to see something that wasn’t gray, just to do something that wasn’t walking.

And then one day it ended; he was sucked out of the timeless fog of it like it had never happened, like he hadn’t forgotten what a day was with the endless lack of days to count. And he’s tried not to think about it too much, about what it means.

When Zsasz had attacked, only a month ago now, he had known he had died again even though it surprised him when he was told. As stupid as it was, he’d never really put the two together before; the gray place always felt like some weird dream he couldn’t shake, something he’d had as a child that lingered in his brain until it was part of his own internal history.

But he had known it wasn’t a dream then, when his entire self was blinking in and out of existence in the gray again. One second he was sitting on a chair, the next he was swallowed in a darkness full of hurt, and again and again and again until the darkness stayed and turned into a warehouse and a cigarette and pain all over.

He wishes sometimes he could have just gone back to walking.

Then again, other days he recalls sharply the frustration and loneliness of impossible conversations and finds beauty in a line of poetry, a paragraph of prose; he finds himself lost in laughter or the grounding warmth of a hug; the timbre of Bruce’s voice like a homing beacon or the weight of Damian on his shoulders; the sugary crunch of a bowl of cereal quietly shared in Dick’s apartment. Those times, the gray place in memory feels not like the in-between he is certain it is, but like it’s own kind of hell and it scares the shit out of him, the idea of dying again.

For a third time.

And that is when he realizes he’s dropped his cigarette, he’s slumped down to the ground with his back against the bumper of the car, and he’s crying again because he’s always crying these days it seems, and Martha Kent’s arm is around his shoulders. He leans against her because he has to lean somewhere and his arms hurt and it’s cold, it’s fucking freezing on the ground, but she’s sitting with him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hiccuping, like he’s some shit kid instead of a grown-ass twenty-year-old man bawling in the parking lot of a small-town Kansas Catholic Church because a chorus of people sang, “who mourns in lonely exile here.”

“Shh, honey, you’ve been through hell,” she says, and he knows she’s not being flippant.


New Vienna, Iowa
Population: 407

“New Vienna was initially settled by a group of German immigrant families who were living in Ohio. These families had come to the area in search of farmland.One such family was that of William Steffen Sr. and his wife Mary. William and Mary were originally from Recklinghausen, in what today is Germany. They came to the United States and settled in Ohio. William and Mary and their children joined the other German immigrant families who came to New Vienna in the 1840s. The descendants of William and Mary number in the thousands today, and some of their descendants still live in New Vienna and surrounding areas.”

Take Me to Church - Castiel x Reader

Summary: Castiel and reader go to the church. During the prayers, one specific prayer caught Castiel’s attention.

Words: 1375

Warnings: Christian religion. Church. Random sick child. Cas and reader being a sappy couple <3

A/N: Hopefully I will not upset anyone if something I wrote is not accurate.

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lizards-online  asked:

For the writing prompt: zimbits wedding?

Eric’s bare feet burned as he stood on the swept clean floorboards at the doors of the church. The sweltering Georgia heat barely affected him after almost thirty years but that couldn’t be said for the congregation. The right side of the tiny building, albeit bare, was practically being blown away by the draft created by the fans they held, although Alicia still looked like she’d just stepped out of a shoot.
The left side, his side, was packed full of cousins and aunts and Moo-Maw alone was big enough to take up half of a pew as she sobbed into her handkerchief.

He clutched a modest bouquet of pink azaleas, which were now wilting in the heat, a sign that the procession had to begin soon. A soft low tune began to emit from the ancient organ at the head of the church, as the blonde headed, ex D-mans fingers began to coax a well practiced song lazily from the keys. Coach squeezed Eric’s arm before presenting his own to him, and Eric took his elbow as they took their first steps up the aisle.

The entire congregation turned to admire Eric, smiles breaking over their faces and a few hands flying up to cover mouths. He was dressed casually, an outfit which Moo-Maw protested to profusely at the beginning. A soft white cotton shirt, unbuttoned to the chest, and shorts to his knees and bare feet. With a life as flashy and expensive as he lived now, the idea of an Armani suit at his wedding had made his stomach turn.

As he walked up the aisle, step pause, step pause, just as his mother had instructed him, he found the second row packed edge to edge with his best friends. Chowder had his face in Farmers shoulder, crying so hard he gave Moo-Maw a run for her money. Ransom had his camera out and was gently wrestling his and Holsters daughter for control of the neck strap. Dex and Nursey waved from where they were tangled together- two pairs of legs that long couldn’t be near each other without getting in a knot. Tango and Whiskey were whispering excitedly and nearly blinded Eric with their smiles as they made eye contact with him.

Halfways up the aisle Eric tore his eyes from his friends and rested them on the broad shoulders of his fiancé, which were draped in cool blue silk, a colour which did wonders for his eyes. Next to him, with his hair scraped back in the most fashionable bun a small town church had ever seen in its life, was Jacks best man. Shitty was crying too, but it was as if he didn’t notice the tear tracks that stained his face, he was leaning in to Jacks ear and whispering softly to him. Then Lardo, acting as Shittys back up, looked like an angel as her chiffon dress floated around her, and her hand ran up and down Shittys back gently to comfort him.

Eric leaned over to kiss his mother as he passed her, a lump rising in his throat as he saw her tears. He wished his fourteen year old self could see this now, his father walking him up the aisle and all the friends and family he had supporting him as he married the man he loves more than anything in the world. As he looked up at that man again, he noticed now that Jacks hands were shaking. Hard.

Eric had only ever seen Jacks hands shake like that in the worst circumstances before; the night Kent took a blade to the neck in Boston and when their house was broken into on their first night living together. Eric’s chest tightened as he got closer and closer to his groom, bile rising in his throat as a million thoughts ran wild in his brain. Did Jack even want to marry him? He knew Jack was nervous, hell, who wouldn’t be, getting married was one of the scariest things you could do. But Eric knew Jack and his body and this wasn’t normal.

He reached the altar and Coach pressed a kiss to Eric’s cheek and squeezed Jacks shoulder. Jack raised his head as he felt Coaches touch, and brought up his hands to take Eric’s. The second their hands met, Jacks went still. Perfectly calloused, their fingers linked like puzzle pieces, like their hands were fitted and shaped to only fit in each other’s.

“Jack.” Eric whispered, as the music began to finish.
Jack smiled gently and blinked as a bead of sweat dropped from his brow into his eyes. All that time in the south and his body still refused to acclimate.

“Jack why were you shaking? If you don’t want to marry me, we don’t have to do this, we can wait or we can talk.” Eric’s mouth was moving too fast for him to stop the flow of worried words from tumbling out.

Jacks brow furrowed for a second before he laughed- that laugh- Eric wanted to marry him just for that laugh alone.

“I wasn’t shaking because I don’t want to do this you silly goose.. Shitty was telling me how beautiful you looked and I wanted to stim, but I think I’ve embarrassed you enough..”

Eric gazed up at his husband and felt the tightness in his chest loosen and he wrapped both arms around Jack and squeezed him as hard as he could.

During the ceremony, Nursey read a poem he’d written about Jack and Eric the night they’d come out to the team, Bad Bob only made five dad jokes and Johnson appeared just as they cut the cake, to spout some nonsense about ‘ask prompts’ and ‘the author forgetting about his existence until this paragraph.’ before he shoved a handful of cake in Jacks face and disappeared as quickly as he had come.

That night as they lay in bed next to each other, tangled, sweaty and bare, Eric traced Jacks brow with his finger and stroked his strong nose before pressing the pad to his lips.

“Jacques Laurent Zimmermann. I never knew your name was actually Jacques, I just thought it was another nickname from Shitty.”

Jack took Eric’s wrist and pressed kisses to his fingers as he spoke, “Nah, they did actually call me that.. But at least it’s nowhere near as embarrassing as “Dicky”.“

Eric squawked and jumped on his husband to wrestle him into submission, and only they knew at breakfast the next morning, that the bruise on Jacks cheek was from a rough and overexcited tumble from their bed.

Hope this lived up to your expectations! :) xx