I shall do a quite original thing and borrow, with of course the intention of returning, an idea from my lovely friend Lizzie.
You can comment on this post with questions to ask me, if you so desire - all I ask is that they be appropriate, kind, and Christ-like as always (and if I am uncomfortable with answering something, I shan’t.)
But aside from that, have at it! I shall relish the opportunity to wax eloquent about music and tea and all things literary…
“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:32
You, a coward.
I do not know who you are. The world does not know.
It doesn’t matter.
You may have some reason in your mind, some justification
for what you did.
It doesn’t matter.
You, a coward. You, a murderer.
How dare you?
Kill an innocent man, a man who speaks truth,
a good man, and you think it makes you a hero.
You fool.
You coward.
You murdered a man with children, a man with a wife,
a man who asks questions
and tells the truth.
You do not understand, perhaps,
that you
will never
win.
———
Yesterday, a man named Charlie Kirk was murdered. Why? Because he was speaking truth and goodness to people who didn’t want to hear it. He stood firm on the Word of God and someone thought it was okay to kill him because of it.
“And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed. But whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God.” John 3:19-21
Exciting newsflash: I was tagged by Cecilia from Craft, Coffee, and Cake for a Summer Book Blog Tag not too long ago, so here are the rules and my responses!
The rules are:
It’s been almost a month since I posted last. And now it’s 2025, which is a strange thought. 2024, in hindsight, went by so quickly, but so much happened. So much. God was, is, and will continue to be so incredibly good to me and those around me.
A Year Of Courage
While I was thinking and praying about this post, though, one word in particular stood out among many in memory of last year, and that is courage. God has grown my courage in so many ways, my courage to trust in Him when things are difficult, and especially when it seems as though they’re going just fine. (“‘seems’, madam? I know not seems”, like Hamlet said.) Courage in love, courage in learning, in literature, in music, and most of all, in my faith. And so my new years’ promise this year is to continue that—continue glorifying God through my music and my writing, striving to increase my faith and the trust I put in the Lord. We can have complete and utter assurance that He is always there, beyond the end of the age.
This year has also been one of incredible growth, especially in my music. Of course I’ve always been passionate about violin, but with my experiences this summer, combined with the impactful things people I trust have spoken over me, have led me to see it in a new way. “I know the plans the Lord has for me” (Jeremiah 29:11) and they are good plans. Now all I need to do is heed the call and put in the work to fulfil it. And so my prayer for next year is this: that God will ignite the fire in my blood and give me the courage of a lioness to carry out His purpose for my life. Amen.
Other Updates
In other news! Because of my many taxing goals with violin, my writing has fallen a bit behind. And while it’s saddening, it’s something I’m okay with. There will be times when I can write a good deal more, and times when I can barely write at all. This has been one of the latter. Fear not, though, because our new years’ eve trip this year afforded some lovely short story ideas, and I will hopefully be posting some of those in the next year!
Also (and this is kind of a significant announcement) I have decided that I no longer need a pseudonym. When I publish anything, I want it to be under my real name, and so I’ve made the decision to make the same change to this blog. The name Astrya has served me well (and I will still continue to use it, because it’s my Latin name as well!) but I think it’s time. So, nice to meet you. My name is Hannah. Pronounced like Hana, by the way—now that you know it, you may as well get it right! (Because of this, my bio has also been changed, if you ever want to check out what’s happening over there ;P)
So, happy new year, everyone! May God bless this next year abundantly <3
Namárië,
Hannah
Hullo and greetings! Today I'm sharing a story I wrote recently--which, admittedly, is far different than anything I've ever written before. But the best way to learn is by trying new things, right? Well, one would think.
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| This photo has no relevance to anything, other than the fact that it's beautiful and I wanted to put it here ;P |
Anyhow, any constructive criticism would be much appreciated! Here goes nothing...
EDIT 12/12/24: I have revised the story, and that version is now included here instead of the original. Thanks so much for reading!
Screaming Into Silence
November 24, 1904
Edinburgh, Scotland
The Royal Infirmary
Room 408, The Left Wing
They have told me you are dead. There is no body.
I wish I could believe they were lying. They’ve strapped me to this bed like some fool child who can’t control herself. I am not a child. I am grieving, and they say I am mad. What balderdash.
I wish the accident had taken me and not you. You see, James, I love you.
Yes, I love you. I’ll say it a thousand times, though now you’re not here to listen. I love you, I love you, and you are dead. I never told you. I should have.
I was such a fool.
I remember. Don’t you? That day, the day before Christmas vacation last year, when we left class early and went sledding? It was the day I fell in love with you.
Allerton was miffed that we left, he always was—because those boring lectures of his were so important—but we didn’t care. It was Christmas and there were snowflakes in the air. I tried to catch one with my tongue, and you laughed at me.
Oh, how I miss that laugh, James, I miss your silly laugh and that lopsided grin you’d get whenever I was angry at you. But I could never stay upset for long and you knew it.
That was when I realised I loved you—when I pushed you down and you dragged me with you onto the ground, and you looked at me with snow in your hair and laughter in your eyes. “Isn’t this grand?” you shouted, and I responded by pelting you with snow.
Wasn’t it grand?
James, the nurse is here. It’s tiring me, she says, to write for so long. I try to chuck the nearest object at her, which happens to be a pillow. She calmly steps out of the way and folds her arms. You’re done for today, she grunts, in that spiky voice of hers.
NO I’M NOT.
James, James, all I want is to pretend like you’re not gone, you’re not out of reach, and we can still talk and laugh like we used to.
Goodbye, goodbye, James—talk to you tomorrow, like we always used to say.
Talk to you tomorrow—
November 25, 1904
Edinburgh, Scotland
The Royal Infirmary
Room 408, The Left Wing
It took far too much begging for them to give me this notebook back. When I had politely explained to the nurse—Emilia, she calls herself, though it doesn’t suit her at all—the reason why I wanted it, she scoffed. You are mentally unstable, she said, in her usual staid manner. You’re just fantasizing.
Mentally unstable, my foot. James, you’d know if I was mentally unstable. I’m not. I don’t know why I’m here, in this hospital for “mentally unstable” people. The French girl in the next room keeps sobbing and screaming bloody murder—she alternates days. I think today’s a murder day. I can already hear her shrieks piercing the thin walls. They sound so near. I can almost feel them coming from my own lips. Taunting. Tantalising.
BUT NO. I’m not like that, I’m not, I promise. You’d tell them, James, you’d not let them keep your girl stuck in this God-forsaken place. But you’re gone, now, and there’s no one else left for me.
No one else will laugh at my awful jokes. No one else cares about me.
Oh, dear God, how I miss your smile.
November 26 (or so), 1904
Edinburgh, Scotland
The Royal Infirmary
Room 408, The Left Wing
Yesterday was a self-pity day. I cried myself to sleep and couldn’t bring myself to think about anything. Not even joyful things, because that would bring me back to what I’ve lost.
The Emilia hates that I’m writing to you. You’re making it up, she says, you’re making it all up. I respond most reasonably by screaming in her face. You deserve to be written to, James, you deserve to be remembered. Even if I’m the only one left to do it.
I’ll try to remember, write about what happened, without crying again. I don’t want to be like that French girl.
I’m not. I won’t be.
But it started… I don’t know how long ago. I was waiting at home. Waiting for you, actually. You were coming from Leith on the train, and we were supposed to have dinner together. I was supposed to tell you that I loved you.
Key word: supposed. I waited all night. They phoned me the next day—I don’t know who, the train station, the hospital, someone, something—and told me there’d been a crash. A terrible crash. No survivors.
I cried all night. And the next night, and the night after. Really I don’t know how much time passed. I couldn’t believe you were gone. I still can’t. Sometimes I wonder if they’re all just playing a joke on me. Sometimes I wonder if I really am going mad.
I’m not. I’m not.
You are, says The Emilia, from where she’s watching over my shoulder. That’s why you’re here.
I am not. The only reason I’m here is because your friends in this stupid place coerced me. You told me to come watch him die, only yesterday, and he was already dead.
You’re mad, she repeats, and tries to pull the pen from my hand. How many times have I told you that you are making this up?
How dare you—
James, you know—
You are real. I am real. We are more real than The Emilia or this place or anything.
You’re mad, says The Emilia.
Liar. You liar. Go away. Let me finish. Let me finish, you stupid woman. I’m not done yet.
I’m sorry, James. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to die with you. I’m sorry I never told you I loved you—
Some Day In December, 1904
Edinburgh, Scotland
The Royal Infirmary
Room 408, The Left Wing
Today I was woken by the French girl’s screaming. But then I remembered I had watched you die in my dreams, and I screamed and screamed and screamed—
I feel blood on my lips. The Emilia says it’s from biting them. I think she’s lying to me.
It’s been too long, James, far too long. Much has happened. They all keep telling me I’m mad. And then I wake up screaming. What if I actually am?
Today I’m to leave this room and go somewhere safer. They’ve been telling me that for weeks. At least, I think it’s been weeks. I don’t even know what day it is. For all I know, it could be Christmas Day.
Merry Christmas, James. You’d get me out of here if you could, I know. But they’re keeping you. Someone must be.
The Emilia is hovering, pulling on my notebook. I don’t like this, James, I don’t like what’s happening. Only God knows, but does He even care about me anymore? I’m just some poor mad girl locked up in a room.
James, if you’re in Heaven, tell God I wish I’d loved Him more. Maybe then this wouldn’t be happening.
Oh, God, save me, please, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s happening.
We’re leaving now.
Wait I don't want to go wait wait wait—
James I love you I love you ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU
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____
Soli Deo Gloria,
Astrya
“And if Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain… But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead.”
1st Corinthians 15:12, 20
The day Christ rose from the dead two thousand years ago, conquering death and freeing humanity of the burden of our sins once and for all. The day that is so central to the Christian faith, for as Paul writes in 1st Corinthians, if the resurrection didn’t happen, everything we’ve ever believed is for naught. But the good news is, it is true.
Death, where is thy sting?
It’s the best news in the world and it’s true. What are the odds? But God loved—loves—us so much, He sent His one and only beloved Son to die for us. And He conquered death, once and for all. Not even death, that terrible and awful thing, can overcome the God of the universe.
Death, thou shalt die.
He is risen!
____
Soli Deo Gloria,
Astrya