you, a coward

 “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

In Which I Say “So Long, Farewell” To Summer

A sad fact: It’s been ages since I’ve posted anything on here.

A happy fact: The reason being, I was off on the other side of the country playing violin and (on occasion) buying books.

But now I am back. 

A crazy fact: School starts soon (bebother summer homework 😠) and so do college auditions, and I shan’t have much time.

But!! I will be posting and sharing still (as time permits) on both blogs, which is very exciting because it’s been so long since I’ve been able to.

Summer was amazing. I got to do so many amazing things while at music camp, and I’m SOOO grateful for my experience there. 

After the six weeks I spent there, my family and I went vacationing and (as one does) we stopped at a bookstore. I acquired many delightful books (nevermind I had to carry them home on the airplane) and so here’s a brief outline of my post-summer-reading TBR: 

The sequel to Little Women and a journal to go along with Gatsby 🤩

A book with love poetry and a historical fiction, which I’m super excited about!

And of course, who can go wrong with Dostoyevsky?

Adieu,

Hannah

It Is Finished

So when Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, “It is finished!” And bowing His head, He gave up His spirit. (John 19:30)

it is finished

the dirt is red.

bright red, soggy

with His blood and sweat and tears.

can’t you see? can’t you see

you foolish people crucifying Him, can’t you see

Who you are killing?

an innocent man.

“king of the Jews”.

King of the world.

He breathes a ragged breath,

stares up 

into the blackening, lonely sky. 

“it is finished.”

and then 

He breathes 

no more.

—

Good Friday is only Good because by dying, Christ gave us life. Soli Deo Gloria!

- Hannah

going away

 

i'm going away for a while

though i promise i'll return.

i'm going to a place

blooming, blazoning, shining

with stories and goodness and light.

a dream within a dream. a fairytale reality.

a place to truly

live.

(but i'm coming back in a week's time

and when i do

nothing will be the same.)

---

soli Deo gloria,

Hannah

Remember Me

    I've been posting so irregularly lately, not for lack of desire, just for lack of time. Violin, school, and deepening my relationships with people and with God have consumed all my time, and I wouldn't have it any differently. (Though, it would be nice to have some more time for writing.) 

    Anyhow, in the midst of all this I'm beginning work on my first story review post, which should come up before the end of January! (At least, I hope so.) But until then, here's a short story I wrote last semester at approximately ten PM. It may be good, it may not, but I would love some feedback regardless.

Remember Me

Brother, I will not forget you.

It is his first waking thought. His every worry. His battle cry.

On good days he can remember when he and Michael were young, how they would trample their mum’s garden playing pirates, how they never let each other face the monsters under the bed alone. On bad days he remembers only that he had a brother. 

He tries so, so hard just to hold onto even that.

When his son (he’s Michael too, Young Michael, even though he’s fifty-two) comes over every Saturday, he asks for the same stories he had once told. Of his brother, always his brother, how they lived together and should have died together. 

It’s on a Sunday morning (or is it Saturday?) that he forgets his brother’s name. Forgetting names is usual for him—he can’t even remember his own—but this, well. This comes slowly, surely, ominously. He’s puttering about the kitchen as usual, humming mismatched fragments of tunes he can’t name. He opens the window shade to let in light, and on the other side of the curtain there’s the most vivid sunrise he’s ever seen. 

“Oh, you would have loved this,” he mutters, and stops. There’s a vague sense of uncertainty floating in his mind, as though there’s someone to whom he should be talking, and he just can’t remember.

Can’t remember. That’s always the problem, isn’t it?

He struggles into the nearest chair, bony knuckles grasping the arms. Who else would be there? Who else should?

Brother. The word gently eases into his mind. Brother, I’m sorry I forgot you. I’m sorry I can’t remember.

There’s a knock on the door. Absently he paws at the tears clinging to his nose and rises, shaking. 

“Come in.” 

A tall, middle-aged man with a shock of fair hair is standing at his doorway. Behind him in the hallway is a pretty, round-faced woman herding a gaggle of children.

He has no idea who they are.

“What are you doing in my house?” he demands, irritated. Surely he should have the right to know who his guests are, before coming uninvited.

The man just looks sad. “It’s me, Michael. Your son.”

Something comes to life in his memory. “Michael.”

“Yes. Your son,” the man repeats.

“I have a son.” The thought is foreign. “I must have had a wife, too. And a brother.”

It hurts, that he knows these things must be true, but they have no life in his mind. 

The Michael-man looks even sadder, if that were possible. “Dad, can we come in?”

He nods, the bare motion of a gesture, and then putters back through the kitchen. But then he stops. Brother. I had a brother.

“You are my son?” he asks, voice trembling in the thin air. “Then tell me about my family. My brother. I want to remember, before I die.”

The Michael-man looks as though he’s about to weep, but instead he sighs. “Dad—”

“Tell me. Before I die.”

Brown eyes glisten with tears. “My mom, your wife, her name was Julia. She died three years ago.” He sucks in breath. “Your brother was also named Michael. He was killed during the war, you told me, but never anything else. I’m sorry, Dad.”

He feels for his son’s hand and awkwardly pats it. As though he’s the one giving comfort. 

“Thank you.” His voice is hoarse. Brittle. “For helping me.” He sits down again, leaning against the slotted chair back and closes his eyes. Michael, brother, I’m sorry I forgot you. I will remember your face soon enough. We’ll be together again.

He feels his son moving next to him, moving the woman and children towards the door. “We’ll be back tomorrow,” the Michael-man’s voice says, but it sounds far away. He feels himself moving toward sleep already. Dreams are the only place he can remember more than fragments.

He falls asleep smiling.

——

They find him there, the next morning, the smile still etched onto his pale cold face. His still-warm hands are frozen around the chair’s arms. 

“Thanks for everything, Dad,” Michael whispers, and a tear squeezes out from beneath his eyelid. “I promise I’ll remember.”

---

soli Deo gloria,

Hannah

The Close Of 2024

     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

Screaming Into Silence (a story)

 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.

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

____

Soli Deo Gloria,

Astrya