sorry.

Mercy.

Mercy.

Mercy.

At home, in my flannel gown, like a bear to its floe, I clambered to bed; up the globe's impossible sides I sailed all night—till at last, with my black beard, My furs and my dogs, I stood at the northern pole. There in the childish night my companions lay frozen, The stiff fur knocked at my starveling throat, And I gave my great sigh: the flakes came huddling, Were they really my end? In the darkness I turned to my rest. —Here, the flag snaps in the glare and silence Of the unbroken ice. I stand here, The dogs bark, my beard is black, and I stare At the North Pole . . .                                 And now what? Why, go back. Turn as I please, my step is to the south. The world—my world spins on this final point Of cold and wretchedness: all lines, all winds End in this whirlpool I at last discover. And it is meaningless. In the child's bed After the night's voyage, in that warm world Where people work and suffer for the end That crowns the pain—in that Cloud-Cuckoo-Land I reached my North and it had meaning. Here at the actual pole of my existence, Where all that I have done is meaningless, Where I die or live by accident alone— Where, living or dying, I am still alone; Here where North, the night, the berg of death Crowd me out of the ignorant darkness, I see at last that all the knowledge I wrung from the darkness—that the darkness flung me— Is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing, The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness And we call it wisdom. It is pain.

Mercy.

Mercy.

Mercy.

Mercy.

Mercy.

A little rivalry never hurt nobody – too bad the new kid in town isn’t really up for playing games. Dean feels like they’re at an Old Western Saloon, and the blonde’s telling him how there’s “no room for two of us in town”, and Dean envisions himself laughing at the hick, yelling something about being here first. The Mormon isn’t amused by Dean’s sinful nature or prideful remarks, but then again, what can you expect from a Mormon?

Mercy.

How come she’s the only one that ever spots him, lurking around while she confesses her sins? He’s there, lurking, every single time she exits the confession box.  e’s hiding behind the pillar, or by the back door, for all the girls’ conversations with his father, but the eldest Gallagher seems to think she’s special or something. She knows he’s Pastor Moody’s son, but still. He’s right there behind the pillar every Sunday, and only for her confession.Truth is, she’s just the only one who isn’t too oblivious to notice him.  It can’t be a coincedence.

Noah King is stoic and calculated and strong-willed and headed to Hell. Lucas LeBlanc is foolish and reckless and weak-minded and bound for glory. There is fire and ice in both of them, the heat of summer and the chill of winter. They may be different, but they have that same push -- the adrenaline that makes them want to seize each other and fight, or fuck, or just do something. They meet at night; LeBlanc is always up late because he sleeps past noon, and Noah doesn’t sleep at all. You can find one’s skin under the other’s fingernails.

Kisses out your back door -- Quinn doesn’t know how she survived for fifteen long years without Scarlett Gallagher by her side, on her bed, in her skin. She can’t tell why, exactly, Scarlett has taken such a liking to her, but she doesn’t want to ask. Quinn is almost positive that this is some crazy dream, and just the hint of speculation could shatter the illusion. She wants to be Scarlett. She wants to have Scarlett. She wants to be the new Lucia. And now, late at night under the Fisher roof, when she’s almost positive that Liam’s asleep (or when she’s too desperate to care), she doesn’t think of Donny Osmond anymore when she sins. She thinks of cold fingers and pink lips and Scarlett Gallagher, all at once.

APPLICATION → sample app → app count → after acceptance

Mercy.

Mercy.