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A Pocket Archive (22)

I smirtled at the glowing rectangle in my hand before selecting the perfect GIF as a response and tossing my phone onto the bed, which is still unmade from the night before and now half-covered in laundry. A few minutes later I hear a ping, but this time it isn't from the giant- it's a notification from Messenger. I arch my eyebrows in surprise as I see the name at the top, then feel a soft smile tug at my lip as I read the message:

'Hey girl! I know this is really random, but M. said that your prayers are magical, can you please pray for me to find a really great job? At my current job, I am not appreciated, I feel like my voice and my experience means nothing. I hope you have a good day 🖤'

Instantly my thumbs fly across the screen and I send my reply, then hit 'forward', adding my prayer peeps' numbers at the end of the text. It felt a little odd out of the blue from someone I'd only met once, but it still made my soul feel warm and almost like it was buzzing for a moment. It was certainly interesting timing. Possibly a coincidence, of course, but somehow I doubted it, and it felt like a reassuring squeeze on my shoulder. She was right too. As much as I had wanted to kick and scream at God for some things, He was certainly listening and I have an odd feeling that He's up to something.

We exchanged a few more brief messages and I added another card to my prayer tin. I'd burned 2 this week, and had a feeling there would be another one added to the funeral pyre soon.


I opened Instagram and saw 9 chats (which is funny if you know French), but decided not to open them. I needed to reply to Stasya, but my brain always crinkles a bit writing на русском. It had gotten a lot better, but it still feels odd because I have to think, sort of like texting with the number pad on an old flip phone. My Russian homies could wait until after my evening video call with my angel. I put the phone down again and began sifting through the pile of books on my nightstand to fill the remaining hour.

'Scarlight' wasn't a bad book and for the most part, the prose was actually quite decent, but within four chapters, I felt like I was ready to throw it against the wall. While I am guilty of this myself to some extent, someone needs to explain to female authors that men do more than growl and smirk. In fact, I can only think of one person who I would say honestly growls, and it's mostly because he's grumpy and has kind of a low, gravely voice that never fluctuates much in pitch. And it's definitely not sexy- it's more comical than anything. I sigh. Men in fantasy romance novels often feel so two dimensional. When did this archetype become so popular? Maybe I need to read more classics. Not everyone needs to be Dostoyevsky, but some more meat and less bones (pun halfway intended) would be nice. At the same time, however, they're easier to love. After all, fictional men can't hurt you.

I frowned- actually, the more I thought about it, this wasn't entirely true. Quite the opposite in fact. But I also knew plenty of honest and good ones around me who could ensure it would never happen again, and that was comforting.

My phone pinged again and I checked the clock on the screen. It would be time soon. I slipped a still-pepperminty smelling gum wrapper between the pages and closed my book.


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