:T I’m doing that thing where I’m writing again

I don’t really know if this is a good thing, honestly. I think it is.
But it’s actually a little pleasant.

SO SO SO. This is something new, and I was just gonna call it “New,” but I just kept writing for a minute or so, and now it’s called “Anticipation.” It’s fiction (FICTION OKAY ELLE??? FICTION) and isn’t rooted in anything except a bit of despondency. I seem to be finding a lot of people in that mood lately, and for a little while earlier, I was feeling it too. It suuuccccccccks but anyways, really, it’s just fiction, lol. So don’t take it too seriously. 
Also, it ends a little abruptly because I simply stopped writing because I’m a little tired because is this what tea does to people???? and because I didn’t get too much sleep the night before because of reasons. o_o 

Read more cut because bluh bluh. 

Read More

"Notebook" first stuff or whatever

Man, all of my blog titles sound like I’m the laziest person alive. AND IT’S CLOSE TO BEING TRUE, I’M PRETTY SURE. Anyways, this is the first bit of personal writing I’ve posted that is definitely and decisively at the beginning of the story. Like, that bit of the bookstore from “Alternative”, it’s definitely earlier on in the timeline for that story, but I’m pretty positive it isn’t actually the beginning, or at least not the first few paragraphs. I intend to put other stuff in there at the start. Make more of an introduction for Molly perhaps. But this— this is the first part of a short story I’m calling “Notebook” that I probably won’t finish, or ultimately make a shitton of changes to. Because I’m generally not happy with things (never entirely) when I revisit them, and honestly, I hardly ever finish any works. NONCOMMITTAL ME, YAY.

Anyways. Yes. High school setting. MMMMMMYEAH.

EDIT: It was pointed out to me that it wasn’t particularly clear that some of my posts were fiction. THIS IS FICTION. FICTION. Okay, go now. Be free of this edit. 


The first time I think I saw him was in the hallway. His eyes met mine and I looked down. I was nervous because I thought he was attractive; he had wild red hair and defined cheekbones. His eyes were a clear green, and he didn’t seem to want to smile. I hurried up and got to my locker. 

The day after that, I saw him again at lunch. I was writing in one of my notebooks and drinking a fruit punch when I felt him watching me from across the courtyard. When I looked up and saw him, he seemed almost curious, with his eyebrows lifted. I was reminded of a silent, prowling cat, and I decided to use him as writing material. When I looked again, he was eating and seemed kind of sad. I wanted to go and ask him if he was okay, but I was too shy. Instead I kept writing and didn’t glance at him again. 

It continued like that for nearly a week. He would eye me carefully to see if I was doing anything, and I would recognize his interest before absorbing myself in writing again. Sometimes he would hold eye contact with me for a few seconds, and my face would get too warm and I’d look away. Because he never looked at me more than once at lunch, I would have the opportunity to draw rough sketches of him on the side of my writing. Every other page held his sad expression in careful detail. He never sat with anyone. 

In fact, there were few instances in which he was even spoken to. The occassional girl braved the risk of flirting with him, but even his looks did not outweigh how intimidating he could be when spoken to. He would just stare blankly at you, sometimes full of evident loathing or exasperation, until there was nothing to do but walk away from him. Everyone left him alone, and he kept to himself. It was an unspoken agreement. 

One day I had decided to put on my headphones and work instead of listening to the incessant buzz of the other students in the courtyard. I didn’t see the boy clean away the things on his table, and I didn’t see him walk over to where I was in the grass by the gym wall. Only when he sat down next to me did I jump and turn, startled to find him looking over my shoulder.

"Oh, uh… yes?"

He tilted his head and stared at my notebook, and I followed his gaze. One of the sketches from two days ago took up the bottom right-hand corner of the page, and I felt my body burn with embarassment. I slammed the notebook shut, and he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. I watched him balefully for a few moments, expecting him to address me or ask about the drawing, but he just stayed still and breathed with his eyes shut. So I went back to writing. 


After that, we were nearly inseparable. We always ate lunch together, he met me outside of classes and walked me to my locker, we lounged under the trees in front of the school before the morning bells rang, and he would walk me to my busstop when it was time to go home. 

Sometimes during lunch, he would rifle through my backpack and inspect sketches in my school books, or read the odd little notes I’d leave myself here and there. He seemed to absorb everything about me by studying it intensely, or tracing it with his hands. But he knew not to ask for the notebook where he first saw himself in pencilled detail. 

His name was Aubrey. He only gave me the first name, on the second day he came to me at lunch, and he rasped it out very quietly, like he was trying to keep it from everyone else. What little school work he carried in his messenger bag only held his first name, and there was no work that had been graded to show that the teachers were adding it in with red-inked consternation. I didn’t ask for it. Instead, I marvelled at how gravelly his voice sounded. I wondered if he kept this silence at home too, or if he ever made phone calls. It sounded as though he never used his voice. 

I’ll confess that I wasn’t exactly a charmer the first week I was here, and I didn’t go out of my way to get to know anyone. Senior year at a new school was abysmal, and it was almost depressing to think about making new friends. Whether Aubrey was new or not, I never found out. He tended to glower at people when they strayed too close, and so I never did make many friends after he became mine. Or I became his. 

He always sat very close to me, which was unnerving at first, but it was something you get used to easily after a while. The week we glanced at each other across the courtyard without coming near to one another was made up for in leaps and bounds. He didn’t seem to have a problem with personal space or bubbles or anything like that, and was always walking close, sitting close, looking over my shoulder or touching my elbow to guide me out of oncoming foot-traffic. On a few rare occassions, he dozed on my left shoulder while I worked in my notebook.

People started to realize our social isolation and stopped attempting to befriend me. I got the feeling that they hadn’t ever had that intent with Aubrey. He was gorgeous, but unapproachable. And our connection with each other seemed somewhat unbreakable or, at the very least, forbidding to our classmates. We hardly spoke, we were never intimate, but we were inseparable. We were always together.

The one untitled story with the girl I named Alice

Though maybe her name won’t stay Alice. o_o Also, just, you know, for your information… this will be in no way connected with any wonderland bullshit. So just… yeah. Let’s drop that pretense like a giraffe drops its baby. That is one VERY DEAD pretense. (I feel a little bit like, even though the wonderland thing is kind of neat when done properly, it’s done a little too much at this point.)

Anyways, this is just another random bit of writing. Honestly, I’m posting a bunch of stuff that won’t make me cry TOO terribly hard if it’s stolen or anything. That’s always sort of been my mild paranoia about personal writing. Like, “someone might make off with my shitty writing. WHAT THEN GODDAMNIT” But I also… try to avoid… fanfiction… even though it’s generally safer I guess?? Because… it’s not really content you could eventually profit from. Not usually, anyways. 

BACK ON TRACK: This bit may be a story that never really goes anywhere. It’s in the miscellaneous folder with a bunch of other less-than-a-page nonsense, but I do like this section of it, so… who knows???

EDIT: It was pointed out to me that it wasn’t particularly clear that some of my posts were fiction. THIS IS FICTION. FICTION. Okay, go now. Be free of this edit. 

Read More


Incidentally, I have a shitton of miscellaneous writing that has no place quite yet. This little bit is I guess more recent than some of my other stuff??? Early September is when the file says I last edited it. What I’m posting of it is all I have— like seriously, I wrote this out one afternoon at work because it sounded good in my head and I really, really, actually tremendously kind of like it. But it’s stand alone so far. I feel like it could fit into a story I have going on now, but honestly, none of the characters quite fit the profile. It’s a little unnerving. I want to use it, but I’m afraid I’d have to write a whole fucking story around this one scene. o_o; So, you know, whatever. Just… here. Read it, and beware that it belongs with nothing just yet. 

Edit: Also, please let me know if there’s something you think needs changing. I’m open to suggestion, and perhaps embellishing on this more could… force me to do something with it????

EDIT: It was pointed out to me that it wasn’t particularly clear that some of my posts were fiction. THIS IS FICTION. FICTION. Okay, go now. Be free of this edit. 

Read More

Another section I guess

Part of Alternative, further along than the other bits. I’m pretty sure that if I get off my ass and actually write this thing, it will be a half-decent short story instead of another abandoned project. WEH

Also, I haven’t named the other character, one of the inhabitants of the house. This is…. plainly due to laziness on my behalf. o_o Just… just ignore me please. I’ll change it later.

EDIT: It was pointed out to me that it wasn’t particularly clear that some of my posts were fiction. THIS IS FICTION. FICTION. Okay, go now. Be free of this edit. 

Read More

More of “Alternative”

This is actually… still old material, to be honest. ;_; I’m posting this at the request of a friend, but I’mSOSORRYIWROTENOTHINGNEWFORYOUSIR. So, again, a chronologically out-of-place bit of story that may or may not be enjoyable to read. Have funnnnnn~~ Maybe more later today, who knows??? 

EDIT: It was pointed out to me that it wasn’t particularly clear that some of my posts were fiction. THIS IS FICTION. FICTION. Okay, go now. Be free of this edit. 

Read More

Dream Places

Okay, so. I dream profusely. Like, so much. And some days I can’t really remember what it was, but a lot of the time they’re really vivid even after I wake up. There are plenty of places that the dreams occur in that only appear once, or maybe three times tops, and aren’t worth exploring too thoroughly, but there are at least these few that I’ve dreamed in so often that I thought they warranted a little attention. So basically, this bit of text is about those places, and their little details. Not so personal that I can’t share, I guess. 

Here you are: The Hill, The School, and The House with Many Rooms

Read More

"Alternative" a little bit of this, too

Yeah and so: I’ll post just one more little thing, because it can’t hurt too much to do so. This is part of a story I might actually do something with; I’m pretty undecided, though. I’m… lazy. =_=’ And I haven’t touched this in what feels like forever. But, yep, here goes. This is not really a beginning bit, because my story has no layout. (Mostly because I write on it in sporadic bursts, and never chronologically.) 

"Alternative" - chronologically misplaced bit of story

EDIT: It was pointed out to me that it wasn’t particularly clear that some of my posts were fiction. THIS IS FICTION. FICTION. Okay, go now. Be free of this edit. 

I putter up and down the aisle, picking up a comic and reading the back, then putting it back into place. I find it hard to be interested in anything but what I already know about. I heave a sigh. This is moderately frustrating. “What was that all about?” Matthew comes around the corner of the tall shelves and casts a baleful eye towards me. “Is this one of those What’s-The-Point sighs?”
“No, no…” I say, “Nothing like that. I’m just not very motivated today, that’s all it is.” I smooth my skirt out.
“Well, I know that,” he mumbles, sticking his chin out a little. “You made me drive halfway across town to dick around in the bookstore with you so you wouldn’t be lonely playing hookey from work.”
“No, I don’t mean about work.” I cross my arms and give the bookshelves my best I’m-Disappointed-In-You stare. “I mean about comics.”
He picks one up and eyes it warily. “You mean you wanna go to work now? No more bookstore shenanigans?” Mock disappointment is in his voice while he returns the book to its place, finding shounen-ai not to his liking.
“I’d like to stay. It’s better here than anywhere else, honestly. I just don’t know what to do with myself. I feel like I have apathy coating everything around me. It’s in my bones, Matt. I love nothing today.”
“Ouch,” he replies, grinning. “You sound resigned there.”
I sigh and face him, readjusting my purse strap. “I feel like I’ve resigned, but my heart’s not in it. Let’s get something liquid-y.” I head for the in-store cafe, and he falls in step next to me.
“You mean a drink.” He elbows me.
“Or something,” I shrug.
We stand in silence until we make our orders. He gets a manly caffeinated hot-thing and I purchase a cream soda. We wait for his to be prepared, and he glances at me.
“Say Molly, does this have to do with what’s-his-name?”
“His name is not what’s-his-name.”
“Whatever, you know what I’m talking about.”
They call his order out and he thanks them before moving away from the cafe. The CDs are conveniently nearby, so I paw through them idly.
“I dunno, Matt. Maybe.” I inspect the song titles on the back of a heavy metal CD and smile at the absurdity of some of them. That sort of thing must be on purpose. I put it back. “If I step back and examine my feelings, it could be that it was a big contributor, but I’m sure plenty of other things make me this way. When situational things gang up on me, I shut down.”
He follows me around with a hand in his pocket and the other holding onto his drink.

"Recalling Night and Rain"

So yeah: Some things you ought to know. I write mostly for myself. And I rarely finish things. But I jot down bits of stuff when I like how it sounds, and this is sort of one of those things that will probably never get around to becoming anything. But a certain friend <>! of mine suggested I should post my stuff on here, caution to the wind and all that. So… I guess, with mild confidence (because I have four followers, lol), I give you two paragraphs of go-nowhere writing.

EDIT: It was pointed out to me that it wasn’t particularly clear that some of my posts were fiction. THIS IS FICTION. FICTION. Okay, go now. Be free of this edit. 

Read More