#100storiesin2020

[100storiesin2020]

There's a raven in Fox Tower (her name is Chainsaw)

This is chapter 1 in a crossover fanfic for The Raven Cycle and All For The Game! Major spoilers for both series. Enjoy!

*****

Blue exited the court, racket balanced over her shoulder. She was sweating and tired and extremely proud. Henrietta High School had won their rivalry match against Aglionby for the first time since Blue had joined the team, and she was fully aware that she was responsible for it. She had scored 4 of the 7 goals herself, after all, and each one of them had been hard-earned. Her friendship with members of the Aglionby team did not affect the ability to play against each other. Instead, it made all of them fight harder, and made the game that much more satisfying to win.

"Hey Sargent! C'mere."

Blue paused without turning around. "What do you want, Coach?"

"There's a recruiter here to see you."

That got her full attention. Turning around, Blue saw Mr. Moore, her Exy coach, standing next to her mother outside of his office. "Can they wait? I'd like to shower," she said. She did want to shower, but more importantly she wanted to change back into her handmade clothes. They weren't just a fashion statement or a desire to be different. They served as a warning sign, a protective shield against people who might judge her. She didn't want to meet a prospective coach without her armor.

"Come in, Blue," her mother said, tapping her toe on the floor. This morning, during the daily card ritual, Blue had drawn the Knight. Maura had told her that she would be meeting somebody today. This person would open a door for her future, and Blue would need to decide if it was the door she wanted. Blue had asked for more specifics, but Maura had declined, always insisting that Blue's future was her own. "It's time. This is it."

Blue sighed in defeat and stalked over to the door, which Moore opened for her. The office was a bit cramped, because a room that was originally intended as a cleaning closet really shouldn't have been able to fit a desk that size, but somehow it had gotten in here anyway. Behind the desk was a tall man with brown hair and tribal tattoos. She recognized him quickly, because Henry was a dramatic little fanboy who was constantly going on about his sports teams. This was David Wymack of the Palmetto Foxes, and he was here to recruit her.

"You must be Blue."

"And you must have made a mistake, because you only recruit rejects, but I come from a perfectly functional home, thank you very much." Blue started to turn around and leave.

Maura stopped her, because she was standing behind Blue in the doorway. "What happened to your manners?"

The corner of Wymack's mouth twitched upwards. "No, she has a point. My recruiting standards are pretty well-known, and you're correct that you don't seem to fit the bill. But I've talked to Moore, and to your mother. You've had quite the year, haven't you, Blue?

Blue grimaced as she took her seat. No doubt Moore had told him all about the news headlines she had been in this year. If she was to be perfectly honest, it had been rough, and it had affected her and her playing. She nodded a bit. "Alright then. I'll sign if you offer me a scholarship."

"Blue!" her mother exclaimed, as Wymack raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not being rude, Mom. We both know I can't afford college without some help."

Maura sighed. "Yes, you've always been the sensible one."

Wymack had a calculating look on his face, as if he was mentally rewriting her backstory. It was a little too reminiscent of Calla, which made Blue very uncomfortable. What were the odds that she get recruited by yet another psychic? The expression passed and he slid a file across the desk toward Blue, who stared at it. It was a hideous shade of orange and it had her name scrawled across the front in some of the messiest handwriting she'd ever seen, and she'd tried to interpret Ronan's notes once or twice. "Well, then, here's the deal, short stuff. I've seen your stats. I've talked to your coach. And tonight I got to see you play in the biggest game of your year. Aglionby is Henrietta's biggest rival, right?" Blue snorted. With how much the everyday folk of Henrietta resented the wealth of Aglionby, a dramatic rivalry was inevitable. "You were in fine form tonight, and I know some college players that you could run circles around," Wymack huffed. "My striker handpicked you, and I think he made an excellent choice. If a full-ride is what you need to be able to come to Palmetto, I'm willing to pay it to get you there."

Blue turned to her mother to get her input. Maura had the far-away look that came during a reading when she was working extra hard to see the truth. She snapped back to attention and gave a small shrug, which told Blue that the earlier read still stood. This was just a choice. Not necessarily a good one, not necessarily a bad one, just an option that could be taken or left. Blue turned back toward the coach and stuck out her hand. "Deal." They shook, and he handed over some papers. "Thank you, Blue. Sign these and we will be in touch. Do you have any more questions? I'm hoping to catch some of those Aglionby boys before I go."

Blue froze while flipping through the papers, unsure if she had heard him right. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Run that by me again?"

Wymack snorted. "I'm just interested in a few of them. Aglionby is not the type of school I generally would recruit from," he said with a grimace, "but I'm between a rock and a hard place right now. The truth is, I have some seniors graduating next year, so I'm in desperate need of two dealers and a goalie. I've been to several other schools this week, but I haven't managed to sign anyone." He sighed. "Apparently they were already committed to another school or unwilling to deal with the reputation of the Foxes, and now I'm out of time. Spring break ends tomorrow and I need to go back to Palmetto, so I've got to take my opportunities here."

Blue considered that and looked at her watch, which had bands made of several colors of yarn braided together. "The game ended 30 minutes ago, so Gansey, Parrish, and Lynch are probably changed out and waiting by the front door. You can catch them while I go shower."

Wymack raised his eyebrows at that. "I was under the impression that you didn't have your mother's gifts."

"I don't," Blue replied, wondering just how much Wymack knew about her mother's reputation as a psychic. "It's just that Aglionby has a very small Exy team, since apparently upper society frowns upon violent sports." She rolled her eyes. "Those three are graduating seniors and play the positions you need." 

Wymack looked unconvinced. "Then how do you know they are at the front door?"

Blue shrugged. "I won today. They owe me pizza." She picked up her racket and walked to the door. "Good luck. I'm going to go shower." She slammed the door shut behind her.

Maura smiled softly at the noisy retreat and looked back at the coach. "It's nice to see you again, David."

"Likewise, Maura." David Wymack leaned back in his chair and smiled faintly. "I don't think I've seen you in a good twenty years, at least."

Maura snorted. "At least. I can't believe you swept your psychic abilities aside to play sports." Her expression softened. "I will admit, now, that you made the right choice."

"I would have been a terrible psychic," David stated. "Trying to impress people? Doing readings for entitled nonbelievers? Useless. Using my abilities to give my kids second chances?" His eyes lit up, and Maura didn't need her second sight to see his passion. "I make a real difference here."

Maura nodded. "You certainly do. So what exactly drew you to Blue?"

He scowled. "I didn't know she was yours, if that's what you're asking, nor did I know she was an amplifier. She's tied to something dark, something that happened recently. A death? Two?" He glanced at her, and she nodded confirmation. "I'm a bit foggy on the details, and I'm not sure that I can provide what she needs to heal, but I can at least open up some doors for her."

Maura laughed. "There's my Knight card." Wymack gave her a blank stare. "Do you have a place to go for dinner? Old friends are always welcome at 300 Fox Way."

"Fox way, you say?" He smirked. "I'm in." They stood, then, and looked at each other for a moment, passing unspoken secrets through the air between them. Satisfied with what they saw in each other, they left: David with a sense that his situation was resolved, and Maura with a promise that her Blue would be safe.

[100storiesin2020]

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to belong. A round peg in a round hole. A square peg in a square hole. The world is full of holes, communities, in which I could try to fit. They come in all shapes and sizes; squares, octogons, triangles, stars. There’s something for everybody, they tell me. You’ll find your tribe, they tell me. So I try place after place, community after community, friendship after friendship. This one is too rigid, making it painful to stay in for long. This one is too big, and I fell through the cracks immediately. This one is so close to being right but I have one too many sides to fit in it, and try as I may it just isn’t for me. Will I ever find a home? A place I can sit, surrounded, but feeling like I belong? Or must I accept that I am a one of a kind shape, a polygon of infinite sides, ever changing and even more beautiful because of that?

[100storiesin2020]

Into the Black

I had a vivid dream last night in which I lived on a spaceship with my parents and extended family. I was probably 15 or so in my dream, old enough to have responsibility but undeniably still a child. I was given a set of tools and an impossible task - the details were murky, as they tend to be in dreams, but it was something I could not do. It was something that needed done, but I couldn’t do it alone, and yet I was asked to. When I asked for help, it backfired; “Not so high and mighty now, are you?” she jeered. (Whose face did she wear? She was my grandmother and my aunts and my mother all at once.) “Any child should be able to do this on their own, and if you’re going to whine about it you don’t deserve the tools you’ve got.” They took away my nice, complete tool set, and replaced it with a drill and a single screwdriver. I persisted as best as I could. I improvised and built and did my very very best, but once again it wasn’t enough. I failed.

They threw me into the cargo hold with the piece I was trying to fix, tossing in my small tools and a backpack. “If you want to survive, you’ll have to fix it,” my sister jeered. (Whose face did she wear? I have no sister.) They left the door open just a crack, and as the ship prepared to take off my backpack fell out and I lost nearly everything I had. I could not reach it. The door slammed shut and I fell to the floor as the ship took off. “Welome to space,” Jonny d’Ville said with a grin. “It’s not as bad as it seems.” (Where did he come from? He vanished without a trace.) The hold was not heatproof, and I knew I had little time left. I couldn’t fix the thing that would keep me alive, and all I had left was an incomplete space suit made of leather. It would not keep me warm long. I would freeze here if not let out, and there was no door into the rest of the spaceship.

“You’re never going to get out of here,” my grandmother said, her voice ringing through my ears. “If you somehow managed to survive, you’d go insane from the isolation. If you make it that long, anyway. You’ll freeze before long.” I put on the space suit as my great grandmother laughed at me. “What’s your plan, Rosie? Going out into the black, to try to break in a window or something?” Yes, actually, I told my mother. “That will never work,” my aunt replied. “That’s no chance at all.” It isn’t, I replied, but you left me with nothing else. I will not die in this prison you created for me. I will not freeze alone, abandoned, mocked and punished for every request for help. If I am to die, I will do it doing what I have always done - fighting for my own survival. I tightened up the fake spacesuit as best as I could, opened the cargo door, and pushed myself out into the stars.

I woke from the dream, the cold of space becoming the cold of a missing blanket on my bed, my heart not racing as it often does after a nightmare, but my soul full of dread. I’ve been thinking about this dream all day. It terrified me. But what terrified me most is that the emotions were not new to me. I feel alone in this world, and the few times I ask for help I find it thrown back in my face or given to me with a secret poison of mockery and betrayal underneath it. But yet, even in a dream, I’m unwilling to go down without a fight. I’m just here trying to survive, trying to thrive under the crushing weight that is this apocalyptic world, trying to hold up the ship around me as everything tries to collapse into dust. I’m still here. I’m still hanging on. I always will be. 

[100storiesin2020]

The Foxes' Tutor- Part 1

It was the first week of class and Nickola was already tired. She hated sports, hated athletes, and hated tutoring. Unfortunately food costs money, and the athletic tutor position was fairly easy to nab. She settled back in her seat in her office, glancing at the clock. Her next appointment was late.

The door crashed open. “Sorry I’m late,” the kid said, hair disheveled, slightly out of breath. He looked like he’d run halfway across campus. “I just finished a class in the language hall.”

Nickola raised an eyebrow. The language hall was all the way on the other side of campus, and the nature of scheduling at Palmetto suggested that this boy had run nearly a mile in just about six minutes, carrying a duffel bag, a backpack, and a book under one arm. The kid must be fast. “You’re Neil?” The boy nodded. “I’m Nickola. If you’re cutting that close to class, I’m more than happy to push your time slot back a few minutes so we aren’t in as much of a rush from this point out. Does that sound good?” Neil nodded. “Then let’s get started.”

It was now three weeks into the semester, and Nickola was settling into her routine. She’d hammered out her schedule to be where she needed it. She’d dropped some athletes from her tutor schedule when it became obvious that they just weren’t clicking. She’d debated dropping Neil, but had ultimately decided not to. He was obviously smart and grasped concepts quickly, so he really shouldn’t need her services as much as he did.

“Hi Nickola,” Neil chirped, opening the door softly. “Hey Neil,” she replied, glancing up. Then she did a double-take. Neil’s brown eyes were much brighter. “You look like you’re having a great day today.”

“Yeah,” Neil sheepishly replied. “Dan convinced me to drop two of my classes, so now I’ve had time to sleep. It’s made a big difference. Plus I no longer have to deal with that chemistry class.” He grimaced.

Nickola grimaced back. She knew exactly what it was like to take Professor Ozbourne’s class. Even if you weren’t sleep deprived, it was hard to stay awake in there. They settled into the tutoring session, tackling the Spanish vocabulary. Neil must have been getting all his sleep during his classes, she decided. Now he barely needed her help at all. She was very glad she hadn’t dropped him. Intelligent athletes were few and far between.

It wasn’t too many weeks after that when the Incident happened on Kathy Ferdinand’s talk show. Nickola hadn’t planned to watch it, but when she hear that Neil Josten had absolutely roasted Riko Moriyama, she had to see it with her own eyes. It was a thing of beauty, and she knew she was going to have to get closer to her favorite athlete.

“So Neil,” she said, leaning back in her chair as the door opened to a certain brown-haired Exy player. “I’ve come to learn that you have quite a mouth on you.” Neil tossed his brown hair back and laughed. “You’re going to have to share more of that wit with me. It’ll certainly make our tutoring sessions more entertaining.”

“As if anything could make this damn English class entertaining.

“Well, perhaps less boring is a better phrase than entertaining. Let’s get to it.”

Over the course of the semester, Nickola got to know a few of the other Exy players. Neil was grateful for her help, it seemed, because when Matt continued to struggle with his tutor Neil suggested he switch.

Nickola was neck-deep in thesis research when there was a knock on her office door. She jumped, looking hurridly at the clock. Was it already time for the rugby player? She relaxed when she realized that there were still several hours left, and decided that it must be a professor swinging by. “Come in,” she called, turning back to her computer screen.

“Hi, are you Nickola?” Nickola turned, surprised. Standing in the door was a very tall man, peering in curiously at her. “I’m looking for a new tutor and Neil said I should try you out.” Nickola stared in astonishment. Generally athletes were assigned to her randomly. Sometimes an athlete would request having her in a subsequent semester, but she’d never been recommended before.

“Yes, that’s me,” she blinked, and then began to clear her desk. “Have a seat. You said Neil talked to you? Josten?” The man nodded. “I’m guessing you’re an Exy player then. Have a seat and introduce yourself.” The man moved the chair around quite a bit, trying to fit his long legs under the seat.

“I’m Matt Boyd, Neil’s roommate. I’ve been struggling in my Literature class, and my current tutor just doesn’t seem to be clicking with me.” Matt grimaced. “He quite obviously thinks I’m an idiot, and I really don’t appreciate his condescending attitude.”

Nickola tried not to look guilty. She’d been guilty of a condescending attitude in the past, and it was really only this semester that she’d come to understand that not all athletes are idiots. “I’m sorry to hear that. Let’s take a look at what you have going on, and then we’ll see if we can line up some time in our schedules on an upcoming basis. Assuming we click better than your current tutor, anyway.” Matt gave her a grateful grin and they started into the Literature material. An hour later, both were exhausted, but Matt was smiling.

“Thanks, Nickola. Neil was right about you.”

Nickola looked up, surprised. “What did he say about me?”

Matt grinned. “He said that you had a knack for explaining concepts and making them clear. He thinks you’re a better teacher than any of our professors.

Nickola was floored. It was her dream to be a history professor. “He really said that??” Matt nodded. “That’s kind of a shock. I was under the impression that he didn’t like me.

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever seen Neil smile?”

Nickola thought for a minute. “Yes, actually. After the Morning Show Incident,” the emphasis causing Matt to cackle, “I told him that he had quite a mouth on him and that I wanted to see more of it. Meaning,” she clarified, seeing Matt’s incredulous expression, “that I appreciated his attitude and that snarky comments would make the tutoring more entertaining.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Matt replied, “because I have adopted Neil as my own and I would have to approve any potential suiters.”

Nickola laughed. “No worries here. The other girls can have him, I don’t swing.”

Matt’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you don’t swing?”

“Oh, I’m asexual,” Nickola replied. “Or possibly demi. I’m just not interested in guys or girls.”

Matt looked thoughtful. “Neil says something similar, and I can tell he’s not into girls or he would have mentioned your beautiful hair.” He held up a hand. “I’m not hitting on you and I’m totally spoken for. But that hair of yours is astounding.”

Nickola’s hair was waist-length and golden blond, done in intricate braids. She may not wear makeup and wasn’t into pretty clothes, but her hair was her pride and joy. “Well, thank you,” she smiled. “I won’t tell your girlfriend that you were admiring it.”

Matt laughed. “I’ll bring her in sometime. I’ll bet $10 that she’ll be all over it and way more embarrassing in praise than I ever could be.”

Nickola snorted. “I’m pretty sure I’ll get in trouble job-wise if I start betting money with my tutees, but put a sandwich on the line and I’ll take you up on that.” They shook hands in agreement as Matt stood to leave. “See you again next week?

“Sure will,” Matt replied. “Thank you again.”

She ended up having to buy Matt a sandwich.

[100storiesin2020]

Colors

I’m trying to write a poem about what an emotion truly is, and I don’t know where to start. I could start with colors, I suppose. It’s so often done. Anger is red, sadness is blue. But that’s too simplistic. Have you ever seen a crisp blue sunrise in midwinter, where the air is icy and clean and the snow reflects the light? Can that shade of blue represent anything other than wonder? Or perhaps you’ve walked through a forest in September as the leaves change color, arrayed in their red-orange splendor. Rather than feeling like anger, the red becomes anticipation, an excitement for change and fall celebrations. Or sometimes it feels like sorrow, a nostalgia for warmer days that have passed and a fear of colder days to come. Where is anger in those two emotions?

Perhaps I could start by comparing emotions to weather. I see that done often, too. Sunshine is happiness, rain is sadness, a tornado is anger. But I’ve not always found those to be the case, either. Sometimes sunshine is painful. It can be an aggravation, a hot day on top of too many hot days, sunburns and drought. It can burn your skin, kill your crops, make the outdoors repellant rather than inviting. In those cases, rain is prayed for, longed for, celebrated on arrival. And is rain truly sorrow outside of a desert? Rain is renewal. It is a cleansing of the atmosphere, a washing of the ground, a release of tension in the land and in our souls. It is peace and purifying and restful. I suppose rain is like sadness in that being wet can be an unpleasant experience, but a necessary one in the course of life.

As for tornadoes being anger: I have no quarrel with that sentiment.

I guess we as humans spend too long on comparing emotions with outside forces. On the surface, it’s a logical thought. Things outside of us can be observed and compared. They’re objective and factual. They exist, whether we see them, believe in them, or want to deny them altogether. The problem is that emotions are not like that, and never will be. 

Anger is not red, but it is like red: it is bright or muted, fierce or dull. It is like fire: consuming, controllable, destructive, flashy or smoldering. It is a tornado, inexplicable and terrifying. Anger is a burn, a tension, a need, a drive. It is the strength to stand, to defend, or to destroy.

Sadness is not blue, but it is like blue: it can wash out the world around us if there is too much of it. It is like rain: dampening everything around it, making life an unpleasant experience. Sadness is a hollowness, a grief, a missing piece. It is painful and messy and generally avoided. But it is vital to life.

Happiness is not yellow, nor is it sunshine. It is a brightness, a leaping, an assault on the senses. It is energy, a quickening, a desire to run-run-run-run-dance. It is overpowering, enviable, draining. It is a false default; a face we but on, but not always the truth.

Words are external, and emotions are internal. I’ll never catch them in a poem. But isn’t it a human experience to try?

[100storiesin2020]

Longing, a poem

They say our blood was forged in the heart of stars.

I hear it, sometimes - a distant call

A sense that there are greater things beyond,

A memory lost before the sands of time.

The stars shine.

I watch

Breathless

Stretching my soul to the heavens above, bathing in the moonlight

Renewing myself from an ancient source.

It's never enough.

My bones have a more recent memory.

The mountains rise before me.

I know their rise, their form, their ridges

An echo of my spine

The waterfall, my thudding heartbeat.

I ache

I long

My bones know where they have come from.

They will always belong here, in this place I cannot live.

They will always wish for a life they will never have.

A modern body, a modern world, aching for an ancient life.

But perhaps

Someday

I will rest here,

And my bones will be where they always belonged.

[100storiesin2020]

lost, part 1?

Freedom was the one thing she could not have, and so, of course, it was the one thing she desired above anything else.

This was Layla. She was eighteen years old, growing up in a town where turning eighteen means you can work full-time rather than just after school. It was the kind of old-fashioned town where everyone went to the same church, where being a ‘rebellious teenager’ meant pretending to smoke cigarettes because actuallly smoking cigarettes was a little too edgy. It was a town where it wasn’t uncommon to be late to school because of a tractor on the road, and the kind of place where schools let out for two weeks in the fall because the high schoolers have to work the harvest. It was the kind of place that seems to exist only in books, but has to be reflected in the real world somewhere.

The trick was that the place had always existed, would always exist like it did, and was not alone in its isolation from the world. It continues to exist because the people born here never truly leave.

That was the fate that Layla was afraid of. There was a whole big world out there to explore, she knew. She could see it on TV. She could read about it in her books. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to go, to see, to do, to touch, to taste. She wanted to experience herself, not through the tales of others. Perhaps she would come back to this little town. Perhaps she would not. For now, though, it was enough to go, to escape, to seize the only chance that she might ever have to leave.

Remembering all this did not relieve the embarrassment Layla was feeling as she tried to fuddle her way through the bus system in the next town over.

It shouldn’t be complicated, she thought to herself. I have the address I need, I’ve been told what part of town I should be in. I just don’t understand why there have to be so many streets!

[100storiesin2020]

The power of art

Snowy winters were the worst. On one hand, Andrea liked the snow. She loved the falling flakes, the quiet serenity, the peace that came with being surrounded by water while not being immediately soaked through by rain. In fact, moments when she watched the falling snow were among the few times she truly felt at peace with her place in the world. The problems came when the snow stopped.

She knew, logically, it was a sensory issue. Sensory issues were nothing to be ashamed of, as she often told herself. They were a common neurodivergent problem. It had to be a coincidence that her sensory issues were generally associated with existing as a human being.

Snow was a problem because it forced her to confront those issues. The crunch of the snow was difficult to avoid, even on plowed sidewalks. She’d long ago perfected the art of walking near-silently; it was about the twist of an ankle, the roll of an arch, the choice of shoe that looked professional but had soft soles. It was about a lightness that had nothing to do with the pounds she inevitably put on every year. In the snow, none of those carefully acquired habits paid off. It was a reminder that nature was ever unforgiving, that she could never fully control her life. She would just have to live with it.

Of course, even the sound of her own footsteps was not enough to keep Andrea indoors at lunch. She needed at least one escape a day, and Mother Nature was not going to deny her that.

Andrea mused over all of this as she walked down the sidewalk, internal roiling subsiding a bit with the wind on her face. That much hadn’t changed, at least. She was a completely different person than she had been just a few years ago, but wind and water would always calm her.

Or maybe she wasn’t all that different. Back then, she’d been loud, unapologetic in her opinions, and bossy, but all those things had helped to hide some serious insecurities. Now she had many of those same insecurities, but at least she wasn’t trying to be a person she wasn’t.

Andrea mechanically walked into the door of the shop, then blinked. Her feet had moved on instinct while her mind was occupied, and she’d ended up in the metaphysical store while her intention had been to go to the library. Not that she much minded. Andrea was firm in her Christian beliefs, but she had a love of herbs and incense, and the scents of the shop tended to have a calming effect on her.

And there was the art.

The metaphysical shop shared space with a local artist, probably to share rent costs (downtown was expensive), but the combination improved the attractiveness of both the art and the mystical items. Andrea loved this artist. She worked in bold, vibrant, living colors, and had a knack for capturing what could not be seen. That was how Andrea saw it, anyway; she certainly was no art expert.

She took a lazy lap around the store. The art pieces on display were rotated every week or so, and there were some new pieces out. She noted some of them: an owl, a tree, an abstract piece that spoke of flame and rebirth. And there, right around the corner, was Andrea’s favorite piece.

It was a painting of a woman with butterfly wings. She was nude, striding forward purposefully, a beautiful fae with blue skin and red hair. Her wings were composed of all colors of the rainbow, with huge eyes that seemed to peer out of the painting itself. Andrea wasn’t entirely sure why this painting spoke to her as much as it did. Perhaps it was the determination of the woman. Perhaps it was the way that she seemed to feel no shame in her undress. She was there, she was strong, she was on her way to do what needed to be done.

Andrea tried to absorb the painting on what was left of her lunch break. She traced the paint strokes with her eyes, trying to memorize every detail. She breathed in the incense and listened to the chimes in the window. As the minutes passed, she began to settle, to feel whole.

Soon her time was up. It was back to work, back to insecurities, back to avoiding the sound of her breath and her own footsteps in the snow. But on her way back, her back was straighter, and her eyes were on the sky.

[100storiesin2020]

2020 Stories

I made a New Year's Resolution that I would write 100 short stories in 2020. Here are my rules.

Each short story should be a minimum of 500 words. The goal is to have an average of 1,000 words each.

I will write two stories a week. (This will give me about 4-5 stories worth of wiggle room for life events.)

Any subject matter goes. Fanfiction? Original story? 500 word description of the sunset? All acceptable.

This is not my journal and I'm not allowed to write journal entries for stories. (Personal life experiences are fine as long as they read like a story rather than a journal entry.)

I will not edit any of these. I'm going for quantity, not quality. I've got to learn to write sometime and I need lots of practice.

Hoping this experiment goes well for me!

[100storiesin2020]

When are you posting the next chapter in your aftg/trc crossover fic?

Hopefully tonight, provided nothing crazy happens in the next few hours! I've got to go through and write the final draft (usually takes 1-2 hours) and I plan to start as soon as I have my ducks in a row here. Thing is, sometimes these ducks cooperate and sometimes they dont 😅 if not tonight, then tomorrow!

[100storiesin2020]

Creator - a poem

Sometimes it hits me, this drive to create. It burns. I want to write, to dance, to paint, to cook, to knit, to sing, to live. It’s overwhelming, this heart of humanity, and when my heart beats with it it drowns out all else I could ever do.

I wish it would last.

By the time I sit the mood has passed. What words will come to one such as I? Simple little me, with my little life and my little heart and little brain. Who am I to create a masterpiece? Who am I to add to the collections of light? The feeling leaves, and I return to life muted. I lost a chance.

It comes again at the worst of times. The Muse sings, and I must act, and yet I cannot; there are obligations to meet, projects to complete, mountains of laundry on my seat. They will have to wait, it seems. I am here, and I live, and so I must create.

This is when I feel most alive. Colors rush around me. My heart beats to the distant drums, ears filled with the calls of the Piper, the sweet taste of joy on my tounge. I create, and so I live.

In these times of trial, I see others around me heeding the same calls. Art flows forth from distant pens. Music rings from many throats. We come together to dispell the darkness and flood the world with our creations. Big and small, brief and long-lasting, they all bring light into this world. They bring smiles and laughter and joy and tears, and we are all each the better for them.

We are all Creators at heart.

That is what makes us Human.