#don’t mind the writing in the margin it’s my calculus notes

[miraclegemz]

(It’s always Sunny title card music)“Shadow gets custody of Eggman’s numerous artificial children”

I love leaning into the insane Robotnik family tree and @shadow-von-vamp ‘s post about shadow being eggman’s next of kin possessed my body and drew this

It gets even funnier if eggman faked his death and is laughing his ass off in some safe room enjoying a moment of goddamn peace

[doitwritenow]

DRAGON!! Questions: 2, 4, 27 aaaand 32. XD Also 35, release the rambles.

ADA!!!! Let’s see what I can do here... >:3

2. Why do you write fanfiction? I write fic because of the spaces between the lines of a story. The gaps and unanswered questions in canon encourage me to come up with deeper mechanics, more complicated lore, and complex character motivations in order to explain. Sometimes, one of those pieces will click into canon so well that it becomes inspiration. And then there’s nothing else to do but write! Lol. Stories are so wonderful because of what we can do with them, individually and all together, and I really like being a part of that. 

4. Are there any writers that inspire you? Absolutely. Brandon Sanderson and Neil Gaiman are the novelists who’s skills blow me away and remind me why I like to write. Robert Hass,Trista Mateer, and Robert Graves are inspirations too, though I’m not a poet. I like to think and they make me do so.

27. What’s the nicest comment you’ve ever received? Oh that’s hard!!! I get a ton of wonderful comments--from long, analyzing, discussion ones to short, joking, fun ones that make me laugh when I’m having a bad day. I love to be able to interact and banter with my readers; it’s my favorite thing, and they’re all so lovely. ANYWAY a comment that jumps to mind is a recent one from @writingish1210​ on all but my oldest fic ever, Wire Figures, praising characterization and tone. (i WILL cry, don’t test me)

32. Summarize a random fic of yours in 10 words or less. I used a random name picker for this, uh “they said I couldn’t fit calculus inside of endgame angst”

35. Ramble about any fic-related thing you want! Release the ramble!!!!  okokok how about a first-page blurb from something I may or may not ever actually write? I’m in the mood for ironstrange fairytale au because I’m working on a Prophets in the Graveyard chapter today, so have some fantasy Rapunzel vibes!

The candle flame sparked weakly at the very base of its wick when the knock finally rattled at Stephen’s window. Stephen didn’t move from where he was kneeling, a hand extended in a careful downstroke to complete the right edge of the design he’d almost perfected. It was vital that his movements were smooth and controlled. He didn’t let the knock surprise him into skewing the line, and it took a long moment to loop his fingers to end his stroke with a flourish. 

Only then did Stephen jump to his feet, tucking the sapphire feather of his quill behind his ear and tumbling toward the window. The glass was fogged from the warmth of the inside air against the chill of the autumn temperature outside, and Stephen could just barely see movement through the cloudiness. He slid his fingers between the windowpanes and threw them open. 

“You’re late,” he said, bracing his hands on the windowsill. He leaned out to peer down at the prince standing on tiptoe atop the closest parapet. 

“Yeah, well, maybe I got some sleep for once,” Tony Stark huffed. 

“You’re lucky I’m still working and was in the bottom room.” The lowermost area of the North Tower—the part of the tower where Stephen spent most of his time and did most of his work—had the only window within reach of the castle wall. Tony was still too short to do much more than fumble blindly at its surface until Stephen noticed.

“You’re always still working,” Tony told him, extending a hand. 

Stephen gripped it with both of his and hauled Tony upward, assisted by the prince’s scrambling feet bracing on the frozen stones of the North Tower. Tony got his free hand around the window frame and swept his legs inside. He perched comfortably atop the sill. 

The cold air had turned both of their faces pink, and Stephen could already feel his nasal canals getting clogged. “Come on,” he said, jerking his chin. He knew Tony liked his spot in the window, his perch somewhere between Stephen’s world and his own, but it was cold and Stephen couldn’t help but worry that Tony might one day lose his grip. That he might fall, and not just to the top of the wall six feet below, but down and down to the bottom of the turret all those stories beneath, and Stephen would lose the prince they were all trying so hard to save. 

“What are you working on?” Tony asked, letting Stephen tug him into the tower. He trotted over to the wide canvas spread across the center of the floor as Stephen latched the window behind them. Tony’s fingerprints were pressed into the mist on the glass. 

“Nothing new,” Stephen replied with a shrug. “Still the fox.”

Tony hummed, walking a circle around the design. “I still don’t know how you get this from those dusty old books.”

“I’m a genius, obviously,” Stephen snorted. 

“You’ve never even seen a fox, Stephen.”

“You know I don’t have to see something before I spiritsketch it.”

Tony glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “You have to see me.”

“Well yeah, you’re a person.” Stephen sat back in front of his canvas, patting at his head until his fingers curled around his quill, as Tony circled a few more times before joining him. The prince was like a cat—fidgeting and circling and testing before finally relaxing enough to sit. “When I spiritsketch you, I’ll be reforming an existing soul, not producing a whole new one. All this is just to practice my technique.”

Spiritsketching was a complex art, relying on precision and power and the layered designs that matched ink to spirit and back again. Stephen’s life had been dedicated to it since he was seven years old. For ten years, he’d learned the properties of the soul and how to map it into a sketch, how to draw life into a mind assembled with the right lines and dots and angles, how to capture the essence of a thing by speaking the language of the spirit. 

He’d started small, as the notes of a dead teacher had told him from the margins of the books. ‘Begin with what is manageable, and from there you can flourish.’ He’d started with drills to build his eye for symmetry and exactness. He’d learned how to layer his ink and control the thickness of his stroke. And then he’d begun to form creatures, matching designs described in the texts. There were butterflies huddled in the corners of the room even now; the first being he’d perfected. 

 He didn’t have to see the creatures. The only thing he had to see was Tony, until he could map the prince’s shining, complex spirit onto a canvas and do with it as he was bid. Stephen saw only the creatures he could build himself.

The king made sure of it.

“How close are you?” Tony asked, and for a moment Stephen thought Tony was talking about his own spirit, before he remembered the fox.

“Almost done,” he replied. “Six weeks and I’ve reached the last phase.”

“Oh fantastic. This is my favorite part.”

Stephen hid a grin, fingering his sapphire quill for a moment. He found his place on the canvas once again and drew a stroke of deep blue ink up into the tool. Leaning forward, Stephen carefully sought out the perfect connection and began to sketch. 

That was fun!!! Thanks so much for the ask <3

[austennerdita2533]

A/N: Just a Literati trifle in celebration of GG’s 20th Anniversary Week. I still have another chapter or two to write but I wanted to get this out before the event officially ended. (Canon compliant + OS + divergences)

Also here: (AO3)

Enjoy! 

xx Ashlee Bree

An Archive of Words Between Us

One day, many weeks into it but still no closer to clarity about what it is between them, Rory does what she does best: she makes a list.

Marked at the beginning, from when she and Jess first met, she soon starts to add to it with frightening regularity. A new entry comes any time there’s news, insight, questions, or growing confusion to report. She writes it all down. Out. She compiles everything in a beat-up old notebook she’s taken to carrying around.

Over the years that follow it becomes a confessional of sorts for her, a still developing story. She reaches for a pen whenever the mood strikes, and writes…then writes some more…

Committing to paper all the things they’ve said to each other over the course of their history, as well as many of the things they didn’t.

- i. things we said when we were strangers -

“Hey, Dodger, wait a minute,” she calls out before he disappears behind the gazebo. “Is this a gimmick of yours? Do you always write margin notes in the books you steal from strangers?”

Jess stops. Casts a cursory glance over his shoulder before turning back around with hands in his hoodie pocket.

“Depends, I guess.”

“On?”

“Does it matter?”

Rory shrugs.“You could be a literature-defacing miscreant on the lam for all I know. Your face might be tacked to Wanted posters all over New York City. I’ve got to edge my bets, protect my assets.”

“What,” he says, “you aiming to sentence me without a trial or something?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Wow. I can’t believe you’re going to bust out the cuffs already, Judge Judy,” he chuckles, raising his hands in supplication before rocking backwards on his heels like he’s been shot. “That’s not very neighborly.”

“Sounds like there’s evidence to be had if I dig a bit.” A pause. A teasing quirk of an eyebrow. “Is there?” she asks.

Though he stays silent at this, a spark of something catches deep in his dark eyes as their gazes meet, and Rory's stomach flips.

“Well?”

“You tell me,” he says, all smooth and inscrutable and James Dean cool as hell.

“I’m no Agent Scully at the FBI, but the truth is out there. Don’t think I won’t uncover it,” Rory replies, her wit flowing strong and sure. “If I think it’s warranted I could hire Kirk to lay chase for a while…he likes detecting. Takes payment in Skittles, too. Boxes of which I will have no trouble acquiring, I assure you.”

“Who the hell’s Kirk?”

“Let me worry about that,” she beams back at him coyly, bouncing the book he’d pilfered earlier against her hip.

“Save your Skittles, concerned citizen. I’m clean.”

“Oh, yeah? And why should I believe you when I hold proof to the contrary?”

“Because—” Ambling backwards in the middle of the street, a crooked smirk forms along the corner of Jess’s mouth as he gives her one last idle loll of his shoulder. “I only leave notes for people who might appreciate them. Start with the one on page three, by the way,” he adds with a farewell salute. “It’s a doozy.”

Curiosity piqued, Rory ignores the warmth in her chest as she watches him turn to leave a second time. Instead, she buries her nose in the margins of Howl and peruses. Losing herself in his tiny blocked script the whole walk home.

- ii. things we said because we were lying to ourselves -

Pacifying the town's fears about their friendship isn’t easy.

Especially not after Jess outbids her boyfriend at the basket-bidding festival to win an afternoon of her company. Or the night he shows up on her doorstep unannounced, bearing food and intellectual discussion after she swears to everybody else she wanted to spend the evening alone. Or when he wrecks her car on their way back from a spontaneous hunt for ice cream cones.

Then there’s the time she misses Lorelai’s graduation because she’s stuck on a bus next to some scruffy-looking creep who spits chew into a soda can while he mumbles the names of state capitals under his breath in an Appalachian-sounding litany, Rory having skipped town impulsively to visit Jess in the Big Apple after Luke had sent him packing because of an accident that had no real bearing or blame. At least not unless it was half hers to share in, too, in any case.

She expends a lot of energy defending what they are to people. Clarifying what they’re not.

Pretty soon a truncated version of the truth skips from her mouth like a message she’s spent months concocting, memorizing, and then recording, with her smart enough not to speak it aloud until it sounds convincing. And it does. She makes sure of it.

Tensions abate after that, for a time. Mostly because of the distance.

Mom and Dean, in particular, seem to breathe easier with so much of it stretched between them. They’re much happier once Jess is no longer there to lurk around Luke’s, or clog the aisles of Doose’s, or stake out chalkperson outlines on the sidewalks of town where he can draw her closer to him. Too close for comfort, as far as anyone else is concerned. Even if his only aim in doing so had been to imbibe her in intellectual conversation.

Rory finds it funny how his absence from Stars Hollow makes it both easier and harder for her to placate everyone’s misgivings. The words may be simple to say, but the meaning behind them feels deflated. Half-bodied at best.

Like calculus, it causes her headaches. Forces her to work twice as hard to make everyone believe she doesn’t care that he’s gone and likely never coming back again. That the vacant space he’s left behind doesn’t sting whenever her gaze passes over it, remembering.

Exhausting though it is, however, she does her best. She makes the effort.

She starts by dolling out extra attention and assurances to Dean about her commitment to him. To their relationship. Then she pivots around mention of Jess’s existence to her mom because she knows she doesn’t approve of him let alone agree about any of his good qualities. With Lane, she focuses on school and Mrs. Kim and music they can add to her floorboard collection. And in front of Luke, so as not to burden him with more disappointment, she acts as if nothing is different. Pretends that nothing much has changed.

Omission quickly becomes a habit for Rory. A way of life.

Only once does exposure threaten to spoil everything when her mom confronts her openly one afternoon about a placeholder that’s slipped out of her copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls.

“It’s nothing,” Rory says as she makes a quick grab for it in the kitchen and blushes.

“Really? Because nothing to me looks a hell of lot like a paper plate fragment. One that’s smudged in pizza grease and blue scribbles.” Laughing, completely unaware of her daughter’s wide-eyed discomfort and humiliation, Lorelai hands it back to her without inspecting it closely. “I’m surprised by your choice is all. Messy and makeshift isn’t your typical bookmark M.O., hun.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when Paris accosts you at the break bell. You drop things. People jump, drinks spill. Beloved bookmarks go soaring…”

“Ah. I take it she was yelling in dog decibels again?”

“More like she put out an APB on all aliens living a few hundred million lightyears away and then gave them exact shouting coordinates for where to find her. So same difference, really.”

Her mom snorts. Passes over the ranch dressing.

“She’s a pill, that one. I’m telling you Pink wrote that song with her in mind.” Shaking her head, Lorelai closes the fridge behind her as she bites into another French fry. “So how’d you come by the plate?” she asks, her mouth full.

“It was spontaneous. I was running late so I nicked it from the cafeteria on my way out,” Rory lies, knowing full well Chilton never dispenses paper or plastic dishes for dining.

“Oh.” Her mom considers this. “Well, I suppose there were times even Madeleine Albright couldn’t find anything better to use in a pinch. That was very…replateful of you.”

“What can I say,” she exhales with relief, feigning amusement as her fib is accepted with alacrity, “the Forks was with me.”

“Only the Forks? Don’t tell me you’re leaving out the spoons and the knives. How could you?” says Lorelai, aghast, as she scoops stray kitchen utensils to press them against her chest in a bodily cuddle. “It’s cutlery discrimination!”

“No, it’s punning.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” A pause. A nibble of pizza. “Also, Shakespeare would agree.”

“Psssh, Shakespeare! That old killjoy,” her mom says dismissively, rolling her eyes in good humor as she tucks a box of strawberry Pop Tarts under her armpit and motions toward the living room. “What’s that you have written on the inside there, anyway? French? Calculus? Rolling Stone lyrics? A blueprint for the evil plan you’ve hatched to shoot Grandma to the moon? I’m dying to know.”

Waving her off, Rory tucks the shard back into the spine of her book where it belongs. Hiding it from view. “It’s for school,” she assures her as they settle onto the sofa.

“So tell me about it. I don’t care if it’s boring.”

“Pass.”

“Come on! I could use a good Chilton-instigated snooze.”

“Too bad. No beauty naps for you.”

Lorelai pouts, fake affronted. “Rude!”

(Turns out that ‘shard,’ that ‘thing for school’ which is stuck between the pages of Rory’s Hemingway, isn’t boring at all. In fact, it has a history. A story. The truth is it’s a souvenir she’s saved ever since she and Jess talked books over pizza at Antonioli’s on basket-bidding day.

Toward the end of the meal he’d ripped off a piece of plate so he could jot down his phone number and a quote. Only sliding it into her hand, folded in half, crinkled up like a note passed between desks at school, in the moments before they parted ways and headed home.

It’s stupid she’s kept it. She realizes that now. Stupider still to slip it between the pages of each new book she reads or unfurl it in the privacy of her bedroom to puzzle out if the line he’d included from A Moveable Feast is meant to have double meaning:

“We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and [liked] each other,” it reads.

Stupidest of all, she can’t seem to bring herself to stop looking at it. To throw the darn thing away. A note…a number…a greasy sliver of paper plate!)

“Like I said, Mom,” Rory swallows before smiling over at her convincingly, “it’s nothing. Really.”

- iii. things we said on the verge (of something) -

In early June, Sookie’s wedding day arrives.

Things are static again. Serene. Normal.

Granted, slight changes do sprinkle into the mix here and there because of her dad’s presence, because Dean holds her a little tighter around the waist now than he once did, but mostly it’s the same here as it’s always been. Pleasant people fade into gossip and nonsense while fun blurs into peculiarity.

Life feels simple once more. A tad plain and colorless, maybe, but simple.

Then Jess returns to town on a whim or a fluke or a who the devil knows what he’s thinking and everything goes sideways, pear-shaped, belly-up-and-down in seconds because this is the last thing she’d been been expecting and suddenly the only thing that registers is the length of the grass plus the number of steps it will take to close the distance between them. All that matters is he’s here, he’s back, he’s near enough to touch, and she’s smiling so hard she can hardly breathe as she drinks him in from head to foot like a glutton: her pulse leaping, her heart lurching free from the cage of her chest.

The whole world tilts. Collapses. The pale yellow of the sun shines down like a spotlight so it’s only a rippling alcove she sees. Just him, just her. Just them canopied beneath these flittering fronds of green.

Any rational thought Rory possesses scatters across the wind with the pollen. And then before she knows it, the ground tilts out like a ramp underfoot.

It pushes her forward. Outward. Sliding her toward him until she’s thrust and tangled in his arms with no memory at all of how she got there, or why their mouths feel so hot and wanton like this, so damn unsatisfied. It all seems impossible considering they’re still pressed together in a kiss that can only be described in one way: illicit.

“Not a word,” Rory pants when they stop and Jess pulls back, his jaw taut, his expression shuttered, to nod once understanding.

“Okay,” he says.

“Promise me.” The huskiness of her voice feels at odds with this demand, with the trembling fist she still has curled in the lapel of his jacket, but she cannot think about her stinging mouth or his tongue right now so she clings to desperation instead. “Can you do that?”

“Okay,” he repeats, all eyes, eyes, eyes. And with that single look, she forgets to breathe let alone digest anything he’s promised.

In the end, it’s an impulse that overtakes them not a decision. It’s a moment of clandestine passion they share, not a confession that will alter the circumstances any.

And yet it’s guilt, not regret, that begins to pull like an anchor in her belly until she’s running in shoes that chafe the back of her heels. It’s terror and confusion, not apology, that ripples along her nerve endings until she’s dashing through the trees like a coward or a swindler because she needs to believe behind her there’s still a haven of black and white she can cross with both feet.

Only when Rory stops does she feel the change. Does she discern the difference. It takes one sting, one breathless stitch in her side, for her to know she’s tumbled forward into color without noticing.

Looking down, and there it is. His name already singed across her chest in scarlet letters.

- iv. things we whispered on the hood of your car -

“Tell me something no else knows.”

“About what?” he asks around midnight the following April, the two of them sprawled on the hood of his car at a deserted rest stop off the I-95 on their way back from a concert in the city.

“You, silly.”

“Funny you’re thinking about penning my biography already, Churchill. I’m honored, truly, but aren’t I too young for that sort of enumeration?”

With a roll of her eyes plus a protracted har-har, Rory lifts their intertwined hands, watching, mesmerized, as their fingers thread then unthread as they lay side-by-side parked beneath the Big Dipper in this forsaken parking lot. Though they’ve been together about six months now, prying Jess open has been slow work. It’s like taking a crowbar to cement: one chip, one crack, one crumble at a time.

“Stop deflecting, Mariano,” she warns. “Evasion’s for chumps.”

“Fine,” he sighs. She presses a kiss of reward against his knuckles before curling tighter into his side. “How about this: every year roughly sixteen hundred people in New York City are bitten by other humans.”

“Bitten?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“That’s just it,” he says in his best horror story voice, “could be vampires, could be cranky commuters, could be urban mania or road rage…nobody knows.”

“Oh, please. As if I’d let you off the hook with that obvious dodge. You’re killin’ me here, Smalls!” Rory says with an elbow rib and tsk. “Second of all, you so made that biting thing up.”

When she edges her head back onto his shoulder to look at him, Jess drags his pointer finger down her forehead before bopping her affectionately on the nose, his expression neutral.

“Didn’t you?” He shrugs in that cute off-the-cuff way of his then smirks into her hairline. “That’s unbelievable!”

“It is what it is.”

“So, what,” she says as she throws her leg over his hip to lug him closer, her arm already stretched out across his middle, “is there a case of zombiepox going around that the CDC has neglected to inform us about? Because I’ve got to tell you if that’s so then I’ll need an inoculation ASAP, mister! Frazzled, bloodshot, and half-rotted is not a good look for me. It just isn’t.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Hey!” she exclaims.

“No offense, critter of Frankenstein,” he chuckles, absorbing her retaliatory swat with a grunt and rolling her further on top of him, “but I’ve seen you pre-coffee. It isn’t pretty. We’re talkin�� bolts out your neck, monster glares, frothing purple mouth and everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep up your running tally and you might find I bite you next. Rory the Ripper does have a nice alliterative ring to it—you best remember that,” she warns all narrowed eyes and silky breath and arms folded under her chin.

Jess cocks his left eyebrow, brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. “Idle threats don’t scare me, Gilmore.”

“They should.”

“Maybe.” A lazy grin forms at the edges of his mouth. “But yours don’t.”

“Fine,” she blows out a breath. With her head resting in the center of his chest, Rory fixes him with one long steady look, her voice dropping an octave lower as it drains free of sarcasm to assume a more serious edge. “Name one thing that does then. That scares you, I mean,” she says.

He doesn’t answer right away. In fact, he fidgets so long beneath her that by the time he settles with his hands clasped behind his head, lost in thought and translation, peering up at the sky, she’s half convinced that silence or deflection is the best she can hope to expect from him in reply.

Reticence is a quality she’s come to recognize in Jess. It’s one she can reflect back at him in part because they’re both cut from the same quiet, introspective cloth. However, it’s also one that restricts her access to his thoughts and feelings when she most wants it, and that can take a toll. Makes her wonder if they’re parked at different weigh stations in this relationship or not.

It’s bizarre to reconcile how she can understand him so well in some contexts, to the point where she can predict his next reaction or sense a good joke hanging in the periphery that's about to descend; while in others, he’s a total head-scratcher. Like a Sudoku puzzle with numbers that don’t add up to anything.

The silence between them continues to stretch. It becomes an awkward, formless wall.

The stillness, too, which is illuminated only by the light of the moon and the faint din of the car radio, hangs between them until he draws her up his body and folds her over him with a green plaid blanket. His fingers tracing languid strokes up and down her spine.

“Swans,” he says at last, his tone subdued. Scratchy. “Swans scare me.”

“What else?”

“Tennis balls. They’re too small and fast as they zip past. I hate how they can leave imprints on your face like ugly yellow snitches.”

“Okay then. Weird but fair. What else?” Rory asks all warmth and eagerness, her eyes searching his for something he wouldn’t want to slip free.

“Pennywise.” Though she snickers at that, it’s a valid fear. Clowns unsettle her, too. Evil ones especially. She’d had nightmares for eight months after she’d read Stephen King’s It for the first time, and had taken to sleeping with the bedside lamp on for years.

“Anything more?” she asks.

“Cricket bats.”

“Ooh-ho!” Poking him, “So Mrs. Kim got to you, did she?”

“Listen, I tried to be cool and unaffected but who knows what would’ve become of my head if she’d taken a swing with that thing?” Jess shudders at the same time she imagines Humpty Dumpty and laughs. “Jeez.”

“Things would’ve gotten messy,” she adds honestly.

He stalls a moment, then blinks back at her all wariness to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “How messy are we talking here?”

Rory cocks her head and bites the corner of her mouth, musing. “Think pumpkins.”

“Smashed ones?”

“Yep.”

“Figures,” he mutters miserably.

With an encouraging pat, “Don’t worry, I would’ve stepped in before Mrs. Kim buried your handsome yet indignant face beneath the floorboards or behind a brick wall in the catacombs with Fortunato. It’s the least I could do since I sort of like you and all.”

“Sort of?” Jess asks.

“Yeah. I’m no unreliable narrator girlfriend who'd escort you to your doom, you see. I’d much prefer to keep you,” she says with an adoring grasp and swivel of his chin, which he deflects by tickling her breathless as she bends down over him.

“Gee thanks, Casper. Nice to know you care about me.”

“Not about you exactly,” she teases, her flip-floppy giggles still piercing the air. “Just your head.”

That stops him. “My head, huh?”

“Sure.” Still a little breathless, she reaches toward him to fist her fingers through thick black tendrils along his nape. “It’s pretty.” She gives the strands a little tug. “Full of thoughts I’m hoping to pilfer for further study.”

“You know, I always thought there was some hoodlum in your DNA. Now I’m convinced,” he says as he leans over to commence the tickling again. “And you will pay."

The two of them continue to roll then thump against his windshield all elbows and knees until the levity starts to leaden and transform. As Jess reaches over to cup her cheek, their gazes meet in the silvery darkness and hold, kindling like flint.

Quiet washes over them again for a moment. Only this time, it’s bloated; it’s heavy. It’s a mess of a hundred thousand decipherable something’s teetering on the precipice of expression.

A flicker of alarm passes over his features as he frames her face with his hands, palms flat against the car. He hovers aloft, unsure. Indecision mixes with fear to tangle with retreat even as gravity beckons him nearer, his head dropping low enough for their foreheads to touch.

“I sort of like you, too, you know,” Jess breathes softly, his lips lowering to press against her mouth in a quick but lingering kiss. “A lot.” His jaw clenches. “Maybe too much.”

Suddenly there’s a tightrope pulled taut and vibrating in every direction because there’s no shrinking back from the dense electricity pulsating between them. There’s no more room to dance around unnamed emotion whenever it identifies itself in blown pupils, in a bobbing Adam’s apple, in hands that slip and slide until they fit together like aligning planets.

In that instant Rory knows. She knows right then and there she’s falling in love with him, that she’s half fallen already. And it’s both a revelation and a fact so natural she can feel the truth of it whistling from deep in her bones.

Looking nervous, vulnerable, more fragile than she’s ever seen him, he swallows hard then shifts to squint out at the shadowy tree line while scratching at his nape. “It’s just…so many people have treated me like garbage that all I know how to do is spoil things. I destroy, Rory—ruin what’s good. It’s what I do best. It’s all I know. I’m trying here and all, but I…don’t know how to do this,” he says, gesturing lamely between them. “How to do us right.”

“Hey now,” she thumbs his cheek, tries to turn his head back toward her but it won’t budge, and neither will he. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about. Go easy on him, will you?” He nods into her palm, softening a little. The tension leaves his body as he gathers her in his arms again, her head conforming to the crook of his neck, but she’s not convinced all is well yet.

“There’s no rulebook or anything,” Rory says placatingly. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? You and me.”

“Yeah.”

“We will,” she says with an emphatic, assuring squeeze. “I know we will.”

With a caustic laugh, a heavy sigh, he runs his teeth over his lip, “I’m a screw up, Rory.”

“Hey. Not true.”

“I am.” Jess sounds so resigned, so convinced, it ties her into knots thinking he sees himself that way.

“Not to me, you’re not.”

“No,” he says with a deadened inflection, with a sad downturn of his mouth. “Not to you.”

Frowning, she feels his cynicism, his self-deprecation, descend like a slash across the gut. Helpless to do anything but try to be a soft place for him and his insecurities to land, she pulls him toward her, embracing him, quieting him, caring for him more with each passing second even though a warning gong goes off in her heart when she leans in to steal another kiss.

“Maybe I’m not a screw up to you yet,” he whispers, “but I could be at another time. On another day.”

“Stop,” Rory declares forcefully, holding her finger against his lips so he knows she means it.

Jess relents. “Okay,” he sighs. “Just know I’ll get it if you change your mind.”

- v. things we cried out at a crossroads -

Strained.

Silent.

Distant.

Those are the best adjectives to describe the status of her and Jess’s relationship as the bus pulls away from the curb a couple weeks later. After the party from hell. From her place on the sidewalk, her chest full of a heaviness she can’t name, Rory stares after it - after him - with little to no regard for the hour’s lateness or for the morning bell which signals the start of homeroom.

It’s the middle of May. That means finals, graduation, and summer loom on the periphery but she doesn’t care. None of it resonates. In the background she can hear Paris barking orders at a few trembling freshman and minted sophomores, but she does nothing to intervene. She makes no move to prevent her frenemy’s yellow journalistic splatter from crushing the innocents to smithereens.

Instead, she watches the hum and bump of the vehicle’s dusty rubber wheels as they roll down the street. She tracks the plume of smoke swirling from the exhaust pipe into the sky, which clouds over with blacks and grays instead of with clearing blues and radiant yellows. She waits until the bus turns left, its engine loud, roaring, to putt around the corner. Disappearing from view.

I hope he calls later, she thinks with a pang, with an iota of hope. We need to talk soon.

Rory’s eyes want to keep traveling with him long after he’s gone. So do her feet. They seek to follow along wherever Jess has gone, to ride beside him until they’re able to make sense of this mess between them and fix it. Fix them again.

Unfortunately for them both, they don’t. And it’ll be some time before they can, let alone before they do.

[snowdice]

Gaps in His Files (Part 7) [Relabeled; Refiled Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton

Appear: Remy, Virgil (but only in the epilogue)

Summary:

Logan Berry has learned many things the last 10 years: a lot of math and physics, a bit of humility, and how to be a hero being just a few. Through his education, his experience teaching, and his exploits as the superhero Bluebird, he’s changed in a lot of small and large ways. He has recorded these changes in well-organized documents and files. He’s even had to create two new file designations: a red one for files about his moonlighting at Bluebird, and a light blue one dedicated to his boyfriend, Patton.

When Bluebird is targeted by a memory device and all of those 10 years of progress suddenly disappear, Patton Sanders and Logan’s extensive files are left as his only resource to get those memories back. But what is Patton supposed to do when there are clear gaps in his files? And what does he do when he is one of them?

This is set 25 years before Sometimes Labels Fail though it’s story is completely independent of it and it is not necessary to read that one first.

Notes: Superhero AU, memory loss, past child abuse, past child neglect, unhealthy ideas about ones place in relationships, emotional suppression, self-deprecating thoughts, medical procedures mentioned, very brief unhealthy views of sex

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

After Logan finished eating, Patton showed him his office. First, he was given his personal and work files which were familiar in organizational structure even if they had years’ worth of new information in them and his work files had a new subfolder for teaching instead of being purely for schoolwork. Yet, the thing that most interested Logan was the new file designation which Patton retrieved for him by finding a key in a hidden desk drawer compartment and using it to open a secret compartment in the wall. The files there were red and completely new to Logan. Thankfully, they still had quite a bit of structure that he was able to pick up quickly and there were easy to read tables of contents with understandable subsection titles.

He flipped curiously through the first few. They reflected the story Patton had told him earlier in content as well as form. The beginning files were either blue for work or plain white since his foray into superherodom had started from an academic source.

Though he had not known Logan at the time by his own admission, Patton’s knowledge of his early days of being a superhero were perfectly accurate based on the files. That combined with his knowledge about where the files were in the first place, stroked Logan’s curiosity regarding the man even more. Logan was not a trusting person, at least he had not been at 18, and he imagined not much had changed in the last 10 years. So, he had to wonder what it was about Patton that had made him willing to share so much about his life and clearly heavily protected aspects of his life at that. He did not imagine he would share his exploits as a hero with just anyone.

And, if it were just his exploits as a hero, perhaps he would have even understood that. It was good to have an ally, especially one with useful skills such as a doctor. Yet, Patton’s knowledge went deeper than even that to things more personal, ones not in these files or any of his others. He knew things about Logan: his favorite color, why he prefers some fabrics over others, and stories that had never left his lips in his current memories.

Why? He had to wonder. What made this person so different than everyone else?

Certainly, he could see the appeal of him as a romantic partner in the theoretical sense.

He was a doctor which was useful considering Logan’s superhero status likely led to physical injuries sometimes. In addition, that was a well-paying, respectable job, though it did have an unpredictable work schedule. Achievement in that field spoke of enough intellect to be on par with Logan even if they were in different areas.

He was also clearly adequately skilled in other things. He had managed to find Logan and get him back to his apartment and seemed to have enough emotional control to do what was necessary in the situation.

This was someone he imagined his parents would have likely expected for him as a romantic partner (if they expected anything at all). Though, Logan did have to worry that if they were both not particularly emotionally expressive then there may not be a good balance in the relationship.

Logan watched as he flipped through one of his personal files to get a picture from his college graduation to show him with practiced ease. He was comfortable around Logan’s organizational system, he noted. That was something no one had ever bothered to be before. Most people either tolerated or scorned the way he kept his files, but Patton knew his way around it almost as well as Logan himself, better in fact when it came to the new red files, fingers always flipping to the correct pages in seconds when Logan asked questions.

It was nice to have someone care enough to learn it.

It felt as though something shifted marginally inside his chest at the thought of someone being patient enough to learn how Logan organized his life. To do so was to basically learn how Logan’s mind worked. He… hadn’t known that was something he might want.

Oh.

That, he suddenly knew with clarity, that was why. Or at least part of why. It had to be.

“So,” Patton broached suddenly, likely catching him staring and wonder why, “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Logan blinked at him. “You already know me. Better than I do myself at the moment.”

“Sure, but I’ve only known versions of you that I’ve known.”

“Yes. That is typically how reality works.”

“Well not today,” he pointed out and… fair point. “Plus, maybe you’ll start to remember more if you start talking about yourself. Like when you’re trying to remember the title of a song so you sing the lyrics you know until you get to the point where they use the title in the song.”

Logan considered that. “That sounds like a rational strategy to try. What should I talk about?”

“Well, I know a lot about the events that happened in your life, but not really what you thought about them at the time. What are things you like and dislike in your life right now. You know,” he paused, “what are things you find annoying? Stuff like that.”

“I like coffee,” Logan said after a moment of consideration, “and school. Libraries. I like order and schedules and it makes me uncomfortable when things don’t go to plan. I don’t like impromptu things or eating outside. I don’t really like when people are overly emotional or when they cry mostly because I never know how to respond. I don’t like my English teacher because she once had a mental breakdown crying about a dream she had for 30 minutes when a student asked her if she’d graded our papers. Also, she was homophobic. I like math and science and my parents. Though, I dislike when they insist, I try to go out and “have fun.” I especially disliked when they set me up with a date for the homecoming. When I said I didn’t want to go especially with a girl they set me up with a boy for the next dance which was… nice as they attempted to listen to me, but they entirely missed the point. I dislike messes. I like jam. I want to major in math and physics and get my PhD in at least one… that seemed to work out. My calculus teacher was my favorite even though everyone else seemed to resent her, but we also mostly all passed the advanced placement test, so I think it was worth it. Also, she was kind.”

“You had a homophobic English teacher?” Patton asked.

“Ah, yes, did I never mention?” Logan asked. “She made her views known to a boy in the year below me and got fired a month ago.”

“You never told me about that.”

“Perhaps I decided she was no longer worth dwelling on. The man who took her place seems adequate, though I am not in his class. I also like my current English teacher. She says she got her teaching degree later in life and before that used to be a cultural anthropologist. She tells us stories about different places she’s been.”

Patton smiled. “She sounds interesting,” he said.

“Yes, and it is quite an interesting course. It is an extra one beyond what I must take to graduate. We write a research paper over the course of the entire semester.” Logan paused for a long moment. “This does not seem to be doing anything.”

Patton nodded. “Okay,” he said. “That’s fine. We’ll try something else. Maybe we should have lunch first though.”

Logan was starting to feel a bit hungry. “That is a good idea.”

Want to read more? Click below!

AO3 Part 8

[thechocoboos]

Chocobros + Ravus as Students

here are some headcanons--i’ve been working on them for a bit. enjoy!

Noctis

Bored. Bored bored. He is very bored, all the time

Has no fear of being late to class, so he leisurely strolls to class with his mind on other things

Or at least, he pretends not to

In saying that, he is never late. No one knows how.

In reality, he’s used warping multiple times to go in through the windows (only a few students see it, but no one ever believes them)

Ignis once caught sight of Noctis hanging off a window outside his class, begging him to open the window. He didn’t.

Procrastinates like fuckin crazy

If there was an olympic sport for it, he would probs get a gold medal unless he decided to do it later ofc

He’s that bastard who barely studies but does just fuckin fine

His favorite class is actually language arts, surprisingly

He enjoys analyzing literature and whatnot, although he absolutely hates writing essays for it

Contrary to what one might think, he doesn’t sleep in class. He wants to, but he doesnt

Still, that doesn’t mean he pays attention

He zones out a lot

Teachers try to pick on him to speak when they think he doesn’t know the answer, but he always gets it right (once again, no one knows how)

Doodles out of boredom in the margins of his notes

I mentioned that he doesn’t sleep during class, but he does sleep during lunch and guided study type of periods

You can often find him the library

He likes to sneak in naps between shelves

Sometimes you can catch sight of him lounging somewhere on a bench, an open book resting over his eyes

Prompto

He tries oh my lord

He tries SO HARD

He studies like crazy to the best of his abilities, he raises his hand when he can in class (despite the massive anxiety it causes), HE JUST TRIES SO HARD OH MY GOD

But he still doesn’t always do so hot

He’s the student who studies for 3 hours each night leading up to an exam and still gets a 63

He cries every time

Is fueled by caffeine and pure anxiety

He, too, doodles in the corners of his notes and zones out sometimes

Despite his poor test grades, Prom is actually really smart

He just has really, really bad testing anxiety

Pop quizzes make him cry

Tries to keep a planner for classes but forgets to write in them

He makes lists of the things he has to do for hw on the back of his hand

Teachers like him a lot, they see the spark of curiosity in his eyes and the eagerness in how he raises his hand and are happy to see his genuine curiosity (at least, in the classes he likes)

Speaking of classes

He hates math. It’s boring, doesn’t make sense, and makes his head hurt

However, he does like science

He loves learning how things work and he always has the most specific, odd questions for his science teachers

LOVES his art classes

He sometimes tries to take more than one art class a semester but it usually doesnt fit into his schedules

He’s not great at 2D art in them, but he outshines everything in photography

After his photography class, his 3D sculpting class is his fave

He likes to mold things with his hands and create something 3D, despite the fact that they don’t always come out great

Overall, he does his best as a student (for the most part)

Ignis

Every teacher loves him, every teacher wants him, every student wants to be him…

He aces every test and quiz, gets 100s on almost everything, and hoo boi does he look good while he does it

His handwriting his immaculate, his notes are comprehensive, his questions are applicable...my god he is an absolute dream student

Everything he does seems like it takes no effort, but no one knows how much he really studies…

In reality, he spends every single waking moment working for either Noctis or school

He’s always studying, always working on practice problems or other assignments, and always putting in an absolute metric fuckton of effort

He’s insanely good with math and science (especially math)

His favorite class is math, purely based on the fact that every question has a single right answer derived from a methodical process

His least favorite is actually language arts

He hates sitting in a seat and having to decide an author’s meaning and symbolism, part of him thinks it’s incredibly tedious and stupid, despite the fact that the other part of him understands the critical thinking aspect of it

Everyone always fights to have him in their groups for projects and he usually gets at least three students a day begging him to tutor them

His answer is almost always no

He’s willing to help out here and there if someone has a question, but he simply doesn’t have the time to tutor anyone

Is a member of student body government and somehow he was dragged into being on the student council (it wasn’t his idea)

Absolutely is the perfect student and nobody knows his secrets

Gladio

Is absolutely underrated as a student

No one realizes how smart he is when they first see him in their class--they think, “hey, big buff guy--probs not that smart…”

Oh how wrong they are

He’s a genius

It only takes a week before other students and teachers to realize it

Confidently raises his hand when he has questions or comments--and god help any teacher who ignores him (they miss out on legitimately good insights)

Favorite classes are language arts and history

He loves reading literature and analyzing it, and goddamn does he LOVE writing essays on literature

He’s the bitch who actually likes assigned readings

He always makes incredibly great theses and amazing points in his essays, his teachers always ask him if they can keep his as examples for future classes

As for history, he likes to know the big WHY--why did this happen? Why did that happen? What does it mean in relation to this?

He has many questions and he is always determined to get answers to them, one way or another

Genuinely doesn’t mind reading textbooks, hell, sometimes he prefers it

Like Noctis, he can frequently be found in the library

Only Gladio is actually there for reading and doing work

Sometimes, he runs into Noctis there and always wakes him up by smacking him with a book or kicking him

He will shush people. Don’t think he won’t.

It pisses people off but when they see it’s Gladio shushing them, they’re too scared to respond

Librarians know him by name and stop in the hallway to talk to him (they love him so much omg)

They even let him eat in the library and talk a little bit provided he’s not a distraction

Overall, he’s a 10/10 student.

Ravus

Doesnt have that many friends

His RBF kind of puts people off--he always looks like he wants to punch everyone in the face

Is quiet and respectful in class, but he NEVER talks or raises his hand (well, he does sometimes) except in the classes he actually likes

Teachers never call on him in the classes he doesn’t like either

When he likes a class, HE FUCKING LIKES A CLASS

And then he’ll never give any other student the time of day to speak--he asks questions out the wazoo or has comments and connections to make

He brings his own lunch (he hates the cafeteria food and lowkey likes having matching meals with Luna)

He’s the kind of student who knows the answer to everything but refuses to actually raise his hand

Instead, he grumpily thinks it and gets annoyed when a student he doesnt like gets it right, too

Lowkey, he thinks something along the lines of “Well, I knew it first”

Study skills??? Don’t know her

He was one of those students who was considered “advanced” or “smart” and understood things quickly when he was younger, but as he got older and classes got harder, he became kind of… average. Never developed proper study skills as a result so he gets angry at school bc of it

Still, he has the desire to learn, it’s just difficult for him (and his pride is too high for him to be okay with asking for help)

If he has a teacher he doesn’t like, though, he won’t even try to study

Talking to teachers scares him sometimes (me too, fam)

Either loves or hates the teachers who are coaches

Loves the cool ones bc of how lax they are, hates the douchey ones that yell at them for not doing better (@ his calculus teacher)

Overall? Probs avg student with avg grades, though he defo excels in his favorite classes

[sorunuah]

Pivot

Warnings:  vomit, death, unreality/delusions

Word Count:  2,764

I was always...different.

Some of my earliest memories are of my maman comforting me from yet another nightmare. I remember always asking her why I had so many of the dreams in which I'd die in various, grotesque ways. The mes in my dreams didn't always look like me; sometimes they were girls, sometimes boys, sometimes neither, or both; sometimes older, sometimes younger, sometimes taller, or shorter; some had different hair, or eyes, or lacked the freckles that my maman said make me unique...but they were always still distinctly me. Some died in car wrecks, some drowned, some starved to death, some were killed by thieves, and some died in wars. Some bled out slowly in an alleyway as the heavens mourned their loss, while yet others went quickly in their sleep.

My maman has always insisted I had the nightmares because I am special. Yeah, right, I always thought. I'm just me. I'm not especially tall, or handsome, or smart, or strong. I've never had any real friends, either. In fact, I was never exactly well received by my peers.

I remember, when I began school, some of the other children with older siblings telling stories that only made me have more nightmares. It was then that I began to have a hint of just how 'special' I am. Or, was?

I learned that those nightmares of mine? Everyone has them. Our reality, or dimension, or world, or whatever you want to call it, is a bridge between all other realities. It's not uncommon knowledge; there's a day once a year when we can see other versions of ourselves for six hours starting at sunset. I like the versions of myself where I'm taller, and have longer hair, although I'd never wear my own hair long. They walk around through our world like ghosts, interacting with ghost objects only present in their own worlds. It's useless to try to talk to them. Well, most of them anyway. They can't see or hear us, other than the rare few.

...I'm...rambling. The nightmares, those are visions of our other selves dying. They say whenever you narrowly avoid death in this world, one of your doppelgängers die. Then, you dream about it. They say it's a gift from God to our world to make us appreciate our lives more...but it's only really ever made me hate mine. If there is a God, I bet it was an experiment, not a gift.

I was 'cool,' in elementary school. The girls liked my copper red hair and freckles, and the boys thought I was 'edgy' because of how many nightmares I had. They thought it was cool, and I wore the bags under my eyes as medals of honor. Each sleepless night a testament to how difficult it was for me to die.

In middle school, no one cared. Everyone was into something different, and I faded into obscurity.

After my first year of high school, my maman and I moved far away. Far enough that everyone doted on my accent, and I had to speak English instead of French. I didn't question why we had to move. My life had grown boring - monotonous. I began to have nightmares more frequently after I turned sixteen, and, as it was 'cool' again to have them, I ran my mouth. At first, I was 'cool,' and I had a lot of 'friends.' Then people stopped believing me. "There's no way!" "Not every night!" "How important do you think you are?" "There's no reason for you to come so close to death all the time!" "No one's going to try that hard to kill a loser ginger like you!" So I stopped talking about it, and I lost my friends. My maman worried, but I kept my grades up, so she never worried too much.

When I was seventeen, on the Night of Viewing, I wandered outside to walk through the streets and pretend I was a ghost like the other versions of me. I noticed how few of me were left. I wasn't as surprised as I should have been, I think. That night, I saw some kind of creature. Thinking back, maybe I should have told someone. Maybe someone could have done something, maybe I could have done something differently, spent more time with my maman.

...No. No, no one could have done anything about it but me. I'm certain of that now. A lesson learned is a lesson learned, even if it is learned too late.

The creature came to me, spoke to me. It said it was going to kill me. It said it was going to kill every me out there, until it killed the right one. It apologized. It said it would rather not have to go through all the trouble, or cause all that trouble for me, but that it had to. It said that it had to, that it was for everyone's sake, that it needed to kill the right me in time, whatever the cost. That it would all be over by the time I turned 18, one way or another.

I took no heed of the creature's warning, although I think it was less of a warning and more of a...declaration of intent. Still, I didn't care. I just went on about my life, not thinking anything of it.

Throughout the next several months or so, I had more and more nightmares, up of five a night. I stopped having dreams entirely in which I'd have a lover on my arm and we'd be sitting close together on a porch swing with the sun setting behind us.

I started to go mad. I started skipping school. I started writing poetry, then. I started shouting a lot and getting into various forms of 'trouble,' mostly fights. I started listening to punk music way too loud. I stopped sleeping. I found that, if I went for a few days without sleep first, I would be too tired to remember the nightmares when they came. I started going back to school.

My grades weren't the best they'd been, since I never slept and had difficulty paying attention in class. I doodled on all my assignments and wrote short little poems in the margins.

One of my teachers noticed. She asked me to write a poem for an upcoming young writers contest. I submitted to her a poem entitled Running.

About a week later I got a notice saying I'd placed. Tortured souls really do write the best poetry, I suppose. It was only second place...but still. I don't think my maman had ever been so proud of me. I don't think it was that good, but hey. Who am I?

People are fickle things, and as soon as things starting seemingly going my way again, everyone 'forgot' entirely to hate me, and started swarming me again. I had 'friends' again. People helped me along in the classes I slept through, although no one ever questioned me as to why I slept through all my classes and seemed so tired all the time. No one ever actually cared is all, but that was never really important to me. I didn't want friends, I wanted the nightmares to stop.

Weeks passed. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changes! It came time to read the poem in front of the school and accept my prize. My maman dressed me in a nice black suit with a black tie with green and white stripes. I walked in for the ceremony and feel asleep immediately after arriving and sitting down. I placed second in my class. They called my name twice before the person sitting next to me managed to nudge me awake. I dreamt of black.

I walked up onto the stage, stumbling and stepping all over myself the whole way. I was handing the nice, two page long print out of the poem I had originally scribbled on a scrap of paper that was supposed to be for calculus notes.

The man from the contest read aloud one final time my name and submission title.

"Kylian K. Quick, with his entry, Running."

I coughed once, then stood and looked out over the crowd, my tired eyes not really taking anything in. I started reading from the sheet without any further ado.

"Running away from your troubles is like matches and wood, 'cause it burns like the sun when it sets in your eyes.

"And it falls through the cracks like water through a sieve, like tears through the lines in your skin.

"And it hurts like needles in all the wrong places, like cuts under salt burn in the light.

"And you just want to run more, like when you're out of breath, but it hurts just right. Like when you're addicted, you can't stop now.

"And it sounds like bones in a fire crackling away, like birds singing songs in the dead of the night.

"'Cause it's wrong like a right that just wants to be heard.

"'Cause running never saved anyone, but it makes the pain duller, like nasty medicine; yet...pain begeh...huh?"

I dropped the mic and let the paper flutter to the ground. I had lost the ground from under my feet and the next thing I knew I had managed to get onto my ass and was leaned over forward hurling all over the stage. The next thing I remember – it happened right before that, but it was as though I didn't finish processing what I had seen until my stomach was half empty – was another nightmare. Not of me dying, but of the creature. It had been in broad daylight, and I hadn't been asleep. It had seemed so unimportant, and foggy, like out of a dream, when it apologized and said it was going to kill me. But this time it had seemed so...vivid, so...unsettling. I had seen it while I was reciting the poem. It had been watching me momentarily before slipping out the back door of the auditorium.

It was huge, and moved in slow, long steps with its shoulders hunched forward in a way that made it look like it was trying to appear gentle despite its size. It looked like it was made of tar, black ooze sliding off its body and splatting onto ground with a sick sound that was the only thing I could hear.

Lumbering was the only word I could think of to describe it as the vivid image of it burned into my mind while my stomach emptied itself of water and bile.

After that incident, things changed.

Yet again, no one would associate with me, and I only ever heard cruel remarks and quiet laughter. I didn't care. I had gotten what I wanted. The nightmares stopped. I was finally free to sleep again. In fact, I felt freer than I ever had. I no longer dreamt of anything, just empty blackness.

It was heaven. At least, that was what I thought at the time. It was at that point that I stopped having the nightmares, yes, but I had not yet escaped them. It was at that point that I began to live the nightmares.

It was not long at all before I began wandering through my life in a daze. I started seeing the ghosts – the other versions of people – at all times. There were none of me. Sometimes I thought I was talking to the right person, and sometimes they talked back, acting like they were the ones seeing a ghost. Which, I guess, they were.

People probably started to think I was going crazy. I never heard my maman mention it.

They stopped laughing. The closer it got to graduation, the less they laughed. At first, I thought it was because they were maturing, or perhaps the humor was wearing off. It never had before. I had no right to think it was then, either.

Teachers started forgetting to call my name during roll. I would gently remind them I was there, and upon a second, confused glance at the sheet, they would say, "Ah, yes. Mr. Quick. You're so quiet I nearly forgot about you!" and they would laugh, nervously, before scribbling furiously on the attendance sheet.

Even people who had previously been civil with me began acting like I wasn't there. The only one who showed no sign of this was my maman. I'm not sure if that made it better, or worse.

Eventually, I started forgetting myself. I would catch myself thinking things like, "wait, is purple my favorite color? Or was it yellow?" and realizing I had no answer. Even now, I can't remember what the truth is. I think it's maybe green.

It came to a head during graduation. I don't think anyone had spoken to me (save my maman) in days, and I hadn't been able to get them to hear me, either. The teachers insisted someone was pulling a prank and had added my name to the roster.

My memories become sparse around here.... But I remember walking on stage, clad in a dark purple, or maybe blue, silk dress shirt, and a black robe. I came across the stage to receive my diploma. They didn't say my name, but I walked on stage anyway. I can't remember why....

I was handed a blank sheet of paper. The words, "You aren't a student here, and you never were, I checked the records," were whispered into my ear as I walked past.

I went home. I remember going home.

I walked.

My maman was acting out of character when I got home.... She got pale when she saw me, as if she, too, were seeing a ghost. She made some small conversation, I think, and the next thing I remember after that is waking up the next morning. Was it the next morning? ...It had to have been. It was my birthday. I think that must have been a million years ago, but it was just this morning.

I woke up. I woke up, and I got out of bed. I woke up, and I got out of bed, and my maman couldn't see me, and the fringes of my sight were gone. It seemed as though the only thing that existed for me was what I was looking directly at.

I ran.

I ran, and ran, and kept running. The entire time, more and more of my world going black.

Now, there's nothing left. It's just black, and there's only me. I can see myself – I haven't gone blind – but I can't move! There's no ground for me to walk on. Only this black emptiness.

"What could have caused this...?" I voice to the darkness. It feels like I've never spoken before. I suddenly have a half-formed memory of dying as a baby – but at the same time, a half-formed memory of waking up in a tub.

There's a voice all around me, as though I'm inside it. I vaguely remember the voice of the creature as being the same.

"T H A T   I S   C O R R E C T.   T H A T   W A S   T H E   P I V O T.   I N   T H E H U B   W O R L D,   T H A T   I S,   T H E   W O R L D   T H A T   Y O U   H A V E   M E M O R I E S   I N,   Y O U   W E R E   M E A N T   T O   B E   G R E A T.    T H E   F A T E S   H A D   A   G R E A T   D E S T I N Y   P L A N N E D   F O R   Y O U.   Y O U   W E R E   T O   B E   K I N G   O F   M E N.   C E R T A I N   T H I N G S   A R E   F I X E D   B Y   T H E   F A T E S,   W H I L E   Y E T   O T H E R S   A R E   P I V O T S;   P O I N T S   W H E R E   T H I N G S   C A N   G O   O N E   W A Y,   O R   A N O T H E R.   I N   T H E   H U B   W O R L D,   Y O U R   M O T H E R,   H A V I N G   P R O P H E S I E D   Y O U R   K I N G D O M,   D R O W N   Y O U   A S   A   B A B E,   T O   P R E V E N T   T H E   T E R R I B L E   O U T C O M E   -   Y O U R   I N E V I T A B L E   A S S A S S I N A T I O N.   F O R   S O M E   R E A S O N   I   C A N N O T   F A T H O M,   Y O U,   T H I S   Y O U,   W A S   P U L L E D   F R O M   I T S   W O R L D   I N T O   T H E   H U B   W O R L D.   T H I S   C R E A T E D   A   R I F T   B E T W E E N   T H E   W O R L D S.   F R O M   T H I S,   I   C A M E   I N T O   B E I N G   -   T O   R E P A I R   T H E   R I F T."

I remember this creature saying that it had to kill me before. This must have been what it meant. ...It said by the time I turned 18. ...It was too late. Is this the end of the world, then?

The voice echoes around me again.

"D O   N O T   W O R R Y   C H I L D.   D O W N   T O   T H E   S E C O N D,   Y O U   A R E   N O T   Y E T   E I G H T E E N.   D O   N O T   W O R R Y   C H I L D.   W E   W I L L   B O T H   D I S A P P E A R   S O O N.   T H I S   H E L L   I S   N O T   F O R E V E R.   Y O U R   S U F F E R I N G   W I L L   S O O N   B E   O V E R,   A N D   T H E   R I F T   W I L L   B E   G O N E.   Y O U   W I L L   N O T   L E A V E   S A D N E S S   B E H I N D.   N O   O N E   W I L L   R E M E M B E R."

Its right, I think. I can't remember anymore, either.... Is this what becomes of us in death? Is this

[thelowbrass]

Probably more than you want to know about me

I have a 3-5 page essay due the day I come back to school about who I am and what I want out of life and the class it’s for (an honors theater course). That isn’t a problem though; I can talk about myself and my thoughts for days. In fact, I struggled to keep it under 5 pages (it’s about 3 words away from running over… after I altered the margins slightly so I’d have more space). It really just ended up being be rambling about music, running, and depression though

I’ve decided to share my rough draft on here, just for shits and giggles. I finished typing it about 5 minutes ago, and I haven’t edited it at all (so please let me know if you find any mistakes). Feel free to read and critique!! (it’s a pretty casual essay though)

Probably Too Much Information About My Life

My name is John Sterrett. I am a 17-year-old freshman from Martin, Tennessee, a “city” that’s home to roughly 11,500 people and a small university (enrollment: 8,000). Both of my parents are engineers, and they both taught at the university until my mom moved to the high school this most recent school year to teach math. I have an older sister, Tamara, and a younger brother, Nicholas. I frequently come across as a straight, white, middle-upper class professors’ kid who’s always made pretty good grades and never got in trouble. That’s okay. It’s what I am. I use Old Spice deodorant, and I brush my teeth twice a day with Crest Ultra-whitening toothpaste. I have a collection of books that’s slowly becoming more non-fiction than fiction, and I keep my hamper in the corner of my room by my door, but with enough room for my door to open without a problem. I have narcolepsy, and I’m terribly nearsighted. My glasses stay on the desk by my bed at night. I take a multivitamin every morning. I go to bed too late.

However, I live a life pretty different from most people; I’m an ultramarathon runner. I run for hours on end for the hell of it. Simply put, I’ve come to like running long distances. There is absolutely no need nowadays for me to be able to run 50 miles, but I do it, and it has become who I am. I find solace in the solitude and the discomfort. People call me crazy, or (as my calculus teacher put it) a “masochistic freak.” They ask me why I do it. Don’t worry, I’ll answer that later.

Though it makes up a large portion of my life, running doesn’t take up all of my time. I also play the trombone, piano, tuba, and euphonium. I spin poi, and I love listening to and writing music. I keep a few plants, and I thoroughly enjoy cooking (though I haven’t been doing much at college). I’m an Eagle Scout. I climb and cycle frequently, and I log a couple hundred miles of backpacking each year. Additionally, I spend my copious amounts of free time reading, especially non-fiction. However, I guess I need to move on to answer the pressing, ever-important question that adults always ask me. I’m a nutrition major on a pre-physical therapy track. It’s a path I never would’ve expected myself to be on, but I’m extremely happy where I am. To give you a deeper understanding of who I am, an idea of how I got here, and knowledge of where I want to go, I’ll basically tell you my life story, starting the summer I turned 7.

The summer after second grade, my grandmother moved in with my family, and she brought her piano with her. I, of course, started messing around on it, finding out what notes sounded good together and what notes didn’t. By the time third grade began, I had figured out major and minor triads on my own and could play a few songs by ear, and my mom helped get me started on piano lessons. Thus, my musical journey commenced. I continued with these lessons until I dropped them at the start of sixth grade to join band. For some reason, I didn’t think I could or even should play two instruments.

In band, I was assigned to play the trombone, which I was ecstatic about. Once I started playing, I found I really enjoyed it, so I played around and practiced for hours every week (much to my parents’ dismay). I got pretty good, and I was invited to play in the high school band when I was in eighth grade, which definitely helped accelerate the learning curve. More importantly, however, it really sparked my love for music and challenge. Moving on to my freshman year of high school, I kept practicing and working hard in school. I found that the more I did, the more satisfied I was. I auditioned for the All-West Tennessee band that year and placed fourteenth.

If you can’t tell by now, I was pretty used to being good at things. I had sat first chair in my section ever since seventh grade. I made straight A’s. I wasn’t used to being beaten, so placing fourteenth didn’t exactly make me happy. As a competitive perfectionist, I was searching for what in my mind was idealistic, musical perfection: no missed notes, no mistakes. By this point, I was absolutely sure I wanted to major in music, so I was dead set on being perfect. However, perfection isn’t music; it’s not art, and, most importantly, it is not possible. I stressed myself out a lot seeking it though. By my sophomore year, with school weighing heavier and music becoming more intense, I started having a lot of trouble with stress. I wore myself beyond thin. Almost every practice session ended with me in tears: my tone wasn’t good enough, I missed a note, or I couldn’t get the dynamic range I wanted. Basically, I was tearing myself apart for not being on the level of someone who had been playing for five times as long as I had. I couldn’t handle it, so I had to find some way to get the stress out.

I started running, and it helped. I liked it. Life got better. I was dealing with a ton of stress, but I was able to manage it. That year, I got ninth chair at All-West and first chair at UT Martin’s honor band. I was pretty happy with those. My friends and I helped start up my school’s charter cross country team. I started running more and training hard. As I said, life got better.

That summer, however, I started developing depression. At the time, I didn’t realize it; I thought I just kind of felt less stressed and slightly bored because school was out or something. It got worse as junior year started, and I started thinking something was wrong, but I was afraid to tell my parents because I was afraid they’d make me quit band or cross country, which they saw as unnecessary activities. For me, they were the only times I really felt anything.

Junior year of high school is a tough time as it is. There’s pre-cal, the ACT, looking at colleges, and, in general, a much higher workload in classes. Once you throw a sport, marching band, narcolepsy, and depression on top of all that, life sucks everything you have left out of you. I felt empty, except for when I played music and ran, and it started getting to the point where those weren’t helping me much either. Life wasn’t even gray or black; it had no color. I felt suspended in nothingness and pointlessness. One plus one didn’t equal two; it didn’t equal anything because it didn’t matter. Though math was pointless, I struggled to get away from letting non-perfect numbers represent me. By the end of the semester, I was in shreds.

That winter break, I decided I needed to do something about it, so I tried to figure out how to help myself. I really started trying to look at everything I did as an art. I added more color to music, more emotion, more feeling. I scrounged up anything I could find and poured it into everything I did. I started running free, running without a watch. I just ran, and I started venturing longer and longer. I ran my first marathon solo on roads near my high school on New Year’s Day. I started seeing the natural beauty in math and science. A sense of color came back to me. I was able to back off on my competitive and perfectionist nature.

As the semester came around, All-West auditions were creeping up, and I was shooting for All-State, which meant I had to place in the top three of West Tennessee. One week before the audition, however, I came down sick and wasn’t able to play until the audition (I was still sick for the audition too). I wasn’t able to play too well on a technical level, so I went in with the goal of making music; I wanted to make art. They wouldn’t know I was sick, so they would not be taking easy on me for missing notes, and I had to compensate by making them feel something. The next day I also auditioned for Tennessee’s Governor’s School for the Arts, and that audition went even better. I ended up getting fourth chair at All-West and missing All-State by one chair; however, I made it into Governor’s School!

I finished out that school year slowly getting better, with – of course – a few relapses (that still come about occasionally). My summer at Governor’s School went well, and I absolutely loved it. My passion for music grew deeper. However, later that summer, one night at the track with a friend, I had a realization: I need music to not be my profession. I need music as my art; I need it as a way to release stress; I need it as a way to find what’s inside me. So, the plan became to major in exercise science, since, as a runner, that had really started to fascinate me. I also started looking at a career in physical therapy.

My senior year, in general, I was happier than I’d ever been before. We qualified for state in cross country, and I ran my first two ultramarathons that year. I placed third at All-West, and I ended up getting second at All-State. I spent a lot of time thinking about why I did what I did, leading me to figure out why I like running ultras, something that’s generally considered crazy.

I fell in love with ultrarunning for the same reason I fell in love with music. It makes me feel something. I spent plenty of time feeling nothing, and now I crave the opposite. I do it for the discomfort, the array of emotions that comes with it, the highs and the lows. I’ve become a firm believer that discomfort heightens sensitivity, and prolonged, repeated mental discomfort gives people a certain “depth” that you can’t find elsewhere. For me, that discomfort comes from ultrarunning. I’ve seen people go from crying to laughing in just minutes during an ultra, and I’ve personally experienced emotional intensities and swings I never knew existed.

All this has helped me develop, and I think I’ve found what I want out of my life. I want to help people, and I’ve found that nutrition and physical therapy are two wonderful tools that I can use for this. I’ve found that I love the connections to nature and myself that come with running for hours on end. I’ve found that I’m happiest when I’m accepting, both of new challenges and new people. I’ve found that I believe our humanity is rooted in art. I know I seem like some half-crazed hippie who likes to play the trombone and run. That might be who I am.

I spend my time looking for challenge, for art, for discomfort, for new knowledge and new feelings, and I hope that gives you an idea of what I want out of this class. I want art. I want to improve my ability to think and learn. I want to experience. I’ve tried to fit a painting of myself onto these five pages of black words on a white canvas by telling the story of how I got to where I am now. I hope you can draw from this who I am and who I strive to be.