#my standard answer is the Night Sky Petunia

[thruheavenandhighwater]

Carl’s Diner

Pairing: Luke Hemmings/ Reader

Requested by: Anon

Word Count: 1,739 i got carried away omfg

   You were sitting on your couch, scrolling through Instagram while Petunia napped next to you. Luke was in your bedroom, every so often you would faintly hear him strumming his guitar or singing to himself. It brought a smile to your face whenever you would hear it. It had been raining for weeks, keeping the three of you cooped up in your apartment. Everyone was beginning to get restless, a bit of cabin fever starting to set in.

   Petunia shifted slightly on the couch cushions next to you, you looked up at her from your phone with a smile. Suddenly Luke appeared on your other side, slumping down onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. You put a hand at the back of his head and started to run your fingers through his curls, while turning your smile into an exaggerated frown. “What's the matter, sad boy?”

   He leaned over to you, resting his head on your shoulder. “Bored. So bored.”

   You kissed the top of his head, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. What do you want to do?”

   He groaned as he moved to wrap his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into your shoulder. “Anything.” He answered quietly, his voice muffled slightly by the fabric of your sweater. “Anything would be better than staying in the apartment forever until we die.”

   “Well we can't have you dying, can we?” You asked, your voice soft. He hugged you tighter, a barely audible “nuh uh” falling from his lips, “Then let's go do something. Look, the rain looks like it might let up a little bit.” Luke snapped his head up to look out the window. The sky was still pretty gloomy, but it was brighter and the rain was falling lighter than it had in days.

   He stood up quickly, pulling you up with him. “Go. Now. Dressed.” He playfully pushed you toward the bedroom down the hall. You laughed out loud when you were finally inside your room, walking over to your closet to find a change of clothes. You looked over your shoulder to see Luke shedding his grey sweatpants, kicking the into the corner of the room and replacing them with a pair of black dress pants. You couldn't help but to giggle at him as you watched.

   A few minutes later both of you had changed from pajamas into clothes that would be appropriate for the date night you'd been talking about having. Luke, in his black pants, an old Pink Floyd t-shirt, and the leather jacket you'd gotten him for Christmas. While you opted for  simple, black jeans and a teal blue v-neck top that hugged your curves perfectly. You were facing the mirror that hung on your closet door fixing your hair when you felt Luke's arms around you and his lips just below your ear. “Have I told you lately how absolutely gorgeous you are?” he whispered. You turned your face to the side and kissed him, you could feel him smiling into the kiss and it made your heart flutter. You broke the kiss and slipped into a pair of black flats before you and Luke walked out the door together.

   As you got into Luke's car he took your hand in his, planting a kiss to the back of your hand before resting them on the center console. You smiled over at him, taking a moment to appreciate how happy he made you. Giving his hand a light squeeze, you asked him where you were going.

   “I was thinking I want to go somewhere we haven't been. Somewhere brand new.” His answer shocked you because Luke was a creature of habit. You didn't mind his routine, but you had to admit that you loved when he decided to mix things up. There was something oddly exciting about it.

   After driving around for about half an hour the two of you found yourselves outside of a small diner that neither of you had ever heard of. “This is as good a place as any, yeah?” Luke asked you as he took his key from the ignition. You just smiled wide at him in response.

   Once you were inside you realized that you were both defintely overdressed. Every other customer seemed to be wearing jeans and dirty  work boots, and you swear a few of them were definitely giving you the side eye as Luke put his hand behind your back and led you to a booth near the back. He leaned down and whispered to you, “You look incredible. They all wish they had someone so beautiful on their arm.” You looked up at him, and he winked at you with a smile.

   Once you were seated a middle aged woman with greying brown hair approached your table, two menus in hand. Her name tag said “Karen,” and you couldn't help but to smile when you noticed the faded tattoo on her wrist of the name Jesse.

   Karen set your menus down on your table with a smile. “What can I get you kids to drink?” You both answered that you just wanted water. She nodded and smiled at you again. “Alright, then. I'll grab those and be back in few for your orders.”

   When she walked away Luke picked up a menu, handing the other one to you. It was a pretty standard diner menu from what you could tell. Burgers and fries, meatloaf, milkshakes. The usual suspects. Karen came back after a few minutes with your drinks and asked if you were ready to order. You both ordered your standard for when you're at a restaurant you don't know, bacon cheeseburgers with fries and extra pickles. She took your menus from you and headed back behind the counter.

   Luke reached across the table and took your hand in his once again, rubbing his thumb gently over the back of it. You smiled at familiarity of it, loving the way your hands fit together perfectly.

   The two of you spent the next few minutes talking about your work, and the new album Luke was working on. He was in the middle of telling you about one song he was working on with Michael when your waitress appeared with your food.

   “You kids enjoy, and let me know if you need anything else.” You both thanked her as she set your plates in front of you. She gave you a quick smile before walking away, greeting another customer as they took a seat in another booth.

   Luke took a bite of his burger and actually moaned while he chewed. “Seriously, (Y/N),” he started, his mouth still half full. “This is the best burger I've ever had.” You smiled at him and picked up your own sandwich. You took a bite, and damn he was right. The meat juicy and seasoned perfectly, and whoever made it knew that “extra pickles” meant you wanted more than one extra pickles chip. You furrowed your brows and shot Luke a big thumbs up, your mouth too full to verbally agree with him.

   The rest of your meal was much the same. You and Luke continued to talk about work, and your friends, and of course how much Petunia would love a burger from here. As you were finishing up Luke pointed out a sign that hung over the counter, advertising the pie of the day.

   “Babe, I know you love strawberry pie.” He said, raising his eyebrows at you. You were way too full for pie, but having been in a relationship with Luke for this long you knew that he still had plenty of room.

   “Order yourself a slice, Luke. There is no way I could eat one, though.”

   “Or,” he started, raising his eyebrows again while he drew out the single syllable as long as he could. “I order two slices. We share one here, and take the other one home for later?”

   You smiled at him, and he smiled back even wider than before, poking the tip of his tongue between his teeth. “Okay, okay.” You relented.

   “You're the best, babe.” He said, standing up halfway in the booth to lean over the table and place a kiss on your forehead.

   When Karen came to clear the table, Luke ordered the two slices of strawberry pie, asking her if she could put one in a box. When she came back a moment later she was carrying one plate and two forks. You had to smile at the sight. Something about a nice, older lady in a powder blue diner uniform serving you a desert to share with the love of your life almost reminded you of a movie or something. Luke picked up his fork and took the first bite. His reaction to the pie was somehow even better than his reaction to his burger.

   “We're gonna have to ask her to add another piece to that box.” He said with a chuckle. You picked up your own fork, taking a small bite since you were still full from dinner.

   “Oh, yeah. I am so not sharing with you later.” You said, going in for another piece. Luke laughed you and raised his hand to get her attention.

   “Excuse me, ma'am?” He called to her.

   She came over, your boxed piece of pie in one hand and your check in the other. “How was everything?”

   “Amazing. The best burgers and pie I've ever had.” Luke answered her. “Is there any way at all we would be able to add one more piece of pie to that box?”

   She laughed at him quietly, resting one hand on his shoulder. “Of course, hun. No problem.” She walked away with the box, leaving your check on the table. When she came back, she handed the box to you and said “The second slice is on the house tonight. You two are just about the sweetest people I've waited on all day.” You thanked her again before she left once more to wait on other customers.

   “That’s it.” Luke said, putting some cash on the table before standing up. “This is officially my favorite place in the world. We're coming here forever.” You took his hand in yours as you walked out the front door of the diner towards his car. And suddenly, you were really glad the rain has decided to stop for a few hours tonight.

~~~~

I hope you all enjoyed this not so little fic! And as always, any and all feedback is always appreciated. If you’d like to be added to my taglist for 5SOS fics, please let me know!

-Desiree’

Taglist: @crownedbyluke @sweetcherrycal

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Thank you, @bonnie-wee-swordsman, for the outrageously perfect song suggestion!

Read the other chapters here.

Our Story

At some point, they start ignoring time.

Claire, whose career so closely monitors the rhythms of human life, stops wearing a watch at home. The digital clock, which rests on a bedside table, is turned away like a spurned guest. A 45-degree angle now arrowing through the black, its numbers an indecipherable mist of light on the wall.

And for his part, Jamie skirts the church on his morning walks. The chimes, echoing from the stone bell tower, are a reminder of something there will never be enough of.

They recognize this for what it is: denial, out of fear. They are afraid of what they’ll see when they wear the watch, pass the church, if they allow the digital clock to stand guard over their dreams: the digits changing, the minutes out-pacing their steps. And they are afraid—perhaps even more so—of what they will not see: an immobile hand, a blank screen. Time stopped, time run out.

If this is truly denial, they tell themselves, then so be it.

It’s the small things that go first. The plot of a favorite film distorts, then takes the shapes of plots from other, less favored films. The frozen aisle moves with every grocery shop, its location found not by memory, but by the increasing chill in the air—goosebumps down skin, the body shaken. And a childhood pet, though long dead, lives and dies in the span of a single day. The joy and grief of it all, so fresh, that Jamie reaches for a shovel, upends the earth to bury a ghost. (Adso sits at his feet, though it’s a different loss he mourns.)

Eventually, the disease consumes other things. Dates: Is Geordie’s birthday on the 20th or the 21st? Directions: Is their new house on Jefferson Street or on Bond? The inertia of Jamie’s life slows with the disappearance of such landmarks, everyday values made so identical that he does not know where to put his faith, his love.

On an afternoon in July, Jamie volunteers to pick up one of Claire’s prescriptions. It is 2PM when he arrives at the pharmacy, approaches the counter with a tied and twisted tongue. Something about the pharmacist—so self-assured in his pristine lab coat—unnerves him into forgetfulness.

“A Dhia. One second,” Jamie says, fumbling through his pockets. He pulls out the receipt he’s put there and reads the reminder note on its blank side. (He cannot attribute the uniformly written letters or the passionately-crossed ts. His, or someone else’s?)

“Fraser,” he finally says. “I’m picking up a prescription for Claire Fraser.”

This is the first time Jamie has forgotten her—she, who is his world, and who is also half of himself. Suddenly, he is desperate to hide his embarrassment, for an enclosed space in which he can trap his wife’s name to prevent it from flying away. The white paper bag, passed to him and labelled just for her, feels wrong in his hands, now dirtied by the betrayal he has just committed.

Jamie does not return the way he came, but drives. By sunset, he does not know where he is, or how he has come to be along this stretch of foreign homes. Here, there is only the lingering sense of his shame—the very thing that has propelled him forwards, keeping his foot pressed adamantly to the gas pedal.

In a moment of panic, he wonders if one of these homes is his. If that driveway, curtained by the beds of purple petunias, should look familiar. But no, this land is flat—and he has the image of a hill, there should be a hill, he lives on a hill, he is sure of it. (He is, in fact, approximately two miles away from that hill.)

Jamie pulls over and shuts his eyes. Says, Focus. Says, Breathe. These are the recommended mantras, but while they have soothed him before, they are failing him now. The path to the phantom hill does not emerge from his mind, revealing itself, but remains at the end of a dark and winding tunnel. No focusing, no breathing to coax it out of hiding.

To call for someone would be to acknowledge the child he is slowly becoming, and by this fact alone, the action becomes unthinkable. Reprehensible. Instead, he repeats Claire’s name to the silver dollar in the sky because that, at least, has returned to him and stayed.

As if summoned, she appears out of the darkness: her blue Ford now behind him, and she behind its wheel. And this—this car, he knows. Remembers well. The scratch on its left side, from a fallen pine bough. The car seat for a grandchild whose photographs are attached to the visor: a mouth covered in icing, a head grazing a penciled notch on a doorframe.

She approaches, slow-footed, and leans through his open window. It is her smell that reaches him first. Then her voice. Then her face—now floating in front of his—dissipates the remains of his confusion. Finally, Jamie breathes.

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling weakly.

“Hi,” he whispers back.

There is, he notices, so much tenderness in her—despite the circumstances, despite him. Him: a grown man who cannot remember his own address, but who can see, so clearly, the Coke stain on the Ford’s floor mat. And her—a grown woman wearing only her robe and slippers, but out in the middle of the night, to look for him.

“Now I may be mistaken,” she says, “but I believe you’re supposed to inform the seeker when you intend to hide. Otherwise that’s an unfair advantage.”

“I’m just trying to keep ye on yer toes, Sassenach,” he says softly, looking at his lap. (The phrase “remotely interesting” appears from nowhere, but—why?)

“Thank you for finding me, Sassenach,” he says instead, and Claire puts her hand on his arm. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well, I did consider letting your other wife come get you. Oddly enough, I can’t seem to reach her. Must be cavorting with one of my other five husbands.”

They both stifle their laughs, chastised by the quiet and the precariousness of their situation; all that it implies. When Jamie sees Claire’s crooked incisor after she lowers her hand, Jamie feels overwhelmed. By his love, by his gratitude. By his luck that she has found him again and again and again.

“So,” she says, gesturing towards her car, “Finder’s keepers?”

When the Ford pulls ahead, Jamie follows. He keeps his eyes on the silhouette in the driver’s seat—the messy curls, the hand that adjusts the rearview mirror (to see him better)—as his wife, Claire Fraser, leads him home.

Claire familiarizes herself with the facts. They are as follows:

In 1901, a man named Karl Deter admitted his wife to a mental institution. Throughout the previous decade, he told the doctors, her condition had worsened, and he feared he could no longer provide adequate care. The woman’s name was Auguste Deter, and she would die five years later at the age of 56. Auguste’s symptoms— memory loss, mood swings, delusions, and insomnia—would become the hallmarks of a then-unknown disease. It would be discovered by her doctor, Alois Alzheimer, shortly after her death.

During her examinations, Dr. Alzheimer would test Deter’s recall. When prompted to repeat his questions—and her subsequent answers—hours later, Ms. Deiter could rarely remember their conversation. One day, upon forgetting her own name, she had simply stated: “Ich hab mich verloren.” I have lost myself.

In the United States, an estimated 5.5 million people currently live with Auguste’s disease. Of these, only 200,000 are, as she was, diagnosed before they turn 65—the age bracket which delineates the standard cases from the “early onset.” Though advancements have been made in the past century, Alzheimer’s is still incurable. The fatality rate is discouragingly high.

When Claire thinks of Auguste and these statistics, it is hard not to feel betrayed. To not demand, fist raised, for remorse or an admission of error. We’ve made a mistake.

And when Jamie loses his professorship, or searches fruitlessly for the misplaced items of his imagination, it is hard to believe that this is where their story has gone. That he, her husband, should be among the 5-percenters and she, his wife, must stand idly by.

And when Jamie—driven by a rage he cannot place—smashes a plate against the counter, it is hard to not to want a piece of that nameless fury. To not take some of it for herself and direct it at their fate, the unluckiest of the unlucky, when there is nothing left.

And it is hard, of course, not to feel hateful when he stumbles over her name.

But then, of course—she loves him.

(Oh, how she loves him.)

While Claire sleeps, Jamie goes to his desk and falls into his chair, eager. This chair, a ratty and thrifted thing, has outlived all the other ratty and thrifted things they had purchased after the big house fire. Its cushioned back, as textured and as worn as his own, never hurts his scars when he leans into it, gazing out the window to the Blue Ridge mountains.

He is here to write and to remember.

But the sentences, which had roused him with such insistence, do not come now that he is waiting, ready for them. They have withdrawn in the advent of his intention, sunken in the murky bog of his disease.

Slow, so very slow, to resurface.

While Jamie sleeps, Claire goes to the balcony. A notebook in her lap, a pen that fills the pages. She works her hand into an aching cramp, and it throbs, throughout it all, like a heartbeat.

This has become her usual routine: Jamie wakes, goes to his desk, returns frustrated, then sleeps. Claire listens for his slowed and measured breaths, then rises. That notebook, that pen. That heart, needing more room than her chest can ever give it, forcing itself into her wrist, into her hand.

Not everything on these pages is hers to claim—eggs fried on steaming asphalt, a baby fist pressed to a horse’s mane—but she claims them anyways. An imposition, she knows, Jamie would not mind. And so she takes his stubborn sentences, feeling the pull of her responsibility, and gives them life. Knowing, without having to ask, what needs to be said.

Claire dreads coming home tonight. This night, which is no different from all the others, save for the extra weight she’s given it. Her footfalls, made heavier. The wind, more oppressive. Her awful certainty, like a stone in a pocket underwater.

This night, their anniversary.

It is not the date itself, or Jamie, that she dreads returning to. Even the absence of him, that slow but increasing degeneration, is not what keeps her inside the car, so reluctant to climb the hill.

Rather: it is the absence of herself, in him. Her disappearance somehow made complete in the hours she’s been away, at work.

What if, she thinks, Jamie has forgotten? What if she walks into the house and he looks up from his chair, bewildered? As if to say, “Who are you?” As if to say, “Do you belong here?” As if she had not been the one to discover that chair among the third-hand junk—that very chair from which he is looking up, so bewildered?

These thoughts are always on her mind, but they are more pressing now. The 27 years of their second marriage demand remembrance, enraged at the possibility of her nonexistence. More so than ever, she could not bear his forgetting—no, not on this night. Their anniversary.

As Claire walks towards the house, she sees her. Before the porch—a girl, face shadowed by twilight and raised to the sky. By the looks of her dress and unscuffed Mary Janes, she has come here with a purpose, but that purpose has been abandoned for the fireflies around her head. Her small hands reach out to cup the air, willing the constellating lights into the valley of her palms. Two golden flickers descend, then are sheltered. She moves closer, peeking at the light between the black crack of her thumbs, which she widens and narrows, widens and narrows. Awe, and a command: Stay, stay.

“Mandy,” Claire finally calls out, and her granddaughter looks up. That original purpose slides across her face, though her hands—curved in a prayer-like steeple—still hold the light. (She is five years old and beautiful.)

“Grama!”

“What have you got there, baby?”

Mandy whispers, “Firebugs.”

Her eyes are those of a mother looking at her child. Like Claire’s own, right now, as she looks at her granddaughter. All this wonder in the evidence of something good.

“You’re not s’posed to go inside,” Mandy says eventually, not lifting her gaze. “I’m s’posed to tell you that. Grampa isn’t ready just yet, but Mom will say when it’s okay.”

“That right? And what exactly is he doing in there?”

Mandy giggles, “Secret.” And quiet again, she says, “Do you wanna hold them?”

“I’d love to hold them.”

“You have to be very, very gentle.”

“I will.”

“You can’t squash them.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t let them go until I say so.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay,” Mandy says. “Okay, okay. Ready?”

“Ready.”

And when the bugs have been safely transferred into her care, Mandy hovering at her waist, Claire feels: Wings like timid kisses against her skin. The cloud of her dread, receding slowly. The promise of—what, exactly? (Hope, she thinks.)

“Is that grandma out there with you, Amanda?” Bree calls from the porch. “You two can come in now!”

Mandy ignores her mother, asking, “Do you think they’re married?” then, “They seem to be very, very married to me.” And because her desire is so plain in her eyes, fixed wholly on these things she has come to love and is so unwilling to lose—stay, stay—Claire keeps her hands closed. 

“I think you might be right,” she replies, and they remain there, silent on the path. The bulbs illuminate each other’s faces and the night.

(Hope: Even in the oncoming darkness, there are these lights worth cupping in the palm of one’s hand.)

He is waiting for her in the doorway, smiling.

He has not forgotten.

They move together, swaying and colliding and fumbling. Jamie’s steps are too clumsy, Claire’s overcorrections too extreme—their own bodily melody, so out of sync with the music. They laugh more than they dance, holding each other up as they shuffle around the room.

“Yer terrible at this, Sassenach.”

“You’re the one with two left feet.”

“Two left feet, my arse! Ye canna take a step without missing my toes.”

“Such wonderful toes. How’s a woman to resist?”

Having fulfilled their duties as supervisor and watchman, Bree and Mandy have returned home to Roger. In their wake is an assortment of dirtied dishes (the meals prepared by Jamie), low-burning candles (purchased and lit by Bree), and scattered confetti on the floor (courtesy of Mandy’s decorative genius). James Taylor sings quietly from speakers which, like the rest of the living room furniture, have been pushed into the corner to avoid unwanted damages. On the mantle, a new blue vase sits flanked by a 25th anniversary card—though the five has been crossed out and replaced by an effusive, bright red seven. Apparently, Jamie had told Claire, “the fools at Hallmark dinna celebrate 27th anniversaries.” That’s why, Claire had told Jamie, she “used her artistic gifts to make something homemade.” (Her masterpiece: Two stick figures holding one heart.)

There’s something in the way she moves

Or looks my way, or calls my name

“Did you know,” Jamie says now, still swaying, “that this is the song I listened to after our first night? I put on ��James Taylor’ after you left, and I couldna stop thinking about you in that hideous sweater wi’ the—penguins, was it? And the wee sparklies?”

“Is that what you’re thinking of right now? Me wearing an ugly jumper in 1989?”

“Aye, but can ye blame me? It’s a hard thing for a man to forget. Verra impressionable. Perhaps offensive.”

“As I recall yours had a Father Christmas with some vomit—”

“It was beer. And maybe a bit of fondue cheese.”

“As I was saying: vomit in his cloth beard. I’ve had nightmares ever since, and they’re all on your conscience.”

“Well, that was my intention, Sassenach. I wanted you thinking of me while you were in bed.”

Claire laughs, kissing the bottom of his chin before he rests it atop her skull.

“I stand by that jumper,” she grumbles into his shoulder. “A bloody good find.”

And I feel fine anytime she’s around me now

She’s around me now

Almost all the time

They continue dancing until she asks, “So what else are you thinking about?” and Jamie sighs.

“A few things,” he says. “One, that I’d like to see ye in that jumper again. Two, that I’d also like to see you in nothing at all.”

“Sadly, the jumper met its tragic end in the big house fire. May it rest peace.”

“Aye. Gone too soon.”

“But the second thing—well. I think that could be arranged.”

Jamie smirks, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

“Mostly though, Sassenach, I’m thinking that I’m thankful.”

“Oh?”

“For you. For the fact that there are things I dinna remember, and others that will be lost, too…But that one, the moment I first saw you—I dinna think that will ever go away.”

Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning

And I find myself careening

In places where I should not let me go

Jamie begins to sing along, off-pitch but endearing all the same. Claire hums with him, pressed close.

She has the power to go where no else can find me

Halfway through the third refrain, the lyrics—once confident—tumble out of his mouth, muddled. He has forgotten some of the initial sound of her: Claire, drinking coffee on that morning-after. Three Sweet n’ Lows ripped open in one swift tear. I only use two and a half—do you want the rest? And then Claire, beside him, a week later. The winter-bleached Royal Mile and the squelch of her boots as they passed through Carfax Close. Stay with me tonight?

In the silence, Claire feels something come apart inside her, and so she holds Jamie tighter, finishing the lyrics that he cannot.

If I’m well you can tell she’s been with me now

She’s been with me now quite a long, long time

Yes and I feel fine

(Before he takes her to bed, she will ask him: “What if we went back?”)

He finds the notebook five days before they leave for Scotland. One sentence, and already he understands. Claire has placed him here without his knowing, while he sleeps. Joy, anger, sorrow, relief—all of him and all of her, mingling in the space between two lines.

Over 50 pages filled by now, but there are things he feels he ought to add, like: A hand clasping a bare throat, snow all around, and—singing. An invitation directed at his lips, Do you want to come in?, and gold pooled on the floor. Ghosts, too, watching from a church balcony; the acknowledging tilt of his wife’s chin.

With these thoughts in his mind, Jamie takes up his pen, inserts his own truths and imaginings in the spaces Claire has left behind. He tucks each one inside a pair of parentheses, like secrets shared between two people. 

(Like gifts wrapped up in so much history.)

[mrevaunit42]

Untitled Project

Hello everyone, Mr.E wishing you a fantastic day and week and hope it’s going great for you! 

So first off, happy birthday to @hipster-rapunzel and @xxinfamousxx321 WOOO! HAPPY BIRTHDAY (throws confetti) 

so this is my birthday gift to @hipster-rapunzel who wanted me to write a story about an oc i previously told her about. so i was like alright and here it is.

So this is just a little thing i wrote, it’s okay in terms of writing because I didn’t want to world build too much but the basic premise is a girl is attending a magical school but has been stuck in the remedial class *Which she is the only one student in* for the last 6 years because her magic isn’t strong or even functioning properly. Magic here operates under different styles and is created through a combination of focus and imagination. its a lot to explain.

so that’s really it. I mean if you all like it, maybe i could more into details but for now, this story is just it. So have an amazing week, stay awesome and here we go. You are about to read one of the oldest OCs I ever came up with. I hope you enjoy!

@artgirllullaby @hains-mae

The village was quiet as the sun slowly rose into the sky. People were sleepily making their way out of their houses, tiredly rubbing at their eyes while greeting each other with a lazy wave or grunt.

“Heads up everyone, it's 7:45!” Someone called from the window

Everyone gave a sleepy nod as they shuffled this way and that, hiding in any little nooks and crannies that they could find. Some took shelter behind carts or against walls while the sound of hurried and panicked footsteps against the cobble road filled the air.

“Morning everyone!” a 16 year old girl called out to everyone in the square as she sped her way past.

“Morning Penny” the square replied.

Petunia Allison Maxwell or as she preferred, Penny, was once again late to class though she wasn't too worried. This wasn't the first time and she doubt it'd be the last.

Penny's stormy gray eyes darted back and forth as she made her way through, her hand a frantic blur while she waved hello to every single person she could manage to spot.

“Mr. Turner, Miss Audery, Mister Stevens, Bob.”

“Penny” Bob replied, the massive giant of man gave a slight nod before continuing on his way.

Penny skidded to a stop in front of the bakery, her medium length midnight purple hair swaying back and forth as she took a long deep inhale of the freshly made bread that wafted through the air.

“Late again Penny?” a friendly voice called out as an older man of 40 with black hair and a thick mustache walked out of the backroom carrying the latest batch of pastries, gently placing them on top of the counter.

Penny gave a sheepish smile, shrugging innocently as she approached the register “It's not considered late if it's a daily thing, right Mr. Athos?”

The older man simply shook his head “I'm pretty sure the school won't see it that way. Hey I noticed a lot of students were heading out earlier than usual. Anything special today?”

Penny gave a nervous chuckle “It's PE day.”

“P...E? Like physical education?”

“Oh no no no, it stands for Practical Exam” Penny explained “It's the only way to get into a higher class.”

“Ooooh right, Cyn was tell me about that last night. Didn't explain it as well as you did though. You think this is going to be your year Penny?”

Penny sighed tiredly “I sure hope so. 6 years stuck in the same place isn't exactly great for an up and coming spellcaster you know?”

Mr. Athos gave a reassuring nod “I'm sure you'll be great. Here, one Bear claw for the studious young lady.”

“thanks!” Penny beamed cheerfully

“And one moldy, three old day bread for bribing.” Mr. Athos handed over a carefully wrapped package which Penny took gingerly.

“Awesome, you're the best! Wish me luck! Bye Mr. Athos!”

“Good bye Petunia”

“DON'T CALL ME THAT!” She shouted in response as she ran out of view.

Penny could feel the beads of sweet run down the back of her neck as Merlin's Academy for the Magical Arts came into view.

The school was surrounded by large, intimidating iron bars that seemed to stretch high towards the sky. The buildings ranged from short and squat to towering skyscrapers that leaned a little too dangerously to one side. Each one was painted a different color represent one of the different magical arts and the lessons one could expect to find within their hallowed walls.

Not that Penny actually knew what was inside each of the building....

“Almost there” Penny told herself, huffing and puffing “Almost there!”

Crash.

Penny let out a frustrated groan as she found herself face first against a watery clear surface that appeared out of nowhere. Ripples spread out from where Penny's face made impact.

“Oh come on!” Penny whined, rubbing her aching nose.

“Well” A booming, gruff voice called out as the sounds of stone scrapping pavement became louder and louder “That's what happens when people are late for school.”

“Well....” Penny shrank into herself as a figure waddled out of the security booth.

It was a massive creature made out of stone. Its face was smooth and life-like despite being made of rock. Two large carved teeth protruded out of its lower jaw, its eyes were smooth and pupil-less though she could feel its stare on her. Two stubby, short horns fit neatly under his little blue cap, its body was muscular under the pale blue uniform and obviously the one feature the artist went to great lengths to perfect. Penny gulped anxiously as its two bat-like wings basked her in their shadow as the creature scooted  forward on its circular base.  

“Why are we late today Petunia?” The gargoyle asked in an exhausted tone.

“It's Penny Bart” the teen answered with a finger raised high “And my alarm clock broke.”

The creature nodded in disbelief “I thought you fixed that yesterday.”

“A hydra destroyed my bathroom.”

“Those hydras are quite troublesome...and don't live in the village.”

“Would you believe that I'm just lazy?”

“Oh definitely” Bart agreed “You know every time you lie, you get another freckle on your face?”

“Don't say that I have too many already! Come on Bart, let me through! It's PE day and I need to get to Miss Hart's class before she decides just to flunk me.”

Bart let out a bellowing chuckle “You're late Penny, those are the rules.”

Penny sighed dramatically “I guess I'll just take this moldy bread and feed it to one of the river statues. They love the treats I bring them.”

Bart smacked his lips hungrily “I mean....it would be a shame if you were to forced to stay in the remedial class just because you couldn't take the exam.”

“thank you!” Penny beamed as she tossed the disgusting treat high into the air and taking a step back.

Without warning, Bart unfurled his wings and took off high into the sky, spiraling after the snack before munching down on it with a mighty crunch.

The world shook violently as Bart crashed back to earth with a deep thud, embedding himself a good foot into the ground.

“Okay Penny” Bart sighed contently “You may pass....after the checklist.”

“Yes yes, I am wearing my standard issue uniform” She gestured to her long white sleeved collared shirt, light blue vest, black skirt with black socks and loafers “And I have my pencil and my insurance card.”

“Check and check” Bart nodded “Okay, good luck Penny.”

“Thanks!” Penny replied, her face shining brightly before falling into panic once again “I'm totally going to fail....”

Penny's mad dash resumed as she passed by the beautiful, 2 story red building of the alchemical laboratory and made her way to a little tiny shack far off to the side away from any sort of civilization, its paint peeling and revealing an earth brown color scheme that would've never worked in any sort of environment.

She was nearly at the door when she noticed a familiar person awkwardly shuffling towards the same location.

Penny dug her heels in as hard as she could and nearly tumbled forward from her sudden stop. She could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest as the person turned around slowly.

It was a boy about her age with messy black hair and the coolest shades ever covering his eyes. He wore the dark brown version of the school's blazer/dress pants instead of the unoriginal black with a reddish brown tie.

He tilted his head back and forth almost like he was trying to hear for something though his gaze never fell on the unmoving Penny.

“Phil?” the boy called “Phil, is someone here?”

A squawk replied from the boy's shoulder as a pudgy, stout but beautiful gold and crimson colored bird cried out in response “AH somebody's here, somebody's here!”

Penny glared deeply at the bird, putting a finger on her lips in an attempt to silence the bird but there was an evil twinkle in Phil's gold iris

“It's Petuniaaaaa”

Penny clenched her fist angrily as a chuckle escaped the boy's mouth.

“Penny, is that you?”

“Heeeeey Fredrick!” Penny nervously answered, already feeling her cheeks burn brightly “How are you doing good old buddy old pal?

“Haha I'm good. Heading to class” Fredrick gestured to thin air on his left rather than the building on his right “And you? Late as always.”

“W-well I...personally wouldn't say...late...per....say”

“So late it is.” Fredrick grinned mischievously

Penny sighed in response “Yeeeeeeah Fredrick. Today's PE day and I...just couldn't sleep”

“Well, Petunia, I'm sure you'll do fine”

“It's Penny Fredrick”

“No” Fredrick scratched his chin thoughtfully “I think it's Petunia. It's easy to get confused since you keep calling me Fredrick.”

Penny's flush worsen “I...”

“So I'll call you Penny and you call me Fred, deal?”

“Deal” Penny mumbled.

Phil snickered at Penny's discomfort.

Penny bit her lip, taking a slow, deep breath. She couldn't strangle Phil despite the syrupy urge to. Seeing eye birds were expensive and she didn't want Fred to wander the halls helplessly.

“So, since we're late” Fred spoke up “I think we should get going. See you around Penny.”

“Bye Fredr...Fred!” Penny corrected herself before giving him the most enthusiastic wave she could muster.

Fred chuckled once more as he groped for the door's handle and disappeared down the hall within.

Penny smacked herself “He's blind! Why did I wave at him?! Ugh I'm going to kill that stupid bird. After the test.”

Penny sighed and pulled open the front door only to find herself staring at an empty classroom and a very displeased Miss Hart waiting for her. The older woman was in her late 20s with reddish brown hair, piercing green eyes and a scar that ran down her chin.

“Miss Maxwell.” Miss Hart spoke soft but firmly “I believe you are late.”

“Hee...” Penny timidly chuckled “Well you see I...”

“take your seat.”

Penny gulped “Yes ma'am.”

Penny played with the tiny miniature sword she had created while Miss Hart was talking about the necessary safe precautions about taking the Practical Examination.

“Miss Maxwell”

Penny shot up quickly but flinched as the minuscule weapon slid out of her fingers and landed on the floor with a barely heard thunk.

“Y-es Miss Hart?”

The older woman's gaze narrowed “Are you ready for the Practical Examination?”

“Umm....yes?” Penny replied, unsure what the correct answer was “I mean I've taken it 6 times so I'm very familiar with the whole process....”

“Then all students prepare for the examination.”

Penny looked to her left, her right and behind and as usual, found empty pews and tables in the remedial classroom.

“I'm ready ma'am!” Penny nodded excitedly

Miss Hart rolled her eyes as gestured to Penny's desk and swiped with her hand.

The desk was flung sideways without warning and broke into dozens of splinters.

“Umm Miss Hart?” Penny asked in an anxious, quizzical tone “Shouldn't we move this out of the classroom? I mean Practical Examinations aren't really supposed to be conducted within the...”

“I want to get this over with” Miss Hart interrupted, gesturing Penny with a finger.

The air surrounding the teen began heating up rapidly

Penny dropped to her knees as flames sparked into existence, swirling for a moment before being promptly extinguished

“Miss Hart!” Penny cried out as she rose to her feet “I really don't think...”

“Are you going to sling spells or just sit there?” Miss Hart answered, swiping the air in front of her.

Penny gulped as 3 massive broadswords impaled themselves into the floor just inches in front of her face.

“I guess we're not doing this by regulations” Penny murmured to herself, pointing directly to the approaching teacher.

The air sparked and crackled with fiery embers. Penny bit her lip in concentration, willing the air to catch ablaze but despite her best efforts, the sparks did not burst into flames.

Miss Hart shook her head, unsurprised by the result of Penny's spellcasting.

“Look Penny, if you want to do magic, you need to feel it!”

“I AM FEELING IT!” Penny shouted, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice.

“Remember the four fundamental styles of magic.” Miss Hart yelled back, closing her open hand into a fist “Alteration.”

Penny gasped, stumbling backwards while the wooden panel flooring sprouted vines that snaked towards her feet almost like they were alive.

“Manipulation!”

Penny covered her face as a fierce wind raged inside the classroom, scattering papers every and nearly knocking her off her feet.

“Transformation!”

Penny gasped, falling backwards and barely managing to scurry away from the broadswords that fell over, transforming mid-swing into large, imposing battle axes that sunk into the floor just in front of her

Penny could feel the tears well in her eyes. She was failing once again. 6 years of being stuck in the remedial class. 6 years of trying everything she could, studying and willing her magic to grow, to become more powerful and nothing. Nothing to show for it and another year of being stuck in the same class, a class that only existed because her magic was so sub par! This wasn't fair, this wasn't fair!

Miss Hart slowly approached the fallen student, her eyes cold and distant.

“And of course the most powerful, rarest of all....” she spoke slowly as she lifted her hand “Cre...”

Penny let out a horrible scream, one laced with all her failure, all her anger, all her despair and shot up to her feet.

Miss Hart's eyes widen as Penny's gray pupils shifted, becoming an icy white as her hair transformed from purple to a shimmering gold.

Penny's stare was empty and lifeless but before Miss Hart could react, she simply gestured to her teacher.

Penny fell to her knees, coughing wildly as she struggled to figure out what happened.

The last thing she remembered was Miss Hart preparing a creation spell and now she was on all fours, coughing her brains out and her mouth having a very unpleasant ashy taste.

Penny coughed as strains of golden hair intermixed with the sea of purple hung freely in front of her

gold? She didn't remember getting highlights.

Penny shook her head. Maybe she was just tired and imaging things.

“Miss Hart” Penny weakly called out, brushing her hair out of her face “I don't know what spell you used but you need to restrain yourself a bit.”

Penny looked upwards and felt her heart drop.

Miss Hart's simply stared at her, her jaw clenched tightly. She was surrounded by large, circular stone pillars that seemed have formed out of nowhere and if Penny didn't know any better, she would've said they almost looked like a hand reaching out for her teacher.

“Well...” Penny spoke quietly “I..guess...I passed?”

Miss Hart's eyes flared angrily “You failed.”

Penny scoffed “Failed? I like to point out that I clearly obviously evidently performed a creation spell and made...stone...fingers....or something! My magic is getting better and I shouldn't be stuck in the...”

“You failed” Miss Hart repeated coldly “Now get out of here.”

Penny felt a cold icy feeling spread through her body as Miss Hart's words echoed dully in her head.

“...I.....yes Miss...Hart.”

Penny could feel the tears building but refused to let them fall in the presence of her teacher. She didn't want to give her the satisfaction

Penny gathered her scattered belongings and bolted out the door, barely able to keep herself in check as she raced home.

Ripley Hart let out a tense, nervous sigh she had been holding. That was too close. Far too close for her liking.

She stared at the stone fingers that appeared from nowhere, running her hand over their smooth surface.

“....these are perfectly cut” She muttered to herself “Expertly crafted with an impressive detail.”

“It's bad isn't it?” a new voice asked carefully.

Ripley turned to find an elderly old man sitting patiently in a nearby seat. His beard was thick and bushy, probably to make up for the lack of hair on his skull. His sliver eyes peered thoughtfully towards Missy Hart as he waited for an answer.

Ripley nodded in agreement “It's really bad. Sir.....I think he's waking up.”

“....Well shit” the old man answered.