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Logan or Sascha, he/they/xe. Here is the place for all of my original writing. I'm a fantasy/sci-fi/horror author.

[anxious-gnome-cryptid]

Hey Little Jitterbug

Summary: I am alone and scared until He came and brought some light back to my soul. 

Warning for like... a brief alcohol use mention.

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I shrink in on myself in an attempt to not be noticed in this crowded, busy bar packed with horny people looking to find pleasure. People down alcohol left and right like there is no tomorrow in this world, and after they are done with their fourth shot of vodka they walk over to other equally drunk people and begin to flirt. I bite my lip and take a long sip of my water from my place behind the bar, eyes flickering around to find my constant. She is in the corner, deep in discussion with another woman, her face lit up with a smile. A lump forms in my throat, not out of jealousy I knows, but out of sadness. She had promised to be there for me, and while yes, of course I want her to be happy, I also would like to not feel alone in the lion’s den that is this club. The words of That Woman flash through my head and I wince. I truly am selfish after all. Andrea just got off work at this bar, I should allow her to have some fun.

“Hey, Jitterbug, what’s up?” Virgil drawls, appearing next to me and leaning against the bar. He is shouting to be heard over the loud noise, but I find that this does not bother me, perhaps because Virgil only shouts with good reason. I simply shrug in response to his question and fidget with my glass. He sighs, eyes closing for the briefest of instants, and leans forward. The light catches the glitter laced through his eyeshadow, making his eyes glow as if he were magical. His eyeliner is winged sharply, accentuating his high cheekbones and large doe-like eyes even more. His soft black curls fall perfectly into his face; I have an inexplicable urge to run my hands through those curls and kiss him until the world vanished and all he could think about was Us.

Virgil’s lips purse, his dark red lipstick smudging slightly. “You know you can talk to me about anything, yeah Jitterbug?” I blink, still focused on his hair and his lips and his big, liquid eyes.

“You needn’t be concerned, Virgil. I am perfectly well. This is merely not my ‘scene’, as you say,” I murmur in return, staring at my hands. Virgil describes them as pianist hands. I describe them as the hands of a clockmaker. The nail polish Avery had placed upon my nails a few days ago is slowly chipping off, leaving patches of peach in the sea of emerald green. My hands are a constant in my life, unlike this crowded place filled with light and noise and sweat.

“I’m calling bullshit. Need to leave?” Virgil asks, voice somehow soft even while shouting. I shake my head and contemplate drinking something a bit stronger. Perhaps that will steel my nerves and allow me to function like a normal human being. A bottle of Scotch sits nearby, and I reach for it to pour myself a glass, only to have my hand gently slapped away by the other bartender.

“Nope, no, not happening. No alcohol for you, Jitterbug. You know how you get when drunk.” I sigh and finish my water, setting the glass in the sink to be washed out later. I cannot argue with Virgil’s logic, not after he saw me drunk a couple weeks ago.

“Then what do you suggest? Andrea will be angry if I leave, but I do not wish to interrupt her flirting,” I sigh. Virgil bit his lip, getting traces of maroon lipstick on his pearly white teeth. He laces his fingers together, his black and purple nail polish catching the light for the briefest of instants. His tight black turtleneck inches upwards slightly as he leans forward.

“You could come back with me. Andy can’t argue with me taking you, now can she?” Virgil offers, voice lilting and teasing at the end. I chuckle and stand, pulling my large sweater closer around me.

“Do we have anyone else to tend the bar, though?” I ask, desperate to take Virgil up on his offer yet unwilling to leave the post unfilled.

Virgil laughed. “Yeah. Aves is here, he’s just been giving us space all night.” I bite my lip, still concerned, and Virgil leans over to ruffle my hair. “Gideon, relax, Andy will be fine. And you’ll feel better getting out of here, I just know it.”

“I suppose. Shall we?” Like the gentleman I am, I extend my arm for him to take. Virgil just laughs and grabs my hand, dragging me out from behind the counter with merely a comment towards Avery about how we were heading home early. Avery nods and grins, telling us to take it easy so we won’t be too sore tomorrow. Virgil merely rolls his perfect eyes and drags me away, heading off towards his apartment with me, my face as red as a tomato.

We quickly reach Virgil’s apartment, since it is within a few blocks of the club. Virgil traipses up the stairs and throws the door open, tossing his keys into the dish by the door. “Aurora! Cathair! Quinn! You here?”

“I am. Aurora is with her latest paramour and Cath is working late,” another person announces, walking into the room with their nose buried in a book. Virgil sighs and allows himself to fall dramatically onto the nearby sofa, much to the obvious annoyance of his roommate. “Virgil, I was about to sit there,” they continue, but Virgil ignores them, sitting up with his trademark smirk affixed on his face.

“Live a little, Q! Mix it up, sit somewhere else for once.” I shift, a tad uncomfortable, and Virgil seems to remember that I am there. “Oh, also, Quinn, this is Gideon, my coworker. Gideon, Quinn, one of my roommates.”

“A pleasure, Gideon,” Quinn intones, sitting on a nearby chair. “Please keep the noise down, as some of us wish to read in peace.” I frown, puzzled, while Virgil’s cheeks flush bright red.

“Q! It’s not like that!” Virgil hisses. “Gideon and I are just friends! One, he’s not interested in sex, and two, he’s already taken!” Quinn blinks, cocking their head to the side (I assume that this is the ‘gender non-conforming’ roommate Virgil has told me about, as the description matches) in obvious confusion.

“I see. In that case, my apologies.” Virgil nods, beaming, before bolting upright and dashing into the kitchen. I blink in confusion and glance over at Quinn to find them staring at me. Chills race down my spine and I curl into a tighter ball, attempting to vanish into my sweater. Now that I thought about it, this was Virgil’s sweater, if the size and colour purple was anything to go on. This sweater is not helping my argument about not being in a relationship with Virgil. I really should return it soon.

“Do you have feelings for Virgil?” Quinn asks, voice blunt and matter-of-fact. I gulp, staring down at my hands as I contemplate my answer. I know my… attraction to men… is more accepted in this time period, especially around this group of people, but admitting it out loud is still a challenge for me.  

“... perhaps,” I murmur, biting my nails. Quinn sighs and gives me a look I would almost read as sympathy if I did not know better before they return to their novel, leaving me to stew in my thoughts. The living room descends into silence for at least an hour as Quinn and I try to acclimatize to each other’s presence, interrupted only by Quinn handing me a puzzle and murmuring advice on how to finish it. After that, we descend back into silence, broken now only by the clicks of the puzzle pieces fitting together.

“I made soup!” Virgil calls, sashaying into the living room with a tray laden with three large bowls of steaming liquid. “I hope you like tortellini soup, Jitterbug, because I have way too much of it.”

“And whose fault is that?” Quinn asks, delicately taking a bowl and sipping at it, finally putting their book down. Virgil snorts and sits down on the floor, legs crossed.

“You got me, Q you genius,” Virgil laughs. I giggle a bit and sip at the bowl of soup Virgil hands me, happiness bubbling in my stomach. I hadn’t felt this kind of peace and friendship in… ever, I realize with a start. I smile softly as I take in the atmosphere, Quinn and Virgil bickering around a table lit with far too many candles in an apartment that smells like garlic and home. Perhaps I should come over more often. After all, Virgil has far too much soup, and someone needs to help him eat it all.

The peaceful atmosphere did not last for long, as Virgil as Quinn’s discussion quickly devolved into a debate over the sexuality of Star Trek characters, with Virgil firmly believing Kirk and Spock were married and Quinn insisting Spock was not interested in any romantic or sexual relationships. I smile and settle back to watch, admiring the fiery passion burning in Virgil’s eyes as he rants. I had not seen a more beautiful sight for a while, and I was content to sit back and absorb this perfection all night. Well, I was content until Virgil tried to pull me into the debate, at which point I had to focus my energy on lying about my knowledge of this new television programme. My life could never be peaceful for long, but I found that this time, I did not quite mind. Perhaps it had to do with Virgil’s company. It was most likely the soup, however. I had always felt better when soup was present.

[anxious-gnome-cryptid]

The Future of History

Summary: Gideon is having some issues coming to terms with his past. Allen encourages him to look towards the future.  Written for my Creative Writing Final, using the same characters (and a few new ones!) from Hey Little Jitterbug

Warning for alcohol mention, death mention, a non-graphic war scene in a documentary, and a discussion about suicide. 

I swallowed back the tears begging for release and curled into a tighter ball on the couch, clutching the Ravenclaw mug filled with jasmine tea tighter to my chest. My bed seemed to call to me, promising safety and refuge from the horrors being presented before my eyes if I only had the courage to move, but my terror and anguish won out, keeping my legs locked in place as images of the destruction of both land and human life flashed before my eyes. Allen had warned me that it may not be the best idea to watch this, not while the news of Edward’s passing was still fresh and painful, but my own morbid curiosity had sunk its claws into my brain and forced my hand, leading to my current position, watching a documentary narrated with a soothing British accent (Estuary, I can tell, far from my own Queen’s English accent) about the First World War.

The bright explosions seared my retinas, yet I could not look away as red splattered the ground, most likely red paint but depicting real events, making it real. My ears rang with the screams of the dying men, actors channeling years of grief to recount the dying gasps of young men who had not known what they were in for. Mud stained everything, mixing with water and blood to create an awful soup coating the ground and the bodies that decorated it. Cannon after cannon fired, punctuated by the staccato hits of a machine gun, accompanying the bright explosions of grenades being thrown across a ruined battlefield.

Mid-scream, mid-explosion, the screen in front of me went blank, and I slowly turned, tears in my eyes, to face my current roommate. Allen held the remote in his hands, blue eyes hard as he stared at me.

“I told you to avoid these.” His voice seemed to boom in the quiet air of the apartment even though he was barely speaking above a murmur. I nodded and took a shaky sip of tea, refusing to meet his eyes. Allen sighed in return and moved around the couch, steps far quieter than usual due to his lack of combat boots. He sat next to me on the couch, fidgeting with the remote, and did not speak again.

“I know it was incredibly stupid of me to watch that. I just… wished to learn more about-”

“About a useless war where so many people died?” Allen snapped, head snapping over to glare at me. “Why? Because hurting yourself won’t bring Nonno back.”

“At least I can try to understand what he was thinking as he…” My voice trailed off, the words choking up my throat. I could not even bring myself to say it. How pathetic was I?

“No one knows what he was thinking when he blew his own brains to kingdom come,” Allen growled. “And, really, you don’t need to know. Some things are better left private.” I bit my lip in a futile attempt to stem the flow of tears, and Allen let out a heavy sigh before leaning over, resting his head on my shoulder.

“Sorry, that was harsh,” he apologized, looking down at his chipped blue nail polish. “Just… I’ve been down this road. It doesn’t lead anywhere good. More often than not, it ends at 3 am with you making yourself so high you’re not sure you’ll ever come back down.”

“How do I know this whole experience is not just a bad dream or a hallucination? Perhaps I ate something strange and am truly back in my room in 1878,” I murmured in return, staring into the depths of my cooling tea as if it could offer me answers.

“Gideon, I’m not dealing with an existential crisis today,” Allen laughed. “But I can tell you: it’s real. I don’t think you could have dreamed up something as elaborate as this.”

“You are most likely correct,” I answered, sipping at my tea again. “I have always been told I have a poor imagination.”

“See? Answer right there,” Allen said, voice tinted with a rare smile. “Plus, why would you dream up someone as terrifying as this Tory you keep telling me about?”

“You make an excellent argument, Allen,” I chuckled, finishing the rest of my tea. “Tory is… quite the character.”

“Yeah, she is. Sounds a lot like an old friend of mine,” Allen laughed again, standing. He reached out a hand towards me and I took it, allowing him to pull me to my feet.

“May I ask why we are getting up?” I asked, cocking my head to the side in confusion.

“Ice cream. We’re going for ice cream and a walk,” Allen announced, walking back over to the coat rack and throwing on his dark green canvas jacket before slipping into his beat-up black Converse. I pulled on my brown boots and grey woolen peacoat and followed him out the door, taking in the wild wind through my hair as we stepped outside. Allen grabbed my hand to prevent our seperation and we started our short walk to the ice cream store just around the corner.

The nice young couple who ran the small shop simply smiled as we strolled in and immediately began making our usual orders. Allen chatted up their child, a young man of about 12, asking about how his school year was going, his plans for the future, the newest round of Dungeons and Dragons he had played, and other things I did not understand. I thanked the owners as they handed me our ice cream and I gave them the exact change, taken from Allen’s wallet earlier that week as an emergency store. The two of us left soon after and began to walk towards the small park near Allen’s college campus, taking small nibbles of our ice cream and enjoying the late winter air.

“Okay, Gideon. I’ve gotta say something, and you won’t like it,” Allen announced once we were away from most of the people. I paused, halfway through a bite of ice cream, waiting for his statement.

“You… you can’t change history, Gideon. You’re so worried about living in the past… and I think that’s why you’re still stuck.” Allen sighed, flailing his hand in circles in his thinking gesture before continuing. “Maybe… look to the future? All the new things that have been invented? All the things you could do or be?”

“But my history is where the answers to where I have gone wrong lay,” I countered, swallowing the ice cream. The small chunk of chocolate scraped against my throat, but I ignored it, looking at Allen with wide eyes.

“Is it? Or is it just keeping you trapped in regrets?” Allen asked, looking deep into my eyes with a stare so intense I felt my knees go weak. He looked so much like Edward, if only Edward had been a couple years older and merged with Virgil. I shook my head, determined to get rid of the thoughts. I did not need to think of both my great losses right now.

“We cannot forget our history, Allen.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to be trapped by it either,” Allen said, smile and voice softer than was normal of him. “In fact, we can start now.”

“How?” I asked, highly confused. “We cannot forget the past.”

“Not forgetting, just not letting it define us,” Allen corrected. “For example, there’s a nice gay bar a couple blocks over. Might be fun to let go and have some fun.”

“Are you quite sure?” I asked, flushing. Allen’s openness about his bisexuality, as he defined it, was… startling to me, to say the least.

His grin was crooked as he grabbed my hand and began to run, laughing. “Yeah! Let’s have some fun, Gideon!” I yelped but allowed him to lead me away, a smile tugging at my lips against my will. Healing would take a long time, I knew, but perhaps Allen would be the one to heal me fully. Perhaps Allen would be the one to break the curse. I ignored the small whispers telling me I had thought that of many people before and followed Allen into the soft rainbow lights of a rustic wooden bar, determined to focus on the future, if only for a few hours. I had had enough of history today. Now, it was time to at least pretend I had a future.

[anxious-gnome-cryptid]

Forest of Spiders

Summary: He is lost. He is lost and alone in the forest.  Written for my Creative Writing class, but using characters from one of the novels I’m working on. 

Warning for blood, gore, cursing, almost death

The branches crunch under his feet as he walks through the dark forest, phone battery almost dead as the flashlight flickers, causing shadows to twist and curl and become distorted around him. Anxiety spikes in his chest and his blue eyes begin to flicker around, searching desperately for an opening in the wall of looming trees. No such opening exists, from what he can tell, yet he refuses to cry, continuing to try and search for a hiding place at the very least. The wind whispers secrets, dangers, and legends to him, telling of what happens to all lost boys who travel these woods alone at night without proper protection, such as he. More branches crackle and he shrieks, swinging his phone around to catch a glimpse of his pursuer, but spying nothing except complete inky blackness as his phone finally dies, leaving just him and the wind and the hungry forest alone.

Something slips through the undergrowth and he slips the useless technological brick into his pocket before retreating into his hoodie, awaiting his end at the hands of some horrifying monster that he was sure lurked out here but had never seen or heard of thanks to Leslie. “Oh, Niels, don’t be silly, there’s nothing out here that will eat your soul or drain your blood or rip your limbs apart. You’re perfectly safe in the woods,” Leslie always tells him in that infuriatingly calm, sweet, genuine voice he has. He starts to think that either Leslie was lying to him, which makes a hot bubble of something expand in his stomach at the mere thought, or even Leslie, the de facto guardian of this forest, did not know what horrors lay within, and this thought causes the constant ball of ice to shrink, chilling him to the bone as he pants for breath. He takes another shaking step forward before being swept off his feet amidst a whirl of shrieks and laughter and inhuman whispers that ooze inside his skull and taunt him with his own mortality and uselessness. He curls into a ball, covering his ears with his arms, and waits to die, waits for the voices to grow tired of their new play-thing and do whatever despicable thing they do to others to him.

“Hello, little one. You are safe now,” a new voice whispers in his ear, soft and soothing and maternal. He thinks of his mother back in California, in the old days when she still loved him, and he thinks that maybe it would not be so bad if he listens to this new presence. He is gone, claimed by the trees already; it would be a pleasant end if he allowed the warmth of his youth to overtake him again. A soft chuckle, a sharp pain, and then numbness began to spread, starting from his neck and coiling down his veins, through his torso into his limbs, draining the fight from him. He slumps down towards the ground, eyes fluttering, as the warm numbness spread, filling him to the brim with peace. He could just let go now, live forever in the days when he was loved and cared for, the days when he knew he was someone’s son. His younger self crouches in front of him, blue eyes wide with naivete and brown hair floppy in the way only young children can manage.

“It’s okay, Niels. Mom loves us here. Don’t you want Mom to love you?” He nods, exhausted, desperate, tired, warm, cold, lonely, about to surrender the will to live and fight. The soothing voice joins the words of his childhood self, lulling him to the edge of the dark chasm in the centre of his mind. He smiles softly, inching his foot towards the edge, prepared to take that final step and stay in a place where he is loved.

“No, Niels, you can’t do that. You can’t live a life of lies. You hate lies, remember?” The soft voice of Leslie cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, confused. What lies? This was a lie? Yes, it is a lie, he realizes: his mother does not love him at all. She never had, and she never will. He cannot listen to the voice.

Said voice hisses, clearly miffed at having lost her prey, and he scrambles upright, swaying from… what? He brings a hand to his neck to find the source of pulsating pain and brings it away, coated in a thich, warm red fluid. Blood. He is bleeding. He is bleeding from his neck. The voice hisses and he stumbles backwards, screeching at it to leave him the fuck alone. He needs to get away, he needs to get back to town and get help. Another branch crunches behind him and he whips around. Unfortunately, the sudden change is too much on his body and he collapses, the last thing he sees being long blue hair and wide, familiar green eyes. He reaches out, desperate for help, as the blackness overtakes his vision. He whimpers, needing help, needing to survive, and he pushes, where-

He shoots awake, laying atop a fluffy white cloud of a bed, panting, stomach rolling. Turning onto his side, he grabs the bucket that has been placed in front of him and vomits, the contents of his stomach vacating as fast as possible. He heaves until nothing is left, until it feels as if every drop of HCl with traces of KCl and NaCl has left his system. Someone’s hand runs through his hair, and he sobs softly. It can’t be his father, who is out of town on a business trip. It cannot be his mother, as she hates him and never wants to see him again, the imperfect son that he is.

“Hey, Niels. I’m here. You’re okay,” Leslie’s calm voice soothes. He startles, surprised and pleased that Leslie is here. Leslie won’t abandon him, he knows, not after everything they have been through together.

“What… what happened? I was in the forest…?” he asks, finally sitting up and grabbing water. Leslie’s sharp green eyes stare into his, taking in every exhaustion line and sweat drop on his face.

“You were attacked by a snake. Luckily, we had the antivenom on hand, but your neck will be sore for a few days.” He nods, draining the water, before smiling softly at the love of his life. Silly him, of course he would get bitten by a snake. He should never be trusted in the forest alone.

“Thanks for getting me,” he murmurs. Leslie snorts and rolls his eyes, smiling at him.

“Well, of course. You missed movie night. Zina’s going to kill you, and I think Fen is planning to tie you to a chair to make sure this doesn’t happen again,” Leslie explains. He nods and settles back down, sleep already tugging at the edges of his vision. Leslie chuckles and runs a hand through his dark brown hair. “Sleep well, Niels. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He nods off to sleep, dreaming of rolling fields of golden grass and picnics shared with a boy claimed by the forest.

Leslie walked into the forest, head held high and shoulders fixed. The creatures of the forest seemed to know, instinctively, that the Caretaker was not in a good mood today, and scattered to avoid his wrath. Leslie would feel bad about that later, of course— he always did— but all that he cared for now was the promise of making that Arachne pay for laying a hand on his boyfriend. He paused in the clearing where he found Niels, adjusted his poncho, and cupped his hands to call for his adversary.  

“Gertrude, I believe? We need to have a word,” he calls, voice calm, pleasant, conversational. There was no reason to give up his motives this early. A large Arachne skittered out, eyes blinking in shock as she registered who stood in front of her.

“What word, Caretaker?” she asked, confusion bubbling in her voice.

“Last night, you attempted to eat my boyfriend. I don’t take kindly to that, you know,” Leslie simpered, rocking back and forth on his heels, smile showing far too many teeth for his tone. Gertrude the Arachne blinked again, startled, before comprehension dawned. She began to plead, whimpering and crying, trying desperately to justify her actions, but Leslie had already made up his mind. He flicked his wrist, calling upon his Trees, and smirked at the pathetic creature in front of him. With a single thought, the Trees plunged into her body, winding and twisting around her organs and connective tissue. Blood spattered the ground, and, ignoring her screams, Leslie snapped his fingers to complete the task. The Trees ripped apart, taking her body with them. Leslie simply flipped up the hood of his poncho and allowed the guts and blood coat him. Eight spider legs fell to the forest floor with a sickening thud, followed by two human arms. The torso, ripped in half and cleaned of organs, fell a few meters away. The organs lay scattered about the clearing, and a layer of spider blood coated every available surface. Gertrude’s head rolled to a stop at Leslie’s feet, and, without a second of hesitation, he stomped it to mush. He stepped back and slowly tilted his head back, staring at the young Arachne’s peering out at him.

“Your mother did not listen to the rules, so she was punished. I hope you don’t follow her example,” Leslie intoned, wiping his hands off with a set of wet wipes. The young spiders all chittered, terrified, but none made a hostile move, which Leslie took as a sign of submission. He nodded, slipped out of the poncho, and left it on the forest floor, sashaying away from the scene. He had a boyfriend to get back to, after all. He’d spent too much time on the vermin already.