scribble scribble

a place to write things, featuring fanfiction, original character antics, and mayyyybe poetry. I'm not sure how comfortable I am botherng my main followers with this junk so.

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Makoto Naegi is practically an expert at waking up in the middle of the night. It started with a demanding pregnant Kirigiri, continued with a loud and needy infant and now--

Now Katsumi is tugging on his sleeve, nervously whispering, "Daddy. Daddy!" He blinks and sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eye with one hand.

"What is it pumpkin?" he asks, squinting into the light coming from the doorway, trying to make out the form of his three year old daughter. 

She scooches closer and stands up on her tiptoes, motioning him closer. He leans forward, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife, and she whispers into his ear. 

"There's a monster under my bed! I can hear it moving around." 

In one swift motion he scoops Katsumi up, toting her with one arm back down the hall. 

"That's impossible," he tells her, voice calm and matter of fact. "I know for a fact I got rid of ALL the monsters when we first moved in." He plops her down on her own bed. Noticing her still-anxious expression, he adds, "They don't let you get your dad license without basic monster disposal skills." 

"And besides," he adds, leaning in conspiratorially, "all the monsters in this part of town are scared of your mom." 

This time she lets out a little giggle, and he kisses her forehead. "Now go to bed."

He closes her door behind him, satisfied with a job well done, only to run into someone else in the hallway. 

"All the monsters are scared of me, hm?" Kirigiri questions, amused, and Naegi only offers her a sheepish grin as they head back to bed together.

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Mikan's lip twitches as she watches Mukuro dip Junko again, the third time. Not that she's counting. Nearly identical smiles stretch across both their faces, and while smiles aren't exactly out of place at a wedding, she's never seen the two sisters so happy in one another's presence. The song isn't even lively enough for those kinds of moves, she thinks bitterly to herself.

She swallows the lump in her throat and forces herself to look somewhere else, anywhere else. No, not at the empty chairs at the table, reminders that she's all alone, anyone who she might consider a friend happily coupled up out on the dance floor. Not at the bandage on her arm, testament to her clumsiness and inability to do anything right.

Maybe the fantastical centerpiece will do for a distraction. All the decorations are extravagant, actually, but one would expect nothing less of party thrown by royalty. Tsumiki lets her gaze wander again to the dance floor, this time seeking out the white-clad figure of Sonia, head resting on Gundam's shoulder as they slowly rotate.

Diamonds sparkle on a delicate tiara and among the folds of her dress, but Mikan thinks that maybe the most striking thing is the way Gundam is looking at her. There's no tension in his face, for once, only a soft smile that -- 

"Practically radiates love," growls a low voice on the other side of the room. There are plenty of eyes on the couple of the hour, but Souda is the only one less than pleased for them. And he only gets more disgruntled as Hinata, who doesn't miss a beat, raps him upside the head. 

"Hey!" Souda yelps, rubbing the targeted area. "I acknowledged their mutual affection and didn't upset nobody, what more d'ya want from me?" 

"You've been moping in the corner all evening, Kazuichi. I want you to try enjoying yourself, and I want you to stop moping over a crush you should have gotten over years ago," Hinata grumbles, before ordering two mixed drinks from the open bar.

"Much as evidence indicates otherwise, I know you're not stupid. You can see she's happy. And maybe you would be too if you weren't a stubborn googoo-eyed dumbass," he continues, turning back to his best friend.

Souda looks as if he's about to object, then abruptly deflates. "You're right, of course... when aren't ya, Mister know-it-all." He reaches for the extra cocktail, but Hinata swiftly blocks him.

"Now, I've got a lovely, albeit sleepy, fiancee to deliver a drink to," He says, jerking a thumb in Nanami's direction. "Why don't you go ask Tsumiki to dance? She's been sitting all by herself nearly as long as you have. Do both of yourselves a favor."

Souda is left alone again with his thoughts. It's easy enough to brush off Hinata's advice (he does so on a near-daily basis, after all), but something about the cocktail of just a little too little alcohol and a little too much loneliness sets him thinking. 

It was the most casual of mentions, but it's that one word that seems to echo -- "fiancee". Hinata and Nanami have been near inseparable since they met, but even years out of high school Souda's never had much more than one night stands with girls he didn't know and a ridiculously one-sided infatuation.  

This is pathetic, he realizes. I'm pathetic. He stays frozen in the corner, eyes fixed on the floor, for another couple of minutes before gritting his teeth and forcing himself upright.

If he can remake himself into a pink haired sharktoothed wonder, he sure as hell can get out of rut. He's got his whole life ahead of him. And he'll start by listening to Hinata for once, and actually try to enjoy what's supposed to be a celebration. He strides determinedly over to where Mikan is sitting.

"Hey, look, I saw ya sittin' over here all by yourself," he starts, one hand scratching nervously at his jaw, the other extended in invitation. "And I know I'm not the most graceful guy but I was wonderin' if you'd dance with me anyhow?" 

Despite having watched him approach, Mikan starts when he addresses her, going just slightly pale. 

"M-me? You want to dance with me?" she squeaks. "Are you s-sure that's alright? I might step on your feet..." She stares at his proffered hand as if it might bite her, and he wiggles it a little impatiently. 

"Yeah, you. C'mon, it's gotta be more fun than sittin' and starin'." 

She tentatively places her hand in his, not one to pass up attention a second time, and meekly follows him to the dance floor. They're an incredibly awkward couple, no more used to each other's company than they are to stiff suits and high heels.

The music is something soft and old that Souda recognizes as one of Sonia's favorites. There's no way they can pull off dancing to it without getting uncomfortably close.

They stand stationary for a few moments, mutually avoiding each other's gaze, and Mikan briefly wonders whether she shouldn't have stayed at the table ruminating over lost love when she feels a hand on her waist and looks up.

"This is how ya do it, right?" Souda mutters, face turning pink. Her cheeks light up to match as she rests her arms on either side of his neck. 

They're careful to keep space between their bodies, and Mikan steps on his feet more than once (and apologizes profusely right after), but slowly, slowly they both begin to relax.

He mentions how nice the food was, and they talk lightly about small details of the wedding; somehow that morphs into memories of Hope's Peak, stories he'd forgotten cascading out of his mouth again. A small smile graces Mikan's face as she listens.

She never knew he and Hinata were such troublemakers, she giggles. Of course she wouldn't, he insists, grinning widely now, they were sneaky bastards too. 

Silence falls between them again, but it's a more comfortable one. They've mostly settled into a rhythm (at least she's stepping on his feet less), and the distance between them has shrunk considerably. 

Souda lets his eyes wander over her. He's never really looked at her before, having eyes only for Sonia. They haven't spent much time together before this; she'd always been just a periphery member of their class to him. And he to her, surely.

Her collarbone juts out visibly, her elbows bend at sharp angles. He wonders if he could feel her ribs if his hand was just marginally higher, but the curve of her cheeks is soft. Why hadn't he taken notice of her...?

"W-what are you looking at?" she asks nervously, sure that now he's had time to find some fault in her. Maybe she hasn't been talking enough? Or had she carelessly smudged sauce on her cheek earlier?

He rushes to reassure her. "Uh, no, it's nothing, you're just real--"

"Ahem!" interrupts a familar voice, as the song comes to end. Sonia taps a microphone, wincing a little at the feedback. "It's time for cutting the cake, will everyone please gather in the far corner?"

Mikan perks up, arms gone from his shoulder in an instant. She quickly thanks him for the dance before scurrying off to stand with Koizumi and Saionji. The moment is gone, but somehow Souda feels just a bit lighter-hearted as he joins everyone else crowding around the table.

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The patch of snow covered ground would be an empty shimmering white if it weren't for a lone figure, blue and pink gloves popping against a black Hogwarts cloak. Ibuki isn't usually so early to class; idling along, joking with Mahiru and trying to coax Mikan out of her shell is much more her style. 

"Ibuki was just so excited, she couldn't hold it in! It ended up bursting out of her feet," she explains to her friends when they arrive, rocking impatiently back and forth on her heels. 

The rest of the class slowly trickles onto the patch of the grounds where Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff fifth years meet once a week. The Care of Magical Creatures professor isn't far behind them, sporting an excited grin not unlike Ibuki's. 

"As you all may remember from last week, we'll be continuing our lesson on unicorns today. And as you may also recall--" And here Ibuki receives a piercing glare, as she's just let out an excited squeal. 

"I promised you all that I'd try to get a few specimens and luck was with me." The announcement stretches into a lecture, but Ibuki has long since stopped listening. Her eyes are fastened to that tree near the forest, where she can just see a silver glow over the heads of her classmates.

The lecture is finally done with and Ibuki is pushing her way between taller classmates, until she reaches the front of the crowd and stops dead, staring the majestic creatures in the face. The unicorn nearest her snorts and twitches its ears, eyeing her uneasily. 

She's always excited for Care of Magical creatures, anyway, if only for an excuse to spend time with a certain adorable Hufflepuff, but unicorns are in their own category. Ever since she'd first learned, wide eyed, that magic was real and she could create it, she'd been determined to find and pet one. Unicorns are SO punk rock. 

When she snaps out of her awe-struck trance, others have already begun petting the unicorns. In a panic fueled by the fear that she might miss her chance, she doesn't so much reach for the unicorn as she launches an attack at it with her arm. 

It panics, letting out a startled whinny kicking up and its front legs. She barely has time to register her disappointment before a tight grip on her arm pulls her away. 

"You idiot," an irritated voice hisses. "Didn't you hear the instructor tell us that they startle easily?"

"Ibuki just wanted to experience the most magical thing at this school," she protests without looking around, tugging against the steel grip. She knows from the voice who it is, of course. Even if her ears weren't sharp enough to pick out someone drawing their wand from fifty yards away, she's long since memorized his every verbal quirk.

She turns around to face the towering figure of "John Doe", and for a moment he's sure she's going to struggle further, but instead her whole body slumps, dejected. 

"The raddest creature on earth didn't like Ibuki," she grumbles, and the pressure on her arm releases. When he speaks again, his voice is no louder than usual, but it has a softer edge to it that she's never heard him use with anyone else.

"You just have to approach it calmly, and not like you're playing whatever noise maker you usually fool around with. Like so."

He grabs her hand instead this time, pulling her along with him as they approach the unicorns again. She hangs back a little, not wanting to repeat her previous approach, and also not willing to let him see the rising color in her cheeks. 

The unicorns seem to relax in his presence. In no time at all, he's softly stroking the mane of the one Ibuki had terrorized. She half hides behind his bulk, worried that she'd just make it hate her more. 

John beckons her closer, and she hesitantly steps forward. The unicorn eyes her warily, but doesn't move. She feels a hand on her back, her companion nudging her just a little closer, and wow she's definitely not imagining the heat on her face this time. But then she finally reaches out a hand and touches the silky soft mane, a huge smile spreading across her whole face.

All thoughts of John are driven from her mind as she lives her long anticipated dream, but any of their classmates can see the affection in his smile as he looks down at her. 

Later, as they're about to part ways for their next lesson, she pulls him down by his scarf and plants a sloppy wet smooch on his cheek. 

"Thanks so much Johnny!" she says, before beaming and dashing off to Herbology. 

[neveredited]

Fukawa waits until 1am, when there’s a 50/50 chance of Hagakure being passed out cold. Luck is with her, or perhaps against her if you consider her nervousness, because when she slips into his dimly lit room he’s laying on his back, looking for patterns in the ceiling. 

He stirs when he hears the door creak, throwing out a questioning “Tou-chi?”

She steels herself and crosses the room, mostly by memory. The floor is a hazardous maze of occult trinkets. Even if her glasses were in place on the tip of her nose, the light from the doorway is only enough to slash across his chest and face, the rest of the room masked by the red haze of numerous lava lamps. 

She finally reaches the bed, a timid push easing his shoulder back down as she straddles his stomach. He yields easily enough, peering up at her with his left eyebrow quirked in that peculiar way. A year into their relationship and it’s still surprising whenever she initiates affection. 

But no time to dwell on that. “I want you,” she announces, with the air of someone who has practiced the words a thousand times. 

"What?" comes the ineloquent response.

"What are you, a monkey? I said I want you!" she says, irritation creeping into her voice, her fist thumping down on his chest.

And it’s then that he notices her lack of glasses. The way her loose hair spills across her shoulders. And the sheer night dress that he’s never seen before, because she hadn’t been bold enough to wear it. 

"Oh," he says quietly, bringing up a hand and hesitantly running his fingers through the smooth unbraided hair. "Well, Tou-chi

holy shit I’ll finish rewriting this later 

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there is a hidden echoing space that you will never visit 

a thick sludge oozes down the walls and puddles on the floor 

I sigh and sweat and scrub until all is white and blinding

until I can't see how stained my hands are

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fanpro is pretty neat, so I decided to contribute by writing a was-going-to-be-short thing about48 and 59

it’s gotten long so I’m just gonna post it now and wirte more parts later because 59 has barely even made an appearance and this is mostly all me attempting to worldbuild

—

Leaving your kids alone to entertain themselves isn’t an uncommon practice on Vert. The cries of plants that need tending to is louder than any sound your infant could manage. Just sit them in a nice patch of dirt, give them a bottle of water and they’ll entertain themselves. What is uncommon is returning to find your two-year-old perched in a sapling that wasn’t there a few hours earlier, sucking his thumb calmly.

I was marked then as one of the Gifted. It didn’t make me a freak like it would on some planets. Not here, where you grow up surrounded by the color green, where you learn to use a shovel as soon as you can lift one. It opened up a world of possibilities for me, but at the same time, it shut down any hope I ever had of leaving. 

Some people do. Leave, I mean. If you can prove your talents, your worth to the Empire, they’ll send down an interplanetary shuttle and the universe is yours. That was all I ever dreamed of before reality punched me in the face. 

I stand at the end of the lane that leads to the hillock that is my family’s home, posture perfect. I try not to let my impatience and nervousness show on my face, but my knuckles are white as I tighten my grip on my channeler. It doesn’t help that the bushes down here haven’t been watered in a while, and I can feel the thirst of those nearest to me traveling up my staff like a low continuous electric shock. Irritably, I pull the end of it away from the ground, because more stimulus is the last thing I want. 

I rub idly at the bulbous purple tip of my staff, trying to make it just a bit shinier. Gotta show off for royalty, you know.

My parents have already retreated to the fields, dutiful goodbyes and parental roles fulfilled, muttering about cabbages and fertilizer. I likely won’t see them again. Possibly ever.

I catch the distinct sound of horse hoofs on a dirt path as someone approaches, and I feel myself straighten even more. My mind goes back to a week ago, to breaking open the letter with the wax imperial seal. If I closed my eyes I could picture the words, sprawling across the page in shining emerald ink.

To Master Peter Crescen: 

We have been informed that next Tuesday, May the 16th, is the day of completion of your twentieth year cycle. We offer our congratulations on your coming of age. 

Our records indicate that you have been registered as a Gifted entity for more than a dozen cycles, and that you received your Channeling Instrument at the typical age. 

Two hours after sunrise, on the 15th day of the 4th month, transport will be sent to the location of your residence so that you may begin more intensive training.

Regards, 

The Office of Princess Ivy Helix

 A carriage rolls up and the driver beckons me into an empty carriage, raising an eyebrow at my hesitance.

"You didn’t think she’d come for you in person, did you?" he sneers, as I trip over my feet attempting to get in. “You’ll have plenty of time to be frightened of her at the castle," he adds with a snort, spurring the horses forward before I've had a chance to sit down. 

 After the initial jarring introduction to carriage travel, a heavy sense of disappointment spreads through me. I lean my head on the window, watching the endless greenery streak by. The box-like carriage is making me feel like some sort of caged bird, and before long I drop off to sleep.

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part 4

You stay absolutely still until you can’t see him anymore, and even then you wait until the sound of his footsteps fades into the distance.

You could leave. You could, right now, probably open a window somewhere and take off into the night, and while the promise of freedom is incredibly tempting, common sense says stay. This is your last chance, it reasons with you. If you leave, if you get caught, you’ll be culled. They won’t care to deal with you anymore. Running away is a sure death sentence.

He didn’t hit you. You don’t know why, but you are sure that if you had attacked him he wouldn’t have had even a second thought. Maybe the shortest path to freedom is through calculated obedience.

It’s not really giving in, you reassure yourself as you finally get to rinse a week’s worth of crustiness off your face. Resisting will only result in them trying to crush you harder. Perhaps you can find a freedom within your slavery.

You go back to the room they’ve been keeping you in, not knowing where else to go, and collapse onto the cot. It seems you don’t have time for daymares before it’s evening again and there’s an insistent rapping at your door.

The yellow-blooded troll doesn’t knock again. Your legs are already  over the edge of the bed when the door slams into the adjacent wall, shocking you to your feet. 

He has curly cue horns and towers over you, all bulging muscles and a tight set jaw. When he speaks, though, his voice is clear and intelligent. “You will be doing basic cleaning, mostly in the culinary block, and possibly some sopor slime replacement."

"You must be Varrek," you deduce as he ushers you down the hall. 

"That’s correct," he responds in a tone that chides you for stating the obvious. Not that that stops him continuing on. “I run things around here. The Orphaner is a busy man and rarely has the time to oversee the finer details of his hivehold. Normally any punishment for wrongdoings would be dealt by me," and he here he turns to you, looking you sharply in the eye. “But you are a special case. Insurrection will get you sent straight to him. You’d do well to remember we have more than one pair of psionicuffs here."

And before you can respond to his dual threat and word of advice, he’s passed you off to another, much more silent, slave.

You’re left alone with a bucket (eugh) of soapy water and a washcloth and the command to “be done in time for evening meal." With a sigh, you get to work, letting your mind drift to places without chains. 

[neveredited]

part 3

You don’t go after her right away. Instead, your eye follows the sway of her hips as she storms away from you, and your mind wanders to the first and only other time you’d met her. 

—

Vriska insisted he come, and while he’d grumbled and protested endlessly, he quietly thought some time spent showing off his spade would be good for their relationship. He lets the spider troll lead him into the depths of the (tasteless, low class, landdweller) restaurant, where Aradia and Tavros are already sitting at a table. They’re scribbling on a kids menu, giggling about something and generally being disgustingly sappy palemates. Vriska grins a predatory grin and draws Tavros into a web of conversation immediately, leaving Eridan staring down over his glasses at Aradia. If this is some sort of weird triple date (pale for the lowbloods, black for him and Vriska, red for Vriska and Tavros) where does that leave him and her?

She gives him one quick glance over and dismisses him, goes back to her drawing. He puffs up, demands her attention, and she reluctantly gives it to him in the form of tic tac toe games played on napkins. She wins every one.

He knows he ought to pay Vriska attention, and she will likely get on his ass for it later (as if she’s paying him any, the filthy hypocrite), but he can’t seem to take his eyes off the girl in red, the way her eyes narrow when she’s deciding her next move, the way she pushes that same strand of hair out her eyes and looks smugly up at him once it’s made.  How she puts her elbows on the table with no regard for what anyone thinks, and most of all how she doesn’t seem to pay you any inherent respect for being a seadweller.

—

You snap back to the present. If anyone saw her blatant defiance you’re in a deep crock of shit, but appearances are everything, so you straighten your collar smartly and walk briskly down the hall after her. 

Your hand clamps onto her shoulder, and she goes limp, face carefully blank. She expects you to hit her, and you are fully prepared to, teeth gritted and fist curled. It’s happened so many times before that she knows how to keep silent no matter what you subject her to. You are not a troll at this moment, just something used to bring her pain.

You draw back your hand to deliver a blow when you notice her own hand, curled up, nails digging into her palm. A crack in her callous mask. It shows she is indeed breaking, you tell yourself, that’s the reason you stop before you go through with it. There is no jolt of pity in your stomach, no hesitance in your motions. Perhaps if you tell yourself that enough times, it will become a little less false.

"You’ll report to Vvarrek tomorroww. You’ll do wwhatevver he tells you to and you’ll do it wwithout complaint." 

You leave her in the hall without a glance back. If she chooses to make her way to an ablution chamber and gets herself cleaned up, what is it to you?

[neveredited]

part 2

You’re not meant to be caged like this. You could never so much as sit still for school feeding when there were places to explore waiting for you outside, so how can you stand to have your every move, your every meal (or lack thereof), your every breath dictated to you?

He’d stormed off, wiping his face angrily, spitting orders to get you out of his sight. You were dragged off, locked into a plain room that was only marginally better than a dungeon cell. The manacles buzz on your wrists, filling your pan with static and making it hard to focus on anything. 

A week later and you haven’t seen him, haven’t had these damn cuffs taken off. Someone comes in to bring you food twice a day, but with your arms essentially out of the commission the best you can do is awkwardly stick your face in the mush and hope some of it gets down your throat, instead of caked on your face and in your hair.

You know who he is, of course. Everyone does nowadays. Eridan. The name rings a bell, but concentrating through the static in your head to figure out why is a task beyond you. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s the highblood tasked with breaking you and you intend to show him nothing but disdain and a blank face no matter who he is. You will not be broken.

A silhouette appears in the doorway, and you assume it’s the same brown blood who’s been feeding you until you spot the curve of a cape collar. Your face twists into a snarl as he approaches, but he doesn’t falter. 

"Ara," he says clearly, voice ringing through the usually silent room. Why does he know your name? “I’m goin’ to take your handcuffs off. And you’re not goin’ to attack me. Is that understood?" 

You don’t say anything, merely shake your wrists at him.

The moment you’re free your hands light up white, psionics obviously ready to use. He flinches, stumbles back, fumbles for the portable mental prison he’s just freed you from. You scowl at him, grab the manacles and smash them on the floor. 

"I am not," you hiss in his ear, “a monster who exists only to oppose you. I am not an animal, and I am not a toy to played around with." You take your leave of the room, and though your clothes are threadbare and your hair is a disaster, you hold your chin up like a lady.

With the clarity of mind afforded you, you remember who he is. Vriska’s old blackmate. And to you, still nothing.

[neveredited]

part 1

When they throw her at your feet she is no more than a mass of knotted hair with thin elbows that jab out and cut the air. She shivers visibly, a result of custom manacles that shoot jolts of electricity through her. The frequency is just right to disrupt her psionics, ensuring she won’t escape.

Your gaze doesn’t linger on her long, though. She is just a slave, a tool, and you are much more interested in why she’s being brought to your hivehold instead of put to work for the Empire at large.

She’s a nuisance, her escort explains. They’ve tried for well over a sweep now, but she refuses to break. She’s powerful enough to be hard to control, but not enough to take over her mind by plugging her into a ship. They could cull her, he mentions casually, as if she’s not right there listening to every word you say, but they don’t want to lose a valuable source of power.  

This catches your interest. You look at her with new perspective, tempted to kneel down and look her in the eyes, see if there’s any of the fire there went out of your slaves long ago. 

"Wwhy are you bringin’ her to me?" you question. 

The escort, a blue blood who looks like he’s never been hungry a day in his life, doesn’t have an answer for you more eloquent than a shrug. “Someone important must’ve heard you’re good at breaking ‘em." A test, then, of your strength, your ruthlessness, your ability to be an Orphaner. You dismiss the blue blood, directing someone to take him to a spare room. You want to deal with the girl yourself.

You’ve been expecting something like this. Eridan Ampora, ten sweeps old (a veritable baby for one with such a long lifespan), the youngest Orphanerin thousands of sweeps. A violet blood of considerable stature, willing to pledge unconditional loyalty without a second thought, you were an obvious pick for the position at Registration Day. But once you entered training with the scores of other violet bloods it was clear you barely needed it. The title was meant for you, you superiors said. You don’t even have an eight letter epitaph yet, but your name is on everyone’s lips. It’s no wonder the Empress wants to test your worth. 

No sense in stalling. You tower over the huddled figure on the floor. Kneeling down to her level is not acceptable, and while the room seems empty you know there are eyes on you. There are always eyes on you. You grab a rough hold of her chin and she tries to jerk her head away, but you only hold tighter and force her to look you in the eyes. She glares at you and you freeze. Your eyes wander to her horns, and even if you’ve only ever met her once before there’s no mistaking their curve. 

Aradia Megido spits in your face.  

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I told myself I’d write a thing in 45min and this is what I got

it needs editing and finishing and probably got too long

--

We used to walk home together every day. My mother insisted there was safety in numbers, though I doubted anyone would think twice about attacking two scrawny third graders instead of one. We didn’t have anything to say to each other, and the greater part of a year was spent walking in silence. 

It was a misty February morning when my step was accompanied by a loud crunch. I  looked down to find the shattered remains of a snail shell, my nose wrinkling in disgust at the mucus now smeared on the bottom of my shoe. Rose, meanwhile, had dropped to her knees, staring intently at the mess on the sidewalk. 

"We’re going to give it a burial," she said, the first words she’d directed my way beyond perfunctory daily greetings. I began to protest (we’d be late, it’s just a snail, it’s kind of gross) but even before I opened my mouth I knew it was hopeless. 

We dug a small hole and said a few words, borrowed mostly from television programs, and from then on we were inseperable. We didn’t talk much more than before, and when we did it was never small talk. She always seemed to know so much, and if you could get her going out would rush colorful stories, peopled with characters so real I could almost feel them walking next to us. She spoke quietly, but with a spark in her eyes that was absent any other time. I could almost believe the stories were real.

Then she stopped meeting me. I waited for near an hour after school, reassuring myself that she’d just had some mundane task to finish and we’d be chattering away in no time.

I walked alone, and when I asked the next morning she shrugged and gave me empty excuses. It was no big deal, I told myself, and we continued to walk together in the morning. Her stories got… darker. Murder and lies and secrets started to pervade them, so that I would get a chill on even a balmy day. I told her she should consider publishing, but her rejection was point blank and she refused to explain why.

It’s been a month, and today I made up my mind. I follow her. I know what her last class is; she ismy best friend. She takes the side gate, and furtive glance she casts nearly catches me; I disappear around the corner of a building just in time. 

I only manage to follow her because she’s not truly expecting anyone to. The lanes get thinner and more crooked, more removed from the heart of our little town until we come to—

I rub my eyes. Surely I didn’t see her turn here? The cemetery gates stare back at me, solidly verifying their presence. I step closer, peering without entering, trying to catch a glimpse of Rose. 

She sits cross-legged in front of a gravestone,