This is my writing blog, as the name states. I had to make it because my writing (scarce as it is) was getting buried under various chaos or a solid mountain of Destiel. My writing is going to be anything from fics to random thoughts I had at 1am.
I am open to constructive criticisms and sfw prompts!
DNI if you are: excluionist, racist, antisemitic, transphobic, transmed / truscum, homophobic / any lgbt+ phobic, pedophile (NOMAP, MAP, or whatever you call yourself), Gender Critical / TERF, misogynist, support Trump, albiest, hate any religion, “Q-slur” or “Queer is a slur”
If your plot feels flat, STUDY it! Your story might be lacking...
Stakes - What would happen if the protagonist failed? Would it really be such a bad thing if it happened?
Thematic relevance - Do the events of the story speak to a greater emotional or moral message? Is the conflict resolved in a way that befits the theme?
Urgency - How much time does the protagonist have to complete their goal? Are there multiple factors complicating the situation?
Drive - What motivates the protagonist? Are they an active player in the story, or are they repeatedly getting pushed around by external forces? Could you swap them out for a different character with no impact on the plot? On the flip side, do the other characters have sensible motivations of their own?
Yield - Is there foreshadowing? Do the protagonist's choices have unforeseen consequences down the road? Do they use knowledge or clues from the beginning, to help them in the end? Do they learn things about the other characters that weren't immediately obvious?
THAT FIRST SITE IS EVERY WRITER’S DREAM DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I’VE TRIED WRITING SOMETHING AND THOUGHT GOD DAMN IS THERE A SPECIFIC WORD FOR WHAT I’M USING TWO SENTENCES TO DESCRIBE AND JUST GETTING A BUNCH OF SHIT GOOGLE RESULTS
How to Break John Winchester’s Nose: A fangirl’s guide Chapter 2
Okay it’s been a long while and this is really short but this is what I have to offer:
- 10:12 AM, June 4, 1996, On the Road –
Clara stared out the window. This was the third time she was seeing this stretch of road in two days. She turned to the Winchester patriarch.
“Where are we going, exactly?”
“Sioux Falls.”
“South Dakota? Why?” she asked, despite knowing exactly why.
“To see an old friend and to pick up my boys.”
“Boys? You have kids? And why do we need to visit someone?” she feigned surprise.
“I’ve got two boys, one about two years younger than you, one two years older. They’re staying with the friend, who can help set you up in this time, something I don’t think he thought he’d be doin’.”
Clara absorbed this info, and then, a slight smile gracing her face in anticipation of hearing some all-too-familiar names, asked, “What are their names?”
“The boys are Sam and Dean, the friend is Bobby.”
“What did you say your job was again?”
“Christ, kid, how many questions do you have?”
“Sor-ry, is curiosity about the guy who I’m stuck with illegal?
John sighed. “No, just annoying. I work in… pest control.”
Clara stopped herself from snorting, but it was a close thing.
- 9: 46 PM, June 5, 1996, Sioux Falls, South Dakota –
Bobby Singer was having a drink before bed, having spent the day manning the phones and researching a monster for a couple of hunters in Maine. Given his life’s particular brand of weird, he figured nothing could surprise him anymore. So when the doorbell rang that night, he figured it was the boys coming back from the movies. Instead, he found John Winchester with a broken nose accompanied by a teenage girl with a leather jacket. He blinked.
“You just gonna stand in front of the door all night or are you gonna let us in?”
“Charming as ever, Winchester,” replied Bobby, moving out of the way.
The girl, meanwhile, had been gaping at Bobby like he was an alien from the moment he opened the door.
“What, do I got something on my face?”
“Wa- oh, no, sorry. You just.. remind me of someone.”
Bobby squinted, then, accepting the response, grunted and moved on.
“So,” said Bobby, heading into the kitchen to get a beer, “who’s the kid?”
“She’s-” started John.
“Capable of answering for herself. Clara, pleased to meet you,” she extended a hand.
“Bobby Singer,” he said, shaking said hand.
The thunk of a duffel full of heavy equipment hitting the ground brought the attention back to John, who proceeded to drop himself into a chair.
“You got any food?” asked John.
“Yeah, in the kitchen. Get it yourself, you idjit.”
John groaned, standing back up to go get food. Bobby made his way back to his desk, clearing away the occult objects, assuming that until he could clarify with John whether or not the kid knew, it would be safer to not expose her.
John stomped back into the room, dropping a plate of toast and jerky in front of Clara and settling down to eat his own. Clara stared at the food for a hot second, wishing for a moment she was back in 2020 with an actual hot meal. She shook her head and grabbed the toast, swearing to herself that the moment John was gone she was gonna cook some real food.
“Stho,” she started, mouth full, “vhere are your thons?”
“That’s an excellent question. Where are Sam and Dean?” inquired John.
“They’re… at the movies,” Bobby’s hesitance was a brilliant move, seeing as John would take it as though Bobby was covering hunting-related activities from Clara, when in fact he was telling the truth.
“When will they be back?”
“Should be soon. Now shut your mouth and eat your food.” Bobby left the room before anyone could point out the fact that you needed to open your mouth to get to the food.
Clara and John proceeded to demolish the food, hungry after a day on the road. It was at this time that Clara remembered how tired she was, having been on edge all day.
“Uh, where am I gonna sleep?”
John stared at her for a long moment, having clearly forgotten about sleeping arrangements.
“You can sleep on the ground?” he offered.
“Oh, so the options are ground or couch. Here, what about we thumb wrestle for the couch?”
John mulled it over, and, figuring he would win, agreed. Clara set down the plate and extended her hand, which John clasped. Bobby chose this time to reenter the room.
“What are you two idjits doing?” he wondered aloud.
“Hmm? Oh, thumb wrestling for the couch.” Clara replied, keeping her thumb carefully upright.
Bobby chose not to question it.
John’s thumb inched forward, attempting to hook the first joint around Clara’s thumb. She allowed him to touch the top of it before sliding her thumb out from under it and sweeping it back around to try and pin his. This back and forth continued for a good solid 10 minutes, with both of them getting more and more invested in winning as it went on. The rumble of an engine slowly grew louder, but neither noticed. Not even the door slamming open broke their concentration.
proofreading my own writing like wow. u sure do love those commas, buddy. what if u tried to cool it with all those commas, pal. all those run-ons, friend. why don’t you tone it down, my guy
Alrighty! I would have posted this sooner but no good very bad internet. I wrote this at 1 am (literally) so let’s see if it’s as good as I thought it was.
Logan hated being surprised. He hated being wrong, he hated not knowing what came next. So, naturally, when Roman suggested that he surprise Patton with a date for their anniversary, he objected. But after thinking on it for a bit, Logan realized the idea was perfect. Patton loved surprises, and since Logan was the one surprising Patton, he would actually know what the plan was.
He enlisted their friends to assist him in the endeavor. Roman was charged with finding decent decorations. Janus was called up for advice on what wine was most suitable. Virgil procured some beautiful candles of suspicious origin. Remus… well, Logan had been hesitant to enlist Remus, but they were the only one available that day to keep Patton occupied while Logan set things up.
Then finally the big day came. Logan woke up that morning filled with confidence about the date. He went about his morning routine, giving Patton a kiss goodbye. He didn’t notice the way Patton kept asking if there was something happening today. He missed how Patton wrung his hands as Logan left the apartment.
Logan had already taken the day off, so instead of going to work he drove over to Roman’s house to wait until Remus gave the “all clear” signal and to pick up all the stuff. They had barely loaded the car when Logan’s phone dinged with a text from Remus.
Mustachio Green: Oi dork ive got ur hubby were going to the mall!
Mustachio Green: Tell roman im gonna buy him a skull
Whale Penis: Thank you for cooperating with the plan. Please keep Patton occupied until 5:00 pm EST.
Logan put his phone away and looked up. Roman quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Remus is taking him to the mall. They said to tell you that they were going to buy you a skull,” he said in response to the unasked question.
“Where would they even- Never mind. Good luck! Are you sure you don’t want me to help set up?”
“I’m sure,” Logan replied, fully aware that Roman would manage to procure streamers if allowed to help.
At 4:39 pm, the apartment had been transformed into something out of a fairytale. There were soft fairy lights along the walls, a cream banner with “Happy Anniversary” written in gold on it in the living room, a vase of blue flowers on every counter, a soft blue tablecloth on a round table in the middle of the living room, and a gift in the bedroom. Logan had managed to make a veritable feast, which included his famous Crofters cookies. Now he waited.
Patton had woken that morning filled with anticipation. It was their 5 year anniversary! They were gonna spend the day together, and it was gonna be amazing! But Logan hadn’t even acknowledged the date. He had simply gotten up, eaten, and left. Did he not remember? Did he not care? Should Patton have said something about it? He didn’t know what to think. Before he could delve too deep into the issue, the doorbell rang. Logan had come back! He remembered! But when Patton opened the door he found Remus, not Logan, standing outside. Before he could say a word, Remus had shoved their way into the apartment.
“Hey there Padre! I was a bit bored and I know you have the day off, so how bout we go chill at the mall? Food’s on me. And by that I mean it’s on Roman. I stole his card. Anyway, come on!” And with that Remus was heading back out the door, grabbing Patton on their way.
“Hold on for a second! I need my shoes! And my wallet! And also probably my keys,” Patton didn’t bother trying to object, knowing all too well that that wouldn’t deter Remus in the slightest.
Several hours later found Patton with several more dresses and a lot less money. He really should stop himself from going to the mall. He sighed, setting down a bag to unlock the door. When it swung open, he thought for a moment that he had gotten the wrong door somehow. That’s when Logan stepped out of the kitchen holding a plate full of cookies. Patton’s jaw dropped.
Logan only took a moment to notice Patton standing in the doorway.
“You’re back! I believe this is where I say ‘surprise’,” Logan said nervously.
“You- You didn’t forget?”
“Of course not! Darling, how could I possibly forget our anniversary? Perhaps my acting skills are not as bad as Roman has led me to believe.”
Patton finally walked into the apartment, still processing the turn of events.
“Oh, just leave those there. Here, sit,” Logan pulled out a chair.
Patton sat, eyes on the fairy lights.
“How long did this take you?”
“Not too long. Give me a minute to go grab the drinks,” Logan dropped a kiss on Patton’s cheek as he headed back towards the kitchen.
Logan returned bearing some fancy wine, the name of which neither of them could pronounce, and from there, it was smooth sailing. The food was almost gone when Logan got nervous again.
“Lo? You okay?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I am merely nervous about whether or not you will like the gift I got you,” he adjusted his glasses.
“Lo, you shouldn’t have! You already went to all this trouble cooking and decorating, but a gift too?”
“It wasn’t any trouble. Would you like to see it?” Logan’s calm tone hid his anxiety well.
“Of course! I would love to see what you got me! I wish I got you something though,” Patton’s tone turned sheepish.
“Your presence is already enough. Come on, it’s in the bedroom.” With that, Logan pushed his chair back and headed down the hall.
Patton followed, equal parts excitement and nerves. Logan stopped in front of the bedroom door.
“I hope you like her,” he opened the door, leaving no time for Patton the speculate.
The moment the door was open, a small brown blur shot past the both of them towards the living room. Both of them gave chase, with Logan yelling at it to “get back here this instant”. Patton stopped the moment he got a good look at it.
“Is that a- is that a puppy?” his voice took on a higher pitch with each note.
“Er- yes, a 6 week old Labrador Retriever to be exact.”
Patton squealed. He’d never seen anything cuter in his life.
“Hey there little one. Come see Papa,” he cooed.
“Her name is Harriet, but there’s still plenty of time to change it, according to the breeder.”
“Harriet? Doesn’t really suit her,” Patton paused, then turned his attention to the puppy, “I think we’ll name you after a dear friend of ours. What do you think of Princess?”
As if on cue, the puppy clambered onto Patton’s lap.
“What? No. We are not naming her after Roman. Absolutely not. Besides, Princess is hardly a go-“ Logan stopped, realizing the puppy, no, Princess, had looked up when he said the name.
“She seems to like it!”
Logan sighed, resigning himself to his fate. He sat down on the ground next to Patton and Princess, smiling at Patton’s attempts to get Princess to lie down.
“Roman’s never going to let us hear the end of it.”
“No, he’s never gonna let you hear the end of it.”
How to Break John Winchester’s Nose: A fangirl’s guide
This was on my main, but I’m moving it here.
- 7:36 PM, May 14, 2020, Pocatello, Idaho -
The road was empty. Nothing moved. Not even a breeze stirred the trees. As she watched, a speck rounded the corner. She narrowed her eyes. That was her mark. Time to go.
The girl was tired, angry, and cold. She had been walking for hours, headed north toward Chubbuck. She had no true destination, just the need to get away. “Go for a walk,” they said. She’d been on more walks in the past couple of months than she had for the past year. She was bored of walks, and just wanted to go home. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t have a home, not really. She was so lost in thought that she did not notice the wind pick up. Dead leaves, grass, and dandelion fluff whipped around her. It was only when a stick hit her arm that she looked up to see the vortex forming around her.
“What the fu-” her words were cut off by a high pitched noise. A second later she was gone, and there was no trace that she had ever been there.
- 9:52 PM, June 3, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –
John Winchester was headed out of town, eager to return to Sioux Falls to retrieve his boys. The day had been a long one, and he hadn’t had much incentive to sticking around town. The dark of the night settled around his truck, and he relaxed slightly in the driver’s seat. Plenty of open road awaited him, and the drive would take a couple of days, allowing him a couple of stops at bars, and the possibility of some company for a night. He put on some music and allowed his mind to wander.
A half hour or so later, the ferocity of the wind brought him back. The wind was going crazy, seemingly forming a vortex. Immediately, all traces of relaxation disappeared from John Winchester. He slammed the brakes to avoid the funnel, grabbed his gun, and reached for the door.
The wind stopped. Leaves and sticks fell to the ground. In the center of it all stood a girl, looking to be somewhere around the age of fifteen. She was wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and a t-shirt and scarf. She spun on her heel, absorbing her surroundings. She stopped when her eyes landed on the truck. John took this as his cue to exit said truck, gun hidden beneath his jacket.
“Hey there,” he said, not wanting to startle her.
“Hel-” she froze, getting her first good look at him. She sucked a breath in. John hesitated, weighing his next move. Before he came to a decision, a fist connected with his nose. He reeled back, cursing, and pressed a hand to his bleeding nose. Barely giving him a second to process the fact that the punch had been thrown with good technique and with a surprising amount of power, she followed it up with a sidekick. John dodged out of the way and fumbled for his gun. He had barely managed to pull it free when the side of the girl’s foot connected with it, sending the gun flying toward the side of the road. Her foot finished its arc, landing behind her in a fighting stance, only to spring off immediately to round kick him in the head. He blocked it and returned fire with a right hook, which she blocked. He followed the right hook with an uppercut, which she didn’t block. A rush of air left her. John didn’t give her time to recover, using the precious few seconds he had to grab the silver knife from his jacket and slash at her face. She responded quickly, but not quick enough, allowing the knife to slash across her arm. She grimaced at the cut, but didn’t display a worse reaction, which threw John for a loop. Given her mysterious appearance in the middle of the road, the way she had seemed to recognize him, and the immediate, well-coordinated attack, he had expected her to be, well, not human. Still, silver didn’t rule everything out.
The girl, meanwhile, had retreated to John’s truck and was clutching her injured arm, hissing. She looked up at John warily, evidently expecting an attack. His next actions surprised both him and her. He strode over and held out his hand.
“The name’s John Winchester. Can I get the name of the chick that just broke my nose?”
The girl hesitated. She didn’t particularly trust John, but the mere fact that he existed… what harm could telling him her name do anyway?
“Clara. I’d apologize for the broken nose but it’d be a lie.”
“OK, Clara, you wanna let me take a look at that arm?”
“You’re the one who cut it, why should I let you anywhere near it?”
“I’ve got a med kit?”
“….Fine.”
John went around the truck to grab the med kit from the trunk, and also to avoid having the kid see the weapons in the back. A few minutes saw the kid’s arm cleaned and bandaged.
“Well, I can’t leave you out here. Get in, I’ll take you home.”
She snorted. “Home? Yeah, good luck with that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Best to just show you,” she said, climbing into the truck, leaving John to get to the driver’s seat.
“Where to?”
“Hmmm? Oh, right,” she paused. “Pocatello, Idaho.”
John simply nodded and drove, leaving the questioning for later.
- 11:38 PM, June 3, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –
Clara had spent the last hour or so having her entire world turned on its head. She had been kidnapped by a cyclone (of all the clichés!), found by John Winchester, cut by John Winchester, treated by John Winchester, and driven by John Winchester. She’d broken his (John Winchester’s!) nose. She couldn’t stop running his name through her head on repeat, a fair reaction given that an hour ago the man had been a fictional character. She had no regrets about her initial reaction, as she felt wholeheartedly that the man deserved a broken nose, hell, she thought he deserved worse. He was a shitty father, not that great of a husband, and a terrible person in general. She did have some lingering doubts about letting him drive her anywhere. In the end, she figured, she could explain some of the truth, seeing as she likely didn’t legally exist in this universe yet.
She played with the ends of her scarf, nervous about his reaction. A sudden thought hit her, and she immediately zipped up her jacket to hide the Supernatural t-shirt she had on underneath, and tried to subtly rearrange her scarf to hide the slightly modified anti-possession symbols on the ends and the large, all caps “WINCHESTER BROTHERS” on it. John took notice and cranked the heat up.
“Cold?”
“Not anymore. Could we get some tunes?”
John reached behind them and grabbed a cassette tape at random, sliding it in. Zep’s Immigrant Song hit them at full volume, and Clara smirked, thinking of Thor: Ragnorak. The smirk disappeared a second later, when she realized that the MCU had yet to be introduced, much less developed to the point of Ragnorak. She felt slightly faint.
“You okay there?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Perfectly fine. A bit thirsty.”
John took the opportunity to hand her the holy water, a move she had anticipated. She took a sip.
“Tastes a bit odd. Is it from some well in the middle of nowhere?” She drank some more.
John had been watching her reaction closely, and was a tad bit startled.
“N-No, just a motel.”
He handed her a generously salted sandwich.
“Here, you must be hungry.”
She took a large bite of it, then paused.
“Thoo much thalt,” she stated, mouth full. Swallowing the mouthful, she continued, “not enough meat.”
“You’re human,” John blurted, surprised.
“Well yeah, what’d you expect, three rats in a trench?”
John forced a laugh.
“You never know. So, mind telling me why you broke my nose before you even finished sayin’ hello?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I find myself on a lonely stretch of road in the dark, alone but for a large black truck and a big guy, who judging by his stance, is ex-military, Marine if I had to guess, who is tense, likely trigger happy, and armed, going off of the glint of metal from his belt and the lump in his jacket, so logically, I get him before he can get me. You wouldn’t have been the first guy to jump me, and I learned my lesson pretty quickly after the first two times.”
John’s mouth was hanging open, something Clara found quite amusing. Her explanation, of course, wasn’t the truth. Well, not the whole truth anyhow. She had been jumped before, and it was distinctly not pleasant. She knew he was an ex-Marine, not from his stance, but from knowledge brought from a totally different universe, from what she could guess.
“I-I wasn’t going to attack you!” he said defensively.
“Sure. Better safe than sorry though.”
As she said that, the black truck rumbled to a stop in front of a no-tell motel. John got out, then turned around and asked, “ya comin’ or what, kid?”
Clara slid out of the truck, dropping to the ground.
“Why, and I cannot emphasize this enough, the actual fuck is this thing so high up?”
“To make you complain. Hurry up, it actually is cold out here.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched into the lobby.
The poor kid at the desk was awoken by John Winchester’s fist pounding the desk. They got one room, two queens.
The moment Clara’s head hit the pillows she was out. Or so John assumed. She watched through mostly shut eyes as he methodically checked and cleaned his gun, then salted above the door and the windows. He finally crashed an hour after she’d “gone to sleep”. She waited another half hour, then allowed the darkness to drag her away from the land of the living.
- 6:43 AM, June 4, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –
John Winchester awoke to the smell of coffee and bagels, and the sounds of an unfamiliar person moving about his room. Keeping his eyes shut, he inched his hand under his pillow, reaching for the familiar weight of his gun.
And found nothing.
A voice cut through the slight panic in his mind.
“Looking for this?”
John opened his eyes to see a fifteen year old girl standing above him, holding his gun. The events of the previous night came rushing back. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and sat up, reaching out a hand to take the gun back. She set it in his palm, reached behind herself, and presented a cup of coffee.
“No idea how you take it, but I figured you might need some if we were gonna get an early start.”
“Two things: I take it with two creams, no sugar, and how’d you pay for this?”
“Noted, and I borrowed some money from your wallet. Drink up, I got you a bagel, you can eat it on the way.”
“…On the way to what exactly?”
“To show you that I don’t exist yet, genius.”
John had yet to drink the coffee, and thus did not really process her words or the fact that he was being bossed around by a teenaged girl.
Twenty minutes saw John caffeinated, fed, and in the truck on the way to Clara’s high school to get at the student records. It was at this point that he remembered her nonsensical statement.
“What the hell do you mean you don’t exist yet?”
“Oh. Um. Right. So while I was out this morning, I grabbed the paper. The date’s the 4th of June, 1996.”
“Yeah, and?”
She sucked in a breath. “And I was born February 3, 2005.”
Silence.
“Come again?”
“I was born Feb-”
“No, I heard you. I just don’t see how that’s possible.”
“Hey, I assume you saw that cyclone. It pulled me out of May 2020, on the road out of Pocatello.”
“And you aren’t freaking out why, exactly?”
“I watch a very weird tv show.”
“So we’re going to your high school why?”
“To show you I’m not on the records. But you’ll likely find Daddy Dearest on there.” The way she said “Daddy Dearest” was full of bitterness and loathing. John stored that away for later.
“Right.”
They spent the rest of the ride in silence. Upon arriving at the school, both of them slipped seamlessly into their roles. John, a tired single father, and Clara, his smart but shy daughter. The principal let them into her office, asking them a multitude of questions regarding their supposed move, Clara’s previous education, John’s job, their home situation, Clara’s fictional deceased mother. Fortunately for them, they both had plenty of experience lying on their toes. The moment the principal left to deal with a fight that Clara had set up on her way in by stealing one kid’s lunch and putting it in another kid’s bag, they were out of their seats, searching for the records. Clara started rifling through the drawers, while John seated himself in front of the computer. Four minutes later, John was clicking through student records and Clara was standing behind him.
“No Claras in here.”
“Probably because that’s a fake name. Try Rachel Fusson.”
“No Rachels, but there are a whole slew of Fussons. Currently enrolled are Owen and Daniel.”
“Owen’s the old man.”
Footsteps told of the principal’s approach. John quickly exited the file and shut the computer down, while Clara scrambled to close all the cabinets. They both slid into their seats a moment before she opened the door and attempted to look innocent. The principal apologized for the interruption and continued her interrogation. It took them half an hour to escape her clutches.
- 8:36 AM, June 4, 1996, Pocatello, Idaho –
Clara had woken that morning drenched in a cold sweat. Upon realizing that there was no immediate danger, she had relaxed and turned to the clock. 4:22 AM. The fuck was she supposed to do at 4 AM? She glanced to her right and saw another occupied bed. John Winchester. Right. She was no longer in the middle of a global pandemic, nor was she anywhere close to her home universe. She wasn’t terribly upset about being pulled out of a world where she couldn’t hug her friends, or even really see them. She also wasn’t terribly upset about being yanked away from her relatives, seeing as they were fairly dedicated to beating her down in every way possible. They had belittled her, toyed with her emotions, and, depending on the “transgression”, beat her. She did, however, miss her friends, her pets, and her girlfriend. Fuck. What would they think had happened? A snore jolted her out of her thoughts.
“Focus,” she hissed to herself.
First order of business: coffee and food. She got up, putting 15 years of sneaking into use to grab John’s wallet, his gun, and her shoes. She slipped out the front door and went in search of a coffee shop. Half an hour of wandering brought her to a hole-in-the-wall run by a guy wearing more layers than a Winchester and sporting a mustache the size of Texas. She bought two cups of coffee, two bagels, and the paper. She grabbed a couple of cups cream and some sugar for John, and headed back to the motel. She’d downed half her coffee and most of her bagel (and made her bed) when he started inching his hand toward his pillow in search of his gun. She made her way over to him.
Second order of business: get some food and coffee into John Winchester and then get him to the high school to show him the records and prove her case about being from 2020. She grinned at the panicked expression on the hunter’s face at finding no gun, holding up said gun and asking him if he was looking for it. Another half hour saw them safely arrived at the school, with John informed of her current predicament. Knowing they’d need a distraction, she put the shipper eyes to work, immediately spotting two boys with so much unresolved sexual tension between them that it’d turned to animosity from what she could see. She nabbed the taller one’s lunchbox, slipping it into the other one’s backpack. She hoped they’d get their heads out of their asses soon, but not soon enough to unravel her plan (everyone who said shipping was a waste of time and energy could suck it).
After the principal left, Clara sprung for the drawers, having no idea how to work the old computer (John really wasn’t much better). She scanned through the files, seeing detention slips, complaints, and write-ups, but no records.
“Hey.” John had found the records.
Forty-five minutes later, they were back at the motel.
“Okay, so lemme get this straight-” started John.
Clara snorted. “Good luck with that.”
John squinted, not getting it. He continued, “you were born in 2005, you came from the year 2020, and you can fight better than a lot of the “professionals” I know. Who the fuck are you, Clara? Or should I call you Rachel?”
“Let’s stick with Clara. I’m just a kid from Pocatello. I can fight, because, like I said, I’ve been jumped before. Once was enough, so I learned to fight so next time I wouldn’t be helpless. Why are you taking the time travel thing so well? You didn’t freak out, just questioned the hows and whys.”
“I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit, kid.” With that, he stood up and started packing the few things he’d unpacked the night before.
Clara sat and watched him, having nothing of her own to pack.
