It is a painful truth that actually none of my fics are abandoned, no, not even the ones that haven’t updated in five years. I still know exactly what happens next, and after that, and so on. They’re not abandoned; they’re right here, haunting me, characters climbing up my pants like kittens nagging for dinner.
everyone go enable this immediately. it can be a bit hard to find because “visibility” is under blog settings instead of general settings or privacy. you have to do this individually for each separate side-blog
if you can’t find it on the app then the update probably hasn’t rolled out to you, and you’ll have to go through the web browser. what a truly wild way/time to implement this
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a fifth-year student.
Term begins on 1 September.
Preliminary supplies have been collected for you and will accompany you on your journey to the castle.
As you may be aware, the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery prohibits the use of magic by those under the age of seventeen outside school. However, due to your unique circumstances, the Ministry has graciously agreed to allow Professor Eleazar Fig to help hone your spell-casting before escorting you from London to the castle for the start-of-term feast and the Sorting Ceremony.
Yours sincerely,
Professor Weasley
Deputy Headmistress
---
What a surprise it was, the letter in her hand.
She was rather curious as to why the brown and white owl was following her all around the county of western Carmarthenshire. She merely thought the cute thing believed something of hers was prey. However, her assumption was refuted when she sat down beside the crumbled bricks of what was a wall for a quick rest.
The blue Welsh skies had shifted into the coloured warmth of the sunset when she finally decided to find a spot to settle in. She had just made it to the ruins of a castle that caught her wandering interest, spotting it a few hills back, set between lush greens, old trees, and shattered stones. And so she lay against the grass, nestled against the curve of ancient roots shrouded in moss.
It was a little too early in the afternoon to doze off and a little too exposed to set up a temporary camp. Instead, she let her mind wander, dream, and lightly touch on the days before her adventuring. She dreamt of seeing those odd creatures again and wondered about the blossoming hamlet close to the sea, relishing in the simple peace of the sleepy meadowlands. Then all too suddenly, her daydreams scattered.
Startled, she quickly sat up feeling something plopped onto her lap. It couldn’t have been a leaf, it was far larger than the tree could have dropped. She picked it up and to her utter bewilderment, saw it was a letter. Tan and square, it was sealed with a luscious red wax stamped with a decorative H and an emblem with four creatures printed delicately on the flap.
Peering closer at the letter, she could just make out the words and begin to sound them out loud, "Hogwarts… Draco dor- dormi-ens nunquam ti… ti-till-andus."
Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.
Never tickle a sleeping dragon.
She snorted, amused. Someone must've dropped this, she thought with a small smile. Or at least, it might've been stolen by the wind. She looked around the darkening grasslands in hopes of catching someone nearby who could have lost the missive, possibly a postman, but it was just her and nature's awakening nightlife.
A gentle hoot from above caught her attention. She looked up to see the brown and white plumage of her little companion sitting on a branch, with large yellow eyes gazing down at her. Oh, and it seems he's here too. Her smile grew wider, delighted to see the owl again.
"Well, hello sir, and good evening," She hummed lowly, to not scare him. Though he seemed comfortable, blinking slowly at her words. "It's very nice to see you again."
He blinked once more before turning his head and grooming his ruffled feathers.
She nods and turns back to the letter in your hands, "I'll leave you to it."
A thought popped into her head and she flipped the note around. She’s been a good deal around the isle and the hamlets aren't at all big. She’s sure she’ll recognize the address and give it to the person missing their mail, she thinks as she skims through the green-inked delivery address. Wait… she pauses, fumbling over the written name.
It took a while for her to process. She had to reread the recipient's name over and over again because written on the envelope was her name.
But it couldn’t possibly be… Her brows furrowed, a trickle of fear seeping into her chest and she quickly moved to open the letter.
No one should know her. At least no one alive should know her, much less her name. Her whole life she’s been significantly distanced from human civilization, a vagabond. She was sure that she’d never caught the attention of someone or introduced herself anytime recently. Unfortunately, the piece of paper proved her hermit-ing was not as good as she thought it was.
Unfolding the last section of the paper, she began to read and with each word, realizations and discoveries were made. Once the last word had been read, she let the letter slip from her fingers and flutter back to her lap. And there it was, the surprise in her hands apparently delivered by her friend up in the tree. What was even better was the pocket full of confusion that came with it.
She leaned her back against the tree and attempted to come to terms with the contents of the letter, fiddling with the rough bark of the roots and listening to the tittering of the owl above.
There was a school. A school of witchcraft and wizardry. It's called Hogwarts and she supposedly was enrolled to join. Now she’s accepted and a man by the name of Eleazar Fig will be helping her "hone her spell-crafting". She winced at her summary, finding it a tad unbelievable. How… far fetched.
She shakes her head, dismissing the school from her thoughts as best as she can and ignoring the bubbling curiosity that had begun to boil from within. She must stay focused on the more pressing matter of an institute knowing who she was. For her safety.
But, she confesses, she's never been to a proper school, having only ever seen them from a distance, but she knows her basics; reading, writing, and math. She thinks she’s rather decent at it.
And it's a rather strange name, maybe the witchcraft and wizardry part is a metaphor.
A sudden crack echoing from the side had her whipping her head around and leaping up from her seat. She turns towards the direction, tense and ready to run if need be, only to come face to face with an odd sight. There stood an old man dressed in odd blue robes lined with gold holding an unnaturally straight stick in one hand and a leather bag in the other.
She watched in fearful surprise as he stumbled a bit, barely catching his footing before straightening up. She squinted. How strange, he seemed to have just appeared out of nowhere! She quickly scanned the forest wondering where on earth he came from, as the man dusted his sleeves off with a pleased hum.
Though his back was facing her, she could see his contentment turn to displeasure as he let out a groan, his shoulders dropping. Shaking his head he turned around only to pause when he saw the figure behind him.
Once he seemed to, unfortunately, recognize who she was, the man's face lit up with relief, "Ah! There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you existed at all! Though I suppose a Welsh meadow is not exactly specific, it's very lovely to finally meet you. I am Professor Eleazar Fig."
She merely stayed silent, perplexed by a sudden appearance and social interaction being thrown right at you, like a skipping stone to a fish. A moment of quiet passed but the man didn't seem too fazed as he began to talk again.
"And I presume you are our new student?" Professor Fig asked, holding out a hand, a pleasant smile dawning on his face.
She tensed and eyed the man’s hand. With a hop of courage, she spoke, “Uh, no, sir…” You replied, darting her gaze to meet his, “Unfortunately I must inform you that there has been a mistake in your… system. I shouldn’t be going to your school or anyone’s school for that matter…”
That seemed to have baffled the man and Professor Fig let out a breathless laugh, “A mistake? I can assure you there have been no mistakes, as there can be no mistakes.” He then gestured to the letter, “May I?”
She nodded tersely and handed it over. He gently took it from her grasp and began to read while she took a step back farther from the stranger for a comforting distance.
“Ah see? No mistakes.” He smiled, finding what he needed from the paper, "Now, there are plenty of things to discuss and plenty of things to do." He adjusted his grip on the bag, "Is your guardian nearby?"
"But there must have been one, sir," she argued, ignoring the strange question. "A misspelling or- or the wrong address."
"I can assure you, young one, that the quill makes no errors," The man said kindly, a gentle look on his face, "And if so the book will not allow one to pass on to a letter."
Despite the calming voice of the stranger, it only made her more confused and a tad bit miffed. It was like he was speaking in tongues! Never straightforward, are all humans like this?
With furrowed brows, she grumbled, "What does a book and quill have to do with errors? I'm saying whoever is in charge made a mailing mistake and the letter was placed in the wrong hands. My hands. Now it is in yours and can be delivered to the right person."
She repressed the urge to roll her eyes, settling for flexing your hand. How irritating it was to have to spell it out.
"So, you are indeed not Miss (Y/n) (L/n), residing beside the castle ruins of Caldicot, Wales, beneath the great ash tree of 300 years pass?" The man inquired lightly, clasping his hands together in front of him.
She blinked, shifting her widened eyes to him. "Well, yes. That is me, but…"
He held up a hand and said, "I must apologize, I was under the impression you were aware of our world. Allow me to give a proper and appropriate introduction." Placing the bag down, he gave a crooked bow, "I am Eleazar Fig, a professor at Hogwarts, a school for wizardkind and magic alike and I have been tasked with mentoring you in preparation for your fifth year at Hogwarts."
"Wizardkind…?" She muttered, "You mean staffs and potions wizardkind?"
Professor Fig nodded with closed eyes, "Yes, though I must say the majority of us prefer the familiarity of the wand."
Ah, so it wasn't a metaphor.
He opened his eyes and soon after an earnest look replaced his calm, "And you, my child, are a witch."
She couldn't help the laugh of disbelief that burst from her lips, "Ha! No- no, I am no witch, but it certainly does give clarity to some mysteries I've seen flying about." She eyed the owl, who seemed to be closer than before.
"Well of course you are a witch. You see them don't you?" Professor Fig gestured to the ancient tree behind her.
Them? She narrowed her eyes at the man and turned around to face it, noting some strange little bugs that scampered about along the branches. Taking a closer look you see that they weren't bugs at all, but rather the sentient green sticks with a leaf or two upon their bodies she's seen before in another tree. Luckily, these seemed much more friendly than previous encounters were with the few who noticed her, curiously watching from afar.
"Strange little things aren't they? And quite cute," she hummed, turning back to Fig, "but I'm not sure what looking at them has to do with being a witch."
One particular creature dared to get closer, inching its way over to her with a tilted head. She copied the little leaf, tilting her head as it crept closer down the branch’s tip and up to her face.
From behind her, she hears Professor Fig speak up, "It has to do with everything, for muggles– non-magics– are unable to see magical beasts such as the bowtruckle, the creatures inhabiting that tree."
"Oh…" she mumbled, the bowtruckle reaching up a little twiggy arm and patting her cheek.
Satisfied with the encounter, it turned back around and climbed back up to its friends sitting higher up in the tree. In turn, she looked back towards Professor Fig who now held the bag once more.
“So, I am a witch… and you are here to tutor me.” she says, sceptically, “But why was I admitted so late as you and the letter have told quite prominently?”
Taking a deep breath, Professor Fig replied, “That, my dear, is a mystery of ours. Unfortunately, I have not been informed much, merely that I have been requested to help you assimilate, and even then, information on yourself was scarce.” He seemed hesitant to continue, but nevertheless asked, “… And I can assume it is just you?”
She nods. She hoped he wouldn’t ask any more questions. She didn’t want to explain things to a stranger.
But he just sighs and offers her a smile, “Come, there is much to teach and a whole new world of possibilities for you.”
Professor Fig offered out a hand for her to take and just as before she eyed it with distrust, but a part of her, that little voice of hope, was just enough for her to take it. With a warm hold, they walk together for a moment, just a little farther from the great ash tree as he takes out his wand, and with one swish, the two of them disappear from the ruins. Nothing but a whisper left.
The owl cocks his head, before spreading his grand wings, and with one giant beat, he lifts off. Gliding over the forest and into the night sky, he heads home, hoping to see the new student soon.
---
The summer had passed in what felt like moments and yet in forever. It was an extreme transition for her from wandering lonely, away from people to now temporarily living at Rotherly’s Hotel in London, a hotel for wizards and witches alike away from Muggles.
It was an amazing place and the rooms were grand filled with enchanted items, sweeping, washing, and folding themselves. But everything was grand to her as, apparently, this was common in the Wizarding world as Professor Fig had explained, amused.
Professor Fig was a great teacher, kind patient, and fun. He had no qualms about spending nearly most of the season explaining the workings of the Wizard world and how they lived. Some things sounded vaguely familiar to her, as she believed she might’ve seen a few examples from her travels. Unfortunately, her millions of questions left not much time for the actual schoolwork and she only has recently started to work with a wand.
Less than two months isn’t a lot of time to learn about a whole new magical world. But she did receive a second-hand wand at the beginning and it was quite a surprise when she felt it the moment she touched the handle. It was as if there was a presence within the wand, a being or something somewhat conscious. And, at best, it tolerated her.
Honestly, maybe that was the other reason why she was now starting to do wands work. Even at the moment, as she packed her spare items into a knapsack, she could feel the brown-wood wand wish ill on her person; to at least have you trip and hurt her leg. It was a very fussy piece of wood.
And of course, she hasn’t told Professor Fig, who now knocked on the room’s sturdy door. She didn’t want to trouble him over a bad relationship. Setting in the last item of clothing, she swings on the sack that would very soon become her bookbag and open the door with a smile to see her mentor.
“Good evening, a leanbh, are you set to go?” He greeted with a nod.
“Yes, Professor.” She said, fidgeting with her coat sleeves.
“Good, good! And how are you feeling?” Professor Fig asked as they began to walk down the lamp-lit hall. She was careful not to step too loudly on the noisy floor despite the thin decorated carpets that lined the steps.
Tilting her head, she considered how she felt at the moment and decided, “Feeling alright and a little tired, sir.”
He chuckled, “It is quite late. The carriage is just in the back alley with all of your school materials. Down this way.”
They made it to the stairs of the building and stumbled their way down the flights of steep steps. She was relieved once she made it to the first floor, certain she was going to roll her ankle at least once.
Once grounded, rather than turning left towards the lobby, Professor Fig led her out the backway on the right. It was even darker than the hall but half as long and soon they made it out into the brisk London night.
And there it was, a carriage piled with precariously stacked luggage and a familiar owl preening its feathers. But what truly caught her attention was the six dark, strange, bat-winged beasts that stood restlessly at the front of the carriage. They looked like skeletal equines, but their faces did not resemble those of a horse. Rather, it looked like a beaked reptilian adorned with two stubby horns. And they looked absolutely beautiful.
Professor Fig went to check on the luggage, greeting the coachman. And she, utterly enchanted, gently walked up to the beasts, keeping her posture low so as to not startle the gorgeous creatures, though they didn’t seem to mind her presence. A few turned their heads over to look at her, curious of the new person coming close and once they deemed her harmless, shook their heads, or stretched their wings.
“Amazing, innit?” A voice asked.
Startled out of her trance, she looked up towards the coachman who wore an odd pair of goggles and a grin.
“It’s a carriage pulled by nothing too most wizardkind. But I got these things to see what others can’t.” He seemed to gloat, gesturing to the goggles.
She furrowed her brows, confused as to what the man was talking about, and turned to face the creatures once more. Pulled by nothing? She couldn’t help but ask, “What do you mean?”
“Exactly!” And he burst into a fit of roaring laughter.
Even more confused and a tad bit worried for the man, she backed up from the driver’s seat and closer to Professor Fig, who came back from the luggage end with a smile.
“Ah! It appears we are almost ready to depart,” He informed you, walking over to where she was standing. “It’s a pity we didn’t have a bit more time to spend on spell-casting. I presume you’ve been practising the spells we worked on.”
Oh, yes, that. The reason for such annoyance. She only got to touch upon the most basic of basics and that was all that she could practice in the alleyways. She believed that’s the reason the wand was so mad today.
“I have, Professor.” she said and lifted the ever-so-angry stick.
“Well, I’m quite sure I’ve never seen anyone take so quickly to a second-hand wand,” Professor Fig remarked, looking quite proud, “You’ll be a force to be reckoned with when you get your own.”
What a compliment that was, having only been introduced to this world in less than two months and yet having such potential that a well-rounded educator comments on it.
Flattered, she beamed, “Thank you, Professor Fig. I… appreciate your working with me before the term begi-”
A familiar cracking pop rang out and a well-dressed man appeared, facing away from the two of them. With a quick turn, he found two pairs of eyes gazing at him, one with familiarity and the other in dulled confusion, and exclaimed, “Oh! Eleazar!”
“George!” Professor Fig happily greeted him before giving her a hushed introduction, “An old friend.” Turning back to the man in glasses, he continued, “Glad my rather cryptic description of our location did not thwart your finding us.”
“I’ve apparated to more vaguely defined destinations than this.” George chuckles as he walks closer, “Though, I confess I may have miscalculated slightly on my first try. Gaver quite the fright to some theatre-goers in the West End.” He gave a friendly wink to her and she smiled back awkwardly.
Professor Fig laughed along, “It’s been much too long. When I received your owl. I must say I-”
“Uh- Best not to speak here, Eleazar, hm?” George quickly interrupted his friend, an odd look darting across his face.
The air chilled and she and Fig shared a glance.
Clearing his throat, Professor Fig nodded, “Of course. Why don’t we speak en route to Hogwarts? We have a start-of-term feast and a Sorting Ceremony to get to.”
“Wonderful idea. As long as your young charge here doesn’t mind me tagging along.” George asked, his cheerful grin returning.
“Not at all, sir,” she quickly responded.
Professor Fig gleamed a smile at you as he opened the carriage door, stepping aside for her to crawl in, “After you.”
As she made her way into the carriage, George looked toward Professor Fig with a nostalgic glaze and a light chuckle.
“Ages since I’ve been to the castle. Would be good to see the old pile of rocks,” He mused, helping Professor Fig in with a hand.
Just as he makes his way in, he gives one last glance to the midnight London street with that odd look returning before hopping in and giving the signal to the driver, shutting the door.
The reins whip and the carriage takes off, and the shadowed figure watches it in the darkness before disappearing in a hazy twist.
-------------------------------------
Notes- I refuse to believe the Wizarding World is this woke in 1892, they literally had blood supremacy in the 1990s
my dream as a fanfic writer is to write a story which people want to talk to me about and send asks about afterwards and discuss things the characters did and the symbolism and meanings behind certain lines and I'll be all "hehe thanks" but irl I'll be in literal tears because I wrote something that means something to someone
Hiya, friend! Can you please put a read more on your fic? Just requesting this now before someone gets steamed, because it's common Tumblr etiquette to put long works under a read more. Thanks so much! :)
Of course! So sorry about that and thank you for telling me. I just learned something new ٩(^ᗜ^ )و
|| A Harvard Undergrad Becomes Delusional and Has Vivid Hallucinations of the American Revolution: Chp 1 ||
Synopsis- a Harvard Undergrad becomes delusional and has vivid hallucinations of the American Revolution
Note- i like. history
----------------------------------
“The American Revolutionary War lasted from 1775 to 1783, whereby the Thirteen Colonies secured their independence from the British Crown and consequently established the United States as the first sovereign nation-state founded on Enlightenment principles of the consent of the governed, constitutionalism and liberal democracy--”
The pages turn.
“In late 1774, in support of Massachusetts, twelve of the thirteen colonies sent delegates to Philadelphia, where they formed the First Continental Congress and began coordinating resistance to Britain's colonial governance--”
The pages flip.
“In the summer of 1776, in a setback for American patriots, the British captured New York City and its strategic harbor. In September 1777, in anticipation of a coordinated attack by the British Army--”
The book slams shut.
Dropping my head against the cool marble table, I shut my eyes and slump. Hours of studying left me with a raging migraine, an empty mind, and one too many paper cuts. I was exhausted in ways only studying could afflict a person and I cursed myself for my ability to blank out when important information was recited to me.
If only I could pay attention during lectures. If only I could focus on the rolling waves of words on the glaring, glossy sheets of textbooks. I breathed out heavily. If only. Sadly the world said “fuck you” and fucked I am.
Peeling my eyes open, I stared blankly at the portrait of Charles C. Pinckney I came to despise seeing day after day and debated whether or not I should call it quits or push through researching for that damned paper. Quickly, I opted for the former. I sighed. Three hours was good enough for today.
The Boston Public Library was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because I have access to all kinds of documents on America’s history. A curse, because I have access to all kinds of documents on America’s history. There was a sort of obligation to write about it, especially since I was at the heart of the Revolution, the home of Hancock and Adams, and also because I assumed it would be far easier than it was.
I dragged my head to look at the shut textbook and felt my heart crumble. This will be the death of me.
But if I can prolong such death, then I shall. I sat up, stretching my cramped bones, and shoved away the awful books before pushing myself up and throwing on my bag, wincing. The weight of my bag crushed the knot of stress on my shoulder blade, sending an aching pain down my back. I groaned rolling my shoulders while wishing I could snap my arm off to give myself relief.
Maybe someone in the library would just walk up to me and rip it off, but until that day comes I’ll settle with endangering myself with exploration. Giving one final stretch, I began to make my way out of the ancient marble library.
---
Boston. Boston, Massachusetts. A place deeply ingrained in good old American history from massacres to floods of molasses and my personal city-wide jail cell. As unfortunate as it is to be trapped, it could’ve been worse. I shudder to think what would’ve happened if I had gotten caught in a Chicago or New York tar trap.
I push through the ornate, metal doors of the library and out onto the streets of Boston, beginning the familiar walk to the apartments. Traversing through streets of old and new, there was a certain sense of deep familiarity. It was another lucky thing about Boston being my jail cell.
I only moved here a few months ago and usually one would be stiff and awkward in a place far, far away from their origins, but seeing those brick buildings and cobblestone roads hidden by those of steel, glass, and concrete, I adjusted unexpectedly easily.
Not that I was an inflexible person in general. I’ve had my fair share of traveling every which way, up and down and across the country, staying in brief intervals with restlessness plaguing my every action. No, this was different. How or why, I’m not entirely sure, but I think it’s nice.
Seeing the park centered on Commonwealth Avenue, I sped up and turned onto my side of the street, working my way around tourists and neighbors and crossing over the bustling traffic. Occasionally I gave a quick, polite smile to someone I accidentally made eye contact with, before continuing onwards.
It’s going to be a quick stop at the apartment, grab my gear, and go back out again just before the sun begins to set. A grin makes its way to my lips and a burst of speed pushes me forward. Danger is my happy place.
I arrive in front of my apartment building and quickly walk in, flying up the stairs, before pushing into my section. Throwing my work bag onto the dingy couch I sped into my room, quickly changing and grabbing my gear, listing them off in my head; pants, shirt, jacket; goggles, respirator, gloves, headphones, charger, cash, first-aid, phone, camera, put them in my bag.
I rush back into the living room and throw on a pair of boots. With a satisfied smile, I threw on my bag feeling the knot easing, and back out the door I went. I passed by another neighbor, giving her a little wave and smile. She smiled back and I flew back down the stairs to the edge of the street to hail a taxi. This is my kind of relaxation.
---
The barn door is ripped open. The hinges cry out, still weary of being used after nearly two centuries of slumber, but they’ll get used to me. They will.
A puff of dust bursts free from the idle inside and breezes past me, some specks brushing against my respirator and goggles. With ease, I waved the dust cloud away with my glove-clad hand, and casually walked inside as though this was my real home.
I discovered the old barn around the time I was brought to Boston when I had attempted to make a break for it.
I just ran. And ran. And ran. Until I came upon this decrepit forgotten beat-up barn in the middle of a field only a couple of miles away from the edge of Boston and it surprised me, I won’t lie, with how praise-heavy of history the city was. You assumed that everything within 100 miles of the city would be tended to with major tender loving care, but that was clearly not the case for my darling broken barn.
And so the only sensible thing to do with such a discovery was claim it as mine! So I did and obsessively explored every single crook and corner to my heart’s content. I had no clue where such adoration for the old building came from, but I didn’t give two shits. It was mine and I was its.
Owner.
Unofficially.
No, I’m not weird.
I made it in the nick of time, arriving just as the sun started to journey its way to the other side of the world to ruin someone else’s sleep. I brought out my stolen 55-dollar flashlight and flicked it on. A good beam of light lit the dusty barn, waking up the sleepy nats that tumbled around in the glow. Time to get cracking.
Throwing on my headphones, I ambled deeper into the barn with a hand trailing lightly on the grooves and ridges of the splintered, ancient planks.
Each step I made was delicate and calculated, feeling each pebble and speck of the uneven ground of dirt and old hay left behind centuries ago. But no matter how much I tried to feel, there was a distance between me and the old barn, easily kept with the heavy protection and gear of my time. And I was far too lazy to take it off; a subconscious fear of accidentally destroying something or something destroying me. Like lead… or traps.
I shook my head, quickly skipping the sad song into punk rock. What the hell was all that moaning and groaning about? I dragged a quick hand over my mask and goggles and picked up the pace to move farther back into the barn, the flashlight staying steady and bright as ever.
I began to berate myself until I saw the ground looking far closer than it should. A shock of panic shot through my chest and I threw my hands in front of me to brace for the brutal impact.
And brutal it was.
I collided onto the jagged gravel and landed with a heavy thud. I could feel the ragged ground scrape against me and I clenched my eyes shut, groaning, the sound muffled by the mask. My arms and stomach ached and burned with a thousand tiny rocks embedded into my clothes and skin scrapes on my knees. I had tripped on… something.
My confidence was hurt the most, not that I had any in the first place, and absolute embarrassment burned fiercely in my chest. Ugh, I felt stupid. Scrambling up from the ground, I dusted off the pebbles and dirt on my now dust-stained jacket, before scooping up my fallen flashlight. I shook my hands loose and adjusted my skewed headphones. Ugh, I felt really stupid.
I pivoted to look back at what damaged my self-esteem, pointing my flashlight at the ground. The light illuminated the drag marks in the dirt from my fall and the hay pushed away from the force and… oh?
A small rusted knob stuck out from the ground, now freed from the years of dirt that built up with the help of my fall. Creeping closer, I crouched down, reached a hand towards it, and began to brush away the rest of the dirt.
Immediately I felt a difference. Below the dirt wasn’t more dirt, it was something else. I placed my flashlight on the floor beside me and a shiver of excitement rushed down my spine.
Adventure.
Brush by brush, I could make out strips of wood that were embedded into the dirt floor, and with one last stroke, a trapdoor was revealed. I leaned back onto my knees, gazing at my discovery in awe. I grinned. Oh, hell yes.
It took far longer and far more strength than I had expected to get the door opened. Shockingly, It was worse than when I tried to pry open the barn door for the first time. All I could imagine was all the grime, mud, and paint stuck deep in the hinges and grooves that mixed themselves into a superglue, refusing to let just anybody in like some dirty glue guardian of secrets.
Luckily, I’m far more unwavering than some false glue and pried that sucker open with pure strength. And a stick. I couldn’t help that swell of pride that blossomed once I was showered in a puff of ancient dust that wooshed freely after being trapped for who knows how long. Hopping on my toes, I nearly leaped into the void of darkness that was the crypt without precaution.
I managed to reel in my enthusiasm and picked up the flashlight before I directed the beam into the hidden cellar. The shining light revealed some highly suspicious-looking steps that led deeper in, all rotted and splintered and utterly unstable.
Immediately, I stepped in and made a quick descent into the basement, ignoring each creak, groan, and shudder from the steps before landing on a dirt floor. I paused my music and pushed down my headphones, gazing in wonder at my discovery.
It was like a pause in time, a portion of history untouched and kept secret. Shifting the flashlight’s beam over the small room, I drag my eyes across every square inch of the cellar. Over every cracked pot, crooked shelf, shattered counter, rickety wooden table littered with old parchment, and every single speck of dust. It was beautiful.
I crept towards the table that sat back against the room, an intense pull of curiosity filling my veins and I stood before the collections of yellowed paper. My heart began to pound the moment I caught a glimpse of the faded stains of ink that swirled on the pages. A long-kept secret for more than 200 years, just inches from my hands.
Fuck yeah. I reached for a page and with the most delicate of touches, lifted it from its dust-framed seat and slowly brought it close.
The thought of accidentally damaging it in some way screaming in my head for brief seconds was not enough to deter me and so, with the flashlight held beneath it, I read the date.
April 1st, 1774--
Suddenly, I was thrown into darkness, pitch black filling my senses. I flinched nearly, dropping the paper and flashlight, as I stumbled back in surprise. What the hell?
I quickly and delicately placed the piece of paper down on what I hoped was the table and frantically shook the short-circuited torch. Mumbling hisses and curses at the thing, I desperately flicked at the switch hoping for something, a flicker of light, anything. I gave it another shake to no avail.
Nothing.
“Oh fuck…” I breathed out, muffled from the labor of my breaths and doused in panic. Fifty-five dollars and it already busted. I paused for a brief moment. That means I was perfectly justified to steal it, I shoved it into the pocket of your bag, it was a scam.
I continued to step back, hesitantly triple-checking each step that was placed. The last thing I wanted to do was trip again in the black void and possibly bust my head open on some rogue stone. Taking a few more steps back, my heel hits the back of what I hoped was the bottom of the stairs and I pivot to face it, leaning forward to lay my hands on the wood plank, before crawling up the stairs on all fours.
I’ll come back. I swear it. But exploring abandoned places with no reliable light source is stupidly dangerous and not the kind of danger that’s relaxing. So much for police-grade utilities, cheap bastards.
Also, the dark is scary.
Each step was a drag and I felt a weight sink in my limbs as I slowly made my way out of the cellar. The darkness was deafening and heavy, weighing down upon you.
Weird, I thought deliriously as I made another slow step up. My eyes started to droop and began to stumble, my head whirling and swooning like I was stuck on a rocket-fueled turn-table ride. I take another leaden step. I was getting closer. And with another step, my head hits the trapdoor.
Sighing, I placed my hands on the door and pushed up.
Instantly I’m blinded, a piercing white light burns into my eyes and I yelp, yanking back into the darkness.
I slapped a palm against my eyes and cursed as a tearing pain streaked across my forehead from the intense light while my ears began to ring. Gritting my teeth, I rub at my burned eyes. What in the world is going on out there, did someone bring floodlights to the barn?!
Squinting my eyes, I climb back out the trapdoor, facing the full force of the light as the ringing grows more shrill. I wince and put a hand out against the radiant beam, finally stepping onto the barn floor.
The ringing ceased. The light faded. Rapidly blinking my burned-out eyes, my vision began to clear and soon what I saw left me thunderstruck.
The barn looked… different. New, as though it was just built from freshly chopped trees, free from any stains, chips, and rot. The musty scent of age was gone, filled with the fresh breeze of newly laid hay. Not only that but it seemed to be smack dab in the middle of the day. The sun’s light breached through the openings between the wood planks and settled its glow in the barn.
I furrowed my brows as I looked around the barn I swore I knew. I couldn’t have possibly been in the cellar that long for it to be day.
I swiveled back to look at the opened cellar door and quickly leaned over to shut it, before stepping back and staring at it. Darting my gaze between the trapdoor and the brightly lit new barn, I grew more confused by the second that I pulled off my hood and lifted my goggles to rest on my forehead to get a clearer look at the place. I needed to see I wasn’t losing my mind, and yet the barn still looked new.
Slowly, I nodded and started to accept that maybe I was far more oblivious than I already believed I was and that this barn took it to a whole other level. I waded through the new heaps of haystacks, deciding that I should go back to my apartment and book an appointment with the eye doctor, as soon as possible.
Sliding the barn door open with surprising ease, I tumble out into the open nearly slipping on some mud. A quick leap of my heart made me see the heavens for a split moment before I came back down to face with a horse.
I stared and the horse stared before it tossed its head as it stepped back and to the rest of its fellow equine. To say I had questions would be an understatement. There were never horses nearby, the barn was abandoned. At least that’s what I thought. I needed to go home. Immediately.
Quick as a skittish mouse, I ran down I supposed-to-be familiar path back to the lone tar road that I could follow into Boston. But I paused as I arrived next to the tree that marked its location.
It wasn’t there.
I stared at the wild shrubs and tall grass that covered the unfamiliar land. Why isn’t it there? My gaze darted along each pebble, leaf, and stick. It should be here. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be here. Slowly, I began to run down what I hoped was the path of the vanished highway only to come across more shifts throughout the area.
Missing roads and metal signs, new wooden fences, narrow dirt roads, far more flora, and a disturbing absence of noise replaced by the deafening sounds of the air and birds. Everything felt different. Everything was wrong.
Every once in a while I would stop and turn in circles trying to find that specific marking on my mental map to find absolutely nothing before continuing to run in what I hoped was headed in the right direction. But as I sped on, it only became more apparent that I must’ve made a wrong turn.
I should at least be able to see the industrial towers and the outskirts of the city line, but nothing. There was nothing. I wasn’t sure how to feel as I slowed down to let my feet mindlessly guide me through the wilderness.
I’m… confused. Which isn’t much of an improvement, but it’s better than nothing. I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what happened with the barn. I wished I had something that could conveniently tell me where I was and guide me back with the safest and fastest route it could provide. A heavy pail of realization tipped down onto my head.
Oh, yeah. I have a phone.
I slid my bag to face my front and quickly snatched my phone from the designated phone pocket. The bag fell back and I opened my phone to Google Maps, glancing at the bars. Only one, that’s fine. I looked back at the screen and sighed, seeing it frozen. It’s not fine. I shut off my phone and shoved it into my jacket pocket, trudging on.
And with that, only one little thought circled my mind: I’m lost.
Somehow, some way, I got lost. I had no clue what happened with the barn, no clue where I was, no clue where everything was, and by golly, did I want to drop to the floor and roll around in the grass. But I didn’t. I put one foot in front of the other through the shrubs and the dirt as the sun shone obnoxiously through more trees than I’ve ever seen near a city such as Boston.
One foot forward, the other followed, a part of me refused to acknowledge my situation fully and was perfectly content to walk mindlessly through the foreign world. One then the other, one then the other, a nice smooth walk through the lovely forest that I chose to walk through. One then the other, oh, are those buildings?
Squinting, I peer at the curved silhouettes that stand apart from the natural forms of the flora that scarcely surround them. Have I finally made it back to Boston? They don’t look like those on the outskirts, though. Perhaps I arrived from a different direction. I lift my head and stare at the pale blue skies. Yes, a different direction, at least I’m back home.
Back home, indeed.
Stumbling closer to the buildings, I come across a dirt road I’ve never seen before that seemed to lead into the city. I ignored the tracks of hooves and parallel streaks and walked along the edge, unclipping my respirator to hang from my other ear. Soon, I began to hear the faint hustle and bustle of people being people and the city going on with its busy life. A cool sense of relief washed over me, but I couldn’t help but furrow my brows as I listened closer to the noise. It didn’t sound… right.
A chill trickled down my spine and I stopped. Something isn’t right. I’m not supposed to be…
Suddenly I became aware of the creaks and rattles of metal against wood trembling over the uneven dirt road from behind me at an alarming pace. My eyes popped open in panic and I scrambled away from the road just before I was hit by a gust of wind as something whisked past me. Alarmed I whipped around to see what could have possibly been hurtling down the road only to stop and stare in disbelief.
It was a cart. With horses.
A cart like those that are displayed in the halls of museums, all broken and rotten and barely living in the 21st century. But rather than the cart crumbling at the mere breath of a butterfly, it rolled on, built brand new with fresh wood like the barn, and carrying large wooden crates stacked heavily atop each other.
The wheels were coated thick with mud and pebbles which left behind indents in the dirt, adding to those already printed into the ground. It continued its journey, clearly heading towards the city and oblivious to the pedestrian it nearly hit.
character-centric stories you can write in 1K or less
where did they get that shirt they wear in that one scene?
what is their typical morning routine?
what song got stuck in their head when they were in the grocery store just now and how do they feel about that?
what would happen to a houseplant in their care?
they're talking a 5 hour flight in economy class and they paid to choose their seat - which one do they go for?
how do they achieve a fully-assembled piece of IKEA furniture?
how would they deal with a malfunctioning computer?
what gives them ASMR - and is it a pleasant or unpleasant feeling?
what helps them fall asleep at night?
how do they behave when they have a bad cold? allergies? a migraine?
they have accidentally caused a fire - how did they do it and how do they react to it?
they are at the club - is this a good situation for them?
what is their opinion of street performers?
which social media platform(s) they use and which they hate
how do they feel about the idea that the tomato is a fruit?
where do they stand on Pluto, vis a vis its planetary status?
what would they do for a Klondike bar?
what kink did they learn about by accident on the internet, and they don't have it but they get it
who is their celebrity crush?
who is their small-time personal nemesis, separate from any big bad in the show (think neighbour, coworker, mail carrier etc.) and why do they hate them so much?
what is the last greeting card they bought? what occasion, who did they give it to, and what was the message inside?
what have they been putting off forever, even though it will only take 10 minutes?
So this is how I die— lying mangled and broken on the wet, rough, cold tar road. Crying, as the rain pelted and poured down from the heavy skies, soaking me through every inch of my bloodied clothes. Alone, as the truck drove off, leaving me here for dead.
So this is how I die, unable to distinguish tears from raindrops against my cheeks. Shivering with the metallic taste of blood heavily coating my tongue and trailing down my throat. Consumed with white-hot pain ripping through every limb and tip and darkness closing in from every direction.
So this is how I die. I thought I was ready. I thought I made peace with it. I was so sure I made peace with it. But no. No, I’m scared. Frightened, beyond what I thought I was prepared for and so… ashamed.
|| The Unfortunate Thing About Legacies: Preview ||
Synopsis - 1892: A mere lonely wanderer, you are. Travelling from here to there across the British Isles for a good few months now with that ugly scar on your face. Maybe the gods above will take pity on you. Maybe not.
Note - test post! first post on this blog which will now become a writing blog I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ so here's a quick snippet on an impulse writing project for a game I kinda dislike
You were rather curious as to why the brown and white owl was following you all around the county of West Carmarthenshire. You merely thought the cute thing believed something of yours was prey. However, your assumption was refuted when you sat down beside the crumbled bricks of what was a wall for a quick rest.
The blue Welsh skies had shifted into the coloured warmth of the sunset when you finally decided to find a spot to settle in. You had just made it to the ruins of a castle that caught your wandering interest, spotting it a few hills back, set between lush greens, old trees, and shattered stones. And so you lay against the grass, nestled against the curve of ancient roots shrouded in moss.
It was a little too early in the afternoon to doze off and a little too exposed to create a temporary camp. Instead, you let your mind wander, dream, and lightly touch on the days before your adventuring. You dreamt of seeing those odd creatures again and wondered about the blossoming hamlet close to the sea.
Until all too suddenly, the thoughts scattered.
Startled, you quickly sat up, as something plopped onto your lap. It couldn’t have been a leaf as it was far bigger than what the tree could have dropped, so you quickly picked it up. And to your utter bewilderment, it was a letter. Tan and square, it was sealed with a luscious red wax stamped with a decorative H and an emblem with four creatures printed delicately on the flap.
Peering closer at the letter, you could just make out the words and began to mutter them out loud, "Hogwarts… Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus."
Never tickle a sleeping dragon.
You snorted. Someone must've dropped this, you thought with a small smile. Or at least, it might've been stolen by the wind. You looked around the darkening grasslands in hopes of catching someone nearby that could have lost the missive, like a postman, but it was just you and nature's awakening nightlife.
A gentle hoot from above caught your attention. You looked up to see the brown and white plumage of your little companion set on a branch, with large yellow eyes gazing down at you. Oh, and it seems he's here too. Your smile grew wider, delighted to see the owl again.
"Well, hello sir… and good evening," You hummed lowly, so as to not scare him. Though he seems comfortable, blinking slowly at your words. "It's very nice to see you again."
He turned his head and started grooming his ruffled feathers.
You gave a nod and turned back to the letter in your hands, "I'll leave you to it."
An idea popped into your head and you flipped the note around. You've been a good deal around the isle and the hamlets aren't at all big. You're sure you'll be able to recognize the address and give it to the person missing their mail. You begin to skim the delivery address when you pause.
It took a while, but you had to reread the recipient's name over and over again because written on the envelope was your name.
P.S More Notes - well here you are a delicate taste of some of my "I'm sick" writing. will I ever finish this? who knows, but here you go tiny fandom take a bite of this meh writing
