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@scribblesouled

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hey, this is just a quick message to say i’m rebooting libby and moving to a new blog!! i’ll come back later with deets if y’all still wanna follow xx

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dilseachd / starter call

     Like an armoured truck carrying precious cargo, Libby picks her path carefully as she threads through crowds, head bowed, watching the sidewalk immediately in front of her. Delicate because of the delicate things held secure in a cardboard box pressed to her chest, she plans each step before she takes it: an effort that goes wasted when, out of nowhere, a collision sends the box careering out of her grip and busting open on the ground.

          In it: a collection of colouring books, old and splashed with dotty crayon colour on every page; two pretty-in-pink journals, fluffy, pages crinkled with the indentations of pen marks; and an old t-shirt from a Police concert, food-stained and soft.

     ‘What the fuck?’ she says, loud, angry, drops to her knees and ignores the racketing shock of pain that shudders up from her kneecaps to her hips as she scrambles to push everything back into the box. ‘Watch where you’re fucking walking!’ she half-shouts, hates the sound of her voice. A pathetic, strangled noise.

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nyello

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me: alright im!! gonna do drafts and finish starters im so hyped!!!! hell ye a me: *looks at clock* *its 3:30am* me:

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how i approach folks for plots :

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what doesn’t kill you fucks you up mentally and affects your ability to have stable relationships with other human beings

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hey sorry im late i didnt want to come.

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i can’t wait for the dark places movie to come out so someone will make a ben day 8)))

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*eyezooms bc the day murders took place on the same day as rust’s daughter’s birthday*

[anticip]

Parental neglect, then. Or absence of parents? He gets a flash of a distant memory, being made to run after a car driving in traffic, taunted with the possibility of being left behind. The absence of parents could be as harmful as the presence of bad ones.

“An unhappy accident, then. It must have been awful.” Unconvincing, and with an unwitting curl of his lips.

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     He’s trying to figure her out, and it irritates her. She’s never had much patience for being psychoanalysed, for listening to people telling her how she should feel and why she should feel that way -- it makes her feel clammy, stiff, days-old and useless, like she can’t understand her own mind, like she should feel bad because of it.

          “Awful, sure.” A beat. “I mean, running around in the snow was pretty much the only thing that stopped me from being slaughtered along with the rest of my family, so there’s that.”

     The brusqueness to her tone grates even on her, like nails on a chalkboard; there’s an insistent, ugly noise in her ears, ringing. She curls the fingers of her good hand into her palm and presses her nails into the skin, leaving little half-moons pushed into the flesh.

[grimpancakes-deactivated2016032]

Since I’ve missed out on several milestones and didn’t make follow forever posts, I decided to do it on my birthday, and it’s already 21st at my place, so here it is! I appreciate every single one of my followers, but these are the baes I’ve been through stuff with. 

First of all, lemme tell y’all that you’re amazing writers and it’s an honor to be co-authors with you, I am incredibly thankful to you for writing with my no-good ass. Long story short, click through and see me crying over you like a bitch. 

Read More

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me @ gates of heaven: i mean i wasn't even that bad tho

god: *pulls out receipts*

god: sweetie :)

[victoriajoan]

I must endure & endure & still endure.

Tennessee Williams, from Notebooks (via aercis)

[anticip]

“ — I didn’t mean to stare.” It’s genuine but there’s little sign of an apology in the words. Tom tilts his head, eyes still on her fingers. What kind of person loses fingers due to frostbite? He imagines her being foolish and unprepared, or being trapped somewhere. “Did you get lost in a snow storm?”

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     The question draws a scowl between her brows, somewhere towards childish. She initiated the conversation; she shouldn’t be angry that he’s continuing it, and yet. And yet.

          “I was a kid. Spent a night outside at the beginning of January in my pajamas.” She says it like the entire thing was voluntary, with an overtly casual tone, not quite amused. Daring him to laugh.

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I had five birthday cards my mom had given Michelle and Debby over the years, cheerful quick notes scrawled at the bottom, and I had a birthday card she’d written to Ben I thought might bring decent money. I felt guilty about all of it, not good at all, but I feared having no money, really feared being broke, and that came before being nice.

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Libby was her worrier; she came out of the womb wary and stayed that way. She was the nightmare girl, the fretter. She was an outta-nowhere pregnancy; neither Patty nor Runner were happy. [...] Dropping her off at school had always been an act of utter abandonment, her daughter with the giant, wet eyes, face pressed against the glass, as a kindergarten teacher restrained her. This past summer she refused to eat for a week, turned white and haunted, then finally (finally, finally) revealed to Patty a pod of warts that had sprouted on one knee. Eyes down, in slow sentences that Patty extracted from her over the course of an hour, Libby explained that she thought the warts might be like poison ivy, that they’d eventually cover her and (sob!) no one would be able to see her face anymore. And when Patty had asked why, why in the world hadn’t Libby told her these worries before, Libby just looked at her like she was crazy. Whenever possible, Libby prophesized doom.