My current plan has two stages. Stage one: NaNoWriMo is coming up. Obviously, I’m not going to have time to write an actual novel this year. However, I was already planning to go to some local write-ins, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to finish This Could Be Good during that time. So many fingers crossed.
Stage two is, if I can’t get the story done during November, I’ll finish it during winter break. My current problem is that grad school is kicking my butt and sapping both my freetime and my inspiration to write. In theory, winter break will save me from both these problems at least long enough to give y’all the end of this story. I know that kinda sucks for you guys, and I’m sorry. Take heart, though, that I have no intention of abandoning this story.
As for my original writing: that’s not going to be weekly anymore either, because I’m out of pre-written scenes that I actually like, and don’t have time right now to edit the rest.
So, for now, regular updates are going to stop. Hopefully expect to hear more about my writing, fanfiction or otherwise, sometime next month. And have a great day/week/month, lovelies.
I wrote this for a creative writing class (I know, that’s getting to be a theme here). The prompt was to start a story with the line “The first time I heard Song by Artist was...”
I’m posting this as my weekly update on my writing blog (sofarundefined) and crossposting it to my primary blog (missizzybeth). Also, I survived a massively stressful week of grad school, and I’m feeling a little bit of inspiration for some of my WIPs. Fingers crossed that it holds out long enough to finish a chapter.
The first time I heard “It’s the End of the World,” by REM was on a family vacation in Maine. I was crouched behind a particularly high mound of snow that, upon further inspection, turned out to be a bush. My calves had disappeared entirely, encased in a heavy and wet way that was surprisingly different than the powdery fluff we had in Montana. A few more bushes and trees ringed the yard, which stretched as an empty field of white between me and the house that my aunt insisted on calling a cottage. I wasn’t sure what made it different from a house. They lived there all the time, not just special times they wanted to get away. Maybe it was the pine scented wreath hanging from the door or maybe it was the fact that it was in the middle of nowhere. Either way, I knew better than to argue with my aunt.
I glared at each of the yard’s different hiding places in turn and pulled together fistfuls of snow. As much as I might hate the way it had already soaked my jeans and fallen into my boots, I certainly loved it for the quick and easy ammunition it produced.
Daniel dropped down beside me, immediately falling to his knees and peering slowly towards the house. “Have you seen them?” he whispered, tugging his bright red mittens on a little tighter. The matching scarf was wound, not around his neck where it belonged, but around his head. It probably made him feel cool, but I thought he looked stupid and like a really good target. Lucky for him, he was on my team, but I felt cheated. He was failing to give me the tactical advantage he was supposed to have by being the oldest.
I just shook my head instead of whispering, because I actually knew how to win a snowball fight. Step one: never let the enemy know where you are. Step two: if they don’t come to you, find them yourself. I waved my hands to get his attention, and when his eyes finally turned to me I pointed at him, then gestured to one side of the house. Before I could show him the rest of my plan he frowned and asked, in much too loud a voice, “What?” I rolled my eyes and started again, but before I could get much further than my mimed ‘you go this way,’ I spotted a flash of blue from over his shoulder. I shrieked as I rolled away, but it was too late for him. The snowball hit him square on the back of his scarf-clad head, knocking his face into the bush.
“Oh, both sides,” his sister called out, her blue scarf wrapped snugly under her chin, while my sister whooped with joy. I sent them both scurrying back behind their trees with my return fire, and after Daniel quit blushing and grumbling he helped. Our war continued for another half hour before our sisters managed to get us both pinned at one of the back corners of the house. I hid behind him, hoping to escape our doom a few seconds longer, and he just spread his arms and started singing, “It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine!” Our sisters just threw their last snowballs and we all laughed and Daniel made me promise to make hot chocolate for everyone since we’d lost and I hid.
Of course, that was the song running through my head years later as I crouched outside their little cottage once again. The snow was different this time; there were more bushes to create bumps under it and no one had shoveled a walkway to the porch. No wreath hung from the front door and at least one of the railings was less intact than it had been during my last visit.
I slid the gun from its holster and clicked a bullet into the chamber. The itch of my knife against my forearm reminded me that I should always strap it under my wool sweater instead of over it, but I ignored it. My eyes skipped to each tree and shrub before me, but nothing stood out. Finally, I pulled one foot free of the snow trench I’d created and stepped towards the cottage.
“Hold it,” I heard from behind, and only years of familiarity kept me from startling. Instead I spread my arms out, showing my gun clearly. When asked, I turned slowly and dropped my arms to my sides. A woman stepped from behind a tree, neck wrapped in a blue scarf and hands wrapped around a shotgun.
“You really are bad at this,” she said, and though she smiled the expression was far from the ones of our childhood.
I looked behind her and asked, “Daniel?”
She just shook her head and responded with her own question. “Ella?” My own changed expression must have answered for me because she just shrugged and turned away.
“You can make the hot chocolate,” she called over her shoulder.
I wrote this as a final project for a CRWR class in undergrad. I’m posting it as my weekly update (which is actually happening on Friday, which is theoretically when all my weekly updates are supposed to happen, so yay me), and crossposting it to my primary blog (missizzybeth) from my writing blog (sofarundefined). Enjoy, lovelies.
June 2015
Paige and Jeremy sat on opposite sides of a table. He looked at her, and she read the document in front of her. Her lawyer, sitting next to her, was similarly posed over her own set of papers.
“It’s what we agreed to,” Jeremy’s lawyer said. “Everything split right down the middle. Savings, proceeds from the house, everything.”
Paige’s lawyer reached the end of the writing before Paige did, and when she glanced over her lawyer gave her a small nod. She flipped to the last page and pulled a pen from her purse.
“So that’s it?” Jeremy asked, and Paige looked up. He caught her eye, but then looked over at the lawyers. “We sign this, and we’re done?”
“Well, we have to file it with the court,” her lawyer said. “But essentially yes. As long as you two can agree on the terms of your divorce, there’s no reason to draw it out any longer.”
Jeremy’s face stiffened, and he stared at the papers in front of Paige. “I want the fish,” he said. His lawyer’s eyebrows drew together. Paige rolled her eyes and dropped the pen on the table, and their eyes locked.
“You hate the fish,” she said.
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. The filter keeps you up at night. You unplugged it when I was gone.”
“Well, maybe I’ve gotten attached.”
“Jeremy,” his lawyer said, “can I talk to you for a moment?”
But Jeremy talked over him. “Well, then, what about the board games,” he said. “Monopoly, Battleship, Dominion. I want those. It’s not like you’ll get any use out of them.” Paige winced at that, but before she could say anything Jeremy’s lawyer spoke up.
“You’re already getting those,” he said.
“Oh.” Jeremy’s gaze returned to Paige. She stared at him defiantly, and he glared back. “Well, what about you?” he said. “Isn’t there anything you want?”
“I’m getting what I want,” she said, looking pointedly at the papers in front of her. He scoffed.
November 2014 (7 months earlier)
Paige came through the front door. She could see Jeremy sitting on their comfy brown couch watching TV. She passed her fish tank to put her bag down on the stairs, then came back into the front room. She draped her coat over the back of the matching chair and stood behind it, pretending to watch TV with him for a little while.
Eventually, she sighed. “I don’t want to do this tonight.”
He didn’t look at her. “Then go to bed.”
She considered going, but sat on the chair instead. She perched just on the edge and folded her fingers in her lap so one hand could pick at the other.
“I had to stay late at work,” she said.
He nodded. “I figured.”
“We knew that a promotion would mean longer hours.”
He shrugged, and a moment later said, “Mel called. Him and Talia are going to the coast on Saturday. He asked if we wanted to come.”
Paige dropped her eyes to the floor, then shook her head. “I can’t handle going out right now. I’m just so tired.”
He was quiet, and when she looked up it was to see his gaze on her, mouth tight. As soon as their eyes met, though, he returned his attention to the TV.
“You could go, if you wanted,” she said.
He scoffed. “Because that would be fun.”
Paige threw her hands up. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.” He stabbed the mute button and turned to look at her. “Maybe you could at least try.”
Her eyebrows rose, and she gestured to herself. “This is me trying!”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like it,” Jeremy said, and slumped back into his seat. “I guess we have to try something different, because this isn’t working.”
They sat in the quiet for a while, and Paige worked to keep her breathing even. Eventually, she said, “I can’t do a whole day. Maybe… we could do dinner, on Sunday. Would that work?”
Jeremy sighed and shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, though his tone held little enthusiasm. “Yeah, that’ll work.” He pushed himself up off the couch, and on his way out of the room he paused to kiss Paige on the forehead. She didn’t look up, just listened to him as he climbed the stairs to their bedroom.
April 2014 (1 year, 2 months earlier)
“Dude,” Mel said, panting, as he climbed the porch stairs. “What’ve you got in here, bricks?”
Jeremy bent to check the side of the box. “No, books. They go in the bedroom.”
Mel rolled his eyes, and with a muttered, “Yes, sir,” he disappeared into the house. He passed Paige setting up her fish tank, and with a nod he made his way to the second floor. Jeremy turned back to the wall, and was carefully making sure the new house numbers were level when Talia ascended with her boxes.
“That’ll go in the kitchen,” Paige directed. Talia nodded and walked through the door, and after she disappeared through the dining room doorway Paige slipped out the front door to lean against the porch rail. Jeremy reached back for his drill but missed by about a foot. With a grin, Paige nudged it towards his hand until it brushed his fingers. He threw a grateful smile over his shoulder, then started attaching the numbers to the house.
“So apparently,” she said, after the whir of the drill had quieted. “Talia has a thing for Mel.”
Jeremy caught her eye as he picked up the last number and said, “Oh?” before turning back to the house.
“Mhm,” Paige said. Her eyes turned to the door every few moments, but spent most of their time settled with a smile on his back. “I think she should make a move.”
Jeremy waited until he had finished affixing the last number, then turned to face her. He set the drill down and approached her. “You,” he said as he wrapped her waist in his arms, “are meddling.”
“No,” she said, though Jeremy’s look remained unconvinced. “I’ll let her make all her own decisions.” When this comment elicited a raised eyebrow, she added, “Suggestions aren’t meddling.” He laughed and shook his head, then buried his face into the space between her neck and shoulder. She laughed with him, and poked at his sides until he started squirming. He retaliated by brushing his fingers under her arms. She shrieked, and they wrestled until they stood, breathless, facing their new doorway. Paige’s back was pressed against Jeremy’s front, and she let her head rest on his shoulder.
“I like it,” she said, gazing at the shining numbers.
“Yeah,” he said, tilting his head. “You don’t think the one is crooked?”
She shrugged. “So what if it is? It’ll work for us.”
“Hey, no slacking.” Talia appeared in the doorway, with Mel on her heels. “You promised us dinner after this monstrosity.” They bounded down the stairs, and Paige turned to Jeremy, her brows drawing close.
“We did?” she asked.
“Yeah, to say thank you for the moving. I didn’t say anything?” When Paige shook her head, he sighed and dropped his head back on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Will that be okay?”
There was only a slight hesitation before she said, “Of course. It’ll be nice. And after, we can have our own welcome home party.” She winked, then returned to her tank assembly.
December 2011 (3 years, 6 months earlier)
Paige and Jeremy were sitting at dinner in the local version of a high-class restaurant. They ordered drinks, and the whole time Paige couldn’t wipe the beam off her face. When the waitress set the pint glass in front of Jeremy and the wine glass in front of Paige and left with their food orders, Jeremy said, “A toast, I think.” Paige blushed, but she lifted her glass just above the table cloth so he could reach across and clink them together. “To the most wonderful woman in the world, on her first real grown-up job.”
“Shut up,” Paige laughed, returning her glass to the table. “My last job was grown-up. It had benefits, didn’t it?”
“Ah, yes,” he said, raising a finger in order to impart his wisdom and making her laugh again. “But with this job, you get benefits and a desk. And if you get promoted, you might even get your own private cubicle.” She just shook her head but kept smiling, and took a sip from her wine.
Jeremy pushed his hands into the pocket of his sports coat and adopted a more serious tone. “It’s a big change,” he said. “And I know how much you love changes.” She wrinkled her nose at him, but his only response was to wink at her and take a deep breath before continuing. “But I’d like to propose one more.” And with that, he pulled a ring box from his pocket, opened it, and slid it across the table. Paige raised a hand to cover her gasp, then glanced around at the other tables, but no one was watching them. She returned her eyes to Jeremy, who caught her gaze with a fierce one of his own.
“I love what we are,” he said, keeping his voice just loud enough for her to hear it. What it lacked in volume, though, it made up for in intensity. “And I want to keep being us for the rest of our lives. I want to have all our grown-up life experiences together.” He cracked a smile, and Paige gave a wobbly giggle. “So what do you say?” he asked, nudging the ring toward her. “Want to get married?” She nodded and laughed and even cried a little. His grin grew until it was shining from his whole face, and he pulled the ring from the box to slip it onto her shaky finger. Before he could pull away she grabbed his hand and used it to pull him towards her. She raised her other hand to his face, and had to stand a little so she could lean in and kiss him. At that point, she didn’t even care that people were staring.
June 2008 (7 years earlier)
Paige stood outside the theater, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and pretending to read the movie posters. She’d made it halfway through when someone detached from the thin stream of people coming in and out the glass doors and approached her. When she turned, she saw a man in his mid-twenties with dark hair and a smile. When she looked down, she saw he was wearing pink Converse shoes, and with a burst of nervous energy she smiled back.
He nodded towards her red cloche hat. “You must be Paige,” he said.
She nodded, and asked, “Jeremy?” while holding out her hand.
He took it and shook. “That’s me.” When he released her, she drew her hand back into the folds of her skirt and wrapped her fingers into them, then made a concentrated effort to relax them. He pushed his hands into his pockets, then awkwardly gestured with his upper body towards the doors. “Shall we?” She nodded again, and side by side they walked through the doors.
Once they were in line for tickets, Paige looked somewhere around Jeremy’s forehead and said, “I could get the tickets, if you’d like. I have vouchers, from work, and I never actually get out to the movies so I’ll probably never use them other than tonight…” She trailed off.
He just shrugged. “Sure. I’ll get the popcorn.” Paige let her shoulders drop some, and her mouth turn up. They shuffled forward to take the next spot in line, and when her eyes were on the ground she laughed a little and motioned to Jeremy’s feet.
“I thought you might be kidding, about the shoes,” she said.
He looked too, and his smile warmed. “Yeah, they’re a holdout from my college days. They seemed like a good idea at the time. But hey, who knew they’d be useful on blind dates?” His smile was now charming and aimed at her. She smiled back, but scuffed one foot on the floor as well.
She got the movie tickets, and he got the popcorn. By the time the final credits were rolling, she decided that he was a good movie-watching partner. He reacted with enthusiasm to each new turn, laughed at all the good lines, and shared an incredulous look with her when one character was being particularly stupid, but he kept his silence otherwise and didn’t try to comment or ask questions. When the lights started coming up again, she decided that both the movie and the date had been a success.
They rehashed some of the finer details as they walked through the doors, but before they could get to the parking lot a voice called out, “Jeremy!” They both turned to see a group of people, most of whom were smiling and waving at them.
“Hey.” Jeremy was smiling back, and he turned to meet them. Paige looked out at the parking lot, but then followed. “What are you guys up to?”
“Hanging, movie-going,” one of the guys told Jeremy, then smiled at Paige before adding, “And what are you fine folks doing tonight?”
Jeremy laughed and rolled his eyes. “Movies,” he said, then added to Paige, “These are some of my friends. Mel, Danny, Ali, Kate, Ben.” He pointed to each person, and Paige gave an awkward wave. “Everyone, this is Paige.” They all grinned, and she dropped her eyes to the sidewalk.
“Right,” he said, “We’re off. See you later.” With a final wave, they turned their backs to the people and started into the parking lot in silence. When she reached the door of her car, they stopped and he said, “You’re not really a people person, are you?”
Paige just shrugged and shook her head. “Not really.”
“That’s fair,” he said, leaning against her car. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not people.” The comment surprised a laugh out of her, and he seemed to take it as a good sign. “The night’s still young. Do you want to go get coffee or something?”
With an apologetic smile, she said, “I have to go into the office in the morning, so I can’t stay out late.” When he looked disappointed, she continued, “But I had fun tonight. Rain check?”
His face lightened. He nodded and backed away slowly. “I’ll text you.” With that, he turned and walked down the line of cars. Paige lost sight of him when he passed behind a green Explorer. She took a deep breath, then focused on getting into her own car. She could already feel the jitters deep in her bones in anticipation for next time.
June 2015 (present day)
Jeremy and Paige kept their eyes on each other, waiting for the other’s expression to change. His did first. His features loosened and fell. He sat back in his chair and raised one hand to rub over his eyes. “Whatever,” he said from behind his hand. “I’ll get my own fish. Let’s just do this.”
Paige picked up the pen again. Jeremy didn’t see her do it. He didn’t see her hesitation when the pen was poised over the line, didn’t see her eyes dart to him one last time. He didn’t see her sign her name, but he heard it.
This is a scene I wrote for a CRWR class. The assignment happened to align with me seeing this prompt from @copperbadge et al., which worked out nicely for me. ^_^
I’m posting this on my writing blog (sofarundefined), then crossposting it to my primary blog (missizzybeth) as my weekly writing update (sorry for the continued lack of Wayhaught, lovelies. But you’ll be happy to know I’m doing well in school, right? Right?).
Pomona was not the first witch to have come for this baby. The parents looked at each other with mouths stretched and brows furrowed. Pomona rolled her eyes at the witch across from her (she hadn’t gotten her name) but got only a stony look back.
“I promised my firstborn to her.” The mother’s voice shook, and she nodded to Pomona. “So she would save the farm. I never thought I’d fall in love. I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks.”
“But I’ve been trying to tell you,” the husband said, voice tight. “that I promised my firstborn to her,” and here he pointed to the other witch, “in exchange for meeting my true love.”
Pomona scoffed. “Well, that was dumb.” The father tried to glare at her, but with a single look his glare shriveled and died, becoming a whimper instead. Pomona turned to the other witch. “Well, we obviously can’t both take the baby.”
It seemed that, on this, they were in agreement. The woman’s voice was unexpectedly smooth and calm when she said, “You’ll just have to come back for the second one.”
Pomona puffed out her robes and turned her glare onto the second witch. It didn’t seem to phase her. “I will not,” she said. Eyes narrowed, she added, “I guess we could split it.”
The parents both began squawking in protest, but Pomona’s opponent remained unruffled. “And how do you suggest we do that?” she asked. “Down the middle? Top to bottom or side to side?”
“Wednesdays to Saturdays,” Pomona said, and she could feel triumph welling in her when she finally got a reaction out of the witch, even if that reaction was only a slight widening of the eyes. “You can have it Sundays to Tuesdays.” She was sure she’d get the baby now. It was certainly not an agreement that--
“Deal.”
And Pomona’s confidence deflated with a suddenness that left her feeling wilted. She could feel it, deep within where her magic burned. A pact had been struck. Now she would honor it, on pain of Dealbreaking.
The other witch knew she had beaten Pomona. Her face lightened with a smirk, and she said, “But we split Wednesdays.” She stepped forward and scooped the baby from the crib while the parents watched with dropped jaws. Looking at them, Pomona realized she should close her own mouth. Without any better ideas, she followed the woman out the front door.
She found her voice again when they were in the yard. “Now hold on just a second,” she said, hurrying to catch up. “What exactly are you--”
“My name is Sinistra,” the woman cut her off. “And I’m taking the baby to my cottage. It is, after all, Monday.”
“And how do I know you won’t run off with the baby, and I’ll never see you again?”
Sinistra gave her a look that said she was allowing Pomona to consider her own question. “Our contract has been bound by our magic. I am not stupid.” She said it loftily, as if she wondered if Pomona was. “I will be sure the baby gets to you on Wednesday afternoon.”
With a huff, Pomona said, “Well, I’m coming with you. I don’t trust witches.” At the raised eyebrow from Sinistra, she added, “And I would know, wouldn’t I?”
Sinistra allowed that, and gestured to the gate. Pomona strode through it, and thought she might have caught an actual smile from Sinistra on the way.
Hey lovelies. Under the cut is my original fic posting for the week, crossposted to my main blog (missizzybeth) from my writing blog (sofarundefined). I extra failed this week, because it is now Sunday, and this was supposed to happen Friday. I’m working on it, I promise.
Also, I briefly looked through to make sure the formatting worked well during the copy/paste, but some stuff might have gotten missed. I’ll try to update it soon.
Adam sat slumped in his desk, spinning his pen end over end between his fingers. The classroom was full of teens, some barely awake and others who had obviously already had their morning coffee. The room itself was filled with the harsh white light of florescence, the morning sun only barely lightening the windows. The notes from the day before had only been partially erased, leaving the sentence, “George Washington was opposed…” hanging half finished.
For the life of him, though, Adam couldn’t remember what old George had a problem with. What he could remember from yesterday’s class had, overall, little to do with government.
“Hey,” a voice interrupted his thoughts, and his pen flew from his fingers and ricocheted off the wall before landing about ten feet away. Blake laughed at him as Adam stood to retrieve it and ducked his head to hide a blush.
“You were out of it, dude,” Blake said when Adam returned to his seat, pencil in hand. “Where were you? Because it sure as hell wasn’t here.”
“Just thinking,” Adam hedged, keeping his eyes on the blank sheet of his notebook.
Blake’s smile tightened, but he didn’t push. Instead, he pulled out his own binder and said, his voice dry enough to rival the Sahara, “So, political parties. Fascinating stuff.”
Adam gave some shrug of agreement. Was that what they were studying?
Mr. Banner called the class to order then, and Adam managed to maintain attentiveness for at least five minutes. However, as with the day before, the subject wasn’t nearly interesting enough to keep him focused. Any and all attempts to rein in his imagination were quickly thwarted, until he finally gave up the fight.
The object of his distraction was sitting to his immediate left. Those thoughts had been bothering him for the entire week. They’d actually started over a year ago, but the last week had given them a power that Adam didn’t know simple thoughts could possess. Where they’d once featured only some nameless, faceless man, they had over time become much more specific and for months had featured only one, very distinct person. Adam had gotten to the point when he simply accepted their presence, but after they ran through his head for a full lecture he had some trouble meeting Blake’s eyes.
He didn’t have to make everything up, of course. He’d been playing sports with Blake since middle school, and had been best friends with him for just as long. Though he’d carefully kept his eyes averted ever since his fantasies had started, years of sleepovers and locker rooms had given his imagination enough fodder to fuel anything it wanted.
The bell rang, signaling the end of first period and, thankfully, the end of Adam’s only class with Blake. At least in the others he’d be able to put up some kind of resistance against his mind’s diversions.
However, he was not yet entirely free of his best friend’s presence. Their next classes were next door to each other, so of course they walked together.
“I hear that the new football coach is a real piece of work,” Blake said, and Adam felt his face relax into his first real smile of the day. This, at least, was familiar ground.
“Totally a hardass,” Adam agreed. “He made us run suicides after we lost this weekend. In the middle of the afternoon. In full gear, shoulder pads and all.” Adam laughed. “I swear, I sweated off ten pounds.”
Blake broke into a grin of his own. Encouraged, Adam asked, “How’s lacrosse been?”
Before Blake could respond someone in the hallway yelled, “Faggot!”
Adam felt his smile evaporate. He glanced around to try and see who had called out, but he hadn’t recognized the voice and now everyone was looking at them anyway and so he dropped his eyes.
Well, they weren’t looking at them. Mostly, they were looking at Blake.
Blake had told his family first, about a week before. They still loved him, but his parents assumed that it was “just a phase.” He told Adam next, the night before the lacrosse team’s first away game of the season. The only response Adam had been able to formulate was, “But you’ve dated girls. Lots of them.” Three in the last year, to be specific. As opposed to the one girl Adam had tried to date freshman year to seem normal.
Blake shrugged and said, “I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t attracted to them.” This concept had thrown Adam even more, because Adam had never thought about it as an option. It certainly had never been for him.
“So you’re into guys… and girls?” he asked.
“Yep,” Blake said. “Bi, you know?”
With a shock-numbed mind, Adam nodded and suggested they play Call of Duty, and that was that. He’d spent the rest of the weekend considering the millions of ways he could have better handled that conversation. He should have been more supportive. He should have listened to everything his friend wanted to say. He should have used it as a chance to freaking tell Blake how he felt about men in general, if not one man in particular.
On Sunday he had gotten a text that read, “told team. took it well” He had been too surprised to reply. What did that even mean? They were actually cool with it? The idea had given him the confidence boost he needed, and by that night had had talked himself into telling Blake first thing the next morning.
When he’d gotten to school, though, his resolve was entirely flattened when he saw the words etched on the outside of Blake’s locker. “Fag” was scratched out in long, piercing letters. It served as the reality check he needed, the reason to stay firmly buried in the back of his closet.
He’d expected Blake to be furious when he saw it. He expected him to rage and demand that they say it to his face. Or maybe he would go pale, be as sick as Adam felt, and flee. When Blake finally did show, he only sighed, shook his head, and started retrieving his books.
“That’s it?” Adam had asked.
“It’s not the last time this is going to happen,” Blake had said. “They’re all assholes, though, and I don’t care what they think anymore. So whatever.” And, apparently, that was it.
Just like the locker, Blake had no problem ignoring the heckler. “Lacrosse is good,” he said as if nothing had happened. “Coach cancelled practice today.” Some of their classmates cast Blake sidelong looks as if waiting for him to sprout glittery pink wings and start spewing rainbows, but for the most part people moved along and acted as if nothing had happened.
Before they went their separate ways, Blake stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Adam nearly jumped out of his skin in an attempt to put some space between them. He couldn’t even successfully be around his best friend right now and keep a clear head at the same time. It didn’t matter that for years, they could barely keep their hands off each other anyway, always wrestling and shoving and poking and prodding. Last year at the All-State dinner Blake had made him stand still while he systematically brushed all the grass from his sports jacket, though that was probably because he’d been the one to push Adam into the grass in the first place. None of that mattered right now because there was a high likelihood that touching of any kind would give Adam ideas and desires that he could in no way act on in a crowded hallway. Or ever, actually.
Blake had his attention, though, and so he said, “Hey, do you want to hang out after your practice today?” Adam considered the idea for all of a second before his gut started to writhe. If he’d thought touching was bad, any one-on-one conversation sounded like a recipe for spontaneous combustion.
When Adam started casting around for some excuse, though, Blake sighed and added, “Not for long, but I think we need to talk. Please.” It was that last word that really did it, and because of it he wouldn’t have been able to say no any more than he could have come out right there in the middle of the hallway.
“Sure,” he said, and Blake smiled, and Adam knew that he was in trouble.
When he got to Blake’s house that night, his hair was still wet from his post-practice shower. Blake heard him coming in and called up from the basement. Adam gave a sort of half wave to Blake’s mother on the way down, but she only gave him a cursory glance before returning to the papers in front of her.
Blake was sitting on the couch, Call of Duty playing on the TV before him. When he saw Adam, he paused the game and tossed the controller to the coffee table. It missed, landing instead on the carpeted floor, and though it drew Adam’s eyes he could feel Blake’s gaze fixed on him.
“Sit down,” Blake gestured to the sofa across from him. Adam did as he was told.
“Look,” he said. “I know this week has been really weird.” His voice was far too controlled to be calm, and the tight lines around his jaw and hardness in his eyes only served to confuse Adam. There was no meekness or apology in that face. There was, however, anger. His best friend was furious, and Adam had no idea why.
“Yeah,” he said hesitantly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Blake blew out a breath far too vicious to be called a sigh and said, “Yeah, and I think you’re being a jerk.”
“What--,” Adam tried, but Blake spoke right over him and Adam didn’t put up much of a fight.
“Out of everyone, I expected you to be cool with this,” he said. “You’re my best friend, man. And it’s not like you have to like it, but you don’t have to be an ass about it either.” Adam sat silently, trying to keep up with the turn in the conversation.
Blake, however, had built up a full head of steam that insisted on release. “You can’t even stand to be around me anymore. I never took you for a homophobe.” His disgust for the last word leaked into his voice and dripped venom.
Adam was fighting the insane urge to laugh. “I’m not a homophobe,” is what came out instead, weak with disbelief.
“Bullshit you’re not,” Blake said. “You won’t look me in the face, you’re avoiding me like the plague, you just about skin yourself anytime I touch you.” As he listed, he counted each accusation off with a finger.
Adam felt his own temper begin stirring. “Well, yeah,” he said. “But that doesn’t make me a homophobe.”
“Then what are you?” Blake asked, his voice nearly yelling. “Because in my book, homophobe is your only option.”
Adam clamped his jaw shut and glared at Blake’s shoes. “Well, obviously it isn’t,” he said. “Because I’m not.”
Blake scoffed at him. “Are you saying you haven’t been uncomfortable around me since I told you I’m bi?” Adam felt a blush start working its way up his face.
“I haven’t… I mean--,” When Blake stood, Adam backtracked. “But that’s not why.”
Blake had taken a deep breath, ready to continue his verbal beatdown, but no words came. He sat back down, and Adam glanced up. Though his face was still tense, Blake no longer looked only furious. His eyebrows had drawn together, and his eyes had just barely softened.
“So what the hell’s wrong?” he asked.
Adam’s face grew warmer. He returned his eyes to the floor and shrugged. “It’s nothing, alright?”
“Did I do something?” Blake said, and now his voice was slow, almost tentative.
Adam rolled his eyes and said, “No, you idiot. It’s not-- it’s nothing like that.”
Blake stood again, but this time he only crossed to Adam’s sofa and sat next to him. He nudged Adam with his shoulder, but Adam couldn’t make himself relax enough to push back.
“Come on,” Blake said quietly. “You can tell me. It can’t be that bad.” And really, would it be so bad for Blake to know? Adam had almost told him already, but now the word “Fag” was scratched into his mind and he kept his mouth shut.
One of his hands relaxed and instinctively drifted towards Blake. It was a move that had happened thousands of times before, but the moment his fingers brushed against Blake’s jeans he jerked his hand away, ducked his head, and covered his face with clenched fists.
“Oh… oh.” Blake’s words were filled with too much understanding. When Adam looked, his eyes were wide and all the tension had fallen away.
“You’re not straight,” he said.
Adam’s blush raced away and was replaced by a starch cold. “You can’t tell, no one can know,” he said.
“Dude, I’m not a dick,” Blake said, and he smiled. When he saw Adam’s shaking hands, though, it fell away and he added, “Calm down, I won’t say anything.”
But now that they’d started, Adam couldn’t let his confessions stop there. He needed Blake to know the rest, and he needed a response. “I like you,” he blurted and immediately cringed at how infantile he sounded. “Or, you know, I… yeah.”
Silence reigned for a moment until suddenly, Blake was laughing.
“What the hell?” Adam said, and he reached over to hit Blake square in the chest.
“I’m sorry,” Blake said. He shook his head as he worked on composing himself. “It’s just… this is not the conversation I thought we’d be having tonight.”
“Well, whatever,” Adam said, turning away. “Forget it.”
“I don’t want to forget it,” Blake said. “I’m not saying no, okay? I’ve just never thought about it. I need time to process.” He pushed Adam with his shoulder again, and this time Adam shoved back. “Can I have time?”
Adam shrugged again, but this time he smiled a little too. “Fine. But only if I get to pick the game tonight,” and he nodded towards the play station.
Blake stood and said, “Halo it is,” and threw the fallen controller to Adam.
This post is in no way helping me overcome my writer’s block, but... baby steps. I wrote this scene for a creative writing class last year.
I walked into the lab and laid Jane down on the table.
“Bring her back.”
Rebecca looked up from her computers. She met my eyes for a moment, but her attention quickly focused on the cyborg I’d brought with me. Her features, already pale with fluorescent light, lost their remaining color.
“What the hell happened?”
“The plan went south.” The look she shot me clearly said No shit. “We didn’t expect them to have EMPs and she went down hard. You need to fix her.”
Rebecca stilled. “How did they get their hands on EMPs?”
“Does it matter?”
Her eyes hardened and she brought her hands to her hips. “It might. If our sources are bad, if they’re further advanced that we’d thought--”
I kept my head bowed and eyes on Jane when I cut her off. “Later. But now you need to fix her.”
I thought she might argue the point, but with a sigh she took the place across from me at the table. Her fingers hovered over Jane for a second, as if not sure where to start, then pulled the torn shirt away from her shoulder. I could see her access panel, the skin graft torn and metal bent. A shot had torn through one of the hinges and left the panel hanging partially open. Rebecca pried it the rest of the way off. Her face was impassive as the metal shrieked its protest, but I slid one of my hands Jane’s, and the broken joints snagged my fingers.
She’d barely begun examining Jane’s central hub when she started shaking her head. “There’s no way I can fix this. They blew through too much.”
“Of course you can,” I said, my fingers clutching tighter. “You can fix anything.”
“Not this.”
My voice started rising. “You have to. You have to bring her back.”
Furiously, Rebecca gestured to the shreds of cyborg in front of her. “What am I supposed to do with this? Look,” and she pulled on a handle, scattering pieces of circuits everywhere. “They shot straight through her hard drive. There isn’t a her left anymore. She’s gone.”
“No, she’s not.” I tried, and failed, to moderate my tone. It grew louder, and I glared into Rebecca’s eyes. “I’ve seen you do things, all sorts of things. You can put her on a different drive. You have her backed up, I’m sure of it.”
Rebecca returned my glare. When she spoke, her voice was cold. “You need to back down.” When I continued to meet her gaze, she added, “You don’t understand how this works. You’re oversimplifying it.”
“I can go back,” I interrupted. “I can bring back what they shot her with. I’ll bring back everything they have and--”
“And it won’t work.” Now her volume was creeping up. “There’s nothing to fix. She’s broken beyond repair. I can’t just… just glue her back together!”
I finally dropped my eyes to Jane, and her smashed features distorted even further as my eyes teared. “Can’t you try?”
Rebecca groaned and brought her hand up to her face. Through fingers she said, “Fine. Fine, I’ll try… something. But it won’t work.” I just nodded, and didn’t tell her that it had to.
So, because I’ve been banging my head on writer’s block for a while, I decided a blog would be a good idea. Blogs are undefined. They’re a space for any and all writing. I could rant about things and be opinionated about issues, I could brainstorm story ideas and sketch out flash fics, I could do anything, so long as I’m writing.
I have this feeling that it’s going to be more difficult than that.
Because see, blogs are only undefined at the very beginning. From the first post, you start giving your followers (all zero of them... but the principle is the same) an idea of what to expect. Will this blog be about the trials and tribulations of a job-seeking wanna-be writer? Will there actually be any creative content? (Hopefully yes.) Will it be witty and cheerful, or pessimistic and grouchy? (That might depend on the day.) Blogs are like people, like slates: once you start writing, they’re never really clean again.
So, really, I don’t know what we should expect from this blog. I know that I’ve already had an idea for a series of shorts that can go on here, but we’ll see how many of them make it. Writer’s block, remember? I’m already stuck on names...
So keep your fingers crossed and tune back soon. There may just be more to read.
