Short Stories

I am not a professional writer I just like to write little ideas from time to time and will post them here.

[iobsesswaytoomuch1]

youre iconic pookie i literally love you i hope youre doing well :P

AWWW UNO REVERSE CARD

I LOVE YOU TOO <33333 SO FREAKING MUCH

I’m doing awesome!! The rehearsals for newsies at getting longer and honestly I’m here for it :D tired though :’)

what about you?

[abstractpenny]

honestly not bad

failing half my classes but yk at least i get out of fiddler (we have an ensemble of over 50 people and nobody has their dances or lines memorizes) (we open in like two weeks)

anyways im learning that ao3 commenters are actually lovely people and they make me so happy theyre delightful

and im glad youre doing well! rehearsals suck though i get it. you're a fighter and a survivor

[mrhandlemam]

LOVE YOURSELF MORE PENNY

[abstractpenny]

I WILL I WILL I PROMISE (only if you both do too though @iobsesswaytoomuch and @mrhandlemam)

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Aww shucks ok

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I take a deep sigh after hours of putting the finishing touches on my book. It was the fourth in the series but I still couldn't get used to the process. As I walk through the nearest park to my house I wonder why. “Why must it have to work like this? Why can't I just write while sober?”

As I contemplate that fact and find solace in a bench I only want to scream at the top of my lungs. Not like I could. This is a public space, anyone would hear me and I would probably get reported. As I rest my face deep into my hands about to get up, I feel a hand rest on my shoulder.

“GAH!” up my face went as I jolt from my previous position. I did not know the strange man beside me. “You alright sir?” He calmly asked me. Whoever this man was I could tell something was truly off about his presence. Maybe it was his voice or his build. But something was different. “Sir?” The man questioned, bringing me back from my thoughts. “Ah- Yes I am fine. Are you?” Maybe if I attempt to make the conversation awkward I can avoid something sinister. The man paused and gazed upon the stars and the street light overhead, “I am searching for a man,” he looks at me with this glint in his eye “He’s a simple man. An author.” I look into his silver blue eyes. A small part of me hopes he isn't talking about me. “I have been watching his work since his first draft, you know? But he doesn't know the power his words wield.” This knot in my stomach begins to form with his words. “Have you seen him during your journey?” He asks, finalizing his turn at the conversation.

“What does he look like?” My voice quivers a bit. The man adjusts his suit, not that unusual of attire for the area nearby but still a bit off for the hour. “It matters not what he looks like-” the stranger quipts cryptically, “Have you seen him?” He stresses. I have a feeling he is talking about me so I try to scoot away to the edge of the bench. His presence feels even more overwhelming once I have moved. “And-” I hiccup “So what if I have Mr?” My poor attempt at changing the conversation. “Well I need to tell him to stop his antics.” The man seems more irritated at my antics than anything. I think he knows I know. “Why are you watching me sir.” I say plainly. He clearly knows who I am. “You have unknowingly tampered with the fabric of that of which you have no understanding. You must stop.” Fear runs across my face “Stop what?” Despite my question I have a solid guess. Sternly the man stares into my eyes “Writing.” Knew it. I called it. Draft and author gave it away. “Writing.” I repeat like a macaw, a bit impressed I guessed right and confused by why writing. “You write while under the influence, correct?” Yeah. I do. Do I have to tell him? “Sure. So? Many great authors have.” He looks into his hand and points it at me. “And yet very few have met me. You, like Shakespeare, have touched that which your mortal fingers should have never been able to grasp. Thus I am here to offer you a choice. Continue writing the way you have and you may find yourself interacting with a world we have hidden for longer than humans have even had written language. Or, quit and I shall give you what you have desired since the accident.”

Oh that's it! No. No one pressures me like that. “I don't know who you are. Whether god, beast, mythological or made by man no one dares to try to use that against me. Not even my family.” I begin to stomp off, middle finger high in the air. Only for a tentacle-like appendage to wrap around my arm. As I turn back there is no longer a man where he once was. There is darkness, absence, and long tentacles of said absence reaching out towards every fragment of light in the space. A single mouth sits center of the void and with the faintest breath it challenges me “Make. Your. Choice.” My choice? MY CHOICE? What kind of Cthulhu nonsense have I found myself walking into. “My choice?!” confusion is all my mind is full of. “I WANT TO WRITE” I said it. “I want to write that is why I keep getting high to do it. If that's the only way I can write then that's how I will do it. I love writing, I love it all. But I can't do it sober no matter how much I-” suddenly a tentacle wraps around and covers my mouth. In a low growling voice the absence snarls “Then I heed you, dear William; be prepared. The quill is sharper than the blade but the words written hold more power when blood has been spilled.” And with those words I look up. Still on the bench where I once was, now with the light overhead broken.

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She sat by the shore looking across the sea. The way the waves crashed upon the rocky sand laced shore. The light of the sunset dancing across the ever shifting sea spread. Oh how she wished she could just melt away into its embrace like foam. Dearest Elenore. Her lover recently left her here, in this lighthouse. Left to tend to a structure that needed to run till the end of her days not for herself, but for others. And he left her there alone. He said he would return and the mainland was not that far away. Yet that man had not returned for weeks. Maybe he could not take the everboding solitude anymore. Maybe he couldn't take her anymore. Elenore didn't know. But she waited in her lighthouse for her sailor. One daya different man drifted onto shore. Even if it had been years since she felt her love's embrace she didn't think he would mind. She was saving a soul, the job of a lighthouse resident. The man, Pierre, was kind and funny. Every day he brought warmth to her slowly dimming lighthouse. He always returned to Elenore. Yet she knew it would not last. Though she knew time was moving normally it felt like it was so much slower for her.

They had gotten married, had children on this isle.. and yet the lighthouse still never dimmned. She could feel her love never dimming. Dearest Elenore. Oh poor Elenore. She watched her children age and leave. Cried out while her second husband drift back to the sea from which he came. And the lighthouse still never dimmed. No matter how many times she lost someone her lighthouse stood ever present with it's ray lighting the foggy sea. Another came, and another and another. So many men came into her life and yet it never dimmed. Oh how she prayed for it to dim. To set her free from this house. If only her Husband would come back to her. To release her from these walls. But then came a woman, Naomi. Naomi was, perfectly imperfect. Every night with her was like a story and each day was like a song. It echoed across the sea so Sweetly. Finally. But that's why the lighthouse did something different. It changed hue. It was no longer that bright yellow she once knew. It was orange. Naomi's orange. Elenore did not say a word. She tried so hard to stay there, her prison. With her it wasn't prison. But she couldn't stay. The lighthouse claimed Naomi. Elenore could do was guide her final love. Lead her down a path that would ease her in this life until the next victim came.

Quietly she died one summer's day laying by the shore looking across the sea. The way the waves crashed upon the rocky sand laced shore. The light of the sunset dancing across the ever shifting sea spread. Oh how she wished she could just stay there till the end of her love's days. Sweet tragic Elenore.

[driftingthruspace]

please don’t let me fall into yet another classic book hyperfixation… im not ready to catch some rye…. le petit prince is Not Helping (will probably cave and read it regardless)

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Read!!!!

@bred-is-a-dumb-name TELL HIM TO FALL PREY TO NOVELS WITH ME

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I am going to make so many tumblers and no one can stop me