#ak writes

[akleewrites]

It's not too much, just all 58 scenes of my sequel in note form. I've only written 18 of them... 40 to go.

And then to edit and refine and edit again, but that's for later me to deal with.

[peppermintquartz]

New Blog Post

Hi everyone, It's been a couple of weeks. Hope you're all doing well. A couple of friends and I attended a nonfiction writing workshop recen

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[athenakyle]

FRATBOY JEONGGUK DRABBLES: AND I LOVE YOU 3000

Jeongguk wakes up and realizes that it’s your arms holding him close and he panics. Last night had been the most incredible night of his life, but it was just a dream… right? There’s no way that you’re here in bed with him, there’s no way you would allow him to taint you, to paint your skin in sin the way you had last night, right?

You sigh softly, eyes fluttering open as a blush rises to your cheeks when you realize you’re naked in bed with him, “Hi,” your voice is soft, melodic and calm, everything that Jeongguk is not.

“I have to go.” He jumps out of your embrace so quick it was as if your touch burned him. You watch in amusement as he struggles to pull on his sweats, falling into a seated position on the bed in his haste.

“It’s Saturday,” you laugh gently as you reach for him, “And this is your room.”

The two of you stare at one another for a moment as the smile begins to slip from your face at the lack of emotion displayed on his.

“I can’t be here right now.” He pushes off the bed, not able to take the look of confusion and hurt overtaking your features.

“Gguk wait,” you call out to him, struggle to stop him as you get tangled in the sheets.

“Just forget anything happened.” He turns away from your face, not able to handle the way you were looking at him.

You stand and stare at his back, the lean muscle marred by your nails from the night before. “Gguk, look at me, please.” You reach out to touch him, stopping short when he turns to face you.

“This was a mistake,” his voice is firm and void of emotion, “it didn’t mean anything.” He knows his words are a lie before they even leave his mouth. You however don’t, and judging by the way your eyes get glassy, he’s a better liar than he realized.

“What?”

He stands firm, not daring to repeat himself, but also refusing to take the words back.

“Oh,” you retract your hand and will yourself to not cry as you pull his sheets tighter as if they can protect you from this moment. “Well,” you take a breath and pull yourself together, “I will think the opposite if it’s all the same to you.” Your smile is bittersweet as you remember the way he held you close, and made you feel cherished and loved, “I prefer to remember, because last night meant something to me.” You search for your clothes, and quietly slip them on.

He remains silent and turns away from you as you put yourself together. The quiet of the morning amplifying the sounds of your sniffles as you struggle not to cry.

He’s still staring out the window refusing to face you by the time you’re fully dressed, “You might look back on me as something you regret, like last night a mistake,” your voice cracks, “but I’ll look back on it fondly, because it was with you.” You wait for a beat, hoping for some sort of acknowledgement. “Right,” you nod and through the reflection he can see the tears streaming down your cheeks, “I forgot, you’re no longer the boy who said he’d wait another 19 years so long as I was his first kiss.” You chuckle but it’s full of bitterness and hurt, “I knew your reputation with women, shame on me for thinking that I was different.”

Jeongguk closes his eyes, willing the tears away when he hears his bedroom door close and your footsteps fade down the hall.

[choptop-sawyer]

Excerpt from writings that will not be finished.

It's Frostmaster, naturally.

He rocked him, hugging him tight, until the last tears were shed. They sank to the floor, and stayed there, tangled in each other's embrace.

The Grandmaster didn't think he himself could cry. But that moment was the closest he had ever gotten to it.

"Oh, Stardust." He whispered. "Who hurt you?"

"Nobody." Came a sullen reply. Loki seemed to realize that he was crying then. He was hiding from his emotions once again.

Wounds have a tendency to last, clinging on tight like a bitter tar. Throughout all his long life, En had seen them and gained them, even caused them. They were a common part of a cruel universe with an unblinking eye.

But he didn't know how to hold and heal. All his knowledge, and this was the one thing he lacked. Care and love were hard to come by, after all. Even if everyone needs them the most.

But for Loki, wonderful, clever, Loki, whom fate had spit upon and broken, he could try.

So for that night, he held his Stardust on the cold floor, singing him songs from a language that only En remembered.

[akleewrites]

Answering February's prompt, Correspondence

*

Outside the porthole the stars twinkle a welcome.

They emerge from hyperspace 2.8 million light years away from Home, heading towards the colony where their destination waits in stationary orbit. Two more jumps through hyperspace and they will get to the ship where they will dock for a week, and then start on the return voyage.

The shuttle is silent. They are fine with it. They know of colleagues who play music in transit or catch up on their shows. Several use the time to catch up on their readings and a dozen fiddle with whatever project they have. As long as the shuttle makes the destination safely, the pilot can do nearly whatever they want, as long as it is a thing to be done solo.

A prerequisite for the job was being able to work alone without any contact with Home or Waystation for a stretch of a minimum of 2000 Standard hours. That had been the easiest of all the tests. They remember the interview process and the other physical tests they went through. It had been brutal; 74,800 had applied, and only 386 were successful.

The job is safe, mostly. But not everyone likes being alone with only themselves for company.

They do like it, though. Every time they make the journey, they are no one but themselves. There was no need to figure out the acceptable thing to say, the acceptable way to behave, the acceptable thought to have.

A sudden beep startles them out of their reverie.

It hasn't come from the console, thank goodness. It is from one of the many cases in the back of the shuttle, the stuff Home has been very clear about not touching.

But a second beep emerges, and then a series of tinny, distorted tones. The sounds make the pilot nervous. They can't contact Home or Waystation for advice — the former is out of range, and the latter is not yet in range.

With their heart in their throat, they approach the cases. The sound is continuous now, looping over and over.

If it's a bomb... They swallow nervously and quickly retreat. A protective suit is stowed just behind the pilot's seat, and they activate it. The air recycler hisses and spits. They inhale and cough at the staleness.

Of course Home doesn't bother refreshing the O2 capsules until expiry. The stuffy heat inside the suit, after several breaths, settles to a comfortable 25°C.

But the suit will do for now: fireproof, blastproof, radiation resistant, inbuilt air and heat recyclers and a homing beacon at the neck.

They waddle towards the cases and strain to hear which compartment is making the sound, and finds its source at 217.

The case is carefully extricated from its slot. The strange notes ring out, still tinny and annoying.

On the floor, it looks just like any other case. Rectangular as a brick, with the originally clear hyplas surfaces scratched to translucence from use.

Then they see it. The latch is loose. It must have come loose when the shuttle came out of hyperspace too close to an asteroid four parsecs away.

Relief floods their system. They contemplate the options for a moment, and then gingerly lifts the lid.

A card is inside, along with the correspondence of others living on the — they take a quick look on the side — seventh deck of Wang Chuan.

When they open the card, the tones play what they presume is a song. They recognize the melody; it has been a long time since they have heard it themselves.

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday dear friend

Happy birthday to you!

The song repeats, shrill and artificial, until they close the card. Then they open it again to skim over the words on the card.

"Dear Emma, happy birthday! Hope it gets to you in time. I don't know if I'll ever be able to go to where you are – intergalactic flights are so expensive – but I'm so pleased that we became pen pals! Lots of love, Yen Ling"

They're not supposed to read other people's letters. Slightly guiltily, they fold the card and locate the empty envelope it fell out of.

Emma P Fong

Wang Chuan Deck 7

Cabin 118.2

They have fun stickers in their personal satchel, so they dig out one with a cartoon walrus and seal the envelope with it.

It is a lonely job being a mail carrier in this day and age, they muse to themselves, but sometimes the universe reminds us why we're still needed.

[akleewrites]

July Writing Prompts

Prompt 1: Heat

Prompt 2:

Prompt 3: Toxic by Britney Spears

Prompt 4:

"Poison goes where poison's welcome." - Terry Pratchett

[akleewrites]

April Prompt: Budding

Warmth. Light. Air.

The sun pours life and energy from its lofty seat.

A gentle pulsing echoes through each cell: exhale, inhale, exhale.

I can feel the silent urging: open, open, open.

Not yet, I think.

Her hands are tentative as she holds me. Her fingers brush over me, soft as a breath. She is filled with anticipation. High expectations. I will be her first, she declares aloud to no one in particular. Two ants pause to exchange messages on a leaf stalk.

I will be her first.

Open, open, open.

Not yet.

I am more today. I am full inside. I contain everything that makes me wanted and desired. But still, I remain coiled, closed, protective of my secrets. She marvels at my form and imagines how I will be. She didn’t know that I would appear at all, she says. She was starting to give up hope.

Even so, she still toils away for those in her care. It is the right thing to do. And there are others who she admires as well, for different reasons than she does for me, she says, even though she doesn’t know what I am capable of.

Open, open, open.

Not yet.

It storms today.

Ozone lingers. Rain lashes across the landscape. I quake in the deafening rumble of thunderclaps overhead.

Open, open, open.

It is too cold. I hold myself tightly and wait. Exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale.

I drink. The water is sweet.

Not yet.

Open, open, open.

The sun crawls up the sky and I can feel myself relaxing in its welcoming heat. There is life in me, waiting to burst forth. Carefully I loosen each layer, subtly shaking them out to bask in the light, revelling in the warmth. With every tender reveal, more and more of my treasure escapes my embrace.

She walks out and immediately knows. Her footsteps are light and happy as she hurries over. Her lips brush over my petals as she breathes and breathes and breathes me in.

“You are so lovely,” she murmurs. “You are so, so lovely. What a scent. What a wonderful, delicious scent. You are lovelier than I have dared to imagine.”

I am the first in her life to grow, the first to bloom, the first to present her with sweet, heady perfume.

She can’t stop breathing me in, and her face is alight with joy.

I think, now I will live forever.

[akleewrites]

June Prompt: Somewhere over the Rainbow / What a Wonderful World

I'd like to go over there someday. There where? Over there. Blue skies, bright sunshine, lots of green. Lots of wildlife. Warm and balmy. Safe and happy. If there's lots of green, you're gonna have lots of rain. Can't have one without the other.

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