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Putting the "Pen" in "Pencil"

I do not like to write with pencils. I will, when needed. I try to avoid it as much as possible, though. I’ve tried different “models” of mechanical pencils, including those that boasted pen-like casings that coworkers recommended. But none quite worked for me.

Until this week. Or weekend really. Let’s not get pedantic here.

#z writes things #this is literally a review on pens/pencils #but you asked for it #and by you #chicgeekgirl89 #sspaz1000

“That’s what I’d do.” “That’s a little scary.” HA. See, they can be fun.

I also need to see what else this guy directed because the dialogue exchanges are giving me more L&O vibes.

Good deal, Callen actually got to be Team Leader for a second. Woo.

Sad scene is sad. :(

The If I don’t joke scene seems several seasons ago and not established marry couple.

Let’s just do rapid fire discussions of squeezing in all the current events of the past year while talking about parenting! It’s sad that the show let them adopt a child/teen in need and show the very best of themselves and their hearts, but they’re using it to deliver all these cringe scenes.

Shyla with the recap.

“State-sponsored terrorism.” - Half of the CC0 Dun plays

#z writes things #ep: game of drones

Well the bad news is that I'm pretty confident this story isn't getting out this week. The good news is it's gonna be a lot longer and a lot better as a result?

#z.text #z writes things #surely i am the only person on the planet who edits a 15k word draft and comes out the other side #with 20kish words of a completely different story #it's three chapters and an epilogue now #sigh #the thing is #i tend to skew towards less information rather than more #so when i edit more often than not i realize i need to add stuff #rather than remove stuff #though i did delete a couple of scenes in this fic as a result of the rewrite

1. Outside the Window: What’s the weather outside your window doing right now? If that’s not inspiring, what’s the weather like somewhere you wish you could be?

---

She opens the front door and immediately steps back into the comfort of the air conditioning. Even though the sun has gone down, the air outside is still stifling. The heat pushes its way through the screen door like a cake rising in the oven.

Grabbing her purse and her keys off the side table, she takes a breath and walks out the door. The last trailing bit of cold comfort is cut off as she pulls the door closed behind her.

As she walks down the stairs, she looks up at the starless sky and misses home. Moving to a big city was never going to be easy, but there is something about the empty sky that makes her ache.

A gust of hot, dry wind blows through the construction site across the street and she chokes on the dust. She coughs harshly and then rubs the grit from her face and her eyes.

Sighing, she hits the unlock button on her key fob and walks the rest of the way around her car. The air is already on full blast when she starts the engine but it takes a minute for the air to cool down before it starts to work its magic on the sauna her car has become since this morning.

With one last glance around, she pulls the car away and disappears into the darkness.

#z writes things #writeblr #creative writing #filled prompt #write 365 #I'm not really sure what this is #but at least I wrote something #fiction

Prompt 906 by @daily-prompts : “It’s been said that when you’re buying a house, the house chooses you. Write about a character whose offer for a house gets accepted and the reasons the house wants that particular person to be its new owner. How does the house dissuade people it doesn’t like from making an offer?”

---

The house at the end of Prudence Lane had been empty for many years, It had stayed empty through 7 different Realtors, 19 open houses, and at least a dozen private walk-throughs.

It was a beautiful house with a flawless Victorian exterior. The inside was clean and bright and each Realtor filled it with beautiful furniture and intriguing wall decor. Every open house smelled of freshly baked cookies or brownies and the rich aroma of coffee. And yet, not one person had made an offer.

People continued to visit the house, eating sweets and admiring the architecture, but every one of them felt the same sort of push to go somewhere else, to try somewhere different. There was never anything wrong with the house, no dirt or pests, nothing falling apart or in need of attention. But one by one, every person who looked at the house gave the same sad speech: There was absolutely nothing wrong with the house, but they just had a feeling that it wasn’t the house for them.

It came as a huge surprise, then, at the end of Open House #20, when one man was left standing in the entrance, gazing at the house as if it was the thing his life had been missing all these years.

David Palmer had never really had a home. His parents had died in a car accident when he was only a year old. He bounced around from foster home to foster home for 17 years until he was old enough to go away to college.

Now, four years later, he was finally able to lay down his own roots. And this was the perfect place. There was just something about it that felt like home.

“I’d like to make an offer,” he told the Realtor.

She choked a bit on her glass of lemonade and stared at David, flabbergasted. “You do?” she asked, tentatively.

“You seem really surprised,” he told her, raising an eyebrow. “How long has this place been empty?”

The Realtor sighed, “A very long time.” When David didn’t break in, she continued. “A little over 20 years ago, there was a young family living here. A husband and wife and their newborn son. He was just about a year old when the accident happened. The mother and father had been coming home from dinner when a drunk driver ran a red light and smashed right into them. They both died instantly, and the baby was sent to live in foster care. No one has lived in this house since.”

David shivered at the familiarity of the story. He’d heard the tale of his parent’s death many times over the last 20 years but it still broke his heart to think of them. It was impossible, but he had to ask. “What were their names?”

“The Palmers,” she told him, “Nicholas and Brianna. The little boy was called something with a D, Daniel or Devon, or something.”

“David,” he told her, almost in a whisper. “His name is David”

“How did you–” she started, but she cut herself off, “Oh, oh my goodness. It’s you, isn’t it? Oh, that makes so much more sense.”

David raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“I think the house has been waiting for you,” she said with a small smile. “Give me a moment and I’ll call in your offer.”

He watches her walk across the living room, phone pressed to her ear, and then lets his gaze wander. He imagines himself as a baby, lying on his father’s chest as he watches TV. He imagines himself as a child, running around the room, his parents’ laughter chasing him in circles. He imagines himself as a teenager, sneaking across the darkened room, trying not to get caught getting home after curfew. He sees the life he could have had in this room and it brings a tear to his eye.

The Realtor clears her throat and he turns toward her, expectant. “They’ve accepted your offer, Mr. Palmer,” she tells him and then she smiles. “Welcome Home.”

#z writes things #writeblr #creative writing #filled prompt #fiction #this was longer than I expected #it got away from me a bit there

SEND SOME OF THAT DREAMSTUFF MY WAY

HIGHLIGHTS!

Finn/Poe/Rey sandwich! Poe starts out in the middle, sets the pace, because the pilot’s lips are as sensitive and responsive as his hands and his mind. Finn is slow, almost hesitant, because everything’s happened so fast lately and he needs to savor this. Poe deepens the kiss and gives him more to savor. Rey is fast and hard because she’s tired of counting the seconds, and because maybe she can handle all these feelings if she just doesn’t think. Poe kisses her, pulls away just barely, just so she can feel his sigh on her lips, and moves back in. Once they realize that time is not the enemy, Finn and Rey are kissing each other at the pace Poe has set.

Rey/Captain Phasma lip-biting. SINCE I HAVEN’T SEEN THE FILM I DON’T KNOW IF THIS IS EVEN REMOTELY PLAUSIBLE AND I AM OKAY WITH THAT uunnngg ladies with height-difference

(emo sith boy and his own helmet idek)

#hauntedfalcon #replies #star wars #star wars: sequel trilogy #z writes things #sorta?#finn #poe dameron #rey #captain phasma #sapphic fantastic

loneliness is the fracture that never heals quite right.

[This is a tale of bb!Binshou and bb!Yukio, and I only hope I got little Yukio right by tatterpixie!]

"LASER ATTACK!"

Every muscle in Binshou's body froze when he heard the shoes of the other six-year-olds thumping on the pavement behind him. A hand came from nowhere and slapped his book from his grasp, and it was like a jolt of electricity through his body.

"Ha! I shot the book right from your hands! Now your secret plans are ours!"

Another child swooped in and picked it off the ground.

"Stop!" Binshou's shout was pure instinct, and unnecessary, as the three boys turned to face him once they were just out of arms' reach.

"What? It's just a book. It doesn't even have any pictures."

"No way you can read all these kanji!" one of them said, flipping through the pages. "You just pretend to! You just want to look smarter than us!"

Binshou shook his head and didn't speak, afraid that if he did, he'd no longer be able to hold back the tears that were stinging the corners of his eyes.

"We'll keep it and we'll write something good in it!"

Suddenly, flames erupted from the open pages of the book. The boys dropped it with a shriek and scrambled away.

No one had seen or heard the tall boy with the too-long fringe approach, and when he bent down to retrieve the book, it didn't seem burnt at all. The boys took another step back when he turned his yellow eyes on them, but he remained silent. The tiny black puppy by his side made up for this by yelping as fiercely as it could.

"Oh, it's just the Weirdo," said one of the boys, mustering as much aggression as he could.

"You think we're scared of you, Yukio? We just avoid you because no one likes you!"

"I don't even want that stupid book, anyway. Let's just get away from him."

And they ran off, their shouts of "Weirdo!" and "Alien!" and "Double Laser Attack!" echoing down the street.

Yukio turned back to his shorter classmate, and silently offered him the book. Binshou accepted it, slowly and with some hesitation, glancing from the solemn boy to the long-haired chihuahua that was now wagging its tail and looking quite pleased.

It did not occur to Binshou that Yukio might be waiting for his thanks, or any response, really. He just stared, and blinked and sniffled. Why was everyone around him so scary?

When he was little, he'd had dreams of other people—seven wonderful people, and not his parents!—out there in the world, just waiting for him to find them. People who would like him, and be kind to him. And he'd figured out quite early that none of them were at school. Most likely, they were only in his head.

Finally, Yukio just nodded at him. "Be careful." And he walked away, the puppy following at his heels.

Alone at last, Binshou took a deep breath. And another. And he hugged his book to his chest. And as he watched Yukio growing smaller in the distance, he decided that maybe he, at least, wasn't so scary. He'd just saved his book, after all. (And he had a puppy.)

Making friends in the real world was hard—maybe impossible—but he could try. He could start with "thank you".

Binshou ran down the sidewalk and shouted as loud as he could (which was not very loud at all): "wait!"

#z writes things #rp #rp: perfect world #fushigi yuugi #chiriko #crossposting

what did you ever do to deserve this? in all probability, something terrible.

"Don't forget: you brought this on yourself."

If the text that had just appeared on Catalina's comm pad made her jump a little, no one noticed. The people around her were all focused on their own workstations, speaking into microphones to each other, to the control ship in orbit around the planet, and to recording devices, for posterity. Future citizens of the Silver Millennium would want to know exactly what happened on the day they first powered up the Time Gate.

Once she was over the initial shock, it was a welcome distraction from the fact that everyone on the planet would be dead—or worse—within five minutes.

Was the text meant for her? she wondered.

Yes.

She knew it, as instinctively as she felt and knew the flow of time.

She glanced up. A woman stood in front of the Gate, still, taking readings with an electro-chronometer. Four minutes left.

Who sent it?

I did.

Of course. Her intuition had an actual basis: the shadow of her own thoughts upon the time stream. She knew it was meant for her because she'd sent it herself.

From the future.

The last of the scientists were clearing the area around the Gate. Their faces were a blur. Already she was forgetting the lives and identities of the people she'd worked with over the past year, and it was probably for the best. Three minutes left.

It had to be from the future, because she didn't actually remember sending it. If she could remember, it would be in the past. What she was feeling was too strange to be memory. Was it the reverse, the opposite of memory?

No, the inversion of memory.

The control room went dark but for a few glowing screens and instruments. She could feel the spark of anticipation in the air, even over the growing hum of electricity. Two minutes left.

Why would she send such a text to herself? From the future? It sounded like a castigation, but it couldn't be that. Why bother? If there was one thing she knew to be consistent about herself across the timelines, it was that she wouldn't put forth the effort without a purpose.

It was a warning.

The Gate began to light up. The countdown began. T minus 60 seconds.

A warning against what? Against creating the Time Gate? No, she wouldn't have sent it so late then.

T minus 30 seconds.

Maybe events wouldn't play out quite the same this time around? No, she could feel the current of the time stream, just as swift and deep as when she'd first discovered the anomaly of the Gate's creation. Everything was playing out as it always had, and always would.

T minus 10 seconds.

For the first time that day, she looked up at her colleagues and hoped to meet someone's eyes. She needed a catalyst for another spark of intuition, the reassuring variable of another intelligence.

All she could see were stark planes of light across cheekbones and foreheads, outlines of humans in the dark. Even their instruments were dim, now. Only the Gate was glowing.

T minus 5 seconds.

Brought what on myself?

But time was rushing by too quickly. All she could do was feel, because if she stopped being aware of the weightlessness and crushing heaviness and loudness and stillness that filled her mind and her lungs, she would be swept away completely.

T minus 4.

And suddenly she was buoyed out of the stream by an echo of loneliness, wide and empty and as long as the infinite arrow of time.

And everyone else around her was swept away as the Time Gate exploded like a supernova.

And she realized what the message had meant.

#z writes things #rp #rp: silvermoon #sailor moon #sailor pluto