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dourpeep · 3 years

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Got a neat idea while making tea this morning and deciding what cup to use! I have a small collection of mugs going on hahaha. But this also serves as a bit of practice for very short characterizations of other characters!

A Cup-le of Memories

Summary: The cups you have and the many fond memories that come with them.

Contains: Kazuha x Xiao x Reader, various other characters, fluff, modern au, memories

The three of you, in your little (Kazuha argues that it's "cozy") shared apartment's kitchen, have quite the collection of cookware. But your favorite has the be the assortment of mismatched mugs tucked away in the cabinet to the right of the sink.

A collective effort made by you, Kazuha, and Xiao whenever you go out, really. Always finding ones that are best fitting, pretty, or...questionable. But even so, each holds a dear place in your heart with the memories they hold and the ones you're sure they'll bring. You reach for a cup, thinking of your two loves and your group of very dear friends.

Who should you pick today?

Everyone—everyone who visits is assigned a cup.

The first you hover over is a rounded pale peach mug shaped like a cat-blob. Venti found it hilarious, after the initial look of shock and offense.

"My first time visiting your apartment and this is how you thank me?? Some friends you are-"

As soon as Kazuha offered to switch it out, the cup was swiftly pressed against his chest, protective. "No, no it's mine now."

It’s hard to not see the knowing smile that spreads over his features every time he visits for a drink.

Hm…maybe not.

Venti was going to visit later anyway to get some input from Kazuha about lyrics and return Xiao's guitar.

It'd be best to keep it up here and ready to be used for when he arrives.

Your hand pulls back, only for a novelty-shape to catch your eyes. You hold back a snort.

Oh, definitely one of the cups fitting under "questionable" and undoubtedly the only one that wasn't chose by the three of you.

"Hello again!"

The chipper voice of a certain ginger-haired man echoes down the hall, hair tousled and decorated with a pair of sunglasses. Still in beachwear, Childe (a long-time nickname according to him) strolls down the hallway accompanied by two of his work-but-not-work friends. They stay behind waiting for him to finish up.

"I just had something I wanted to drop off, Xiangsheng always mentions your mugs so I figured this would be perfect!"

In his hand, a mug in the shape of a lady's torso wearing a polka-dot bikini.

The cup ended up becoming Childe's on the rare times that he visits.

But speaking of Xiangsheng-

His is pretty fitting.

Xiao reaches into the cupboard, taking a short time to pick out the one the three of you found just earlier that week. It's simple, elegant--a brown ceramic mug with a clean glaze to provide a shiny finish.

"Thank you, truly."

The man holds the cup now filled with a fragrant tea, hot and steaming.

True to the tradition, Zhongli refuses to use any but the cup designated as 'his'. Remembering this makes you feel a little guilty for thinking of using it…after all, Zhongli visits often as well so it’s weird to use the cup right?

Onto the next cup, then!

Ah, the Hard Rock cup. Really, it originally was from the Hard Rock Cafe…but the “cafe” part has since been rubbed off very diligently. The apartment smelled like acetone for days.

No one really used the mug so it tended to sit and gather dust sadly in the back of the cabinet. Nothing really wrong with it, it just ended up not fitting anyone so far. Though you’d try to use it now and then in the mornings, you did favor some of the other cups…

“Hey, lemme see that one there.”

You look at Xinyan, brow knitted in confusion. “But you have a cup?”

“This’n is mine now! I have an idea-“

You laugh, remembering the way that she sat, cross legged on the kitchen floor and vigorously rubbing at the cup until her own nail polish was rubbed off from the chemical and a sizeable pile of sad, mushed cotton balls lay before her.

Not to mention her victorious cry of 'It's done!'

Putting the cup back, you sigh. Maybe not that one either, then. Standing on the tips of your toes, you stare at one of the two that are in the front of the others. Oh! You remember this—a handmade yunomi. Definitely a little lopsided and maybe not-so-safe to use considering that it wasn’t glazed properly, but…

Kazuha’s in a rush today, it seems, muttering something about an extracurricular he took and that one of his projects was coming out of the kiln today. Excited, he slipped his shoes on and was out the door with a very quick kiss.

It’s not until lunch that he returns, beaming proudly. Setting a plainly colored cup on the counter, he awaits your judgement. The cup itself is cute, with a careful imprint of a maple leaf on the side that’s colored in with a rusty red color.

“I made myself a cup. The professor allowed the class to have a free project for the final, so I thought it’d be something that I can use often.”

He still does use it every day.

The other, placed carefully beside it always draws a chuckle from you and your partners.

Oh. This was the cup- the perfect cup for your somewhat stoic, somewhat grumpy, but very soft partner.

Giddy, you swipe it off the shelf and hurry to the checkout.

He’s less than enthused, which is hilarious when you’re beaming so brightly and Kazuha is so so very close to loosing it. You nudge the cup closer to where your other boyfriend is sitting down at the table.

“Number one…” Xiao’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest. “Grandpa.”

Hehe. Never gets old.

Even with his initial response, Xiao took the cup in stride and takes every opportunity to use it. Tea, coffee, cereal, soup—the possibilities are endless with a mug. You wonder if it’s because you’re the one who picked it.

It’s been a while since you’ve decided to have a drink. At this point, you could just close the cabinet and go without, but you can’t lose your dedication now.

So, you push aside a few of the mugs in search of a specific one—just the one you’ve been looking for, now that you realize it.

Brushing over Venti’s cat cup, Childe’s bikini cup, Zhongli’s deep brown mug, Xinyan’s “hard rock” cup, Kazuha’s diy, and Xiao’s (frankly fantastic) grandpa mug, you smile and relish every moment these hold.

But ultimately, your hand closes around a simple, white mug.

Cheap, yes, and a little plain...but nothing beats the pixelated picture of you, Kazuha, and Xiao wrapped in each other's arms, the mug still just as pristine as when you got it despite so many washes.

#kazuha x xiao x reader #xiao and his two lovely dumb s/o's #kazuha #xiao #genshin impact #genshin impact kazuha #genshin impact xiao #genshin impact drabbles #genshin impact fics

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dk-thrive · 4 years

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Enfold yourself in small comforts

The scent of sun-dried sheets fresh off the clothesline can completely change my state of mind. Like the sense of well-being that comes over me when a song from my youth is playing on the radio, the smell of line-dried sheets takes me home to Alabama, back to a time when all my beloved elders were still alive, still humming as they shook out a wad of damp bedsheets and pinned them to the line.

This summer I have repeatedly washed not just our sheets but also our 20-year-old matelassé coverlet, whose scalloped edges are now beginning to fray. I have washed the dust ruffle for possibly the first time in its entire existence. Once the linens are reassembled, I crawl between the sheets, breathe in, and feel the muscles across the top of my back begin to loosen. As my friend Serenity’s mother is fond of saying, “There are very few problems in this world that putting clean sheets on the bed won’t improve, even if just a little bit.”

These days it’s truly just a little bit, even when the clean sheets have been dried on a clothesline in the bright summer sun. Everyone I know is either suffering terribly or terribly worried about someone who is suffering. When will they ever find work? What if they get sick at work and can’t afford to take time off? What if they bring the virus home to the people they love? How will they work and also home-school their children? Will their parents die of the coronavirus? Will their parents die of loneliness before they can die of the coronavirus?

For months now, all my phone calls and texts and emails have begun, “How are you, really?” or “How is…?” Sometimes I’m the one who’s asking and sometimes I’m the one who’s being asked, but every exchange begins the same way.

Without even thinking about why, I engage in useless compensation. Bringing a few swallowtail caterpillars inside to save them from the red wasps. Repotting eight years’ worth of Mother’s Day orchids. Buying mask after mask, as though this color or this style or this pattern will somehow protect me and those I love. I am getting through these days primarily by way of magical thinking, and sheets billowing on a hot August wind are my talismans against fear and loss.

In June, after 25 years in this house, my husband set to work on our 70-year-old kitchen cabinets, chiseling out layers of paint, planing and sanding warped edges. When he was finished, the cabinet doors would close all the way, and stay closed, for the first time in decades. If you ask him why he went to all this trouble, he has no explanation beyond the obvious: For 25 years it needed to be done, and so he finally did it.

But I think it’s more than that. I think he was worrying about his lonesome father, quarantined in an efficiency apartment, and that’s why he fixed those cupboard doors. He was worrying about our oldest son’s pandemic wedding and our middle son’s new job as an essential worker. He was worrying about whether our youngest son’s university would make the inevitable decision to hold classes online before we had to sign a yearlong lease for an apartment our son might never set foot in. My husband can’t control any of those things, much less cure Covid-19, but he can by God make the kitchen cabinets stop flying open and knocking us in the head while we cook.

The other day, I posted a picture on Facebook of our masks drying on the clothesline. “At some point I’m going to have to stop buying masks with flowers on them,” I wrote. “I don’t know why I keep thinking a new mask with flowers on it will solve everything, but I keep thinking it anyway.”

My friends began to chime in. “In case you are wondering, ice cream doesn’t seem to solve anything either, but I’m still collecting data,” my friend Noni wrote. “I confess I have not picked up an iron in years, but I now iron our masks each week,” wrote Tina. “It’s important to get the pleats just right. For some reason.”

We know the reason. In Margaret Atwood’s 1969 debut novel, “The Edible Woman,” a character named Duncan copes with chaos by ironing: “I like flattening things out, getting rid of the wrinkles, it gives me something to do with my hands,” he says.

A few days later I was still thinking about Tina ironing those masks, so I asked, outright, what my Facebook friends are doing to manage their own anxieties. When I checked back a few hours later, there were more than 100 comments, and every one of them was a lesson, or at least a needed reminder, for me.

My friends are giving themselves difficult and absorbing assignments: reading classic novels, learning a new language or a challenging song on the guitar, working complicated puzzles. “I am doing so many puzzles because it feels good to put something back together again,” my friend Erica wrote.

They are throwing themselves into the domestic arts: preparing complex meals, learning to make paper flowers and, yes, ironing. “I’ve been ironing my pillowcases,” wrote Elizabeth. “They feel so crisp and cool on my poor menopausal cheeks.”

They are putting in a garden, in the suburban backyard or on the city balcony. They are feeding the birds and sometimes the turtles, rescuing orphaned opossums, walking in the woods. They are sitting on the porch — just sitting there, listening. At night they are going outside to look at the stars.

They are taking care of others — adopting puppies and lonely neighbors, coaching elderly aspiring writers via Zoom, breaking their own rules against pets in bed, taking the time to get to know their U.S. Mail carriers. They are meeting friends — outdoors and from a safe distance — and making a pact to talk about anything but the coronavirus. They are reveling in the slower pace of family life and falling in love with their partners all over again. My sister, who still lives in Alabama, is sending boxes of Chilton County peaches to faraway friends who have never before experienced the taste of heaven.

Tears welled up as I read their stories, and by the time I’d reached the end, I was openly weeping. It felt like nothing less than a blessing, in this hurt and hurtful time, to remember how creative human beings can be, how tender and how kind.

>We may be in the middle of a story we don’t know how will end, or even whether it will end, but we are not helpless characters created and directed by an unseen novelist. We have the power, even in this Age of Anxiety, to enfold ourselves in small comforts, in the joy of tiny pleasures. We can walk out into the dark and look up at the sky. We can remind ourselves that the universe is so much bigger than this fretful, feverish world, and it is still expanding. And still filled with stars. — Margaret Renkl, "A Reminder to Enfold Yourself in Small Comforts" (NY Times, August 24, 2020)

#Margaret Renkl #comfort #peace #anxiety #covid-19 #pandemic #virus #hobbies

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brain-stormer-blog1 · 6 years

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Modern, Muggle Marauders

[wolfstar and jily/jegulily, 15,523 words]

Remus

oversized sweaters and button downs all day everyday

ink stained hands

collects old books - Most have torn pages and faded ink from constant rereading.

has too many half written stories all featuring the same characters he’s overly attached to (an: oh shit its actually me)

somehow always carries chocolate or knows the nearest place he can get some. works in a book store (an: I just love this au too much ik its cliché as hell)

WELSH ACCENT

can and will fall asleep anywhere

all his clothes have rips in them or are extremely worn - not on purpose like Padfoot however (’MOONY ITS PUNK ROCK SHUT UP AND GIMME THE SCISSORS’)

enjoys the rain a lot - lucky they stay in Scotland then

Amber eyes and golden hair that lightly curls with his love of the rain (James gets jealous bc hes the ‘curly haired friend’)

always carries a notebook, of which he has wayyyyy too many

knows too many constellations which he doodles in all of his notebooks and always keeps track of the moon phases, hence the nickname

his sleep schedule is beyond screwed - probably caused by “ nope I cant sleep without reading Pads,” and then getting completely transfixed by a fictional world

always sketching people around him, he could happily sit in a café all day and draw everyone there, maybe he has an entire notebook of Padfoot sketches, maybe he does not, who knows

can’t function without coffee

very trustworthy of his friends almost too trusting, but can barely talk to a person outside of their group

almost too pale, couldn’t tan if he tried all that the sun does is give him a light dusting of freckles and chases away his beloved rain

loves living in the attic of their huge shared home (curtesy of James’ insanely large inheritance and Sirius’ uncle Alphaard) it has wooden walls and an obscene amount of plants, his favourite part is a large window on the ceiling that he enjoys climbing out especially when its drizzling when the others join him

usually the subject of Padfoot’s (favourite) polaroids

probably the only guy there that thinks of the consequences of a situation before they become a reality

the responsible one

can read & write music

pianist

Lily & Peter read all of his stories - annoyed they aren’t finished loves animals, still pretends to be annoyed when James brings home stray dogs

gets sick constantly and secretly finds it hilarious when Sirius freaks out and acts like his nurse

Sirius

constantly painting, drawing and creating awesome art pieces

photography nerd - has a huge collection of polaroids & pinholes in his ‘dark room’ (a cupboard under the stairs that has a red light)

owns a motorbike that he is constantly repairing and is attempting to convince

James to get one too “prongs we’ll look awesome c’mon do it or the aesthetic” James can’t ride a damn bicycle

always stealing Remus’ sweaters, even thought they are all about 10 sizes too big

has at least 15 leather jackets.(Wears one bc Moony got him patches for it years ago)

Long black hair that is always falling into tired grey eyes - Walburga has threatened to chop it off too many times

works in an art gallery, occasionally slips in his own work (the manager knows but she loves his work)

angsty as hell

always listening to music - preferably on vinyls “I don’t care how expensive it is Wormtail, it sounds far better (also it’s not my credit card its my cousin Bellatrix’s so???)

Smoker (probably for the aesthetic tbh) “yeah right Moons it makes me punk rock as shit,”

wears his biker boots all day everyday

plays guitar (secretly acoustic is his favourite)

all his clothes are ripped as heck

very very protective of his friends, has given out and received his fair share of black eyes for this “its for a noble cause also it makes me look pun-” “ Padfoot for god sake we get it you’re punk rock!”

terrible at showing negative emotions but has learned to when it comes to Prongs and Moony - he’s getting there with some of the others

obsessive in his love for dogs and is genuinely offended when Lily gets a cat, the day he found out James bought it the word ‘betrayal’ is genuinely used, even more offended when Regulus began playing with the cats “ Sirius I’m named after a star in the LEO constellation???”

such a drama queen (speaking of Queen imagine him & Bohemian Rhapsody?)

tries to hide his aristocratic background, though his mannerisms show it off quite often

fluent in French he has a slight French accent

Lives on Tumblr (surprisingly this was never meant on this site) & Netflix

also memorises the moon phases ( just to impress Remus honestly)

makes awful puns constantly “I’m serious” “nah I’m Sirius you’re James” “ugh are you fucking serious” “nah I’m fucking Moony” *atrocious wink*

ripped skinny jeans - Wormtail still calls him emo for it

James

super athletic

Loves photography claims to use the best equipment but still constantly invades Sirius’ excuse for a dark room

plays drums

somehow the only one who can cheer up Regulus instantly

only has 1 pair of glasses even though he is horrendously clumsy, Lily is assuming he is just seeing how much tape he can build up before they are entirely useless

obsessed over football - he manages a small team that he is way too enthusiastic about

still surprised Lily even talks to him “James we’ve been dating for 5 years stop being a prat”

plans out the biggest pranks and somehow manages to get everyone involved, if he doesn’t they turn to shit but that’s a ‘secret’ everybody knows only shoes he actually ones are trainers & football boots “James you are not wearing Nikes to Alice and Franks bloody wedding!”

really competitive

obsessively plays Xbox and has weekly gaming nights with everyone (Sirius always rage quits) Wormtail is the only one who is still playing with him after 30 minutes

goes on tones of unplanned road trips with Lily

tries a weird new diet practically every week, sort of a health freak

way too much house pride - his whole room is decorated red and gold

has an old pickup truck he prides too much even though he is almost needing to fix it as much as Sirius and his ancient motorbike

the ‘mom friend’ always looking after everyone

Peter

actually the only reason they don’t all eat fast food & take aways 24/7 - he’s a great cook

proof reads all of Remus’ stories for him before they get posted

works as a barista in a grunge as hell café across the road - the others always hang out there when he’s working

secretly enjoys the challenge of James’ strange dieting (gluten free+ vegan month was definitely a challenge though)

owns 2 pet rats - is scared shitless that Regulus’ pet snake is going to eat them at one point

really good at giving gifts because he’s great at listening to people has a massive collection of hoodies for no apparent reason

always third wheeling because of Wolfstar and Jily, it’s better now that Regulus has move in though

really good at video games - occasionally lets James win because he gets too moody otherwise

bassist

only listens to indie & grunge music - secretly loves Sirius’ obsession with vinyls

Lily

not super feminine but always has the latest fashion trends - usually fairly alternative (known to sport the jeans + fishnets thing that looks bomb as hell)

reads almost as much as Remus and is always hanging out in the book shop he works at

really enjoys playing football with James - finds it hilarious when he gets competitive

super long ginger hair + green eyes

loves tattoos, has handpoked a few of her own (mainly gets them done professionally, her friend Marlene is a tattoo artist) & Sirius let her do a moon on his wrist

doesn’t know that James reads all the books she talks about until she finds 3 of them hidden on his side of them wardrobe and interrogates him

super spontaneous really enjoys the constant unplanned road trips

does a lot of digital art, usually draws characters from books most often the characters Remus will never let go of in his stories

can ride a motorbike and occasionally takes Sirius’ for a spin

just a badass tbh

everyone takes their problems to her because she somehow has a solution for everything

wants to get into interior design and when they move in she helps everyone decorate their rooms, constantly adding to their home paints a different wall every week

literally friends with everyone - nobody dislikes her and probably couldn’t if they tried

has a weird skill for knitting, likely the source of 90% of Remus’ holy sweaters

obsessed with ‘retro’ things, favourite things tend to be from the 80s/90s

always helping Wormtail when he is baking, as long as she gets the first taste

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dahlialittlejames · 7 years

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Testing Time: Prose Edition

Warning: There’s some death mentions, follows roughly the same flow as the song which actually made writing it all the easier. Just sharing since I’m sort of proud of how I went about this, plus I figured context could be fun

“Mo, can you help me with something?” Nick’s digging around the boxes lined at the wall of his kitchen, prodding them the best he can but still in need of hands that won’t damage what he’s looking for. Alan sets down his coffee and his newspaper. Got to get his news where he can, even if the radio’s turning out to be a decent source of it.

“Sure thing,” he says, and hops up to look. Boxes of clothes they can’t part with yet, Nick’s guitar and uke cases collecting dust, and big box Nick hadn’t labeled among the rest. Nick points it out and Alan hefts it onto the table. “What’s even in here?”

“Just open it,” Nick says. “I think it’s gonna help with the colors.”

“Why’s that?” Alan says, but tears through the tape to the contents. Inside are Christmas cookie tins with hastily scribbled dates on the sides and a Polaroid camera, and some beaten notebooks in Nick’s handwriting but some in others’ too.

“It’s, uh, my memory box,” Nick explains. “There’s some pictures of me from this last year, for reference.” He prods open the cupboard over his pot, juggling some bottles of his mix to the table. His hand plunges through the glass as Alan picks up a tin dingier than the others.

There’s mismatched photos inside, and notes. It’s unlabeled but Alan recognizes the one on top with a grin. He and Nick, in cap and gown and standing there like two men who shared a jail cell. Nick’s got a grin to rival the world he’s about to plunge into, Alan with enough fear to be sensible but still smiling. Both of them have long hair tucked under their caps.

“That hair is terrible,” he says, brow cocked. “Thank God I cut it before I met Mary-Anne.”

“This is college, right?” Nick asks. He pokes his head over Alan’s shoulder, face darkening to orange. “Dang. Can’t believe I made it.”

Alan chuckles. Eyes the two young men staring back like they never left, since they never really did. Alan’s steeped back in his old fear, and Nick’s back to relying on him in his own way. It was more like waking him and treating hangovers back then, not hiding a living blob in a lab, but it sort of feels the same in retrospect.

“Didn’t think it’d ever be like this again,” Nick mutters. He’s smiling but a little guilty, too.

Alan flicks through more photos. More graduation pictures, and then to his own parents huddled together but looking off at the proceedings in hushed pride. It sends a flutter through him now. His hand goes to his face, making sure he’s not tearing up but he’s just huffs.

“There’s the classic Mortimer couple, eh?” Nick says. How many times he’d passed out on their couch or hid there for the nights, he’d never actually sat down to calculate. “How’re they doing, anyway? Still in Visalia?”

Alan shakes his head. Maybe he is tearing up, but he smudges it away. “No. They’re, um.”

Nick catches the tone. “Ouch. I’m so sorry. They look so young here.”

“Before we sucked her youth away.” There’s already lines on the woman’s face. Alan just smiles. He doesn’t have many pictures of them. “Can I keep this?”

“Sure. They’re your parents, but- I mean, how long ago was it?”

“This last year,” Alan says.

“You could’ve called, I guess. What about-”

“Died right after she did. Never liked being apart.”

“Yeah.” Nick jerks his head toward the rest of the box. “Maybe some more recent stuff. I mean, I could look like younger me but I don’t really wanna. Look at that nerd, who wants to be him again?”

Alan laughs. It’s another thing that hasn’t changed, not really. Whatever Nick is now, he’s still so insistent on making a joke out of things. Nick peers into the box, colors shifting into the blacks and whites of the mix. It settles into sepia like the photos and Alan digs for another tin from ‘86.

He pops it open to see unfamiliar faces in faded color, sunspotted until they were tucked away. There’s a black man enthused over a table of papers, talking to a white person with close-buzzed blonde hair and a studious look. It’s almost hopeful, whatever the lab coat-swaddled people talk about. Nick’s hand is visible in the shot.

“That’s Robbie Abbot and Les Syle,” Nick says. “They were on my team up in Seattle. And then Frannie Avidan was there, too. Keep looking.”

Alan does and finds Nick with his arm around a woman trying to bat him off. She’s smiling, though, with her eyes shadowed like she’s exhausted but not willing to draw away from the cluttered table. “Frannie?”

“Yeah. She called up her connections to get me in with Holly. They both used to be cosmetic chemists before shit got, uh- bad.”

Alan’s mouth pinches a little. He knows what Nick’s been up to in Seattle, even if Nick never really wrote much to him about it. He wonders how many of the people in these photos are still around, what they were like before… well. The further he goes, the worse off especially Abbot looks. There’s a picture of Nick pecking him on the cheek with Abbot mid-eye roll.

“That was kinda in the end.”

“You were dating?”

“For a minute, I guess. We broke up quick, but it’s not like we fought. We just didn’t fit right, ya know? The fight he didn’t win, though, that was- not great. And then Les was gone- and we lost our grants, and-”

“It’s okay.”

“I know. We tried. Look at me, I’ve got the cure to everything now. Wasn’t even sick or anything…”

It’s another moment Alan misses being able to touch his best friend. Even if it’s just for a pat of reassurance, to ground him, but he just sets the photos aside. He wishes he’d called, or that Nick had called him. All this time apart and they could have supported each other, even if they had others to help them out. They’re together now but it doesn’t quite make it all sting any less.

Nick’s colors blur, smearing together until they’re eaten up and he’s a pale yellow. His face blurs, too, the features disappearing into the goo. Alan reaches again for the unlabeled tin, the one with their time together inside. He wants to see more of what Nick’s been up to since they parted, but not if it means both of them turning to puddles on the floor over it.

There’s a photo at the bottom of it, covered in crumbs but certainly one of the older pictures with all the cracks and tears. It’s a black and white of two little boys, one chubby and grinning so hard his eyes disappear into the smile. He’s like a scruffy cherub, while the thin boy he’s got an arm around shrinks into himself like his polo can hide him. Little Alan Mortimer wringing his hands but smiling and peering above the camera at his parents.

Behind them is a black and white house, hazy but very much the old Mortimer house on Reynolds Street. “I remember this,” he says. There’s paint on the boys’ pants, and some speckles of it on Nick’s face.

Nick looks and his colors brighten. He downs another mix absently, like a glass he can’t stop tossing back. God, Alan hopes it’s not intoxicating him, but he just beams under the mess his face is melting to. “Yeah. You repainted that day.”

“You helped.”

“I knocked over the bucket and the window got splattered.”

Alan snorts. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

Nick laughs. “What, you think you had a secret sibling who did it? That stuff was my kinda gig, anyway, not yours. I still can’t believe your mom and dad let some scamp who broke into the yard come hang around so much.”

“You were filling the hole,” Alan points. His second day in the new house, when Alan sat poolside with a book in his hands. It was non-fiction, something about atoms that would get disproven in a decade, and he was so engrossed he didn’t hear the creaks of the neighbor boy crawling through a gap in the fence.

Alan shrieked and Nick backed away, like he’d pulled a prank too strong even for his standards. “Sorry!” he cried. One of his front teeth were missing, fortunately a late baby one, but he still lisped just a bit until fourteen or so.

“What are you doing in my yard?” Alan asked, almost tripping into the pool. Nick grabbed the book before Alan could drop it. “Ah! Stop!”

“No, here it is!” he says, and passes the book back. Not even holding it over his head to tease him, even if he was a head taller than Alan. “You okay? I didn’t mean to scare you! I saw you move in but then I didn’t wanna scare you then either because you looked busy and I was busy too. You’re new?”

Nick was almost overwhelming. Alan gave a shaky nod, since the last question was all he could really process for now. After moving across states, his head had already been spun so many times. He’d been scared, and scrawny, and the appearance of a kid who looked like he could eat Alan or at least pin him to the ground to take some bites didn’t help.

But all Nick did was ramble. Ask about the book Alan was reading, and if he liked his house, and finally his name. When he answered, Nick said, “Mortimer?”

“Mortimer. Alan Mortimer,” Alan said, as he’d practiced.

“Really?”

“What?” Did he do something wrong? He always wondered if he did. If he sounded foreign, or too young or too grownup, or like his mind was spinning a million ideas that never slowed down until he fell into a lulled silence he had to wrangle himself out of.

“Your name’s Mortimer?”

“No, I just said the last name first. That’s how it works?”

“Guess if you’re Bond, James Bond,” Nick allowed. “Still sounds like that mouse that’s all mean to Mickey, though.”

Alan folded his arms. What a weird kid, coming into his yard and telling him how to say his own name. And using all these weird turns of phrase, to top it off. “My name’s Alan.”

“But you opened up with Mortimer, see? Do you have a nickname? My name’s Nick so I kinda have a nickname built in.” He giggled at his own joke, even if the joke grows stale in later decades and falls out of fashion.

“Uh. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Nick said, and Alan moved so he could sit and put his feet in the pool beside him. Nick rubbed his face and thought it over. “Other people are supposed to give you nicknames, though. You make up your own and it’s silly. Can I call you Mo?”

“My name’s Alan,” Alan repeated. But he nodded, not sure why. He’d never had a real nickname before. His parents called him endearments but a nickname was cool. It was something he earned, even if he’d only just met this new, weird boy. “Okay, Nick. What’s your last name?”

“Cervos. I’m not sure what it means but it sounds good, huh?”

“It means something about…” Alan spun his gears, because he knew he’d read about them. Maybe not in books about atoms or animals but the comic books. “Like mechanisms and machines.”

“I heard it meant a kinda deer but that sounds way better!”

“Huh,” Alan said. He set his book aside. “Why did you come over again?” He’d found by then he didn’t quite mind, because Nick seemed safe if not sane.

Nick pointed to a hole in the fence, a gap where the boards were off. Alan’s mother had ranted that they needed it fixed, but the house was such a steal in the first place and maybe it would be good for them to make the house theirs in fixing it.

“There was a hole. My ma says you don’t leave holes unfilled- people could get hurt, and then people sue you and it’s not good for nobody. So I filled it up with me! And then I got kinda nosy. I wanted to see what you were reading. Is that okay?”

Alan nodded again. Not that he followed but he didn’t see why it wasn’t okay. Nick grinned and waved his hands a little, kicking his toes in the pool. Alan did too.

And here they are all these years later, sitting in a breakroom in an abandoned convenience store turned laboratory. And Nick’s not human, but probably still grinning like a doofus because he’s got a friend and so does Alan.

Alan picks up the camera off the table and checks it for film. It’s in proper working order, so he turns it around on he and the goo looming over his shoulder. The flash squints Alan’s eyes just a bit, but when he’s snapped out the photo he’s just left with a dubious, sort of resigned look like he’s expecting the monster man making a face in the background.

But the Nick in the photo looks like the Nick from the ‘86 photos. And the Nick he saw just a few months ago.

He turns and that Nick stares back, floating a foot off the ground. The textures of his shirt, skin, even his hair are perfect and Nick blinks. “You okay, Mo?”

“Nick, look.”

Alan shows him the photo, and Nick beams. The colors drain and the smile on his face just grows and grows. “Holy shit! We did it!”

“You did it.”

“We did it!” Nick says, and almost throws an arm around his friend’s arm before settling for a fist pump. He sees the goo return and laughs a little. “Well, least we tested that. More practice and it’s perfect.”

“Yup,” Alan says, adding the photo to the pile. “I think we’re ready.”

#obnoxious #writing #because i have zero self control and i like pain it seems #please please heed the warning if you aren't keen on being sad though #also nick's a queer biochemist in the late 80s so i mean #there's some implied stuff i need to research for him there but it's not going to not get heavy with that sort of subject matter #delete later

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nox-writings-blog · 7 years

Text

modern, muggle headcanons

[wolfstar and jily/jegulily, 1,5523]

Remus

oversized sweaters and button downs all day everyday

ink stained hands

collects old books - Most have torn pages and faded ink from constant rereading.

has too many half written stories all featuring the same characters he’s overly attached to (an: oh shit its actually me)

somehow always carries chocolate or knows the nearest place he can get some.

works in a book store (an: I just love this au too much ik its cliché as hell)

WELSH ACCENT

can and will fall asleep anywhere

all his clothes have rips in them or are extremely worn - not on purpose like Padfoot however (’MOONY ITS PUNK ROCK SHUT UP AND GIMME THE SCISSORS’)

enjoys the rain a lot - lucky they stay in Scotland then

Amber eyes and golden hair that lightly curls with his love of the rain (James gets jealous bc hes the ‘curly haired friend’)

always carries a notebook, of which he has wayyyyy too many

knows too many constellations which he doodles in all of his notebooks and always keeps track of the moon phases, hence the nickname

his sleep schedule is beyond screwed - probably caused by “ nope I cant sleep without reading Pads,” and then getting completely transfixed by a fictional world

always sketching people around him, he could happily sit in a café all day and draw everyone there, maybe he has an entire notebook of Padfoot sketches, maybe he does not, who knows

can’t function without coffee

very trustworthy of his friends almost too trusting, but can barely talk to a person outside of their group

almost too pale, couldn’t tan if he tried all that the sun does is give him a light dusting of freckles and chases away his beloved rain

usually the subject of Padfoot’s (favourite) polaroids

probably the only guy there that thinks of the consequences of a situation before they become a reality

the responsible one

can read & write music

pianist

Lily & Peter read all of his stories - annoyed they aren’t finished

loves animals, still pretends to be annoyed when James brings home stray dogs

gets sick constantly and secretly finds it hilarious when Sirius freaks out and acts like his nurse

Sirius

constantly painting, drawing and creating awesome art pieces

photography nerd - has a huge collection of polaroids & pinholes in his ‘dark room’ (a cupboard under the stairs that has a red light)

owns a motorbike that he is constantly repairing and is attempting to convince James to get one too “prongs we’ll look awesome c’mon do it or the aesthetic” James can’t ride a damn bicycle

always stealing Remus’ sweaters, even thought they are all about 10 sizes too big

has at least 15 leather jackets.(Wears one bc Moony got him patches for it years ago)

Long black hair that is always falling into tired grey eyes - Walburga has threatened to chop it off too many times

works in an art gallery, occasionally slips in his own work (the manager knows but she loves his work)

angsty as hell

always listening to music - preferably on vinyls “I don’t care how expensive it is Wormtail, it sounds far better (also it’s not my credit card its my cousin Bellatrix’s so???)

Smoker (probably for the aesthetic tbh) “yeah right Moons it makes me punk rock as shit,”

wears his biker boots all day everyday

plays guitar (secretly acoustic is his favourite)

all his clothes are ripped as heck

terrible at showing negative emotions but has learned to when it comes to Prongs and Moony - he’s getting there with some of the others

obsessive in his love for dogs and is genuinely offended when Lily gets a cat, the day he found out James bought it the word ‘betrayal’ is genuinely used, even more offended when Regulus began playing with the cats “ Sirius I'm named after a star in the LEO constellation???”

such a drama queen (speaking of Queen imagine him & Bohemian Rhapsody?)

tries to hide his aristocratic background, though his mannerisms show it off quite often

fluent in French he has a slight French accent

Lives on Tumblr (surprisingly this was never meant on this site) & Netflix

also memorises the moon phases ( just to impress Remus honestly)

makes awful puns constantly “I'm serious” “nah I'm Sirius you’re James” “ugh are you fucking serious” “nah I'm fucking Moony” *atrocious wink*

ripped skinny jeans - Wormtail still calls him emo for it

James

super athletic

Loves photography claims to use the best equipment but still constantly invades Sirius’ excuse for a dark room

plays drums

somehow the only one who can cheer up Regulus instantly

only has 1 pair of glasses even though he is horrendously clumsy, Lily is assuming he is just seeing how much tape he can build up before they are entirely useless

obsessed over football - he manages a small team that he is way too enthusiastic about

still surprised Lily even talks to him “James we’ve been dating for 5 years stop being a prat”

plans out the biggest pranks and somehow manages to get everyone involved, if he doesn't they turn to shit but that's a ‘secret’ everybody knows

only shoes he actually ones are trainers & football boots “James you are not wearing Nikes to Alice and Franks bloody wedding!”

really copetitive

obsessively plays Xbox and has weekly gaming nights with everyone (Sirius always rage quits) Wormtail is the only one who is still playing with him after 30 minutes

goes on tones of unplanned road trips with Lily

tries a weird new diet practically every week, sort of a health freak

way too much house pride - his whole room is decorated red and gold

has an old pickup truck he prides too much even though he is almost needing to fix it as much as Sirius and his ancient motorbike

the ‘mom friend’ always looking after everyone

Peter

actually the only reason they don’t all eat fast food & take aways 24/7 - he’s a great cook

proof reads all of Remus’ stories for him before they get posted

works as a barista in a grunge as hell café across the road - the others always hang out there when he’s working

secretly enjoys the challenge of James’ strange dieting (gluten free+ vegan month was definitely a challenge though)

owns 2 pet rats - is scared shitless that Regulus’ pet snake is going to eat them at one point

really good at giving gifts because he’s great at listening to people

has a massive collection of hoodies for no apparent reason

always third wheeling because of Wolfstar and Jily, it’s better now that Regulus has move in though

really good at video games - occasionally lets James win because he gets too moody otherwise

bassist

only listens to indie & grunge music - secretly loves Sirius' obsession with vinyls

Lily

not super feminine but always has the latest fashion trends - usually fairly alternative (known to sport the jeans + fishnets thing that looks bomb as hell)

reads almost as much as Remus and is always hanging out in the book shop he works at

really enjoys playing football with James - finds it hilarious when he gets competitive

super long ginger hair + green eyes

loves tattoos, has handpoked a few of her own (mainly gets them done professionally, her friend Marlene is a tattoo artist) & Sirius let her do a moon on his wrist

doesn’t know that James reads all the books she talks about until she finds 3 of them hidden on his side of them wardrobe and interrogates him

super spontaneous really enjoys the constant unplanned road trips

does a lot of digital art, usually draws characters from books most often the characters Remus will never let go of in his stories

can ride a motorbike and occasionally takes Sirius’ for a spin

just a badass tbh

everyone takes their problems to her because she somehow has a solution for everything

wants to get into interior design and when they move in she helps everyone decorate their rooms, constantly adding to their home paints a different wall every week

literally friends with everyone - nobody dislikes her and probably couldn't if they tried

has a weird skill for knitting, likely the source of 90% of Remus’ holy sweaters

obsessed with ‘retro’ things, favourite things tend to be from the 80s/90s

always helping Wormtail when he is baking, as long as she gets the first taste

an: this was just a random thing I wrote in a notebook at school, the next time we get a cover teacher I’ll probably add some secondary characters (Regulus, Alice, Frank etc)

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bianca-warriorwriter · 7 years

Text

home

hey guys this isn't a story - its just a description of where i live (at my dads - i mainly live with mum) and i want to know your thought on they way I've written it.

The only proof that anybody lived here in this room was 3 photos, an abandoned guitar sentenced to forever sit in the corner collecting dust and the rumpled sheets on the bed revealing a sleepless, restless nights. This room lacked any human ability – it was a place to sleep and abandon when the sun rose and the participant opened their eyes. But this could not be said for the room across the hall to this lifeless room. Compared to this lifeless one, this one seemed to thrive. A large black bed took up most of the room, sitting across from the bed like a dog waiting to be signalled sat a large black TV with a PS4 at the ready. This room though it had objects which signified someone actually lived in here and used it daily it lacked care, clothes were strewn across the floor and laid across the bed. Further up the hall from these 2 bedrooms were permentely closed doors, one door that held storage for the daughter who had went away. The other a ghost of what a happy family once looked like. Throughout the hall nails dotted the walls where photos once hanged around 5 at each door. However, the last door (the lifeless room) only ever had 1 nail showing the lack of emotion that room ever held.

The hall intercepted 2 separate rooms. Just to the left, the bathroom, who like the bedroom had once been dull and plain had flourished into a black and white coloured bathroom that released a new joy when walking into it. exactly opposite the bathroom was the laundry that lacked use. It consisted of a laundry basket, the laundry cupboard that was stocked with dust and the empty, lifeless dryer that drained its life from it useless life. The washing machine an old, dying machine lived outside in the hopes one day it would slowly crash and die. Continuing through the hallway a lounge room introduced itself, just like the bathroom it had flourished in the last 6 months from a chair here or there and a TV it developed into a couch, a coffee table and the TV. In the corner crouched the fireplace, smouldering away into the abyss. It’s hot coals burning an angry red. The dining room, which was only ever used by one person sat just beyond the lounge room in-front of the kitchen, one chair was pulled out as if its feet had been nailed to the hard floor and had no desire to pull itself free. the kitchen which once thrived was lucky to be used properly once a week, its main uses these days was holding dishes, and heating up pre-made food. The centre island stored one single dead apple and other fruit around it, infecting them all. there sat only a fridge, filled with food that no one would ever touch, outside where it’s partner waited to be fully acknowledged by anything than the food freezing on the inside. Next to the kitchen sat the old lounge room which had been converted into a new living space for the one who never seemed to be able to leave there, the door always stayed close. As the living room came back into focus the wall that separated it from the front of the house was cut so only the bottom part of the wall was covered. The Colum closet to the kitchen had a bunch of markings representing the growth of youngin’s in the family. What was once an office had been converted into nothing, whilst a computer was still there, it had not been touched in years. A table was positioned against the wall and held many things that no one wold touch again or remember again. The curtain that locked the office away from the world was drawn closed again, and the door to the other side was slid shut and never to be touched again. The room adjacent to the office was the other lounge room. Just like the dining room chair this room was realistically for one person only and it was always left with DVD scattered over the table and the remote sitting in the chair. The last room of the house was the last bedroom, the master bedroom. The only bedroom used frequently but just like the others it lacked the human feel. The bed’s sheets always thrown helplessly back, bottles lined the left wall, the walk in wardrobe was never closed. What was once a visible bathroom vanity was covered in sticky note reminders, tablets and the reminder of old age closing its hands around the neck of this room. Out the front the dogs laid helplessly in front of the door hoping for any bit of attention, they would receive some but not enough to soothe them.

The exterior represented the house to be of a close unit but the inside was as lonely as the wind that stroked its window on a cold near breezeless night.

The real question was: did anyone ever really live here?

#home #description #writing #writes #warrior-writer #author

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scouringsaucepans-blog · 7 years

Text

Would You Just... Help Your Mum with the Shopping?

I’m at my mum’s house trying to clean her kitchen. “Trying” being the operative word.

My mum is a hoarder. Not in the sense of stacking newspapers dating back to the seventies against the walls, or hiding mason jars filled with urine under the beds, but she does have trouble throwing things away. She wants to keep everything, finds meaning, memory, in everything.

“What about this?” I say, holding up a small and badly-painted plastic dog figurine, the kind you might get free with an RSPCA membership, perhaps.

“Oh, no,” my mum says. “He’s special.”

“These?” I point to the mountain of half-empty Tic Tac boxes I’ve found.

Long sigh. “Well, I suppose. Although if they’re different flavours…”

I usually leave my mum to her Ways. I’m not home often, and the odd evenings I do pop by we find enough about politics and religion and my future to argue about without bringing her house into it. But this is different. My girlfriend and I, after a long period pretending things were working when they evidently were not, have broken up, and lacking anywhere more sensible to go it now appears I will be staying back with my mum for a while.

There’s not much it would be fair to say about the break up. My life is material for my writing; Charlie’s is not. I hope she’s going to be happier eventually without me, that we’ll still be friends, all those cliches you cling to in a sea of terror and uncertainty.

Anyway, after two days on my friend’s sofa drinking whisky and watching, inexplicably, Mythbusters and Singin’ in the Rain, I decide I am not going to fall apart, so I cook my friend and his girlfriend a risotto, then go home to my mum’s.

This is not my house, I tell myself later, standing in the kitchen. This is my mum’s house. She has a right to keep it however she wants. If she finds calm in clutter then that’s fine.

Except, are these birch leaves here? Brought back from a walk last autumn, maybe, and now crumbling to dust beneath, what? a pile of ancient Spanish phrase books, some dog-grooming leaflets for the now dead dog, a one-legged, mud-encrusted action figure from my youth, rediscovered I presume while gardening, and a veritable smorgasbord, a cornucopia, of phone and camera chargers, some of these surely from phones and cameras that haven’t been turned on since before Live and Kicking went off the telly.

Perhaps I will do a little light clearing, actually. But I’ll be understanding. I won’t interfere; I will help.

“This?” I say ten minutes later, waving a car-parking voucher from a folk festival held in 2013 at my mum’s face in an accusatory manner. “Surely you don’t still need this?”

“That will go upstairs,” she says, “with the others.”

“Yes but are you going to put it upstairs, or are you going to drop it in the other room and then I’ll find it under a load of old crosswords in six months time?”

“Oh, Robert…”

As far as I can make sense of my mother’s system, she seems to have three baskets in this kitchen for odds and ends, either sort of inchoate, nebulous planets towards which odds and ends are being pulled from the asteroid fields of odds and ends littering the rest of the room, or else the odds and ends are the inhabitants of the basket-planets, now migrating across the room’s galaxy to find new homes among the stars (or kitchen appliances) – it’s hard to tell. There is also an odds and ends drawer, that will no longer open all the way, that probably contains clues to the birth of the universe, but I just cannot even think about that drawer right now.

I condense the baskets into one, fit all the odds and ends from the rest of the room into it. I pull out the microwave and the toaster and the bread bin, brush away all the crumbs and leaf residue and sticker-ties from loaves of bread that have accumulated behind. I wipe the counter tops, clear and wipe the table. I scrub the fronts of the cupboards and around the sink and behind the collection of Interesting Shells and Rocks (?). The grill, thankfully, is already relatively clean, but I do under the hobs and the oven front and around the dials. I sort out the Things Under the Table. I sweep the floor.

That’s okay, I think. Everything is okay. I cook tea for us, serve tea, respond to my mother’s conversational prompts – Yes, it’s tough, it hurts, but I think everything is going to be okay –, smile, take the plates out, wash up. Then I go to my room and close the door and spend the rest of the night worrying that everything is really not going to be okay.

* * *

The office chair is a problem. It’s my day off and Charlie is back home with her family and we’ve arranged that now is a sensible time for me to pick up my belongings from her flat. No longer our flat. It’s these little thoughts that are the most serrated. Other examples: We’ll never now finish watching season two of Mr Robot together. How will Charlie complete the Day of the Tentacle remaster without my Playstation? And what should I do about my office chair, the one Charlie paid for the day we went to Ikea, when I zoomed about on the trolley like a child instead of thinking about the future, before Charlie got angry and I got to pretend it wasn’t my fault? I want to offer to pay for the chair, but there’s something about this that feels horrendously pragmatic, cold, like we’re negotiating a business deal. But to just take the chair would be wrong.

I text Charlie, offering to pay.

“The chair was a present,” she replies. “I don’t want anything for it.”

I feel sick.

I put the chair in the car, along with my clothes, my PC, my books. The guitars I can barely play. The DVD collection I haven’t added to since 2010. All the stupid videogames with the stupid war-men on their covers.

I sit with the cat for a long time. She attacks my hand, bounds away. She doesn’t seem to comprehend the gravity of the situation. I say goodbye to her, close the door, leave.

Back at my mum’s there is no space on my floor left on which to stand. I look at all my junk splayed about the room. A sorry account for a life. Yet all I have left to hold onto. That night I fall asleep under floral-patterned spare covers, feeling that I am slipping through the gaps between the cardboard boxes and bin bags into a weightless void beyond. I feel like I am disappearing.

* * *

The next morning, however, I have not slipped, have not disappeared. I am still here.

My mother makes coffee, talks about the Archers – which programme apparently makes her more angry than some real-world wars, yet cannot ever be missed – then asks me if I will go to Sainsbury’s with her.

I have lived back home before, as an adult, and I was bad at it. I acted like an entitled adolescent. I would get in at 3am, drunk, maybe stoned, fix myself maybe one last gin and tonic from my mum’s spirit shelf (telling myself vaguely I’d buy replacement bottles some time, never doing it), then lock myself in my room and watch films or play games, feeling unhappy, until it was time to go back to the job I hated. I treated my mum horribly, as if it was her fault I was so miserable. I sat in silent disdain through her meandering stories at the dinner table, mocked her offers to get me out of the house on a walk to the countryside – “Thanks all the same but actually I don’t fancy spending my one day away from the purgatory of that job walking around a large body of water discussing farm-based radio soap operas with my mother,” – and, most of all, I despised being asked if I would go to Sainsbury’s with her.

I would slouch along the aisles, scowling, saying I didn’t care what we bought, I didn’t know when I’d be around for tea, I’d just eat out or something, whatever. I’d be as uncooperative as possible, hoping negative reinforcement would condition my mum into never asking me along again. I would basically be a terrible prick.

Remembering those days now I think about how much I don’t want to be that person. How terrified I am of still being that person.

“Of course I’ll come to Sainsbury’s,” I say. “Shall we go now?”

In the car down, as my mother talks about Karen, who I don’t know, who was the teaching assistant before Geraldine, or was it Katie? No, it was Geraldine, because it was Geraldine who, her husband Keith, it was very sad actually, Keith had lost his brother Gavin, and Keith hadn’t really recovered, although… no, well of course that was the year before, or… God, it wasn’t Gavin was it? It was Richard – as my mother talks, I look at her, think how lonely she must be in the house by herself sometimes, about how she texts me whenever she’s in town asking if I want to meet for a coffee and I reply, three days later, “Sorry wasn’t around”, and she texts back that she loves me, and I don’t reply.

“So yes,” I say. “Geraldine’s husband…?”

We walk around Sainsbury’s, chat. I pick up a few Belgian beers, don’t say anything about my mother’s silence, accept that she worries about my drinking, accept that she is making an effort not to comment.

Back home I bring the shopping in from the car, put it away, offer to cook.

Then I sort out my room. I empty the cupboards and drawers, the boxes and bags, of my own odds and ends, mementos left over from shared houses, old jobs, university, school. I put a few letters, notebooks, old drawings to one side, throw the rest away. I bag up for charity all the clothes I don’t want. I strip everything down, dust. Then I put out my books, and the names – Foster Wallace, Delillo, Vonnegut, Hemingway, Kerouac, Fitzgerald, Plath, Woolf – look down on me approvingly.

I don’t know. It’s all a bit fucked. But maybe it will be okay. Maybe a step backwards isn’t always a step back. When you’ve lost your footing, for example. When you’ve walked head-down into a bog. Sometimes the best way forwards is actually backwards, just a little.

***

I go downstairs. The light is fading. Mum is standing in the half-light staring out of the window, one hand lightly touching the locket she wears about her neck.

“I could get rid of a few bits myself, I suppose,” she says. “Take a few bits to the charity shop. I won’t be around forever, after all, and I hate the thought of you and Liz having to deal with everything when I’m gone. That wouldn’t be fair on you.”

I put my arms around her. She is very small next to me.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been a very good son,” I say.

“Nonsense,” she says.

We stay like that a while.

#writing #writers #writer #blogging #diary #sheffield #blogger #writers on tumblr #my writing #writing community #prose #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #spilled words

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