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lostinthe-pines-blog · 6 years

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Family Time pt. 3

PREFACE: This is a fluff piece about MC and Chris on a family visit to Chris’s home in Maine for AJ’s birthday. Some story-lines from the App have been altered. These events are placed between The Junior and what I can only hope will be The Senior.

NOTE: This is a fictional story based on Pixelberry’s Choices App. *Books The Freshman, The Sophomore, The Junior. I am not affiliated with Pixelberry nor do I own the rights to their characters.

“There he his” Chris’s mother beamed closing the door behind her. Ms. Powell or ‘Lily’-as MC had been asked to address her on their last visit- quickly wrapped her son in a hug. MC felt his hand leave hers as he returned his mothers hug. MC’s anxiety flourished at the loss of his touch but the sight of his happiness around his mother calmed her again.

MC loved her own mother, but in her own way. Her mother was a lawyer, a business woman and a professor. Between her three jobs she’d not had much time for a daughter. MC spent most of her upbringing around her father. The relationship between Chris and Lily was foreign to MC.

“And there she is” Lily smiled giving MC a quick hug which she already knew would not be returned. Lily adored MC and the happiness she’d brought into her son’s life. She knew there was a reason MC didn’t show physical affection back to her but Chris had instructed her not to pry about it. Lily’s affection for MC was mutual. MC respected her and trusted her, she even valued her as a human but would push the idea of her being a mother figure aside because the fear of loss was even greater.

“It’s good to see you” MC nods. “How’ve you been”

“I’ve been just wonderful, everything here is the same as before. When was the last time you visited?” Lily said trying to recall “Was it Thanksgiving?”

“Yes! And I’ve been craving those yams ever since” MC laughs.

“Where’s everyone else?” Chris says knowing he’s interrupted.

Lily turns her attention, “Kyle just got his license and is taking AJ out for her birthday dinner. You kept your arrival a secret right?”

Chris and MC had made the long trek to Maine only to surprise the light of Chris’s life, the only girl MC would ever had to compete with, his little sister; AJ. It was her twelfth birthday today and Chris had told her he’d have to miss this year for his football training.

“Of course, I even sent her an apology this morning for not being able to make it early this morning” Chris responded maniacally. “When will they be home?”

“They left about an hour ago so I can only assume they’ll be home soon.” Lily said sweetly getting up and pulling out birthday presents that had been hidden in high cabinets above the fridge.

“Where’d they go to eat?” MC asked innocently, only the moment the question left her lips she knew the answer “Wait!” she halted their responses “They’re getting lobster right? I remember, it’s tradition!” she smiled happily. Chris and Lily’s smiles confirmed that she was indeed correct. MC felt total happiness wash over her, she’d wished more than anything should could jump back in time and meet Chris’s family in their prime. “Every year someone, and just one someone would take the birthday boy.. Or girl in this case out for lobster dinner! Chris favored his mom taking him, Kyle favors…” MC pauses trying to remember all the conversations her and Chris had had about his brother. “Kyle favors, Grandpa!” she yells “And AJ favors Chris” MC goes silent realizing that is not the case this year. “Oh” she looks at him as Chris’s eyes go sad.

“I can’t take that from my brother this year, it’s his turn to be her big brother I’ll surprise her when she’s home.” As Chris finishes his response they hear the garage door opening.

“Hide!” Lily yells helping them grab their stuff as MC and Chris run up the stairs to Chris’s childhood bedroom.

“Shit! My Car!” Chris yells to his mom “She’s gonna know!”

“I asked you 5 times to park around the corner Christopher!” Lily yells back as the door opens

“Where is he, where is he, where is he!” AJ’s screams as her voice fills the house. AJ sprints around the living room checking her room first. “Not there!” she says slamming the door. She runs to the guest bathroom sliding the shower curtain open. “Nope” she pauses and realizes how foolish she was not to check his room first” AJ runs up the stairs faster than a lightning flash and comes around the corner of the hallway to his room just in time for Chris to catch her in a hug. “You liar” she laughs in the hug burying her face in his shoulder. For AJ this is the best birthday gift anyone could have given her. Adolescents and puberty are creeping into her life, mood swings and attitude. But she could never let all of that affect the way she saw her oldest brother. He was her hero, she’d written multiple elementary school projects about him and had even been teased by her peers that she was ‘in love’ with her brother. “I can’t believe you came!” she says not moving her face from his shirt.

MC can see Chris’s grin bigger than it’s been since their last visit. There’s a glisten in his eyes, tears maybe? He’d hide them before AJ looked at him again. Seeing the way he was around his little sister only made MC love him more. “I’ll leave you alone” MC mouths to Chris before heading back down the stairs to Lily and Kyle.

Kyle stands by the fridge putting leftovers inside and pulling a large cake out. His eyes are tired and face saddened, his hair is much darker than his brothers and it’s long enough to cover his eye in this moment. Kyle’s never been one to speak his feelings, something MC always wanted to relate to him on but never had the strength to talk to him about. She’s never had brothers, or siblings at all for that matter. And Kyle, Kyle always seems a little short when she comes around.

“She loves you too” MC blurts out covering her mouth quickly as her thoughts had come out verbally. Kyle looks at her with a glare “Yeah, I know she’s my sister and I just paid eighty dollars for her dinner” he says sharply slamming the fridge while still perfectly balancing the cake in his other hand. He places it down on the table and goes to get the birthday candles from the cabinet.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean-” MC says before Lily places a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

��Don’t blame yourself MC, he’s always like this when Chris comes around. Just let him run his course” Lily speaks quickly and quietly walking to the kitchen to help her son look for the candles. MC looks up the staircase her eyes pleading for Chris to return. She knew she was socially codependent on him but she didn’t know how bad until now. After a few moments when Chris doesn’t return MC turns her gaze back to Kyle and Lily. Lily whispers to her son, MC can’t hear what's being said but their body language says he’s being punished for what came before.

“Do you need some help” MC asks, though it took all her courage to do so.

“Sure. Take the candles and put them in the cake. She’s 12 not that you or Chris were around for the last year to know that” he says condescendingly.

“Sure thing” MC says lightly, reaching for the candles. But in that moment she’s had enough of his attitude. Every time she come to Maine she deals with the hateful comments from the teenager in the house. “Actually, if I may ask” she says doing her best to remain calm and polite. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you.” Kyle says directly

“So you hate Chris” MC spits back just as directly.

“I guess” Kyle responds in a whisper, he’s never said out loud that he hates his brother and he fears the punishment that will come if he does.

“I don’t think you do” MC continues with her polite tone “You see, I get it. Everytime I call my family they don’t ask how I am, they ask how he is. How is my star football player? When are we gonna get married? When am I bringing him home?” MC finishes and her polite tone turns to annoyance.

Kyle stands in front of her stunned, she’d hit the nail on the head. Every teacher at his school every parent of his friends constantly asked about his brother. But worst of all, every girl he’d ever liked, only liked him for his brother. His tired eyes are bigger and blue than his brothers and they stare back at MC in shock “But don’t you love him?” he asks

“Of course, he’s the greatest thing to ever happen to me, but I’ll say it outloud I wish someone would ask about me for once. I love him for all his accomplishments and his failures and I’ll love him for the rest of my life. And so will you!” MC spits Chris standing at the top the stairs listening in, but out of view from his brother. “Everytime I come here I watch you treat him disrespectfully. I know he’s great and I’m sure youve heard it a million time right?”

“Right” Kyle grunts

“But your annoyance does not warrant hatred. You know… almost the whole way here Chris told me how you went out for the baseball team last year, that you’d never shown interest in it before that but somehow you ended up the star player. He also told me that you excel in writing and English studies that you’re only going into your junior year and you’re already taking college courses in it. That you’ve expressed interest in Ivy League schools and have held the grades to accomplish it. He loves you and it’s time you start giving that love back”

MC had felt herself getting lost in her world again as she spoke resisting the urge to paint the pictures of Kyle’s success at school. She wanted to shake him and tell him that being a teenager doesn’t last forever and that every moment and emotion you feel counts. He couldn't let all of those emotions be full of jealousy and hate. And most of all he couldn’t let all of his accomplishments only be done to spite his older brother. MC pulls herself out of the moment to see a smile shown on Lily’s face, her son had been put in his place as she’d tried to do so many times before. MC turns to Chris who’s now sitting on the top step with his sister next to him covering her ears; she hated the fighting. His eyes look to MC and they are grateful. He pulls his sisters hands away from her ears and reassures her that it’s over. The tension in the room is thick, MC finds it hard to breathe as her anxiety forms again. She’d never spoke like that to her family, she’d only ever been spoken too in that way. And now she’d spoken so openly around a family who did nothing but love each other. She’d accused a member of that family and though she was right she couldn’t feel it. She breathes in and out as the seconds seem to last for minutes. She can feel her emotions taking over as her eyes glaze over.

“I’m ready for cake” AJ says stomping down the stairs and cutting the silence. She goes immediately next to Kyle. “you got me this cake right?” she asks.

Kyles eyes full of anger turn only kind when he talks to his sister “Uh, yeah.. Happy Birthday AJ” he responds trying to shake the feeling of regret. He knows what MC said is true but something in him wants to be right, he wants to feel right for treating Chris poorly. He can’t own up to his actions. “Let me just light the candles” he says staring at his hand full of candles that MC never took from him. He places them in the cake and heads to the garage for a lighter. They only have a few moments before he returns.

“Thank you MC,” Lily says instantly looking to MC. “That wasn't easy for you but thank you.” she finishes there and turns to her daughter. Her body language instantly changes the tone of the room. “So what are you gonna wish for AJ?” she asks. MC tunes out of their conversation still standing in one place. She’s been breathing in and out deeply and quietly. She’s been clasping her hands squeezing them tight pushing them off one another for minutes now. She’s on the brink of a full fledged anxiety attack. She looks up when she feels Chris grab her hands.

“Thank you” he mouths to her and kisses her forehead for a long moment. He feels her hands sweating and shaking. Though quiet he can even hear her deep breaths. “You’re okay MC” he whispers softly moving his hands from hers and wrapping them around her tightly. Chris was the only person who could pull MC out of her world once she got in it, if she was in her head no matter good or bad Chris could bring her back. She looks up at him mustering a smile. Their eyes connect and the conversations between them begin. No words being spoken but Chris suddenly understands. Her fears on a tight knit family were hard for Chris to wrap his head around but he tried for her.

“Got it” Kyle says returning with a bright smile, he’s clearly readjusted his attitude for his sister. His best birthday gift to her. He lights the candles quickly and everyone gathers around the table. They sing happy birthday all together their voices completely out of tune but it doesn’t matter to AJ she’s just happy to have everyone there.

#choices #play choices #mc x chris #the freshman fan fiction #chris powell #famtimechoicesmcc #choices fan fiction

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incursionofthedamnedrpg · 6 years

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Paige Rowen Accepted! You know what to do, C!

Name: C :)

Age: 19

Timezone: GMT

State an account where we can message you: here is all good

How active you’re going to be: (1-10) same as always! 7/10.

How did you find out about this roleplay?:Currently with y’all

Why do you want to play this character?:She’s gonna be angsty and I love some angst.

Anything else you would like to tell us? (Changes, suggestions…etc)

IC:

Preferred Ships:

Sample para:

2+ paragraphs.

5+ sentences in each paragraph.

Recommended to be IC for higher chance of being accepted.

Template must be filled out, please make your character 16+ (we do not accept young ages), and be sure to run a faceclaim by the main first!

Name: Paige Rowen Birthday: November 24th 1992 (25) Species: Human (Untriggered Werewolf) Lookalike: Dakota Johnson Availability: Taken

Personality

Since she was a young child Paige as always been the type to remain calm unless she’s pushed, she has a delicate and often fragile look to her while also being incredibly strong willed and stubborn. She isn’t always the life of the party but she’ll never say no to a little fun every now and then, as anything that distracts her from everything she has going on, is good in her books. Paige can also be dangerously curious, which is either incredibly bad for her or incredibly good depending where her curiosity is aimed.

Past

Paige’s parents were both eighteen when they found out they would be bringing a child into the world and while that was strange for some, the two of them had met when they were sixteen, they’d been in love for years and when they officially got together-however unplanned-they were happy to welcome a child into the world.Her mom Angie worked in a cafe and her dad Theo had been working towards joining the law enforcement world and had managed to get in a few months before Paige was born.

It was a struggle but they made it work and welcomed their little girl into the world with no hesitation or sadness, her mom stopped working to take care of her and her dad continued to work as an officer. Her dad of course had always been a mysterious figure, born in New Orleans and ran when he was young with no explanation as to why. He’d lived on the streets until he’d been taken in and raised, given an education where he met Angie and told her about the werewolf gene and his parents being a part of the Cresent Wolf Pack and he ran because he’d triggered his curse and he was afraid. It was as simple as that, he’d wished to escape and he did but now he was more than aware that his daughter would one day have to deal with triggering the curse and he hated the thought of what that would do to her. So he fought to protect not only her but the people of New York.

Paige was two when her mom received the call about her dad being gone, killed by a bullet though the truth of the matter was much different than what she’d been told, Theo had been shot but he’d survived the injury and had been forced to leave by a group of individuals that had threatened not only Angie but Paige too.So Angie was left believing her partner dead and her daughter would grow up without a father that’s when New Orleans made sense, not because it was safer but because if the inevitable happened before Angie had time to tell her daughter about what she was at least she was close to the pack her father had once been a part of.

It was barely needed however, Paige grew up as a calm individual and while she had a more mischievous side to her, she was far from reckless enough to go triggering the curse before her mom had time to tell her everything about her father. She was eighteen, her mom worked at a bar and she was in and out of school helping out her mom when she needed it and of course remaining blissfully unaware of the links she had in the city.

Like any relation to the Cresent Wolf line, she had the birthmark though somehow until she’d turned nineteen she’d managed to avoid people seeing it and of course when they did most only did as much as stare before Paige headed back to the home she and her mom shared and pretend like the city didn’t have it’s eyes on her.

Finishing school and deciding against college because she was unsure of what she wanted to do with her life, left her feeling lost she briefly worked in a few restaurants around the city before simply helping out her mom at the bar when she’d finally turned twenty one and attempted to keep her weird birthmark covered up around the locals..even if the locals had always seemed so strange or at least a portion of them did.

She was twenty two when her mom had finally decided to tell her about why they were here and more about her dads death, most of which left her with more questions than answers. If werewolves exist, what else does? Do I have to trigger the curse? What happens if I trigger it?..

Every question under the book but Paige stayed silent, even when her mom had attempted to contact her grandparents who were somehow unable to be found. It was like the world came crashing down and it felt like that for a while, years almost until the worst thing happened.

Her dad decided to show up on their doorstep, alive and after everything his death had put her and her mother through she rejected him and packed a bag because she wanted answers and she wasn’t gonna stay in New Orleans with a parent who cared and another who was a stranger. So she hit the road, staying in small motels along the way until Mystic Falls came along.

Present

Mystic Falls seemed like the perfect place to settle and get answers, she found herself here last November and with the money she’d saved up she’d bought herself a small loft while working in a local restaurant to continue the upkeep. She hopes the town will help her figure things out, if not…well she’s positive she’s just gonna remain lost.It also doesn’t help that her dad keeps trying to get in contact and she’s trying to avoid him at all costs.

Connections

Cresent Wolf Pack;

Her grandparents and father were all a part of the pack, she wasn’t aware of them let alone what she could become if triggered until she’d turned twenty two and when her dad showed up, she’d barely taken a step to learn more about the pack that she had the same birthmark as.

Mason Duval;

A friend she made when they’d met in New Orleans; he’d turned up there and had been a friendly face and someone easy to get along with. So she’s thankful to know he’s in Mystic Falls

Julien Kenley;

Works as a waitress at Casa Nostra, but is unsure of why the boss gave her the job considering she doesn’t exactly look like everyone else that works there.

Harley Dawson;

When Paige first arrived, Harley was the one to show her around since Mystic Falls wasn’t all that familiar to her and they hit it off. Paige likes to think they’re at least decent friends now, which she’s always grateful for.

#accepted

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pizzamanteachings · 6 years

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In My Time of Dying: The Camping Trip Flashback (Part 1)

In My Time of Dying, The Camping Trip Flashback:

Warnings: Swearing, gore, and a the description of a monster (I don’t think it’s triggering but be warned?)

Life had just gotten good, college was going well and you were finally on spring break, relishing in the springtime warmth that you missed oh so much. Your major was psychology and planned to work in a children’s psych ward, but you didn’t want to think of that right now, because you were in the middle of packing for a camping trip.

Present day

It was only a week ago at some shitty dive bar when you overheard these guys talking about some trail up North in Callmyre woods, which were acres of pure forest your friend Avery and his family owned. You were originally going to go up to Moose Mountain but it was known that there were bears and coyotes up there so you and your friends didn’t want to chance it, plus your friend had a shit ton of land that no one ever went in.

You met Avery in middle school and he was a nice kid, now though he was a little douchey 5’11 white kid with moderate strength and a walking representation of anxiety. He was a little rough around the edges but in your heart you knew he meant well. He had always been the rich kid in school which made it hard to relate to him since your families income could be unpredictable and spread apart. One thing that always bothered you about Avery was that he hated nature and the forest. He had been lucky enough to get four thousand acres of land, but he refused to go in. You knew a little history as you eavesdropped on the pair of men, them saying it was “Native American land” and how “weird shit goes bump in the night”. You had always been skeptical about the supernatural, you know, wendigos and vampires and stuff alike, but if it was real, wouldn’t more people know about it?

------Present day------

Now that you had all of your stuff packed and you picked up Avery, you started driving down the highway to meet your other friends Morgan and Dale who would meet you there (since legally you could only fit two people in your car). You drove a shiny black 1967 Chevy El Chamino the “mullet of cars” as you claimed. You loved this car more than most people as it was all you had left of your late Grandfather who had restored it for you and taught you a thing or two about cars.

The trip was mostly silent, aside from the low grumble from Clint (your beloved car) and the light clinks of your talismans around your neck. Avery didn’t want to camp on his family's land, but no matter how you asked or how many times he refused to give you a straight answer. All you got was “Because I don’t want to” and “You don’t know what’s out there”. He was just trying to scare you, and you didn’t appreciate that. “What and you do?” You retorted. He didn’t answer which made the silence between you make your skin crawl and the tension gnaw at your knees and fingers, begging you to do something. Within your stomach you felt a sizzle of anger that was turned up to a low boil as he was looking out the window huffing and puffing being the spoiled brat he is. At one point you almost stopped the car to tear him a new one as he began to chew his fingernails and throw them on the floor of Clint, who he knew was your pride and joy, but you refrained from curb stomping him as you hated confrontation and new in the logical part of you brain that he was anxious, so you let it slide…barely.

“You want to tell me why you don’t want to go camping in your woods yet?” You managed to say in a calm tone that came out breathy enough not to sound like you wanted to smack him silly until he told you.

“You wouldn’t even believe me. No one ever does.” He said, just above a whisper, looking at you for a moment and then back at the road ahead.

“What do you mean ‘no one ever does?’ You were the one who suggested it and then got all weird yesterday when we started packing!” The whole ‘staying calm’ thing went out of the window as you became more and more upset, because there was something you hated more than Monopoly, it was liars. He had made it out to be that it wasn’t him who suggested his family's land, which pissed you off more than anything. He was all smiles and full of giddiness a week ago, he made it seem as if he was excited but now he acts as if he would rather die than go near his land. The weird part about his family is that they don’t live on the acres upon acres of land, actually not even near it. They live fifty miles away and didn’t plan on building anything on the land. It was nice at first because like ‘yeah save nature!’ but they never let anyone on their land. No one.

You were finally at the meeting spot and saw Morgan and Dale making out in the car which caused you to beep the horn of your car, making them jump and in turn lifted your spirits a little.

It was early morning when you had left for the trip, leaving you and your comrades plenty of time to set up camp. You drove Clint down the worn dirt path, which made you question whether or not people came out here a lot considering the amount of “Stay out” signs littering the entrance area, which was also gated and locked with seven giant padlocks. In your head, somewhere in the back of it brought a pestering pinch that undoubtedly warned you to leave. You weren’t by any means psychic but you had some crazy intuition (which you mostly used in Clue, making you get a hustler title). You should’ve used it on Avery but you knew you couldn’t force it as it would be a biased read.

The nagging in your head wasn’t going away, but you kept ignoring it as you ventured on with Morgan and Dale (aka the “Love Birds”) in the truck bed area clutching all of the supplies.

About sixty miles into the woods (much to Avery's dismay) you stopped and turned Clint off of the path a little and began to unpack in a clearing you had pulled into. Everyone got out and off the car to stretch silently, breathing in the woodsy scent which had your nostrils flaring. The tree’s were ridiculously tall, looming high above all of you, with their barked extremities going every which way, causing some light to enter the area.

Everyone began unpacking tents and everything, but after a while you noticed Avery sitting off to the side, staring off into the surreal scenery. It was as if he was looking for something. As his eyes roamed every inch of the Earth pills were being popped into his mouth. His anxiety must’ve been through the roof as he took the full dose (which is very unlike him as he feared of overdose). Although the rest of the crew was annoyed that he wasn’t helping no one wanted to ruin the first day here, and it is his land so you are guests (and he is a shit host). It was about nine O’clock in the morning by the time you finished setting up. After your tent was set up in the flatbed of Clint your eyes roamed around seeing where everyone was. The lovebirds were next to a few stumps, leaving Avery near the entrance of the path.

The campfire was set up but you all agreed on waiting till nightfall to ignite it as to save fuel, but everyone mostly hung around the area for an hour getting accustomed to the sounds and scents of the wild. With your camera ready within the hour getting ready for some badass nature pics. The only part that was stopping you was getting someone to go with you. Morgan wasn’t up for a hike (as you tended to drift off and have ADD moments) and Dale wanted to plan the hike that would take place tomorrow. All who was left was Avery and he wouldn’t leave his tent. You padded up to his make-do home and opened the flap announcing yourself with a “Ding Dong” Avery was reading, only looking up at you when you entered and refocused on his book soon after. “Can you come with me while I take some pictures?” You asked, your voice laced with excitement.

“(Y/N) why can’t we just stay here? It’s safer here and I don’t want to get lost.” he stated. He didn’t leave any room for argument, but you didn’t need to go with anyone. You left with a huff and began to scan which direction you should venture off in. You just walked straight ahead and looked at the greenery in awe. A part of you understood why the Callmyres didn’t want people here, as everything humans touch inevitably gets corrupted, and this was true beauty. You weren’t one for God as you have always had so many questions on why he would let stuff happen which really stressed you out, but real or not you couldn’t just imagine that all of this came out of random, so you will give God the benefit of the doubt that he exists and created true beauty. Your walk was peaceful and a good time for you to let your thoughts wander as you took some poppin’ pictures of anything and everything.

Your serenity was cut short though as you saw suspicious looking marks on some trees a little way up your make-do path. As you neared the tree the nagging feeling to leave the forest came back and with more strength than ever, causing you to hold your head due to the immense pain. Something just wasn’t right but you couldn’t make up what it was. You reached out to touch the marks, the depth was astounding with the clean scarring of the bark. It wasn’t fresh so you felt a little bit better, it would suck if you got killed by a bear or something, but then again you wouldn’t have to pay off student loans. There was always that.

Upon closer inspection of your surroundings you noticed foot marks in the ground. They were deep, meaning the thing that owned the feet was heavy. It was nothing like you’ve ever seen in your days of hunting. You hunted some pretty easy things, nothing extreme. You did your research before going in guns blazing as not to scare of the prey, but this was much bigger than any bear you’ve ever gone up against.

After taking many pictures of the footprints and the claw marks you were interrupted by rustling of branches high above you. Adrenaline began pumping throughout your body, your fight or flight instincts blaring like a horn in an empty city. Whatever was above you was dashing between the trees above at a remarkable speed, not slowing down in the maze of branches. You crossed off running away as the animal would surely catch up, so you instead stayed incredibly still. You took the opportunity to raise your camera and try and find the thing. The woods fell silent and no sign of the creature anywhere. Suddenly you heard Avery calling out for you in the distance, but it was behind you. You tilted your head in confusion as you remembered that camp was the way ahead, so it wouldn’t be possible for him to have flanked you without knowing.

“(Y/N)...(Y/N) where are you? Come on back!” He called out. Your blood ran cold as in the distance you saw something in the underbrush in the direction of the voice. You moved your camera to follow the movements of the creature, trying to pretend that you were listening out to the calls of your friend. You knew it wasn’t Avery, as he doesn’t talk like that, and he would be scolding you for going out alone, but right now you weren’t focusing on whether Avery was calling out to you or not as all you could focus on was the pale humanoid slowly approaching you. It’s head was just above the bushes in a low crouch. It’s skin was pale but ashy, you could see the creatures bones under the thin layer of skin. The pointed ears and mouth was red with teeth coming out of every direction. The wrinkles in its face resembled the wrinkles on a bulldog, upturned in the form of a bats. The eyes were soulless with a distinct hunger to them.

Everything about the beast screamed hunger, and the way it approached you, you guessed it didn’t want a Big Mac. You had been out for what felt like was a few hours but it wasn’t so, as the sun began to set. You could have sworn that time was being altered because when you found the tree it was nearly eleven thirty, but now it was approaching dusk. Your anxiety made you shudder viciously at your fear of the dark. There was one thing about you that if you could change you would; you hate feeling helpless. It was one thing that always got to you, and this whole situation screamed helplessness.

You took a picture of the thing, which heard the click and retreated into the tree tops. Here and gone, like it disappeared into thin air, but it wasn’t so as for a moment you saw it’s thin stature among the contrasting green foliage. You turned around at a snails place, eyes dashing everywhere to find the creature again. You stood for many minutes, but after no sign of it you made your way back to camp, watching your footing as to not make to much noise.

After some time you had finally arrived at camp, paranoid of the creature lurking in the depths of the underbrush. Your friends seemed worried and came over to you and hugged your figure tightly, whispering incoherent sentences that turned into rambling about how they heard you screaming in the woods. You tilted your head in confusion, how could you have been screaming? You were silent on your walk back as to not draw attention to whatever you saw.

“(Y/N)! Hello? Why were you screaming, are you okay?” Dale said, looking you over for any wounds.

“I-I’m fine, what do you mean I was screaming?” Layers of confusion and worry danced around in your words. What the fuck was happening.

#supernatural #fanfiction #spn fanfic #reader insert #(y/n)

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embracetheapocalypsewithme · 7 years

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In the Twilight Kingdom - Chapter 1: The Hollow Man

Notes: Aaaaand I’m back! After a bit of a hiatus (thanks, work, for going nuts there!), I am back at the Negan fanfiction writing. What can I say? I just can’t stay away from this man!

This is the first of what will be a multi-chapter fanfic. I don’t quite know where I will go with this, except that it will be based off of Here’s Negan (so pre-Saviors Negan) and will likely be shorter than my last fic, Embracing the Apocalypse.

I’m taking some inspiration from T.S. Eliot’s The Hollow Men in my writing, but am trying to keep it subtle-ish. We’ll see how that goes. My Negan is typically based off of the comics, but since this fic takes place shortly after (SPOILER AHOY) Lucille dies, expect him a bit more angst-y than I have written him in the past.

Other than that, everything you might want to know is down below!

Summary: It has been only a few months since the dead began to walk the earth, and Negan has yet to move on from the home he shared with Lucille, nor from his memories of her. As he begins to lose hope, the struggles of life in this new world take their toll on him. Can he find a reason to go on living, or will he succumb to grief?

Word Count: 2,750

Content Warnings: Negan, Negan being Negan, angst, swearing, and mentions of suicide.

Chapter 1: The Hollow Man

“Well…fuck!”

The sound of the cupboard door slamming into the wood behind it was much louder than Negan had anticipated in the otherwise silent house. He exhaled a sigh of frustration and continued to curse under his breath as he grabbed the manual can opener from the cutlery drawer and got to work opening the cylinder of condensed soup he had grabbed for dinner.

“Can’t believe I have to go out and get more fucking food already. I finally got the fucking place boarded up right, and now I have to figure out how to get out and back without getting fucking killed or maimed or fucking eaten. Fuck!”

The large man’s mind spiraled into bitter despair at the thought of having to go on a scavenging run as he dumped the contents of the can into a pot with a defiant flick of his wrist. The momentum of the viscous orange liquid hitting the pot’s bottom caused some of it to splash onto the pristine white shirt he wore. He stared down at the greasy, orange stain in disbelief for a moment, his mouth hanging open in stunned silence, before another stream of explicatives flew from his mouth and into the darkness of his kitchen.

“Fucking fine then!” he stripped the shirt off and threw it into the corner of the kitchen, “I guess I’ll eat fucking topless. Probably burn my fucking nipples off too.”

Negan continued his tirade to no one in particular as he stomped through the threshold of the kitchen’s sliding glass door and onto the patio. Sitting the pot on top of the already-warm barbecue grill, he opened a bottle of water that had been sitting on a nearby patio table and dumped some of it into the thick, concentrated soup to dilute it.

The evenings were beginning to cool dramatically now, signaling summer’s end. Noting the approach of the colder weather, Negan thought (not for the first time) that it might be safer for him to move on from his suburban home and away from the city in the wake of the almost total breakdown of society. If it wouldn’t be physically safer, then surly it would be psychologically safer for him to move. His house held too many memories. Too many ghosts.

Lost in thought, the sound of the soup beginning to bubble drew his attention back to the present. After turning the propane off completely, Negan re-entered the kitchen and sat the pot of soup directly on the counter-top. This was, of course, an affront to good counter-top care that would have caused a row between him and the lady of the house, had she been there to see it.

Before looking for a bowl to eat from, the dark-haired man turned to slide the patio door closed and double-checked to ensure that it was latched before drawing the thick drapes hanging to either side of it. You could never be too careful. Other humans were becoming scarce, but there were still enough looters making their way out of the city to be a threat. The last thing he needed was light from a window attracting their attention after the sun went down.

Negan ate his evening meal in silence, the room slowly becoming dim as night arrived. Once he had finished eating, he placed the bowl in the sink and washed it out with bottled water, using the smallest amount he could get away with.

The nights were worse than the days for him. It didn’t make any logical sense that it should be this way, but the darkness always brought memories of her, and with the memories came regret and a longing that could never be quelled. She was dead. She was rotting on the floor of a hospital room. And he was still here, sitting in the kitchen of what had once been their home, spending the final days of his life eating shitty soup from a can and wondering why he hadn’t put a bullet in his own head weeks ago. He had no idea why he went on and on like this.

“Life is very long,” he murmured into the sink. What was that from? Some poem he had studied in college probably. Maybe T.S. Eliot, or Robert Browning, or someone like that.

Life was beginning to become unbearable as each day blended into the next in a slog of misery that he knew would have to end eventually. The food was running out, and he couldn’t keep pilfering canned goods from the nearby corner store for much longer. Eventually he would have to expand his search area, or risk starvation.

Rather than taking everything that remained, Negan looted only what was needed to get by for two weeks at a time, always leaving the rest just in case there were other people in the area who needed the food too. That way, when he eventually shuffled off this mortal coil, he wouldn’t take resources that other survivors could use with him. At least he could die with a clear conscience in that singular regard.

Settling into his overstuffed armchair, Negan picked up a slim paperback copy of The Prince with a well-worn cover which featured a Renaissance-era painting of a man, presumably Machiavelli. He began to read, trying to allow the words on the page to enter his mind, but finding that they ultimately washed over him, leaving no imprint there:

“Whenever those states which have been acquired as stated have been accustomed to live under their own laws and in freedom, there are three courses for those who wish to hold them: the first is to ruin them, the next is to reside there in person, the third is to permit them to live under their own laws, drawing a tribute, and establishing within it an oligarchy which will keep it friendly to you…”

He read and re-read the passage, trying in vain to concentrate on the words before giving up and tossing the book aside. The prior soup-related fiasco and subsequent loss of a clean shirt still had him distractingly frustrated. Deciding that it would be better to simply sleep off his bad mood, Negan made his way upstairs, stopping to check that every window and door on the house’s bottom level was locked.

Once inside the bedroom, he stripped off his pants and underwear before climbing into bed naked and allowing the cool sheets to caress his skin. She would have hated him sleeping naked too, and she would have hogged the blankets if she had been there to lie next to him. Even the remembrance of their marriage’s minor annoyances caused his heart to ache. Negan curled into a ball under the covers like a child hiding from an imagined monster in their closet, turning away from what was once her side of the bed.

His eyes clamped shut in an attempt to stem the flow of tears which always seemed to be sitting just inches from the surface, perpetually threatening to bubble over and sweep him away in a wave of grief. It took a long time for him to finally calm himself enough to sleep. When he did, his slumber was fitful and his dreams were filled with her face.

It wasn’t the calm and peaceful face he had come to love, but one that was twisted in agony and hunger with eyes as blank as freshly-fallen snow. It was the face of the dead.

Warm sunlight on his eyelids woke him up the following morning. He was still curled into a ball on his side of the bed, facing the window, and his hands were balled into fists. His eyes drifted to the battery-powered alarm clock sitting on the table beside the bed. 8:39am.

“Fuck.”

The word came out thick and dull in the empty room. He’d overslept, pushing his day back and cutting into the hours of daylight he had left to go scavenging. Knowing that he would have to get moving quickly, Negan jettisoned himself from the sheets and felt a shiver run through his body as his bare feet met the cold, wooden floor of the bedroom.

He gave himself a whore’s bath and dressed quickly, donning his usual outfit of jeans and a white t-shirt. He’d never been very adventurous when it came to clothing and saw no reason to change now, so his dresser was still packed full of identical tops with just a few different types of pants. Eventually, he would have to pick up a coat to keep himself warm on his outings, but since the days were still fairly warm and dry, that task could wait a while.

Rather than his typical breakfast of instant oatmeal, he opted for the faster alternative of sugary cereal, which he ate dry and directly from the box, shoveling handfuls into his mouth and chasing them with swigs from a water bottle. He didn’t really care about the taste or texture of the food he ate, only that it would keep him going long enough to swipe some more from the corner store’s dwindling supply of canned goods.

Wondering, not for the first time, what he would do once the canned foods started to expire, he pushed the thought from his head. He would probably be long dead by the time that happened anyway, so why worry about it now?

After slinging an empty backpack over his shoulders, Negan pulled back one of the thick curtains covering the sliding glass doors which lead to the back patio. He peered out, looking for possible threats as he prepared to leave his newly-fortified house for the first time in over a week. The back yard was empty and appeared to be safe, so he slid the door back quietly and slipped out, maintaining awareness of his surroundings as he closed and locked it behind him.

When he did have to leave the safety of his home, Negan always opted to travel through back yards and side streets instead of the main thoroughfare in order to avoid being spotted by anyone who might be looking for someone to rob. It was slower going, but there were a lot less of the dead fucks lurking behind his neighbour’s homes as compared to the streets, and the lack of any conflict probably saved him some travel time in the end.

As he neared the corner store, which was indeed situated on the corner of the intersection that connected his quiet suburban street to one of the major arteries leading into the city, he noted that there were more dead than usual stumbling around the building’s perimeter. Concealing himself behind an unsteady-looking wooden fence that backed onto the store’s rear parking lot, he peered through the slats to get a better look at the obstacles he would have to clear to get inside, careful not to make any noise.

On a typical supply run, he tended to only encounter one or two of them along his route to the fence through the back yards, and there were almost never any dead in the parking lot itself. This time, however, the yards he had crossed had been completely vacant while the parking lot held at least five dead that he could see. And they looked pissed.

Maybe pissed wasn’t the word, exactly. Could those things even feel anything anymore? He supposed they probably couldn’t and were merely excited by something like a pack of hungry dogs. There was nothing exciting that he could see from his vantage point, so he crept along the fence, moving nearer to the store to see if he could figure out what had them so worked up.

Once he had moved as close to the building as he could without being detected, he noticed far more than the initial five dead that he had spied. There had to be at least twenty of the things clawing at the building, most of them clustered around a thick, steel side door with a white sign indicating that this had been the “EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE – STAFF ONLY” back when there had been employees to use it, of course.

“Fuck the fucking hell outta that shit!” he mumbled under his breath, shaking his head solemnly.

As tired as he was, and as much of a pain in the ass as it would be to travel further away from the safety of his home, he would have to find another place to swipe food supplies from today. There was no way he could take on more than twenty of those things. Five maybe, but not twenty. That would be a suicide mission, and he wasn’t quite that desperate yet.

Turning to leave, he hoisted his backpack further up his shoulders and prepared to make his way back toward his home. He needed to regroup and come up with a new plan. Maybe he could find some loose cans of soup or some pasta in one of the houses along the way and avoid having to do a supply run at all today. By the time he came back to try the corner store again in a day or two, the horde was sure to have dissipated.

It was at this point, while lost in thoughts of strategic planning, that he heard his first human voice in several weeks. At first, he wasn’t entirely sure what his ears had picked up, but as he paused to listen to a sound that seemed distinct from the groans of the dead, he thought he could make out a word: “Help!”

The cry was faint and muffled, but he could tell that it was coming from the direction of the corner store. Surely there couldn’t be anyone left alive in there. He had visited the building to scavenge at least once every other week since the outbreak began in the late spring, and if there had been anyone in there with him, he would have noticed them by now. It was probably just wishful thinking brought on by weeks of isolation. His brain was trying to concoct something, anything, to keep him going, and playing the saviour of someone in distress seemed to be where his psyche wanted to go.

“Strange fucking choice in fantasies there, Negan…” he said to himself, taking a step away from the fence.

“Someone fucking help us!” the yell, though still muffled by something, was louder and most definitely not in his head. It was punctuated by the sound of someone slamming their fists against something solid and metal, and this was followed by a chorus of moans from the dead encircling the building.

“Fucking fuck!” Negan cursed under his breath as he stripped the backpack from him and tossed it aside.

The idiots on the other side of the door were making enough noise to draw every walker in the neighborhood straight to them as they desperately called for help. It looked like he was going to have to save them from the growing group of dead assembled outside the door, and from themselves if they were dumb enough to get into this kind of situation in the first place.

He knew that taking on twenty walkers would likely result in his death, but he had to try to get them out of there and to safety, even if it meant he might not make it himself. What else was he good for anymore if not being a big, loud, badass motherfucker? At least he’d die putting his talents to use.

“Hey you fucking undead fucks!” he bellowed, running around the side of the fence and banging on its weathered boards as he went, “Come on you fucking puss bags! Let’s do this!”

The commotion drew the attention of the dead toward the back of the hoard surrounding the door, but those closer to the building did not budge; they were still being drawn by the incessant banging from the inside of the building as the group trapped inside called for help yet again.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Shut the fuck up in there if you want to make it through this, you fucking idiots!” Negan screamed at them, hoping that his harsh advice would make it through both the metal door and their thick skulls.

The noise inside the building ceased abruptly while his outburst caused more of the assembly of walking corpses to follow him into the street, reaching out endlessly for him. That was good. His plan was working.

#comicnegan>#negan fanfiction #negans thirst squad #comic negan #negan

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limejuicer1862 · 5 years

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Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Tricia Marcella Cimera

is a Midwestern poet with a worldview. Look for her work in these diverse places: Anti-Heroin Chic, Buddhist Poetry Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Foliate Oak, Failed Haiku, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Mad Swirl, Silver Birch Press, Wild Plum and elsewhere. She has two micro collections, THE SEA AND A RIVER and BOXBOROUGH POEMS, on the Origami Poems Project website. Tricia believes there’s no place like her own backyard and has traveled the world. She lives with her husband and family of animals in Illinois, in a town called St. Charles, near a river named Fox, with a Poetry Box is in her front yard.

Link to THE FOX POETRY BOX, my public art installation:

https://www.facebook.com/FoxPoetryBox

The Interview

1. When and why did you start writing poetry?

Before writing, there was reading. When I learned how to read (my mother told me that I was convinced it would be too hard to learn; I was a tiny defeatist), another life began for me. A life of imagination. I fell madly in love with reading. And through reading I found poetry. It entered into the portal of my child mind in various forms such as the great Dr. Seuss. When I was nine I wrote my first poem that came whooshing out spontaneously after a dinner with my parents and some business associates of my father. One of the wives told us about her grown daughter being killed in a car accident. This hit me so hard; after dinner, I sat down and wrote this little poem about grief. Everyone seemed kind of astounded; the woman who had lost her daughter just wept. My mother kept that poem for years but it was lost somewhere in time as we moved around. Poetry then lay dormant in me for a while but returned when I was in high school where I wrote and submitted things to the school literary journal. It went away yet again but returned full force when I was in my 30s and discovered a local writer’s class at the college. Along with the class came a professor who encouraged me in a way that every poet should be in their life. And that meant all the world to me – and my poems.

2. How aware are and were you of the dominating presence of older poets traditional and contemporary?

Aware and intimidated at first. But with poetry, there are many masters and many forms. I try and learn from older poets but it’s imperative I listen to my own voice.

2.1. Who were you intimidated by?

I would say that initially every great poet intimidated me. People like Ezra Pound, for example. What did it all mean? Poets like Emily Dickinson, Jane Kenyon, Leonard Cohen showed me that simple language coupled with deep ideas was something to strive for. That was poetry too! Again, there are many forms to choose from – that was freeing to me. MY voice is a form in and of itself.

3. What is your daily writing routine?

I have no daily routine of actual writing. Poems are always showing up and percolating throughout the day in my head, I let them gain form, which can take days. Once I begin putting a poem to paper (computer screen), it generally goes quickly. I’m a fast reviser. I’m a big proponent of revising; I think it’s necessary to advocate for the poem, not the ego. I know there’s a school of thought when it comes to organic outpouring of words to create a poem. I think a poem deserves to be worked on and lived with. It makes it no less gritty or tough if that’s what you’re going for.

4. What motivates you to write?

My imagination, my specific experiences, the world, every art form there is, history, living and dead human beings and animals, the act of remembering – all of it motivates my writing. Anything and everything can be a poem. Once I understood this, a door opened. You really can’t close that particular door once it flies open.

5. What is your work ethic?

I don’t make a living through my writing so my ‘work ethic’ is fluid and not terribly militant. Once a poem is begun, however, I feel committed to it and will revise/polish/finish quickly or revisit it as much as necessary until it feels right. There are those poems, however, that just don’t work. I don’t entirely abandon them but they are left to. . .sit there, waiting for a line to be used, an idea to be shaped . Getting back to revision, I suppose that speaks to a work ethic. As mentioned before, the poem should be served, not the initial delight in creating it.

6. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

Great question! The books and stories of my childhood are forever of my beating heart. I still have one of the first books I received for my 6th birthday – “Hamish Meets Bumpy Mackenzie” by Frances Bowen. The Narnia Chronicles by C.S. Lewis truly saved my life when my mother was hospitalized for depression (when I was ten). I return to my childhood books again and again. “Half Magic” by Edward Eager still entrances me and makes me laugh. I can’t imagine abandoning any of these fantastic books and their writers. They are written so well and never talk down to anyone, except maybe those without an imagination. I believe in magic and hope and weirdness and underdogs because of the books of my youth. Of all the books I’ve read in my life, they mean the most to me.

7. Whom of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

I have many favorite writers but I always cite Joyce Carol Oates and Larry McMurtry as two of my most favorite novelists because they both have such amazing bodies of work. Everyone calls JCO prolific – because she IS! She can do it all (gothic, current social mores, retellings of Marilyn Monroe or JonBenet Ramsey, young adult, short stories, etc.) and with such intelligence and depth. She has revisited certain themes in her work for years; dark and psycho-sexual are her trademarks. As for Larry McMurtry, no one can write a woman like he can. He has created the most marvelous woman characters. McMurtry is known for his westerns (Lonesome Dove), yet I haven’t read them! Because I love his other books so much; I’ve got time. He makes you fall in love with his people and suddenly, shockingly, someone will die. I’ve literally let out screams and then cried. Oh, McMurtry, how could you. I have to mention Donna Tartt as well – The Secret History is the most amazing book. I just reread it for the billionth time. It reminds me so much of Brideshead Revisited; the college students dreamily and beautifully moving through life in a particular time. Now I realize I haven’t even mentioned poets! So many – Mark Doty, Sharon Olds, Raymond Carver. . .and always, always, always Leonard Cohen. Poetry is alive and well. The social justice poetry in America right now is just sizzling. The times are right for it. It’s exciting to read poetry and to write poetry these days.

7.1. Why Leonard Cohen?

Leonard Cohen is the finest. His poems are so relatable and understandable, yet they are not simple in the least bit. He references a LOT. He tells us that we as humans encompass everything. And he says that with sadness and with hilarity. I know I’m speaking of Mr. Cohen in the present tense but he lives on, he’s the Master. I’ve written three poems that he appears in and two of them are especially dear to me; I’m grateful that he shows up. Anyone reading this – go read Leonard Cohen! And listen to him as well. The songs, the voice. . .

8. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

Writing is the thing I do best, creative-wise. I wish I could paint or play an instrument or sing (I sing with gusto but not well). So I write.

9. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

I would advise to Read, Write and Revise. How can you write if you don’t have a love of reading? And when you write, revise! Just a little revision goes a long way.

10. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

Poems are always percolating in my mind but the writing projects I have in my life right now are really about other poets. I maintain and curate a poetry box in my front yard where I display the work of living guest poets, dead poets, as well as songs, art, etc. My poetry box is called The Fox Poetry Box. Passer-bys happen upon it during walks; it’s a concrete and organic small literary billboard. And it has an electronic life as well – the box has its own Facebook page. In conjunction with The Fox Poetry Box, I created The Tom Park Poetry Prize which was just announced. It’s named for a most marvelous cat that my husband and I had the privilege of knowing for a year and a half before he recently passed on. Tom Park was, as I wrote in the prize announcement, a profile in Courage, Character and Compassion. Entries are open until April 15th. Long live Tom Park! And poetry!

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Tricia Marcella Cimera Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. 1,650 more words

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dofthea · 7 years

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The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett

Review

Alexandra’s Review

Chelsey’s Review

Spoilers

Review

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Alexandra’s Review

When perfect girl Lizzie Lovett goes missing, Hawthorn Creely becomes obsessed with solving the mystery. Hawthorn’s theory is a little bit unconventional, and to prove it she sinks herself into Lizzie’s life. She takes Lizzie’s old job, visits the last place she was seen and starts hanging out with Lizzie’s boyfriend Enzo.

You see, Hawthorn is convinced that Lizzie has become a werewolf.

Trust me, in the context of the novel it makes sense. I swear.

Hawthorn’s werewolf theory works on multiple levels. Hawthorn feels like life has cheated her. She wants adventure and magic and is being confronted with a reality where that doesn’t exist. If Lizzie is a werewolf, than magic could actually exist. Hawthorn’s ability to see the fantastic in the world around her is one of the reasons that Enzo is drawn to her. On the other hand Hathworn’s werewolf theory can be read as a coping mechanism. Instead of having to admit that real life horrors can exist, she can focus on unrealistic ones. She can hide, and the more you learn about Hawthorn you realize that hiding is her specialty.

The only way that Hawthorn will ever be able to move forward is if she lets herself move forward. On many occasions she recounts just how much she hates her small town and wants out, but she refuses to touch her college applications. She’s her own worst enemy and it’s her fear of change that keeps her isolated from the rest of the world. It’s this central conflict that makes Hawthorn work so well as a character. She’s flawed, and she lashes out at others, creating drama for reasons even unknowable to herself. Yet she’s easy to relate too.

She’s lonely and she feels abandoned by her only friend Emily. Emily is excited for her future after high school and can no longer take Hawthorn’s negative outlook on life. Hawthorn feels disconnected from her family, especially from her brother Rush. She explains all of this to the reader in detail and has an authentic voice that draws you in to her life. Yet, the more time you spend with her you begin to question everything. Hawthorn is an unreliable narrator. Not only is she hiding from reality, but she’s hiding from herself.

Lizzie Lovett is ever present in the novel. You piece together who she is from dialogue and memories of the characters that Hawthorn interacts with. You feel like you know her, but at the same time she is completely unknowable. Hawthorn is obsessed with her, she both idolizes and hates Lizzie. With Lizzie, Sedoti harkens back to what John Green explored in Paper Towns. Just how much do we know about the people we look up too? To Hawthorn, Lizzie is larger than life. She is more than human. Lizzie is everything Hawthorn wants to be, but she can’t admit this to herself.

The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett is full of memorable side characters. I loved the Hippie commune that takes residence in Hawthorn’s backyard. Hawthorn isn’t welcoming at first, but slowly becomes close with the leader of the commune Sundog. Hawthorn bounces ideas off of him and looks to him for advice when she finally decides to come out of her self imposed isolation.

Lizzie’s boyfriend Enzo also plays an important part in Hawthorn’s development as a character. Where characters like Sundog and Hawthorn’s brother Rush are slowly helping Hawthorn come into herself, Enzo on the other hand can be read as holding her back. I can’t go into many details because of spoilers, but out of all the characters in the book I liked him the least. That being said, there are aspects of his character that I relate to.

The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett is unlike any other book that I’ve ever come across. It’s a coming of age novel that uses aspects of magical realism, but still manages to stay firmly rooted in reality. Lizzie Lovett has some of the best examples of character growth and character arcs that I have come across in a long time. The book deals with some heavy topics and still manages to be laugh out loud funny at times. It may not be for everyone, some might find the pacing a little slow or Hawthorn’s character a little overbearing. But I suggest you give it a try. The novel is a strong debut and I look forward to picking up Chelsea Sedoti’s future novels. Werewolves or otherwise.

Check out The hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett on goodreads

Chelsey’s Review

The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett by Chelsea Sedoti is a bizarre little book. It feels like it should be magic realism but somehow manages to stay on this side of slice of life. And how often you find a book that focuses werewolves as much as this one does but never actually features one?

Hawthorn Creely is a girl with a wild imagination and she is also an outsider. She fights with her brother, relies solely on her best friend for company and is mostly isolated. She hates the town she lives in but is also scared of the changes that leaving high school will bring. When a girl Hawthorn both idolizes and hates disappears from her campsite one night and isn’t found, Hawthorne pretends she doesn’t care, but she gradually becomes obsessed with Lizzie Lovett.

Hawthorn eventually begins to sink herself into Lizzie’s old life. She gets a job at the diner that Lizzie used to work at, wanders the woods where Lizzie was last scene and starts hanging out with Lizzie’s boyfriend Enzo.

Everyone has a theory about how or why Lizzie disappeared. Some people think she got lost in the woods, ran away, was kidnapped, or was even murdered by Enzo. But as months go by and her body isn’t found the town begins to move on with their lives – everyone except Enzo and Hawthorn that is. Hawthorn’s own theory is that Lizzie became a werewolf, and searches the woods for her whenever she can.

Despite having her name in the title though, The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett is not about Lizzie – it’s about Hawthorn growing up and growing into who she is, learning to find the magic in the world, and getting used to change. It’s about how relationships change as we get older. It’s about loss and tragedy. And although it has a broad scope of themes that could easily be depressing, Hundred Lies is actually quite humorous.

Hawthorn is a character that you’re not going to forget any time soon. She is self-centered and imaginative, resulting in self-created drama of the most unique variety. You can’t help but like her and appreciate the way she sees the world.

She quickly concludes that Lizzie disappeared because she turned into a werewolf, and believes it to a degree that would have most parents worrying. But Sedoti skillfully immerses you in Hawthorn’s mind in a way that has you half-agreeing with her, even though you’re fairly certain there are no werewolves lurking in the woods.

Hawthorn’s gentle delusions are entirely relatable. After all, how many of us try to add an element of mystery to our lives through escapist fantasies? Hawthorn just takes hers a step further.

The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett takes on a healthy balance of seriousness and bizarre hilarity in what could have easily been a heavy book about missing girls and depression. Instead, the darkness is broken with moments of levity, like when a convoy of Hawthorn’s mother’s hippy friends move into the backyard and Hawthorn ungenerously wishes that “all their weed turns into oregano.” The book is full of moments where she wishes bad things on characters, but they’re never too bad. More like mild inconveniences. And they’re wonderful.

Enzo, Lizzie’s boyfriend, is the second most important character in the novel. As far as Enzo knew, his relationship with Lizzie was good, and then she disappeared without a trace. He begins hanging out with Hawthorn even though she is several years younger than him because she sees the world so uniquely and because she is one of the few people left in town focused on Lizzie’s disappearance. Enzo and Hawthorn develop a relationship that helps and hurts them both; a relationship so mildly screwed up that it feels real.

As for writing style, Sedoti has an easy voice that gently highlights the themes and teases out the feels. Sedoti manages to combine a wide range of themes into the book including being yourself, being an outsider, finding magic in the world, loss, depression, changing relationships and looking to the future but she slips them in so naturally that it’s only when you finish the book that you realise how much it has covered and how gracefully it did it.

Stylistically and thematically you could compare The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett to something like Spontaneous by Aaron Starmer or John Green’s Looking for Alaska. It has strong rereadability value and is a hard book to describe without making it sound crazy. But trust me, it’s worth a read. You’ll find something you relate to on every page and you’ll remember the book long after you’ve put it down.

Werewolves and all.

Spoilers

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The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett was originally published on Death of the Author Reviews

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