Personal Writing - Blog Posts
Okay, so in light of recent events regarding the loss of my job. I've come to a decision. I'm going to start focusing on original content. Instead of just fanart.
Now, this doesn't mean I'm gonna stop fanart altogether. I still love drawing my favourite characters. And my fav franchises, but ultimately, I wanna self-publish my own comic book and maybe make a living of it.
I have two stories I'm working on.
One is called:
"Returning to our Roots," a cyberpunk furry story following Debbie, a goth albino rabbit girl, trying to survive an increasingly hostile world. She's trying to keep her friends and herself safe from a local string of dissappearances. But everything comes to a head when a secret of the world is revealed that will shatter what anyone; corpo, anthro, or human knew about all they hold dear.
The other:
"Purgatory has a queen." An origin and life story of my demonsona and their quest not to rule all of hell or raze hevean. But rather carving herself her own little demented paradise in the Void.
I'll try to keep everyone updated on the projects. When the first few pages for either are ready, I'll post them here. Eventually, I'll try to get a patreon or Ko-fi going so you guys can support. But for now. This is just the awareness post.
Also, P.S. @moociaoafterdark My friend, i'm sorry to @ u, but I don't know if you will see this otherwise. Only because I'm not putting Warhammer40k in the tags.
Daily reminder to myself that:
I don't need to write for anyone but myself.
My personal writing has no deadlines. I'm not falling behind anyone, because I'm not in competition.
There is nothing to prove.
Originality is not the end-all be-all. If someone else has explored the same idea as you before, that doesn't make my version any less valuable or meaningful.
I can write what I want.
There is no reason to hold back anything on the page. No reason for shame or hiding or preemptive self-judgement. I have no audience unless I choose to let them in.
The "quality" of my work does not determine my value as an artist or a person.
I don't need to write like anyone else
Not everyone will understand and that's okay.
IT DOESN"T NEED TO BE PERFECT
Or even "complete"
In fact, let go of the idea of perfection entirely.
Writing should be for joy, growth, and expression.
Sincere question to any other writers: what's some advice you have about not comparing yourself to other writers? I've kind of just written in my own bubble for most of my life and a lot of my work has never seen the light of day because I'm still in the phase of my journey where the idea of sharing my writing makes me incredibly anxious. Being on this site and seeing how many other people are writing such good stuff, especially in the same fandoms as me, makes that feeling worse. I guess I'm afraid of not being good enough, original enough, or creative enough to "keep up" with other people and make something worthwhile. And that makes me not want to write, and I hate that feeling. This is just something I really want to work on within myself, because it can be overwhelming, and is holding me back a lot.
Just a personal post, with a dash of Astarion because this is my life now
So I've gone my whole life denying myself writing fanfiction (despite being a writer since forever) because of the powerful internalized autistic fear of being "cringe". But after playing BG3 I just can't do it anymore. Astarion as a character just inspires me too much and I have so many scenes I want to write that in my mind, its criminal weren't included in the game. Honestly, once I gave myself that permission, I've written more this past month than I had in the past six months of my original story. It's been so fun and rewarding and has taught me a lot about what mental hang-ups I still have as a writer, even when it comes to work I know I'll never share. I'm basically just novelizing the story of my Tav and Astarion now, and it's so much fun. I'm sure a lot of my ideas have been done a million other times by other people, but this is my version, and I'm reminding myself that there's value in that. I'm still learning that it's okay to be self-indulgent and "cringe" sometimes. I just want to see the characters I love be happy and get the treatment they deserve, even if I have to write it myself. I'm being creative and it makes me happy, so maybe that's what matters? It's freaking me out now to even post this, but I'm really trying to learn how to express myself honestly again after so long masking and being so concerned with appeasing others. The fear of judgement or "doing something wrong" is hard to get over. Maybe someone else relates.
I used to write about people around me. In Bahasa, of course. Here are they. The next one is in progress so please wait if you will.
Anda, The Series (1) | (2) | (3) | (4)
“Maybe in a perfect world. But the world wasn’t perfect it was cruel. And maybe that’s why he left; someone so perfect can’t survive in a cruel world.”
- my novel
The Unfulfilled Relationship Between Me and Pitiable Birds
When I first saw a broken little bird by the side of the road
Abandoned, hurt, alone in the world
Of course I felt pity, that’s only natural
So I decided to take that poor lost chick in
I’d be the one who’d save it
When no one else in the world would
I raised that chick
Fed it, cared for it, guided it through life
I gave love to that chick
If that little bird pecks me
I know it doesn’t mean it
But it still hurts
It can’t help it
Since it has never known how to be loved
It is only natural
The pain is worth it
For it is nothing
Compared to the pain that chick has known
It is worth it
And I know the chick is grateful
For all my efforts
The little bird sometimes
Shows me love too
But really, an Ave’s love is incompatible with me
A bird cannot give me anything
A bird cannot understand me
A bird’s song is devoid of meaning to my ears
But I am the one who must care for you
For, there is no one else
In the entire world who would
And I know you know this
And I know you are grateful to me
I know you love me
And if one day you can sing a love song to the whole world
That should be enough.
But
The world is not ready for you
You are not ready for the world
The beasts out there will tear you apart
You know this, you know
The other animals are cruel
I am the only one who will be kind to you
You do know that, right?
You are nothing without me
A lost bird who can’t possibly survive
Without me guiding you
What do I want from you?
Something you can’t give me
But a “thank you for saving me” will do
Your Gratitude
Your Devotion
Your Love
My struggle is all worth it
In the end
Because I am the one who saved you.
...Ah, I see. We are both such innocent sinners.
As you grow
Surely you must become restless
In this gilded cage that you flew into and I locked
For you need freedom
But I sought to bind you
With caring and loving words
I stifled your tune
The same tune that I had worked to convince you
Was beautiful
I gave myself
Meaning, purpose, reason
Because you were not enough
At the end of the day
An Ave’s love is incompatible with me
Perhaps all I really wanted
Was for you to be able to go and sing your song
To those who can appreciate it
But I was never a selfless person either.
I won’t pretend my wishes were ever pure
Certainly not as pure as you
But even so, I wish you nothing but happiness in the future.
Please, go and sing a song of love to the whole world.
Personal Writing - "Other Life"
I reach out my hand to grasp something ethereal
My body disappears and I am flying in the sky
I am in a dream
I open my eyes and feel your happiness
Though I must eventually fall back to earth
I will fly away again soon
If I want to forget everything at once
I close my eyes
I reach out
I fall towards the sun
I melt into the sky
My face copies your smile
I can only see color in your sky
It explodes and swirls around me
And gently whispers secrets only to me
And when the sun is setting
I will reflect your tear-filled eyes
I feel and see so vividly
Everything else seems pale and bleak
I realize this is the most alive I’ve ever been
Cycling through joy, grief, and rage
And starbursts of color surrounding me
Am I flying or sinking?
I only know I never want to come back to earth.
a piece of personal writing, poem that is not really a poem. prose? i don't know technical definitions. tentatively named "one taste is all it takes".
The curtains are drawn
The window has been tightly latched
The lock, tightly chained
No, no, it was a forbidden door
No, no, the key has been thrown away
In darkness, the child slumbers
There is something ancient she is unaware of
No, no, you must not think of it
No, no, you must not speak its name
At bedtime, yes, close your eyes
Follow this precisely
You will not be found
Yes, yes, listen to me
Yes, yes, do exactly as I say
As your footsteps echo on the stairwell
Did you feel it stir?
Tread carefully
So as not to wake it
Step in all the right places, and it will not hear you
But if it smells your fear it will all be over
No, no, you must not fear it
No, no, you must not give it form
One step, two steps, do not be careless
Three steps, four steps, do not trip up
One mistake is all it takes
No, no, it is a forbidden movement
No, no, it is a forbidden thought
Take one step forward and fall back three
You flail and struggle to grasp on to something, anything
But you blink just once and everything has disappeared
Yes, yes, goodbye to your innocence
Yes, yes, goodbye to the things you love
All paths lead here
It is unavoidable
No matter how you hide you will find yourself at this door eventually
No, no, do not let it smell you
No, no, do not let it taste you
You try to hide
But there is nowhere to go
There is nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing to be afraid of
But you are afraid
And it is awake.
AlumniGenisis
This was a project I was super proud of several years ago, mainly because I felt like I was really branching out doing anything science based when that had always been my worst subject. I stopped writing it because, well, science was always my worst subject and even with this little beginning I was being more narrative as opposed to science oriented so I never felt I could do it much justice if I continued. But, even still, I’m pretty fond of my first attempt.
Keep reading
What Never Made it to Print: Another Shot
The saying was an eye for an eye. The problem was that when you ran out of eyes to poke out, you started gunning for other body parts. Blinding the world was okay at the time -and why wouldn’t it be- but when someone was insane enough to start ripping out hearts?
That was when people started panicking.
Learning About My Characters: Reigh
Reaction Upon Discovery:
(AKA: Aw.)
Keep reading
#816
What is the biggest conflict your ship faces and how do they overcome it?
#I'llgetyoustarted
What’s an old disagreement that still causes problems for your ship?
What would your ship do if they were targeted by a underground organization?
#75493893048320567
If one half of your ship is mad at the other, what will the second half do to try to make up for it?
Two men start to argue on a street corner and a crowd gathers to watch. Write about the incident from the perspective of:
One of the two men involved in the argument
An observer who happens upon the scene after the argument has started
An observer who knows one of the men
The Writer’s Book of Matches
“If I didn’t think you’d hit me back, I’d slap you for that.” Use this somewhere in your writing.
The Writer’s Book of Matches
Puppy Sibling
She walks around the house with a stuffed rabbit. We had put it in her crib about a week after she was brought home from the hospital. She was so tiny, and mom thought that she might accidently suffocate herself by hugging the toy too tightly. We told her it was silly, and we still put the toy beside our baby sister, but a part of us could not help but wonder. So, despite our own inner scolding’s, we still kept a mighty fine watch on that crib. We still listened for the sounds of the baby inside extra carefully, just in case. But nothing bad had ever happened.
She did love that rabbit though, and I could not have been any happier. I had spent hours upon hours working the doll into a decent shape. My fingers were all practically useless, numb from the constant jabbing of several different needles. I had started making it when mom gave us the news that she was expecting another baby. That was about two months along. It took me an entire seven months, and a couple of weeks more for added measure, to finally finish it. I can’t say that it wasn't a pain, but I knew it was worth it when I saw her slobbering all over the thing.
I used to call her Puppy, or Pup, because back then I hadn’t seen anything cuter than a puppy before. Yet, I had decided then, at twelve years old, that my litter sister was even cuter than the purest of purebred puppy dogs, and thus gave her a set of nicknames I felt suited her. It was something special between the two of us. Everyone else called her by her name, Evelyn, or Eves if they were feeling cute, but she always liked my names the best. Just like she liked that stuffed rabbit more than any of her other toys. She carried it with her wherever she went, and she was never without it when she needed to take a trip back to the hospital.
Puppy was a sick kid. She had breathing problems and would often have these huge fits that would leave her in bed for days. Her curly hair would go limp, her plump little cheeks would lose color, and her eyes would lose a bit of their sparkle. My brothers didn’t like getting too close. Even though they were older, and knew they couldn’t catch what she had, they didn’t want to get too close. So mom depended on me for a lot of the help with her. I didn’t mind. Pup and me were like two really aged gapped peas in a pod. I was her favorite brother, and I just loved her to bits. That rabbit was a testament of that, I guess, and she once said, in that cute little baby-doll drawl of hers, that we’d all be together always. I think I believed it.
But sometime during the winter she turned three, she got sicker than I had ever seen her. I stayed home from school a lot because I was so worried, and I would later pay for it by repeating my senior year of high school. But, back then, all I could focus on was Puppy. The last time I saw her smile, she told me she loved me, asked for a hug and kiss, and then went to sleep. She didn’t wake up again. We buried her in a dress mom made, and her favorite toy bunny wrapped in her arms.
Pup was a very sore subject after that. Mom liked to talk about her a lot, and dad did too now that I think about it, but my brothers never stuck around for the conversations. I think they felt guilty, and would have preferred we’d forget the source of the pain. I think they thought it would make things easier on all of us, but I couldn’t do that. Instead, I used her as my driving force in life. I was going to live enough for the two of us. The night after her funeral, I promised her I would make it back to her someday, and when I did, I was going to be good enough to keep that little promise of hers.
Ever since then, I’ve had a bit of an affinity for good luck. Good things happen to me for no reason, and eventually people had to wonder what was going on. I never lost my keys, never forgot that important date, and the opportunities had a way of finding me just when I needed them the most. People thought I was blessed. They thought I must have done something really good to deserve all of this luck. I think I was just a beloved older brother with a younger sister who still wanted to see him happy.
Yup, you guessed it. I didn’t think it was luck, or a blessing, or even any good karma on my part that put me in a good place in life. I’ve always believed that it was Puppy looking after me like I used to look after her. In fact, I know that’s what’s been happening. I know because I’ve seen her.
At first I thought I was hallucinating, letting grief take over, but it’s happened too many times since then, and I’ve long since healed after the initial pain of her death. Now I know she’s just following me around the way she always used to when she was alive. Only, this time, she’s learned how to do nice things for me without physically being there. I see her peeking around the corner when I’m having a bad day, giggling when I need a bit of a pick-me-up, and running a hand through my hair when I end up sick. And I still see that rabbit of hers bouncing up and down in her arms from the corner of my eye. My little sister, my favorite Puppy, is now my own personal guardian angel.
And I think that makes me the luckiest man alive.
Shattered Reflection
This was the me who didn’t make it. Not just the one who hadn’t accomplished her dreams, or the one who had given up on what she’d wanted in life. That may or may not have been true, but that wasn’t the first thought to come to mind.
Her neck was bruised, and maybe it was just me, but they looked very ominous. Perhaps it was just me, considering I was the one with an imagination that was as vivid as it was limited by what I already knew. Maybe it was just my eyes playing tricks on me, making shapes recognizable only because it was something I knew and something I could identify. Maybe it was fear, feeding an apprehension deep inside my stomach that grew the more I looked at her.
Her face had some shallow but long scratches. Her arms looked an ugly mixture of purple and yellow, gashes appearing every few inches or so. They also seemed to have the same kind of marks that her neck did. Handprints. Marks of a struggle.
It took me a long while, and when I finally looked back up at her, I saw my own dark brown eyes staring back at me with an icy numbness. “Did I die?”
Keep reading
What Never Made it to Print (Part One)
They always knew they’d end up together at the end of the line, they just hadn’t imagined it would be in this way. In hindsight, maybe they should have had some clue as to what that kooky old fortune teller meant when she said, ‘Together forever, and not a day more’.
Kyle had brushed it off as a cop out, saying the old woman had no way of knowing anything else about them-they really hadn’t given her anything to work with during their introduction and had yet to do anything more than give very short responses to inquiries she used to make her so called deductions- so she had gone with the usual thing that psychics always said. That there was someone out there that they would be with until their dying day, someone who they seemed to care about more than anyone else in their lives. He would admit that she had a unique sense of style, claiming that the two of them would be joined at the hip until the inevitable as opposed to their current girlfriends, but that was about all he was impressed by. Considering that it was nothing he didn’t already know, she was lucky to get that small bit of admiration out of him.
Shawn just didn’t see the point of putting any merit to the predictions. They might have gotten him excited when he was five, and Kyle’s mom had threatened to move hundreds of miles away if the boy’s didn’t eat their vegetables, but that was twenty years ago and the white lie was nowhere near palpable enough. Kyle was not going anywhere, and Shawn was not planning on letting any argument split up the only long lasting ‘relationship’ he had ever had in his life. If the fates had not seen fit to separate the two of them by now, it just wasn’t going to happen. So he was not to going to be inexplicably terrified of the thought of losing his best friend. While he believed that anything could happen at any given second, he also believed in facts and statistical data. The area they both lived in, the crowd they both ran with, the backgrounds they both came from, and the jobs they both had, were not conducive to a tragic outcome. They were both safe in the lives they created for themselves and as long as they were careful, it was always going to be that way.
So how they ended up here, out of breath and clutching to each other as if there was nothing left while literally staring down their demise, was pretty much a shock to both of them. Looking back on things now, it really shouldn’t have been.
(Sometimes I begin writing something, and while I decide at the end of my writing time that I like what I have so far, I never quite find a place to put it. So I put it on a shelf for later and occasionally look at it again to see if something comes to me. This is one of those times, and I still have no clue.)
According to psychological facts, the inability to fall asleep at night means you’re awake in someone’s dream.
What Never Made it to Print (Part Two)
The word taboo was created for a reason. In the mortal world there are certain things that can never mix. Things like oil and water, greenery and fire, and magic and science just to name a few. So men created rules. They created boundaries. They created taboos, so that nothing that should not be could ever come into existence. However, one of the most predictable aspects of a mortal man’s nature is that he will break his own rules, forget his own precautions, and dismiss his own consciousness in order to gain something he desires. And, of course, sooner or later, something he desires is bound to come along.
Sometimes this forgoing of common, cautious sense can be noble. If enough of a spin is put to it, it can almost seem legendary or heroic. Most of the time, however, such an event is just tragic. Because when humanity is forsaken for humanity’s sake, well, humanity loses that which made it human in the first place. That was why the rules were put into place to begin with. They were meant to prevent the loss of all order and the introduction of new chaos. But by the time everybody stops for a moment to remember this one simple fact, it is already too late.
She Loved Me
She used to really love me, and she used to need me too.
When she saw my face on Christmas morning, after she ripped off that sparkling wrapping paper, her grin outshone the star on the top of the tree. She cuddled and kissed me, and thanked her parents a million times before the day was through. That night she set out a special place for me on the pillow next to hers, and she held on tight throughout the entire night.
From then on she didn’t leave the house without me. I was the friend she brought to school, ate her meals with, and played every single game with. I had to get washed a whole bunch of times because I couldn’t drink her lemonade or eat her sandwiches the way she could. I tried for her, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t like the washing machine much, but I did like how fresh I smelled when I got out of the dryer. She did too, and soon it didn’t matter that I had been tossed around, because when she threw me up in the air and caught hold of me again, the world was great.
She showed me off to all of her friends, and I made some of my own with the unicorns and elephants from down the street. We talked about, when our kids left to go get cleaned up, how much we did without moving. I talked about how I protected her from the monsters at night, and let her read to me when no one else was around to play. She loved books. She loved to read as many as she could, and she loved reading out loud to people. She used to make up stories too, when she couldn’t read the words, and she would put me in them when she needed an animal for a hero. I loved the stories she told me.
I hated to see her cry. She did that a lot one day, when her sisters took me early one morning. They wanted to play a mean joke, but they didn’t want to get caught, so they took me when she was still sleeping and hid me in a closet. She was frantic when she didn’t see me once she woke up. She asked her sisters where I was. They laughed and told her they threw me away. I looked on in silence and felt like crying too. At that moment I wanted to be like one of the heroes in her books who helped rescue people from their troubles. So I did something drastic. I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I tumbled out when her sisters weren’t looking, and I think they thought they must have not propped me up right. They did. I just didn’t want to stay still while she cried. Her smile was worth it.
She used to sing to me a lot too. She taught me the songs her parents sung to her. She had one favorite she liked to sing every night before she said her midnight prayers. It was a song about little chickens, and she sang it in Spanish. The chickens were cold and hungry, and I thought it was kind of sad, but I was happy because she was sharing with me. I liked it when she tried to show me things. I remember one time she took me on a car trip with her. The sight outside was fun to see. She opened the window and tried to hold me up so I could see the moving tress better. But then we went over a bump and she dropped me. I only had time to hear her shriek before I was on the ground. I waited there for a long time. I got a little dirty, and a few birds started to peck at me. I felt so alone. But she made her parents turn around. She came back for me, and hugged me even though her mom told her not to because I had been on the ground. She didn’t listen.
She loved me a lot, and I loved her a lot too. Life was good.
Then she started growing up. She didn’t play with me much anymore. She did a few times, but only when people weren’t looking. She didn’t show me to the new friends she made, and most of the time they would never see me. She still sang and read, but only to herself, and didn’t need me to protect her during the night anymore. Soon she wanted the bed to herself, and I went to stand beside some of her other old toys on a desk. Our numbers got fewer and fewer until there was only a boxful of us left in the room. We stayed still, only being glanced at during a moment of distraction or when she was feeling nostalgic.
Still, I loved her, and I knew she still loved me. Otherwise she wouldn’t keep me around.
One day she moved. Packed up all the old toys still remaining and put us in a big blue suitcase. I was scared when she closed the zipper. I didn’t think she would open it again for a while. But I knew she would eventually. She just had too. I stayed in that blue suitcase for a long time. I heard people come in and out of what had to have been her new room. I heard laughing, and plans being made. I hear secrets being told, and decisions being made. Things she used to do with me, only now her friends were different. Her friends were real. Then one day she moved the suitcase, and I didn’t hear her voice anymore. I was sad.
She grew up, and I don’t think she loved me anymore.
I was surprisingly okay with that for a little while. She never used to have many real friends. The fact that she was making some meant she wouldn’t ever be lonely. I could stay in the suitcase forever and she would be fine. She could leave me where I was and not ever feel like she wasn’t safe because she was. She was safe without me. But that made me sadder. I wanted to cry.
I wanted her to never forget me because I would never forget her. Even if I rotted away and became nothing but limp cloth, I would never forget the days when she had been so nice to me. I’d never forget her songs or her heroes that became mine, and I’d remember that her favorite color was blue even though she thought it was supposed to be pink because her sister told her that all girls liked pink. I would never forget the thankful kisses she generously gave me when I kept the monsters away, or the thank yous I got for comfort I gave when I let her squeeze me tight when she was upset. I could never forget because those were the best memories of my life.
But I wanted her happy even if it was without me. I still loved her, even if she was too old to love me now.
Then one day, the suitcase was opened. I had been in the dark for so long I didn’t remember how bright light was supposed to be. The face I saw was unfamiliar, and it was a little boy I saw, not the little girl I was secretly still hoping for. He didn’t think much of me. I could tell. He turned me around in his hands a bit, and sort of snorted when he saw how dirty my fur was.
“Yessy, is this yours?” He called over his shoulder.
And then I wanted to cry again. Because a girl came up next to him, and when she smiled I was reminded of the time when a Christmas grin came into my view. She took me from the boy’s hands, and she held me tight. “I remember you.” I heard her say, her voice different and more pronounced than the last time I heard it. “How long has it been?”
The boy scoffed. “Do you want it or not? Dad said we have to clean this place up. If you don’t want it, then throw it away.”
I got scared, but she laughed and shook her head. “Of course I still want him.”
“Aren’t you too old to be playing with toys?”
“Probably.”
She took me to her new room. She had a lot of space now, and she didn’t share it with her younger sister anymore. She had a fireplace, and a bookshelf built into the wall for all her books. It was nearly full. That day she put me right in front of the fireplace, and she took a book from her shelf and started reading it to me. It was still her favorite story, the same as I remembered. Later that night, when it was really late, she got out of bed and took me from my spot in front of the fireplace.
“I had a bad dream,” she said as she tucked herself into bed, with me tucked right under her arms. “And you used to be pretty good at keeping bad dreams away. Let’s see if my memory serves me right.” It did. I made sure I was extra ferocious so that nightmares were too scared to come near her. Or maybe I didn’t do anything. What matters was that she slept soundly. She still smiled when she woke up and went to school.
Other toys were eventually put in places or given away to younger members of the family. But she kept me. She always told people that she was never giving me away. She wanted me to stay with her. Not to chase the nightmares away. Not because she was lonely. Not because she needed someone else to tell her stories to. Just because she wanted me there.
She used to really love me, and she used to need me too. Nowadays she doesn’t need me for much of anything. She still loves me though, and I think that matters most of all. It’s not when they need you that gets to you. It’s when they don’t need you at all, but still smile when they see you around, that you know that you did something right. Because they remembered what love they gave you long enough to give it back.
“In the end, we’ll all become stories.”
— Margaret Atwood (via paperlover)
Small Prologue
Show a thief a safe, and he will undoubtedly come back and take it for his own. He will not lie to you. He will always be bluntly obvious about his deceptions. You will know, one way or another, that once he is done with you, you will have your pockets cleared of anything valuable they once possessed. But you will have expected that of him. Show an officer of the law that same safe, and you take a chance on whether or not you will ever see it again. He might tell you he will guard it with his life, but no one can really trust the spoken word anymore. For while he is assuring you he will never let another man touch it, he is holding the key behind his back. This you are surprised by. Which do you find more wicked? The conman who told you that you were going to be deceived? Or the lawman that fooled you into thinking you were safe for harm? True, there is always an exception to the rules. There can be a bad criminal and there can be a decent officer. Just remember that there can also be an opposite to this exception. How many times have you heard stories of a crooked cop, or tales of a heroic villain? A twisted world it will be when those rules mentioned above are applied. Yet in today’s world in today’s society, such rules can apply almost instantly without any kind of hesitation. Take a look around. Decide for yourself. Which category do you fit in? Which world is yours? Is it a law-abiding universe? Or is it a thief’s world?
((Would really like some feedback if anyone has the time. Thanks for taking a look.))
They Called It Puppy Love
Asher:
It was easy enough to notice. Everybody but him could tell there was something more going on with the two of them. To be fair, I don’t think many thought it was something beyond a strong friendship. They were, after all, just kids. They didn’t know about love or the many aspects of relationships. Not really anyway. How could they?
Ben, full name Benjamin Reynolds, was a ten year old soccer star in the making. He had these big green eyes, deep brown hair, and cocky little smile that was everything boyish charm was defined for. He was the kind of kid you knew would grow up to be someone you wanted in your life. The type of guy who was loyal, dependable, and just unpredictable enough to be the ace up your sleeve. A best friend for the ages.
He was also kind of adorable, I thought upon initially meeting him when his family moved in down the street. My little brother thought so too, and he didn’t appreciate the fact that I looked highly upon little Ben, if the initial stomping on my sandal clad foot with heavy steal toe boots was anything to go by.
Jeremy, my supposedly adorable eleven year old little brother, grew attached to Ben pretty quickly. I want to say that he was abnormally clingy, though he would argue with the use of the word, within the first few minutes. I had never seen love at first sight, but I knew it must have been something awfully similar to what I was seeing when Jay held onto Ben’s outstretched hand a little longer than he should have.
It surprised my parents just as much as it surprised me. Jay never took to anyone easily. Hell, he didn't even like me when we first met. He peed on me the first time I tried to hold him, and it had taken us the better part of four years to get along with each other. His friends went through a similar time grueling process, though without any bodily fluids being released onto them. To like someone so quickly was something new and almost extremely out of character for my baby brother.
I could see why, especially when I laid eyes on Ben’s older brother. Shawn, he said his name was, was an eighteen year old god. At least, he was in my humble but ever important opinion. Good build, not overly muscular, brilliant brown hair, apparently strenuously kept, and the most gorgeous pair of blue eyes I had ever seen. He was smooth talker, a sincere conversationalist, and I could tell he was a good guy within the few minutes of meeting him.
It was a breath of fresh air. The guys around my small town had all lost their appeal rather quickly. They grew out of manners and class, and you really needed to work at any kind of decent relationship. To their credit, they did shape up when they fell hard enough, as I had seen over the past few years of casual dating, but it was still hard work pretending to like them. The girls were the same. They lost themselves long ago, and had no intention of trying to individualize themselves unless a man was involved. Who wanted that kind of pressure?
It didn’t look like any of those tiring difficulties applied to Shawn, my new real life version of Adonis.
They didn’t apply to Ben either, if I was completely honest with myself. He seemed to take after his brother’s example in just about everything that counted. The both played soccer, had a lot of friends back in their old town, good encouraging personalities, and never did anything halfway.
I was absolutely smitten that first night when my parents invited Shawn, Ben, and their single father Michael, over for dinner. In my defense, it was hard not to be. Shawn was something I had only ever heard about in hushed whispers across the hall. He was the complete package. The looks, the personality, the sense of responsibility, he had it all. And his family wasn't half bad either.
They were a close knit group, and despite not having a mom, they seemed complete. Jay was amazed that Ben could get by without that female presence in his life. He had always been such a mama’s boy, and not having my mom around was nearly suffocating to him. The fact that Ben could even breathe without one seemed like a miracle to my blunt and seemingly tactless little brother.
Little Ben was strong throughout the rough questions Jay could not stop himself from asking. I was a bit surprised. Jay was a smart, but sometimes cruel little brat when he wanted to be. Even when he didn’t mean to be, the things he said could wound terribly. And the effects would last for months on end. I thought Ben would have broken down crying after the fourth overly intrusive question.
The kid was a tough one. He answered everything with a smile and a laugh. He then was able to ask Jay about the things he liked.
I winced, and mom and dad tried to hides their coughs behind their glasses. Jay did not talk about himself. Never. Ever. He never saw the point in it. For such a young kid, he was so picky about the things he did and did not do. If it was never going to do anything for him, he simply did not want to do it. Too much work for so little gain, I guess.
But that night at dinner, Jay suddenly wanted to talk about anything Ben wanted to talk about. His favorite food was hamburgers, his favorite color was red, and he was a member of the local baseball team. Anything Ben wanted to know, Jay was willing to speak about. Michael and Shawn couldn’t quite figure out why the rest of us were gawking so freely.
Shawn started asking me questions, I guess feeling awkward about letting two preteens take hold of the dinner conversation. Michael started doing the same with my parents. All throughout the night we all traded information and laughed over new private jokes, all the while finding it completely normal to seem so at ease with basic strangers. We had so much fun that the time just flew by without us noticing. It was nearly ten when we finally had enough sense to look at a nearby clock.
By then, Jay had already looked so head over heels that I could have laughed. I would have too, if I wasn’t sure that I had the exact same look on my face at the moment.
When the Reynolds finally headed home, nearly an hour after we all agreed to part ways, Jay was smiling like a loon. He then proudly proclaimed, before he went to bed,
“He will be my new best friend.”
I didn't think to tell him that he already had a best friend. One that was always vying for the attention that Jay obliviously refused to give him. I also didn't think it was wise to tell him that what he wanted from Ben was something more than friendship. He still had those boots on after all, and I was too heavy a sleeper to feel comfortable enough to say what I wanted to. I have to watch the merchandise, you understand.
So I only smirked and told him,
“Go for it.”
I knew it to be fact. If I, after years of breaking hearts of all ages, was smitten this quickly, my brother was in for a long ride. He was only a kid, and he didn’t understand the emotional and possibly physical loop that emotions could take you through. A part of me thought that perhaps I should have done the big brother thing and tried to talk him out of it.
The more rational part of my mind told me it was pointless. Jay would be in denial. Even if he did admit to what he was feeling, again, he wouldn’t understand the big picture. He would never get what any of this meant. Not at 11. Puppy love was never something that permitted logic, and this was an extreme case if I ever saw one.
Lord knows if it’ll end well or not. But hey, it could be a good show.