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A Storm Brewing

It was never a love story. There was no love that took over my body like I was possessed for him. He needed me much more than I needed him. But I needed him almost as much as he needed me.

We needed each other more than oxygen we breathed. Breathing was never enough. We were addicted to each other’s souls. He took. I gave. He took. I gave. He took. I gave.

“I don’t want you dating anyone else” “I’m not your girlfriend, this is exactly what you wanted” “You’re my girl” “we both know I was never your anything.”

Anyone who saw us said he never wanted actually falling in love with me, it was all a game. A game that suddenly became real life. He took. I gave. He took. I gave. He took. I gave.

~A series of writings based on my failed relationship~

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Claire Messud

I had a student in one of my classes the other day, a wonderful young person, say, well of course fiction is for teaching a lesson or giving a message. And I said, I’m sorry, I have to interrupt you. I just want to say that is not my understanding of what fiction is. Fiction is what it is about what it’s like to be alive on the planet. I said, fiction, as I was brought up to understand it, is without judgment, right? Fiction is just giving you the news.

Think of Chekhov and the compassion of Chekhov, or Tolstoy. It’s not about saying this is how you should think and these people are bad and these people are good. As the quote from Chekhov, “It’s not my job to tell you that horse thieves are bad people, it’s my job to tell you what this horse thief is like.” And then you get to make up your mind, right?

It isn’t the job of literature to actually have representations of every single consciousness on the planet. It’s actually to ask the reader to make the imaginative leap to step inside of consciousness that is not like their own.

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If I have one piece of advice for other writers of short fics, it’s this: don’t be afraid to leave things unresolved.

Let the story end with the character on a cliff, with the break-up still hurting or the fires still burning.

Examine your urge to wrap things up and end on a high note. Hurt/comfort is a valid genre, but if the story is 90% hurt - does fixing it actually add anything? Or is this a way of flinching in the face of the emotions the story invokes?

Sometimes, stories work better when you let them end in pain. Ending neatly can prevent catharsis - let your readers leave with the hurt, to feel it and let it go at their own pace, instead of rushing them to the relief.

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you are sitting in the chair over there across
from me. i read all nine stories, of the book, while
you listen, as you paint your canvas. how this
w o r k s  this    side

          of those doors that have an alarm get too
close. suppose to be in one of the rooms, with
sunlight. get your head right, feel the rays. anyway,
do not go out those doors, go out these…

or, would you step aside for my eyes i may see
the painting so far?

Emily: no. get over there, have your tea. read or
make up a story, or hush. i am painting.

    Emily sits across from me, we paint stories.

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AU. Set in modern times, Relena is a doctor pursuing a cure for an unwilling patient - with a terrible disease.

“He lay there, dying, his blood filled with nothing but his thoughts of you. His memories of how he had taken you….” The vampiress leaned over her. She stroked Relena’s hair, pushing it from her forehead. “His shame. His longing…” Dorothy’s face gnarled into a ghoulish nightmare. Her eyes blazed red.

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1. How do I know what’s important?

2. Along with importance, in note taking, how am I sure it’s valuable?

3. How do will I be able to state the article in my own words? Like what if I genuinely don’t understand the article, how do I do it then?

4. What consists of “key support points?!”

5. How do I get it to become “clear and concise”?

6. How do I know what to compile to make it together?


8. Why isn’t google helping me write an article?(Ie. How to write a summary is not at all helpful)

9. Why are summaries so freaking hard?!??!

!0. Who invented summaries?

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Billy Hargrove x OC! Evie Fenny~ Also posted to my AO3

Summary: It was common knowledge that Billy Hargrove hated Hawkins. Hated Cherry Lane. Even loathed the strange girl next door. Evie Fenny wasn’t too fond of the chaotic Cali transfer either. An awful high school tradition sparks a chain of events that changes everything, ultimately bringing two frayed souls together.

A/N: So sorry the chapter took so long!!! Hope it was worth the wait!! Stoked to share more of Evie and Billy’s story with you all and thank you, readers, for all the support! Things culminate between these two at a big house party. Evie digs into a side of herself she buried away, unsure which face is real. Billy tries to make amends as they try to touch some common ground. TW: Drinking, marijuana use, and vomiting.

***My tag list is wide open, just shoot me a msg to join it! Chat with me about the chapter if you have the time! Enjoy! xoxo

Chapter 18: The Neon Demon

   Birds chirped over the rose trellises beyond the window.

   Evie shifted over. Heard an alarm going off she hadn’t set and moaned. Threw herself over to smack it. Vaguely hungover, she lifted up. Hand sinking out aimless toward Billy’s frame and…

Keep reading

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I cannot feel anything but anger tap dancing across my skin.

It starts in my nails. It always starts in my nails. I claw at the wood of my desk, at the hem of my shirt, and the skin of my palm. It leaves marks, sometimes, and I imagine my flesh breaking open, and red spilling out.

If I am a pressure cooker, then my talons must be the whistle - both a way to let out just enough steam to prevent disaster and to warn everyone else that when there is the sound of cartilage crushing itself on wood, to get away, to leave, to stop poking the pot.

(I’ve heard so long that I was such a polite child, a kind child, and I wonder if eight years of anger has finally started to find seams, find places where it can push and push and push until it is acknowledge that I am an angry girl! Truly! And maybe I wouldn’t have been otherwise but I don’t know where else I can build a whistle)

(There are three marks in my face, three crescent-shaped-cracks, and I think that at last, the anger has won.)

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The other side I no longer miss.. Nights where you fall asleep on that cold tile, remind me of how alive I am. How I don’t miss those nights, of trying to live harder than I could, nights of dreaming too big and too crazy. Nights where you’d kiss me on the forehead, but now I’m kissing you, and I don’t miss the other side at all.

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Because that kind of love, it burned you, scared every piece of you. But not for the reason that it hurt, or that it left you pained, or that it left you holding your chest with hurt so bad you begged death would call your name, but for the reason that it was so good, so amazing, so absolutely beautiful that your soul never feels real again, never feels anything moderately comparable. It’s that kind of love, that leaves you begging, leaves you bleeding. Leaves you hoping for the real.

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Hello readers!

First of all, I want to thank you all so much for following this blog and supporting my series!

Second, I want you to know that my inbox is open for questions!

  • I will not answer questions if it will spoil something in Book Two/Three
  • But I’m happy to answer world-building questions
  • And questions about different characters!

Lastly, Book Two info will be updated on my blog by the end of 2020, but I don’t want to spoil anything for those who just bought it!

Thank you for your support and happy reading!

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