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lizbotw · 3 years

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it’s only sharing a disgustingly sweet milkshake at the local college town diner after both of your evening classes that suna graciously provides the answers to the math homework.

the spongy pencil eraser is easy for you to sink your teeth into as you puzzle over his handwriting. “you know,” you mumble around the nib, trying to figure out if that’s a 5 or a 6, “i never know why you do this to me every week.” this time the drink with two plastic straws floating in an unhealthy heaping of whip cream is a syrupy strawberry flavor.

rintarou tips forward to sip at one of them and in your peripheral, chunky pink-coated fruit pieces travel up the clear tube and disappear between his lips. he releases the straw with an annoying ah that makes you frown, even if you weren’t concentrating in the first place. “aw, don’t tell me you don’t like hanging out with me.” he feigns hurt.

a well placed sip of your own allows you to avoid having to answer that—you have a personal rule of never being sappy in the presence of calculus. if you didn’t like him, suna knows you wouldn’t be hanging out with him—there are just some things you can’t do, even if it’s for the sake of your grade. none of this has to be said out loud of course, but he decides to be annoying and ask anyway.

actually—well... maybe hanging out is... not exactly how this appears to bystanders.

sharing a drink like this, you two probably look more like a couple on a (terribly cheap) afternoon date, rather than two broke college students that split meals to save money and believe that sharing answers for homework isn’t cheating, it’s collaboration.

ha, as if it would ever be different—things like the former never come true. maybe in movies, but that’s about where the line is drawn.

as if he knows what you’re thinking, suna raises an eyebrow at you over the glass, a smile playing on his lips—the same stupid look he always gives you. it feels particularly worse this evening.

it’s hard to avoid eye contact with him mere inches away, but you manage when a car painted a very interesting shade of red rumbles past the fingerprint covered window. you’re grateful for the distraction.

the subject changes when you realize suna has terrible taste when it comes to ordering milkshakes. “what flavor is this?” you spit out the word as though the very concept of calling this a real flavor is more disgusting than the drink itself, smacking your lips and screwing up your face at the excessively saccharine, artificial strawberry aftertaste.

this is no ordinary strawberry milkshake. no, this is a so-bad-only-suna-rintarou-would-order-something-this-horrible-(and-not-necessarily-on-purpose-either) strawberry milkshake.

“valentine’s valor,” he states matter-of-factly like those words mean anything to you. you stare at him until he elaborates. “their valentine’s special,” he clarifies and is gifted with a sarcastic thumbs-up from you in thanks—it is pointedly ignored and suna slings an arm over back of his seat. “dunno the exact flavor though. forgot.”

it tastes like the embodiment of pink, you decide. valentine’s valor. what a stupid name. there are a million and one better words that start with v... you can name at least five with a little thinking. you should ask them to hire you as part of their marketing team, you decide.

maybe it’s fitting title though. you certainly need valor to even think about taking another sip of that... concoction—which you do because you are obsessed with getting your money’s worth.

“valentine’s day was half a week ago?” your mental calendar helpfully supplies.

the clatter of pans in the back kitchen somehow mingles charmingly with the way rintarou throws his head back to laugh—a scene straight out of a movie really. you decide you hate him in the moment. “right you are. want a prize?” ugh. you stick your tongue out at his tone.

great. as if to add insult to injury, of course you’re sharing an out-of-date love holiday special with suna of all people. valentine’s was four days ago and this is where you are on a thursday night. the sticky upholstery of the booth seat, ripped and fraying at the corners, squeaks and groans and attaches itself to the fabric of your jeans as you shift around, suddenly hot. what a strange situation to be in, you think. this has to be a metaphor for life—then again, you’d been thinking this whole... thing has been a metaphor anyway.

yup, ever since suna sat next to you in a calculus II lecture all those fated months ago and took pity on how much you fucking sucked at math, up until the present where he takes slightly less pity on you but does enjoy emptying your dorm mini-fridge and making you pay for his milkshakes—all of it. this entire thing with him. one big stupid metaphor.

the specifics of how you came to have a routine like this are certainly murky, but two things are for certain—one, your calculus grade is certainly a lot better than it would have been otherwise, and two, you have one friend more than you did at the start of the school year. (that last one is kind of a big deal, you think. the college social scene is brutal. the word friend has started to become more disappointing than exhilarating lately though.)

rin reaches to your left to pick at the fries you’d ordered as a side—you’ve learned not to try and stop him. “also,” he adds, mouth full, “you’re totally getting me a new pencil after this.” yes, true, the pencil you’re currently leaving frustrated teeth marks all over isn’t yours. very easy to forget in the moment. you’ve probably destroyed 15 of his pencils by now for the 15 weeks of the last semester—only 7 so far for the current one. you do the mental math.

instead of drawing in the sharp lines of the differential equation that should be going in the question box, you lightly trace in the curves of a 2 and then another one next to it in the corner of the worksheet, graphite underlining them both in one swoop. the horribly thin paper of the school library’s printer is scratchy as you write but soon you flip the pencil over and under your fingers to tap the eraser (that has seen better days) just below what you wrote. “this is pencil number 22.”

suna leans over to look at the number as if you hadn’t just told him what it said. what an idiot. “glad you’re keeping count.” he settles back into his seat. “when can i expect my reimbursement?”

“you’re funny,” you say, without a hint of humor in your voice. the pretty 22 you had written now has flower petals growing off of the sides as you get distracted doodling along the edges of your work. it’s quiet for a moment as he watches you, or maybe as he takes the chance while you’re distracted to shove more french fries down his throat—either option is plausible and you don’t lift your eyes to check.

something occurs to you.

“rin.” you take an extended pause in between the words as you continue drawing, just to annoy him. you don’t continue speaking until he grumbles in acknowledgment (you try to hide your smile). “do you ever doodle in your notebooks?” now that you thought about it, suna was surprisingly pretty straight-laced when it came to class—you couldn’t ever recall him ever slacking off to the degree that meant his pages were filled with hearts and stars and flowers and suns and atomically inaccurate animals and tiny people in different colored ink. your work was always certainly the more vibrant out of the two (perhaps that could explain your grades and how you understand like... nothing in your lectures, but you decide correlation does not equal causation).

“waste of time,” he says around another mouthful of fries, another one already halfway there to his mouth.

suna is also surprisingly negative at times—but the blue book flipped open to his homework says maybe he’s just a liar though. you squint at it.

“it’s still pretty early but we probably should get out of here soon,” suna says, pulling his phone out from his pocket to check the time and leaning his elbows on the table. “i’ll walk you back. your roomie doesn’t leave the gym until 9—before you ask, yes i’ve been keeping track. it’s not stalking if it’s for my own sake.”—rin is, of course, referring to the long standing rivalry between him and your (very nice, might you add) roommate you don’t really understand but which has cumulated in him deciding he would avoid them as much as humanly possible purely out of spite. (“the only person i like in dorm 302 is you,” he’d told you one time and the throwaway sentence maybe made your heart flutter more than it probably should’ve.)

the bell above the front door jingles behind you as another patron enters. rin glances up at the sound and then returns to his phone with a bored bat of his eyes, probably scrolling through twitter or replying to texts, and picking at his teeth with a toothpick (where did he even get that?).

you try to get back to work (copying) but something in your gut tells you there’s more to his notebook than the messy handwriting and crossed out words that meet the eye.

with suna distracted, you take the chance to carefully slide the book towards you and then, in a single quick swipe, pull it into your lap under the table, already leafing to the back pages—everyone knows that’s where the real secrets are—not sure what to expect. a flash of color makes you pause and you flip back to a page that has the corner folded into a tiny, crisp triangle.

whatever you were thinking suna had stashed in the back of his calculus notebook certainly does not match up with what’s staring you in the face currently. sparkly, gel-inked hearts in neon colors glitter under the fluorescent overheads. in each of them, written in capital letters neater than you thought possible for suna, is your initials, a small plus sign in the middle, and then S.R. (for none other than suna rinatoru) next to it. it instantly makes sense to you. “rin, what the fuck.” one side of the book dangles from your hand, pages fluttering, and you hold it up for him to see, other hand flying to cover your mouth because you don’t know whether to laugh or pretend to be mortified or what.

it’s very amusing to watch how suna goes from a disinterested stare, to widened eyes, to reaching over the heaps of school supplies to attempt to grab the book from you, frantic. you hold it just out of reach. “what are you—” an old lady at a table shushes him when he half-screams. “—give that back,” suna whisper-yells instead in the greatest verbal equivalent of tiny caps you’ve ever heard.

“not a chance.”

he looks like he wants to lunge across the table and pry his prized possession from your meddling hands, but also has half the mind not to make a scene. getting kicked out and then subsequently banned from his favorite diner all on a noise complaint and disorderly conduct accusation was not ideal.

you hum, flip back to your place, and observe the drawings covering the lined pages. you shoot him a venomous smirk over the edge of the cover, one that’s more theatrics than anything, and say with all the satisfaction of someone who knows they have all the power, “oh, this is gold.” he deflates and you feel grateful he doesn’t see right through your facade because oh man are you sweating inside right now. what the fuck? no way suna rintarou is drawing little hearts with both of your initials in it like a lovesick middle schooler. no fucking way. you almost want to tell him that you did the same thing once when the thoughts about him had gotten especially bad (you felt guilty afterwards though, thinking you never had a chance with him, but... now... if he’s doing the same—well, that kind of changes everything).

suna is utterly defeated you think—doesn’t even try to defend himself, just slumps in his seat with a groan. you at least expected a “i can explain!” from him, a last attempt at dignity, not the resigned “i’m never going to live this down, am i?” he mumbles after a few seconds. well, either works for you.

“nope,” you quip, maybe a little too cheerfully because the response you receive is a distressed wail and him banging his head against the table. the old lady shushes him again. you chuckle at that (it feels a little wobbly though because once again, freaking out here) and flip the page. you stop.

this one has similar perfect little hearts drawn all over it, but there are other things. cute, standard shaky drawings of misshapen dogs and volleyballs and other things you never thought suna would take it upon himself to create but all of which make sense are there. but there’s something else. little scribbles in the corners with your last name swapped with his and even him trying out his name with your last one—all of them are scratched out but not so much you can’t read them. a list on the right in a very tiny font that makes you think he was embarrassed even penning the words is titled “date ideas?” (the question mark is in red and the dot is a heart) and has several popular spots around town written down in the local lingo of unofficial names for them.

“listen... please let’s forget about this.” rin’s voice is muffled and he’s still faceplanted. “it’s fine if you don’t... you know... yeah.” if you don’t feel that way, he means. true, the doodles were a pretty good indication of his feelings.

what to do...

well... you take pity on him, let your lips upturn and your eyes soften to reflect the sentiment, and shut the book with a quiet thud. you slide it back across the table from where it came and back to him silently. you give it a resounding pat when suna peeks up at you, expression saying it all—he was so going to get you back for this. you stick your tongue out—acceptance of the challenge. and just like that, you’re friends again—maybe that’s what’s so great about suna.

as you get ready to leave and slowly begin the trek back to the dorm buildings with him, street lamps glimmering a pasty yellow, there’s no awkward tension, no need to ask questions, no verbal wonderings about what ifs between you two. it’s just joking and shoving each other around and challenges to see who can run to the next tree the fastest in the middle of the chilly february night. you know, maybe for now you’ll keep your own thoughts a secret.

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limetimo · 3 years

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19. did you ever keep a journal?

16. did you have any imaginary friends?

2. how many siblings do you have?

38. what's the dumbest reason a teacher ever got mad at you?

is that too many? I mean, you did reblog 50, and it was hard to pick a minimal amount from that many choices.

♥︎

19. Journals

To call those notebooks "journals" might be an overstatement, but yeah, I have about… four or five notebooks where I would write down my feelings and stuff that happened and unfinished self-insert stories and the likes. I think the earliest input is when I was circa 11, and it gets quite sporadic around 17. So I have an inconsistent record of my teenage years, basically. I would mostly vent in there. Sometimes I like to re-read them and add little dated notes like "you sweet summer child #Feb2018" or "Yeah that sucks #June2020" or how the thing teenage me talks about changed since.

12. imaginary friends

I remember I made a cca 6cm tall paper cut-out of my imaginary friend but I don't remember a single thing about her, aside from the fact she was a brunette

2. siblings

38. Angry teacher

OKAY so it's 4 grade elementary school and history+geography+biology are all smashed into a single subject called… nationgraphy? Let's call it nationgraphy, we just learned the basic stuff about our country. And we had this new teacher, who just. Hated me for no reason. I was literally the quietest, easiest child to deal with. I don't know what her problem was. She was so stressful for me to deal with.

At the time my mom was SUPER involved in my studies, and I had a pretty strict set of rules I had to follow. To be the BEST because mom doesn't know how to half-ass or even good-enough things. For example, I wasn't allowed to write in my school notebooks while at school. I had to write my notes in a special notebook and then rewrite them neatly at home. And underline headlines and important bits and add pictures and stuff. My elementary school notebooks are a work of art because of this.

And in her quest for perfection, mom bettered the teacher's notes with facts from my older sister's notes and history and science magazines. And all was fine until the teacher took our notebooks at the end of one lecture to check if we're taking notes properly. (I cried because I have to speed-rewrite the entire 45 min lecture in under 5 minutes and just knew my handwriting wouldn't be good enough for mom and I'll have to rewrite it AGAIN once we get our notebooks back.)

And I got my notebook back. And it was graded. And I had a D, and a note, "Only write down what I told you to."

like. WHAT THE FUCK??? It's been over a decade and I'm still so effing pissed about it. I was a coleteral damage between my mom's need for perfection and the teacher's ambition to, what, be a bitch to a 9 year old?!

---- Not too many, feel free to send more - this is actually a really interesting ask set tbh

#Thanks!#tag game #me #the fourth grade was overall a wild ride for me now that i think about it

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minaofmayhem · 4 years

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DRABBLE #13 - The Library

I’m happy to post the first Drabble requested by @merlinsluxuriousloungewear! 😀 I really liked writing it with our fluffy Alexander ❤️ I hope you’ll like it ! Thanks for having proposed this idea! 😘

Let me know if you want to be tagged for the next ones 😀

Summary : Reading is your favorite hobby. You are doing your thesis in English Literature at Columbia University in NY. You spend all your time at the national library and there you meet a very interesting Swedish guy...

Pairing : Alexander Skarsgård x Reader

Warnings : None just fluff everywhere ! ❤️

“Ah...There you are Byron”, you say to yourself as taking the book from the shelve. You were searching for that damned book for 5 minutes now because someone had misplaced it. Going back to your desk, you mentally curse those who did this. How can it be possible to not respect the rules ? "We are in a library, for god sake". You sit down on your chair, in front of the place where all your stuffs were, and sigh. The book you were carrying finds a place next to the others in a muffle sound.

You were actually working on a big project that you have to give back in two weeks for a final exam. The subject is “The English literature within the ages”. This is a real complex subject and you don’t have time to waste. You quickly take the books you need to complete your references in front of you, open them at the right pages and put your headphones on to lock yourself into your favorite workspace. You absolutely love working at the library but most of all with your favorite music into your ears. Well the library was quite quiet but you were always distracted. Sometimes because of a new incomer who just ask a bit too loud some informations at the desk or other times by distracted people who make fall their stuffs on the ground. It’s exasperating you but you can’t do anything against that. You love so much being here that you tolerate such things with your music on.

Ten minutes later, you raise up your head from your book to choose an other one when your heart make a jump into your chest. At the main entrance, you recognize the guy that comes almost everyday since a week now. Well he’s quite noticeable cause he’s really tall, like he could take a look above the shelves! But what aroused more your curiosity was the fact that he looks absolutely gorgeous. It is not because some people consider you as a bookworm that you are completely out of reality. You watch guys like any other girl and had some boyfriends too. You can have feelings for beautiful men but this one is really special. It’s the first time that someone catch your attention like this.

As usual, he takes his wallet from his back pocket to bring out his member card. He shows it to the secretary at the entry and comes inside the library. As discreetly as possible, you follow him with your eyes. He really have a smooth walk for someone so tall. You notice that he is carrying a little notebook and a pen. He poses them on a desk just a few meter from you. Sometimes, you just pretend to check some things on your computer ; you really became an expert in spying these past few days. It’s incredible how fast you can develop some tricks to not be caught. After placing his stuffs, he takes a little piece of paper, probably with some references on it, and goes directly into the shelves.

You breath when he’s out of sight. “My god what are you doing (X/Y)”, you mentally say to you to get yourself up. This is really impolite to spy people. You know it and yet you can’t prevent yourself from doing it. This guy literally become an obsession, this is crazy. Since the first time you noticed him, you can't stop searching for him at the library. You noted that he was there every day in the afternoon. Sometimes, you were even checking your watch more than usual just to be sure that he will be here soon. You started to pay more attention to your appearance, wearing nice clothes, hoping for something. Maybe just a glance.

Five minutes later, he comes back at his desk with three little books and sits. Behind your computer, you give some discreet glances in his direction until you finally get caught. He raises his head and his look directly goes straight in your direction. Immediately, the fire rises at your cheeks and you pretend to search for something into an other book. Your movements become a bit untidy and your hands are nearly shaking. You feel really stupid at that moment.

Did he notice your insistent glances ? Or was he just looking accidentally in your direction ? You really pray for the second option otherwise he'll really think you are a crazy girl or something like that. Now, because of that, you can't look at him anymore during the day or it will be very suspect.

You go back to your work, a bit frustrated but that’s part of the game. Too bad but it’s like that. “What were you expecting after all?”. You close a bit sharply the Byron’s book and go to search some others. Now it’s time to talk about Shakespeare. You do a quick search for references on the net, write them on a piece of paper before going to the right shelf. After a little walk, you find the “English Theatre” shelf, settled on a isolated side of the library. with no desks or sofas to sit around. You go into the shelf and search among the books. You eyes looking quickly at the references and your note at the same time. After some seconds of searching, you finally find the first book you need.

“Oh no...”, you whisper as you notice that the books is situated at the last level of the shelf and of course, you are too short. Classic. You take a look around but there’s no sign of a stool that could help you. You sigh and search for an other solution. Impossible to ask at the help desk because you don’t have time to waste. Plus you know well the secretary and she’s quite slow when it comes to take decisions.

“Ok then. If I really have to...”. You put your hands on the shelf, checking the strength. You are really thin and these are really old shelves made with strong woods. You won’t fall and it won't broke. At least, you hope so. When you feel that you have enough support with your hands, you put your two feet at the base of the shelf. Then you slowly climb, level after level. Luckily you had put a pants today. You don’t want to imagine what it would look like with a skirt...

At the second level, you try to raise your hand to grab the book but you are stil to short. You could just reach the start of the last shelf.

“Damn...”, you whisper, out of breath. It’s quite hard to stay in balance in this position with your right hand up. You rise up a little bit and raise your hand again, a bit higher.

“C’mon (X/Y), just a little more...”. You were just about to reach it when you suddenly feel that you were losing balance. Like in a movie, it was like the time just slow down as you were falling down. You close your eyes, knowing that you don’t have the possibility to grab something to hold you back, except books but it won’t really help you. You just wait for your fall until...

“Wow...are you alright miss ?”.

You don’t fall on the ground, like expected, but into arms. You open your eyes and discover that you were just lying into the arms of the perfect stranger you were stalking. You open your mouth to say something but for a moment, no sounds come. You feel really stupid, even more than when you get caught.

“Oh...Hum...Yes...” you manage to say, being shocked by what happened and embarrassed at the same time. He looks at you with a smile, apparently amused by the situation. It’s the first time that you see his face so close and you aren’t really disappointed. He really have a beautiful face, with delicate features and fascinating eyes. You feel the red coming again at your cheeks. Gently, he drops forward to let you feel the ground again. Your right hand lean on his shoulder as you go down.

“May I ask you what were you doing on that shelf ?”, he asks with a hint of humor. His voice his really cool and you notice a little accent but from where ?

“Well...I just wanted to take that book”, you answer as showing him the little Shakespeare book that moved a little bit from his place. You then realized that you endangered and made a fool of yourself for just a stupid book. The guy lets out a smooth laugh and just takes it easily to give it to you. Being that tall can really be useful!

“Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. Good choice”, he reads the title on the cover. You grab it and thank him with a shy smile. You feel the red coming back again and you try to calm yourself.

“You had chosen a good one too”, you declare as showing him the “Othello” he was carrying. He looks at it and smile. God, he’s so delicious when he’s smiling.

“Oh yeah”, he answers as showing it. “I was doing some searches for a role I’m going to play soon. Some kind of a medieval tragedy, you know”. So that’s why he was spending time at the library...He was maybe an artist. You feel surprised by the fact that he is easily talking to you, like if you knew each other for a long time. But you really enjoy his company and you don't want this little chat to end.

“Then maybe I can advise....” you say as searching for “Macbeth” among the books in the shelf. Of course, this one was at your level so you quickly take it to take him. “It will help you more for medieval tragedy”.

“Wow, are you a Shakespeare’s expert or something?”.

“Not really”, you laugh a little, “I’m learning English literature so Shakespeare is of course in the program”. He whistle, impressed apparently but it make you feel a bit embarrassed.

“Well...Since Shakespeare has no secret for you...Would you like to take a coffee or something with me? You could share me all your advices ?”. He proposes that after coming a bit closer. You look at him, in disbelief. 30 mins ago you were just stalking him behind your computer and now he was proposing to take a coffee ? That was really an unexpected day. You couldn’t missed this opportunity.

“I’d love too. After all, I owe you a coffee, you just saved my life”, you answer with a little smile, placing a lock of your hair behind your ear.

“You’re right. I’m Alexander” he says as showing you his hand with a big smile.

“(X/Y). Nice to meet you”.

#alexander skarsgård #alexander skarsgard #alex skarsgard #alexander skarsgard imagine #drabble #the library #requests done #alexander skarsgard x reader #alexander skarsgård x reader

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curiouswritinggarden · 3 years

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The Excuse

I am late for work! Late! Late! Late! Of all the nights to eat cheap fried rice, why did it have to be last night, I think to myself as I start the car. Eating Lee’s authentic Chinese special fried burger rice always knocked me out with fever dreams. I cringe while remembering the crazy dream about claymation Komodo dragons. Oof, I took two red lights. Hopefully I can get to the time clock before my boss notices. I finally arrive at the office building. I slam my car door shut and run through the crowded parking lot. There is only enough time to shout a frantic, “Good morning!” to the lobby’s receptionist before skidding into a closing elevator.

I take a second to catch my breath. The memory of the clay lizards whispering, “mould our faces,” creeps back into my mind. I shake my head to get rid of the weird thoughts and notice my hair is sticking out at weird angles. Great, just great, nothing says late like lopsided bedhead, I think as a try to smooth down my frizzy hair.

The elevator dings at my floor. I poke my head out of the sliding doors. The reception area is empty. The time clock gently ticks on the wall behind the welcome desk. A smug smile spreads across my face. No witnesses, perfect! I can’t believe the welcome room is empty. I speed tiptoe toward the time clock.

“You’re late.”

I jump and muffle a shriek. Slowly, I turn to face my boss, Mr. Borgman, with the most professional smile I can muster. Mr. Borgman is a tall, stern man infamously known for firing tardy employees in the office. He walks up behind me and adjusts his dark blue neck tie with the patience of a priest.

“Twenty-five minutes and thirty seconds late, Ms. Rubin,” he says as his eyes flicker to the clock and back to me. “I hope the extra sleep prepared you to welcome the clients scheduled this afternoon. You’re lucky none of them had the decency to come in early.” He regards me with a disapproving look as he passes judgement on my wicked bedhead. “Even though you are the, I assume, proud receptionist of Sleepy Time Pillows Inc., the company does not endorse sleeping in on work days.”

“There’s no reason why you deserve more sleep than the rest of our employees. Many of our workers perform outstandingly with the standard seven to eight hours of sleep every night.”

He leans down toward me, “Why should I make an exception for you?”

I crane my neck upwards as he looms over me. My smile dissolves into a sheepish smirk.

Why did my boss eat a mountain of calcium as a kid?

Taking a deep breath in, I squeeze out my words in a whisper, “I can explain sir, if you just give me a few minutes of your time.”

“You have taken more than enough time from me and the company already,” he says curtly. Then, with the grace of a confessor, his gaze shifts from judging to challenging. “But I would love to hear you try and talk your way out of this rather, sticky situation.”

He nods, in a merciful way, and eyes the time clock again, “I’ll even give you one minute to gather your thoughts.”

“Thank you sir,” I say meekly. A minute, huh? How am I going to come up with an excuse in a minute? Mr. Borgman is notorious for following the paper trails of his employees. If any employee was truly sick, he wanted them to show symptoms, have paperwork, and even a call from the doctor that treated them. He showed the same ruthless efficiency when family emergencies came up too.

How Jerry wasn’t fired after he faked his father’s own funeral is beyond me. Wait..That’s it! Jerry wasn’t fired, even after impersonating his allegedly dead father in an open casket funeral! It was proof there was a funny bone in my bosses’ thin skeleton figure. I just need to come up with a story wild enough to make him laugh, or at least crack a less sinister smile. I glance at him. His smile is relaxed yet all his teeth are showing. “Thirty more seconds, Ms. Rubin,” he says.

I rack my brain for any idea. Mould our faces, a slithery voice whispers. The dream, of course! I straighten my stance and channel all of my customer service calmness into my voice.

“There is a perfectly logical explanation of why I am late today Mr. Borgman. You see, yesterday I visited the Wynken, Blynken, and Nod Sleep Center in the hopes of convincing them to test if our Sleepy Time Pillows could improve sleep. They told me the lab would be interested, but first I would need to register with the center. As a requirement I had to volunteer in a sleep study.”

He raises an eyebrow in curiosity.

“They told me the study would monitor sleep patterns of the average adult. Not wanting to waste any time, I volunteered for the sleep study last night. Unfortunately, my volunteer papers got mixed up and I was mistaken for a participant in a different study. At least, that’s what they told me, afterward.”

Pausing, I sigh and shake my head slowly, “What I’m about to say is going to sound crazy, but it’s all true. So please, do not interrupt me.”

He nods, “Alright, you may continue.”

“Last night during the, supposed, sleep study I was taken to a monitoring room. They gave me a glass of water and told me I had to drink it as part of the study. So I drank it and fell asleep mid-yawn. The next thing I knew I woke up in a room designed to look like a flower meadow.”

My boss scowls in confusion. He tries to interrupt me, but I cut in.

“Yes, I know it sounds insane, but that is what happened. I woke up in a room made to look like a flower meadow. The walls were painted sky blue and there was green shag carpeting with silk daisies stapled in place. I should know, I yanked a bunch of the fake flowers out of the carpet and cut my foot on the staple. I was confused and stumbled back into a painted wall. Then the wall spun around and I was in a night club. There were loads of people wearing glow-in-the-dark shirts in that crowded room. All of them were dancing to rave music with a heavy base. I was disoriented and kept bumping into dancers. I felt like I was in a human pinball machine and I was the pinball. Suddenly, someone pushed me out the door of the night club and into a different room. The new room looked like a kindergarten classroom…”

As I continue on my long tale, I describe myself walking in and out of dozens of strange rooms. Some with balloons in them, others filled with hedgehogs, but all of the rooms were wacky and left me feeling more befuddled than ever. I glance at my boss and see that my story has the same bewildering effect on him. His eyes are scrunched up in confusion, his mouth is open in a lopsided scowl, and his head is cocked to the side. I decide to wrap it up when it looks like his face is going to flip to a 180 degree angle.

“…And it was just when I was running out of the trampoline bug room that I was face to face with a pair of giant claymation Komodo dragons. They were hissing at me, ‘Mould our faces,’ when I lost the last shred of my sanity and ripped the lizard’s head off. I was screaming, ‘Ok, I’ll shape your faces!!’ when a buzzer sounded and over-head lights came on. People in lab coats walked into the room. They told me to calm down, which is hard to do when you are confused beyond belief and clutching a dislocated clay lizard head. They explained that all the rooms were part of an experiment. The scientists were testing to see how people would react to dreamscapes when they were fully awake. They placed me and other test subjects in a maze filled with bizarre things to simulate a dream landscape. I was shocked and yelled at them. I had only volunteered to do a regular sleep study, not be a guinea pig for a bunch of quacks. I collected my personal effects, went back home to change, and then raced over here to start my work day.”

Mr. Borgman stands very still in the waiting room. It takes him half a minute for him to blink. He reaches slowly into his pocket; perhaps to hand me a pink slip. Instead of termination papers, he takes out a moleskin notebook and writes for over 5 minutes. Then he closes the notebook and says, “Well, your excuse is going right at the top, along with Jerry Barton faking his father’s death, as the craziest late excuse I’ve ever heard.”

I gulp, “Does this mean I’m not fired, sir?”

He gives me a satisfied smile. “I should hope not Ms. Rubin, we need you on our ad campaign team. Someone with your creativity is needed to help us sell our pillows. I believe your excuse would make an excellent advertisement for our company.”

My sigh of relief is cut off as he talks to me again.

“However Ms. Rubin, do not come in late again or I will truly fire you.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he walks into the office, he laughs softly to himself. “Mould our faces, indeed,” he chuckles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hey there! So this short story is based off a writing prompt from Writer’s Digest’s Year of Writing Prompts. Specifically, March 4th’s prompt: You’re late for work because you overslept, but your boss hates over-sleepers. He does love entertaining stories, though, so create the most outlandish excuse as to why you were late. Writing this was a lot of fun! The most difficult part was creating the actual excuse. I needed a scenario that sounded crazy, but real enough so that it would sound believable. The idea finally came to me when I thought of the company my main character worked for, Sleepy Time Pillows. After figuring out the name, everything else in the story fell into place.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed the story! :D

#curious writing garden #the excuse #short story #writing #long post #writeblr

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owlways-and-forever · 5 years

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The Head, The Eye & The Heart

A/N: Wishing a very, very happy Christmas to my lovely secret santa recipient, @hookedonapirate! It’s been such a pleasure talking to you for the last few weeks, and I hope you like your gift. A huge thank you as well goes to @cssecretsanta2k18 for organizing this wonderful event this year! Happy Christmas everyone! Summary: Emma Swan admires Killian Jones much more than she would like anyone to know. A few drinks, some karaoke, and a little matchmaking at the office Christmas party gives her the opportunity to get to know him better, but can Emma give Killian a chance, or will she close herself off to the possibility of romance? Word Count: ~7000 Links: ao3 | FFnet

To photograph: it is to put on the same line of sight the head, the eye and the heart. - Henri Cartier-Bresson

Emma scrolled through the images on the screen, her heart stuttering with each shot she saw. As usual, the images that had been uploaded were phenomenal, and she couldn’t decide which one was her favourite. Killian Jones, the star photographer of The Storybrooke Photography Co., was more talented than anyone Emma had ever seen, and she couldn’t resist looking at his photographs whenever he uploaded a new assignment to their server. There was just something about them that made her feel... magical. She often found herself jealous of his ability, when all she could do was sign paychecks for the staff (and privately think that, despite the large sum that Killian raked in for his photos, it wasn’t nearly enough).

This particular assignment was a series of photos of Ellie Goulding, recording acoustics in Abbey Road Studio. The setting itself would have been iconic, but Killian had managed to capture the emotion in her eyes, and somehow Emma seemed to know exactly what songs were being sung in each photo. She hovered over one, clicking to enlarge the image. Somehow she just knew it was Dead in the Water. Her favourite song. She could see the anguish written plainly across her face, etched in every muscle. It was just a photograph, but somehow it seemed to move with emotion.

“Hey Emma!”

Mary Margaret startled Emma out of her daydream as she poked her head through the door to Emma’s office. She quickly closed out of the photo server, pulling up her accounting sheets and trying to look innocent. She didn’t want anyone in the office to know how much time she spent looking at Killian’s photos.

“What’s up?” Emma asked curiously.

“I was wondering if you could give me a hand organizing the office Christmas party this year,” Mary Margaret answered with a sheepish grin.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m not that into Christmas and I’m definitely not a party person,” Emma protested, starting to shake her head.

“Please Emma!” Mary Margaret pleaded. “Usually David helps me plan it, but he’s home with the baby and –“

Emma sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing. Mary Margaret was able to convince her to do just about anything when she mentioned her husband and their cute little son. David was another photographer with the company, though he mostly focused on animals and wildlife rather than people, capturing stunning shots of nature. They had gotten married a little over a year ago, and then had their son in September. Mary Margaret had come back to work when her maternity leave ended, and David had decided to take a sabbatical to stay home and take care of the baby.

“Okay, fine, but let’s not go too crazy with the party this year,” Emma said, raising an eyebrow. Mary Margaret had a tendency to plan very elaborate parties, especially when it came to Christmas.

Mary Margaret rolled her eyes and laughed lightly in response.

“Christmas parties should be at least a little bit crazy,” she joked as she turned to leave. “Coffee later to start planning?”

“Sure,” Emma agreed, turning back to her work.

Around 4’o’clock, the post-lunchtime lull started to really hit Emma, and she found herself struggling to keep her eyes open. She had finished most of her work for the day, and what there was left on her to do list could wait until the morning. She quickly threw her belongings in her back, and grabbed her favourite red leather jacket, heading out the door. She stopped by Mary Margaret’s office, tapping lightly on the frame of the door as she peered around it.

“Wanna duck out a little bit early and grab coffee?” Emma asked when Mary Margaret had looked up.

She looked hesitant for a moment, and Emma knew it was her rule-abiding nature telling her that she couldn’t leave work early, but then she grinned.

“Absolutely, just let me finish this email,” Mary Margaret answered.

Five minutes later, the two of them were walking down the sidewalk, heading in the direction of Granny’s, the little mom & pop coffee shop they frequented. They both got oversized mugs of hot chocolate, adding a dash of cinnamon to them – a trick Mary Margaret had taught Emma early in their friendship.

“So, I was thinking,” Mary Margaret said, diving straight in, “there’s this renovated warehouse bar downtown that specifically does events like this. It could be a good place to have the Christmas party!”

“Really?” Emma sighed, wrinkling her nose. “You don’t just want to have it in the conference room or something?”

“No!” Mary Margaret exclaimed, scandalized. “Emma, it has to be special.”

“Okay, fine, fine, the warehouse bar thing sounds good,” Emma said, holding up her hand in surrender. She had a feeling that a lot of this party planning would just be agreeing with whatever Mary Margaret wanted to do.

“What do you think the theme should be?” Mary Margaret asked, pulling a notebook and pen out of her bag and beginning to scribble meticulously neat notes in it.

“I don’t know, winter wonderland?” Emma suggested half-heartedly.

“That’s not very original,” Mary Margaret replied, her expression souring at Emma’s apparent disinterest.

“Are you guys talking about the office Christmas party?”

Ruby Lucas, the receptionist and organizational assistant for Storybrooke, walked toward them, a to go cup of hot coffee in her hand. Elsa Fisher-Arendelle, a junior editor, was not far behind, her intricate blonde braid nestled in front of her shoulder.

“Yep,” Emma answered unenthusiastically, and Mary Margaret flashed her an exasperated look.

“We’re trying to decide on a theme,” she said, inviting the two women to sit down with them.

Ruby promptly took the proffered seat, tossing her jet black hair over her shoulder and setting her cup down on the table. Her bright red lipstick had left a perfect print on the edge.

“You know what you should really do,” Ruby said, leaning in conspiratorially, “is throw a Killian Jones-themed Christmas party.”

“Why?” Mary Margaret asked, confusion written all over her face.

“I heard he’s kind of a Grinch, so it’d be funny,” Ruby shrugged, taking another gulp of her latte. “And isn’t this Christmas his 5-year anniversary with the company or something?”

“Yeah, it is,” Emma answered, her cheeks flushing pink and warm, embarrassed to know any details about Killian Jones, let alone as many as she did.

“So that’s perfect!” Ruby said, clapping her hands together. “Five Christmases with Killian.”

“You could do five little stations,” Elsa suggested quietly, “and put some of his photos from each year around them.”

“I actually don’t hate it,” Mary Margaret agreed, her eyes glazing over as she grew lost in thought. “I think we could make that work.”

“Glad to have solved your problem,” Ruby said, standing and blowing them a kiss as she bounced away.

If Emma were writing a Christmas movie, she might have thought Ruby was a Christmas angel or something, the way she popped up and disappeared so suddenly, after achieving whatever task she was destined to complete.

“So what should the five stations be?” Mary Margaret asked Emma, pulling her out of her dreamland.

“Um... food, booze...” Emma began, ticking off the options on her fingers, “...snacks, water, and...Christmas tree decorating?”

“Okay, well the Christmas tree thing is not a horrific idea,” Mary Margaret said, laughing at her friend’s antics. “But what if we made it like a wishing tree? So we would half decorate the tree, and then leave some baubles and sharpies on a table for everyone to write their Christmas wish on the bauble and then hang it on the tree.”

“I don’t know how I feel about everyone in the office being able to read my Christmas wish,” Emma countered, frowning a little.

“Okay, that’s fair,” Mary Margaret agreed, nodding. “What if you wrote the wish on a slip of paper and put it inside the bauble? We could get those clear ones and then have a few other decorative things – glitter, lights, etc. – to put in the bauble with the wish.”

“Yeah, I actually like that,” Emma conceded, a smile starting to spread across her face as she felt the Christmas spirit begin to bloom inside her.

“Okay, so that’s one station down, any ideas for the others?” Mary Margaret asked, jotting the idea down in her notebook.

“Um, we could do a little photo booth thing?” Emma offered hesitantly. “Get some props – maybe a mix of Christmas and Killian-related – for people to hold, and a backdrop of Christmas lights.”

“Emma, are you sure you aren’t a photographer? That sounds perfect!” Emma smiled in gratitude, glad Mary Margaret liked her idea. Sometimes she secretly longed to be behind a lens, but she didn’t think she really had the talent for it.

“So what else?” Emma asked, changing the subject.

“What about making Christmas cards for the kids at the local children’s hospital?” Mary Margaret suggested, and Emma nodded.

“That’s cute, it’ll be sweet,” Emma agreed, and Mary Margaret added it to the notebook.

“Okay, two more,” she said, and Emma thought carefully.

“Would it be too messy to decorate Christmas cookies?” she asked cautiously.

“Maybe, but who cares!” Mary Margaret answered enthusiastically.

“’Okay,” Emma laughed, sipping at the last of her hot chocolate. “Last one.”

“Christmas karaoke?” Mary Margaret suggested, and Emma wrinkled her nose.

“Do we have to?” she asked, frowning.

“It’ll be fun!” Mary Margaret answered. “You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to, Emma, but I guarantee, people always love karaoke.”

“Okay, if you insist,” Emma agreed, and Mary Margaret beamed.

“If I take care of all the Christmas-related decoration and such, do you think you can take care of all the Killian-related things?” Mary Margaret asked Emma, already making lists of decorations to get or bring.

“Why? It’s not like I know him,” Emma said, blushing lightly.

“I know, but you’re not a big Christmas person, so I figured of the two...” Mary Margaret shrugged. “Why, is that a problem?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Emma answered hurriedly. “What kind of things do you want?”

“Mostly just photos that he’s taken, a few from each of the years that he’s been here, preferably Christmas shots. And maybe a few photos of him as well if there are any.”

“Okay, I can do that,” she nodded. It was a simple enough task.

“And see if you can find out some details about him – favourite foods, favourite colours, that kind of thing,” Mary Margaret added, chewing on the end of her pen absentmindedly.

“I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not sure anyone in the office knows him that well,” Emma said.

Emma stepped back from the Christmas tree, examining her work. The ornaments – gold and shades of red, a few so dark they almost looked black – were spaced out, leaving gaps for her coworkers to hang their Christmas wishes, but it didn’t look empty. Satisfied, Emma began laying things out on the table, first the ornaments, paper, pens, and stuffing options, and then the five photos she had picked out from Killian’s first year with the company.

Killian had taken three Christmas assignments that year – the Boston Ballet’s annual production of The Nutcracker, a day at Boston’s annual Christmas Market, and the Blink! Holiday Light Show at Faneuil Hall. He had also attended Midnight Mass at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, and Emma had learned that Killian never went anywhere without his camera, assignment or not. That gave her four Christmas photos taken by Killian that year. A ballerina alone on stage, standing on pointe, with fake snow falling all around her; a young woman looking at handmade glass blown ornaments; a little boy laughing in the glow of the flashing lights; a black and white photo of the priest in full Christmas garb, waving the thurible, thin tendrils of fragrance wafting from it. The last picture for that year was one of Killian that David had taken in black and white at their Christmas party that year. He was holding a Santa had, long fingers wrapped around the puff of white at the top, and he was looking down at it seriously, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Emma picked up the framed photo, resisting the urge to run her thumb over printed Killian’s sad looking face.

“It’s a pretty good picture, if I do say so myself,” David laughed, stepping up behind Emma and giving her a side hug.

“For someone who doesn’t take pictures of people much,” Emma teased, putting down the photo and returning David’s hug.

Baby Henry was snug in a little Baby Bjorn, blinking up at Emma and looking much wiser than a mere three months old. He was a serious baby, crying rarely and not often babbling like other babies did. It was almost like he was listening and watching, cataloguing everything in his memory so he would have stories to tell later.

“Think he’s gonna like all this?” David asked, nodding at the decorations around the room.

“Probably not,” Emma shrugged, “but I barely know him. You’re his friend, what do you think?”

“I don’t know that Killian really has any friends, to be honest,” David answered seriously. “He keeps himself pretty isolated. I’m sure he’ll be a little embarrassed by all this, but I don’t think he’ll be upset. He just doesn’t like to be in the spotlight.”

“Photography was a good choice for him then,” Emma smiled.

She turned and saw that a number of people had arrived while she had been talking to David, all milling about and looking at the stations they had set up. It was a bit early for karaoke, before anyone had any drinks, so there was some Christmas music playing lightly, but all the other stations were in full swing. She drifted through the room for a little while, chatting with her coworkers and fulfilling whatever duty she might have as co-planner of the party.

When Emma had made the rounds and spent a sufficient amount of time talking to people, she found herself back at the wishing tree table. A few baubles had been hung, filled with beads and glitter and the hopes of her coworkers. Emma grabbed a pen and quickly scrawled two words on one of the little slips of paper. She folded it carefully and stuffed it into the bauble, adding some gold tinsel and sprigs of holly berries. She checked to make sure that the paper couldn’t be read, and when she was satisfied, she closed it, and hung it on the tree. Her eyes wandered to the photos on the table once more, transfixed by their beauty.

“So, what’d you wish for?”

Emma jumped a little at the voice, and turned to see Killian standing unnervingly close. She could feel his warm breath on her neck, and see how many different shades of blue there were in his eyes.

“If I tell you, isn’t that bad luck?” she asked, avoiding his question.

“Only if you believe that,” Killian answered with a smile.

“Better not to risk it,” Emma said, stepping to the side so Killian could write a wish if he wanted to.

Killian moved toward the table bending over it to write his wish, and then crumpling it into a loose ball for his ornament. He carefully threaded a short strand of battery-powered lights through the opening, and then dropped some red and white ribbons inside. Satisfied, he hung the ornament on the tree, just a few branches over from Emma’s. He stepped back and seemed to notice the framed photos on the table for the first time.

“Your pictures are great,” Emma said, breaking the silence and nearly wincing at how lame it sounded.

“Thank you,” Killian replied automatically, as he reached for the one David had taken. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this one before.”

“Your first Christmas here,” she answered, though she was sure he knew that. “David took it at the Christmas party I think.”

“Aye, I remember it,” he mused, lost in thought. “He captured the moment well, though I can’t say I’m glad he did.”

“Why not?” Emma asked, confused by his words.

“It wasn’t a particularly good year.” He didn’t explain for a few moments, his eyes glazing over as he reminisced. “My wife was killed, earlier that year, so it was my first Christmas without her.”

“Killian, I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching out and touching his arm tentatively.

“It’s been a long time,” he answered, as if saying that it didn’t matter anymore.

“Some losses never leave us,” Emma replied, and Killian smiled slightly.

Mary Margaret watched Emma and Killian talking from the cookie decorating station, and she could practically see electricity sizzling in the air. She knew Emma hated meddling, but sometimes everyone needed a little push. So Mary Margaret excused herself and went over to the karaoke table, quickly editing the sign up sheet.

“So I was thinking,” Mary Margaret said sweetly, cozying up to the pair of them, and looping an arm around each, “that it would be really good if the coordinator of the party and the subject of it opened the karaoke with a nice little duet.”

“That’s a great idea, you should do it,” Emma answered sarcastically, not at all keen to get up and sing in front of her coworkers.

“I was thinking it should be you,” she replied innocently, as if it weren’t the most blatant set up.

“But you’re the party’s planner,” Emma argued, even though she knew it was useless. The whole coordinator thing was just a charade, an innocent excuse to push them both together.

“Oh, I don’t think David would like it if I did karaoke with someone else,” Mary Margaret scoffed, flapping her hand in dismissal. “He can be very jealous sometimes.”

It was a huge lie and Emma knew it, though maybe Killian didn’t. David had been engaged to another woman – Abigail something – when he and Mary Margaret had met, and he’d broken things off three months before the wedding to be with her. For Emma, it reinforced how fickle and fleeting romantic feelings could be, but for David it had quite the opposite effect. He always said something in him had just known that Mary Margaret was the other half of his heart, of his soul, and no one else could ever be as right for him. He was so confident, so sure in their relationship, that Emma didn’t think he had ever experienced a moment of jealousy.

“Come on,” Mary Margaret pressed, pushing them both towards the little stage that was set up along one wall. “The song is going to start any second now.”

With a light chuckle, Killian shrugged and hopped up onto the platform, grabbing one of the two mic stands and adjusting the height like he was a real professional who cared about everything being just right. Emma sighed heavily and shot a glare at Mary Margaret before joining Killian and trying to mentally prepare herself for what was surely about to be a very embarrassing episode.

Emma stood next to Killian on the little stage feeling very awkward, a spotlight warming her skin to an uncomfortable degree. Music began to play, the sound of drums and maybe a violin, and words began to scroll across the screen in front of them. She didn’t recognize the song, but from the smile that flitted across Killian’s face, he did, and she wasn’t about to let him show her up. Still, she let him start them off, so she could get a feel for the tune.

“Stockings are hung with care, the children sleep with one eye open,” he crooned, his voice as smooth as good whiskey, and Emma’s jaw nearly hit the floor at the sound of it. Damn, he was good. “Now there’s more than toys at stake, ‘cause I’m older now but not done hoping...”

He looked at Emma and winked subtly as the music continued between verses, and she readied for her cue.

“The twinkling of the lights, the scent of candles fill the household,” Emma sang, clear and high, reading the words as they came up in front of her. What the hell was this sappy song? “Old saint Nick has taken flight, with a heart on board so please be careful.”

More music twinkled between them and Emma took a deep breath, ready for the chorus and whatever sappy love lyrics Mary Margaret had chosen for them.

“Each year I ask for many different things, but now I know what my heart wants you to bring,” they both sang, perfectly harmonized. Emma couldn’t help but toss Killian an incredulous look at just how good they sounded together (which was mostly his doing). “So please just fall in love with me this Christmas. There’s nothing else that I would need this Christmas, won’t be wrapped under the tree. I want something that lasts forever, so kiss me on this cold December night...”

Emma felt like the words of the song were starting to weasel their way into her mind, because suddenly she couldn’t help but stare at Killian’s lips, trying to imagine how soft they must be.

“A cheer that smells of pine, a house that’s filled with joy and laughter... the mistletoe says stand in line, loneliness is what I’ve captured...’ A fleeting look of pain crossed his face, and it occurred to Emma that maybe Killian had a very good reason not to like Christmas. Perhaps he was just as lonely as she was, if she let herself be honest. “Oh but this evening can be a holy night. Let’s cozy up on our fireplace, and dim those Christmas lights...”

Killian smiled at Emma and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, but Emma was learning to see through him, and she could see how the smile was forced, how his eyes lacked the brightness that he was able to capture so well in other people. She coupled her voice with his, until it sounded like they were doing an intricate dance together, lilting and tumbling in unison.

“So please just fall in love with me this Christmas. There’s nothing else that you will need this Christmas, won’t be wrapped under the tree. I want something that lasts forever, so kiss me on this cold December night...”

The second time around, the chorus came out more like a prayer than the meaningless words of a silly Christmas karaoke song. Emma felt every second of her silly crush on Killian rising up within her at once, crashing over her like a tsunami of emotion and desire. Her heart was racing, and she could feel a flush spreading across her cheeks, as Killian stared at her with intensity.

“They call it the season of giving, I’m here, yours for the taking,” Emma breathed, her eyes fixed on Killian’s. “They call it the season of giving, I’m here ,I’m yours...”

“Just fall in love with me this Christmas. There’s nothing else that we will need this Christmas, won’t be wrapped under a tree,” they sang, finding a rhythm together. “I want something that lasts forever, ‘cause I don’t wanna be alone tonight. I’m wearing our Christmas sweater, while talking to the mistletoe tonight. I want something that lasts forever, so kiss me on this cold December night...”

The music danced and turned into something magical, like the sound of snow falling and a sleigh sliding silently through it, before slowing for the final words.

“They call it the season of giving, I’m here, yours for the taking,” Emma repeated, finding more meaning in the words than she would have liked. She felt the intensity in her own gaze, matched in Killian’s blue eyes. “They call it the season of giving, I’m here –“

“I’m yours,” he joined in, and Emma couldn’t help but wonder if the words were real or just prescribed by the song.

Emma felt like she had a lump in her throat as the last notes of the music drifted into nothing, and the spotlight on them began to fade. Something in the words of the song had awaken in her feelings that she frankly would have preferred stayed dormant. As she looked at Killian, she felt her heart beat more quickly than she thought possible, and it seemed impossible that no one else could see it pounding away in her chest.

They stepped off the stage with everyone’s eyes on them, and Emma felt the immediate need to be somewhere more private. She strode quickly toward the back hallway and pushed open the heavy metal door that served as an emergency exit (though she knew the alarm wasn’t turned on). The air had cooled off significantly, so much that it felt like it might even snow before dawn came. It felt good on her skin, which was far too hot from the spotlight and maybe also because of Killian and they way he made her heart beat fast.

“Swan!” he called, bursting out of the door behind Emma and almost colliding with her. “Are you alright?”

He reached out to brush his fingers lightly along her arm, and she felt like her skin was electric where it met his. She turned to face him more fully, and quickly found herself drowning in his blue eyes, looking at her with entirely too much emotion in them.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Emma replied, shaking her head lightly to clear it and conjuring up a smile. “Just a little hot, that’s all.”

“Are you sure, love?”

Killian took a step closer to her, his eyes flicking to her lips, and Emma’s breath hitched. Her imagination was running wild again, and she was so tempted to act on it, to make one (or more) of her fantasies come true.

“Swan?” he prompted, bringing her back to reality.

He was even closer now, enough that she could feel his body heat radiating off of him like a beacon, and she gave a little involuntary shiver, wishing that she had a coat.

“I just... needed some air,” she reaffirmed, swaying into his space slightly. “It was all... the song, and the lights, and... it was just too much.”

“Aye, it got a bit intense,” he replied, smiling radiantly. “But I didn’t not mean it. We don’t know each other very well, but I very much would like to change that. Emma, I –“

Emma closed the distance between them, her fingers wrapping around the lapels of his jacket as she crashed her lips into his. It took a second of surprise before he was responding, his lips moving against hers while one hand tangled in her hair and the other drifted across the contours of her back. He pulled her close to him and turned slightly, forcing her to follow, never breaking their kiss, and then walked her backward, until her back met the hard surface of the building’s brick wall. She gasped slightly, and Killian used the opportunity to slide his tongue across her lips, dipping inside. Emma hitched her right leg up around Killian’s thigh, enough to allow him to settle between her legs, pressing deliciously against her. His hand slipped under her shirt, fingertips running across her skin tentatively, until Emma squeezed her leg tighter around him in encouragement, a soft moan escaping from her mouth into his, and then he palmed her waist, fingers pressing into her skin. Killian’s hand trailed upward, cupping her breast and drawing out another moan from her.

“Killian?”

They flew apart like caught teenagers, Emma quickly pulling her shirt down and trying to look anywhere but at the stranger who had just opened the door and found them in the middle of making out.

“L-Liam?” Killian stammered, his expression changing from purely shocked to shocked and very, very happy. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I was told this party was to celebrate you, little brother,” Liam answered, and his tone sound angry, or maybe disappointed. “I came all the way from Ft. Bragg for this, had to ask permission for a special leave and everything.”

“I didn’t know,” Killian whispered, looking every bit like a small child being scolded.

“And I get here to find you ignoring the lovely party that’s been put together in your honor, all to take up with this... this...” Liam was starting to pace, his hands gesticulating wildly.

“Emma,” Killian provided, hoping to prevent Liam from calling her something he couldn’t take back.

“I don’t care about the latest in your long line of dalliances, brother!” Liam nearly exploded.

Emma took that as her cue to leave, and she slipped away into the shadows, moving through the alleyway toward the front of the warehouse as quickly as she could.

“Liam, if I had known you were coming,” she heard Killian plead from a distance. “Can’t we just forget about this and enjoy the time we have together?”

If Killian wanted to forget about this, Emma could certainly oblige him. It would be easier than peanut butter and jelly to avoid Killian, and Emma felt sure that in a few days, she could completely erase this incident from her memory. She felt embarrassed and angry and about fifty other things, but the general gist of it was that she felt like shit.

Emma didn’t hear what Killian said to his older brother as they turned to go back inside. He put a hand on Liam’s shoulder, stopping him with one hand on the door, holding it open.

“Emma’s not a dalliance,” he insisted, blue eyes brimming with sincerity. “She’s different, special, substantial.”’

“Yes, she seemed like it,” Liam answered, dryly.

“Liam, I mean it, she could be... I don’t know, she could be something,” Killian said, looking off into the alleyway. “She makes me feel again.”

“I’m sorry, little brother,” Liam replied, having the decency to look ashamed of the way he behaved.

“Let’s get inside, perhaps you can meet Emma more... properly,” Killian suggested, grinning at his brother, now that they had made peace. “And you can apologize to her.”

Inside, Emma found her coat as quickly as possible, shoving her arms through the sleeves violently and wrapping her scarf around her neck. She spotted David nearby, chatting with Elsa, and she made her way over to them.

“Hey, I’m going to duck out early,” Emma said to David, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. “I don’t think the eggnog agreed with me, so I’m gonna head home.”

“Are you okay?” David asked, his eyes laced with concern. “Do you need a ride?”

“Nah, I’m fine, I’ve got the bug,” Emma answered, pasting a smile on her face. “Just let Mary Margaret know?”

“Of course,” he answered, nodding. “Do you want us to bring you anything?”

“No, seriously, it’s nothing, I just need to lie down and maybe have some water,” Emma insisted, starting to back away.

“Okay, well feel better!” David called as Emma turned and walked away, tossing a wave goodbye behind her.

She felt absolutely awful, but it wasn’t indigestion, or anything to do with eggnog. She felt like her heart had just been pounded with the world’s heaviest mallet, and it was entirely her own stupidity that had led to it. One silly song and an ill-advised make out session and Emma had been ready to swoon for Killian. In a way, she was grateful that his brother had interrupted them, and prevented something even more regrettable from happening.

Emma felt irritable and keyed up as she made her way back to her apartment, cursing herself and Killian for being stupid, Liam for interrupting, and Mary Margaret for interfering in the first place. She slammed the door of her apartment shut behind her and collapsed in her bed, groaning in frustration. Half of her already regretted that she had made out with Killian, but half of her wished she could have taken him home to satisfy her the way she had no doubt he could. She closed her eyes and reached down, fingers trying to relieve some of the tension built up inside.

At the party, Killian led his brother around, halfheartedly introducing him to the people who he was most acquainted with, all the while looking around for Emma. He thought he saw her for a moment, but it was Elsa, and Killian couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he was so attached to Emma, after all, he barely knew her, beyond the occasional email they exchanged when his paychecks were ready. But something in him just called out for her, and he felt a kind of attachment to her that he hadn’t felt for anyone in a long time.

“David!” Killian called out to his friend (or at least the closest person he had to a friend these days). “Have you seen Ms. Swan?”

“Yeah, Emma left about an hour ago, why?” David asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“We were just having an interesting conversation that got interrupted, that’s all,” Killian answered, before excusing himself politely.

He wandered through the party, lost in his own thoughts. Had Emma left because she regretted what had transpired between them? Had she been offended by Liam’s words? Was he reading too much into her sudden disappearance? Without meaning to, Killian found himself by the wishing tree, eyeing the many ornaments that were hung. Throughout the night, it seemed that almost the entire office had hung ornaments with wishes in its branches. He reached out and ran his fingers over the ornament he had seen Emma hang earlier, thinking intently about her.

Without thinking, but careful to make sure that no one was watching, Killian carefully plucked Emma’s bauble from the wishing tree, and tucked it in his pocket for safekeeping. He had resolved to do his best to make Emma’s wish come true, however small or large it was.

Forgetting about the incident at the Christmas Party proved much harder than Emma expected. At night, she couldn’t help but feel Killian’s hand trailing along her sides, ghosting over her breast. She could recall the feel of his kisses, and she never failed to get lost in the memory, particularly at the most inopportune times. She felt like she’d become a ghost when she was at the office, barely interacting with anyone, as she was so lost in her own mind.

Days passed, and Emma did her usual work, processing payments and tracking photograph sales. So close to the end of the year, there was not much to do, other than prepare the last paycheck of the year for all the staff. It would be busier once the new year had begun, and she could begin to process everything from the holidays. But as it was, the final days of the year were dull and tedious, allowing Emma to spend her time lost in thought, and filling her heart with regret.

Killian had tried to see her once since the party, stopping by her office at the end of lunch, and Emma had seen him as she’d been coming back from the little diner down the street. She’d stopped and hidden from him, only returning to her office when she was sure he had gone. Mary Margaret had mentioned that Killian had come to talk to her twice, both times asking her about Emma and whether she was alright.

On New Year’s Eve, Emma agreed to go out with Mary Margaret and David. It was nothing fancy, but the pub down the street from their townhouse was having a special party, and it was one of their favourite locations to hang out, so they had thought it might be nice for a night. Emma didn’t really feel up to partying, but the idea of spending New Years Eve alone at home seemed too sad, so she had agreed to tag along. The one encouraging thing about it was that Emma knew for sure that Killian wouldn’t be there, so perhaps she would have a chance to find some handsome stranger and erase the feel of Killian from her mind.

Emma indulged in a few drinks before she left her apartment to meet Mary Margaret and David, hoping that it would keep her mind from drifting to people she most definitely did not want to be thinking about. But the party at the bar was a mistake, because everyone at that bar seemed to have showed up with a spouse, fiancé, or partner, except Emma. She was beginning to regret her choice to go out, and was contemplating how best to excuse herself without hurting her friends’ feelings. Maybe she would just go to bed early and wake up in the new year, hoping that her heart could leave its feelings behind in the old one.

“I never had a chance to give you your Christmas present.”

Emma spun around so fast, her drink slopped over the sides of her tumbler, spilling onto her shoes, not that she noticed one bit. Because standing right in front of her, looking impeccably – and impossibly – good, was Killian Jones. If Emma believed in magic, she would have thought Killian was some kind of fairy or something.

“What gift?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. Maybe they could pretend nothing had happened in that alleyway during the Christmas party.

Tentatively, Killian pulled his left hand from behind his back, a small rectangular package in it. At first glance, it looked like a book, but when he handed it to Emma, she could feel that it was something different.

“Go on,” he encouraged, giving her a curt smile.

All things considered, Killian didn’t look as happy to see Emma as she might have expected. He hardly said more than he had to, and though he had sought her out, his smiles seemed tight and his muscles tense.

She pulled the wrapped paper – it was simple and classic, cream coloured paper with crimson deer arrayed across it, taped so perfectly it looked professional – off, to reveal two photo frames, complete with photos. Both were black and white, and Emma immediately recognized them as being from the Christmas party. The first was of her and Mary Margaret decorating the Christmas tree – they had baubles in their hands and both were laughing hysterically at something. It was crystal clear from the photo that the two of them had a strong bond, far beyond just coworkers. The second picture was of Emma talking to David, baby Henry’s hands reaching out from his little carrier to grab at Emma’s fingers. Her eyes were sparkling and happy, David’s face sincere and earnest in their conversation. Emma felt a little teary just looking at the images.

“I didn’t even realize you had your camera with you,” Emma whispered, running her finger delicately over the photographs.

“Never go anywhere without it, love, you never know what beauty you might see,” he answered with a grin.

Emma smiled shyly in return, a soft and special thing, and Killian wished he could capture that on film. She was so beautiful with a strength and fierceness that positively radiated from her.

“I have a confession to make,” Killian said, leaning in to whisper in Emma’s ear, and the feel of his breath on her neck brought back steamy memories of an alleyway at Christmas and unfinished business. She drew away slightly, giving him a quizzical look. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I read your wish, from the tree.”

“You did what?!” Emma reeled, feeling something like angry. It certainly felt like a violation, but then, something in her said that Killian was the one person she could trust to understand the wish, and she couldn’t find it in her to be truly mad about it.

“I wanted to grant it, whatever it was,” he said, his blue eyes positively melting her. “Look at the back.”

Emma flipped the frames over, finding Killian’s neat writing scrawled across the backing. On the back of the photo of her, David, and Henry, he had written Never forget, you have a family, and on the other it continued With love, K. Emma was speechless as she read the words, unable to even begin to express how special a gift he had just given her.

“Emma, I would very much like to make all of your dreams come true, or at least I’d like to try,” Killian said, stepping closer and reaching out his hands to tentatively brush against her waist.

Vaguely, Emma was aware of people counting down to the new year, but it didn’t matter. She reached out and tangled her fingers in Killian’s hair, pulling his lips to hers and fitting them together perfectly. This kiss was much more intimate than the one they had shared in the alleyway, both taking time to read everything the other was feeling. Finally, Emma understood what David had always said about knowing you’d found the other half of your soul. In Killian’s arms, Emma felt her walls, her doubts and misgivings, all melt into insignificance. Her scars would always be with her, but she knew with inexplicable certainty that Killian could see past them, and that letting him into her heart wouldn’t be a risk in the least.

“Happy New Year, Emma,” Killian whispered, pulling away every so slightly and running his thumb across Emma’s jaw.

“Happy New Year, Killian,” she echoed, before closing the gap between them once more.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, and would like to donate to me Ko-Fi account, please go here! If not - I love and appreciate you anyway!

#captain swan #cssecretsanta2k18 #hookeonapirate #ouat #csss #cs secret santa

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douxbebearchives · 7 years

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Author Profile: IWrite4Olitz

Stories on FFN; tumblr: @iwrite4olitz

Your name/nickname/alias:

Lynn, iwrite4olitz

How long have you been writing?

Is “forever” too vague? Since I could properly grip a pencil...

How long have you been writing Olitz?

Since July 10th, 2015.

What drew you to Olivia & Fitz?

Their combustible chemistry. Is there any other reason?

Outside of Olitz, where do you get inspiration to write?

Everywhere. Anywhere. But my favorite inspiration comes from music. If I get stuck, I read a book. ;)

How do you describe your style of writing?

::hyperventilates:: I...don’t have one compact sentence to describe it. I suppose it’s because I choose words and sentence structure to suit whatever tone I’m trying to convey, while also considering the “voice” of the character whose point of view I’m writing. So, for example, if I’m writing something romantic, I use more flowing sentences, but choose words that I think the character whose head we’re in would actually use. If I’m trying to convey something tense or urgent, I’ll use more concise, clipped language and structure. If I need to drive an emotion home, or incite a reaction of some kind, I choose visceral language. Ugh, this sounds so clinical! But I promise it’s not. It just happens naturally. I’ve been called “poetic” and “evocative” by readers. I’ve also taken this super fun quiz:

https://iwl.me/

...the results of which told me I write like Stephen King, which contradicts the poetic thing. Haha. Love Stephen though. Do you guys follow him on twitter? Follow him. He’s one of my best friends in my head. And he’s woke.

Do you write (journal, pen/paper) or type first? Depends. If I have it clear in my mind how a scene should go, I type until my brain is empty. Then I edit until it’s as close to my mental picture as possible. If it’s not clear in my mind, my brain automatically goes on high alert, snatching inspiration from anywhere, at any time. That’s when I scribble things in notebooks or type notes into a document to piece together later. Dialogue, action, events, settings...

Do you have a special notebook or writing utensil?

I have several notebooks, Evernote, and Baby (my touch screen computer). But I plan on replacing her with a Mac soon, because she’s prone to viruses and my tech medical bills have been piling up!

Do you incorporate visuals, music, and/or poetry to help you get into the writing mood?

Yes! Music is the most powerful inspiration for me. I can get several scenes, or a chapter, or an idea for an entire story from one song. I love creating inspiration boards to visualize big scenes more vividly (and sharing them is fun). I don’t read much poetry, sadly. I have a book of famous love letters and poetry collecting dust on my bookshelf if anyone’s interested. It’s red, vintage-looking, really pretty...

Do you use mood boards/aesthetics/Pinterest?

Yes! Here’s the one for Pas De Deux: https://www.pinterest.com/AuthorLynnTurner/pas-de-deux/

Favorite kind of music or podcasts to listen to before/while you write?

I don’t listen to podcasts as part of my process. I find them too distracting. My taste in music is all over the place. I have the same affinity for jazz or soul that I have for pop or indie. That’s not very helpful, I suppose, but it just boils down to whatever moves or inspires me. Would you believe that Pia Mia’s “Do It Again” inspired the one-shot that became No Regrets? She was a 19 year old youtube sensation at the time, and it was her summer smash hit (possibly her only hit) about a one night stand. Hey, I’m not proud. “Locked Away” featuring Maroon 5 inspired the gala scene at the end of that story. “Garden” by Emeli Sande played as I wrote the garden love scene in Pas De Deux, and “Dreamland” by Emilia Ali was playing when I wrote the scene that opens PDD Chapter 10. :-)

Where do you like to write (Home, coffee shop, etc.)?

I prefer to write in isolation. I love cafes, but I tend to spend my time there doing research, or outlining, or creating inspiration boards. At home, I tend to write very early in the morning or late at night when everyone’s asleep...or during “me time” when certain tiny humans aren’t around to tug at my proverbial coat tails. If I have my headphones, I can pretty much write anywhere.

How long does it take you to write a chapter?

Oh gosh...Okay, in a vacuum, with a chapter fully formed in my mind, tons of coffee and wine coolers, I can crank one out in a single day. Outside of that vacuum, it could take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. There are so many variables: mood, inspiration, time. I’m trying to be better at forming good writing habits. John Grisham says if you aren’t writing at least a page per day, you’re not writing a book. Stephen King writes 600 words a day. Stephen King is not human.

A favorite line or paragraph you’ve written.

This changes all the time, and I have different ones for each work, haha. By the time anyone reads this, it likely will have changed again. (There are some things I’ve written for the next Pas De Deux update that might upstage this, I dunno)...but I think this paragraph from Olivia’s point of view in Chapter 9 is my current favorite, It shows their dynamic so well, I think, and is quintessentially the Olitz I recognize no matter the writer, or whether the story is AU or canon:

She shivered, unnerved to be in his head, to see for herself the irrefutable evidence that he knew her. He knew her and she hadn’t told him a single thing.

Describe yourself in 5 words/phrases:

You could give me 24 hours and the fate of the universe on my shoulders and I still couldn’t do this, hahaha. In a perfect world, my self is constantly evolving, so how about, in keeping with the theme of fifths, I choose something in iambic pentameter?

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.” -Dr. Suess

Favorite TV shows/movies:

This question is a rabbit hole. You’d need a “read more” button, and once clicked, readers would be subjected to pages and pages...so I’ll just list the ones I’d grab in case of a fire, or the apocalypse.

TV: Gilmore Girls, House, Girlfriends, A Different World, Living Single, the travelogue adventures of Samantha Brown and Anthony Bourdain, Sense8, Queen Sugar, Greenleaf, Underground, House Hunters, House of Cards, Orange is the New Black

Movies I can watch repeatedly and not get bored: Pride and Prejudice, The Devil Wears Prada, Focus, Pretty Woman, Love Jones, Ever After, The Wedding Date, Trainwreck

Movies with romantic elements: The Proposal, Trainwreck, Maid in Manhattan, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, Something New, Serendipity, While You Were Sleeping, Maid in Manhattan, The Proposal, Miss Congeniality, The Cutting Edge, A Walk in the Clouds, Return to Me, How Stella Got Her Groove Back, Under the Tuscan Sun, Love Story, Beyond the Lights, Circle of Friends, Belle, Closer, Stompin at the Savoy, Memoirs of a Geisha, Dangerous Beauty, Cinderella (the one where Whitney Houston plays the fairy godmother), Coming to America, Juno, You Me & Dupri, Parent Trap, Overboard, Braveheart, The Preacher’s Wife, Palm Trees in the Snow

Favorite vacation spot:

Hawaii

Favorite books:

You’d think that, since my movie list is a rabbit hole, my book list would be a labyrinth, but even with all of the books I’ve read, I’m selective about what makes my favorites list:

Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen, The Hating Game by Sally Thorne, Grin and Beard It by Penny Reid, Literally every book by Penny Reid, Hadassah: One Night With the King by Tommy Teney, The Twentieth Wife & The Feast of Roses by Indu Sundaresan, The Nonesuch by Georgette Heyer, Wildseed & Lilith’s Brood by Octavia Butler, The Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer (YES, okay? It’s not literary genius but it’s very entertaining, if you skip book two), Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Suskind, Master of the Game by Sidney, Sheldon, Psy-Changeling series by Nalini Singh

*With the advent of fanfiction, I’m much pickier about published books, which I’m sure you all understand. ;)

Favorite authors:

I have a to-read list half a mile long, so I’m sure this will change, but these are authors whom I find consistently write entertaining stories, even if they don’t make my favorites list:

Penny Reid, Alyssa Cole, Alisha Rai, Nalini Singh, Philippa Gregory, Farrah Rochon, Stephen King, John Grisham, Octavia Butler

What do you like better? AU or Canon?

I enjoy both, so long as they’re written well. Writing-wise, I’m more comfortable writing AU. With canon, I’m constantly aware that these aren’t my characters, so I’m sort of hyper aware of the constraints. And I have control issues. Lol.

Favorite trope/scenario to read?

Enemies to lovers, love at first sight

Favorite Olitz TV moment/conversation?

Seriously??? Only one? How about top three? Top five? Okay, fine, since you’re twisting my arm, I’ll give you my top ten in no particular order. (You drive a hard bargain):

1. VERMONT

2. “You almost died.” “Yes.” “Don’t do it again.” (she went in there to get him to comply, but then she actually LISTENS to him, like, really listens...and he changes her mind. They show a united front in this scene that was gorgeous to watch)

3. “I hate you.” “I know.” ...which morphed into…”You are everything and I am nothing.” ::ugly, mucous-dripping crying::

4. “Sit with me and watch me earn you.” (and obviously the AMAZING sex that came after)

5. Can the entire episode of The Trail be one?

a. “I got a guy.” “You got a guy? Another guy? Hell’s angel? Mobster? A kind hearted felon who owes you a favor?” “Technically, he’s on probation.”

b. Camp David. Allll the Camp David. They were so in love, cute and care-free.

c. Love scene from The Trail (It’s their best, IMO. Organic. Combustible. Raw.)

d. One minute on the couch

6. Pre-State Dinner shenanigans, Post-State Dinner Navy t shirt

7. Literally every Olitz phone call

8. 503 Oval Office Kiss ::swoon::

9. Truman Balcony kiss, because he was so vulnerable

10. Fitz saying “I still want you” in the AU episode, because it was so real, and I *believe they’re destined to be together in every universe.

*Honorable mentions: Rose Garden, Deskgate, Constitution (These were gripping, but I have personal, nitpicking reasons why they’re not in my top ten), allll the Season 6 bedtime snuggles, and every hug.

Anything else you’d like to share?

Ava DuVernay is my other BFF in my head.

Someday, when I’m confident enough in my knowledge of the era I choose (which will take years and years of research and development), I will write a historical fiction with a WOC heroine...possibly with elements of science fiction.

#author profile #iwrite4olitz

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madokaoyabin · 7 years

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Tagged by: @pantone-u

Ok, so I’m not gonna tag anyone in this, but feel free to do it as well.

Five things you’ll find in my bag:

Notebook (not the computer kind) Toilet paper (in case I go to a toilet without it, better safe than sorry, right?) Pen (to write stuff in the notebook) Towel I don’t really carry much on me, best to stay light, might add something else as needed.

Five things you’ll find in my bedroom:

My anime dolls and figures (I wonder, what’s really the difference between a doll and a figure?) Pokemon plushies My desktop computer Random mess of study books and well.. random stuff I should probably sort out?

Five things I’ve always wanted to do:

I always wanted to go live in Japan, and I did so, for a while, so this one is checked already!! (might want to go back some day, but for now I’m fine with that).

Right now I’m focusing on graduating, not sure if I can say I always wanted this, but for the last few years at least it’s been my wish. Somewhat of a dream I have, is that when I graduate I wanna be able to find a nice place to live, in a nice country, with a decent job! Maybe even start a family! Not any big wishes aside those, some minor things I guess, but I can do those by myself when I decide to actually do them, so... yeah, maybe stop being lazy and actually getting more stuff done?

Five things that make me feel happy:

cute anime girls

that moment when you have absolutely nothing to do, after you’ve already done everything you had to do at the time, so you can just, like, do nothing, but without the anxiety part

talking with friends

going out with friends, specially to do something out of ordinary, like checking some place we’d never been before (been a while since i’ve done this one tho)

playing video games

Five things I’m currently into:

Ragnarok Online

steam summer sales

Sakura Quest (very sweet anime, started watching a few days ago)

Five things on my to do list:

study thermodynamics (should be doing this instead of being on tumblr lol)

study the other subjects for the final tests next week (but with a slightly lower priority than thermodynamics)should continue studying japanese, I barely touched anything related to the language since I left Japan.Maybe practicing my english, it sure doesn’t seem to be as good as it used to be... PS: On some topics I didn’t think of 5 things to put on, so I’ll leave it that way.

#this was interesting #i probably should interact with the people on tumblr more often #feel free to send me asks if you want to start a conversation!!

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polvillodecanela · 7 years

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Five things tag (special thanks to @maj-cutiepatootie for the tag, tbh this is my very first do something because somebody tagged you thing)

DISCLAIMER: My english probably sucks...

Five thing you’ll find in my bag:

1. Food (any kind ya know?) junk food, candies, my lunch (i carry my lunch from home to my work) If I don´t have food on my bag I’ve been abducted and I’m not the same anymore.

2. My makeup, you’ll find my makeup bag but. PLOT TWIST, I don´t usually use makeup so, I just take my makeup bag for a ride all day, everyday.

3. Notebooks and books, since the bag that I carry to my work is the same that I use to go to school at nights (I´m studying law so... I carry a LOT OF BOOKS)

4. Garbage... just a lot of papers that I don´t use or food wrappers.

5. My personal papers: Id, my University’s id, the public transport’s card, and the membership of the empanada’s store in front of my office.

Five things you’ll find in my bedroom

1. Books, a lot of them, I have a LOT of books of all areas, Novels, comics, and academic ones.

2. Stuffed animals: I like them a lot and I have too much for a woman of my age (I´m 21 so)

3. Clothes: I’m a little bit messy in the mornings so if you go to my home you’ll find my bed covered in clothes. (sorry not sorry)

5. My bag. period.

i’ve skipped number 4...

Five things I’ve always wanted to do.

1. Travel, I’d like to go to another contry and discover the world. seriously.

2. Take more than a week just to rest, being alone in my home and enjoy myself. I NEED THAT A LOT

3. Go in a trip with my friends... or alone, just... this is the continuation of the first one ...

4. I WANT TO HAVE A PET. I LOVE THEM!!!

5. I want to kiss one boy 100 times (a.k.a mattew gray gubler)

Five thing that make me happy (this is the tricky one eh?)

1. Eat good food (even if the place is on the street, if the food is good I’m in)

2. Draw, even if I don’t do that recently that makes me so happy.

3. Read !!!

4. Take a time with myself, i love being on my own sometimes.

5. Sleep (just let me sleep @ job, career, family)

Five things that I’m currently into.

1. Naruto hell, somebody save me.

2. I’m going to a painting class (is it count? )

3. Voltron hell, actually a lot of fandom’s hell, somebody help me.

4. I JUST DISCOVERED COURTNEY BARNETT (she’s a singer) and !!!!! go and listen her, she’s my goddess now ok?

5 DID I MENTIONED COURTNEY BARNETT?!?!?!?!?!?!?

EXTRA: C.S PACAT HAS MY SOUL.

Five thing on my to-do list

1. STOP PROCASTINATING (really it’s almost ruining my life)

2. Buy a dress - I never use skirts or shorts or dresses even if I LOVE THEM

3. GET A STUPID BOYFRIEND. really, it’s embarassing all my family have a partner and I’m the stupid lonely girl, so annoying.

4. Read all king’s books, I love him but I’m broke af so buy his books is something a little bit tricky.

5. GET MY FUCKING DEGREE, it´s been a year since I finished all my subjects and ughhhh

Five things people might not know abut urs trully.

1. I´m ALMOST a lawer (?)

2. I don´t know how to drive and I don´t care.

3. I’m really good at cooking.

4. I don´t know how to dance

5. But I’m good at drinking ;)

Extra: You might don’t know buy english it’s not my native language (I´m latina so only spanish) and ... thanks to this site I learned... seriously. THANKS GUYS.

ok.. that’s all, I hope you like it. TAG ME IN ANOTHER THINGS GUYS

kisses and hugs.So I tag...err @hey-usuratonkachi , @mrs-gossipgirl (I HAVEN´T TALKED TO YOU IN A LONG TIME I M SO SORRY T_T) @magigingercal and @mynewnameisjackie I want to know about you so...

#I'm so happy #so my messyness doesn't seem an end #about me

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study-brilliantly-blog · 7 years

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Hi everyone! The new semester is almost (or, for some of you, already!) here, which means it’s a perfect time to think about what you want to do differently. For a lot of us, that means changing the way we take notes. So, whether you’re just looking for some inspiration to get you through the end of the year or you want to take an entirely new approach to your classes, this masterpost is for you!

This post covers four different note-taking methods: outlining, Cornell notes, summary sheets, and mind mapping.

Outlining

Outlining is one of the most basic types of note-taking. It works well for subjects with lots of vocabulary or chronological information (stuff that happens over a period of time), like history or science!

Outlines take info and sort it under different headings. This allows you to group similar facts into categories, which makes them easier to memorize. Outlines are great for lectures, since they’re easy to make and can follow the flow of a class!

This is a basic, no-nonsense outline. If you don’t know where to start, start here!

These outlines are similar to the first one, but with some simple color coding. Color coding helps break up large blocks of text (and also helps when you’re trying to find that one thing your teacher said about that one guy in that one war…)

These outlines are more detailed. You can see more color coding in the first one, and the second uses diagrams to help illustrate what the bullet points are talking about!

Cornell Notes

Cornell notes is actually an entire system for taking notes, not just a template to follow. They’re easy to write during class and, even better, they’re designed to help you study them. If you’ve never heard of them before, it’s an excellent method to try! Cornell notes are great for information that’s not always easy to organize, like English and Economics.

There are lots of guides to help introduce you to the system. Here are two of them: one, two!

These notes are so pretty! They’re an excellent example of how to use all parts of the Cornell system.

These notes are another great example of color-coding. Using highlighters to connect information between columns makes it super easy to go back and revise!

Here’s an example of using Cornell notes to plan an essay. You can use the side column to write comments to yourself, edit your paper, or rewrite the most important points away from the rest of the fluff.

Want to take Cornell notes but don’t want to set up every paper yourself? You can buy special Cornell notepaper (for less than $5 a notebook!), or find free printables right here in the studyblr community!

Summary Sheets

I personally love summary sheets! The idea is to summarize (shocking, right?!) all of the information in a subject/topic/chapter on one piece of paper so you can quickly revise the most important stuff first. There are lots of different ways to make summary sheets, which is part of why they’re so useful. Here are some of my favorites:

This beautiful chemistry sheet. Perfectly condensed and so pretty to look at!

Actually the most gorgeous history notes I’ve ever seen. I love the maps as an added detail!

Science notes with lots and lots of diagrams, for all you engineering people!

In addition, I love to make summary sheets for math! Sometimes it can be really helpful to see every formula and problem in one place - often, it helps me see how everything connects.

Mind Mapping

Mind mapping is another system that’s fairly popular in the studyblr community. It works best for vocabulary-heavy, process-heavy subjects, like History, Science, and English. Finished mind maps can look intimidating, but I promise they’re very easy to make!

Write a word/phrase that summarizes your entire topic in the center of your paper.

Slowly start to fill in information from your notes around it. Related information goes together in the same section/branch of the map!

Add arrows/connectors to link similar ideas together.

(If you’re worried about messing up or running out of room, make each section a sticky note so you can move it around the paper, then use the arrows to connect the sticky notes!)

Okay, example time!

A very basic mind map. Again, if you don’t know where to start, start here!

This one uses different headers/highlighters, like you would in an outline, to separate information. It’s nice to look at, and the most important information jumps out at you!

A beautiful mind map to help you keep track of all the characters in The Fellowship of the Ring. Great color coding!

This is probably the best use of color coding ever, plus it flows nicely and isn’t too cluttered.

Pretty mind maps for English class. (Plus HANDWRITING, oh my gosh!!)

Mind maps are incredibly versatile and can be combined with other note-taking methods to make a really personalized note system. If I tried to list every example I loved, I’d be here all day, but here are a few others to inspire you: one, two, three, four, five!

Okay, so now that you have the basics down, here are some examples of ways to format your notes. This can make a huge difference, especially if you want to get the most use out of your paper. Plus, different layouts sometimes work better with certain types of information, and it’s all about making your notes work for you (instead of the other way around!).

These notes are split into sections to separate the material. Kind of like a mind map, but without the central idea and with a little more structure!

I would definitely recommend checking out Sareena (@studyign’s) summary foldable method! It’s kind of like a summary sheet and flashcards put together, and doubles as notes and a study guide. Great for people who don’t have a lot of time to put together fancy review sheets and rewrite notes all the time!

Consider writing in more than one column! Not only do you save space, but you also get an extra-pretty final product without taking too much extra time.

Good luck with the new semester - you’ll be great! (And, as always, you can ask me questions about anything in this post in my ask box!)

Find my other masterposts here!

#masterpost #studyblr #studying #notes #note-taking #my master

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tanmath3-blog · 6 years

Text

Jasper Bark is infectious – and there’s no known cure. If you’re reading this then you’re already at risk of contamination. The symptoms will begin to manifest any moment now. There’s nothing you can do about it. There’s no itching or unfortunate rashes, but you’ll become obsessed with his books, from the award-winning collections ‘Dead Air’ and ‘Stuck on You and Other Prime Cuts’, to cult novels like ‘The Final Cut’ and acclaimed graphic novels such as ‘Bloodfellas’ and ‘Beyond Lovecraft’.

Soon you’ll want to tweet, post and blog about his work until thousands of others fall under its viral spell. We’re afraid there’s no way to avoid this, these words contain a power you are hopeless to resist. You’re already in their thrall and have been since you began reading this bio. Even now you find yourself itching to read the whole of his work. Don’t fight it, embrace the urge and wear your obsession with pride!

Please help me welcome the amazing Jasper Bark to Roadie Notes….

1. How old were you when you first wrote your first story? If you count comics, I was five years old. I saw a kid’s TV program in which other kids, a little older than me, were drawing their own comic books and I was beyond excited. I don’t think any idea has ever appealed to me so much in my life. The kids on the TV were using paper, felt tip pens, a stapler and their own imaginations. I had access to all those materials and I had more imagination than was healthy for a boy my age. I sat down right away and began making my own comics. I became so obsessed with doing this that, the next Christmas, my parents actually had to confiscate my pens and paper, so that I would stop drawing and come and open my presents.

If you count prose stories, then I was six. My dad used to bring home old log books, from his union (he was a shop steward at the local shipyard), to use as notebooks, and I began filling them with stories and illustrations. I was a lousy artist, but I got a lot better as a story-teller over the years.

2. How many books have you written?

I’ve written five novels, four novellas, nine graphic novels, three collections of short stories, twenty children’s books, countless pages of comics and even a couple of books of poetry (I was young and I needed the money, though if the truth be told, I’d have made more doing porn than writing poetry).

Now that I’ve counted them up, I’m quite surprised actually. Because I’m always beating myself up about not working hard enough.

3. Anything you won’t write about? Y’know, I’ve asked this question myself, on quite a few writers panels at events over the years and the responses vary. At first, most writers will say “no”, there isn’t anything they won’t take on. Then, when we begin to probe the subject, they all end up admitting that there are things that are taboo for them.

My own experience is, that, things will surface in one story, that I will find I’m unable to write about, so I will consider that topic, out-of-bounds. But then another story will start to go in that direction and I will find myself writing about something I thought I could never address. So whenever I think I’ve found something I can’t, or won’t, write about, I end up finding a way to address it.

As writers of dark fiction, we are often confronting the darker sides of our nature, the things we fear most and the things we’re least proud about in ourselves. The same is very much the case for readers of dark fiction too. Dark fiction, whether it be gritty crime, weird stories, or out-and-out horror, is a way for us to face up to, admit, and examine that dark side to our nature in the controlled, and a safe, environment of a story. As a psychologist friend of mine once said: “If you can play with it, you’ve got it. If you can’t play with it, it’s got you.” Fiction is the best way to play with out dark sides, and we should approach it, with as few limits as are comfortable for us.

4. Tell me about you. Age (if you don’t mind answering), married, kids, do you have another job etc…

I’m in my late 40s, I’m married to an amazingly clever, talented and beautiful woman called Veronica, but every calls her Ronnie. She runs her own Marketing and Communications business, and she’s a wonderful role model to our two teenage daughters – Freya and Ishara, who are every bit as indomitable as their mother.

I write full-time and have done since my kids were born, having previously been a national film and music journalist and a professional stand up. I’ve been in and out of trouble most of my life and, in spite of my age, have yet to develop the wisdom to avoid this.

5. What’s your favorite book you have written?

That’s like asking me to pick my favourite child, they’re all special in one way or another. However, like most writers I know, my favourite book is always the one on which I’m currently working. It’s my chance to redeem myself for all the books I’ve already written, for which I had such high hopes, but which, inevitably came out flawed. The book I’m currently working on, still has that possibility to be great, to be my legacy to the world, so, for that reason it is my favourite.

6. Who or what inspired you to write?

Just about every book that I’ve ever read. The great books inspire me to reach similar heights myself, and the lousy one make me think: ‘wow, I can do better than that, maybe I’m not so lame after all’.

7. What do you like to do for fun? I recently joined an all female, octopus mud wrestling team. I’m not actually female (as you probably guessed) and I can’t wrestle for shit. But I think the other ladies let me join because they find it hysterical to see me getting my butt kicked by all manner of octopi. Recently, they’ve taken to replacing the mud in my bouts with avocado puree, jut for the hell of it. It certainly seems to please the crowds, but it leaves me picking green goo, out of unmentionable places, for at least a week afterwards. Mostly causing my poor, long-suffering wife, to raise an unamused eyebrow at my antics.

8. Any traditions you do when you finish a book?

Yes, I sacrifice a virginal avocado, on altar of mud and avocado stones, in front of a select audience of pre-eminent Octopi. This is mainly to increase my standing within the Octopoid community. As you’re probably aware, octopi don’t read, so they have no clue about my literary reputation, they only know me as the short, strange guy who constantly gets his ass whupped in a big vat of puree. So, these rituals help me gain their respect a little more.

9. Where do you write? Quiet or music? I have a study at the bottom of the garden, that used to be a garage until we converted it. It’s full of thousands of books, and hundreds of spiders, who sometimes like to descend onto my keyboard, in the middle of the night, when I’m right in the middle of a particularly disturbing passage.

I sometimes write to music and I sometimes write in silence, it depends what I’m working on. If do write to music, it has to be something without lyrics. Like many writers, when I’m working on fiction, I like to use film scores, as these are composed specifically to support a narrative art form, and as such are really good for getting you in the right mood to write.

10. Anything you would change about your writing? I like to think that through the daily act of writing I am already changing it and growing as a writer. So if there is stuff I’m not satisfied with, I trust to the process to eventually fix it, and allow me to grow out of it. In fact the wonderful thing about being a writer is that, right up until the point of publication, if there is something you don’t like about your writing, you can always go back and change it, and even change it some more.

11. What is your dream? Famous writer?

Over the years, so many amazing writers have had such a profound and life changing effect on me, have written stories, essays and books that have meant to so much to me, that I can’t begin to list them all. They’ve totally changed the way I view the world, and my place in it. They have given me hope in dark times, joy in sad ones and entertainment in periods of unimaginable boredom.

My real dream, as a writer, is to be able to write something that will affect a reader in the same way, that will move them as I have been moved, so many times in the past. If I can give something back, like that, to even a handful of readers, then I will have fulfilled my dreams ten times over.

12. Where do you live?

Why Becky, don’t you already know? Isn’t that you at the bottom of my garden watching me through binoculars?

Wait, no… sorry, that’s my FBI handler, they’re easy to confuse with a stalker, but they’re usually a little more polite.

To go back to your question, I live in the small medieval town of Bradford on Avon, in the UK. It’s quite close to places like Stonehenge, Glastonbury and the Georgian city of Bath, only it’s less well-known, but no less beautiful. If you’ve ever read a novel by Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardy, you’ll have encountered the corner of the world in which I live. It hasn’t changed much in the preceding 200 years and you still can’t get a good broadband connection.

13. Pets?

Well we do have a couple of cats, and the disembodied spirit of a lobotomized gorilla hanging around our cottage. He was a bit unnerving at first, but we’ve taken to leaving out bowls of warm ectoplasm for him, and he’s actually become quite endearing. He even has his uses, such as scaring away Jehovah’s Witnesses and other door to door tradespeople.

14. What’s your favorite thing about writing? It’s that moment when the writing really begins to flow, when you sink fully into the world you’re exploring and time stands still. When the story itself takes over, when you hear the characters voices so clearly in your mind it’s as though they’re there in the room with you. When you’re as utterly surprised and delighted by your work as anyone else who is going to read it in the future. When it goes places you never foresaw, and reveals things you knew nothing about until you began to type it up. When your fingers can hardly keep up with all the words that are tumbling out of you.

Those are the moments we all live for as a writer.

15. What is coming next for you?

Hopefully the shambling hordes of the undead aren’t coming for me.

I have a new novella out, called Quiet Places, which is a story of cosmic folk horror with overtones of psychological horror, set in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. Unusually for me, it’s an entirely bloodless affair that depends more on atmosphere and dark folk-lore. There is no sex, no violence, yet it is probably the most disturbing thing I’ve yet written.

You can grab a copy here: https://www.amazon.com/Quiet-Places-Novella-Cosmic-Horror/dp/1640074708

I also have a new graphic novel out as well, it’s called Parassassin and it’s a dark blend of sci-fi and horror. Politics, parody and paradox collide in a tale of time travel and attempted assassination.

It’s available here in the US: https://www.amazon.com/Parassassin-Jasper-Bark-ebook/dp/B074Y5NGPS

And here in the UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Parassassin-Jasper-Bark-ebook/dp/B074Y5NGPS

Aside from that I have a novel and a novella due out next year, a lot of different anthology appearances. I also have a graphic novel starting on Comixology in 2018 and a couple of hush – hush projects, I’m going to allude to in an annoyingly vague way.

I am launching a new webcomic, called ‘Fear Fix’ on my website. It’s very much in the tradition of those classic black and white horror comics from the 60s, 70s and 80s, like Warren and Skywald, and also EC horror comics. Like those comics it has a horror host, but, in the tradition of Rod Serling, I am the host of the comic. It has some of the best artist from both mainstream and indie comics and it will be running monthly. You can read the first story – ‘The Bad Girl’s Guide to Making a Killing’ here

I’m also turbo charging my YouTube channel, with monthly updates, the first of which you can see here

And I have just launched a Patreon page, why not check it out and become a patron here You can connect with Jasper Bark here:

Here’s the link to my Patreon Page again: https://www.patreon.com/JasperBark

Here’s a link where you can get a free eBook, a free story and an exclusive video of my blooper reel, by signing up to my mailing list:

http://www.crystallakepub.com/jasperbark/

Really, you’d be foolish not to.

Some of Jasper Bark’s books:

Getting personal with Jasper Bark Jasper Bark is infectious - and there’s no known cure. If you’re reading this then you’re already at risk of contamination.

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yespoetry · 7 years

Text

Jason Koo: Special Feature

NEGATIVE CAPABILITY

But how do you measure yourself, as a poet, as a teacher? There are no analytics

for these vocations, as there are for basketball. Universities keep searching for better

evaluations and keep just making them worse, keep pandering to the student

as customer rather than trying to give teachers essential feedback they can use

to get better as teachers. The best feedback always comes in the form of answers

to specific questions about a class, such as the ones I ask students to answer

in their reflective essays prefacing their portfolios, but my university’s evals

make the comments optional and open to whatever they want to say, i.e. rant about,

and the most helpful communication, you would think, occurs between two people

who know they are communicating rather than a report one person is making

about the other in the form of numbers from 1 to 5 that “disagree” or “agree”

to varying degrees with questions neither person has approved and might not

even be interested in the answers to. Even with the evals we have, there are no

numbers I can put in a bucket at the end of every class to record how I did relative

to every other day, whereas LeBron literally has buckets he can put in a bucket.

I’ve always thought it must be hard to be a professional athlete in America,

despite all the luxuries it affords, especially one of LeBron’s stature, because every

one of your professional performances is mercilessly evaluated, everything you do

is translated into numbers, numbers pored over and broken down by stats geeks

who could care less about you personally, their sole interest being whether your numbers

justify what is spent on you or whether, perhaps, another player or two less famous

might provide the same numbers at less cost. Absurd, perhaps, to criticize

LeBron for not holding himself accountable when he is held accountable by the media

and analytics experts every day, how many of us could stand that kind of relentless scrutiny

of what we do? Imagine even one local paper

covering my performance every day as a poet. Did not write today, nothing to report.

Did not write today, nothing to report. Wrote a little in his notebook, a to-do list

of what he needed to do today as well as what he needs to do tomorrow, also scratched

some things off a list he’d made several weeks ago that he hadn’t done that ended up

on his to-do list today, yes, that means he scratched them off twice. None of these

things involved the writing or reading of poems. Should we even evaluate this guy

as a poet? He seems to be rather a kind of daily accountant. BREAKING: quoted

large chunks of Heidegger today in something resembling a poem although the best lines

seem to be Heidegger’s. Does that count? Unfortunately we are not poetry experts

and have no analytics to back up our claims, but this production seems rather dubious.

Plus it is endless. After the questionable gains he made yesterday, spent an inordinate amount

of time on social media today instead of writing. Woke up at 10 AM and did not have time,

he thought, if thinking is something he does, to write today, so he masturbated

in bed instead. Did not write today, nothing to report. Did not write today, nothing

to report. Did not write today, see previous r eport. Would all that constant scrutiny

help me as a poet? Perhaps. I would definitely write more, but writing more does not

necessarily mean writing better. And what does it mean to write better, how does one

evaluate that, except internally? There is no competition you can measure yourself against

save for the subjective sense of great writers who have come before you or great writers

out there right now, or the meaningless measuring stick of publications and awards.

Really it always comes down to your own internal sense of a standard, what you have done

to that point and how good you think it is, not what readers or other poets say, not

where a poem or book was published, not what awards were won. And there have been

so many examples of long stretches where you weren’t writing at all followed by great

bursts of productivity, where all that non- writing time seems to have loaded up

material and pressure, just as there have been so many examples of writing every day

that led to hack productivity, just words on a page with nothing compelling to make

anyone, most of all you, want to read them. As a writer you have to be thinking

about originality, how you can break new ground for yourself if not for anyone’s

canon, how you can move into subject matter or formal techniques you haven’t

tried before, or, looked at another way, how you can more fully tap into the well

of who you are, put your sense of the world on the page. An athlete, luckily, doesn’t

have to think about this, though one might work on developing new aspects to one’s game,

as LeBron developed his post-up skills after discovering he needed these when facing

championship-level defense in the playoffs, or reinventing oneself to adjust to changing

defenses or the decline of physical skills, as when a young flamethrower in baseball

becomes a master of changing speeds and pitch location when he loses mph on his fastball.

But there are tangible results to the work one puts in as an athlete to develop or reinvent

one’s game, one can judge based on numbers recorded in performance, but what results

does a poet see? More smiling, happy faces in a workshop? More, or better, publications?

More awards? Shining reviews? One is taught not to trust these things (though now I

wonder where or when one is taught this), as trusting them too much can lead to

complacency about the very originality one is pursuing. It is a life of vagueness,

the life of a poet, which perhaps Keats was trying to redeem with his impressive-sounding

“Negative Capability,” which all poets love. Double this with the life of a teacher, or perhaps

triple it with the life of a teacher of poetry, which almost all poets are, and one can easily see

we are moving in a sea of vaguery, vague after vague of vaguery no clearer for cognizance

of one’s French etymology. How does one measure oneself as a teacher of poetry?

By how many good poems each student writes? By how much better a student’s poems get

from the beginning to the end of a course? See previous report on how one evaluates

writing “better.” A student might not be able to apply what you taught her about writing

“good” or “better” poems until years after you taught her. You might even be dead.

Still, the only way that student’s poems could be judged “good” or “better” in the end

would be if she published them, i.e. got them judged by some other authority,

otherwise she and you would never really know if she had gotten “good” or “better”

or if you were just imagining things in your pretty little subjective heads.

See previous report on how trustworthy publications are to a poet who aspires to be

“good” or “better.” Or maybe this isn’t true, as the more I think of it the more I don’t

think it is, maybe all that matters is this poet sends you poems years after she took your class

and they’re better than Emily Dickinson’s, you’re sure of it, you don’t give a damn

what anybody else says or if she cares to publish them or has and the bog’s rejected them.

Would the development of this über-Emilying Emily Dickinson under your tutelage

be enough to measure your success as a teacher? Even if your other students hated your guts

and wrote the most putrid poems possible? If so, would that kind of teacher be better

than one who created four Carl Sandburgs? Or a Marianne Moore and a T. S. Eliot?

How many “good” poets equal a “great” one? How many “okay” poets equal a “good” one?

Is the impact of one great poet creating a world that sets forth the earth as an earth greater

than the impact of two good poets creating a world setting forth the earth as an earth

twice? If so, is it greater than that of three? Of four? Of five? One can easily see our said

sea of vaguery. Or perhaps as a teacher you’re just trying to help students become

a poet, no matter if they’re “good” or “great” or “better” or “okay,” just as a teacher

of law is just trying to help students become a lawyer, so they can go out there and practice

law and make a living. Should you be deemed a success if you taught a room full

of twenty students not intending to be poets and all of them, in the end, became poets???

Named one of the “100 Most Influential People in Brooklyn Culture” by Brooklyn Magazine, Jason Koo is the founder and executive director of Brooklyn Poets and creator of the Bridge. He is the author of America’s Favorite Poem (C&R Press, 2014) and Man on Extremely Small Island (C&R Press, 2009). He earned his BA in English from Yale, his MFA in creative writing from the University of Houston and his PhD in English and creative writing from the University of Missouri-Columbia. The winner of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, Vermont Studio Center and New York State Writers Institute, he has published his poetry and prose in the Yale Review, Missouri Review and Village Voice, among other places. He is an assistant teaching professor of English at Quinnipiac University and lives in Williamsburg.

#jason koo #special feature

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