In case anyone still cares, or in case anyone stumbles on this in the distant future, simply wrote has moved to writey writey at tumblr. I tend to update a couple times a week over there and it’s almost all new stuff. And it has a nicer format and things. So yeah. If you’re interested, check it out. ^_^
It’s short, but it’s something. Will probably be continued in snapshots and shtuff.
“Hey, it’s Kaitlynn, right?” Said the boy, throwing himself on the plastic chair next to her.
“Um, yeah. But most people call me Mousey.” She said.
“Why?” He asked.
She frowned, as if nobody ever asked her that before. “It was an inside joke, but then it caught on. I guess I just look like a Mousey.”
He smiled. “I’m Roger. And it’s the first day and we’re both outside the heads office.”
She grinned. “Hey, I’m just getting welcomed. What’s your deal?”
“That would be telling.” He said, but she didn’t really need to ask. She could smell the smoke.
She made a tsk sound with her tongue, and laughed.
“That’s me.” She said, standing up.
Roger looked up at her. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
She smiled. “Yeah.”
So, WordPress has changed a lot since I last used it.
Not sure I like the new post format. Or the “live preview”
Working on some stuff. Might post some short crappy bits. Mostly sappy crap because I’ve run out of ideas.
It’s been a while, I know that. This isn’t a post, this is just to let you know that even though nobody reads this (except you, Imi.) I’m still here and I can’t write. I’m physically incapable of putting anything on… paper? screen? keyboard? that doesn’t suck royal balls.
So I’ll see you ’round, I guess.
This is supposedly part deux of Look But Don’t Touch but I wrote it during biology and I didn’t exactly have Look But Don’t Touch on hand so it doesn’t quite have the same feel. It still stands as a piece in it’s own right, though.
Footsteps. Increasing in pace at the same time as mine. I don’t need to look back to know who it is. Only one person would follow me home.
The blood still pounds in my ear drums, and I can still hear the heavy bass 3 streets away from the party. I’m swaying slightly from the alcohol, and all I want to do is curl up and die. But the ever present footsteps are getting louder.
Stupid party, stupid me, stupid you.
I shouldn’t have gone. I should’ve known you’d be there, you’d get drunk, and you’d fuck around. I’ve still got the marks from last time. So. fucking. stupid. Goddamn.
The thing is, though, you’re the one who should’ve let it go. It’s been 2 months and every time I wanted to go back I remembered what you did and that bile rose up in my throat. I didn’t tell anyone, so why won’t you leave me alone?
We both know you didn’t love me.
And that’s when I break into a run, because I can just about feel your breath on my neck..
You’re breaking my heart, even as your fingers scrape my shoulders and you hold me back.
“Fuck you.” I scream. You punch me. I knew that was coming, and I pull away to lessen the impact. The last thing I see before I black out are the tears on your face.
This was originally saved as “klkihlhiyukg.txt” because there didn’t seem to be an appropriate name for it. Then I edited it heavily. Possibly suitable for public consumption now. Thoughts?
Dad had been the one to find the body. It was unexpected – he had gone upstairs to wake her up, thinking she had slept in. It was time for school, and all that.
I don’t think he knew what to do, who to call. It’s not like having a bike stolen.
There was no point calling an ambulance, either.
She’d done it in the middle of the night.
My little sister had been cold for hours before we found her.
And that was my wednesday morning. I had to call mum, because dad was talking to the police. I had to explain that she needed to come home, not at the end of her business trip, but now. Mum and dad hadn’t been talking for a long time, at that point.
They didn’t fix that, after my little sister was cold, either.
I had shut my eyes when the body was carried through on a stretcher, covered in a white plastic sheet.
There was a note, penned by my little sister.
It read, in my little sister’s neatest italics, “Mum, Dad, Ivan.”
I didn’t want to ruin this last memento of my little sister.
“Hi you.” It read. My little sister had written that.
“It’s not you, it’s me.” It read. My little sister always had a wicked sense of humour.
“I love you.” It read. My little sister loved me.
My little sister was dead.
Took the post down to enter the competition, and now it’s back up.
“You bitch.” I smile tentatively, my blue eyes tinged with fear as I stare at you.
You raise an eyebrow. I’m not funny anymore, not an entertainment to you. But I’ve ingested too many knock off alcopops to care. You think I’m a lightweight, and you tell me so.
“It’s not funny.” You say, serious now as you run a thumb along my jawline. I always flinch when you do that, but you haven’t worked out why. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I struggle to suppress a nervous titter as I move back from your hand.
“You can look but don’t touch.” I smile weakly.
Your eyes narrow. “But you love it when I touch you.” and you drop the word touch like an icy tombstone.
I bite my lip, stained blue from the cheap drinks.
“That’s what you think.” I say, eyes wide, in a feat of bravery you haven’t encountered in months.
You start to laugh. “No, I know it,” you say, and your arms curl around my waist, holding me to you. I’m shaking inside, but I don’t let on. No amount of alcohol ever prepares me for this inevitable moment.
“I love you.” You lie to me at whisper volume.
My voice has dropped and it’s shaking, as I lean up to whisper into your ear, “I love you too.”
Because being here with you, terrified, is better than being without.