Graphite and Sawdust - Ch. 2

Chapter 2 - Watching

Oliver

  By now, it's instinct to go to my hiding spot when people are in the house. Even though they can't see me, and they won't see me, it's just easier to hid than to there with them looking right through me.   However, after a few long minutes of silence from downstairs, I decide it's probably safe to come out. I creep from my hiding spot, close the door soundlessly behind me, and float to the attic door. 

   Yeah. Float. You didn't read that wrong. 

  I normally don't, since it's not like I have to. I just prefer to do so when people are in the house, so my footsteps don't scare them. Since, y'know, they can't exactly see me, and that would be unnatural.   It''s one of the perks of being what I am - whatever I am. I feel like I'm as close to a ghost as I can be. I'm visible when I want to be. At least, I think so. I can see myself in mirrors and whatever. I try not to let people see me. Sometimes I can touch stuff, but it usually takes a lot of concentration. I can open doors, since, no, I can't go through them. I can touch objects, but not people. At least, I don't think I can. Since I tried last time, I haven't had any desire to try to touch a human again. 

  I open the attic door as slowly and softly as I can and shut it in the same manner before drifting down the attic stairs. 

  Peering down into the foyer, I see a woman pacing on the stone floor. It's the same woman I've seen here many times, the landlady. I've never tried to make contact with her. In fact, I haven't tried that in years. Even if I did, I wouldn't do it to her. She already seems fidgety enough, so she doesn't need me breathing down her neck. I'm about to go back to the attic when a cold thought shivers through me. 

  Crap. Crap. 
  Did I lock my room?
  As soon as it crosses my mind, a knock sounds through the house. I instinctively duck away, pressing myself against the wall of the upstairs hallway as the woman, after some hesitation, opens the door. In the flurry of anxious thoughts rushing around in my head, I miss the first words of the woman's greeting to the person on the other side of the door. I'm only brought out of my daze when a new voice, one I've never heard, enters the house.
  The voice, light, airy, English, echoes in my mind. It holds a warmth that makes it seem familiar and comfortable to anyone who hears it. It doesn't surprise me, really. The landlady has brought people here to look at the house before, trying to get someone to sell it to. However I have a feeling that when this foreigner gets a look at the music room, they'll be out the door in no time.
   "Mind clear, Oliver," I think to myself, "Focus. You have to lock your room."
  But I can't. Not with them in the foyer. I wait around, willing them to leave the general vicinity of the downstairs hallway. I accidentally forget to remain floating, slowly drifting down until my right foot rests on the floor, making the wood beneath it creak. I'm instantly in the air again, hoping my unwanted visitors don't think anything of the sound.
  Then I hear them coming up the stairs. 
  I flatten myself closer against the wall, if possible. The landlady and guest pass by me easily on their way to the attic, and I take a glance at them as they do. I catch a glimpse of dark orange hair before the pair disappear into the upper level of the house.
  I hurry downstairs and through the hall, straight to the door of my room. I test the knob, finding it unlocked. Relieved that I remembered in time, I let out a small whoosh of air. I tug a thin cord from around my neck, a key dangling at the end of it. I slide the key into the lock and turn, securing the door and the secrets behind it.
  I stop floating now, too overcome with relief to keep it up. I sit Indian-style on the stone of the hallway, listening to my unwanted guests walk around upstairs. Deciding that the risk would be greater to try to sneak past them, I opt for waiting it out. I lean back against my door and close my eyes.
  They're back downstairs sooner than I expect. The woman speaks to the guest, explaining the layout of the house. They stroll down the hallway, having seen the living room. I stand up, realizing I'm in the path to the kitchen door. I take a few steps back towards the stairs when the pair turn the come into view.
  My eyes widen when they land on the guest. It's just a girl. She couldn't be any older than I suggest myself to be. Her hair hangs in slightly uneven waves just above her shoulders, the orange bright against the grey of her jacket. I stop myself from sucking in a breath as she reaches out, nearly shoving her hand right through me. I move just in time, watching her hand close around the doorknob to my room. She tries it, unsuccessfully, and I can't see her face because I'm halfway to the stairs by now.
I hear the woman reply to the girl's confusion brought on by my room. "Oh, that door has been locked ever since my mother owned the place."
Yup, and it's gonna stay that way so long as you two are in here.
I'm about to head upstairs when I notice them about to step into the music room. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't, but curiosity gets the better of me. I want to see how this girl reacts to it.
I drift after them, following behind the girl as she enters the room. As soon as I'm in, I float up to the tall ceiling, just in case one of the two women decide they want to step through me.
I watch the girl as she looks around the room, wall to wall, a pleasant look of awe gracing her face. Her gaze lands on the bay window, or whatever is left of it.
I don't get the reaction I've grown used to.
"Oh dear," the girl breathes, but her voice doesn't even hint at distress. It carries a strange, lingering amazement. She steps toward the gap, and I can't help but drift closer to her. It's not as if she can see me anyway.
I wonder now what on earth she could be doing here. She can't be older than a college student. Now, up close, I notice her more minute details. Light freckles form galaxies along the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, the edges of her forehead. Amber eyes gaze forward, sparkling with something so like enchantment. I take a short breath and move away a bit, out of her proximity.
Floating back, I'm filled with a new relief. She can't be buying the house. No way a college student has the money for it, especially with the repairs it needs.
The tip of my foot brushes the tangle of vines on the floor, disrupting a mother bird in her nest. She flies up quickly, fleeing through the window. I look after the bird apologetically, knowing full well she can't see me. The girl jumps a bit, startled, while the landlady reacts similarly from the doorway. The scene doesn't scare the girl off, though. She reaches the window and leans in to stare out.
I don't see what she finds so captivating. This house is literally in shambles. The walls are washed of color, the air is dank, there's an enormous hole in the wall that lets in creatures from outside. Despite all of that, here she is grinning like a child, amazed at the sights she sees.
She moves to the piano, tampers with the lid, runs a thin finger along the keys. She plays a few, eyes widening. "It's in tune."
"Of course it's in tune," I muse, "Who do you think does everything around here?"
I don't pay attention to their conversation. I'm too busy watching her fingers over the keys. The tune is choppy from years of neglecting practice, but it isn't the sound that catches my attention. The way she moves her fingers is so strange. Almost as if, even if she isn't sure what she's doing or if she's doing it right, she fully trusts her movements. There's no hesitation at all.
I've never seen anything like it.
She slides the lid back over the keys and spins in a slow circle. She shuts her eyes. that small, knowing smile still gracing her lips.
"I'll take it."
Something in me shatters. I lift slowly off the floor, away, far away from the piano, the girl, the landlady. I float backwards until my back hits the wall.
She can't be serious. She can't be buying the house. If she does, that means that I...
Well, what does that leave for me?
The rest of their exchange is a blur. I don't listen. I'm too busy dealing with the thoughts washing over my mind.
There will be someone in the house at all times.
She'll change things.
She'll let other people in.
The house will be fixed and I'll never be alone again.
What if they find out that I'm here?
A small pained noise let out through my mouth and I clamp my hand over it, startled.
"No big deal," I tell myself, trying to calm down. "I'll just have to find a way to make her leave."
I glance at her again, staring at her back. She radiates joy, nearly bouncing on her toes. The landlady offers to walk her out, and the girl moves to follow before glancing back into the room. She doesn't look at me directly, but her exuberant expression softens, threatening to fade into something darker, unsure. She moves into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
"Oh, yeah," I think, "She'll be easy to scare away."


(((Woah, calm down there, Oliver. No need to sound so creepy. I decided to upload these chapters together, since they overlap. However, I think in the future that the two perspectives will occur over different times, switching between Doddie and Oliver. We'll see. I also want to add more of Oliver's story, since he's sorta in the dark right now, poor thing. I hope you enjoyed these little snippets. Again, no proof-read, so please don't judge for errors. Also, what even is correct spacing. Idfk. -Liz)))

Graphite and Sawdust - Ch. 1

Chapter 1- Being Watched 

Doddie

  I try to remember everything my father ever told me about buying houses.
   "Don't overreact, and don't seem too eager to buy."
   "Play hard to get, otherwise they'll charge you more than it's worth."
   "And no matter what, Dorothy, do not buy a house that you can't handle."
  However, staring up at this house in front of me, all of his words disappear from my mind.
  It's magnificent. Three stories of pure wondrous beauty.
  Reed-like blades of grass tug at the cuffs of my jeans as I walk towards the front door. Three crooked steps lead onto the porch, which wraps around the left side of the house. I knock soundly, a few short raps, before stepping back. When it doesn't open at first, I wonder if the owner is somewhere else in the house and unable to answer the door. I opt to let myself in. The door opens as soon as I reach for the handle, the thick wood creaking loudly as it's swung back against the outside wall. The woman opening the door blinks at me in surprise.
   "Oh! You must be Miss Perrinore. I didn't think you'd be here this early."
  Still elated by the outside view of the house, I grin as I take her hand in mine. "Just Doddie's fine. And I take it you're Mrs. Thomas."
  Surprise returns to the woman's face as she blinks once more. "Oh, I wasn't aware you were English."
"Email these days is so misleading," I say lightly. At this point I'm practically bouncing on my toes, anxious to see the rest of the house. "So, this is it?"
   Mrs. Thomas glances behind her, nervousness clear on her face. "Yes, this is it. I guess I should let you in, then."
   My heart sinks a little when I see that the area just inside the door isn't how I pictured it from seeing the outside of the house. Cool, flat stones set into cement make up the floor, covering the wide walk-space before continuing on down the hallway parallel to the front staircase. The stairs, made of dark wood, travel straight up into the second floor. When Mrs. Thomas makes no effort to give me a tour - which is totally fine by me - I turn into the room to the left of the foyer. It seems to be a dining room, judging by the length of the room. Instead of one long table, two twin square ones sit in the middle of the room, absent of chairs. The floorboards, made of the same dark wood of the staircase, squeaks under my faded Chucks. As if the house is retaliating, something creaks somewhere upstairs. Mrs. Thomas visibly winces.
    "How old did you say this house was again?" I ask, paying no mind to the sound.
    "I'm not sure, exactly. I'm pretty sure it was built in the early 1800's, but it hasn't been lived in in a while."
    "It doesn't seem to be in terrible condition," I observed, glancing at the seemingly fresh glass panels in the front windows.
    "Yes," Mrs. Thomas says, "The previous owner, my mother, had someone come try to fix it up some ten or so years ago, but he didn't get very far."
    "Is there any particular reason for that?" I ask. I can't help the mix of hope and excitement fluttering in my chest.
  Mrs. Thomas levels me with a stare that made the flutters grow. "Nothing my mother decided to tell me. Come on, let's look at the rest of the house."
  She leads me upstairs first, to the attic, which consists of a storage room and a small bedroom. I'm far more interested in the second floor, which is made up of three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a small laundry room. I'm surprised to see the last of these things, even if the laundry machines were missing. Mrs. Thomas waves off my questioning glance. "The man who came to fix the place up managed to get the plumbing in before he quit. There's even a hot water heater, in case you ever have to shower here."
   We duck out of the room and head back downstairs. She shows me the kitchen, the dining room once more, and the sitting room.  After seeing the dining room, I go to the door parallel to it, turning the knob to find it locked. Mrs. Thomas turns back to me from where she's started down the hallway. "Oh, that door has been locked ever since my mother owned the place. No one tried to open it. My mother was going to call a locksmith but never got around to it." My hand tingles in eagerness to open the door, but I suppose that's not going to happen today.
   Once we're back in the foyer, Mrs. Thomas turns, lifting her hands to stop me.
    "The room I'm about to show you is the reason I don't think you'll buy this house."
   I give her a confused look, but she only leads me down the thin hallway. She stops at a peculiarly wide door, its surface made of dark oak. The woman turns the handle, seeming to struggle slightly as she does so. She shoves against the door with her shoulder, forcing it open. She allows me to step in first, and I can't help the small smile from gracing my lips.
   It isn't a large room. In fact, it wasn't any wider than one of the bedrooms upstairs. However, the ceiling stretches higher than it does throughout the rest of the house. The floor is made of the same stone of the foyer, only with larger stones of darker grays. I imagine there used to be a large rug to cover it, but there isn't one here now. The wall parallel to the door is windowless, instead bearing long empty picture frames against sky-blue wallpaper. The same dark wood of the door lines the area where the walls meet the ceiling. The wall to the right is completely bare, and when I turn to see the final wall I see that there's hardly a wall at all.
   A splintering wooden frame for a large bay window sits between two thin panels of wall. No glass graces the frame, and instead thick bundles of vines curl their way into the house.
    "Oh, dear," I say softly. Ms. Thomas says nothing, remaining in her spot in the doorway, still clutching the knob.
   I walk to the window, my feet already catching on the vines. They stretch rather far into the room, almost eight feet from where they come in from the window. The thin branches curves throughout the entire framework of the window, almost creating a wall of leaves. I step carefully, trying to find the stone beneath the branches. When I'm almost to the window, something rustles in the leaves a few feet from me, and a bird - I'm not able to see just what kind - takes off through the wall of vines. Mrs. Thomas lets out a startled noise, and when I turn back to her, her hand is over her heart. Instead of returning to her, I take the final few steps to the window. I set my knee against what would be the bench-seat, lean forward, and peer out through the hole the fleeing bird had created. Woods stretch further beyond the wall, from where the vines came.
    "It'd be an expensive fix," Mrs. Thomas tells me.
    "No doubt," I reply in a soft voice. Nothing I can't handle. Yet I don't let those words leave my tongue. I don't know if they are true.
   I turn back to her, facing the middle of the room, when I notice just what sits there. A grand piano stands on three legs, absent of its bench. Judging from the thin splinters in the dark wood, it's been there for a while. I step towards it.
     "That's been there ever since my mother inherited the house, maybe even before then."
   I slide the wooden cover up, putting the shining, opal-white keys on display. I run a finger over them before pressing down on the F key. Then G, then C.
    "It's in tune," I marvel.
    "That's the miraculous part," Mrs. Thomas says, "Since it's been here so long." She pauses, then asks, "Do you play?"
   I smile. "Only what I learned in primary school." I press the C key again, continuing while I mumble "The Lord bless you and keep you" under my breath. I cover the keys once more, turning to survey the entire room. I shut my eyes and breath deep.
    "No matter what, Dorothy, do not buy a house that you can't handle."
    "I'll take it," I say, letting out the withheld air with a smile.
   Mrs. Thomas's returning glance surprises me. She doesn't seem happy. She's still in the doorway, leaning against the jam.
    "How old are you, Doddie?"
   I blink owlishly at her. "Nineteen."
    "You said you were a student at a nearby university."
    "Yes, ma'am. I'm majoring in home construction. This house will be part of my personal project."
   Mrs. Thomas sets the back of her head against the door-frame, hesitation showing clearly on her face. I wipe my own face from my previous joy, growing serious.
    "Look, I understand if you've decided you don't want to sell-"
    "Of course I want to sell," Mrs. Thomas answers softly. It should seem sad, but I can't detect anything of the sort in her voice. She almost sounds guilty.
   Another creak rings through the hallway upstairs, and the woman hugs her arms, shutting her eyes. I don't know what to say, so I settle on resting my hand on the smooth wood of the piano. When Mrs. Thomas opens her eyes once again, she doesn't look at me, but at the floor.
    "You'll only be fixing the place up," she says, asking for confirmation, "You won't be living here."
    "No, ma'am," I answer, the words heavy on my tongue.
   She nods, and offers a small smile. "Alright, then."
   I allow the grin to return to my face as I rush in to hug her. "Thank you!"
   She pats my back affectionately. "But you have to promise me to be careful around here. It'd be a good idea to have someone here with you at all times. I don't want you alone here."
   I nod fervently, pulling away from her. "Of course," I reply, trying to cloud my lies with my excitement, "Thank you, thank you so much."
   She smiles once more, a smile that seems more exhaustion than happiness. "Come on, then, I'll walk you out."
   She exits the room, and I take one last look at the vines creeping through the bare window.   Something cold tingles at the base of my neck, and my shoulder roll up as I shiver. A strange feeling settles over me, an uneasiness I haven't experienced much of before. I glance down the hall, seeing Mrs. Thomas already at the door, her back to me. I've never been used to being watched, never been able to tell when someone's eyes are on me, but I could swear that right now, someone's looking at me.



(((Is Liz writing a ghost story?!? Maybe, idk, you never know with me, really. I've been wanting to write something like this for a while and haven't really gotten around to it until now. Sorry for any mistakes, I have absolutely no effort to proof-read. -Liz)))
(((Post-author note: I wrote both of these chapters back in February and I'm just now getting around to publish them. Now that I have more time to write, hopefully this story won't get neglected, because I have a lot of ideas for it. If anyone really reads my stuff, I hope you'll be patient with me when it comes to updates. I'm literally the slowest writer in the universe. -Liz)))

ain't no sunshine

Life gets better.

  That's what my brother always told me.
  When I was seven and he was twelve, after I lost the only friend I had when his family moved to a different state.
  When I was nine and he was fourteen, whispering the words in my ear as he leaned in, turning away from the fresh dirt of Dad's grave.
  When I was fifteen and he was twenty, his arms wrapped tightly around me from behind as he wrestled a towel against my bleeding wrist, tears streaming down our cheeks as he assured me it would get better, it would all get better.
  I never knew how he managed to tell himself that.
  Eventually it does get better, I guess. I'm still waiting to see that day in all its built-up glory. I can only hope it's at least half as wonderful as I've made it out to be.
  Life gets better. Sure it does. But at some point on this roller-coaster of life, one of the drops is gonna be a little too steep, just enough to make your stomach sink.
  In my case, it's more of a plummet than a drop.

Part One - Blue Skies

 
It's a busy day at the Gartner house. In a house as large as mine, it's not hard to scout out a place to hide to be away from everyone else, but it's seemingly impossible to do so today. Mom happens to catch me as I'm creeping along the second floor to the attic entrance.
    "Jamie Gartner!"
  I wince and turn to face her. She's halfway up the steps, glaring at me through the bars of the railing.
    "Young man, you'd better high-tail it back downstairs and help your aunt with those boxes."
  My fingers curl around the iPod cradled in my palm. I stuff the device into the pocket of my jeans.
    "Mooom," I groan, "I've been helping all morning."
  She finishes the climb up the stairs and heaves a sizable cardboard box to balance it on her hip, holding it with one hand while she fixes the other to point her finger at me. "And you'll continue to help until those boxes are off of the moving van."
  She moves to pass by me, making certain to ruffle my unruly blond hair as she does so. I groan again, more at the hair-fluffing than the constant work I've been forced to return to.
  I trot down the staircase that leads down into the foyer, The front door hangs wide open on its hinges, letting a blinding stream of midday sunlight into the hall. I'm out the door and halfway across the front porch when I hear my name being called once more from inside the house.
    "I'm helping, see!" I shout, thinking it's my mother summoning me. I twist around, faded Etnies squeaking on the old wooden planks beneath them. Aunt Sara stands in the doorway, one hand acting as a visor over her eyes to block the sun, the other arm curved around an infant balanced on her hip.
    "No more boxes for you," she says, padding barefoot across the porch to meet me. I often find it hard to take her seriously. Gramps has told her a thousand times that she's gonna get splinters in her feet if she doesn't at least put on some socks. She swipes a hand over her forehead, pushing thin strands of chestnut hair out of her face. "I have to help your uncle move some of the furniture and I need you to hold Andy. He starts crying every time I try to put him down, and I can't find your grandfather anywhere."
  I extend my arms and take the three-month-old from her. Andy immediately grasps at the collar of my t-shirt.
    "And don't stay out here," my aunt continues, brushing gently at the dark wisps of hair on the baby's head, "I don't want him to get sunburned."
  I smirk at that. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to move in during the first week of summer."
  She points directly at me, which might have been more threatening if she wasn't five inches shorter than me. "No sass, young man."
  She moves past me and scampers off of the porch steps onto the dirt path stretching to the driveway.
    "Don't drop anything on your toes!" I shout after her.
    "Shut up, Jamie!"
  I love Aunt Sara. There's a wide range of antics I can play at her without getting into trouble.
  I take Andy back into the house, sighing in relief as a wave of cool air meets my skin. I had exaggerated when I said it's the first week of summer. Really, it's only two weeks into May.  However, it's also the first week of the coming four months of seething, no-cooler-than-75-degrees weather. I shiver as the sweat on the back of my neck cools against the air conditioning.
  Andy and I go into the living room, which branches off from the front hall. Really, not too much living goes on in here, other than Gramps reading or Mom dusting. It's kinda creepy. Back when Gran was alive, she'd insisted that all of the old family photos stay up on the walls and shelves. After she passed, not even Mom could find it in herself to take them down. It's still a cool room, if you don't mind the black-and-white figures watching your every move. I walk across the hardwood floor and pace in front of the big bay window looking out into the front yard. Through it, I can see Aunt Sara and her husband Tim wrestling with a ghastly paisley-patterned couch. Seizing the opportunity, I dig into my jeans pocket and retrieve my iPod. It's a struggle, but I manage to unwind the headphones with my free hand while keeping hold of Andy with the other. He watches me, hand still gripping my t-shirt, blue eyes wide.
    "You wanna listen, too?" I say to him. I hold the other ear-bud over his small ear so he can hear the soft music playing from my iPod. He blinks several times over the next minute, then slowly shuts his eyes.
  I make a mental note to tell Aunt Sara that babies like Radical Face and that her child has great taste in music.
    "Hey."
  I glance behind me at the doorway. Mom stands in it, her body angled away from me as if she's ready to continue walking down the hall.
    "I left a grocery list on the counter. Add anything you want to it."
  Before she can move away, I ask, "Can I drive you there?"
  The family rule when it comes to cars or electronics is: if we want it, we have to buy it ourselves. I spent my middle-school years telling myself no, I don't need a car when everything I care about is close enough to walk to from home.
  Yeah, I was stupid, shut up.
  I'm seventeen now. For the past three years, I've been working to earn the money to get a car of my own. I have my license, but Mom won't let me drive without her in the car. Still, I want to keep practicing for when I'm finally able to buy a car for myself.
  Mom thinks over my request before saying, "Grab your keys."
  Aunt Sara passes me in the hall, returning to the area of the house that now belongs to herself and Tim. She obligingly takes Andy from me before I sprint upstairs to grab my key to the family van. I stuff my wallet into one pocket and my iPod into the other.
  I find Mom in the kitchen.
    "Ready to go?"
  My question falls on deaf ears. Mom has her back to me, facing the counter. She turns to me but doesn't look up, her phone in one hand, the other hand covering her lips.
  Sadness does nothing good for my mother. It makes her cheeks limp, her laugh-lines lost. She removes her hand from her face to run it through her silvery-blond hair. She glances at me for a split-second, but it's long enough for me to see the trembling shine in her hazel eyes. Then she disappears through the door leading to the other side of the house.
  I sag against the sink, thinking nothing at first, then thinking too much. Scenarios swirl in my mind as I wonder just what was on her phone that made my mother cry.
  My uncle a few states over is dead, the one who was diagnosed with cancer, the chemo doesn't work and he's dead and my mom need to go see my aunt and help her with the arrangements. 
  Amelia lost the baby. Something happened, something went wrong inside her, and she lost the baby. 
  Joel's hurt. Joel's dead. Working construction, anything could happen. One screw up, one accident, and he could wind up hurt or worse, oh god no not Joel.
  I hear my mother's footsteps hurrying up the stairs. I fight the tears threatening to spill out as I shove the last thought from my mind. A few minutes later, my aunt walks in without Andy. Her arms hug her middle loosely, and she doesn't meet my eyes as she leans against the counter.
    "It just doesn't seem fair, does it?" She asks me.
  I glance over at her. She's just shaking her head slowly.
    "My...my mom hasn't told me anything," I say in a soft voice.
  My comment makes her hug herself tighter, sinking into herself as she shuts her eyes. She shakes her head once more before moving out of the kitchen. "I'm sorry I said anything."
  This makes the tears return, confusion and distress urging them down my cheeks. I duck my head, trying to think of anything, anything but that. Anything but Joel.
  I hear footsteps on the stairs again. They stop at the bottom of the staircase, hesitating. Then they hurry down the hall, towards the kitchen, towards me. Mom appears in the doorway, a large overnight bag hanging from her shoulder. She moves past me to the fridge, where she removes a couple bottles of water. She tucks them into her bag. When she speaks, she doesn't face me.
    "Amelia texted me. I'm going to spend the night over at her house, so don't wait up for me." Her words come out thick, heavy. She finally looks at me, but I've fixed my gaze on my shoes. She takes the few short steps to me and places her free hand on my cheek. Her palm is still cool from the water bottle, chilling the damp tear-tracks on my face.
    "I need you to be strong for me," she says, her voice gentle despite the thickness in it.
  I finally look up at her, more tears brimming my eyes.
    "What happened?" I ask simply, softly.
  A sad smile paints itself onto my mother's face.
    "Oh, baby," she tells me, "Joel's going back to prison."


((Don't even ask me where this idea came from, but it's one that I've been wanting to write down for a couple months now. The song Jamie and Andy listened to is "Ghost Towns" by Radical Face, which is an amazing song and you should listen to everything by Radical Face, literally, they're amazing. I have a few ideas for what happens after this, but I haven't thought out the order in which the scenes go in. I also can't promise it'll be on here anytime soon. But there will be PLENTY of explanation, don't worry about that. Sorry if it sounds stupid so far, just bear with me. This story has good intent, I promise. Also, sorry for any mistakes, it's late and I have zero effort for proof-reading this thing. ~Liz))

it's 1 AM

AND I HAVEE NOTHING BETTER TO DO

a few days ago I went to see How To Train Your Dragon 2, the sequel to one of my most favorite movies, and can I just say that IT WAS FRIGGIN PHENOMENAL.

I've been listening to this song nonstop ever since, and if I could draw to save my life there would probably be some fanart clogging up my PaintToolSai, but alas :/
anyway the real reason I'm here is to give you this lovely .gif i came across on google images.

you're welcome

 and goodnight

or

...

good morning

idk

bye

Words

    This is one of those posts where I just need to get all of this out or I'll explode, either in tears, or my entire being.
   It's amazing how so many things can happen in one day. I knocked out the two exams I had to take today, and that was exciting and a huge relief. I've been really stressed because I'm going to try to get my license  tomorrow morning, and I'm sure I have a good chance of failing the first time.
    His birthday was last Saturday, and he's now sixteen. He had a date planned, and he was so excited to be able to drive the two of us to the movie, then to dinner. He was crushed when he came so close to passing the driving test only to get booted out due to a car swerving in front of him. The whole date was ruined, reduced to a pair of cupcakes, a cheese pizza, and a not-so-illegal streaming of "John Tucker Must Die". I was really worried about what it would do to us, because I think I'm taking it too slow. We haven't even kissed yet, unless you count an exchanging of cheek-pecks. But those worried thoughts flew out the window when he texted me today to wish me a happy one-month anniversary. I think everything is going to be okay with us, because that one message lifted my spirits to their highest...
...only to be sucked down to a new level of low.
     A surprise visit from my grandparents...what's so bad about that? We went to dinner. I offered up my bed. As I'm typing this I'm sitting on the futon in our attic, snug under my red-and-white quilt that isn't sufficient for comforting me at this moment. After dinner, we all sat down in the living room, and they broke the news to us. In the past few weeks, they've learned that my papa has pancreatic cancer, and if we're lucky, he has another year to live. He's starting chemo immediately, but we don't know what good it will do. When my other papa died, it was a surprise to all of us. He died in his sleep, and I was glad that he went peacefully, but I was always angry that I had no warning that it was coming. Now that I've been warned, I take back all that anger I felt those five years ago. I finally understand the true meaning of the phrase "ignorance is bliss".
     I'm having one of those moments in life when I just keep crying, and crying, and crying. I have a reason to, but I feel like there's more to it. It's so many things crashing into me at all: sadness, fear, guilt, and one of the strongest yearnings I've ever felt. I don't want this. No one wants this. And I don't know how to deal with these feelings.
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Help.

Young Blood; Part II

              "Yeah, I think I'll pass on that, thanks."
     Colin frowns at my response and whines, "Come on, Sia!"
  It's seventh period. The teacher, Mr. Brunren, finished his lesson early and let the class spend the last twenty minutes as study hall. So really, everyone is just talking or doing homework for other classes. I sit all the way in the back corner, just behind Colin, who has turned in his seat to face me. Under other circumstances, I'd think it was cute that he always turned to talk to me, even though I'm sure he has other friends in this class, but at the moment he's not at the top of my favorites list. Mainly because he's trying to talk me into befriending someone, something I'm not very good at.
      "Just give her a chance. She's pretty awesome, really!"
    I shake my head. "I've been here two days. Can I at least have a week to decide who I want to have as my friends?"
      "No. By then it'll be too late."
      "And why's that?"
 He flashes me a grin. "Because then, you won't be the new girl anymore. You have to make your friends soon, cos right now, you've got everyone's attention."
    I shrink a bit in my seat. "That's the opposite of what I want."
   He gives me a look that tells me he wants to take back what he said. "I mean, people want to know you now. Later, they may not be interested. No offense."
     "None taken," I mumble, straightening and making a pained face. "She's a journalist?"
  "You say it like it's a terrible thing," Colin notices. "Besides, she's just...head of the journalism team. It's not that big of a deal."
 I scratch gently at my arm absentmindedly. "If she's the head of a club, wouldn't that make her popular? She should have a bunch of friends."
   He gives me a pleading look. "She's just...she can sometimes seem a little overwhelming, that's all."
"Great," I mutter.
   "She's just forward," he finishes, "She's not that bad, I promise. Just give her a shot? This afternoon, at the game."
      The bell rings. While students wander out of the room, I swing my bag over my shoulder and look at Colin. "Promise me that I'll like her?"
    "Of course not," he responds. We walk into the hallway together and he faces me and begins to walk backwards. "See you at the game!"
    "How am I supposed to find her?" I call after him.
He grins and winks at me. "Don't worry about that. Let her find you."
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     This is why I hate baseball games.
 Well, sports games in general, really.
I'm surprised to find a reasonably sized set of bleachers along the gated field, probably enough seats to hold around two hundred people. At the moment, half of the seats are full. Who knew baseball was so popular? This school is weird.
    I maneuver a ways past the student section, which is pretty packed, even though it's half past five on a Thursday. I find a row of empty seats and sit myself on the end of one, trying to blend in with the metal. Bad day to wear red, I tell myself, glancing down at my white sweater adorned with cherry-colored stripes.
   The home team emerges from their dugout, and I notice a familiar face. Colin scans the bleachers as he walks into the field, and his eyes find mine. He smiles and pulls his white baseball cap over his dark hair before winking at me. I give a small wave before placing my hands between my knees.
  "Kendrick!" Someone yells, and Colin breaks eye contact with me and rushes to the coach's side, along with the rest of the players. The other team has appeared from inside visitor's dugout and they walk onto the field. Figuring the game won't really start for a couple more minutes, I take a chance to look around.
  This is the first time I've been this far from the school building. Between this ball field and the main building, there are a few separate fields, most likely for football and soccer and stuff like that. Beyond the baseball field, woods stretch a mile or two. In the distance I can see the aligned roofs from a neighborhood along the outskirts of the forest.
  Even with Colin's helping me learn the campus, I'm still really overwhelmed. My dad always prefers me attending large schools, but this one is by far the most impressive. The whole school is enormous. I almost got lost on my way to the classes I didn't share with Colin, those classes being the first, second, and sixth periods. To add to that, there's a large number of students in each class. Even so, I didn't have many people offering to befriend me. Well...that's not necessarily true.
  When I wandered into second period this morning, I was surprised, and pleasantly so, to say the least. Second period is elective period, and at the extensive list of activities, I just picked one at random and ended up with wood shop. Now, I'll never say I'm terrible at constructing things made out of wood. I've built many a birdhouse in my day; I'm pretty sure I can handle some nails and a hammer. I'd never taken wood shop at any of my other schools, so I was kinda embarrassed when I walked into room R23 and found it almost only occupying teenage boys. Around twenty of them, actual, when I took the time to count, and four girls, including myself. When I walked into the huge warehouse that served as their workroom, the whole class was milling about large constructions of wood and metal. "Perfect timing, you getting here," the shop teacher told me, glancing at my schedule, "We're building the sets for our fall play. Hope you're handy with a drill."
  I wasn't. Whenever I tried to drill on part of one of the sets, the drill would shake violently in my hands. I was about to give up when someone behind me spoke.
 "You've gotta put more pressure on it. You can't hold it so loosely."
   Elliot moved beside me and took the drill out of my hands. "Here." He placed the tip of the device onto the screw and pushed hard, and the screw rotated easily into the wood. "There. Now you try."
       A blush comes to my cheeks as I recall this morning. I shake my head. Sure, Elliot saved me from total embarrassment, but that didn't make him my knight in shining armor. Just...an opportune hero, of sorts. I focus back on the game that's about to start. Brierfield players are in the outfield, while Woodrow Academy is up to bat. I watch a boy in pale blue step up to the home plate. He taps his bat against the side of the white plate, a grin on his face. Out in the field, I spot Colin, the shortstop. He leans down, elbows on his knees, eyes on the pitcher, waiting for him to pitch the ball.
  "Oh good, I haven't missed it!" I turn my head as a girl falls into the space beside me. She sets her messenger bag on the bleacher seat and lets out a relieved sigh before tucking a strand of lavender-streaked blue-black hair behind her ear. She grins at me. "You're alone, so you must be Sia. I'm right, aren't I?"
   She holds out a hand clad with a good number of silver-banded rings, and I take it. The rings are cold against my skin, but her palm is warm.
   "Yeah," I tell her, "Colin didn't tell me your name. Apparently, it would 'ruin the experience'."
She laughs. "Colin. Correct, as always. Denison Hill, but most call me Deni. Please to meet you."
  I take a moment to study her. In her lap she sits a large black camera bag, most likely one she borrow from class. There's her journalism side, but I have yet to discover the stuck-up prick side that I'd been expecting. I figure Colin has enough character to know a cool friend when he sees one. From the looks of it, she's the kind of person that warms up to anyone. Heck, she's the only girl I've been comfortable being around in who knows how long. If Colin is such good friends with her, then I can do the same, right?
    Deni turns to the ball field, where the game has started without us. The batter from before is now on first base, and another has taken his place at the bat. Colin is in the same position as before, close to the ground with his catcher's mitt almost touching the dirt.
  "So, you didn't to sit in the student section?" Deni asks, bringing my attention back to her.
I shrug. "I don't know. It seems a bit overwhelming. The whole school is, actually."
"I prefer the term 'extraordinary'," she says, laughing after the words leave her mouth. I peer around her and look at the student section, where students sit calmly, watching the game. It's almost amusing how intent they are towards a silly game like baseball.
   "Come to think of it, why are so many students here, anyway?" I ask, straightening back up and looking at Deni. "I didn't think baseball was ever that big of a deal, especially in high school.
   "Oh, they don't come all the time. On any other day, there wouldn't be nearly this many. But this isn't any other day."
  I blink at her. "Why do you say that?"
"Because we're playing Woodrow, and they're known for pitching fast and far. There's this one batter that almost always sends the ball over the fence." She gestures to the tall wooden wall, the same dark green as the Brierfield uniforms, marking the barrier of the ball field. "They're one of the best teams we've ever played."
  I roll my eyes. "They came for that?"
"Not for that, Sia," Deni winks at me with lavender iris' that are too insane to not be contact lenses, "but because we have the coolest outfielder in the universe."
  I immediately assume she means Colin, but then she points far out on the field to the edge of the back wall, where another boy stands. His right hand casually grips the gloved left. He has his head bent, but as the cracking sound of tough leather against wood splits the air, his head snaps up. The baseball flies nowhere near him, keeping low to the ground on its way towards the space between first and second base, but before he can focus on the pitcher again, I get a look at his face.
  The 'coolest outfielder' just so happens to be Elliot.





((Wow I didn't mean for that to seem so suspenseful, but daaaang. Haha corny, I know, but it gets better, trust me. I didn't originally want Elliot to be the 'mysterious hottie hero' cliche, and I don't even think I want that now, but a girls gotta write what her brain tells her to write. So apparently I started working on this shortly after I posted the first part, which makes me feel pretty terrible, since that was so long ago. >.<  But it's here now! Hopefully I can keep it up. School has gotten pretty stressful, though, sucking up my inspiration and such. Wish me luck!
~Squiggs))

Please don't hold this against me...

"And I wish all my friends could all laugh with each other,
and all my friends could all cheer with each other,
and all my friends could all forgive each other."

      I hate high school.
     I guess there's a reason everyone says that junior year is the hardest year. At first I thought they meant it was difficult keeping good grades. But honestly, my grades have been better this year than they have since middle school. No. Grade-wise, this year so far has been fantastic. I wish I could enjoy it, but I can't. Want to know why? Because the majority of my friends...I'm not even sure if they're my friends anymore. And sure, it's probably my fault for not coming to lunch anymore, but honestly, why would I want to? All that has to offer me is drama that I don't need and that I definitely don't want. Most of my so-called-friends don't even talk to me, or all they want to do is talk trash about one of my real friends. I'm so sick of the drama. Is it even right to call it drama? It's freaking childish. So what's-her-face told that guy you "liked" him. Oh noes, your life is over, better change your name and move to Australia. Suck it up and move on. It probably wasn't meant to hurt you.
     It's either stupid kid-fights like that, or something serious. Like, super serious, that I want to help with, but I truly do not know how. Scratch that. I do know how, and it'd be freaking easy. But it would also be costly. But honestly, what's more important to me? Someone's friendship, or someone's life.
     In short, when this song came on one of the fan-mixes I was listening to, it really got to me, enough that I almost started crying. I don't want the reason I hate school to be my friends, or lack there of. But I can't deal with this stuff. I can't deal with stupid drama and someone's suicidal thoughts that bring me to tears every time I see that person. I can't deal with the knowledge that if people just get their minds out of the gutter that it wouldn't have to be like that.
      So listen up. I'm done with everything from the past. I'm done holding stupid grudges that meant nothing then and mean nothing now. I'm done holding back when seeing a friend being hurt. I'm done letting people talk crap about the people I care about. I don't care if people don't want to hang out with me anymore. That's their choice, not mine, and I guess it means that I never meant anything to them in the first place. But from now on, I'm not gonna start drama, I'm not gonna be a part of the drama, and I'm not gonna sit back and let it run wild. I want to do everything I can to stop it. Because honestly, I just want us all, all of my friends, to get along, and I don't see why that can't happen. Call me naive, whatever you want. That's just what I want.
~Squiggs

Song: we are not friends      Artist: S