This is where I'll put everything non-anime related. I will definitely put in short stories, possibly some poetry, and...maybe a chapter story. We'll see. Hope you enjoy!

Of Broken Mirrors and Scraping the Skies

Something I wrote on a whim, inspired by the song "Go" by Boys Like Girls, which I posted above if you guys want to listen to it. I suggest you do. <33

I’ll write a story out of you one day.

And it won’t be one of those gushy love stories…you know the ones. The ones I used to write for you all the time. The ones about your eyes, your freckles, the way you held me when I was alone.

This one’s going to be about your escape.

I was never quite sure what you were escaping from. It could have been me. It could have been your abusive mom, your alcoholic good-for-nothing dad, it could have been that bratty little kid down the street. But I don’t think it was any of those things, not really.

I think you were escaping from your cat.

He still meows at night, you know. As if he’s waiting for you to come back. But it’s a dejected kind of meow, a I-knew-you’d-do-this-eventually-you’re-your-father’s-son kind of meow. He still tears up your pillow case once in a while and hides in the deep pocket of your sweatshirt that I left hanging in your closet the night you left. I used to change the pillow cases after your cat ripped them up, but then I gave up and he and I got along a little better.

I think you were escaping from that tree house.

You used to bring me there, once in a while. You used to bring me there and let me hold you while you cried. I would try and comfort you, and we would both try and ignore the broken beer bottles that your mother had thrown at you the first night she saw you up here after your dad had left. They were his, after all. We tried to pretend it was okay, but neither of us could bring ourselves to throw out the shards of glass.

I think you were escaping from your soon-to-be history.

They always said you had everything in you. The modesty, the brains, the ambition, the imagination. They said you were going to the top, you were going to be something, they were going to be proud of you. I guess you just didn’t have the courage. Or maybe your genetics were just too strong after all, even though you swore they weren’t.

You could’ve lived them down, you know. Just because they were failures, alcoholics, abusive, lacking commitment. You…were past commitment. You threw yourself into your life heart and soul, forgetting to breathe and taking that last leap until all there was left to do was fly. And that was you.

I guess you expected too much from yourself. I guess it scared you. I guess you thought that running away would help everybody forget about you, let you start a new life, without any ties.

I guess you forgot about me.

When you get wherever you’re going, I bet you’ll realize that it’s really no different from here. But that ambition is going to sneak up on you, and you’re going to stay for a while, realizing you really have the whole world in front of you. That flying really isn’t that hard until you stop.

And I’ll wait for you here. I’ll feed the cat, make sure that tree house stays just the way you left it. That broken glass will be collecting dust, but you probably will have found out that happiness is usually found in whole bottles, anyway. Maybe you’ll find happiness is found in whole people, too, and that only the broken ones can break you.

There are still a few unbroken ones here.

I’m going to stay. I’m going to stay, and I’m write about the boy who was born flying, who fell, and who’s learning to fly again. Because I know that when he learns to fly again, he’ll learn that he never really fell at all.

And then I’m going to smile.

Ready, Set, Meet the Pavement

Ring, ring.

There is nothing in the world that I hate more than the telephone.

Ring, ring.

It expects more of me than I do. It always asks something of me that I never want to give.

Ring, ring, RING.

I never want to answer it. I want to-


I pick up the phone.

They want to go out again. Just like every other Friday night. Every week we pile into someone’s car. They’re usually already drunk. I pretend to laugh while they “pretend” to poke fun at me. But we all know they mean it. Every word.


This week’s party is at some jock’s house. None of it is any different. I do what I’m supposed to do; I smile and I flirt and I flip my hair like I’m having the time of my life. They fall for it every time. They actually believe that I want to be here. That I’m one of them.

But I’m not.

I sip water from the bottle I brought with me. They all think I spiked it with straight-up alcohol. They all think I’m hardcore.

Good. Let them think that.

There is never anything in those bottles but water. I’m just not stupid enough to drink in a room full of idiotic, vicious, socially bloodthirsty teenagers. Or maybe I’m not brave enough.


The room is spinning now. A vertigo of noise. And people. They’re nothing more to me than colors. They’re only faceless blobs. Identical, faceless blobs.

Not a single one of them is real.

I’m not even sure I’m real. Not anymore.

The hours wear away and finally we can leave. We all get ready to pile into the car again. The guy I’ve been talking to offers to drive me home. I refuse, regretfully. He’ll turn out to be just like every other guy out there, no matter how sweet he is to me. But I won’t fall for their tricks. I’m different. I’m different. I’m different.

They’re calling me, yelling at me to hurry up in their unbelievably snobbish voices. They’re used to getting what they want. So I hurry over to the car, faking a smile when they ask me what took me so long.

Nothing, I say. It’s not important.


The drive home is almost as obnoxious as the party. They gossip, laughing and giggling. I’m too busy trying to blend in with the upholstery to say much of anything.

They’re driving like manics. They’re way too drunk to be driving. I think I’m going to puke. Maybe I should take the wheel. I hang my head out of the window instead. They think I’m funny. So I stick my head further out the window. I’m rewarded with more laughter. It’s so easy to keep them happy. It’s not as easy to calm my stomach.


Finally, finally, they screech to a stop across from my house. I practically fall out of the back seat and onto the pavement.

All I’m thinking about is how glad I am to be away from there, away from them. I’m walking really fast now, towards my house. Trying to keep my keep my stomach in line. At least until I get inside and they can’t see me. I don’t want them to tell me I’m weak. I can still hear them giggling as they rev the engine, the tires squeaking on the pavement.

I walk faster. I want to run. Far. Fast. Be anywhere but here. I’m going to be sick. I don’t want them to see me be sick. But I can’t let them see me run. They’ll call me weird.

I’m different. I’m different. I’m different. It’s a good thing. I’m different.

They’re screaming my name. I turn towards the car. I had never really noticed how fast a car can go until it was coming towards me. I see panic in their eyes. I feel it thrilling through me. The car’s going faster now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What am I supposed to do?!


But I’m free.

The Worm Within the Apple

Ehhh, not my best. But I hope you enjoy it anyway.

The monstrosity of a bus pulled away from the curb, dragging its rear wheels behind it as it slunk back into traffic. It fought its way sluggishly between the cars, trying unsuccessfully to get ahead as the shiny red convertibles and sleek black BMWs forced it back. Pushing his long brown bangs out of his eyes, the boy watched the old bus’s slow progress until the thick veils of smog hid it entirely from view.

Without a second glance, the boy turned and bounded up the rough concrete steps of the apartment building behind him, his backpack a bright speck of blue in an otherwise dark gray landscape. He pounded through the cramped hallways, smiling ear to ear as he flew past rows of closed doors, the cement under his feet jarring his bones with every step. Around a sharp corner. Up a cold metal flight of stairs, the clanging metal echoing in his wake. One, two, third door on the right. He pulled it open.

“Mommy!” the boy shouted, slamming the door shut behind him. “I’m home!”


“Mommy!” the boy called again, brow furrowed and voice tinged with confusion. “Where are y-”

“AAARGH!” a voice roared from the kitchen . Fear thrilled through the boy and he began to sprint down the hallway towards the sound. He skidded to a stop as a door burst open to his right. His mother lurched out, still facing the nightmare in her kitchen. “SON OF A B…umblebee,” she amended quickly, catching sight of her staring son. She wiped her frustration off her face, replacing it with a smile as she swept a few loose wisps of hair back towards the messy mahogany-colored knot at the nape of her neck. “Hey, honey. I was just trying to cook,” she informed him as she wiped flour off her face with a damp rag. Her skin looked as shiny as plastic. “So…what do you want for take-out?”

The boy smiled, shaking his shaggy head at her. He and his mother both knew It was a known fact that she couldn’t cook. The intention was there, but she lacked all coordination in the kitchen.

The boy opened his mouth to tell her so, but was interrupted by a muffled “Ugh!”. The boy closed his mouth, his grassy green eyes widening. His mother turned away stiffly, her eyes unfocused, stalking towards her room.

Her son stood immobile in the forgotten hallway behind her.

Did Mommy just…forget about me?


“Ahhh,” the boy’s mother sighed twenty minutes later as she walked into the kitchen, her damp hair tousled around her shoulders. “I feel better now that I’ve had a shower. So, what do you want for dinner, Squirt?” She asked her son, ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately, making her way over to where he was sitting at the kitchen table. The shadow of a smile fled her face only to be replaced by a ghost of a frown as she watched her son, her slate-colored eyes narrowing.

The boy didn’t notice his mother’s change in attitude. He was oblivious to everything but the thick brown paper and lumps of chalk in front of him. A little more red here, a green undertone there…and it was finished. The little boy was beaming.

He leaned away from the table, catching his mother’s eye. “Mommy!” he practically shouted in her face, his already wide grin growing even bigger. “Guess what, Mommy! I made you a picture!” He leapt from his chair and hopped around the table, hiding his masterpiece behind his back.

The grin faded from the boy’s face, replaced with a look of worry and confusion. His mother didn’t look happy like she had before. She looked nervous, upset…and even a little angry.

Did I do something wrong?

“Mommy?” he asked quietly. She wasn’t looking at him. He tried speaking a little louder. “Mommy? Are you ok?”

With a slight shake of her head, the boy’s mother dragged herself back to reality, refocusing her slate eyes on her son and dazzling him with a too-perfect smile.

“Sorry,” she said, still showing him her teeth. “I just…got lost in my thoughts for a minute. You wanted to show me a…picture, honey?”

“Yeah!” he chirped, his former toothy grin already spreading across his face. With a flourish, he pulled the thick paper from behind his back and shoved it in his mother’s face. “I made it for you! Do you like it, Mommy?”

The boy’s mother bent her head over the picture, staring at it in amazement. “Honey…this is beautiful. I never knew you could…draw…this well.” Her eyes were hard.

“Yeah, Mommy!” The boy exclaimed excitedly. “My teacher even told me that I was really good. She’s the one that gave me the paper and chalk, for at home. I told her art was Daddy’s gift to me. AND she asked me what I liked to draw! I told her I liked to draw apples, because that’s what Daddy always used to draw for you!”

“Awww,” the mother said in a sickeningly sweet voice, giving her son a hug. A single tear ran down her face. “Thank you, sweetie. I’m going to go…put it in my room, okay?” Her voice faltered. With one last blindingly fake smile, and a few more tears unseen by the little boy, the mother headed towards her room. The door clicked firmly shut behind her.

The boy sat down at the table again, suddenly tired from his long day. He slumped onto the kitchen table and put his head on his arms, his grassy green eyes drifting closed.

The last sound he heard before sleep stifled him completely was the scream of the paper shredder.