Drabble 41: Fiction.

"You've got time." She repeated it like a mantra, like a drumbeat, like a rhythm for him to follow. “You've got time.”

Her tears were stepping stones leading down a mountainside. I'm not okay, she thought. It's not okay. Dammit! It's not okay!

“Do you hear me? You've got time.” Her hands fisted in fabric. Her nails dug into skin. Her lips mouthed words. “You've got time. You've got time, dammit!”

Don't go. Don't go. Don't go. Her don't go's turned into come back's like color fading from lips.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Come back.”

Notes: Fictional scene. Otherwise it would be illegal to write it. 

Drabble 40: Empty.

Starfish leaves would be perfect, he thought. Like a hurricane swept on land. They could float in the breeze outside the wind with the ribbons. The ribbons could be seaweed! The plan was perfect. A perfect plan for a perfect wind chime for his perfect birthday gift.

Ingrid would love it.

Maybe he needed some shells too? Or maybe just the coral from that path by the starfish leaves... Ingrid told him not to go there, but he was sure if she knew what it was for, she wouldn't mind.

Liam set off. Ingrid came home to an empty apartment.

Drabble 39: Speak.

“You will speak when spoken to!” His teacher reprimanded. She wanted him to read a passage out loud in class. He'd counted the words and there were 16 of them that began with S, an impossible letter.

He shook his head. He would not. They could kick him out of school first!

“Boy!” His teacher threatened, but it did not sway him to speak.

Send me away, Liam thought. I dare you.

But then he thought of Ingrid. He remembered her telling him it was important to not make a fuss...

So he opened his mouth and stumbled.

Drabble 38: Away.

“Leave me alone.” She said. He didn't even want to follow her. Okay, he wanted to follow her a little, but mostly he was being ordered to.

“I can't do that.” He replied, falling into step with her. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” she replied. “I am going nowhere and somewhere, but you are going to neither of those places.”

“If I'm not going nowhere or somewhere, where am I going?” He asked. She had a habit of always saying things like that. They made absolutely no sense.

“Away.” She said and sprinted.

Drabble 37: Black.

“Why don't you ever wear white?” The golden button boy asked her.

Because it gets dirty. Because of ink and coffee stains. Because black is so much more useful.

“Because I look much better in black.”

Who was this guy? Why didn't he ever go away? Why did she keep purposefully not turning off her light?

The guy didn't like her answer, but he asked, “Why's your light still on? Lights out was an hour ago.”

She'd been good at excuses, but tonight she felt like truth. “I was writing.” The proof was on her fingers.

Drabble 36: Camouflage.

He was pretty sure everyone thought his favorite color was camouflage. It wasn't. Actually it was yellow. No one knew about his fondness for cats either. In fact, it was marvel if they knew his real name. Soldier was forever annoyed by his nickname. It gave everyone the wrong impression. And how was he going to find a new girlfriend if everyone thought he was some kind of killing machine?

He had a horrible soundtrack of “That's not my name. That's not my name. That's not my... Name.” constantly playing in his head. He was so sick of it.

Drabble 35: Myth.

It was rumored to have sharp claws, web-like wings like a bat, big round cat eyes, and a stub where its tail should be. It was thought to eat only the souls of lost wanderers in the forest. It was supposed to be the height of eighteen buckets stack end on end. Its voice was the volume of croak with the vibrancy of a scream. Its skin was smooth as the lake's surface and as orange as the setting sun. It could swim through the lake and not sink!

Ingrid thought it myth. She'd believe it when she'd seen it.

Drabble 34: Advice.

Two long lines of strange looking willow trees stretched out from the east shore. They were like a fence lining a quaint welcoming path. Please enter, they seemed to say. Come right in. We will protect you from the sun's harsh rays.

They drew the eyes of many with their sea green, fluttering leaves. Unique and shaped like starfish, they clung tightly and wound about the tree's branches and trunks. The path between them seemed to be littered with sparkling coral in a perfect shade of silver.

A few word of advice: whisper a secret and you might be safe.

Drabble 33: Loaded Letter.

The letter was etched in his brain. He was the heir to everything. He was simultaneously rich and orphaned. He should feel worse about it, but they weren't really there anyway. What surprised him was neither their permanent absence nor his sudden supply of money, but how they had died.

He'd always assumed they were busy living the good life. He thought they spent copious amounts of money on luxuries and elaborate meals. But they'd just been playing those parts. Ingrid would love this twist, he thought. She'd eat it up.

His loaded parents were a part of the resistance.

Drabble 32: Distracted.

So distracted by their accents, she thought. She wondered how she could write them. Could she add apostrophes here and there? It wasn't a lack of sound though. It was more a certain flatness in tone. It was just one of those unwrite-able things. “Ingrid.” Her boss would say, and she would ask, “Say it again?”

She was completely oblivious to the awkwardness.

“Excuse me? Did you not hear me?”

Ingrid would shake her head. “I'm sorry,” she'd say, “I must be losing my hearing.” A lie for sure.

But her boss definitely believed it.

Drabble 31: White.

She never wore white. He had noticed this. He didn't know why. It was a weird quirk. She was full of weird quirks. And she was so freaking interesting and unpredictable. He was going to figure her out.

Her light was on. Again. Again.

He throw a rock up to her window. He wondered if she expected it now, if perhaps she waited for the sound of stone against glass.

When she came to the window, he didn't ask her about the light or ask for her name like usual. Instead, he asked, “Why don't you ever wear white?”

Drabble 30: Precipitation.

Laughter. A hurricane of taunting insults and jeering faces. Liam clutched the edges of his desk, bowed his head, and held his breath. One, he counted silently. He imagined his fingers and toes turning clear as lake water. Two, the envisioned transparency swept up his limbs like a flash flood. Three, he would open his eyes to surprised faces, to insults cut off, to laughter ceased, to invisibility.

Liam took a sharp breath in. He lifted his head. He unclenched his hands.

But he wasn't invisible.

The world broke apart in one thundering clap and precipitation ran from his eyes.

Notes: One hundred words exactly is so hard! GAH!

Help: What do I do with this?

Ugh. Poems.

Your anger all sharp shooting violet

magic from a magic man sparking

shadow in the bright light of day

Drabble 29: Tips for Sneaking

Of the books that Ingrid had stolen, found, confiscated, copied, rewritten, bound, or salvaged, her favorite book was "Tips for Sneaking: A Guide to Becoming a Ninja". It was a stolen book. She had crept into the soldier's barracks when she was sixteen on a dare.

It was stupid and childish. And completely worth it.

"Tips for Sneaking" had some of the oddest lines. It referenced strange people with even stranger names like Kumawakamaru. It had mentions of assassinations and disguises and throwing stars. It was the single most weird and strange and oddly intriguing book that Ingrid had ever read.

Its tips were pretty useless. Breathe quietly. Walk on tiptoed feet. Conceal yourself in black. But there was something captivating about the idea of ninjas. Ingrid couldn't get around it. She tried to dislike the book. She even berated the writing and the obvious tips. But it was just one of those things. One of those irrational likes.

In short, Ingrid still wanted to be a ninja.

Drabble 28: The Case of the Fallen Book of Weather

It was snowing when the book fell out of the cart. Ingrid was walking down main street on her way to Oliver's when it happened. The woman leading the cart didn't notice and from the look of all the books jammed in the back, she didn't need the book. Ingrid's fingers closed around the spine and tucked it under her coat before she had even comprehended that she was going to reach for it.

[pre- Ingrid getting a job. pre- a lot of things? It would have to be early if this was THE book. After all, Liam loves weather like always... But maybe it's not THE book, but one of the books?]

It was Monday, the middle of winter, and her feet felt like leftover ice shavings melting away into numbness inside her too thin socks. Ingrid helped Oliver in the store on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It made her feel better about him bringing her and Liam random loaves of bread.

In the back room, Ingrid pulled the book out from under her jacket and examined the cover. It was a violent shade of yellow with dull blue letters on it exclaiming, "Rain, Sleet, and Snow: The Book of Precipitation". To Ingrid, it sounded drab and not useful, but every book was a book worth saving.

And besides, she thought, maybe Liam would like it.

Drabble 27: Thursdays.

Thursdays meant sleep.

Ingrid slipped in the back door of Oliver's store. She grabbed the blanket and pillow hidden between the crates of fruit and the bags of sugar and tip-toed back to the stacks of flour. She arranged them into a four columns of equal height and then collapsed on them in a dead sleep.

She didn't trust her apartment. Not in the middle of the day when everyone was out at work, she would be the only person there and asleep. If the soldiers came in for a random check and found her sleeping... She just didn't like the thought of it, of being vulnerable in an empty place with the enemy so close by.

And Oliver didn't mind finding her asleep on his flour. She so rarely got sleep that he was comforted by the sight of her peaceful form. She slept so much better on those stacks of flour than she did at her apartment. He knew that and a part of him was selfish glad that she slept better so near to him.

Drabble 26: Day in the Life 2

[I'd like to preface this with the fact that I have no idea what Oliver does with his time. This is problematic. *cue staring at the screen for prolonged amounts of time*]

Day Break: Oliver sleeps.

Breakfast Time: Oliver wakes up, dresses, laces his boots, and heads into town. On this particular morning, he stops at the blacksmith's and exchanges two jars of coveted jam for a box. He stows the box in the inside pocket of his jacket and walks to the diner for breakfast. He orders more food than he can eat and leaves a big tip. He places two untouched plates of food in front of the children sitting at the table next to his with only glasses of water. He walks away. 

Mid-morning: Oliver opens the stores on the corner. He arranges the candy on the counter, counts the money though it's rarely used, and unloads fresh apples. He waits for Ash to drop in and is unsurprised when the boy shows up late with a black eye. That boy. 

Lunch Time: Oliver walks to the bakery next door, buys two loaves of bread, and heads a few blocks north. He slips into a building labeled "The Tilted Willow" and climbs slowly up a flight of stairs. He goes three doors down, his fingers trailing along the left side of the hallway, and uses a key to unlock apartment 18c. He leaves a loaf of bread on the ink stained desk and walks out and locks the door. Back at the store, he eats a piece of pound cake.

Mid-afternoon: Oliver's costumers filter in and out of the store. Some trading goat cheese for carrots and others looking for a bag of flour in exchange of a dozen eggs. He always accepts their offers wordlessly with an incline of his head and a battered smile.

Dinner Time: Oliver skips dinner and heads to the farmhouse. Ingrid has decided that meeting at her apartment is too obvious. She refuses to be seen with him except very rarely. This does not prevent them from seeing each other quite often.

Early Evening: Oliver has cleared space in the cellar for multiple people. He has greeted said people and started the meeting when it became apparent Ingrid was not going to show. He has done this many times before, but still he worries that she has been found out. That tonight is more than spilled ink and late work days.

Bed Time: Oliver ventures to Reed's. He slips in the back door, sinks tiredly into the rocking chair on the screened-in porch, and waits. He sees Reed and then leaves, quietly slipping into the dark. On his way home, he encounters both a troop of marching soldiers and a string of fairy tinsel. [Nasty stuff, fairy tinsel.] He's lucky that the fairy tinsel distracted the soldiers and not him.

Midnight: Oliver crashes.

2 a.m. : Oliver sleeps.


Notes: Three cups of tea, a cup of trail mix, and my computer is dying. I will never sleep. Oliver, you're impossible. Get over her. Okay? Okay.

Drabble 25: Day in the Life 1

[A day in the life of Ingrid. Chronicling a day that falls in the middle of the novel. Or trying to anyway.]

Day Break: Ingrid's been up for an hour. She has "tidied" the apartment and copied important passages out of "The Creatures of The Forest" and hidden both the copies and the book under her mattress. Before breakfast, she will copy a poem, work on a speech to rally the troops, and make a batch of ink.

Breakfast time: Ingrid makes coffee for herself and burnt toast for Liam. [If there's bread.] She drinks her coffee, gets dressed, checks Liam's  homework, packs Liam a lunch of something, and walks him to school before heading into work.

Mid-morning: At work, she is told to staple packets of paper proclaiming "The Requirements for Owning Property" together. She realizes that the staples fail at holding together so many sheet of paper. She asks if she can use paperclips. After a yelling match, Ingrid is even a bigger stapler. The stapler works, but the pressure required hurts her already taxed right hand. She forces herself to learn to do with her left and is yelled at again for being too slow.

Lunch time: Ingrid is allowed to leave for lunch. Instead, she sneaks into the break room, steals a stale donut and a cup of coffee, and hurries to the fire escape just outside the break room's window. She eats the donut, drinks the coffee, and stacks the paper cup on top of eight other paper cups, all of which have accumulated because previous lunch breaks. 

Mid-afternoon: Ingrid falls asleep while coping "The New Curfew Regulations". She spills ink all over the good stationary and the hem of her right sleeve. She is yelled at and forced to stay late.

Dinner time: Ingrid misses dinner and the beginning of the secret meeting at the old farmhouse. She heads home to find Liam huddling in the closet. She tells him that she will always come home eventually, even though it tastes like a lie, and then heads out the door again to catch the end of the meeting.

Early evening: Ingrid narrowly misses running into Soldier on her way to the farmhouse. She is forced to run and duck behind a tree. By some fortune of luck, she doesn't have asthma attack. She precedes to the meeting. Once there, she is told that they have a new member. Surprised, but undaunted, she interviews the new recruit.

Bed time: Ingrid is further pushed off schedule because of the new recruit. She arrives too late to tuck Liam in. She drinks a cup of tea and eats a piece of fruit she picked from a tree on the way home. [What kind of fruit does Ing's world have?] She picks up her other bag, throws in the copies of "The Creatures of The Forest", and heads back into the night.

Midnight: Ingrid has been to Eudora's apartment, James's Orchard, and Tristin's cabin. She's exchange her copies of "The Creatures" for Eudora's copies of "Celebrations and Ceremonies of Old". She's taken a crate of apples from James and replaced them with a copy of the poem "Things That Linger". At Tristin's cabin, she leaves the crate of apples, except for four, and takes a battered book titled "Twilight" out from under the front porch stairs. It's Tristin's first stolen item. Ingrid can't imagine why a soldier would bother bringing such a book with them.

2 a.m. : Ingrid makes it back to her apartment. She fails to turn off the light before she falls asleep. It's a habit she's been forming lately and she's lucky she hasn't started a fire, but then maybe the world decided one was enough. She'll get about four hours of sleep and then start all over again.

Possible problems caused by scheduling: Sleep Deprivation. Over-scheduling. Under nourishment. Lack of quality time with Liam. Fatigue. Carpal tunnel.

Drabble 24: Caroline.

Caroline had the sort of long, dusty blonde hair that begged to be wound around his fingers, the melting chocolate eyes of fan-fiction literature, and a voice as soft as falling feathers. She was a pair of comfortable shoes, a stack of colorful cards, and his favorite lighter. She was the dirty pair of socks lurking underneath the bed. She was a picture tapped to the underside of his bed side table.

She was a girl who, while reading a book, got distracted by the snow falling outside the window. A wanderer who followed her heart and not the map. She was fickle and thoughtful. She was fragile and fun. She was a mass of contradictions, each more mind-bending than the last.

When you shift so close to someone, Soldier thought, the rest of the world shifts away. It's like being on an island a thousand leagues away from civilization. The other person is your sole companion and without them the only world you know grows hazy and distant. The ships that pass by never fully form, and the sounds of other people shuffling along reach the island through the surrounding water. The world with that someone is calmer, warmer, and happier.

Caroline. Her name seemed to sing sunshine, creating imaginary rays that tickled across the small of his back and floated up his spine. She was a vision in his mind, all soft light and dancing colors. She was more than a girl who'd left. She was the idea of love. She was the recognition that he could be loved, at least for a while.

And she was the reason he picked up a new pack of cigarettes and allowed himself to relapse into their nicotine induced calm.

Drabble 23: The Cause.

The Cause's Objectives:

• Protect from wild magic
• Educate young people
• Rebuild government
• Make allies
• Help them advance technologically 
• Provide Job Sourcing 
• Reforming transportation systems and roads
• Opening hospitals and libraries 
• Improve communication services

 The Cause started out in the right place. The leader saw an under developed world. A world that had all the possibility to thrive and grow and become a great power. They saw people who wanted more, wanted a life greater than they had. They saw a world they could friend and bring up. They were trying to lend a hand, to uplift, and to bring forward.

But they stumbled. In their ranks, there grew more and more people who searched for compensation. They wanted a share in this new world's power. They wanted to use the wild magic for themselves. They began to dive into the culture with new, refined interests. They made friends with the people. They laughed with the people.

They stole the people's secrets...

Notes: The Cause and I don't like each other. It's being stubborn. I'm sorry.

Drabble 22: The Forest of Theatrics

The shadows were lace upon her cheeks. Ingrid fingered the amber pendant hanging from her neck. A full moon hung above the forest's trees. She thought the bare branches were like many raised hands, clamoring to answer some unasked question. She reminded herself to breathe. What would happen, she wondered, if her lungs seized up now?

Dead At Sixteen, the article would read. No, Missing, Thought Dead In The Forest. It was curious, Ingrid pondered as she leaned hesitantly against a tree, this naming of things no one wanted to talk about. The Lake. The Forest. The War. The Magic. The Creatures. As though to name them was to give them power. As though to speak of them was to spread fear. [A bit too much Harry Potter lately, maybe?]

The tree's bark cut sharply into her spine. The Unforgiving Forest. That would make a better name. Ingrid surveyed the expanse of leaves above her. A trembling began at the top of the tree. The slightest shake. Small enough that it almost seemed insignificant.

The quivering increased slowly. There was no wind, Ingrid thought. No wind at all. The leaves started to shake so violently that it seemed they were fighting. Edge to edge, they swiped at each other. She should be running, she realized. But it was too late.

The leaves dived from the tree all at once like synchronized swimmers. Ingrid did not scream. She ran, throwing her arms up behind her head. Her breath at first came, in and out, like the tick-tock of a clock. Rapidly her lungs filled and emptied in time with her feet.

The leaves zoomed after her, a cloud of rustling green and brown. They tore at each other and cut off bits of Ingrid's hair. It was the only thing within reach of their sharp edges. Ingrid could only imagine what they might do to her skin.

Her lungs began to falter. Her breathes turned to wheezes. Her muscles began to seize up. Her running slowed. The end of the forest was not in sight. There was no way she could keep running. There was no way out of the forest fast enough. And the leaves did not have to stop once the forest stopped.

Abruptly, Ingrid dropped to the ground. The leaves did not immediately veer down after her. Wait, she told herself. Wait for it. The sound of them got louder. She was praying for theatrical effect. They did not disappoint her.

They waited. The leaves waited above her. The Forest of Theatrics. That would make a better name. Ingrid waited. She could hear a few leaves still fluttering to catch up. Then silence. And sudden sound. Now!

The leaves dived all at once again. It was like a horrible leaf cult set to kill her together. [That is the weirdest sentence I have ever written...] Quick, Ingrid thought, I have to be quick. She rolled quickly to the side. Rolled and rolled until she hit a tree. She heard the leaves sink into the ground like thousands of pushpins sinking into cork board.

She wanted to get up and run, but she was struggling to breathe. She clawed at the tree next to her, not sure if it was any safer than the last tree, but needing it anyway. She managed an upright position. Sweat pooled and ran into her eyes. Her trembling hand reached up to wipe it away.

Breathe, she thought. Keep breathing. Breathe deeply. Expel all the air. You can do it.

But she couldn't will the asthma attack away nor could she convince her lungs to take in air. I'm going to pass out, she thought. I'm going to--

And so she did.

Notes: I MUST PACK. OH DEAR, OH DEAR, OH DEAR, WHERE DID TIME GO?? WHAT DOES ONE WEAR TO GO HIKING? HELP!

I really have no idea a) why Ingrid was in the forest in the first place [probably recklessness], b) how she survives considering passing out isn't helpful if she's still not breathing properly... [maybe Oliver finds her?], or c) why the creepy leaf-creature-things attacked her [just because they're evil??]

OKAY, PACKING.

Drabble 21: How's the Weather?

Cabel did not fall for her immediately. Broken hearts do not often fall again willingly. No, she must have passed by him for days, weeks, years before it even occurred to him that she was pretty. It took him even longer to get past Lucy's image and quirks and see her as her own person outside of the similarities and differences. For a long time Cabel's eyes followed her but not his heart.

She feel first. Fully. Completely. Terribly. Inescapably. She did not fall for his brokenness as some people fall. She did not love his daughter first, though she did care for her deeply. She did not like that she had fallen for him. And she was not stupid in love.

She saw how his eyes passed over here with a sort of matter-of-fact-ness. She watched the sadness. She was terrified of the way he was rusting-out inside, and she knew she had no power. For to love someone was not enough to make them love you. And to love someone so wholly oblivious to your love was not enough to get them to love themselves.

He had seen her a total of 731 times since Lucy's death. She was like the painting in a hotel lobby that the doorman walks by every day without registering. Day in and day out, all he thought was, "It's a painting." But then on one especially slow night when the air falls heavily about his still hands and his eyes weigh with boredom, it befalls him. A sudden, childlike curiosity, an abrupt need, to take-in the painting. And before him all along, it stood in its golden and pink splendor.

"Zelphia?" He asked, not quite sure of what he wanted to say. Perhaps he only wanted her to turn around.

"Yes?" She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her eyes surprised when they met his face and not the back of his head.

He stood quickly, almost knocking over his chair. "Sit down," he said urgently. "I'll get the tea." Don't go. Don't go. Don't go yet!

She blinked. "I... Well, alright." She walked slowly to the other side of the table and sat down. This was a dream. She stared at the brilliant blue wallpaper. Yes, a dream, surely wallpaper wasn't that blue...

"How's the weather today?" Cabel asked. He hadn't been outside in days. Not since he'd taken Ingrid to the park last Saturday. Or was that the Saturday before last?

"The weather?" Zelphia was flabbergasted. "It's..." Her voice faltered. He asked you about the weather, you buttonhead! She silently berated herself. She cleared her throat. "It's windy. Very windy." The leaves rained like wrinkled sunshine outside the window.

"Oh." Cabel stirred sugar into their cups. "... Do you like the wind?"

"I like the leaves," Phia responded.

"But not the wind?" Cabel handed her a warm tea cup.

"Well, I don't not like it..." She stared into the murky tea. "Do you like it?"

Did he like the wind? He had to search his mind to remember. "No," he decided, "I always feel like it's pushing on me."

"Oh." They sipped their tea awkwardly. Phia chanced a glance up, and they caught each other staring. Carefully, they looked away. The sound of their swallowing echoed in the tiny kitchen. Both were embarrassed. Both set down their cups with a clink.

Cabel caught her eye again. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

"Yes," Phia said and immediately abandoned her tea and the awkward-filled kitchen.

Notes: So many adverbs. I have failed you. I am sorry.
Awkward tea dates?
Sometimes I feel like getting to know people is just about ignoring a lot of awkwardness xD
Zel and Bel... Phia and Cab... Zel and Cabel... Zel and Cab... Phia and Cabel... Zelphia and Cabel... Gah, how to shorten?
(Thanks goes to Rand for Zelphia. Who knew my sister could be helpful??)

Drabble 20: Sweet Sixteen

Well XXXXXXXXX! Oliver thought. The sound of  it in his mind like crackling flames. XXXXXXXXX! But he said nothing. He stood there in the forest next to her as they hid in the shadows and watched the way the magic vines wrapped and unwrapped themselves.

They were stealing time. He was stealing time for Ingrid.

Instead he said, "What are you thinking about?"

Because it was clear she was making some kind of association in her mind or creating a new world or a better future or a plot to dunk him in the river...

She blinked thrown by the volume of his words like they'd reached her on a different audio wave than everything else did. "I'm thinking," she said, "about how small the two of us are. I'm wondering if it would be possible to slip past those vines. I'm pondering what Mom and Dad could have been yelling about. And I've decided to join the resistance."

"The resistance?" The words tasted like honey wrapped in silk, impossibly sticky and smooth. His eyes traveled down to her toes then back up again. Ingrid was not what he would call good resistance material...

"Yes." She had never sounded more sure of anything. "In three days, I will be sixteen," she reminded him, "and then I can officially be a resistance member."

Her voice had dropped to a whisper as though the vines could hear her and would spread her secret.

"What about your asthma*?" Oliver asked. Please don't do it, he thought. Ingrid, you can't do it. If you go, why should I stay?

"They don't have to know." She was being stubborn. She was hardly ever stubborn.

"Ingrid..." How could he convince her? How could he keep her safe and sound?

"Don't tell me I can't, Oliver." Her jaw was set, and he could feel the defensiveness blocking out her fear. And suddenly, he saw it, the moment she decided to be reckless.

He opened his mouth to tell her not to do it, but she was already running toward the vines. Of course, he followed.

Notes:  *asthma, I don't think they term it this. That's very much our word...
This is before her parents' death. Ingrid's allowed to be reckless without worrying about the consequences for Liam....

Drabble 19: A Sun-kissed Hurricane

It was storming the night Ing's mother died. The trees were whipping against each other, and the rain collapsed to the ground like many exhausted parachuters [Is this a word? This should be a word. If this isn't a word, I am sorry, okay? Okay.]. Ingrid sat on her father's lap, wrapped in his arms, and stared at the lightning bolts until she saw stars.

Cabel was staring at a piece of colorful paper, and Ingrid said, "Duck."

"That's right," he told her. But it suddenly brought to mind the game he'd heard the other worlder's talking about, Duck Duck Goose. [Okay, I keep interrupting with commentary, but yeah right, Self. Why would soldiers be taking about Duck Duck Goose??] He couldn't help but think that Lucy should be shown as the goose. After all, she was the one they would chase. Of course, he didn't know.

He didn't know that today his worst case scenario was actually true. She wasn't coming back. She was indeed being chased by a bunch of green coats and golden buttons.

How many medals would her killer be wearing when she sank into the Lake? Three? Eighteen? Seven? Ten, he decided. Ten was a decent number. Ten seemed like enough to get away with murder.

He bounced Ingrid on his knee gently. He imagined what he'd tell her if Lucy didn't come back tonight. "Ingrid, your mother's went into the lake." "Ingrid, your mother's never coming back." "Ingrid, please don't follow in your mother's footsteps." "Ingrid, your mother is dead. Time for bed." "Ingrid, it's only a half life for Papa now." "Ingrid, could you go on without us both?" "Ingrid, I love you, but daddy's very tired." "Ingrid, I'm not going anywhere. You need me, and I am here. And I love you to the other side of the enchanted forest and back."

Yes, that seemed about right. The little girl in his lap had fallen asleep, her strawberry blonde hair sticking up like a sun-kissed hurricane.

Oh Ingrid, Cabel thought, I'm not sure what I'll do if you turn out to be as wild as your hair.

Notes: I really don't appreciate this one very much, but it's a drabble so it doesn't have to be perfect. That's kinda the point, right?

Drabble 18: Falling, Falling, Falling--

She felt like the world had gone and blown up while she was away, just in the other room. The heavy silence settled and neither had noticed her as she came down the stairs. She remained quiet. She wanted to catch the clues that lingered in the air between them.

But neither moved, neither spoke, and the moment stretched wide and glided upon paper wings like an airplane forever descending to the ground. Falling, falling, falling--

"You love her, don't you?" Oliver asked. There wasn't accusation in his tone. It was soft, resigned. It was just the way that Oliver had always seemed to her, half gentle resignation and half wildfire anger. He was forever held in extremes, and she was forever trying to balance them.

A pause. NF stared at his feet. Ingrid wished he'd just say no and get it over with, wished he'd say nothing forever, wished maybe he'd say yes...

NF shook his head slightly. "I'm in love with her. I do not love her. I am in love with her. Or I am in love with the idea of being in love with her, and I cannot tell."

NF hated his own words. He shouldn't be having this conversation. At least not with a man who was clearly so in love with her already.

Oliver's teeth clenched, and he stared at NF. Ingrid stood on her place on the stairs, three from the bottom, and watched the slumped line of NF's shoulders and the tight lips of Oliver. She wondered why they were having this conversation, and who had brought it up, and how did she move without them knowing she'd been there?

"Get your shit together." Oliver said. It was one of the few other worlder expressions that he appreciated.

Ingrid was startled by his fierceness. It would be days before she understood it, but now she only questioned motives and came up with none.

She backed carefully up the stairs and bounced back down. They both turned to look at her, one haunted, the other ashamed. She attempted her best smile.

Notes: This is a fictional moment and conversation. That is, this is a fictional moment that doesn't take place in my fictional novel. xD Ingrid doesn't hear it and Oliver and NF never have it so... Yes... Just for the record, NOT illegal!

Drabble 17: In which Sarah Describes Her Room in Great Detail

I can't write today. At least I feel like I can't and I didn't write yesterday. And if I don't get some words on paper, I will become ashes. That is, I will explode from my own disappointment in myself. So I'm describing my room. Like the notebooks we did in AP English back in high school because I need to write something.

There's an explosion of index cards upon my door, under my one lonely shelf, across my dresser drawers, and pinned to my bulletin board. They are scribbled on with Sharpie, some tattered, others pristine. Often, I stare at them. I reread them.

I ponder perspectives.

Upon my dresser, my printer sits with a coffee cup full of markers, chapstick, a half-empty water bottle, an old glass coke bottle, push pins, piles of index cards, and an accumulation of dust. Above it sticky-tacked to to the wall is a volleyball poster made by Madi. It proclaims "Sarah Marshall #6" and reminds me of the applause at senior night.

It reminds me that I am more important to people than I think I am.

The sunlight peaks through the slim crack beneath my blinds. It elongates the shadow of the keyboard that sits unused by the window. It stretches all the way back to my door, separating the wall into light purple below and shadowy gray above.

In the throws of shadowed light, there sits the cut-out front of a cereal box. It's been crafted to say, "I <3 YOU BUNCHES of Oats." There's a spoon with honey bunches of oats on it and soft white words that say, honey roasted. At the top, there are the words, "FAMILY SIZE". And it makes me laugh. I've never liked an object with so much orange on it more than this one. I haven't liked very many objects more than this one period.

My bed is crumble of green sheets and a deep purple comforter. The dark wood that makes up its frame is covered in childhood blemishes: stickers, scotch tape, crayon, and nail polish. Its been well loved. Aria, my stuffed moose, rests on the pile of sheets. She looks sad today, if it's possible for a stuffed moose to be sad.

There's a Florence & the Machine poster above my bed, next to the unflipped light switch. My light burned out last night and I haven't bothered to replace it. It's an old poster. That is based on her old cd, Lungs. She sits on a sequined moon of silver. It's straight out of her "You've Got the Love" video, and while I like this song, I didn't not pick this poster. It's another reminder...

My shelf is drowned by books. A single row sits like a train with over loaded cars. It's broken up with boxes, a teddy bear, a flat volleyball, a hand painted picture, a hat, a piggy bank, a scrapbook angled outward, Kleenex, and a Spiderman puzzle. 

THE END

Just For Fun: Skittles Thief

Yellow, red, orange, and green

It’s true, you know, you’ve been seen

Take the red, go right ahead,

It’s no fair though, leave the yellow

Must you be so hopelessly mean?

I love skittles, more than caffeine!

Oh, I love coffee and espressos

But skittles are deliciosos

Skittles thief, you’re a Skittles thief

A color-coded candy motif

Skittles thief, you’re a Skittles thief

You’ve left me in distressed disbelief

Oh, you’re going to be so hyper

Stealing my skittles like a viper

When you go bouncing off the wall

I’ll be running away to the mall

The grape ones are my favorite!

I was reaching for one when you took it!

They were supposed to be mine

I’m gonna have to issue you a fine

Skittles thief, you’re a Skittles thief

A color-coded candy motif

Skittles thief, you’re a Skittles thief

Stop it! Go away! Good grief!

Disclaimer: It's not true. I don't love skittles more than caffeine!

Notes: Sometimes I like to write extremely random poems... I don't even like skittles very much... Don't tell!

Drabble Interruption 4-ish: I-haven't-named-it-and-not-sure-if-done Poem

I found the edges of my heart

peered into the cracks of love

clung to the sides of a precipice

and my fragile fingers fell.

With the weight of teardrops

his phantom hands hold me

close to the brink of breath

relapsing into my lungs.

Notes: I don't know. End of Story. 

Drabble 16: Meet Me. Meet Me. Meet Me! (Sorry Gaga on the brain.)

"Thanks," Cabel murmured, brushing past her. His purple eyes skipped away from her as though burned by the image of her skin.

Don't say thanks that way, Lucy thought, it makes it seem as though we are strangers and I have just complimented your new shirt.

She slipped her hands in her pocket and tried to act causal as though the boy of her dreams hadn't just stabbed her in the stomach. She should have known. She wasn't even supposed to be here. She didn't really exist.

And then her fingers found it, a note.

It read:
Meet me. Midnight. West Shore of the Lake. 

Notes: Can't write properly. Too busy plotting!

I've been thinking maybe Ing's people have a distinct magical look to them? Strange colored eyes and hair, maybe? I feel like their should be a physical difference between the other worlders and "The Fairy People" who aren't actually fairies. Blah blah... Hints: purple eyes, but I really don't know...

Drabble 15: Loyalty.

He was giving him that look. Determined eyes. Set jaw. Arms at the ready.

NF hated the forest. He hated the vines. He hated the darkness. He hated it, all of it. And yet, here he was, leading a group of his own into the unknown for closer look at this wild magic. They'd been at it all day and they were going to be at it all night.

Their orders: "Explore the forest. Find magic source." Because that was possible. Really possible.

And for some reason that look was driving NF insane. He did not want that look. He never wanted that look! "Stop it!"

Soldier was startled. "Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that!" NF was exasperated.

"Looking at you like what?"

"Like... Like... You'd follow me to the ends of the earth or something!"

"I am not following you to the ends of the earth." Soldier scuffed. [He seems to do that a lot...]

"That's not what I meant. I just mean... I just..." Lead yourself. He wanted to say. "I don't want to lead people into places I know aren't good for them, and you're not helping!"

"What are you talking about?" Soldier's voice had taken on a distinctly teenager tone.

"You with your loyalty and the yes, I will follow you even if this seems like a horrible plan. I just... The other guys in the group trust me so much because you keep being all NF, he's the best! Yeah! I don't want them to think I'm awesome. I don't want them to agree." NF pulled at the ends of his jacket. "It would be better for them if they ran away screaming about how stupid their leader was."

"You didn't ask for these orders."

"No," he shook his head, "but neither did they."

"Well," Soldier said, "we all asked to come here. We all asked to become soldiers. So let's just do our job, yeah?"

"Yeah."


Notes: People are so going to ship them. THEY ARE JUST BEST FRIENDS, OKAY?

Ugh, I'm not bleeding very well tonight. I'm just tired. I'm sorry xD

Ingrid and Liam really need a last name. What do to do with the documents...? How to fix plot hole? I just need them to exist without existing... #things writers say that make people think they need the looney bin...

Poem in Progress: The Road (No, not the book)

 Text that's begging to be put into poem form:

 I feel weird again tonight. As though the stars have lost their alignment and the sky is a deep shade of purple turning black. I'm disappearing with the stars into the light of day and in the sunlight the road rash on my heart is clearly visible. "It's taken me so long," it says. "And still the road stretches on." I measure the distance I have gone in the number of barely there yellow lines. And sometimes it rains and I'm not sure why... Yes, sometimes it rains, but there is always sunshine. And rainbows are promises that sleepwalk across my mind. I find courage at the bottom of the cracks in the pavement, peace in the act of steeping forward. And always I try to remember to breathe. Because sometimes life is only about going on. But today I feel like closing the curtains and folding the comforter over my head and dreaming in the opaque darkness. I will dream about the colors of my soul and about the places I will go.


Plan for Poem Structure:


Running lines like a typewriter, ding and move on, ding and move on, etc.
Constantly cycling like the dialing of a rotary telephone 
Group the lines in threes? Have no breaks at all? Cut mid-sentence? Length of lines?


Rough, Rough Draft of Poem:

The stars have lost their alignment
and the sky is a deep shade of purple
turning black.


I'm disappearing into the light of day
and in the sunlight my red road rash
becomes visible.


I measure the distance I have gone
in barely there yellow lines, the road
stretches on.


Sometimes it rains and I am not sure
why... Yes sometimes it rains, but still
there's sunshine.


Rainbows are promises that sleepwalk
across my mind and courage exists in
cracked pavement.


Peace in my steps forward and always
I remember to breathe and go on, just
go on.


Notes: It needs so much work. Poems are sooo annoying. So much time just staring at lines until they fit together in a proper puzzle. Why poems? Why? I am so much better at stories xD But this will happen!

Drabble 14: Wind

Find Sticks and Feathers in Meadow.
Grab String from Kite Shop.
Dumpster Dive for Cans.
Steal Hair Ribbons from Ing.
Assemble.
Hang from window in apartment.

Ah! I can't write this. It's just so cute that it has to be included in the novel, darn it!

Scene/Side plot: Liam makes a wind chime.

Notes: I'm sorry, no drabble, but I swear one's been written in my head. I can't write it because illegal! Blah Blah I hate this rule. Blah Blah. Come on, November!

Things that have to do with wind for future reference: Paper airplanes. Breezy curtains. Whirl wind of leaves. Kites. Waves. Flowing hair. Open windows. Running into the wind. Blowing dresses. Ribbons. Blankets. Book pages. Bending flowers/grass. Breath. Goosebumps. Mittens. Scarves. Umbrellas. Slanted rain. Tornadoes. Shingles. Sail boats. Branches against windows. Howls. Clouds. Feathers. Flight. Birds. Wings. Stop pushing on me! Slammed doors. Wind Chimes.

Drabble 13: The Cure For Loneliness

I am lonely, Ingrid thought. I am lonely. I am lonely. And it became a cry that filled her lungs and prevented breath. Sadness cuddled against her chest. She was not afraid of enchanted vines or enveloping lakes. She was afraid of endless space and empty years.

Love, she thought, love is the only cure for loneliness. The paper crumbled in her hands as she pulled a blank sheet from the neat stack, and dipped her quill in the ink and began to write that love.

 The cure for loneliness: love.
 And she did not want to be alone.
 If love was the ground beneath her feet, she was walking on air.
 I need you, she thought. I need you. Your sadness. Your love. Your happiness. Your willingness to share my bad thoughts.

I worry about what I'll do if you no longer exist, Ingrid wrote, and I wonder what you'll do if I no longer exist, and I cannot determine which scenario is better because I would gladly die before you, but I do not know what would be worse, to leave you alone in this world or to watch you leave me.

Ingrid stared at the ink in disbelief. Those were not her words. She was surprised by the leaking of her eyes and she wiped at them quickly and reread. "But I do not know what would be worse, to leave you alone in this world or to watch you leave me." She ran her fingers over the sentence.

She saw two people deeply intertwined, heads bent and resting against one another. She saw their laced together fingers and the way that their eyes held secrets. She saw them break and fall apart before her eyes and she watched as one held onto life crookedly, leaning drastically to the left, and the other crumbled into nothing but a pile of ash. The remaining figure wobbled and fell to its side. Its tiny, dull eyes watched the ash fly away.

Ingrid was struck by this, struck by love, struck by loneliness, struck by loss. Love wasn't the cure for loneliness. Love was the reason it existed.

She was suddenly very afraid of her own words. She promised herself that she'd sooner jump into the lake than love.


Notes: Random Fragment I have no idea what to do with: To be bent like a willow tree is to provide some shade and cover.

Poor Ingrid. I wish I could hug you.

Drabble 12: Ink Stained

Ingrid was ink stained. Perpetually. When she was five years old, she had tipped her inkwell and the blackness had seeped across her writing desk, spilled onto her dress, and oiled up her skin. She was half girl, half ink when her dad found her, examining her stained fingers with fascination. "Look, Daddy," she had said, "I'm a raven."

She was still waiting for her wings.

Some days she couldn't write at all. Some days she sat and sat at her desk in the old farm house. She stared listlessly out windows, paced slowly across the room, through the house, laid on her bedroom floor, and gazed blankly at the ceiling. She'd lay there and think, "Please, please, words. Please. Please. Words. Please." Over and over again. Her own personal litany.

The hard wood floor would press into her back, a comfort in her wordless world. Her hands would register her breaths from their place on her stomach. The seconds would tick by like gathering dust. The loneliness would come to her on tiptoed feet and sink into her skin.

She imagined a thousand spider webs wrapping around her, holding her in place. She was never moving again. The pressure of not moving would build up within her, pressing from inside as the spider webs pressed from outside. They squeezed her insides together, packed her into her body, her body into its shell, and she was nothing.

She was air. She was wind. She was nothing without her words, but a girl. She was only a girl. She became shapeless and undefined. She became not herself. She was not herself, alone in her room, on the floor, without words.

"Please, please, words. Please. Please. Words. Please."

Her eyes slipped shut, and she looked for metaphors on the backs of her eye lids. She fought hard for some kind of alliteration, but she searched in the wrong places and did not check the tips of her tiny toes. She saw all the words fleeing away from her, falling down air vents, squeezing through the floor boards, sliding out of the windows and doors.

"Ingrid!" A call from the bottom of the stairs, but she did not hear it.

The words were running down the bathroom drains and hiding out in the tool shed. The words were climbing up and out of the chimney. The words were tumbling down the front porch stairs. Away, the words went. And away, she went with them.

"Ingrid! Hey! Ingrid!" Again, she was deaf to the calling.

The words were people she knew walking away. Away from the girl who was only a girl and not the girl with words. Away from a girl with bare, ink-less hands. Away from herself. She was watching herself walk away from herself.

Lonely. How lonely the world got once there were no words. She was alone with not even herself. "I am the wind," she thought, "and no one will hear my cries because to them, I am the cry." The world was so quiet. She could see it though, the wind as it blew through her room, tearing at the papers on her desk, scattering her already scattered thoughts, and blowing them clean away...

That's where Oliver would find her. He had called her name five times from the bottom of the stairs, and she hadn't heard a syllable. She was there with her eyes shut, the perfect imitation of a corpse. "Oh Ingrid," he whispered softly.

And that's the only thing she heard. That whisper. Her eyes would open slowly, and he'd hold out his hand to her and help her up.

"Come on," Oliver would tell her. "Let's get out of here for a while."

"Coffee?" Ingrid would ask.

And the answer was always yes. 


And she'd whisper just loud enough over the steam of her coffee, "Thanks for finding me."


Notes: Oh dear, that took a dark turn there for a minute. I wasn't expecting Ingrid to go there. She's perhaps a bit too dedicated to her words. Coffee solves everything, okay? Okay. (Well, tea does really, but Ingrid's more of a coffee person.)

Drabble 11: Wild Magic

The sun was gathering its last rays and sinking behind the forest when NF stumbled upon them, empty uniforms strangled between thick green vines. The empty olive green fabric hung there, suspended in time like a fly in the ointment. Wordlessly, he stared at it.

Feeling inched up his back and like a spiderweb, spanned outward toward his fingertips and toes. The flashlight in his hand shook, bouncing the dull, yellow light on and off the trees. He spun in a slow circle. His breath loud in the twilight. He heard a rustle in the trees behind him, turned abruptly, swore he saw the outline of a man, and then his flashlight went out. 

Shit. No plan of action came to mind. Man or no man. Was there a man? Was he going insane? Had he seen uniforms? Was something there?! 

NF ran.

Everything was loud. The sound of the air entering and leaving his lungs. The rustling of the leaves in the wind. The shuffling of the fabric as his legs moved passed one another. The loose button of his shirt as it hopped up and down to the rhythm of his run. The squeak from his belt buckle moving with his lungs. The zippers on his boots rattling against their own teeth. 

The trees were laughing, NF thought. The trees were laughing! 

His boot hit something. A bump in the road? A well placed vine? And he stumbled and fell onto the packed dirt beneath him.  

AND THEN HE DIED!

[Kidding, but I'm tired. Expect better stuff tomorrow!] 

Notes: This was fun. Magic is so fun! 

Okay, Sarahnade, it's technically tomorrow, but it's technically not because I haven't gone to bed yet! 

I'd like to say that I got interrupted half way through by my sister, explaining her afternoon and an entire episode of American Dad... xD

Not sure if this actually happens during the story or not... But fun stuff?