Hi! Um so this blog post will be kind of different compared to my others - well, at least I
think. But still, writing.
Not just stories, but (drum roll please) fan fiction!
I hope that's a first good impression of this entry by saying "fan fiction." I guess not everybody is familiar with
fan fiction, and also not everybody likes fan fiction. It's okay. So this entry is just, like, a collection of my favorite fan fictions... by me. Um. Carry on.
I do not own the following images. I also do not own Wintergirls
, Daughter of Smoke and Bone
, Glee
, Mario
, and Crossed (as well as the series)
.
This fanfic was written while I was still halfway done with the book. Laurie Halse Anderson did a very good job. I grew an interest in writing poetically after reading the novel; I was blown away.
Now this fanfic has rather a sad ending.
Alternate Universe. Warning for... blood.
Skinniest
Hi Lia.
She is sitting on one side of my bed. She is pale. She is dead. She is haunted.
I abandoned her. She told me I wasn't her best friend. And here she is – appearing to me in the dark. I'm afraid.
Her hair is still tangled and braided. She has no shoes on. She's wearing a blue dress. The snails are still there on the flesh of her neck and fingers. She follows me everywhere. I can't hide.
My eyes travel to hers. They are misty. Shivers run down my spine.
Hi Lia. She repeats those words in my head. I wish she could go back to the motel room. Or the coffin.
she called me.
she called me thirty-three times.
She's not supposed to be here now. But, still, she wants to ruin me – bring me down with her.
Sweat covers my skin. I feel vulnerable. I close my eyes.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Open. Her body is still there.
What's wrong, Lia?
"You're not supposed to be here," I mutter. She's supposed to be rotting now. Why aren't those tiny snails drilling into her skin right now?
I see the corners of her chapped, pale lips rise up. Her grin is scaring the hell out of me. I shiver again. I'm a coward.
"Leave me alone," I say in the darkness shakily. It's about midnight. It's windy outside. I'm under my bed sheets. I feel tiny. Empty. Empty is good. Correct. Yes. Right?
She scoots an inch closer to me.
I'm here.
"I don't want you here."
Cassie is dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
She is in her coffin. She is rotting. She is in her coffin. She is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Rotting. Dead.
I'm here, Lia.
"Shut up," I tell the dead person.
She moves two inches closer. I bring my knees to my chest – searching for comfort.
I needed you.
"Go away," I whisper.
Suddenly, she is by my side. She isn't touching me but I can feel her breath on my neck. The dead isn't supposed to be breathing. Callie isn't supposed to be breathing.
Stupid. Ugly. Idiot. Dead.
I hold my breath when I see it. She is holding a knife. I didn't see where she got it.
I look at her face.
I can see her cheek bones. I can see cold. I can see the dead. I can see Cassie. I can see myself. I shudder.
She cuts herself. I gasp. Blood appears from the cut. She makes more cuts on her palm. The blood pools in her hand. She lets out a loud, breathy laugh.
Wintergirls. We're wintergirls. You remember, don't you, Lia?
I remember but I don't answer her question. I feel like passing out. I jump out of my bed and run for the door. I am fast. But Cassie appears in front of the door – blocking my way out.
thirty-three times.
I scream. Nothing comes out. I'm trapped in Hell with my dead ex-best friend.
Empty is strong.
Cut. She commands me and offers the little knife.
I flutter my eyes shut. I open it again.
She's still there.
She grabs my hand and cuts my palm quickly. I gasp. My eyes grow wide and I feel empty. And strong.
Empty is strong.
she called me.
I breathe in air and look at the blood flowing out of the cut. The corpse is still grasping my hand. My veins feel like exploding. My heart feels like imploding.
Cobwebs are everywhere. They are on the ceiling. The walls. The bed. The laptop. The closet. My jeans. Cassie's dress. Everywhere.
Dizzy.
The addict is completely back.
I draw three lines on my forearm.
Swish. Swash. Slash.
Get. Lost.
Another two.
Swish. Slash.
I look up to those two, blurry eyes.
"I'm the skinniest. Skinnier than you," I say to her.
She finds it as a challenge. Her grin comes back and I continue.
I lift up the right side of my orange T-shirt.
I make two, short (painful) cuts.
Swash. Slash.
Crimson red blood oozes out. I press two, shaking fingers on them.
It burns. It hurts.
I like it.
Empty is strong and invincible.
I bring the knife to my wrist.
Slash.
Tears hit the cut.
I'm dead. My fat gets eaten. I'll be skinnier than you in no time.
I cut more in anger.
And more.
And more.
And more.
A hundred times
more.
It hurts to harm your own body.
It hurts to lie. Especially about my weight.
I break down because the darkness collides with everything else – I'm being pulled downward swiftly.
"I'm sorry," It comes out broken. Just like I am.
she called me.
It's a gloomy Sunday afternoon. The sun is hiding behind the dark gray clouds.
A man, his wife and her daughter weeps with the new corpse's mother.
The man's wife's daughter found her body in her room – bleeding to death.
No one else seemed to have been there.
Now we're the skinniest together.
•
Okay. That must've been depressing. Here's another one. But it's about Karou from Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor. It was interesting and just WOW. I can't wait for the next book.
It isn't hard to catch up to. Hint hint, just assuming that Razgut and Karou never made it through the slit...
Black and White
Karou trudged forward on the gray cement – the day drenched in falling snow, dark skies, and shadowed brick walls embracing everything mirthlessly. The new portfolio in her hands shifted in them; new, very new, thin and empty. New beginning, perhaps, or something empty like she was.
On the streets were a few people trudging along like she was – eyes heavily lidded and blurred by the shattered diamonds called snow, twirling and pirouetting in the air like debris ballerinas. She was used to his, but each and every day just seemed to progress into something worse. Something barren and unsatisfied and gray. Her blue hair flowed behind her in the icy wind – it now reached her waist, passing by her ear lobes and waving around at strangers dressed in the proper attire for this kind of weather: everything black, white, and gloomy. The gum in her mouth and the visions in her head circled back and forth in their designated and rather active positions. One ready to be spat out and another locked inside her against her will.
But these visions – these memories tied onto the ladders in her head – kept her intact yet in the same time apart. They were heart-rending and beautiful. The beat of fiery wings and caress of orange eyes swarmed in her skull and filled it with hope. Albeit hope was now peculiar. The taste of high dreams and urgency far away. She clutched her brand new portfolio, a backpack swinging smoothly from her left shoulder. She was a child of ash and melancholy – only her hair, out of place, messed up the picture. She was eccentric like her weak hope – a strong but languid species hiding under the gone rays of a battery-operated sun. She blew a bubble of gum, and cursed.
When she arrived at her destination, she flung her portfolio onto her bed. It landed on top of the other dozen.
Karou’s flat was the same but different. The old presence of an angel – an angel! No one would believe her now and ever – skimmed everywhere and still stung her eyes. Junk was stuffed everywhere – expensive and cheap. The place smelled like coffee, rubber, and wood. It also smelled like sickness, dread, and meat. It was a place she still owned but didn’t care much about anymore. She dropped her backpack on the dirty carpet and zipped it open, eyes gleaming almost greedily at the objects inside and hands reaching toward them.
Her wishbone – the half she had – dangled onto her finger. The memories were now all splayed out and playing. She really didn’t know why she had it. It had only reminded her of her and Razgut’s failed mission to slip through the mysterious slit in the sky, and the ground-breaking loss of happiness replacing happiness itself.
In her other hand was the case of her two crescent-moon knives. She could already feel their cold, shiny blades protruding and slicing the air without her permission. She now held the knives in her hand, and dropped the broken wishbone to the floor to weep on. Twirling the knives in between her numb fingers they could cut through her skin and bite into her flesh in just one second of a mistake. She would be leaving this place soon, so she did it.
The particles of the wishbone tumbled across the floor – the memories hitting the four walls just at the same time. She felt herself break, crumple, feel more than she ever had for years. For years she had mourned because she was lost in the vertigo of remembering. But now she knew what she was – sad.
•
Here's one fanfic about Kurt Hummel. Alternate Universe, please. Inspired by How I Became the Sea - Owl City.
Drown in the Deity
I wrenched the engines off
And drank them down
The depths turned the iron soft
As they swiftly drowned
And I brought the ocean side
To its rusty knees
As I felt the even tide
Deep in my shallow dreams
This is how Kurt Hummel, once a boy faced with things he couldn't handle and things he could but didn't want to, became the sea.
Kurt loved the sea, and, in fact, he always believed it was where he belonged, especially when he felt like he wasn't a part of anything wholly. He dreamt it was where he would be living by, when someone he truly came to love wanted to spend the rest of his life with him and when they would decide where they want to live out there lives.
Kurt was a dreamer, a woolgatherer intensely attached to fantasies and reverie, things so unreal and said impossible. His daydreams consisted of draining the sea and making it fit in a water bottle, where he can watch the waves rebel and calm, eye the fishes, and maybe discuss his days and whine his worries to fellow sea sirens. He could see himself as a merman, struggling mightily through the swarm of sea life and meeting the merman of his dreams.
People didn't care about him. They thought he was absurd most of the time and downright silly, "always thinking of these… of these
impossible scenarios." Kurt was always like that, dreaming and reaching out to the sea even if it wasn't there, wanting to feel the salty water around him. He was like that ever since he was a bubbly baby, mommy Elizabeth cradling him in her arms while papa Burt sat below the trees watching the two beloved people in his life. Elizabeth loved the sea, and Burt loved it too because it was something Elizabeth obviously adored. She spent her time being a very good mother, eyes so warm yet the color of the strong ocean, voice so sweet, and love unconditional.
Kurt could easily close his eyes and hear the lullaby his mother used to sing to him years ago, soothing in his ears, but he was afraid because, as time passed by, the song his mother lulled to him by the shore on windy evenings was starting to disappear, beginning to big good-bye. The memory was delicate and fragile. He feared it wouldn't last long forever like he wanted it to.
Papa Burt wasn't his papa Burt anymore. Days after Elizabeth died because of a mysterious disease, the truth that she was gone sunk into him completely and tore him apart. Kurt would remember the nights when his papa would forget to tuck him in or forget to tell him fairy tales. Burt was blinded without the presence of his dead wife. He was miserable. And even while he knew this didn't help his young son, he attempted suicide. He didn't make it.
After that, Kurt always wanted to elude help and comfort from relatives, breaking free from their invitations and hugs and running up to his room, locking the door, and breaking down into tears.
Aunt Anne took him in as her own son, but it was never the same. She lived minutes away from an often crowded sea. She had a husband named Michael; he was a good man fighting for his country. Kurt still knew of the stories she would tell him about how she knew his uncle was
the one.
"
How-how did you know uncle Michael was the one for you?" he once asked her under his Power Rangers blanket, wiping his tears off his cheeks from moments ago when his aunt found him crying, nose runny. She just smiled, and little Kurt could see his mommy in her smile. But he knew his mommy was irreplaceable.
"
I just knew," she said as she kissed him on his forehead. "You'll meet your soul mate someday and you'll know it's her, Kurt-y."
Little Kurt frowned. "Can my soul mate be a boy, like me?" He yawned and missed the shocked expression that crossed his aunt's face.
She blinked and shook her head. "Of course, Kurt." Her smile was assuring and her eyes were kind. "Good night."
"
Okay. Good night, aunty Anne." He yawned again and prepared to doze off.
Anne shut the door of his room quietly
Kurt wondered if he'll ever find his soul mate, someone perfectly for him, someone perfectly
made for him.
It was night, and he drove himself near to the sea, parking the Navigator his uncle gave to him for his previous birthday on cold cement and making sure it was locked before he began to walk toward the shore. The night was chilly and the leaves of the trees bristled in the wind. He had excused himself from supper, walked up the stairs to his room, waited for everyone in the house to sleep, sneaked out, and journeyed the small journey to the sea on his vehicle. He needed real time alone in the open and decided to visit a place where waves rolled in.
He knew his face was damp with tears as the wind blew softly across his face. He could taste his tears flowing down his cheeks to the side of his lips and into his mouth. The waves whispered and was illuminated by the full moon. Even in the darkness, besides the pouring moonlight, the sea looked ethereal.
It looked like home.
He wanted to get out of it all. He was fighting and he was exhausted. He wanted to get rid of the hurt and the pain and the abhorrent taste of Dave Karofsky in his mouth. All of it just wouldn't go away. He didn't want to unload everything onto other people; he didn't want them to worry about him. They shouldn't.
He felt worthless and depressed, his head scattered everywhere, left in pieces. One part was in the boys' locker room where Karofsky had latched his disgusting mouth on his; one part was still in the living room where he, his aunt, and his uncle had talked about how sad he looked, and where he pushed them away; one part was in the choir room where his Glee club members fought over something stupid like solos which he stopped caring about; and one part was in the hall where jocks shoved him and threw words like
fagfairygayhomogaygaygayGAY at him. His head whirled and maybe he wanted to vomit out all the heartache and anguish. But it wasn't that easy.
He didn't care anymore about his clothes and shoes and hair and just freaking everything as he discarded his shoes and socks, as well as shrugging off his Marc Jacobs jacket. He ran to his Navigator and tossed them all on its hood, save for his shoes, landing them beside the left front tire.
He could feel recklessness creeping up on him. Nobody knew this side of him.
The cold water kissed his feet and he felt like he was being worshipped, being loved. He went in deeper. His black skinny jeans stuck to his legs, his thighs, and he hummed at the way the sea brought him in and embraced him. He submerged himself deeper, feeling isolated yet at home. The undershirt latched on his chest, on the bruises on his back. They felt possessive and he felt submissive.
He had never felt more alive as he tilted his head upward, with the sea tugging under his fingertips, with the waves caressing his sides, with the immense sky crying – the tears flooding the contours of his face. His own tears mixed with the empyrean. A silent pact was made.
It was strange at first – the feeling. The tides pulled him down before he could breathe in gulps of air. He was sliding on sand, raking it with his toes and understanding the salt. He cried out when his lungs weighed down with the sea. His viridian eyes grew brighter. It felt like a dream. But each and every move said otherwise in his ears. He was pushed onto his knees and thought of his mother, his mommy.
Although he wasn't a baby boy anymore, he was still her baby boy.
He let out a shrill scream that quaked the sandy ground. He shifted, holding the sea on his shoulders and blew icy air that shot through the night. The sea swayed with him, with his movements. The sea stayed with him, with his heart. It slithered inside him and healed the wounds people couldn't reach because they simply couldn't see and couldn't get themselves to care.
He felt everything inside and outside him explode and shatter. And he believed it wasn't all just a dream.
He woke up the next morning, buried under the sea. He moved, and the sea moved with him.
•
Here's a fanfic about kid!Blaine. Warning for child abuse and death. Sorry. Alternate Universe.
Inspired by Heavy Rope - LIGHTS
Trapped then Freed
The darkness didn't use to scare Blaine; he was okay with it before. Sometimes he liked not being able to see, just to use his voice and hear it echo in the silence of his room. He liked the silence of his room, he liked it a lot.
Six-year-old Blaine Anderson was stuck in the precipice. He stayed silent, waiting for someone to pull a rope down so he could get up instead of wailing for help. He was going to fall off soon – the face of the cliff's rocks crumbling underneath his toes, the way slippery but rough.
Six-year-old and mute-but-not-really-mute Blaine Anderson tried to find a light in the dark when things got eerie and too strange. His father once had kicked open his door, yellow light slipping in Blaine's room before Daddy Anderson stumbled in and kicked it close again. The smell of the room was now funny, but Blaine didn't laugh. As cold hands handcuffed his, there was nothing to laugh about. There never was.
Six-year-old and a half Blainey was afraid, shaken. The shadows crept around always. The cemetery outside spooked Blainey out. Everything spooked him out. There was nothing to hold on to; bed only comforting yet the mattress was thin. He didn't know the days and he didn't know laughter. The rain knocked on his windows, but he didn't dare open them. He didn't dare open them to anyone and anything that might as well be a monster.
But seven-year-old Blaine was sad, mad, confused, and lost. A little boy wasn't so little when his world was scary. Was Daddy Anderson a monster? Was he even his Daddy? The knees Blaine knelt on were black and blue, hitting the wooden floor. He prayed to the angels, wanting to play safe and be safe. But they never answered little Blainey not so little anymore.
Muffled shouts on the other side of his bedroom door rang in his ears and made him scratch the walls. He howled. But whenever he did, Daddy would take him and put him in confined spaces where nothing was as sharp as Daddy's ghoulish words and spanks.
Come bail me out of his God-forsaken precipice.
The trailer was found empty in the middle of the forest. Seven and a half Blaine Anderson's body was discovered on the blood-smeared floor. The smile on his young face wasn't so dead, and maybe death was the best for him.
He was free. The beautiful lad in the body of a corpse.
•
KLAINE FANFIC, WEEEEEEEE! Alternate Universe. Could be confusing.
Love at First Sight
The person.
The person, with the icy, witty, snarky remarks saved on the person's tongue and wired knowledge in the person's cheeks left and never deleted, hides purple and yellow shadows behind him. The December air he breathes in which swims in the pools of the person's lungs does not replace the faint smell of fresh and faraway coffee. The snow in his skin and the wood in his hair and the northern lights dipped in his eyes are all true and real, just defined with what a human is and what a human feels. Being left alone makes the person aloof and enigmatic and everything mysterious, attracting quite an oddly low number of people and speaking only when needed, only when there is an emergency. The foreign and tattooed words inked and scarred beneath his skin and lit on his bones were there to remain and there to remind. To remind the lonely person that he deserves the loneliness he is so full of.
Electricity flitters around the park. This is somewhere that is maybe London or New York or Bologna. The person's hands in his jacket's pockets, ghosts dancing in the snow like angels, whispering poetry. The fire dances with the Christmas lights tied to the posts and the high buildings around. The person walks around, slow but graceful in each step, letting the dancing fire cuddle close to him and warm up the hysteria in his head. He sits down on a vacant bench, one able to fit four people in and give each other body warmth they don't know they want. He sits in between where the invisible third and fourth persons could occupy, sighing in the cold and digging his hands deeper into the cozy furnaces of his brown pockets, breathing in the truth and blinking away old tears.
The person scans the park. A couple of snowmen stand, some tall, some lazy; young kids dressed in comfortable clothing, suitable for the wintry weather. Their parents sit on benches and watch their darlings make worlds of their own, men of the worlds, happy smiles from curved sticks. And they still watch as they tear them apart and stomp on their creations.
The couples feed each other stares filled with love and quick kisses on the cheek. Their cheeks flush and he sees. He sees and looks away.
He looks away, and he sees. A flash. He sees a flash.
A flash of golden and amber and honey and fire and sun and heat. A flash of something very warm.
The stranger walks around and his eyes glitter, almost like they reflect the lights. He smiles and he looks carefree and warm like his eyes do. But warmer than the person's empty pockets.
And, in some way, he also looks tired. Deep down inside, he must be.
When the person with the scary thoughts –
with the perfectly coiffed hair but imperfectly prepared fragments and sentences, with the sea in his eyes which hold down the waves – doesn't look away and the person with the sunny, summer smile –
with the five year old curls, with the calluses marked on his fingers – meets his gaze, it's like everything stops and whispers underneath their ribs escape and touch. Promises and vows from the future screech and collapse and move in between the two of them. Sparks are suspended in the air and questions swirl. Maydays fly and the person with the sea in his eyes wants to –
maybe – speak. Because this is an emergency, because he thinks it's a need, because because
because.
He's not safe anymore, but maybe he never was.
The magic stops. For now.
The person with the calluses glances around, eyes wide, blinking and surprised. He looks around more, for a while, wondering what the heck happened, then his eyes find the place where they want to be – where the person with the perfectly coiffed hair is.
Meanwhile, the person with the scary thoughts and the hesitant heart breathes in while he exhales. He's not looking at the other anymore, but he wants to. He really
wants to that the thought of everything that will be makes his heart beat irregularly and his head go dizzy. It's dangerous and stupid – fickle like the weather, so unpredictable; he hates, hates, hates it.
But he thinks that, maybe just sometimes, you can't hate love. Especially the love-at-first-sight kind of love. The one that makes your words stutter and your heart swell and shivers to run down your spine. He just
knows it's love at first sight because he's never felt like this before. He's never felt the adrenaline and the sparks and the butterflies and everything just suddenly glows; everything feels like a daydream. The stars flicker repeatedly and it's like they're
dancing. They took the place of the ghosts.
Maybe the person with the sunny smile can see and feel it all too.
He looks up and he's right there. He looks into his eyes–
"
Hi," sunny smile says. A beginning.
Coiffed hair breathes, "Hi."
–and he knows he sees and feels it all too.
•
I wrote a fanfic about Princess Peach from Mario once - just after looking at the Games category on fanfiction.net. It just popped out of nowhere. Burp. Inspired by my love for post-apocalyptic anything. Alternate Universe, probably.
Drive My Soul
Princess Peach woke up with her head thumping and the skies grouchy.
She was clothed in her pink dress, the clothing burnt from the apocalypse's flames. The city and grounds below were still in flames. Her mouth tasted like soil and tears, the flavor unwanted and bitter.
She was strong, strong-willed. She didn't want the hot tears to spill out, but they did. And she hated herself for letting that happen.
For letting everything happen
just like that.
Closing her eyes, she envisioned the green grass and friendly creatures. But all were gone and, if she didn't move and let herself be vulnerable, she will be too. So she opened her eyes, tears daring to flow down, skin marked with ashes and dirt, memories scarred and too distant.
She ran, thinking of everyone she knew and loved.
She didn't know her feet were bare until she started pounding them forward – onward to find somewhere safer and resourceful. Smoke erupted from small volcanoes on the ground; she ran around them, breath as fast as her feet. She could feel thorns sticking into her feet, pricking open her skin. If her blood painted the ground red, so be it. Let survivors know where she was going.
She was going to need to drive her own soul now. No time to be a princess, especially when she wasn't one anymore.
The roads seemed to be minefields, belching out explosions. The moon shone down on her and bathed her in mute-white light. She tripped on a rock, landing on her knees. Thorns went deep in her through her dress. Screaming, she stood up and tore her dress just above the knees. Pulling out the thorns, it hurt. Everything hurt, she realized. Her head hurt, her heart hurt, her whole body hurt. Her blond hair was a mess atop her head, a nest for cats. Her jaw ached from screaming too much, from moving too much.
There, on the shaking ground, was the princess shaking herself. Bad dream, it was not. Real life stretched out in front of her. She hugged her wounded legs, crying into her bloody knees.
The princess was unraveled and lost.
•
I had always loved the idea of a dystopian romance. Matched was great! And Crossed was even better.
This is set in Cassia's point of view, as they travel to somewhere to sleep.
Lost in the Labyrinth of You
I watch Ky as we walk.
His eyes are dusk; gloomy, and the mystery of him holds me here on the ground. I almost trip because I get lost in them too easily, but his hand in mine balances me. His eyes twinkle right at me and I see dark galaxies and deep lagoons.
His smile is warm. It takes the breath out of my lungs. I love the way the ends tug upward, causing his face to light up. I can hear words from him, hiding beneath his smile. Poetry.
His voice is music. It flows around me and swallows me whole, and I don't care if I drown in it. I can hear waves and wind and life. I can hear love, meaning, and enigmas. Enigmas I will never be understand. But I do understand because it is meant to stay like so. He is a conundrum. He is a labyrinth, so different.
I think that's one of the reasons why I love him.
"Are you okay?" he asks me, in a whisper. He squeezes my hand.
I whisper back, "I'm okay; I'm with you now." And how I wish it will stay like that.
His smile grows marginally wider, and his grip on my hand tightens; he bows his head as if he is abashed.
I will never hold your story completely, Ky. You're a closed book.
As I look at him, right there beside me, I see him.
And I hope you know I love you no matter what.
•
It is DOOOONEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Exclamation points love me.
