Dear flist...

[bonnefois]

PLEASE BE GIVING ME THE SERIES/CHARACTER PROMPTS D: for 31_days the heat killed my brain or something, and I still have no idea what to do for a good half of the themes. I do better if I have it all planned out beforehand, I suck at making last minute plans. not that the fic will suck any less, but.


Leeched from trixie_chick (she's such a sweetheart) which I was linked to from M (she's such a fic whore XDDD)



Most of my flist are writers with a few artists tossed in. Although I don't always comment on your posts, I do (mostly) always read them. I do, however, notice styles, details, certain turns of phrase that are uniquely...you, or at least I think I do.

That being said, I thought it would be fun if you, as a writer, would indulge me by writing a few paragraphs--ANONYMOUSLY--in a comment and let me try to guess who you are. Just be yourself as hard as you can be and write some fiction, be it fanfiction or original works.


Please? *uke eyes of doom* I need porn love~ ♥

P.S.: D: Sis. Make sure you put a request in, your package isn't nearly finished yet 'cause I thought that I'd not be able to send it. So. Give me pairing/something wtf.

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Original, because you'd be able to guess to easily if I wrote something in fandom!

---

She has a scar across her left shin. It's ugly and purple and balloons half an inch off the surface of her skin, even though it's been there ever since he's known her. She says that it's her red badge of courage, but that's just because they've just finished reading the book at school, and she's developed some sort of a weird crush on Stephen Crane. He points out that her "badge of courage" is purple, not red. She replies, with a dramatic roll of her eyes and a flourish of a sigh, "Semantics, semantics." He doesn't know what that means, so he just glares and looks tough, even though that hasn't really worked before.

He doesn't get how a dead author who writes about wars and messy bloody things could be appealing to a girl, but the very fact she has such a scar probably sets her aside from the rest of her sex. Or at least that's what he likes to tell himself - having a girl for a best friend when you're ten years old is kinda uncool otherwise.

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

*loves the work* I'm getting this vibe that you're Kesiah. If not, the Kate, if not then Aperu_sama. ♥

[(Anonymous)]

Bzzzt, wrong! I have no clue who those people are, if that helps!

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

Hmmm... Ele5? Reddwarfer?

[(Anonymous)]

Nope! ^_^

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

Hmmm. Ego-chai? :D???

[(Anonymous)]

Nope! :D

[(Anonymous)]

It wasn’t that he’d purposely closed himself off from the world. It wasn’t that his emotions, his heart had turned to ice. It was more that said emotions and heart had become rusty with disuse. It was that it’d been so long since he’d had to use his heart, preferring instead to use his head, the path of intellect, and his hands, the path of labor, the path of fighting. Because a heart needed more than an individual will to make it beat with life; it needed others to bring that out of him. He was more of an extrovert than he let on, and he required the interaction with others to feed his emotional soul. And after sensei died, he lost the one person whom he could rely on to keep his heart alive and beating.

He only had one family member besides sensei, but he became as cold and distant as a stranger as he grew older. His father was an emotional wall; he let nothing in or out. The kids at school, well . . . perhaps a result of his upbringing, he had never really learned the social skills needed to make friends. He wasn’t necessarily shy, but rather he didn’t know how to interact; he’d say the wrong things and end up sounding like an idiot, and the fact that he was unique (and not just in a spiritual sense,) made him feel isolated and different.

By the time he was fifteen, his heart had gone into hiding.

The day it awoke was the day his life changed paths forever.

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

wait -- you've got to be Kesiah! ♥! *sparkles at writing*

[(Anonymous)]

nope. :)

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

Hmm. icetears?

[(Anonymous)]

nope. ^_~

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

Ele5?

[(Anonymous)]

nnnnnnnnnope. XDDD

[23crayons.livejournal.com]

It's okay if you haven't finished the package! :D It means a lot that you're going to send something, already, so. :D You don't have to write anything~

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

You sure? D: I could still write something if you wanted. Or I could upload a few songs :D ♥

[23crayons.livejournal.com]

If you want to! :D Uhm, if you want to write something... Golden Pair/Sap/"One time at tennis camp..." |D ♥

[(Anonymous)]

He walks to the store, head down, hands in his pockets. Everyday that blocked seems to get shorter. He opens the door (and he's long since stopped cringing at the sound of the bells, stopped jumping and learned to smile) eyes set on isle three: bread. Then isle 6: spaghetti and sauce. The produce section was last: two apples and an orange (cosmic mismatching that he's never had the strength to break).

Done. The cashier doesn't bother to ring it up, just sets everything carefully in a bag (she's always so gentle) and he gives her the correct change and leaves. She trusts him. He buys the same thing everyday.

Doesn't need any of it.

There are still five loaves of bread in his kitchen. There is a pile of apples and oranges beside his bed (cot... sleeping bag... whatever). No, he doesn't need any of it. But it's the repetition. It's the repetition that keeps his heart beating, keeps his blood squeezing through his veins and his lungs working.

So he looks forward to his trips to the store, to normality. Because if the walk to the store seems short, the walk home seems shorter.

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

Kenzi! :D ♥ (love for the writing, by the way)

[(Anonymous)]

It was summer that she wandered in, windblown. Clenched in her fist was a half-eaten peach, its insides soft and smearing all over her fingers. Juice ran down her chin. There was mud between her toes, caked in cracked heels, and mud on the tiles wherever she walked.

Grass stains adorned her dress; you could tell it used to be white, the sort of thing one wore to church. She looked like she'd been out climbing trees and picking flowers, dancing barefoot in green fields.

Typically, you were charmed.

[(Anonymous)]

totally not lily, here, but I just wanted to say that that was gorgeous. :D

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you. ^___^

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

Wait, I know! You're d_i_!

[(Anonymous)]

Nope~ You aren't having very much luck with these, are you? XD;

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

Hmm. Ego-chai? And no, I'm sucking like a two-bit hooker XD

[(Anonymous)]

Wrong again. XD;

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

Wait-- I know! KATE! :DDDDD!

[(Anonymous)]

Maybe I didn't try to be myself hard enough. ^___^; If it helps, you guessed me for someone else's entry. XP

[(Anonymous)]

It was one of those days, she thought, when the sky seemed bluer than tiles on the kitchen walls and the grass seemed greener than the potted plants at the office, and she could always see llamas and icecream cones in the sky. She would sit by the window and make cinnamon rolls for breakfast the next day, and the walls would have no shadows and the room would be so bright and warm she could taste the cinnamon in the air before she even started making the rolls, like the room knew her well enough that on a day this beautiful, it would be time to bake. The cinnamon rolls, after they were done, she left in the oven to keep warm overnight, so that in the morning, when the air was chilly and the sky grey, the cinnamon still tasted like sunshine.

[measuringlife.livejournal.com]

icetears? :D!

[(Anonymous)]

You'll get this one, easy.

~~~~


Three weeks after the flooding started the water had receded, a team of civil engineers had gone through the school to determine it was still structurally sound and classes were back in session. The halls smelled a little more strongly of mildew than they had a month ago, and the number of lights that flickered and died on a daily basis was up by twenty, but most of the students found nothing truly more objectionable than it had been before the floods.

Then they started finding the frogs.

The first one was a subdued green colour over most of its body and maybe as long as an eighth grader’s palm. It hopped right onto the middle of the overhead projector while Mr. Leason’s back was turned and had hopped off the other side and out of sight by the time he spun around to see what all the yelling was about. Surya began paying more attention and sleeping less after that.

Frogs two through seven were found within fifteen minutes of each other in locations all over the school. They were all smaller than the first frog but similarly plain in colour. Two were confiscated from a pack of tenth graders Ms. Eckle had found camped on the roof and licking the poor creatures. Surya was unsurprised to hear either that such a circle had been formed or that the frogs were the wrong kind for the students to get anything out of it but a bad taste in their mouths.

Three days after classes resumed Dr. Barl opened an overhead cupboard to get a beaker and was met with a literal rain of frogs the size of his first knuckle and every colour from orange to grey and back again. The school sent everyone home and closed its doors pending a pest-assesment by unknown contractors.

Surya pulled out a pair of dark glasses and slid them on. “How’d you do it,” he asked.

Her own dark glasses already in place Yallen grinned at him. “Do what?”

”The thing with the frogs.”

Yallen shrugged. It made the zippers on her jacket chime quietly. “As long as you can’t prove it, Surya, I didn’t do anything at all.”

“Right,” he said, and they started walking away from the school. Surya thought he heard croaking. “If you disrupt my entrance placements I’ll eat your lizard.”

”That’s sweet, but I don’t have a lizard.” Yallen was unfazed.

“I’ll buy you one and then eat it.”

“Thanks, lunch sounds good.”