Devaro was the only name anyone ever called her. Rosy didn’t go over well. Rosemond—what were her parents thinking, really?

Devaro was not a remarkably loud person. She wasn’t ugly or anything, but while she knew everyone, nobody really noticed her. They were friendly with her, sure, but never really noticed her.  She had friends, wasn’t the leader, wasn’t the one everyone forgot about. She wasn’t a punk or a Goth, didn’t do drugs, was the designated driver at parties.

She had normal colored hair—the sort which hasn’t got enough brown for brunette, isn’t pale enough to be blond. She had these dark striking brown eyes, which seemed to stare straight into your soul. That was the most abnormal thing about her, those eyes. Also the way she dressed.

She wore skirts almost every day, long and dropping below her knees. They were mostly attached to vintage dresses. She wore a leather jacket whenever it got cold, and beat up tennis shoes nearly every day of the year. Her hair was always in a bun stabbed through with hair sticks.  Her nose was liberally splattered with freckles, but she never covered them with makeup or wore makeup at all. Her ears were pierced, but she seemed to forget and never changed her earrings more than once a month.

But I still liked her. We came from entirely different circles, but when most of my closest mates were sick or not there, I’d sit down at an empty table and five minutes later she’d sit down beside me, and open a lunch box. Her lunches were artistic. Her sandwiches were always whole wheat, never any cheese, but tomatoes and lettuce occasionally made an appearance with the day’s meat. She brought plenty of food, and would feed me whenever we sat together, whether I had lunch with me or I’d forgotten. She would bring turnovers and yummy fruit, and homemade candies and simply marvelous cookies she’d made herself.

I’d talk my mouth off and she’d listen. She was a good listener.

When I’d talked myself out, whined about parents and friends and nonsense, she’d talk to me in that lovely, soft voice she had. She’d definitely be an alto, if anything; her voice was low and husky and musical, and I liked to listen to it.

She’d talk about this sunset she’d seen, about other existential stuff. She almost never talked about home life other than to mention one of seven siblings. She loved traveling, that I learned.

I invited her to come hiking Europe with my family one summer. She loved it. My parents liked her far better than my crew.

But we never talked about her life. So I hardly knew what to think when, first month of senior year, the teacher announced that Devaro’s dad, who’d been in the military, had died that morning of a stroke.

Devaro called me that evening—when I gave her my number, I have no idea—and all I heard was this ghastly sobbing gasping sound. I knew who it was without asking.

“The weeping willow by the stream. Meet me there, okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” She managed.

She was staring out over the water when I got there. She stared up at me, and suddenly flung herself into my arms. She was so fragile and I’d never even known it. I didn’t say anything. I just held her, and it seemed to help.

She left a few months later. Her mom wanted to move and make a fresh start. Devaro had plenty of credits to graduate, so she did. She told me she was going to college and gave me an address.


Devaro went into the army, from what I heard.

Or rather, I knew, because however bad of a correspondent I was, Devaro was fantastic. Weekly updates on existential stuff and hilarious anecdotes. Never anything about her, not really.

But one week the letters simply stopped coming. I waited a month, and a whole year, and then I checked the newspapers.

Lt. Rosemond Devaro, died in combat, valiant, honorable death, deepest condolences to the family.

The evening was so quiet, and the birds were chirping when I went out to watch the sunset.



I swear I am working on Something

In no context whatsoever I will drop upon you all a few sentences of what I have been writing. Brace yourselves.

The will-o’-wisp folded her hands and got right down to business. “I’m here, Sir Falcon, because I wish to serve apprenticeship as a sword-wielder under you, and I’d like very much to start now.”

Falcon’s main apprentice, who was in the room with them stowing Falcon’s gear, stopped and stared at the child like she was out of her mind.

(Because who needs context, right folks?)

Funny Poetry Take II

Another one of my iambic verses, about my little sis. My older sister used this on her tumblr, if you’re seen it before. Lik the Bred!

A cuddli child

I happen to be

and so for hugs

friends come to me.

but you should know

for caution’s sake

do not stand

between me and cake.

Thank you all for the amazing love and attention you’ve been giving me. Your comments and likes really make my day!

Over the Edge of the World

The fire flickers, and the light on your wings wavers.
I have a bad habit of staring at them until you catch me.
You don’t actually scold me when you do.
You just look
a little amused
a little reminiscent
a little confused.
You’re standing at the window, gazing up at the stars.
Let’s go out and watch them, you say.
Why, I ask.
Because it’s clear out tonight, you reply.
You catch sight of my dubious expression.
You creep closer.
Please, you beg, staring up at me through your eyelashes.
I hate you, I say.
We’ll get all wet, I say.
We’ll fall asleep and be outside all night.
But I’ve already given in, and by the enormous grin on your face
you know it.
After all, I’d follow you over the edge of the world.

I know I have an obsession with wings. It’s a problem.

The Starfleet Files: Ky

What would happen if you woke up and someone told you that the person you are lived a thousand years ago? What if you spoke a different language from what everyone else spoke? What if you had watched your best friend die months ago and people told you they had died so long ago that everyone had already forgotten?

Dear Someone,

I don’t know who I’m writing to, and I don’t know who this letter is from. I don’t know where I am, and where I’m going is a mystery to me. I barely even know where I’ve been. About a six months ago, for me anyway, Ky Rogers (that was me, I’m almost sure) was sent on a mission. Two months ago, I woke up in a bed that wasn’t mine, smothered with blankets and freezing cold.

I have no memory of going missing in action. But that’s what they tell me happened to Kylee Rogers, or as they call me now Krillian Rogherson, over a thousand years ago. They say Krillian Rogerson was a hero. I go back and look at it, and I’m laughing and dying inside when they say that. They’re lying. Gillim died. I can’t forgive myself for that.

They try to tell me that there’s no way  I could possibly be Ky Rogers, seventeen and a half, fresh off the cadet list of the Starfleet Academy, Star Alliance’s finest, every mission successful, perfect record, disappeared and utterly gone, and I’ve almost started to believe them. The part of me that is still crisp Lieutenant Kylee Rogers is swiftly disappearing and dying, and I need to tell you this story. Please remember. Please don’t let me die. I need to live. I need to make things up to Gillim. Please just keep listening.

I understand if you can’t help me.

Thank you anyway.

(Besides, I have the feeling my story is going somewhere bloody important. I think you might want to know about this.)

Yours Sincerely,

Lieutenant Kylee Roslind Rogers, Class of ’38, Star Alliance, MIA


And so it begins.

Authoring nonsense

Seriously, though, you guys would not believe how much I want to put glasses on the civilian version of my character Arven and make her into a teacher.

“Anyone here who has a brain, raise your hands. Okay, like wow, ALL of you have brains! That’s very impressive. That’s going to make teaching you science so mch easier. Because that’s all you need for science and math. Well, and some paper. Probably a pencil. A calculator maybe? And a science lab to blow up.”

ANd THEN I could put civilian Vivian into her class.

(Vivian’s kinda the sarcastic snarky angstless superhero kid whose parents know and like actually approve. *kapow, I just blew a couple minds there. Me making up less angsty chracters, who would’ve thunk.*)

Vivian on the superhero asociation she and Arven belong to: “It’s kinda like your ordinary meet and greet, just with more swords and fire and death and blood and ‘bleh I hate my life it’s horrific’ involved. On the plus side, also, way more cupcakes.”

Vivian on the normally absolutely horrible life most superheroes have: “I’m a superhero, just without the carp that most of us go through, like Arven’s life. I deal with way less of the ‘nobody like me everybody hates me I’m going to eat some worms.'”

Arven’s kinda scary when she’s not being a civilian so one of  the filterless superheroes makes her angry and is like ‘I’ve made the Sparrow Hawk angry and survived I am the man’ and Arven says this: “You have all the brains of a squashed termite.”

(This is really rambling, my computer is still down and all that junk, but thanks SO much for all the amazing support and love I have gotten, you don’t know how much that means.) Also, thank you for your patience and forbearance and God bless!

I Also apologize for any misspelling or terrible grammar, I’m doing his on my tablet, which is not very reliable.Have a great summer!

Life happened! Aa!

So. If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been for the better part of a month, I haven’t procrastinating, and I haven’t been dead.

My computer has been dead, and still is, so my posting activity will continue to be abysmal for a while. I’m so sorry about this, guys. Not just for you, for me, because I haven’t gotten to write so much since my computer has been being a *language*!

I apologize about it again. I might try putting a poem I wrote up soon, but it’s gonna be slow until we can either get the computer fixed or get a new one and figure out how to retrieve all my files (yes, because I didn’t really realize how serious I was about writing, everything is on the computer and not a hard drive, so please, please keep your fingers crossed and pray I can retrieve the odd 200 thousand or so words of various works I can’t get at right now.) (because it wouldn’t be a tragedy at all if I lost that much work, like two years worth.)

Yeah, I’m still freaking out about it.

Also, please pray for a friend of mine; she just lost her older brother to a motorcycle accident. She lost her father to a heart attack (I think) a couple years ago, so I can only imagine how she’s feeling right now. I hope she’s okay.

Eternal rest grant unto him Oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen.

Anyway, thank you for your patience and prayers and God bless you all, and have a fantastic day.