words are small

actions are larger

feelings are largest of all.

to know you are safe

to know you are loved

and with you your friends will stand tall;

what a wonderful thing

what a wonderful dream

what a wonderful tale to be told

to know you’re not alone

to know that there’s good

and will be through the days you grow old


Funny Incident because I’m tired

But I have a funny story for y’all. So I got my first hoodie, a black one, to paint it with t-shirt paint with the Nightwing logo (a superhero logo). It looks fantastic and amazing and I feel like a total boss wearing it, but that isn’t the point of this story. I’ve wanted a hoodie for a while because Jack Frost and I kind of want to make a Jack Frost style hoodie with frost threads on it, but that isn’t the point of this story either.

I like, put it on for the first time this morning becuase I just finished it and it’s so warm it’s like getting a huge hug from Dick Grayson.

And I like, show it to my mom and then I’m like “mom, there’s a pocket. I can stick my hands in it. I don’t have to try to stick my hands in my jeans pockets. Mom, there’s a hood.”

And then I’m like.
Wait, I can put my phone in my pocket without it being uncomfortable when I sit down. Wait, I can put my calculator or my earbuds in my pocket. I can have my phone on while I listen to stuff and it won’t do weird things like it does in my jeans pockets! THE APPLICATIONS OF THIS TECHNOLOGY!


So I wrote this after I had read something Ruby Sky ({The Sea Calls Us Home}) wrote and I have no idea what the heck happened.

            There are exactly one hundred and twenty one stair steps down, and five guards on the steps.

            Then there is a passage, exactly forty six strides, bordered on either side by chilly cells, blue faces pressed against metal bars. Through my thick warm clothes I feel the cold; I do not understand how the poorly clothed inhabitants of the cells are expected to survive here. Perhaps they are not. The thought makes me shudder.

            There are guards walking up and down the passage, sometimes striking through the bars at unruly prisoners. I never look at the guards for very long. There is always something in their eyes that unnerves me, and after a few weeks of coming it occurred to me what frightened me about them. Their eyes are dead.

            I turn left into a smaller staircase, claustrophobically small, and I can barely avoid crouching to make myself smaller. These stairs turn on their way downwards. There are twenty nine of them. Six guards on these stairs; one placed every four or five stairs, as if they are so scared of trouble that they need an army to block the stairwell. At the bottom, the four guards direct me to the end of a long hallway—twenty paces long, to stand one and a half paces in front of a single cell.

            Inside are bare stone walls and bare stone floor, neither bedding nor blankets nor glass of water. Part of me whispers that the water would freeze and the glass would shatter.

            She’s lying on the floor, parallel to the door, hands folded on her chest, bare feet pointed and turned into a first position. The image is macabre—her skin is almost blue and almost red, and she only wears a white shift, which touches her knees. She looks like she should be lying in a coffin. Until she moves, there is no sign of life, and her chest does not rise or fall.

            As I come up to the door her chest falls in a sigh, and she turns her face towards the door, and opens brilliant blue eyes. Ice crystals seem to spread from the center, brilliant frost traceries on the top of a lake.

            As usual, I am transfixed.

            She smiles at me, and that’s the part that shatters me. Her smile is a grim, ribald parody of a happiness that I cannot imagine she feels. It is an imitation of life, an intimation that she is still fighting.

            But I know from the guards that she has not tried to escape in more than a month. They are killing her.

            She turns her head a little more to examine the figures behind me. She smiles wider as she sees who they are. “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, my Romeo?” She murmurs. Her musical voice is cracking and faint, like the hiss of sharp nails raked down silk.

            She sits up, fluidly, but slowly, the only sign of how cold she really is. I feel like throwing up as her smile cracks her bruised lip, and a drop of blood drips down onto her dress, where it stiffens with cold. “So kind of you to come and visit me,” She says, staring at me through dark, brush like eyelashes.

            She stands up and walks closer to the bars. Her feet are bleeding.

            Alia cries out behind me, a cry sharp with the way the innocent feel injustice. “They’re killing her!” Alia screams.

            Kris tips her head slightly, a compassionate concerned look crossing her eyes and lips. “Be calmed, Alia,” she says, waving a hand. “My state matters not. As you can see, I am yet whole.”

            Alia stares at Kris in disbelief. “What? Kris, you’re frozen!”

            Kris makes one of her delicate expressions. “You’ve finally noticed that? I’ve been frozen for years.”

            Ethelred makes a distressed sound, stepping up to the bars before I can stop him. “Kris, you’re—”

            “Stay away!” Kris cries out, retreating from him with her eyes enormous and her hands shaking. “Don’t touch me! Stay away, Red, or I’ll make them take you away!”

            Alia advances also with a look of confusion.

            “Don’t—” I say, reaching out to catch her wrist, but before I can she reaches through the bars towards Kris.

            Kris screams. Alia is blown backward by a gust of wind into one of the guards, and Ethelred is thrown to the bottom of the stairs. I’m the only one who is still in place, exactly one and a half paces from the bars, hands by my sides.

            Kris’s eyes are enormous as she looks at me. “I told you not to bring them!” She says, her voice shaking with fear. “I told you to let me alone!” Her face is ashen and pale. “I could’ve killed one of them! Arion, what are you thinking?”

            I put out my hands to show they are empty, and slowly, slowly, so as not to alarm or distress her, I kneel. Kris’s hard face softens with pain and she steps forward towards me.

            I put out my hands in a silent entreaty. She comes all the way to the bars; she is trembling head to foot, and so am I.

            She crouches to the floor, trying to meet my eyes, turning her head like a curious doe. I don’t look at her. I try not to look at her anyway.

            The ice inside my chest expands till I cannot breathe, my heart crunching together as the muscles try to contract and expand and beat.

            Kris reaches through the bars, and I feel her pulling me closer, and I know she could kill me now, that if she loses control for one single second I will be dead. I look up to find myself directly at the bars, though I have not moved, and her hands touch my face.

            I force myself not to gasp. Her hands are like super cooled water, ready to turn to ice at any moment. Her face is so very close to mine that I can hardly stand it, and the ice in my heart crunches the cells and starts to shatter them as my heart beats frantically.

            “Arion,” she says quite softly, “I’ve hurt you.”

            I press my lips together and bite them. “No,” I say, speaking to her for the first time today. “I hurt myself.”

            Kris bites her lip and this time I cry out as her lower lip opens, blood pouring out. My eyes fill with automatic tears as she presses one hand to her mouth. “It’s alright,” she tells me, and it’s a lie, it’s such a lie.

            “Kris,” I say. “Kris, stop. Please, just let me help you.”

            Her eyes fill with frozen tears.

            “Please,” I say, and I’m begging her now. “Let me help you.”

            Kris leans forward and I realize that the bars are gone and the guards and Alia and Ethelred are being held back by wind and I could die, but I’m not afraid—and lightly, lightly as a feather, she touches her lips to mine and whispers, “I only wish I could.”

            The bars reappear and I am one and a half paces away from them and she is in the cell, her back turned to me.

            I feel the sharp, sharp bite of defeat in my stomach, growing and looming.

            “Kris,” Alia whispers.

            I stand up and reach towards the bars, but I don’t touch them, I don’t move them, I don’t use my powers at all—“I’m sorry, Kris,” I whisper. Then I turn, blinded by tears, and walk twenty steps down the corridor, collecting Alia and a bewildered Ethelred as I go.

            And I think that was when I started to realize that Kris was going to die.

Flawed and Broken

My words are flawed and broken;

They make no sense to me;

My heart is confused and choked

Beating slow and erratically.


My soul’s in the dark and unsteady

There seems no shelter in this storm

My thoughts are proud and embark

With no light to keep me warm.


But if I would only look inside

I’d find grace is already there

If I’d only look for your presence

I would find it everywhere.


It saturates effervescent moonrise;

It permeates meteoric dawn;

Fluorescent lightning burns like neon;

There is nowhere you are gone.


Though my heart is still wild and uneasy

And though my lips tremble as I sing

I find you in my hardest trials

You are within everything.


I cannot express your presence,

Nor to others can I explain

The way my coward’s heart is marked

Into courage with pen by your name.


How can you tell of the sunrise?

How can you name a dawn?

How can you explain the purple mastery

That in the dark yet lives on?


When a story has not climaxed yet

How can you tell it well?

Or when first flower blooms in quintessential spring

What frail words will describe the smell?


Other poets can somehow tell your praises

When I cannot even write your name.

But when all my heart is bent on you

All I can write is my own shame.


Yet in wondering perhaps I glimpse the truth,

Perhaps I learn what there is to know

Perhaps you aren’t in the big things, the gaudy;

Masterful and perfect cannot capture your glow.


Perhaps it’s the tiny stars burning away

Perhaps it’s the large and failing rose

Perhaps it’s the fleeting and fragile dawn

Which captures a snapshot of your beauty in repose.

A Haunting We Will Go

Disclaimer: Neither I nor the Catholic Church actually believe in Ghosts, (spirits yes, and the Holy Ghost, yes, but Ghosts plural no). This is just meant to be funny and a bit sarcastic. Enjoy.

                The monthly meeting of ghosts, specters, spirits, ghouls and the like was usually held on the first Tuesday of the month, because by Tuesday the work week was getting a little slow for Ghosts. They’d enjoyed the Monday rush and doom and gloom, but by Tuesday everyone was settling back in. There were fewer opportunities for sneaky little accidents, and fewer excuses for moans which could otherwise be blamed on little children who had been forced out of bed early.

                Yes, by Tuesday, the Ghosts were usually quite bored and malcontented. In fact, though the worldwide meeting of Ghosts was on the First Tuesday of Every Month, there was usually a countrywide meeting on the second Tuesday, a territory wide meeting on the third Tuesday, and a very quiet town wide Moan and Groan on the forth Tuesday.

                But this year, the Moan and Groan was canceled, because the last Tuesday of the month of October fell on the busiest day of the Ghost year. Halloween. All Hallow’s Even, if you listened to the older and far grumpier ghosts who disapproved of the short skirts and lipstick and so on.

                Maureen personally though the old ghosts were dears, but needed a little more fun than they usually got, hanging around the St. Thomas’ Graveyard every Halloween, missing out on dancing and booing and generally causing confusion which would later be blamed on masked and unnamed Trick or Treaters.

                So Maureen got together her little convention of ghostly friends, inviting her boyfriend Sam from a country over and her best friend Emily. After hugging Sam and Emily and greeting all the others, she explained her little plan, which met with lots of moan-y little giggles of delight, because the one thing that was better than haunting humans was bothering the older ghosts.

                They got right down to work and missed the territory wide meeting on the third Tuesday because of how doggone busy they were. The Saint Thomas’ School decided to have an impromptu dance on Halloween night, with the promise of scary hauntings and wiggly jives. That might have happened because of a set of papers full of pleas which ended up on the nice old Vice Principles’ desk even though none of the kids ever bothered to write so neatly or nearly so well. The gym, which was incidentally right next to the graveyard, was already decorated with spider webs and bats from the local roost, old maps hanging on the walls and torn sheets curtaining the windows. The startling thing was that the place was already decorated when the Decorating Committee got there.

                The Old Ghosts, who usually serenely walked in minuets and slow waltz on Halloween, were startled by the first strains of Ghostbusters, played so loud it could hardly be ignored by the entire town, let alone the little graveyard beside the gym.

                Yells and screams of excitement broke from tiny throats and rather larger ones as they beheld the wonder that was the gym and Maureen, Sam, Emily, Dorcas, George, Petra, Marsha, William and Tory all yelled “Ghostbusters!” to the beat of the music with unearthly loudness.

                Maureen walked down the stairs of the gym, wearing a torn and bloody prom dress, and completely see through, much to the delight of the children who thought this was an illusion arranged by the teachers to scare them. Emily bared sharp and gleaming teeth. Sam snuck up behind children to grab their shoulders.

                The children screamed more in pleasure than in fear, which of course had been the plan, as ghosts really do prefer to make children happy than scared on Halloween at least. But they made a fearful and mighty noise, which was still better.

                Dorcas danced with one the little kids to keep her from getting scared by the ghostly apparitions through the gym.

                The only people who were actually scared were the teachers, screaming as they saw things which absolutely, no, had not been planned. They called the fire brigade and an old and slightly crazy Irish Priest, who Maureen had met and befriended a while back (but that’s another story.) Upon seeing Maureen, the Priest winked at her and told the teachers that the see through girl absolutely had this under control, and that the little kidlings were quite safe in her care.

                The teachers sort of assumed from there that the priest was responsible for the ‘illusions’, until a very grumpy old lady who one of the teachers remembered as their aged college professor of fifty years ago strolled in and started yelling at the beaming and glowing apparitions on the dance floor.

                The dance dissolved into chaos, yelling and candy eating, and all of the students were dismissed by laughing ghosts who gave them more chocolate than was entirely good for them, and very cold kisses goodbye.

                The students still tell stories about that dance to this day.

                Only their one time teachers believe them.

A Panoramic World

I bleed ink from my eyes in silver tears,

A starburst panoramic destroying my fears,

My heart beats in stories and years and years.


A disconnect between my body and soul,

My body is too young for all the years which I stole,

In trees and in planets I was made fully whole.


My dreams have been dark but my worries are light;

I greet the pale dawn with sweet green delight;

The earth and the heavens are increasingly bright.


I drink up the moonbeams with sugar and tea,

I drink up rain water with the roots of a tree,

I hear rushing voices which must be imaginary

they whisper and whisper ‘read on’.


I am trapped in the words, yet I trapped myself in,

That I might hear the words of my forgotten soul kin

I hope I shall not find my way out till when

I have finally found my way home.

All In

“Who when he had found one pearl of great price, went his way, and sold all that he had, and bought it.” Matthew 13:46

We’ve all heard the story of the Pearl of Great Price, right? There’s a guy who hears about a precious gem, and so he sells everything he has so that he can buy it.

But what does that really mean?

It means that God doesn’t want half your life.

God doesn’t ask for a little piece of you, the parts that are nice to look at, and he doesn’t ask for your good days. God wants all of you, the good bits and the less good, the good days and the bad. God doesn’t want us to only love him halfway.

He wants us to give it all for him. It’s only fair, because He gave everything for us. He doesn’t want to be on the sidelines in our lives. He wants to be there in the thick of things, to support and love us through everything.

What does God mean to you?
What is He worth to you?

What would you give to be with him?

Good news. There is no price set on God.

But like people all relationships, he wants something back. Unlike people, he doesn’t want you perfect. He wants you, the mess of the person you are, regardless of your past misdeeds.

You can’t really worry about him finding out your dirty secrets, because he knows every single one. He loves you anyway.

He’s asking for you to try to be better, but he accepts you as you are.

“And blessed is he who is not scandalized in me.” Matthew 11:6

He asks you to accept him as He Is.

God will be, regardless of whether you accept certain parts of Him or not.

But that’s not the point. He wants you to love him.

To love him, you must know him. You must accept him.

This is where going all in gets hard.

“Many therefore of his disciples, hearing it, said: ‘This saying is hard, and who can hear it?'” John 6:60

It is not easy to accept God sometimes. You won’t always understand him.

Trusting him anyway is really hard.

“Jesus saith to him: Because thou hast seen me, Thomas, thou hast believed: blessed are they who have not seen and have believed.” John 20:29

We haven’t seen Jesus in the Flesh. We cannot hear His voice in our ears. We cannot feel His fingers brush our hair out of our eyes so we can see. In fact, it is impossible to determine from empirical (sensory) information that God is real.

We can determine from logic that there is evidence for God.

We can determine that God may indeed be real.

But the rest relies on something most of us dislike or have trouble with.


When was the last time you wondered how a person would react if they found out some of the things you have done in the past, or if they would like you if they could see your thoughts?

This might even be someone you trust a lot. Someone you’ve seen almost every day of your life.

It can be even harder to trust someone you can’t see.

Doubts creep in, for almost everyone.

Bad days come.

Storms wash us.

We cry for God to save us and we cannot hear him.

What do we do then?

  1. Remember you are loved.
  2. Remember that God is Captain and King and doesn’t leave us to drown.
  3. Pray.
  4. Hope.

The fact is that all in is a hard thing.

I have so much trouble with it.

I withdraw, I make conditions.

I keep disobeying the person I claim as my Father.

I struggle to understand what he teaches.

I get scandalized so easily.

I am forced to accept on trust what I might have trouble agreeing with or believing.

God’s really patient, which is a good thing. I’d kinda be lost, otherwise.

But this year, with my faith, I’m trying to go all in.

Short story

I believe I have mentioned these characters to you before. In leiu of writing them an actual novel, I keep postponing by writing them in short snapshot stories to get their characters down. This features Arvin, a injured Violet, and a confused August.

                The first time Violet gets hurt real bad is a hurried, muddled puzzle of rushed breathing and the smell of blood and Arvin’s gasping scream of what has become Violet’s other name; “Willow!” Then there’s the scrabbling touch of hands across her skin and then gasp of “hospital,” to which Violet chokes “no” to which August swears. Creatively.

                Violet hadn’t known August could swear like that. She’s dizzy and half blind with blood loss by the time they get back to Arvin’s loft, and then she’s lying on the clinical white table while Arvin rips mask and gloves and suit off and washes while August preps her. Then Arvin’s hands are swiftly analyzing every injury and painkiller washes through Violet’s system, leaving her gasping with sensory deprivation.

                Then there’s a gasp of horror and white blinding pain and Violet’s gone.

                When she comes back (sorta, she’s really more delirious than there) she’s only aware of people vaguely, images befuddling her dizzy brain. Touch becomes the best way to separate reality from illusion. Arvin’s touches are very precise, but kind of gentle, aware of every injury. August’s touches are very careful and accurate, pinpointing Violet’s injuries so he won’t accidentally hurt her. Mom and Dad are the same as always; there whenever she calls for them.

                She wonders, absently, when they have time to sleep.

                When she’s really, truly awake, that’s when she starts to wonder if August has any idea of what she looks like. Arvin he probably knows by heart; her body is familiar to him as his own. It’s clear from the way he never has to focus to meet her eyes, how the way he can identify tension in her body and banish it with a single touch or a tender, intimate and yet somehow proper and noninvasive kiss. The two of them are so tangled together that Violet can’t believe they even think they’re only friends.

                Violet thinks that they are soulmates.

                No; she knows intellectually that they are. They are going to get married sooner than later. It is a certainty, like all the equations of chemistry and physics scrambled in her brain after her fever.

                But never mind them. August has no idea what she looks like. He’s her friend and he has no idea of her face. August doesn’t do any unnecessary touching any more than Arvin does. He certainly doesn’t the horribly cliché face touching they do in movies. But he should. Smart as he is, he could piece things together, make a geometric sketch in his head or something.

                (To be fair, she might not have really been all the way over the fever when she was doing this reasoning.)

                She grabs his hand mechanically the next time he’s checking her fever. August frowns. “Anything wrong, Vi?”

                “You don’t know what I look like.” Violet insists; her head hurts like mad and she’s not sure why she’s being ridiculous, but she is.

                August smiles a bit. “I’m sorry.”

                “Nah,” Violet says scratchily around whatever’s in her throat. “Don’ be sorry. C’n you maybe try and see if you can see my face?”

                “My powers?” August says, looking confused. “I’m not sure that’d help awfully much.”

                Violet gets annoyed, and looks at Arvin, helpless to describe what she wants.

                Arvin grins a bit, and the lines of concern relax. “She wants you to touch her face to figure it out.”

                August’s confusion clears a little. “Alright then,” he says hesitantly. “Close your eyes so I won’t poke them, okay?”

                Violet huffs, and obeys. The first place he touches is her eyelid. He probably wanted to make sure he knew where it was. His hands glide over her face like he’s making a map or playing the piano. His hands are softly scarred and his fingers are dexterous and long. His callouses are hard, but not rough.

                He brushes her eyelashes and she can tell he’s smiling like it tickles. “Nice cheekbones,” He tells her.

                Violet laughs, tired and then chokes as her stitches pull. “Ow.”

                “Stay still.” August instructs, and follows the line of her chin to her ears. “Very small. No wonder you never listen to Arvin.” He says.

                Violet sticks out her tongue, and then as August’s fingers retract she snuggles against the pillows and falls asleep.

                They don’t really ever talk about it again.

                It was horrendously embarrassing when Violet woke up and several of the others teased her about it, after all. Apparently, there were unfortunately witnesses. And her mom took photos.

                She wishes she’d been awake enough to check that Arvin and August were the only witnesses. They’re smart enough not to talk about that kind of thing.

                They never do give her those same painkillers, because they kind of make her weird. Apparently, that was not her weirdest demand. They don’t tell her what the others were.

                She’s actually kind of glad about that until she finds the blackmail footage her mom has.

                Suffice it to say that her reaction involves quite creative and rather inappropriate language.

Yes, Violet swears. No I will not tell you what she says.

Love y’all and hope you enjoyed. God bless!

Ocean Girl

poem. Ish.

Ah, well.

A quiet world of fragile images

Aware of me

As I am aware of them.

The sand is moonlit

A thousand pearls shining like a necklace

On the edge of this ocean-girl

Who dreams as I dream

As full of worlds as I am.

Soft under my toes

The sand moves

And the water rushes up to tickle my toes

I fit inside this ocean-girl’s world

And she fits into mine.

Her smile is glass

And sweet.

I miss her when I have to leave.

Thanks for reading! God bless.

The Leibster Blog Award

I was just nominated for this by Autumn over at Scribes & Archers (she’s absolutely amazing just so you know), so Thank you Autumn! It was so sweet of you to think of me!

The Leibster Award is an award passed from blogger to blogger. It is passed to bloggers with less than two hundred followers. Leibster comes from the German and means kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved. You can nominate from 5 to 11 bloggers. The rules for 2017 are here ( Jack Henry).

 My Nominees are Tashah Claymore over at Fantasy Writing Adventures (My poor neglected friend whose amazing stories I haven’t been reading properly because I’m busy and I’m sorry and I really shall read up soon!) She’s very dear to my heart and her writing can be very Tolkienesque. I’m very proud because it’s my fault she started writing again in the first place, so haha haha! Anyway, she’s very sweet and you should all read her stuff. 🙂

Then there’s Rosalie over at coruscantbookshelf  who is fantastic and incredible and amazing and writes mind blowing things like you wouldn’t believe. Short stories and poems which punch you in the gut so hard. She’s also chemistry-y and very smart. Her writing can be a little hard at first to get into, but you’ll love it very quick.

Also Julie over at writingiswonderful whose writing you can always find time for. She writes wonderful six word stories (incredible stuff really) and three line poems chock full of meaning. So amazing. Check her stuff out!

Also sarahtps who I know best because she reads Rosalie’s stuff too. (I don’t really follow enough blogs to easily nominate people because I’m always short on time. Sorry.)

Also Crazy Sprinkle Horse who writes funny cute poetry and stuff. So sweet.

Any of you that wants to can steal the Award from me as well. Feel free to go to town and just run with it.

11 Random Facts about me:
1. I live on tea. Sincerely. I have about four cups a day at least.

2. I should drink more water because that is apparently healthy.

3. I also I like coffee. A lot.

4. I have a ton of school to do right now. Sincerely. A ton.

5. I should be doing it.

6. I just guilt tripped myself into doing some of it.

7. I like petrichor and I love rain.

8. Autumn is my favorite season. I love everything about it. I love the crisp walks, the crunch of leaves, the scarves and sweaters, the opportunity to wear jeans (I love jeans), the pumpkin bread, the sweet cinnamon smells, the bonfires, snuggles in blankets on rainy days…

9. Spring, Summer and Winter pretty much tie for my second favorite season.

10. I’m learning to knit mittens.

11. I make a lot of my own clothes.

My favorite blogger:

Either courescantbookshelf (yes, again,) or writefury who is epic. 🙂 (I don’t read blogs enough. I’m just too busy. for life for anything)

Autumn’s questions: 

Who (other than God, of course) do you look up to?

I look up to my mom. She’s got a bad back injury which gives her horrible headaches which she can’t take painkiller for because that just gives her a worse headache. Also my ballet teachers.

How long would you survive the apocalypse? Justify your answer! (Credit to somebody else for this question (who credited someone else) ’cause it sounded cool)?

Oh wow. Okay. I’m a planner, and I find people to stick together with, so if the apocalypse happened, I would probably pack a bag, take my little sister (at least, probably my whole family) and find a nice defensible position, close to provisions and water, and get my older brother and Dad guns and have them teach me how to shoot? I don’t know. It’s just what I’d do. I don’t know how long I’d survive.

Would you rather have a book signed by your favorite author or an album signed by your favorite singer/band?

Oh I could rather have books signed by my favorite authors (yes. Plural. Can’t pick one.)

Do you like writing prompts or would you rather not use them?

Rather not use them. I like them, but I have too many ideas already.

Who is your favorite superhero and why?

Probably Captain America, because he sees a need and fills it. He doesn’t think he’s going to change the world. He doesn’t do what he does to cope with guilt or to make himself a better person. He just fights to make things better and stands up for what he believes is right without caring what people will think about him because of it.

What is your favorite era? (Medieval, colonial, Civil War, WWI, WWII, ’50s, ’60s, ’70s, ’80s, etc.)

I have to choose? World War II if I had to, because there were so many people doing heroic and amazing things.

What is your favorite play?

I don’t actually… have one? I haven’t actually ever seen a play. I’ve read some of Shakespeare’s, but I don’t know enough to have an opinion.

Give a brief description of an old project you cringe at now.

Terrible cliche star wars fan fiction. All I’m gonna say.

What is your favorite character name? (An existing one, and not one of your own.)

Clara Oswin Oswald

that’s all

i’m really not crying

What would your reaction be if your favorite author read and reviewed your current novel?

Oh I’d be torn between shouting with delight and shuddering with horrified anticipation and fear.

What would your ideal playlist look like?

Lots of Owl City and Sleeping at Last, with some Nickelback, Imagine Dragons, Matchbox Twenty, Fallout Boy, Piano Guys, Coldplay, Of Monsters and Men, Hard Rock (a little) and some eighties and classic rock. A little of everything, please.

My Questions: 

  1. Which book could you read over and over again pretty much forever and never get bored of it?
  2. Which movie could you watch over and over again pretty much forever and never get bored of it?
  3. What is your favorite medium to write in? (poetry, playwriting, prose, freeform…)
  4. What is your favorite artistic medium? (photography, pencil, writing, dancing, sculpture)
  5. Which artistic medium are you best at?
  6. Which is your favorite character in any of the Star Wars Movies? (chuckles evilly)
  7. What do you look for in a friend?
  8. What is your best friend’s best characteristic? (oh goodness Tashah I’m not sure I want to hear the answer)
  9. What is your favorite color? Why?
  10. What is your opinion on perfume? (you can tell me it is evil, yes)
  11. Is modern art really art? (I’m gonna be starting wars with these questions and I don’t even care)

Anyway, thanks for reading, guys, thanks for nominating me, Autumn, and God bless y’all.