Clarissa's breakdown [Original Fiction]

sexta-feira, 25 de março de 2011

This small piece is a draft for a scene in the novel I'm writing. I have edited it, heavily, so there's no harm in showing it here, save for the fact that you'll probably find out what a lousy writer I am, but oh well. This is posted as a companion piece to the photos below, the main one being the one that is set in the middle.

As I opened the book a small square of paper fell out, landing face down between my feet. I kneeled and picked it up with my thumb and index finger, as it if was somehow treatening, and turned it around just to be faced with a photo that I knew to be old, at least nine years old.

It was a square photograph, the format I knew to belong to the Hasselblad Ruth had bought when we were still in High School. She had always had a gift for photography, and while I hinted at the possibility of her following that route for a living, she had been just too keen on becoming a doctor.

While I looked down at the image, the memories of that day began to flood my mind. I could remember the precise moment Ruth took that shot. We were at the Hamptons for a week or more, I can’t remember, but I did know it was right after my break up with Matthew and the miscarriage. During that Summer, and while I was enduring the loss of both my boyfriend and my unborn child, I had fallen into a deep, frightening depression that not even Ruth — especially not Ruth — could resolve. So she did the only thing she knew would make me snap out of it: with Jamie’s help, the two of them forced me to go to the Hamptons with them.

After spending the first couple of days in my room, in my — now usual — semi-catatonic state, I finally came downstairs one morning, only to find the two of them sitting at the kitchen table, reading their respective books. They weren’t surprised by my appearance, which I think felt nice at the time, because it was almost as if they knew I would come out of it eventually. As if they had that much faith in me.

I think my only words to them were “I need the field” and then I remember walking towards the door with the two of them in tow, following me silently as I sat on the passenger seat of Jamie’s car. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ruth going back for a second and getting her camera and a film roll. I remember the silence of the ride, filled only with the noises of the wheels against the dirt road and the sounds of the old camera my friend was loading up with film.

The field was an abandoned patch of land in the inward part of the peninsula. As children, we often used it as a playground, picking up wood and leaves from the surrounding area and bulding our forts, making up our own treasure hunts; as teenagers, we used it to smoke pot and make out in our cars, the music pumping as loud as it could be and no one in ear shot. It was our free zone. It was surprising that in that time and age, it still hadn’t been used up for construction, but we took the availabilty of the site as a signal that we should still use it as our safe haven.

I remember Jamie’s look as he stopped the car and turned it off. He didn’t look straight at me, looking outside his window first, as if he was gathering up the courage to say something. The words died in his mouth, though, when I opened my own door and stepped out.

I walked for a couple of seconds, and then I ran. It was a very large piece of land, so I ran for a minute or two, feeling the two of them not too far behind me. I brought my hand up to my face as I started to feel the moisture, and realized I was actually crying. Finally.

What I remember the most about the time this picture was taken was the mixture of feelings, the sense of grief and relief at the same time. I hadn’t cried yet. Not when Matthew had left, not when I was at the hospital and the doctor had told me the fetus didn’t have a heartbeat. Something inside of me had hardened the night Matthew and I had fought and he had slammed the door on my face, and as I ran down that field, I could feel that same hardness melting away, dissolving into the tears that were streaming down my face. I know I stopped, I let my head fall back and I took a deep breath. That’s when I heard the click. The shot was taken.

I know I cried for a while. I screamed like I had never screamed before, I felt the pent up anger and the disbelief at what my life had become seep from me in the form of sobs, of yells, of breaths that just wouldn’t come out of me unless I forced them out. And when I was finally able to look back, I saw that Jamie was crying as well, but Ruth wasn’t. I saw something in her in that moment, something that I recognized as victory. Now that I had cried, she knew how to deal. She knew what she had to do to make me better. And as I saw my relief mirrored in her eyes, I let myself fall down and look up at the sky. It didn’t take two seconds until I felt Jamie laying down on my left side, and Ruth on my right.

Ruth lifted and twisted her torso so that she was looking at me, her body leaning on her elbow. She touched my nose with her index finger. “We’ll take care of you now, Sissa.” she promised “You’ll be alright.”


terça-feira, 11 de janeiro de 2011

I have a feeling very few people ever came here, and since I haven't posted in about a year, I imagine this place is pretty much abandoned. It's alright; in fact, it's perfect.

I haven't written in months.

It started with not being able to finish NaNoWriMo — not even being able to get past the second week! — and it went on from there. I had no story, my characters were one-dimensional, the plot was as full of holes as a big block of cheese and it was going nowhere. I don't blame it on anyone; it was just bad. I had to come up with a story after spending three weeks in bed, crying like a child over a breakup so bad (and self-provoked, I know) that ended up stripping me of one of my best and closest friends, and the death of a family member; the first I ever witnessed. So I didn't have a plot, or a decent set of characters. Hell, even the town it happened in was made up, because I just wasn't in the mood for research.

I have always seen writing as a form of catharsis. When my relationship with K came to an end, almost a year ago, I wrote about it like a mad woman. When the debacle with the other girl happened, I wrote and wrote and wrote. Writing, even more than photography, has always served as my way to exorcise my demons. But this time I was so broken, so shaken up, that I wasn't even able to write about it. I photographed myself, a lot — which I don't think was all that positive, since it was a small exercise in self-indulgence, instead of a way to let go of the situation. Partly, I think that's why it's taking me so long to let go of an issue that should be long gone — I never put it down on paper.

I'm not going to do it now — I'm still not ready, even though it's been almost three months. But the fact that I have acknowledged it is a start for me. And the simple act of writing this down, right now, this rant about how unable I am to deal with things in a proper manner, is taking a gigantic weight off my back. My only fear is that I might be like Almasy, in The English Patient movie (was this line in the book as well? I can't remember) "Every night I cut out my heart, but in the morning it was full again." That I might write and write and write and never take it out of me completely.

Still, it's worth a try.

I have a couple of characters I've been working on since the beginning of last summer. Frankie is one of them. I thought I had found my new Clementine in her, but so far that's not right. Frankie is stranger than Clementine (and Clem is unbelievably strange), more of an artistic soul. But how to take her and make her real? I know I tend to bring the characters I like closer to myself, to the way I perceive myself to be, but I'm afraid this might not be the right way with Frankie. I tried using my photography to make her real, but I couldn't. She's too much of an individual to be mixed up with me. And let's be honest, halfway through the process I found more interesting things to do, and gave up on her. The last time I wrote about her was in Cape Verde, in September.

I have a couple of ideas. A couple of plots where I could insert her, but she doesn't seem to perfectly fit either. They're not strong enough, and they're not fragile enough. If this makes any sense. She's the kind of girl who likes The Smiths (decision I made the other day, while looking at the notes I have on her). She's the kind of girl who will dance in the middle of the street. She's innocent and distant at the same time; as if she knew that only madness can come out of love, out of giving yourself completely. And I kind of want to give her a better-half — in the same way Clementine has Julian, but I don't think she's ready for that. The thing is, Clem has had Julian all her life: they knew they were soul mates from the moment they met, when they were eleven; they didn't act on it until almost ten years later, but deep down they knew.

I feel like I have to free Frankie (Free Frankie! LOL) from the concept of a soulmate. She might have one, she might find the one (boy or girl — and while for the first few months of conceiving her I thought it would be a woman, now I'm more inclined towards the boy counterpart), but it will be later. She will be in her twenties, mid to late. Still, I need those people she knows she can rely on; the family, blood-related or not. I don't know. I have so many contradicting notes on this character, it's not even funny.

Maybe I shouldn't be writing this here; it might be too public. I don't know. I figure I had to do it somewhere, and this is as good a place as any. Besides, all four of you who read it (thanks, lovelies!) are people I trust, so it's fine. Even if people from the outside come out, what's the harm in this? All I know is that I feel better. So thank you, if you read this far.

In the Garden [Prompt #69: Bitter]

quinta-feira, 4 de fevereiro de 2010

Title: In the Garden
Rating: PG13
Status of the list: 3/100
Prompt used: #69 - Bitter
Author's note: I wrote this a while ago, when I was in the midst of an emotional thunderstorm and needed an outlet. This piece is overly emotional by definition and really sappy in some parts, but it was good for a catharsis.


In the Garden

It’s a beautiful day, when every weather forecast predicted rain. The sun is shining and the clouds that you saw yesterday are now more seldom by the hour. You grin as you climb up the stairs to the white porch, and the small woman on the phone by the door greets you with a nod.

(is she really busy organizing things, or is she on the phone with a friend, telling her how rude the bridesmaids are, how drunk the best man was this morning, or how unsufferable the mother of the bride is?)

You nod, forcing your awkward side to stay inside your chest instead of crawling out of your every pore.

Are they

Yeah, go on in. the woman nods and as you buy time to thank her, you try desperately to remember her name. It’s something with a V. Vanessa. Virginia. Valerie. You can’t remember.


You push the door and walk into the house, closing the door behind you and leaning against it for a moment before you continue.

(You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be the one upstairs, being pampered, prepared, laughed with, instead of laughed at.)

Your aunt appears around the corner, her blonde hair tucked in a generous amount of hair pins and rolls.

Is Sandra out there?

(Sandra. You would have never gotten there.)

Yeah, I think she

Good, I need to talk to her.

Your aunt approaches the door and you straighten your back immediately, your skin missing the warmth of the wood. Your aunt opens the door and goes out, closing it behind herself.

The stairs are in front of you. First step, second, third. You end up running just so you don’t have to face the long walk up, the thoughts of despair and pain that you’re sure it would bring. The room is the first on the left, and you can already feel the lavender scent that seeps from the bride’s closet, where the dress lies.

They’re all bundled around her and as you walk in, she runs to you, her robe half undone and a wide smile on her face.

(you wish you could die. right then, so you wouldn’t have to face it all. the pride and joy of the parents, her smile as she sees him in the altar, the happy roar that follows the kiss. but she’ll never know, and you’ll never tell, and that’s all it’s always going to be.)

Abbie, you’re here! Amy and Jenna and Sarah were just telling me

Come and sit, Jess!

They were just telling me I should wear my hair up, but I want your opinion and

You’re beautiful either way, really. But let’s see

Come on, Jess, sit down!

Jessica obeys Sarah, one of her bridesmaids, and sits on the chair again. She’s beautiful, luminous, certain of a future so bright she can’t even look at it with bare eyes. You stand behind her, your dress still in its case in your arm, hanging like a dead cat. There’s no comparison. She’s the pretty one, you’re the strange cousin who will never get married for reasons no one will ever know.

(How would she react if she knew, really? Would it break it up? Would it make everything alright?)

You hold her hair up and then down, and all the bridesmaids stare at you. You hold it up again.

I say down. You have such great hair.

Her phone rings, and you recognize the custom ringtone. It’s him, of course, and she laughs like a child. She’s not supposed to talk to him before the wedding, it’s bad luck. Sarah takes the phone and throws it at you.

That’s a job for the maid of honor.

You can hear the resentment in her voice as you hold the metal phone in your hand. She was supposed to be the maid of honor, but to everyone’s surprise, Jess chose you over her. You’ll never know why.

You open the cap and put the phone to your ear. You try not to react as he speaks.

Hey sweetheart, I’m

It’s Abbie.



Hi, Abigail.

(Why does he have to be the only one to call you Abigail? Your own name becomes unbearable to you.)

She can’t talk. You know that.

I need to see you. I was going to ask her.


Come downstairs. The garden is free. We can talk.


Please, Abigail.

(You hear it in his voice, you hear the years and the youth and the promises whispered in your ear. You’re mine, you’re going to be mine forever, we’ll marry and have babies and)

Please come meet me. She has the rest of them to help her.



Jess is staring at you when you hang up, a curious expression in her face. You shrug it off.

He says he needs some help with ties or something. I’m going to go meet him.

But you have to

The girls are here to help you, sweetheart. My hair and makeup are done, I just need to get in the dress before the ceremony.

But you promised

I know, I’m sorry.

You lean against her and place a kiss on her forehead. You feel like Judas. She smiles and you turn around to leave the room.

He’s in the garden, waiting for you. He’s still wearing his jeans and t-shirt, no signs of the tuxedo he’ll have to wear for the wedding, or of the grease he’ll oint his hair with to try and tame it.

(He’s still the kid, the boy who knew too much, who loved too much, who felt too much.)

He turns around as you enter, and you look to see if there’s really no one around. He smiles and you feel the need to hold yourself up against something. You don’t, you can only look away and pretend you’re not affected in the least by his voice or his presence.

Thanks for meeting me, I’m

You’re getting married.

Yes, I am. Quite soon, actually.

And not to me, which is the strangest thing.




I’m sorry.

(You caved and allowed your heart to speak through your mouth. What a wrong, wrong thing to do)

What did you want to talk about?



No. Yes. Us.

There’s no us.

There was.

But there’s not anymore. You’re marrying my cousin.

I’m well aware of that.

Alright then.

(There’s a pause, a pause too long for you to bear and for him to stand quietly. There’s no right thing to say. You two have hurt each other so much, so deeply, and yet loved each other so fiercely, with such strength, that it becomes impossible not to believe you’re linked forever.)

Where are you going?

Upstairs. Jessie needs to get ready and I



Stay with me.

(His request is oh so pleasurable to you, but you know you can’t. Still, you want to.)

I can’t.

Why not? It’s not like we’re doing anything or

It hurts.


It hurts too much, Sebastian.

I know. It hurts me too.

Then why are you marrying her?

(Time stops. You count your own intakes of breath, they’re the only way you have to keep track of time, of reality. They ground you, like a rock that drags you to be bottom of a lake. You’re tied by the air that you breathe, and you can’t leave the place you’re in.)


(He speaks and you stop breathing. God, why do you put yourself through this?)

I didn’t mean

Yes, you did.

Yes, I did.

You stop counting your breaths when you realize he’s walking towards you. There’s a pause, right before he reaches you, and you stop breathing for a moment. And then it happens. His lips touch yours and your tongues entwine instantly. There was never a halfway with the two of you, you went from slapping each other’s faces to a full-blown make out session.

He’s there and he’s kissing you like he used to when you were seventeen, and suddenly, for just a minute, your world makes sense again. His hands come up to your back, to your neck, to your breasts, and you allow it, you let him feel you and taste you and lick you while you kiss him with fervor. There was never a halfway. There was only passion, raw and primal passion, the kind that doesn’t let you breathe.

You kiss and kiss and kiss and you’re not sure of how much time has passed. All that you know is that you’re still in the same place, that his tongue still tastes like chocolate and tobacco, and that his arms around you still feel like home.

He’s getting married, and that thoughts sets your emotions free in the heat of the moment, and you’re crying and kissing him and feeling his hands on you and

I love you.

You can’t believe your ears. It hurts more than it should. It’s like someone just wrapped a finger around your aorta and pulled your heart out. You kiss him again and he kisses back, and you realize that the salt you have on your face isn’t just from your tears, but belongs to him as well. He’s crying too.

I love you.

It’s your turn to say it.

I love you and I miss you and

God, I missed your mouth and your taste and your eyes

I love you. I never stopped loving you, even when you

I want you so badly that I can barely

We can’t do this, we’re not allowed, I'm not capable of

God, I missed your mouth.

You’re both crying so hard that none of your sentences make sense. The kiss subsides and you stay still, your foreheads touching, while you sob like children, like you used to. He was never afraid of emotions, and the day you realized that was the day you started loving him. You must have been about ten years old, then.

It takes a minute. You know you have to do it. You lean in and kiss him once, softly, tenderly, lovingly.

You’re the love of my life, but you belong to her now.

He looks up at you and then to the side.

I'm yours. I was never hers.

You nod. You need to leave. If you stay one more minute, you know what he’s going to say and you don’t want to hear it. You’d say yes. You turn around and start to walk away.


Your entire name again, and you’re sold. You turn around once more.

Why didn’t we work, Abigail?

You shrug. You’ve been asking yourself the same question for years. And of course, you know the answer.

We loved each other too much.

Is there such a thing?


You smile as you say it, and he smiles too.

It burns.

You walk away.


They’re up there. The grass is green and the chairs are white, and everything around you is pure beauty. Everyone’s happy, everyone has a smile on their faces, and you stand at the altar behind her, ready to assist her every move. None of it makes sense, but his eyes when he looks at her, his eyes are also looking at you, and you know she’ll never have him all to herself.


Everyone’s dancing and singing and having fun on the dance floor. You’re sitting, and you see him. coming up to you. He wants a dance. You say no, but you get up anyway. He takes your hand and pulls you to the dance floor, and as a slow begins, you two get closer together. Jess is dancing with Sebastian’s best friend. You look each other in the eye and you’re suddenly afraid that everyone might see the power that the two of you generate.

It’s done.

He says, and you look away.

We had it good, Sebastian.

I know we did, Abigail.

And now I’m leaving.

He stiffens, and you force him to keep moving.


Nowhere. Everywhere.


You’ll be alright, Sebastian.

You don’t tell him the truth. You don’t tell him that you’re doing what you’re doing because you can’t bear the thought of your cousin bearing his children.




Because I love you, and you love someone else.

You say it naturally, as natural as that is. It’s natural for you to love each other. It has always been.

I told you. I love you.

You married her. I’m not going to make her unhappy.

God, Abigail.

You force him to look you in the eye and you smile sweetly.

This dance will be the last time you see me. Tell me everything you want to say.

He takes a deep breath and looks straight at your eyes. You get lost for a moment, in the green and golden dephths of his gaze.

I want to say that no matter what you feel from now on, you are loved. You are loved like no one else has ever been.

He pulls you closer to him and speaks in your ear. You can hear him smile through the words.

My heart. It's yours, Abigail.

I love you too, Sebastian.

You leave him on the dance floor, and as your fingers part, you feel the rush of love you felt the first time you kissed.


The river isn’t too far away from the party, but you know a part secluded enough that no one will ever see. You walk in slowly, sit on the margin and smile. The sun is up and the air is cold, and as you lay down you think of the kisses stolen in the nights you spent here as children.

You let the water cover your face and smile one last time, before you breathe with your mouth open. And then everything is light again.

Five [Prompt #14: Table]

Title: Five
Rating: PG13
Status of the list: 2/100
Prompt used: #14 - Table
Author's note: My afternoon.



You’re the first to wake up, as usual. You open your eyes and lazily turn your head to look at the window, the realization that it’s day already filling your mind. You can get up now, a new journey has begun.

As you exit the room, you are forced to tiptoe around the bodies lying on the floor. You stop when you reach the door, pausing your every move just to hear the sounds of even breathing that fill the room, the light snore from the one sleeping on the bed, the slow turn of the one sleeping on the floor in front of the closet. You smile and a giggle almost makes its way out of your throat, but you manage to cover your mouth. The day has started for you, but not for anyone else.

The kitchen table has always been your favourite place in the house. You come here for weekends, holidays, vacations, and every time you wind up at the table, eating and cooking and baking and talking. That kitchen table is the center of the house, the life of the party, the element that cannot be taken away. It’s your point of union with them.

You made your coffee and now you sit, quietly, one foot coming up to stand beside the knee on your chair. You know that you still look like the land of dreams you just came home from, your hair ruffled, your eyes slightly swollen and your expression half blank. It’s not a problem. The sunlight is hitting your face with the force of a waterfall, and you close your eyes to let the sunshine in, to allow it to penetrate your every cell.

(it’s the same as when we were in school together; walking up to them in the lobby, the smell of coffee and cookies and sweets I brought from home.)

The drop in, now, two, then one, then another. The two boys hanging out, talking loudly and walking into the kitchen as they laugh. They both greet you with such smiles, such happy expressions, that it’s almost as if they haven’t seen you in years. One of them comes up behind you and hugs you, pulling your head against his chest, and you laugh quietly, inhaling his scent. The second one grabs your head and ruffles your hair even more, kissing the top of it and whispering “good morning” in a conspirational tone.

(being mocked by the two of them about my work, sitting with them as they ate the sweets I brought from home, and that I was never hungry enough to eat.)

Then it’s her, the girl who is so much like you and so unlike anything you’ve ever seen at the same time. She’s silent, still not quite awake as she sits at the table and allows her head to fall between her arms. You move your hand, place it on her hair and caress it slowly. Her hand comes up and holds yours in place for a moment, and you feel all the warmth in the world filling your chest.

The last one comes in and pushes you playfully, like he has since you were seven and he was ten and you were his sister’s best friend. He helps himself to the coffee and sits besides the girl.

(that afternoon downtown, the laughter as the first of the boys pulled you all up the street and you were laughing like ten year olds, the pure joy of that moment.)

You’re all at the table, and the silence from before is now impossible to achieve. Nevertheless, you couldn’t be happier. For once, everything feels like it’s fallen into place. And as you smile, one of them reaches for your camera, points it at you and shoots.

Dark Room [Prompt #27: Dark]

Title: Dark Room
Rating: PG13
Status of the list: 1/100
Prompt used: #27 - Dark
Author's note: This small piece is the rewrite of a story that I started when I was 18, about an adulterous woman who gets pregnant, and the child is her lover's. I only wrote about 10.000 (rather bad) words on it and let it go, but it was the first thing to come to my mind when I read through the prompts.


Dark Room

The first thing he sees as he opens the door to the darkened room is a light. The small point, the tiny proof of her existence, right there in front of his eyes.

(she was always accompanied by a carton of cigarettes)

The moonlight that comes through the window doesn’t let him see a lot more; he can only discern the shadows of her face, with the full lips he so lovingly likes to devour, the slightly upwards-tipped nose that he adores so much. There’s not one detail in her face that he doesn’t like, and he finds himself searching for her face in the darkness, wanting to see it all, worship it for just a moment.

(the sunlight coming through that same window, his hands around her face as she laughs like a child, dimples on her cheeks and her eyes almost closed. picture perfect)

And then he sees tears and becomes unable to move, his body paralyzed by the door as she pulls the smoke form her cigarette vigorously.

I’m going to have to give this up.

What? No. He doesn’t move, his muscles so tense that he expects them to rip apart at any moment.

Whose child is it?

(it’s all he can ask, and it’s so little. but still, it’s the logical question)

She laughs quietly, and as she turns her face towards the window, he can finally see her profile against the light. She looks even more sovereign when seen like that, while he feels more and more like a young man, a child who has just been told the world is about to end or to begin, no one is sure.

It’s not Henry’s, that’s for sure.

One muscle, then two, then the whole leg. One step towards the chair as he drops his coat and his briefcase. A couple more steps around the bed and he’s in front of her.

(the day they met, the ice cream on her hand and the sight of her wedding ring. oh, she’s married, but then she’s in his bed and he’s not sure of what has happened. all he knows is that he’s glad that he can hold her and feel her and smell her)

His hand takes the cigarette from her mouth, and she doesn’t protest. He takes a small glass of water from the table and drops it inside as she watches intently, and suddenly there’s no turning back.

She takes his hand and brings it to her face, as she turns to face the moonlight.

I hope she has your eyes.

Prompt List

Here they are, my prompts! Oh, and they'll have, in some cases, photos associated with them.

001. Disease
002. Bathroom
003. Delirious
004. Autumn
005. River
006. Sunset
007. Relief
008. Silence
009. Night
010. Cry
011. Fair
012. Allergy
013. Death
014. Table
015. Early
016. Criminal
017. Play
018. Numbered
019. Fun
020. Full
021. Pack
022. Taste
023. Bleach
024. String
025. Flu
026. Court
027. dark
028. Succeed
029. Truth
030. Lies
031. Business
032. Deception
033. Enter
034. Leave
035. Sneer
036. Gun
037. Office
038. Enemy
039. Father
040. Bastard
041. Furious
042. Accident
043. Joke
044. Benign
045. Insult
046. Call
047. Bonus
048. Inside
049. Outside
050. Trip
051. Hand
052. Lock
053. Trust
054. Drugs
055. Trip
056. Smoke
057. Test
058. Survive
059. Hang
060. Commit
061. Polish
062. Brave
063. Cheeky
064. Rough
065. Struggle
066. Relocate
067. Misguided
068. Scatter
069. Bitter
070. Sweet
071. Aim
072. Lost
073. Confront
074. Forbid
075. Disaster
076. Creature
077. Organize
078. Elevate
079. Safeguard
080. Emerge
081. Wild
082. Fan
083. Sushi
084. Crash
085. Myth
086. Languid
087. Nocturnal
088. Blood
089. Pitch
090. Stash
091. Burst
092. Rush
093. Limited
094. Grim
095. Beautiful
096. Writer‘s Choice.
097. Writer‘s Choice.
098. Writer‘s Choice.
099. Writer‘s Choice.
100. Writer‘s Choice.


Hey there, darling readers of mine!

Right now, there must be about... one of you. No, maybe two, but no more than that. It's okay, really, because I'm here to write, not to entertain, so you better be ready to read. Oh, of course, I hope it's entertaining, but that's not... yeah, you're right. I'm here to entertain you. That's actually my sole purpose in life.

I'm actually a photographer. Or I'm trying to be, since no one will ever hire me, but again, it's okay. They will someday, and someday I'll be able to live off my craft, but not right now. Still, I like to write. I've always liked writing, so this and photography have been my constants in life. I could not live without my notebooks and my camera. So there. That's me. That's what you get.

I shall be posting fictions I write based on a prompt list that I copied from a few sites. I joined together my favorite prompts and decided to work on them, even though I'm doing it very slowly. Still, I'll give you the prompt list in my next post.

Since I'm a photographer, I'll leave you the link to my photography blog, where you can get in touch with my other work, if you're interested. It's here, on Luminous Photography.

Also, I love comments. I love input and opinions and reviews, so write away!

Anyway, it's wonderful to meet you all... yes, the two of you. I hope you enjoy it here!