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Published on November 17, 2014 01:00

November 10, 2014

The Rain, It Pours ch. 2 – A Forest of Drizzling Rain Fanfic

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Suga was still in the living room when Shiori finally retired to her bedroom. She was sure he was still reading that pink note, over and over and over again, as if something might change if he just kept willing it to. Even he wasn’t confident in his own abilities, and Shiori was already planning on what she would do when they came to take the museum.

Yet, even as she accepted defeat, the note from earlier was still propped up on her nightstand. So, when she turned her head, she was forced to read it over and over again.

‘Please don’t be angry with me.

I have so much I want to say.’

What did he want to say? Why wouldn’t he just say it? Shiori groaned as she covered her face with her hands, trying her best to hide.

“Why won’t you just say it?”

She could just picture him scribbling away in response. Perhaps his next note would have been a sweet, innocent ‘I don’t know how’ or ‘I’m scared of what you’ll think.’ But the more she thought about it, the sillier it all seemed. It would be something cold, probably something short, like ‘Let me think’ or ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Shiori groaned again and scrubbed her face.

And what if he had actually spoken? Her stomach felt just about as knotted as her mind was, and she didn’t think it was all because of the burnt fish. She wished she could go back, relive it, and try again. She wouldn’t have left the table. She would’ve read his notes and responded. There had to be a better way. Something just had to give, and it would have to give fast. Both Shiori and Suga would leave the museum, or… well, she wasn’t quite sure, but if nothing else, Suga would be staying in the museum.

The key was with Suga. He would have to prove that he could be a great host and proprietor, and he would have to interview. Had he ever been in an interview? How did he even get the museum in the first place?

Shiori couldn’t help imagining a silent Suga, alone and having to face life without the basic ability to speak along with the silent, decaying mansion. It was as if they needed each other, really. There probably wasn’t a better match in the world than Suga and the mansion.

Again, a twist in her stomach.

“Of course they’d put him here when no one gave a crap about this place… Why would they need ‘good customer service’ when they had no customers?”

Shiori’s head ached, and she found herself going back and forth between just leaving all together or at least staying to see Suga through. Her heart tugged her closer to the latter, but her mind said run. The problem wasn’t so much his manners, though those could be worked on a bit more, too, but the fact he still wasn’t willing to speak.

No matter how polite his notes were, it was still intimidating to speak to someone who could only write back, especially when you knew he could speak. He just didn’t want to, and that was the most frustrating part.

How could Shiori get him to speak to a bunch of strangers when she couldn’t even get him to speak to her?

Then, she heard it. It was more or less a grunt, but it was a noise, something that usually wasn’t present in the mansion unless she was making it.

Her hands fell from her face, and her eyes immediately went to the door of her room. Was there someone else there, or was it…

Shiori sat up without further thought and rushed out the door, down the hall, and back in the living room where she found Suga, still sitting on the couch. He was hunched over, right shoulder furiously jerking. He had to be writing something. Then he would grunt, his body would freeze, and he’d go right back at it.

Shiori, as silent as she could manage, crept up behind him. Even sitting down, her head barely reached above his. She could scarcely remember as children when she had been just a few inches taller, back when he needed her around to protect him. She physically winced as her heart ached and thrummed in her chest. She pressed a hand, hard against it, hoping Suga hadn’t heard.

Thankfully, he didn’t turn around. So, she took another step forward, then on tip toes, rose up enough to just barely catch the top of a very thorough, haphazardly scratched up letter, addressed to the ‘Mayor and His Committee.’

Shiori didn’t hold back the ‘hmph’ that came up in response.

Suga froze in his writing, then slowly angled his body to face her, hand still poised over the paper.

She crossed her arms, and pursed her lips before asking,

“What are you doing?”

It wasn’t until she asked that question that he took his hand away from the letter and began to dig in his pockets for what she knew was a memo pad. She huffed, then launched herself over the couch, much to the surprise of Suga who even let out a loud grunt.

Her mission was simple: Grab the letter, grab his pen, and make him speak.

Though simple in theory, Suga wouldn’t let that slide without a fight. With surprise on her side, she did manage to grab the letter, simultaneously landing in Suga’s lap, all legs and arms as she struggled to belly slide away. He gripped her by her waist and reached up to grip the other side of the letter. Curse his lanky arms.

She would yank, he would yank. She would yank, he would yank, both crying out in fits of rage and desperation. Ultimately, the paper was the one to give in, ripping until both assailants had an equal piece in their grasps. It was then Suga released Shiori, allowing her to squirm away until she was on the other end of the couch.

Even as she panted and dabbed sweat from her forehead, she was still able to read Suga’s pleas for compassion and understanding. As much as she loved Suga’s kind, gentle nature, it burned her deeply to see him catering to such people.

She shot him a sidelong glance, just quick enough to catch his lip puckered up, and his eyes locked on the ripped, crumbled page in his lap. He might have cried at any moment had he not caught Shiori’s gaze. He pursed his lips, and once again dug out his memo pad. He was going to give her a strong talking-to… or writing-to… or something, but she wasn’t going to have that.

She shook her head.

“Oh no. If you want to talk to me. You’re going to actually do it… you know. Talk.”

Suga’s gaze shot back up to her. He looked surprised and a little betrayed. He took the crumpled note in his hand and shook it at her, as if to ask,

‘Then what the hell was this?’

She sighed and crossed her arms again, that motion growing a bit too comfortable in the past couple of days.

“Do you think they’re going to take your letter seriously?”

He gave her a stern head bob.

“Really? Even though their main problem is that you don’t speak? If you want to beg, at least use your words… prove to them that you can.”

His head shook in response this time, eyes narrowed and lips tucked into a thin line. He was just being stubborn.

Shiori flashed him a smile.

“Fine. If you don’t talk. I don’t talk, and until you do… I won’t be reading, either.”

Suga mimicked her pose, crossing his arms and smiling. If it had been any other time, Shiori might have laughed. If nothing else, she would be making him speak before she left.

He would use his voice.

Next Chapter >

Thanks for reading.

-Lissy

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Filed under: FanFic, The Forest of Drizzling Rain

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Published on November 10, 2014 01:00

November 3, 2014

I have failed, and I’ll probably fail again

“… who, at best, knows in the end the triumph of great achievement. And who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and cruel souls who know neither victory nor defeat.” -Teddy Roosevelt

Being an independent writer, I often times forget that I can fail, and when I do I often have trouble admitting so. It’s not that I don’t like failing… I mean, I don’t, who does? But what I’m getting at is most of the time failing doesn’t bother me. It didn’t used to, anyway. Most of it is because my failings are mostly self-contained. I write a piece of garbage, I read it, and I realize it is indeed garbage. I laugh, then throw it out. Simple as that, no harm done. Well, I recently sent out a few pieces of poetry I thought were decent, if not some of my best, as egotistical and vain as that sounds.

One of the journals was known for giving scathing feedback if they felt a piece was not worthy of the public eye, and out of respect for the journal I will not be posting their name. I knew this, though I was naive to think I wouldn’t receive any. Well, as I’m sure you can infer, I heard back from all journals with all rejections. The ones without any feedback I simply put away in my drawer, but one particular journal, the one which gave hard, scathing feedback, sent me more than just a simple rejection. It wasn’t just one page of feedback, but three.

There were three pages of “trying too hard” and “unrefined,” “unoriginal” and “without a commandment of language.” I was floored. I read each page three or four times, careful to note how many times each of those phrases and words came up. I had never been told these things in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever received that much feedback. I spent the good part of the night just staring at these pages. I felt worthless, and I felt utterly betrayed. Though the betrayal was not toward the journal, more so at my friends, family, and kind strangers or teachers who had told me all the opposite had been true.

I had always been told my work was “original” “well-crafted” and that I had a “talent,” which would ultimately lead to mass success in the future. Had they all been lies? Probably most of them. At my age and with enough rejection letters to re-wallpaper my house, I know I am not God’s gift to the literary world. I’m not the best writer, and I probably never will be. I’d be ignorant and foolish to think otherwise. Regardless, I’ve always had confidence in what I’ve done, that I did have something of a talent. While not perfect, I always thought I had enough that with enough practice I could at least match the greatness found within works by my fellow aspiring authors.

After reading this review? I felt embarrassed, mortified, and that all I had done had been an utter waste. Eventually, I just put the feedback in my drawer and went to bed. I didn’t write another word for three or four days. I no longer felt confident in what I had been working on for so long. What was the point when all of it would result in failure? Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a writer after all.

Then, a close friend gave the above quote as a gift, already framed and ready to be hung on my wall. I was stunned. This quote couldn’t have come at a better time. It was by Teddy Roosevelt, and reads:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

- Teddy Roosevelt (“Citizenship in a Republic: The Man in the Arena” speech delivered 23 April, 1910 in Paris, France)

Now this, just as I did with the scathing feedback, I read over and over and over… Particularly, “who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and cruel souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I had forgotten that failure in itself is a triumph. I did something most people would never do. I faced rejection, and while I still was, in fact, rejected, I still had tried. I had feedback I could utilize to fuel my drive and make my writing better. The only real reason I had failed was because I had perceived my rejection as a failure, when I should have viewed it as a success. I had done something wrong, but I could fix it. I would be cold no longer. I would this rejection to fuel my fire and rage on, in hopes of triumphing and publishing more and more work.

Rejection comes with the territory of writing. It happens, but I must remember that feedback and reviews will also come along… and they won’t always pat my butt and make me feel good. Rejections aren’t failures, they are small triumphs to success.

This quote now hangs above my desk, where I usually read rejections and write my stories and poems. It is a reminder that:

It is only failure when you give up. Keep writing, and keep trying. Don’t ever let your fire go cold, as corny as that may sound.

I hope this post serves as your reminder to never give up, too. Thanks for reading.

-Lissy

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Published on November 03, 2014 01:00

October 27, 2014

The Rain, It Pours ch.1 – A Forest of Drizzling Rain Fanfic

- 1st Chapter -

Next Chapter >

It was a rainy day when he finally sat her down to talk. It had been… how long? It had been days, surely, but perhaps even weeks. A month… who knows? She surely didn’t. Just sitting at the kitchen table, burnt fish on her plate and him mindlessly chopping his up across from her, felt like eternity.

When was the last time it had rained?

She couldn’t seem to recall, and it left a lingering bad taste in her mouth whenever she found her memories empty.

Her sense of time had been stunted sometime ago, and if she could, she would be able to pinpoint the exact moment, but no… that memory had long been washed away by the rain outside, down a drain somewhere in town, never to be found again. Damn, when it rained, it poured. The roof whined from above, and Shiori couldn’t help looking up to watch the drops pound against the metal roof. They would never break through, though never stopped trying.

Then there was a sound of scratching, ripping and a silhouette pulled her attention from the roof back to her untouched ash-fish. There, placed carefully by her hand was a little memo with extremely familiar handwriting. Her eyes shifted up to Suga, but he was already shoving a piece of burnt fish in his mouth, too focused on the contents of his fork to meet her gaze.

Sometimes, he was so quiet, she forgot he was there at all. Her heart squeezed in her chest. She was so glad he was there. She just wished she could remember what his voice sounded like, and if she liked it or not. She thought she did.

Shiori plucked the note from the table,

‘What are you looking at?’

Her face flushed, and she pressed a shy hand against her cheek, soaking the heat from her cheek into her hand, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“The rain…”

This time his eyes flashed up to hers, meeting for an instant with a small, tight smile, then even his white skin flushed pink before his eyes quickly returned to his plate. There was so much she wanted to ask him, but it was so strange to reply out loud when all he would do was write in response.

She longed for a pen, but even more so, she just longed for him to speak. She stared down longingly at her lap where her hands rested with his crumpled note. If only she could remember what all she wanted to say, maybe all of this wouldn’t be so hard.

Another scratching sound, ripping, and when she looked up, there was another note.

‘Why?’

Her heart thumped in her chest and her face was warming by the second. Then, she remembered the rain. How silly. He wouldn’t be able to read her mind, there was no way he could ask her why she had so much to say and why it would be so hard to say it. In all honesty, she didn’t even know what she would say back. Shiori stared for a long time at the paper, trying to come up with a good response, but only silence felt comfortable. She looked across the table where Suga clutched a pen, poised over a pad of memos. He wasn’t looking at her, but the way he stared at the paper, eyes narrowed, forehead wrinkled, she knew he was waiting on her response. So much for “talking.”

With new found frustration, she slid his note off the table and placed it, balled up, in her lap with the other one before picking up her utensils and digging into her own fish. Her eyes rested solely on her meal, but his gaze on her was like a weight. He was surely confused, or maybe just still curious… there was no telling, and he certainly wouldn’t be telling her unless he could write it down. The ash-fish stuck to the roof of her mouth and coated her tongue in a thin film she didn’t think would go away until tomorrow.

She heard scratching and ripping again, but before he could slide it to her side of the table, Shiori picked up her plate, carried it over to the garbage where she scraped off the rest of the fish and set the black smudged plate on the counter. She would wash it later, she swore to herself, but she was terribly tired.

She made it a point not to look at him as she left the kitchen, and went back to the living room… or museum foyer, depending on whether someone were to actually visit or not. It was rare anyone ever did, even though the town was booming with new excavations and history being dug up in the mountains. New things were being uncovered all the time and brought to the museum for display, yet no one really cared to relive the horrors which made the town what it was today. Shiori surely didn’t, but she longed for someone to just share those memories with… to relay everything to someone who might understand and listen. That’s what she really wanted: someone to just listen.

But for now, she was content just listening to her own thoughts. Shiori shut her eyes, leaned back, and allowed her mind to wander, to remember why she had remained at the museum in the first place, and to decide if it was even worth it.

Until, there was a knock on the front door.

Her eyes shot open. Why would someone knock? Sure, it was a house, but it was also a museum. People could come and go as they pleased as long as they were open. Something didn’t feel right.

Her heart thumped in her chest, rhythmic and quick, not unlike the rain on the roof. It rang so loud in her ears, she could scarcely tell the difference. Her eyes flicked to the hallway where she knew Suga was, waiting in the kitchen. Had he heard the door? Would he be as worried as she was?

She waited a few more seconds before another knock sounded, and she realized Suga wasn’t coming. Hesitantly, she stood up and walked to the door. Sweat was beginning to bead on her forehead, and she unsuccessfully attempted to wipe them away only to have more appear in their place. Her damp hands slid as she gripped the door handle and pulled it open to which she found the mayor of the town, pink slip in one hand, umbrella in the other.

“Mrs. Kanzaki? What a nice surprise. Is Suga in?”

Though she spoke to the mayor, her eyes were stuck on the pink slip where Suga’s name was haphazardly scrawled. Wasn’t pink supposed to be a friendly color?

“No. Can I help you, sir?”

The mayor cleared his throat and thrust the paper out to Shiori which she took with shaking hands, catching a few of the rain droplets on the page as it was transferred from one hand to the other.

“If you will, please see that he gets this. In regards to the museum, since you relinquished your rights as owner to Suga and he established this as a town museum for the public, our council has decided his role as proprietor and host is insufficient with the town’s needs. His contract with the town has been terminated. We will be interviewing for his replacement in the coming weeks.”

The mayor lifted his hat as a farewell before turning and marching out into the rain. Shiori stood frozen, gripping the damp paper in her hands, shaking. She wanted to scream after him, to stop him, to demand answers, but her voice was gone. She was silent. There were steps. Her eyes flicked over to the hallway where Suga stood, his eyes wide and his hands gripping a memo – the one she had left only a few moments ago.

Shiori looked to the paper in her hands again, and noted how the rain looked like tears. Even the sky was in mourning as the rain seemed to increase in strength. She read over all that the mayor had already explained, then noted at the bottom was their deadline.

‘2 weeks.’

They had two weeks to prove Suga could handle it. She looked at him again, and found even his eyes were beginning to swell with their own rain… and like rain, his tears fell.

To be continued…

- 1st Chapter -

Next Chapter >

Hello everyone! I’m honestly not sure why I love this fandom and these characters so much, but I am absolutely obsessed. I plan on continuing the future of this couple, but first I feel like we needed some back-story. I want to go back before Say Something and show how they even came together in the first place. I’m hesitant to say this is an official prequel because I’m not sure how well all of these stories will go with one another, but I’d like to think they have some importance when read in a specific timeline.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy. There shall be more!

-Lissy

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Published on October 27, 2014 01:00

October 20, 2014

The Blind Witch ch. 4 and 5 – A Left 4 Dead Fanfic

Next Chapter >

(In this case, I felt ch. 4 was far too short on its own to post on here. So, they shall be together on my blog, but separate elsewhere.)

Chapter 4

She was beginning to dream again. With the heat came the dreams, and with the dream would eventually raise memory. There were bits and pieces, sometimes images, more words. She would see colors – blue, green, shades of pink, possibly the color of cheeks or roses, then she would feel things. There were soft things, hard things, painful things… things she both longed to remember and things she was happy to forget. The words though… the words were of the utmost importance.

Danger.

Danger was the first word.

It scared her until her body shook her awake, but even in the wakeful hours of bright sunlight and dew, she found the word “danger” still lingered within her. It left a bitter, copper taste in her mouth, which she tried to physically spit out, but to no avail.

The sticky dew was no help, and it had her squirming relentlessly. Then her eyes fell on a mass of darkness, curled on the ground beside her.

There was a thump.

She stopped and pressed a hand to her chest. She couldn’t recall such a feeling, or a word to describe it. It went just as quickly as it had come, and soon her mind was focused back on the mass next to her. It barely moved, and she could scarcely say it moved at all.

But as she reached out to investigate further, a little flash caught her attention. There, attached to the end of what should’ve been fingers, were claws. She made a little gasping noise, and held her hand up to the light, turning and turning the claws until she had investigated every edge and corner of them.

Had she always had these things?

Then, there was a grunt, and the mass on the ground stirred. The Witch shuffled back, claws extended out to put a serrated wall between herself and whatever was rising from the ground. The mass, now a full grown man, shook – an animal shaking off leaves and dirt from where he had slept. His brown hair was sticky with the dew and something crusty and black. Then, his face angled up to meet hers.

She screamed.

The shriek echoed through the forest, erupting into a cacophony of sounds and animals. The Hunter’s brow shot up, and his mouth formed an unpleasant line with the loose, broken lip dangling off the bottom. He shook his head and held a finger to his lips.

“Hush. Quiet, Witch.”

She fell silent and carefully studied his mouth. He could speak, too?

“Who… are you?”

The Hunter sat up, rolling his neck until it made a cracking sound, then he sighed.

“… Hunter.”

The word formed in her mind, cloudy and foggy. There was something attached to it, something very real and very there, but just out of her mind’s grasp. She sat in silence for a long time, just trying to clear the fog and pull that image forward, but to no avail.

The Hunter grunted, his face now tight and accentuating the scars with what looked like annoyance.

“Witch?”

The Witch shook her head. That wasn’t right. The name was familiar, but there was something else… something that name seemed to cover up.

“Emily.” She said.

The Hunter froze in his morning ministrations.

“What?”

She clicked her claws together, trying to form the sounds again… slower.

“… em… Emily. I, Emily.”

The Hunter’s lips broke from their line into what might have once been a smile. He rushed toward her, a crouched creature with an ugly face.

She shuffled back, screeching and slashing claws before he could even get close. The Hunter stopped, and pressed a hand to his chest.

“Remember me?”

She didn’t move.

He hit his chest more forcefully.

“Remember me?”

She shook her head this time.

He yelled, raising his voice much louder than he needed,

“Hunter. Remember me?”

Her mind rushed and slowed, rushed and slowed, until it was throbbing in her skull. Why couldn’t she remember that word? Why couldn’t she remember that word? Then another word rose amongst the chaos.

Tears.

Then she remembered.

“Hunter…”

He nodded, and the smile returned to his lips, though wrinkles broke the laced pattern of his brow. He was worried, and so was she.

How could she forget so much, and remember so much, all at once? And why?

Chapter 5

Her Hunter hadn’t looked at her again since they had woken up. Her memories from the past were still foggy, a thick haze she couldn’t seem to wade through, but while her memories as an infected faded, something else long forgotten was beginning to rise within her.

She had remembered a name, her name. She was no longer just the Witch. She was Emily, and if she remembered nothing else the rest of her life, she would’ve been content with just a name. She had proof that she actually had been a person once. She had felt and carried the warmth she could only imagine now.

Though this new information was satisfying, that lingering haze had her growing more and more curious about the past. Who was she really? Who lingered just below her gray skin? She studied her hands, the palms scarred up and down from what she could only assume were her own claws. How many of these scars were from this life, and how many had she earned in her old one? She wanted to know. Somewhere deep down, there were answers. She just needed to figure out how to access them.

Then, a gruff voice broke through her thoughts,

“Witch?”

She looked up to see the Hunter, pacing back and forth on all fours, making much more noise than the Witch deemed necessary.

She shook her head, even though he wasn’t looking at her to see it.

“No. Emily.”

He growled.

“Emily.”

Emily peered over at the Hunter, his pacing was uncoordinated. His hands and feet seemed uncertain of their next fall, hovering in the air much longer than they should’ve been. He was nervous.

Emily then recalled the way he had lunged to her at hearing her name – her actual, human name – as if he was excited, as if he had been waiting for her to remember it.

“Hunter? Your name… only Hunter?”

The Hunter froze in his pacing, giving her a chance to catch the side of his face, and the way his lids and sockets twitched with unused muscles. It looked so painful. She wondered if and how he could see at all, but a little niggling at the back of her mind had her feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. She felt like she knew the answer already, she just couldn’t recall how.

The Hunter said, “No.”

Short, resolute. He didn’t want any more questions, and even if she asked, she probably wouldn’t get an answer anyway. The Hunter was too busy trying to remember how to pace properly to recall a name. His arms were bent at unnatural angles, as if they were contorting on their own. It was separate from what he wanted them to do, which was simply to pace back and forth.

Emily sat, waiting for something more, squirming in anxiousness when nothing did. In the meantime, she let her mind wander and ponder things she still had no answer to.

Hunter’s name?

Her name?

Why was she remembering, and more importantly, why was she forgetting, too?

She held her arms out in front of her, studying the deep red lines she hadn’t noticed latticing her arms in a beautiful, ugly mixture of purple and gray. They were so in-between, much like a scar, a wound between being there and disappearing. Her eyes flicked back to the Hunter, who was now stopped in his pacing, staring at her, slack-jawed. His sockets were right on her, daunting and angry with their little pulps peeking out at her.

She couldn’t remember ever seeing something or someone so ugly, so animal. Then, another flash of memory: moonlight, rough hands, warmth, and light… bright, bright light in a dark room.

A room in a house she had lived in, in a former life from ages ago.

She had to go back. That would be where the answers were. She stood up, eliciting a growl from the Hunter who crawled up to her feet. She presented her claws, though she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. Something inside her, deep, deep down within her chest, there was a slight twinge. Something was changing inside her, but she just wasn’t sure what.

She looked to the Hunter, and she could see something was changing inside him, too.

He growled again,

“Where are… you going?”

She shook her head and pointed towards a break in the woods where they had walked through before.

“Home.”

The Hunter shook his head before nudging against her knees in the opposite direction, deeper into the woods, and farther away from her goal.

“No… bad. Need to keep… going.”

Bad? How was it bad? Her home was there. She knew it. It was familiar and safe. It might have smelled like vanilla or lavender a long time ago. It was a memory which burned her nose with its strength. There had to be more. She had to remember if it was vanilla or lavender. She pushed against his face, and he pushed back.

“No. Home.”

He growled, much louder, and pressed his shoulder against her, too, causing her to stumble back a few steps. He wasn’t going to let her pass… at least, not without a fight.

She brandished her finger blades, giving him a hiss of her own. The Hunter sat up until he was simply squatting, quiet and still, a statue. She pointed passed him, back toward the path she knew would lead her back to where she needed to go.

“Home. I need home.”

The Hunter shook his head, resolutely. So, fight it was. The Witch released a screech and stepped forward, not before a loud crackling of gunfire erupted within the woods. Behind the Witch, a tree whined with agony, having taken the shot for her. She turned to investigate, which the Hunter took as his chance. He easily rose from his squat and shot forward, scooping the writhing Witch in his arms.

Emily continued to screech and thrash. She was getting farther and farther from her goal, farther and farther from the chance of her memories. Then, as if on cue, another shot rang close by. A memory surfaced from within the haze.

A man… no. A group of men, with guns and knives, watched them as they ran into the woods. A man at the front of the group, poised with a knife pointed in their direction, not unlike her claws, watched with a promise gracing his lips.

‘I will find you.’

And he had.

It really was bad.

To be continued…

Next Chapter >

Thanks for reading!

-Lissy

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Published on October 20, 2014 01:00

October 13, 2014

The teachers are failing. Not us.

I don’t tend to make rant posts (too often, anyway), but while sitting in the lobby of one of my school buildings, I happened to listen in on a conversation between a student and a teacher.

Often times, our teachers don’t meet with us in their offices. Why? I couldn’t tell you, but this particular discussion was probably better placed within the confines of an office.

The student was in a creative writing class with this teacher, and the teacher was discussing her grade within this class. She was distraught. She had tears in her eyes and was shaking. It didn’t take much to see she was failing.

The teacher presented her with a paper, covered in red marks with a huge red NC (no credit) in the corner. It was her paper.

He reiterated what I assumed was the prompt.

Now, I’m a firm believer in you earn your grades. I’m much quicker to take the side of a teacher over that of a disgruntled student. If you fail, it’s because you earned it, but in the case of a creative writing class where most of the work is completely subjective, I have a hard time believing anyone can earn an “F” or “NC” unless they just didn’t do the assignment.

He said, “I wanted aliens. You gave me cyborgs.”

… What?

The girl mumbled something, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch it, too focused on him pointing out his terrible hand-writing on the page.

“Plus, it just wasn’t good. It was too romantic. Too much genre mixing. Cyborgs, though? Really?”

The girl was crying at this point.

He continued, “At this rate, you’ll be lucky to graduate. You’re definitely not a writer by any means.”

And that was it. I couldn’t sit there a moment longer and listen to that man burn every dream and ounce of self-esteem that girl had.

But I didn’t say anything. I just walked away.

I wish I had. I wish I could go back, just wait for that girl to get done with conference, tell her to drop that class and take a different one next semester. To tell her cyborgs could be aliens. To tell her she could be a writer if she wanted to be, and if she honed in on her craft. To tell her she could do it.

Aren’t teachers supposed to guide us?

Then why are so many of them tearing us down?

You know what, maybe she couldn’t be a writer. Maybe she couldn’t write a full, grammatically correct sentence to change her life.

But that’s when you help her.

Teach.

You’re a teacher, not a fucking executioner.

I hope that girl doesn’t give up. I hope she takes that man’s words and proves them all wrong. I hope she knows there are good teachers out there. I hope she finds one of them and that they guide her the way they should.

I hope she doesn’t give up.

-Lissy

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Published on October 13, 2014 01:00

October 6, 2014

Say Something – A Forest of Drizzling Rain Fanfic

She counted to three.

One…

Two…

Three.

Then all was back to the way it had been. The familiar light from her bedroom window leaking in and warming the sheets she laid beneath, the sound of Suga in the kitchen, burning the breakfast as usual. She rolled her head to his side where a little memo lay – the spot his head should have been.

‘You had another night terror.

Headache medicine in your drawer.

Breakfast will be ready soon.’

She let out a heavy sigh as her head throbbed with the memories of medicine and pills. She scrubbed her palm over her face, then sat up, stared at the little drawer where those numbing pink pills were, then got up and went to him.

‘I don’t need them. There is nothing wrong with me.’

As expected, he was tinkering around in the kitchen, digging through cupboard after cupboard while the pancake in his skillet turned from a golden brown to an ashy black. It wouldn’t be long before the entire kitchen was up in smoke. She debated whether or not she should help him, but ultimately sidled up beside him to take the skillet off the stove.

He let out a light grunt in surprise before absent-mindedly reaching for his pocket where his fingers grasped at a memo pad and pen that were no longer there. He clenched and unclenched his fist a few times before going back to the cupboards.

He was still not used to using his voice, and he probably never would be. It was one of those absolutes Shiori had to just accept, though some things were easier to accept than others. While his silence was understandable, the silence of the mansion was another monster all together. The museum was a lonely place. Shiori was lonely, too.

She stared at the burnt breakfast, no hungrier than she had been before, before slumping to her seat at the table.

Suga peered at her over his shoulder. Shiori pretended he wasn’t or at least that she hadn’t noticed, though she couldn’t help curling into herself, hiding what she thought he might be able to see. His scrutinizing gaze pressed into her for…

One second…

Two seconds…

Three.

Then it stopped, and she was alone again.

Her body expanded back to normal size, her lungs deflated of her held breath, and sounds of Suga’s searching returned. It was so hard to go back to being normal when things certainly weren’t normal. She wasn’t normal. Her mind went back to the pills resting in her drawer.

‘I don’t need them. There is nothing wrong with me.’

Her head pounded as her mind attempted to dredge up so many memories – so many painful memories – all at once. She had spent so long trying to remember. Now, she would kill to forget.

Suga stomped over to the table, balancing two plates of burnt cakes and a tub of syrup in each arm. His eyes were trained on her fully, even as he set the table up:

A plate on his side, a plate on her side, and syrup in the middle, leaving the seats on either side empty, just as they always had been – just as they always would be.

She pressed her face into her hands, tears leaking and making small pools between her fingers.

The mansion was lonely, and so was she.

This kind of thing isn’t easy. It’s not exactly common, but it’s certainly not rare, either. I’ll prescribe you something for the headaches, and maybe something to sleep if you find yourself unable to. You just have to remind yourself to breathe – count if you have to – and remember there is nothing wrong with you. There are other options. I’m sure you’re not up to it right now, but… when you’re ready. You and your husband can come back, and we’ll refer you to a service that can help with these kinds of things.

If there was nothing wrong with her, why could she not do the one thing a woman was born to?

It wasn’t long before she felt the weight of Suga’s arms around her, clutching her tight, as if she might disappear. There were some days, she thought she might. Other days, she felt so very there and grounded, she wished she could.

His warm breath tickled her ear, and his scratchy voice slipped out in broken whispers,

“Please, Shii… just… talk to me.”

What was there to say? The doctor had said it all.

Mrs.… I’m so sorry, but your tests came back. They were worse than we had expected.

“Shii. I’m sorry.”

His counts are perfectly normal for a man his age, but Shiori… for you… there is nothing there.

Her voice was just as hoarse as his and paired along with a painful sob, “No… I’m sorry, Suga…”

Shiori… you will never be able to carry a child.

Her body wilted against his. So many memories mingled together that it was hard to tell the present from the past. Maybe if she hadn’t come back to the village, maybe if the Kotori Obake hadn’t found her child… Maybe, this was punishment. Repentance for all the pain and suffering that woman had gone through. The Kotori Obake had finally met her child, but Shiori would never meet her own.

She suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were cemented shut. She couldn’t open them. She was barren and blind, a rag doll being shaken until she tore to bits. Shiori had never realized she had wanted a child so much… not until she was told she couldn’t.

But she remained whole, intact, no matter how bad the shaking was. Her eyes flew open of their own accord to see Suga. He shook her gently, repeating her name over and over and over, as if he was still learning to say it again.

She counted how many times he would say it before he stopped.

One… Shiori.

Two… Shiori.

Three… Shiori!

Then, he stopped. Rather, she stopped him, gripping his forearms so tightly she was scared he might have bruises. His eyes locked on hers, and they just stared for a long time.

Finally, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want.”

He shook his head, then pressed a finger to his lips. He wanted silence. She wanted just the opposite. She wanted screaming kids and noisy footsteps. She wanted pestering, chubby hands and quick, bare feet. She wanted to scold a child for breaking something. She wanted to cuddle one when he cried. She wanted so much at one time, but none of it would ever satisfy her. She was empty, she was barren, and when she met Suga’s eyes, she realized she was selfish, too…

He looked broken, upset, and very much lost. He opened his mouth as if to speak, only to close it again. His silence was uncomfortable and lonely, something which Shiori was tired of feeling.

He could speak. He was able to speak at the doctor’s office. He was able to thank the doctor and tell him good-bye, but when the doctor had read the results and she looked to him for something… just, anything. He remained silent.

Just as he did now.

That was all she wanted, some confirmation that she wasn’t alone in all of this, that maybe he was lonely, too.

“Suga. Say something.”

He shook his head and Shiori released her grip on his arms, instead balling up her hands in to fists and pressing them to his chest.

“Please, say something!”

He just stared. She clenched her eyes shut and screamed.

“Please! Just tell me what you want!”

Her voice echoed through the house, a memory, until fading away completely.

They sat in silence for…

One second…

Two seconds…

Three.

Then Suga opened his mouth and said, “I know… I don’t say… much, but Shii… I have what I want…”

She blinked.

“What?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I… I don’t know… if I’m saying this right, but… I want you… and I want you to be happy.” He smiled, a firm and embarrassed smile, “Shii, whatever you want to be happy… I want, too.”

What he said and what Shii heard were two totally different things.

‘Shii, I love you. I hear you. I want you to know, I want you, too.’

The tears bloomed at the corners of her eyes again, but this time, she smiled. She reached out to him, and he easily fell into her arms where he nestled himself, warm and safe.

No matter what, they would protect each other… and together, they would be happy.

“Hey… I’m supposed to be… the cry baby.”

“Shush, Suga.”

She didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

The End.

Thanks for reading!

-Lissy

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Filed under: FanFic

The Mind, the Body: Heterochromia – A short story teaser.

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Published on October 06, 2014 01:00

October 1, 2014

The Mind, the Body: Dig my eyeball out with a spoon, and love it

The Mind, the Body

Out today!

Want to read a bit before you buy?

The Mind, the Body
by Alyssa Hubbard
Cover Art by Cover Bistro (Jessica Richardson)

eBook Versions: Kindle: $0.99!

Nook: $0.99!

Kobo: $0.99!

Apple: $0.99!

Smashwords: $0.99!

Paperback: Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Reviews:

Rating: *****

“I’ve never been able to say that I actually felt emotions when reading a story, but I did with this one. The detail that Alyssa includes in her books can make you feel like you are there in that exact moment. I had to stop reading this book and come back to it because of the great detail that overtook my emotions. I have read it again since the initial reading and still enjoy it. If you are looking for a very detailed, in the moment story, you’ve got to read The Mind, the Body!”

-GoodReads Review

Genre: Horror

Published: October 1, 2014

About: Perhaps what people fear isn’t hiding in the shadows, but standing in the light.

The Mind, the Body is a collection of short stories, featuring a rusty spoon, a crow-nosed piano player, a starving wolf, two sets of fingernails, a pair of best friends, and a man made of ash. A bit of blood and folklore tied together to make a little book of horror. Fear is more than monsters and ghost stories. What we fear most is often times what lurks within us.

Filed under: Original Work, Personal Posts, Short Stories

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Published on October 01, 2014 03:00

September 22, 2014

The Mind, the Body: Heterochromia – A short story teaser

This short story is part of The Mind, the Body , my horror / body horror short story collection. It can be pre-ordered or purchased October 1, 2014. Enjoy!

“Heterochromia”

Alyssa Hubbard

I was born in a family of five blue-eyed, blonde-haired southern gentlemen. My mother was decidedly absent for most of my life, having been one of the foolish sort, often times putting too much into her own silly superstitions than what they were worth. She was highly dedicated to the Lord’s word and could often be found praying as she went about her menial tasks. Even the regular obstacles of life sent her into a fit of prayer. But it was a minor annoyance my father had traded for hot meals and sons. As long as she remained useful, he would bare anything to keep her around. My brothers had to deal with it as they grew, but when she had born me in the loft of father’s barn, on a night when the rain pounded the rotted wood and drenched the hay until it too smelled of death and rot, no one would have to listen to her prayers again.

The barn, for her, had become a church. It was the only building with a second story, and the closer she was to God, the better. Father didn’t stop her, even if it stormed. The man had preached to her, hoping to sway her, but she wouldn’t have any of it. It felt too isolated in the house for her. She wanted to have her children where God could see, so the abandoned barn with its cracked ceiling, shuttered windows, and the scent of livestock which never completely went away was where we had all been born. Yet, I would be first baptized in that very same loft.

The night of my birth, she gazed upon my golden head with the love of every mother who had ever existed, cooing and holding me close to her pale bosom. I was her first and only daughter. The first she would be able to teach the Lord’s word to day-in and day-out. I’m sure she had dreams for me, dreams which she had saved just for the day she finally birthed a daughter. It was finally here, all her praying finally come to fruition. She begged to see my eyes, to look into their never-ending blue depths and to see all her love emulated into a single human creation, and when I opened my eyes she found:

One blue.

One green.

She prayed hard that night. Prayed as she left a little, soaked bundle in the loft, wrapped in nothing but a fragment of saddle cloth from a horse my father had put down some months ago. Perhaps she had wanted me put down, too. Perhaps she thought I was some creature born from her sins – not of love, but of atonement. Regardless, it was the last I saw of my mother. It was the last anyone had seen of my mother.

And amongst the men, I grew. My father came for me in the early morning. He thought nothing of my eyes, but rather worried more for my health. It would be foolish to think he did so in the name of parental affection. He cared not whether I lived or died, but what he did worry about was the planting of his crops and the care of his farmland. If he were to keep me alive, would I survive only to lead a life of fragility and be unable to even keep the house? It would be a heavy burden to care for a daughter who would never be able to marry and do the basic task of womanhood. If I showed a hint of weakness, he would take me back into the barn loft. It was an archaic form of euthanasia, one which was often left for the dogs and sick livestock. That was what I was to my father – an asset, minor livestock to be raised and to eventually benefit the family. My death would have been a loss, no matter how minor my worth truly was, and he could only hope that my survival would be a gain.

I can’t hate him for it. The life of a farmer is a hard one, without the added frustrations of a sickly child. But I could certainly never love him for it, either. It didn’t rightly matter. My father wasn’t of the loving sort. Once I had proven my worth, living in and out of that loft for the first portion of my young life, and never once catching illness, even during the heaviest of downpours, I was brought into the house. It wasn’t long after that I was bullied back to it – to seek sanctuary from the torment of my brothers, my teachers, and my classmates. Even the animals had begun to torment me. I felt it in the way they watched me as I walked through the fields. Their blank gazes followed me from dawn till dusk, and never did they get close enough for me to touch. They wouldn’t come near their hay until I’d left it, and even then they barely touched it. It had escalated to the point that they would stop eating all together. My brothers said the hay smelled of death when I touched it, and the animals could smell it, too.

The eye – the single green eye was the physical creation of my torment. Even when I slept, in the darkness I could feel it lurch about in my skull. It was alive, you see. It did what it wanted. Some nights, I awoke in the middle of the night to a burning sensation in my left eye – that eye. It would burn and simmer, like a festering sore inside my skull. Could you imagine? Having a boil burning inside your head? Why did I suffer nightly because of it?

The eye looked at things. During the night, it opened of its own accord, and would simply look. It wouldn’t blink. It wouldn’t close. It would open and gaze out into the night until it dried out, which would then wake me. The only nights of peace I ever received were when it rained. My eye could open and watch and the rain would hydrate it again.

But that had only been the beginning of my torment. It had taken on a life of its own, it had developed a voice – one which seemed to echo in my brain and bounce about in my skull.

It would whisper, “Dream not through the night.”

And I would plead, “No, Devil. I wish to sleep. Why must you torment me so?”

“Your sleep will be wrought with fears. We must pray.”

“No, no! I will not hold council with you, Devil. Leave me to rest.”

But the eye never would rest. It continued on with its ramblings until I could hardly tell my own thoughts from those of the eye. The rambling ranged from prayer to pleas, and once those prayers slipped into my waking hours, I knew something needed to be done. I was becoming like my mother, a paranoid zealot. As I prayed in the field, I swore to myself and to God that I would be rid of my demon – my mother – once and for all.

It was a disgusting act, and it could all be traced back to my birth. Back to when my mother left me to soak in the rain. My first night alive on this planet, and the woman who carried me for nine months left me in the soaked hay to rot in the rain. Was I not worth those nine months? Had my conception and birth truly been for nothing? She had been the one who created me. She had been the one to make the eye. Why did I have to suffer for the sins of my mother?

Was that why she feared me so? Because she feared herself?

But it didn’t matter. The water, the thing which I had survived and found comfort in, had cleansed me and my eye. Cleansed it so I could see what needed to be done. There was one night, when the rain began to pour and my right eye opened to join my left in its vigil that I became truly aware of what needed to be done. The lightning danced above like chains in the sky and lit my loft until it was filled with the strangest shadows. In the night I listened closely and heard the steady thrum of the blood within my body and the heart in my chest. My body was telling me something. My body was revolting against the devilish organ held within my socket. My body wanted to rid itself of the green boil inside my face, and I was happy to oblige. It was during that night, as I soaked in the rain and breathed in the heavy scent of manure and wet hay that I truly studied my body, and from there I made my plan.

The next morning, I sent my eldest brother to town with every penny I had. He pitied my unfortunate soul and did what I asked of him with little questioning. I was beyond grateful. I couldn’t go out in public. Not until it was done. He came back that evening with what I most desired, but had most feared. It was a tiny hand mirror, encrusted in silver metal which had begun to tarnish green – a fitting color, I decided. The glass itself was completely intact, and that was all I had cared about. It would do for my task. Yet, what had begun to haunt me more so than the eye was that of my own reflection. I did my best to avoid meeting my own gaze, but my curiosity always managed to lure me in, and throughout my morning chores I would find myself sliding the mirror from my pocket to study my visage.

I was a woman. There was no question about it. I don’t wish to seem prideful, but if I had been born without the eye, my father would have had no problem finding a husband for me. My cream skin was tinted honey, a shade which was uncommon amongst the burnt farmer daughters. My hair had been bleached white from years toiling out in the sun when most of my female peers had been kept indoors. I was more than a farmer’s daughter, I was exotic. Yet, as beautiful and exotic as I appeared, all who I came in contact with feared me. Perhaps I was feared for more than just my eyes – though they were a sight to behold, too. They had bags beneath them, one of the few flaws to be found, but when gazing into them, first blue, then green, I found myself hypnotized. I decided then it was some form of witchcraft or magic and promptly stopped myself from looking any longer. I wouldn’t. Not until it was time.

Night seemed to crawl into the day, and I waited anxiously in my loft once my chores had been completed. I set the mirror up on hay bales I had stacked during the day. I needed it to be my station. Before the sun had completely disappeared, I fumbled in the hay and the darkness where I found my candle, wrapped in the very saddle cloth which had kept me alive at my birth. It was special, that way. I lit the wick and set the candle beside my mirror. Within seconds I heard the soft shuffle and clatter of my brother with dinner. He clambered up the ladder, loud, but silent. He simply slid the tray across the floor and I listened a bit longer for him to slide down the ladder and fumble out of the barn again, leaving me once more in silence.

I felt my way over to the tray and pulled it to my work station where I studied it under the candle light. It was chicken of some kind, though I could scarcely make out its shape. The dim light of the candle casted a shadow over the meal, darkening the meat until it looked like something more. Like a child, perhaps? I plucked up the silverware and held it close to the candle. A knife and a spoon were my tools, and the latter was what I chose. With my remaining utensil, I stabbed the shadowy chicken and watched a blackened fluid pour from the wound. I couldn’t tell if it was blood or juices. I took it as an omen and my body physically wilted at the impending surgery which I was about to perform.

It was too late. I had gone too far to stop, and my resolve was strengthened by the cacophony of thunder above. I rested my meal in my lap, clenched the spoon, and gazed into the mirror. It would be the last time I looked in the mirror and saw my face as it had been. I lifted the spoon to my face and pressed the chilled metal against my bottom eyelid. Sweat and cold metal will forever be the most frightening of combinations, and it would haunt me for years to come. I took in a shaking breath, then shoved in the spoon.

It was a searing pain at first. My body writhed and revolted against the intrusion, more so than it ever had over the very organ which I was scooping from my socket. My hand twitched with agony and heated trails of blood warmed my cheek. I wanted to stop. I wanted to pull it out and start over, but I couldn’t. I had to pull out the eye first. My heart was thrumming even harder in my chest which only made it harder to breathe. I was going to faint. As dark as it was in the loft, nothing could compare to the darkness which intruded my mind, gradually covering my brain with a fuzzy mold which made it hard to even think.

The thunder cheered above, right before a steady stream of rain began to pour in. It cooled my flesh and washed away the blood. My body seemed to calm at its arrival. I took in one breath, another, and another, then I began at my work again, determined to finish what I had started. I would succeed. I tried to look into the mirror, to steady my work, but my vision had blurred to the point I couldn’t see through the darkness.

I shut my blue eye and scooped. With a rush of air the spoon came free, and for a moment I felt a slight pull, then nothing. A fleshy blob plopped against the skin of my cheek, and all was silent except for the gentle pitter patter of the rain above. I couldn’t really feel the eye, but there it was, warming my cheek and occasionally tugging from the force of the rain. All that was left between me and the bane of my existence was a string of flesh. All I had to do was break it, and I would be free. But for a split second, I felt the urge to push the eye back into place. Perhaps the eye was more powerful than I had ever imagined, or perhaps it was my own fear coming back to haunt me. I could fix it if I wanted to. I could start over and all would be well. It was a feeling so jarring, my hands trembled with anticipation, and the spoon clattered to the floor, slipping from my grip. Could it be pushed back in? I raised my hand as if to try, but then I thought of that damn eye and its demands. I couldn’t let that thing win.

I gripped the fleshy pulp in my hand and yanked it free.

The moment it was separated from the cord, I felt an intense rush of nausea, and I was wrought with the image – or perhaps a memory – of my mother pulling me free from her, screaming and writhing in a world of rain and lightning.

The organ plopped into the plate at my lap. I focused my remaining eye there just in time for a strike of lightning to illuminate the loft so I could see my blood mixing amongst the juice and the meats. There was no way I could tell the difference. I had lost my appetite.

Then I gazed into the mirror. All I could see was the smudge of my silhouette amongst the darkness. I needed another flash of lightning. One more and I could see my freedom. The result of my operation would finally be revealed to me. I needed to know it was all truly finished. I would be normal. I would finally be normal.

Oh, but what a fool I was.

The lightning flashed.

I met my gaze in the mirror, and where my green eye had been there was now a gaping hole in my skull. Darkness returned and all fell silent once more. I reached up to my face and slid a finger into the cavern. Empty – it was totally empty. I had mutilated myself. Rather than carry the burden of a different eye, I had performed the ultimate sin: I had destroyed God’s creation. Perhaps it hadn’t been my mother’s sin which I had carried. Perhaps it had been my own. Or worse yet, perhaps it had been a gift. What had I done? My heart didn’t thrum, my body didn’t writhe. I just sat there: numb.

Then, within the silence, I could hear the voice of a woman echoing within the confines of my socket. My mother, I assumed. She was praying.

“Please, Lord. Forgive me for not trusting in your plan. You have given me the task of raising a child with such a gift, but I cannot. My fears will not let me, though I know you have a reason for it all. Have mercy on my weak soul, and on her blessed one. Please don’t let her suffer, and please do not let her become me.”

I let out a sob and lay on the hay. It no longer smelled of death, but instead had taken on the aroma of blood and viscera. I was deafened by what sounded like the cry of a newborn. I didn’t realize it was my own voice fading into the downpour until I finally allowed my consciousness to disappear completely.

And for the first time since my birth, I slept.

I hope you enjoyed this short teaser. Let me know, and comment below. Thank you for reading.

-Lissy

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Filed under: Original Work, Short Stories