I Have done it.

I have made a complete, full, in-depth list

of every single book that I have and will have written.

Please enjoy

(and send me a tweet on which one you'd really love to see!)


Index: Early Era & 2010            2011         2011>>2012 / 2012        2013

            2014 (the era of the Muse)         2014>>2015        2015       2015 starry

Key:  (recommended ages for reading, based on the type of vocabulary and advanced reading and also based on  the themes and events the novel portrays)

[tags and genres that this book covers]

{warnings on potentially troublesome and disturbing content the book may have}

{if there isn't anything written in brackets, then it's safe for all ages and readers as long as they are at that level of reading capability}

Note: For the most part, all my books tend to stray on the side of basically being for all ages. That means that I'm not one to conform to any particular genre and market. I admit that a great majority of my novels, save for the ones aimed towards kids, are of the more advanced reading level ("literature"). But none of my books contain swearing nor profanity, and I rarely resort to violence unless it is a book specifically about violence or war (which are few and far-between). That said, I am very very very VERY much into psychology, so the only issues that are present in almost all of my books (again, save for the very innocent ones for kids) are issues dealing with mental and emotional burdens and disorders. Many books tend to get quite emotional and could be a little too familiar for some readers. But it is not meant to be in a ableist or even a condescending way, as the character learns to live with his or her struggles and very often overcomes them. Just keep in mind that I am very fond of the melodrama and thusly tend to create such strains of work known half-jokingly to me as "drahm novels," simply said--a tale of a true soul's real emotional struggles and hardships as they practically drip off the page. d'Aller Jusqu'au Bout is an extreme example of this, whereas Step by Step is a quieter sample. I'm also fond of waxing philosophical or poetic, so things may tend to fly over your head at times without any of our knowing.

Symbol guide:

* by title means it is finished and/or published

~ means it is being reworked/revised or I am almost finished with it

- means I am currently working on this book now or interested in it

(by -once-, because a - is already in the title, I put >> instead)

 EARLY ERA & 2010

ZCN/TIES    Reality and fantasy combine in the fantastical, dramatic series of ZCN/TIES. Join Zeenith on her journey in Imaginationville, a mystical world, as she discovers there's a whole lot more than she's ever imagined about the world, legends and super powers, the universe, and even herself. An extensive series that focuses on character development with fantasy elements of battles and quests. (young readers (10 and up), teen, young at heart) [fantasy, drama, life, series, action/adventure] {instances of possession, depression, insanity, dramatic feelings, thoughts of suicide, and real danger--yah there's a lot in this series of 8 giant books}


It was a nearly impossible change to detect. Seed Hotel’s living room and Claire’s living room looked exactly the same. The only difference was the girl sitting before the fireplace, drowning in her tears and hiding her stricken face under her ratted, curly brown hair that fell to the floor as she hung her head. Yep. That’s her. She had imagined me when she was young; she projected all her grandest wishes upon me, hoping I would fulfill them all. In hopes that someday, she would be the greatest there is, and everyone would be talking about her and looking up to her. Boy, do I stink. I didn’t do anything up until that point; I was the best there is only in my eyes.

            I could immediately feel her sadness and longing as I stood there watching her as though I were a phantom. As soon as I reached for her to console her, my entire body turned into shimmering sapphire dust, and the entire world blanked out for a moment. Once I oriented myself, I realized I was inside Claire, and my consciousness had melded with hers. I knew we were the same and all, but that was just ridiculous! Why couldn’t I be with the others? Why…

            Why? Why did I have to move? Why did everything have to change?


            “As you can see,” I professed through bouts of tears, “the house is empty now. There’s nothing left. This is the last I’ll see of it, too. I’ll never see this house again.” Once again, I buried my hands in my face and let my ridiculous, wavy brown hair get all over the place.

            “Oh, it’ll be OK,” Kiki tried to reassure me.

            “Yah, Sands,” Marie jumped in. “It won’t be that bad.”

            “Yes it will.” Slowly, steadily, I raised myself from the floor and looked upon everything once again, for the last time, trying to recall what used to stand before me. It already seemed so long ago. I felt as though the memories were already fading. Ignoring the others, I dragged my feet to the car, slid into the front seat, and donned my famous depressed expression while blankly staring out the front passenger window the whole way to my new house.

            Goodbye. Goodbye, my memories.


~Animal Kingdom (AK)    Johnathan finds his dad's greatest invention, a watch that can communicate with animals, and uses his newfound gift to take care of the wildlife around his new hometown and to help them adjust to living alongside humans and their strange inventions. Meanwhile, a familiar girl does the same in the big city. (all ages) [fiction, childrens advanced reading]

EXCERPT (From original version; it is in the process of insanity revision)

            John wakes up the next morning, still thinking about his past. He eats breakfast and rides his shiny, red bike to school again. On the way, he thinks about his past adventures with his animal friends. When John first moved in, he found Chippy the hyperactive chipmunk, who soon became John’s first animal friend. As John continued to play outside, he found more animal friends: Buck the territorial White-tailed Deer, Chitter the scatterbrained Red Squirrel, Lupé the oblivious bird (she always flies into windows), and Scarlet the Scarlet Macaw who has been up for adoption at the pet shop ever since John moved to Yorkfield. Ever since John’s mother left and he moved towns, he thought of Scarlet as his “replacement mom” and he would go visit her whenever he had problems. John always considered Scarlet to be like his mom.

            After a long day of school and reminiscing, John returns home, but all his thinking about Scarlet makes him want to go visit her. He soon arrives at the pet shop, whose modern automatic doors let John in as he parks his bike on the sidewalk. All sorts of animal noises are heard as John enters the spacious jungle of a pet store. But one animal noise in particular grabs his attention, the sound of Scarlet’s squawking. John rushes to go talk to her, while turning on the communicator watch.


Imagine Magic Academy (I*MA)    Bridgette "Rainbow" Hannison wants to be a wizard like everyone else but isn't very good at managing her powers--if she even has any! But Ember and her fellow classmates help Rainbow to discover her talents and to combat against the rising shadows coming to engulf the school. (all ages) [manga, fantasy, school, kids, normal-level reading]


Pria, Prima Ballerina (Pria)    Pria, a ballet prodigy whose first steps as a child were ballet turns, learns about the world around her while advancing her career as a professional ballerina. Her most difficult challenges will be dealing with newfound emotions and understanding what it means to act like everyone else as she discards her old, stoic and aloof self. (recommended teen and up) [fiction, novel, drama] {instances of very dramatic scenes and a lot having to do with death and pain but no real scenes of it happening if that makes any logical sense}


New ZCN/TIES    Now many years into the future, a new group takes over for protecting Imaginationville, with Kenny at the forefront as he stands to emulate Zeenith and strive to be the best fighter. But when more struggles from different parts of the universe come to I*V, what can anyone do? (recc 10+, teen) [fantasy, fiction, life, series] {instances of hopelessness and real pain and struggle}


And, at long last, Kenny got his wish to take the small but grand world of I*V into his hands once he turned 12—yes, 12. The same age at which ZCN found herself thrust into a universe of incomprehensible mysteries. He chose that year—that day—on purpose. He would have gone so far to insist upon beginning November 1st, too—if it weren’t for the specific study programs the Power School founded for their new independent study programs. Though, it still puts him at mid-October. Close enough.

Nonetheless, the morning broke much the same way as it did then—gently and unsuspiciously. Beckoning the magic of the everyday as the blue sky unfurled across the world of imagination. New places to discover revealed themselves, and dreams leapt from the slumbering night to stand alongside us in the waking world of possibility.

Kenny, too, woke to an unsuspicious morning—but he’s filled with the determination that, instead, he will make this day powerful and magical by his own accord, and nothing else will. With a snap of the blue eyes that were passed to him in lighter and duller shade from his dad, he hops out of bed and takes in the reality that all those grandiose ideas that were once distant dreams are now waiting right outside the door. He puffs up his chest and lingers on that thought a moment. 


2011, the era of ideas

*Subtle, Flowing Changes (SFC)    Cera Brandenburg hates change and just can't stand having to deal with certain people. Unfortunately, her life's about to see plenty of changes. And Mariah, the "Friendship Girl," will do all she can to make Cera see the light that maybe changes aren't so bad, after all. Meanwhile, what's up with the strange city of Esoteria? (basically all ages) [fiction, novel, trilogy, general, high school, coming-of-age, anime-esque]


Alone at last. Sneaking to the living room, my footy pajamas dragged against the carpet, making a grinding noise. Upon the proud pedestal mounted against the wall by the fireplace sat my current school photograph preserved in glass, surrounded by a maple frame. That picture must meet its doom. Carefully lifting the photo, I held it at eye level and examined it a while. Within that small square, every ounce of my current grief, torture, and tragedy was displayed perfectly; it was almost artistic. The empty look in my eyes, the trapped flyaway hair screaming for mercy, the school name and year engraved in the corners of the photo; not only was that still-life the embodiment of my hate, but it was also the physical representation—a memento, of sorts—of just how terrible my year was. For some reason, I smiled. Just before ripping the photograph from its trophy and shoving it with the others collecting dust in the basement.

            Contrary to what would be aesthetically perfect for this jungle-like house (namely, a mysterious attic perched among the trees like a treehouse and concealing olden memories and secrets), our house held a dumb basement, unfinished, crawling with cobwebs, and littered with dust. It was as though no one dared to enter that forbidden cesspool even to dust every hundred years. This was the place we stored our memories.  

            Triumphantly, after finishing my brave quest through the perilous traps, snares, and hungry spiders’ webs, I reached the holy grail and threw into it the hilariously symbolic school photo. Finally, my quest was complete. Unfortunately, as I turned, brushing the piles of ash off my ensemble, the smoky memories called out to me, plaintively, their hearts breaking and mine on the verge of conceding to their wails. Rolling my eyes, I turned back, and the wails ceased.

            It’s been forever since I’ve seen some of these photographs.


            Regardless of my sulking about my new life, it had been many eons since I had reminisced, for I was too busy being swept away by my mundane, depressive stupor. It was therapeutic to delve into the past once again and to feel the smooth, powdery surfaces of old trinkets. Most of the boxes contained photographs—memories of life preserved in time—many of which were folded over at the corners, signaling they were once scenes in a photograph book. I remembered it was my task to salvage all the pictures from the photo albums and to shove them all in a box like that one before we moved; the blank albums were sold along with portions of my childhood and dad’s memorabilia hoardings in an “estate sale,” where they made their final grand exodus. All that remained of the old house was the furniture, my school supplies, my parents’ workgear, a couple trinkets I stole from my old room before my parents trashed them, and fragments of memories thrown into old, sagging cardboard boxes. In retrospect, what kind of idiotic farewell was that? It was as though we were literally starting a whole new life. Am I still Cera Brandenburg?


~Step by Step (SBS)    Elaine must transfer to Esoteria's big school after her beloved private school closes from bankruptcy. Not only that, but she experiences personal turmoil and trauma from seeing her loving grandmother in the nursing home. Among all this, her friend in poetry Mariah attempts to help her repair her life--but most of all, her way of thinking. (recc 10+, teen+) [fiction, novel, trilogy, some poetry, high school, coming-of-age] {instances of depression and hopelessness, also dealing with a close family member who has dementia, and to an extent...believing it will happen to her}


With a gulp, I place my foot on the first stair, and it clanks, its noise reverberating in the dark. This place gives me the creeps. Once all the stairs are behind us, we come upon another metal door that opens up to a hallway reminiscent of our high school hallway—except it looks like the rapture happened here.

“It’s been empty ever since I went into 7th grade,” Mariah says flatly. “That’s not too long ago…”

“It seems like longer.” A shiver runs up my back like a ghost just flew through me.

“The toll of time,” she comments ominously while picking up her stride again, instructing me to follow.

“A lot can change in a few years…” I mumble under my breath, knowing that statement to the fullest extent of its meaning.

Gosh, this is surreal. The lights are all dimmed or flickering like candles, and all the colors have faded, being tinted by dust or by loneliness. It’s creepily quiet down here, too; the only ambient noise is the air conditioning, and it is hardly noticeable unless you focus on its purring. For some reason, it is much calmer here than it was in the secret staircase; it doesn’t feel like anything scary resides here. Just memories. Or maybe those aren’t even here.

Mariah stops suddenly before a classroom in the first turn into another hallway. The door looks strangely old, and the wood looks hand-crafted. It has lost its shine, and now it is only an antique with a forgotten story.

“Here it is,” she says while pulling the door open.

I hold my breath and close my eyes. Then, realizing there’s nothing to be afraid of, I let out the air I took in and squint my eyes open. It looks just like an ordinary classroom except there are no desks, and the space looks largely empty and full of dust.

“It looks just like how we left it!” Mariah exclaims, running around and greeting every piece of furniture while sprucing it up a little with a feather duster she had left. Oddly, she seems full of life again now—the somber mood has departed from her once the door was opened.

I guess this place must mean a lot to her; she’s probably had a lot of club meetings in here. Plus, I bet she takes good care of this room even though no one uses it. Maybe she feels obligated to give it some life and love again.

All the items are centered around a big, metal desk that sits a few feet away from the back wall opposite the door. All the other space around the perimeter and that is blank. Some tall lamps stand in a circle to the left of the desk, and a big chalkboard hangs on the wall behind the desk. That chalkboard must have been tossed down here because it has a big crack down the middle of it.

Mariah pulls up a rolling chair (which may have been in the computer room) behind the desk and tells me to sit in the big maroon armchair before the metallic desk. It looks like a nice armchair until you come around the front and see that it’s spilling stuffing all over the place. Maybe this used to be in one of the faculty offices. Carefully, I lower myself into the chair, trying not to make it blow up, and see that it is surprisingly still comfortable—but you can tell it’s going to be very lumpy soon. The room is freezing because of that stupid air conditioning and probably because it is abandoned. Either way, I almost immediately start to shiver.


Variations~Orch School Saga [Z/T] (OSS)    In an alternate story, Claire (~CRK) tells the story of Francis J. and his friends and their day-to-day struggles in the prestigious I*V Academy of Language and Fine Arts as everyone strives to be great musicians. While learning more about music and discovering his future, Francis begins to learn about his fellow classmates as they deal with troubles of their past or stumbles in their present. While reaching out to them and learning their stories, Francis comes to term with his own life and begins to udnerstand himself a little more, too. (10+, teen, advanced reading) [ZCN/TIES side story (AU), novel, life, music school, drama]    {one chapter in particular is especially intense (violence); for the rest... instances of dealing with disease and shortcomings (physical and mental and emotional) and feelings of regret and hopelessness} {this is one of those very emotional books}


Suddenly, as though called by a soft voice, Francis turns his attention and curiosity to a room which is tucked inside a wall. It seems nothing more significant than a closet. Though, when he pushes the door forth, he is met by a surprise from within the shadows. There sits in the corner of that musty room an upright piano cast in darkness, forgotten to the rest of the world. Worried, Francis rushes toward it. His heart reaches for it; he releases the dust from its amber surface, and he arranges the broken stacks of papers upon the seat. The sheet music looks as though it could crumble and turn to dust at any moment.

        Forgetting the song in his heart, he merely sits beside the piano and finds some way to ease its melancholy—sympathetically, he sits in silence, hoping a fragment of his heart and a moment of his company will reside within the departed instrument’s soul forever. Could he also give it hope? Feebly, he reaches for a key (the usual A3 with which he begins all his fated meetings), and it creaks and moans in pain. He hopes it’s just out of tune, but his heart is practically broken now. The tears fall to the back of his eyes, and he reaches forward, as though to embrace it with song, and plays—not caring how discordant it sounds. Oddly, the melody that results is not as horrendous as he thought, yet its volume is diminished. It’s as though it has no will to sing forth anymore. Finally, Francis cries.  


The Truth Will Set You Free (+ruth)    Micah is called to tell his friends about the glory and love of God. Through a realization he had at a young age that a fellow student at a Christian school was unsaved, he strives to spread the good news throughout his school while his close friend, under discrimination from his parents, spreads the word at his public school. (teen, young adult) [Christian, school, real life issues]    {instances of intense violence and discrimination and abuse}

Cross-Traffic Does Not Stop    Human interaction never ceases; just as we cross paths on the road, the cross-traffic of human connection never stops. [
to be quite honest, I have no idea what this book even is...XD

The Silent Actress (SA/SW)    Silvia Whitewater, a would-be actress who has appeared in a few films, longs to discover what she's really meant to be once her manager tells her that she's just not good enough. But then her comrades set up a strange and interesting project proposal...for her to be the world's "silent actress." (technically all ages but probably more interesting for older readers) [novel, cinema, realistic fiction] {just one somewhat laid-back honeymoon scene}

The Promise   Mr. Richter lives up to his name, for he quakes at the hearts of his clients and pushes them to change their lives. When he's not in his therapy office, he retreats to his isolated home in the country to scribe letters to his sweetheart he met long ago, dreaming of the day they can meet again. (again, probably mroe interesting for the older folks because of "ye olden days" of la poste) [novel, fiction, literary, romance (sort of), family]    {a twist ending that may hurt you if you're particularly sensitive}

The Living Room/Orchestra Hall    An older lady takes residence of a broken-down, older home and fixes it up little-by-little even though those around her mark her as mad. But, strangely, the house starts to act strange the more she fixes it up... / A late-night janitor hears music in the halls when all have left, but no one believes him. Is it truly phantoms or...something more meaningful? (basically all ages, but I consider it a book more for the older set in the way it's presented and written) [novel, two stories, supernatural/paranormal, fiction]

Tough Love    [

An Ordinary Hero    Kylie Ty is an ordinary hero no one has heard of. Using her psychic abilities to find lost children in town, she gains a friend in the new girl, Aleesa, and the two go on quests. But how will Kylie manage once others begin to hear word of her amazing abilities? She can't really find everyone...can she? (10+, young adult) [fiction, mystery, action/adventure, kids, teen, paranormal/supernatural, realistic fiction]    {it's fine, really, though it's dealing with lost children and some aren't found. the only real thing is...the thing that hurts Kylie}


Suddenly, she hears the soft stirring of a mouse—only, it is not a mouse. Kylie is used to this strange sensation; the perception of a lost soul coming near. Someone who wants to remain quiet and hidden from the world. It’s her. Kylie runs to the same row of houses as last night. The houses come just up to the dusty asphalt street. A streetlight blocks the view of the white house that sits near the bushes. The houses next to the white house are brick and nearly falling apart at the roof. Gently approaching the bushes, Kylie hears a gentle whisper from within the thicket of green. Then, a flash of brown reveals the distraught girl’s eyes, and she displays the same defiant look on her juvenile face.

        “What do you want?” she pouts.

        “I’m sorry. Maybe I wasn’t too clear with you earlier,” Kylie tries to regain her composure, “I just want to see you with your family again, Samantha.”

        “No! They don’t want me, anyways,” she turns her back to Kylie, folding her arms defensively.

        “What do you mean? Of course they want you.”

        “No, they don’t. They’re fighting all the time because of me.”


        “I hear them all the time. They’re always saying stuff about me, but I never listen. I just run away so I don’t bother them anymore.”

        Kylie doesn’t know what to think.

        “This is my new home.”

        “You can’t live in the bushes!” Kylie suppresses this thought. After a while, Kylie begins to understand her position in the conflict, “Have you ever asked your parents why they’re fighting?”

        “No. I can just tell.”

        “I think we need to ask. Come with me.”

        At the sight of Kylie’s hand, Samantha swats it away like a fly, “No! I’m never going back!”

        “But what if it’s not you?!” Kylie’s anger accidentally gets the best of her again. Patience was never her strong suit, even though she tries to fix that now.

        The words suddenly reach Samantha’s unwilling ears, “Not?”

        Their ashen hands meet, and Samantha is escorted home to loving arms once again. Kylie smiles and dissipates with the wind; another kindhearted deed gone unnoticed. But she likes it that way.

Arthur Stories   Short stories told by the enigmatic and somewhat strange Arthur Blankenship. All stories focus on the ideas of psychology and the human condition in a way that is...enigmatic. (older, literary) [short stories, psychology, literary] {it's not...bad per se. Just that...once you think about it a bit...this guy has issues}

Orelius, Flights of Fantasy   Fantastical stories about a range of subjects told by the intriguing Orelius, a narrator in 3rd person. (older?) [literary, short stories, fiction, poetry]

Clockwork   Sybil stands against injustice--ever since her home was robbed and her mother killed when she was young. She and her friends solve mysteries and detain criminals all around the land all while dealing with their convoluted lives and those of the strange and mysterious they've crossed paths with. (15+) [novel, action/adventure, mystery, thriller, steampunk?]    {15+ DEFINITELY violence, multiple crimes, a character with history of abuse and post-trauma, and some very disturbing things... Also, some of the criminals have...ugh...AWFUL ways of doing things}

Return to Dreamland  In the fantasy world of Dreamland, a girl from the real world is taken on a journey to help her find her memories of who she is and why she possesses the book of a legendary hero of Dreamland who died years ago. While on her journey, she meets many interesting people and comes to term with herself and her shortcomings of her retrograde and ante-grade amnesia and inability to remember things. (technically all ages but preferred 10+) [fantasy, action/adventure, coming-of-age]    {fantasy violence and hysteria; (in reality,) everyone has a mental disorder or is emotionally unstable. the end}

The Ponderings of Pluvia   -Pluvia, very precocious for her age, doesn't see the world like others do. She longs to right the wrongs of society and isn't afraid to say what's on her mind. Unfortunately, her parents don't seem to like her rebellious attitude of going off on her own. (all ages, technically)  [short stories, essays, book, critiques on society, anecdotes] {not much but some real-world issues are briefly touched upon or mentioned, so if certain words or ideas bug you then yah. But it's very tame}

Piece from "As the Rain Falls"

Oddly, the same calm is evident today—it’s such a lovely day! Why isn’t anyone outside? I always take advantage of these weekend days to play outside. Maybe that’s why all the kids are overwight; they should go play sometime. The outdoors can’t hurt you. Only we can hurt the outdoors.

I like to sneak peeks into people’s houses. I’m curious how they decorate and what kinds of things they like. How people decorate their homes says a lot about who they are. My mom likes floral wallpaper, so she covered all the walls of our house with wallpaper even though our house is new. My dad insisted on having a leather couch in his study even though my mom plastered wallpaper in it already, so that room looks silly. My room is pretty-all blue with blue, floral wallpaper. I also have a mountain of stuffed animals by my bed. Each stuffed animal gets a turn sitting at the top. I try to be fair.

It’s hard to look into people’s houses during the day-that’s why I like walking at night, even though people don’t like to turn their lights on at night. Is it so wrong to be curious?

I remember a story by Robert Frost—no it’s a poem, sorry. It’s called the “Mending Wall.” He says fences are silly, but people like to mend their fences because the walls “make good neighbors.” I don’t know what that means. I don’t believe walls can bring people together-they only separate. So, are mysteries and different-colored lawns and secrets and fear walls, too?

Here’s that section again-“the dead road,” as I call it. I’m sure there’s a prettier name for it, but this is the place with the quiet, still air and abandoned homes. Ironically, there are some cars in the driveways and some sprinklers on the lawns, but there’s still no sign of people or kids. Whenever I glance into the windows from afar, I see nothing. I’m still the only bug squirming around. Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.

Dreamchasers   An unwanted girl falls suddenly into her vanity's mirror into a strange world full of complacent shadows. With the help of a boy inventor, she tries to escape to return home...but why did she come here in the first place? (a Ghibli-esque coming-of-age story) (all ages technically) [novella, story, fiction, fantasy, adventure, anime-esque, coming-of-age, discovery]

Crescent Moon    [

SCIFI Series

Eienyami   A fantasy-adventure (anime) story taking place in the spirit world, known as Eienyami and the world of eternal shadows. (all ages?)  [fantasy, story, book, school, action/adventure]

SAMPLE (This was a long time ago..so it kinda stinks now. Sigh Why does this happen?)

A dark figure crept its head over the bottom of the black square, the mirror to Eienyami. The creature’s eyes glowed red; my heart jumped and almost stopped. Takara suddenly let out a yell and ran toward the dark shadow! I couldn’t do or say anything. I was trembling; paralyzed with fear. The dark creature immediately ducked as Takara came near, and Takara stopped in her tracks and stood guard. After the suspense kicked in, the shadow jumped from the portal and attacked Takara. She screamed; I could hear it echo down the wide halls behind me. A cold shiver came over my heart. The last thing I wanted was to see anyone get hurt.

Takara was prepared. She gritted her teeth and guarded her slender body with her long-edged sword. The creature’s claws wrapped around her sword, and it tried to snap the sword in pieces with a vice grip. Takara stayed strong; she snapped her sword outward, startling the shadow, and she lunged at it, holding her sword in front of her like a spear. Regaining the pace of the fight, the shadow blocked her attack and slashed fresh claw marks on her right cheek. She whimpered. I could tell she could see its soulless eyes glowing bright red like scarlet blood, reminding her that hers could be spilled any second now. I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there. Whether or not I could fight—I had to do something. Anything!

          My hand moved on impulse. It was an odd feeling, but before I knew it, I was grabbing Takara’s shoulder. I had no idea how I got to her so fast.

          “I’ll help you; don’t worry,” the words escaped my mouth before I had a chance to think about what I was saying—and, more importantly, why.

          “Stand back, Kaede!” Takara lept back, gaining distance between me and the spirit creature. She let out another yell as she ran back for more. It was her chance. Her magnificent bracelet shone even brighter. A sword of divine retribution. On impulse, I distracted the spirit creature so her sword could make contact with its dark entity. The dark creature turned to a thick haze and fled into the dark confines of Eienyami. The portal snapped shut. The candles flickered in the sharp breeze, but they did not go out. The room was once again quiet; almost too quiet this time.

          Takara’s bracelet lost its light. Takara brushed the front of her dress, breathed deeply, and cautiously rubbed her slashed cheek with the back of her right hand. I could tell she was strong, deep down, even though she was a kind soul.

Kids Are We (KRW)   This book follows of the new stories of five kids from the adoption store center. Amitie Faire, the "princess," finally gets adopted and lives on a pristine southern plantation--but does she really enjoy her new life? Suny Shine enjoys staying at the adoption store, however, and writes about her Amish friends that no one sees. Ancora Imparo is indoctrinated into a home of her own, but her new owner isn't very nice to her, and she insists that she is truly hearing voices in the home. Ones that sound familiar. Julio, meanwhile, does his best to fit in with his new family, and feels a kinship brimming. And the elusive Chase finally escaped from the store...but what will he do now in his new life? (all ages technically; 10+) [fiction, novel, story told in multiple perspectives, life, family, coming-of-age]    {some (mildly written) mental/emotional or physical abuse}

EXCERPT OF AMITIE FAIRE'S NARRATION 9This is also old and terrible)

I wake with a start to the teenage worker girl's voice. It's the same girl as before—the skinny girl who brings me breakfast every day. Her name is Jessica. I like her hair; it's a soft colour and it looks as though it's very tame.

"Would you like some dinner, dear?"

"No," I groan, "I'm too nervous to eat. My stomach's upset."

"Well, I'll leave this for you, anyway. You have to eat sometime, you know." She left.

I gaze out of the corner of my eye at the buffet she laid out for me (on a silver platter again): sliced turkey, mashed potatoes, cooked baby carrots all arranged neatly on the plate. My mouth drools, but I ignore my appetite. I didn't even think I had an appetite. I turn my head, lay it upon my right arm, and lie on my side. I close my eyes and try to sleep again. All I want to do on lazy days is sleep and try to forget about my life for a while. I could dream that I'm a princess—a beautiful one. But, maybe it's not the same as being me...

Suddenly, one of the boys near the sliding glass door in the front of the shop starts yelling, "Hey, a customer!"

All us kids get our act together. Maybe it's time.

The man who enters is presumably wealthy, because he is wearing a spiffy black suit and tie. He holds a gold chain watch to his eye, and he walks past all the children. He hardly pays attention to any of them. I'm doomed. Suddenly, he spots me. His eyes widen, and he puts on his white cotton gloves, which he pilfered from his shirt pocket. He brushes his right index finger across my arm as if I were a dresser and he's inspecting me for dust. The gloves feel so soft; I want to hold them. After that oddness, he puts his gloves back in his shirt pocket, and he takes out his fancy reading glasses and glances at me for several minutes, inspecting every minute detail. What am I, a doll? Then, he straps his glasses to his shirt and announces, "I'll take her."


*The Flyaway   A girl, wishing to run away from home...instead spreads wings she never knew she had and flies off to a distant town, only to find there are others like her with wings that flew away from home (all ages, tech) [short book, verse, fiction, fantasy]


The wind was blowing stronger.

          It swept me up in its arms,

          And I let it.

          What seemed like a long while of living fantasy

          Dissolved in seconds as the breeze lifted me,

          Taking me into the sky.

          Divine, white-feathered wings unfolded behind me,

          And took wing gently into the air.

          The wings had such power, yet such grace.

          I never knew I had wings;

          There was something extraordinary about me after all.

*The Adventures of Maryan  Maryan is a peppy little girl who's always up for an adventure! And everything is an adventure! (young kids, early readers)  [early reading, kids, childrens, life, short stories, series] {some childish bullying}

“Get over here right now, Young Lady!”

Oops. That means I’m in big trouble. I start waddling back in the deep water, and at the same time, my dad’s fishing rod starts moving. He got a bite! He grabs the fishing pole and tugs and reels with all his might. By the time I reach shore, a fishy pops out of the water!

“Daddy, look! It’s the same fishy I was following!” I exclaim, pointing at it.

“What do you know about that?”

My daddy takes the fishy off the hook, and he lets me toss the fish back into the water. It feels all slimy and slippery, but the fish swims away as soon as I set him in the water.

“Bye, fishy!” I say.

The sun is setting, and it’s getting dark and cold outside. It’s time to go home for dinner. It was a fun fishing trip.

“Next time,” Daddy says, “we’ll have to come here earlier!”

“Next time,” I say, “I’ll bring my bucket!”

Friends 4 Never   A super spy, Parry, and a self-proclaimed super villain, Marcus, attend the same elementary school and cause trouble for everyone--all while they attempt to keep their identities a secret! (all ages) [technically a cartoon but whatever, comedic, fun, series]

The Royalhood   Nelly and Francine are very well-behaved ladies who reside in a row house on a quaint, quiet boulevard. But they insist they are indeed royalty--and they should be treated as such. (note: because they are modeled after my guinea pigs, they act like guinea pigs even though they are human...so this is a little strange and/or comedic at times) (all ages) [tech also a cartoon, series, writing]  {one episode about loss}

-Patisserie Royale (Patiroyale)  Pierre wants to be a great pastry chef like his dad, but he seems to have lost his will to bake and to teach. So Pierre then is put under the tutelage of his dad's old friend, Victorique, who teaches Pierre all there is to know about patisserie--strictly and strangely! (all ages)  [cartoon???, educational, pastry and food, comedic, life, some drama, French life and food]
(Just as a PS, I have a degree in pastry arts and a very insane obsession with French life and culture, so I am qualified to write these kinds of stories, of which I have many. This also has quite a bit of educational moments in teaching you some French words and a lot about pastry and how it works)

Dominion Over Time (DOT)        A girl finds a watch and can travel through time with it

The Guild

*Flicker  One of my first short stories. Kaarina and Mikael are worried about their small village of Fruit, for it keeps getting pillaged at night by something or someone. Tired of all the legends and scary stories everyone's making up, Kaarina decides to go investigate for herself.  (all ages) [short story, hints of fantasy]


The sound of my steady breathing keeps me awake. The flickering lamp’s serpentine rhythm beats through our entire hut, casting fearful shadows and illuminating dreaming faces. I sigh as my eyes trace the outline of the square, wooden ceiling; through the beams of wood, stars twinkle with delight, as though calling me outside. Perhaps this is my only chance. I shift myself carefully, trying to make my great escape as silent as possible. I fling the covers back; they depart through the air like a feather and fold to the bed ever so gently. I swing my feet to the floor—not a single creak. I cautiously lift myself out of bed; the floor cradles my feet, assisting me to the door. The door opens, letting a careless breeze nudge the candlelight before allowing me into the darkness. The stars are my only witness. I’d whisper a fond farewell, but I know I’ll be coming back victorious.

The night is still. The silence is as thick as the darkness; only an occasional whistling wind or an owl’s hooting dares disturb its rest. The village’s scattered oil lamps provide me with guidance and a limited field of vision. I decide the best thing to do is to “aimlessly” wander to a dark patch and to wait for the shadows to strike. I wonder if maybe I should have brought a frying pan along with me to protect me.

The wait is painfully lonely; the stars try to keep me company, but to no avail. The creatures of the dark seem to be taking a catnap for a change. I get up and kick the ground. “They’re not coming,” I grumble, “They don’t miss a night, but they had to forget about tonight.” Pacing, I rub my arms and hands and blow on them to keep warm. Startled, I think I see a shadow, but I quickly realize it’s only my dark hair playing tricks on me. The fallen stars appear blurry now; a yawn escapes me, and I realize I can’t stay up all night long. “What if they never come?” I muse. The midnight breeze caresses my chilled skin and dramatically raises my stringy strands of hair. I am not about to give up on these monsters—especially because of all the trouble they’ve caused us. I owe it to my village—my family. This stupid rumor is tearing us all apart—I need to end it once and for all.


2011>>2012 / 2012

Lost Days, Last Days (LD)   In the last book of the SFC Trilogy, Mariah reminisces about her life and wonders about her future. (all ages, technically) [fiction, trilogy, school, life]    {ummm dealing with loss and being misunderstood and different}


My days weren’t entirely depressing back then; I had good days as well as bad. Though, being so young, everything was a miracle to me. It wasn’t until I got into 3rd or 4th grade that my eyes gradually opened to this world while slowly being pulled from the ideal world in my heart. But I’m getting ahead of myself now.

            My parents insisted I get an education, so they sent me to the nearby public school starting in 1st grade. Because I didn’t know about Amanda back then, I remained solitary and even refused to play with the others at recess, which granted me a time-out once. But, whether forced by my parents or not, I worked hard to learn everything I was taught in school, and I quickly became smart. Perhaps too smart.

            My days were much simpler back then. I looked forward to reading under the Sycamore tree and swinging by my Magnolia tree in the backyard before running inside for dinner and, when Grandma or Auntie came by, my favorite peanut butter cookies. My room was always a mess of toys, and my Auntie’s dog (who I nicknamed Marshmallow) loved to jump around over the fallen objects; she’d have a blast dodging the dolls and blocks and stuffed animals like it’s a big obstacle course. I loved it when Auntie would bring her dog over because then I’d have someone to play with. Though the grown-ups always understood me and liked me, I felt strange being around older people all the time. Eventually, I just ignored my family entirely.

            It wasn’t until second grade that my parents insisted I make some friends (and not just because of the fact that my entire imagination was invested in Amandine). They believed it would be good for me to play with kids my own age for a change. I was hesitant (and basically bluntly rebellious) at first; to me, the other kids were like aliens from another planet that I couldn’t talk to, for I didn’t understand their unique language.


~The Elusive Francois-Marcel  A collection of short stories, poems, musings, and even a ZCN/TIES official side-story chronicling the story of one elusive FM. The stories he tells are elaborated in a wonderful, erudite writing style that ties together profound, intrinsic emotions and thoughts with a simple narrative, making everything literary and meant to be viewed in a poetic way. Meanwhile, the ZCN/TIES included side-story, FM Saga, shows FM's journey as a being of one's mind and personality as he struggles to discover who he once was before he suddenly appeared here--and was he even alive before in another time in another place?  (all ages tech but 10+ reading)  [ZCN/TIES side-story, novel, collection, short stories, poetry, fantasy, life]    {FM Saga has bouts of chronic depression in it}


I find myself swimming in depression lately. What else is new? I’ve been worried about That Child ever since he came and used me as catharsis. The poor thing…he finally let his bottled-up worries flow effluvial. If only there were something I could do to help him when he gets like this…but what can I do now?

     I force my face from my pillow, stand myself up, and toss the covers away at the spread of my arms as though I were a caterpillar bursting from its chrysalis. But I am still the same—dark and lonely. The stray light coming from the blocked window catches a white piece of paper placed just so on the floor of my room. Its radiant white contrasts the evening-filled sadness my room holds now with the blinds drawn. Stepping on the floor, I kneel to bring the paper to my eyes; it is a regular sheet of printer paper folded over old parchment paper. On the printer paper is a written square in the middle of the right side with the initials “FM” in it. Oh, I see.

     Sighing, I sit back on my bed and unfold the papers. Let’s see what sort of message he’s left for me.

     “Chère auteur,

Firstly, I must express my gratitude for your generous gift of parchment. I shall use it to confide to you the dark secrets which I hold within me. I bear precedence of all things derivative of substance—those lingering, gnawing twinges you call emotions. Please take this following sentence to heart: any course you have taken would not have changed what the hands of fate have already decided; many problems exist within the mind, and that which enters the mind is solely the affairs of its inhabitant. In short, please do not blame thyself for the events which are about to unfold within us. I say ‘us’ because I shall bear his burden, as well.

Please do not let those pleasant sparkles within thy skies depart from your heavenly eyes, lest I lose all happiness and magic in my life.

Yours in poetry,


It strikes me odd that his wording is strangely off in this letter—as though he’s been demoted to a stoic representation of something of rhetoric instead of the philosophical and mysteriously emotional soul of the realm of dreams. Nevertheless, I turn the page and skim over the same letter repeated in French, and I find the simple printer page is covered in letters, too.

“Letter One,” it says. It is a poem he wrote called “I.” I read it carefully to myself, knowing that he always has a knack for moving me in ways I cannot explain.

I am fashioned from the darkest of inks

Born from the hardest stone

A lullaby without a tune

A sigh that comes out a groan.


I don’t know why my heart suddenly feels crushed by a desperate pain.

I am only one; I have never known more

The crippling feeling inside me makes me sore

I used to know more than despair and pain,

But I can never live those days again.


Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, and my neck throbs with pain.

Words fail me, my love

I can say no more

Please just be glad

You’ll have none of this to endure.


Streams of tears cover my eyes and fly every which way. Running to my desk, I grab a nearby pen and scrawl with every ounce of pain, “But I have.”



(The Everyday Adventures of Canada (EAC))    A (Hetalia) fanfiction about Canada and his simple(?) life. (basically all ages though the anime is not) [fanfiction, chapter book, short stories, slice of life]


The strong smell of the coffee permeates through the entire kitchen in seconds, and the smell makes me feel a little unwell. Nevertheless, I brave the aroma and take a small sip. “Ugh! This is terrible. It’s so bitter…” Contrary to what one may think, I have quite the sweet tooth, so I don’t like bitter things. The maple syrup bottle on the small kitchen table catches my eye and instills an idea. “I wonder…” I ponder. I pour some maple into the coffee, stirring the drink after. Sure enough, the flavor is slightly better after adding the syrup; maple makes everything better. I still wouldn’t drink it all the time, though. It’s not my…pardon the pun…“cup of tea.” Also, I don’t like feeling jittery or rushed…I like to take things easy. The excess energy probably wouldn’t help me accomplish things, anyway. I’m helpless sometimes.

      Speaking of accomplishing things, I still have more boring paperwork to do. Sigh.

      “Can I have some of that?” a little voice asks.

      “Kumajirou, you can’t have coffee,” I respond.

      “Not that. The syrup.”

      “Oh, I don’t think you can have that, either.” He may be a bear, but he’s a…different kind of bear. He can eat some people food without any difficulty, but some foods make him act a little strange. Others he can’t have at all—like chocolate.

      Speaking of the syrup, it is almost empty again. I’ll have to make some more soon. I always love the days that I have to make more maple syrup…


      Decisions, decisions…Which one? Which one? I move the pen between choices (some new law or something)…but nothing materializes in my mind. I can’t think about these things too long or else nothing ever comes to mind. Sigh. I get up; it’s time for a break. There’s never much to do, so locating Kumajirou is always my top priority. He’s all that I have. Sure enough, the little polar bear is napping on the couch across the spacious living room. Actually, a nap is a pretty good idea right now…

      Waking from my nap, I find an empty spot where a bear once lay and a descending sun. “What have I done?! I’ve wasted my whole day again! I still have so much work to do!” I yell at myself, flailing my arms and running to my workdesk across the room. Then, I remember the empty spot. Where has that bear gone again?

      After frantically searching the entire stately cabin, I leave to the outdoors; once outside, I take note of the calm, cool air and the lovely weather. Far below me on the ground is Kumajirou; he looks like he’s chasing something—he is running back and forth, jumping every now and then and swatting at the air. As I near him, I notice he’s trying to catch a beautiful butterfly. I go to the cluttered memory-filled basement to procure a net and to help him catch it.

      The butterfly is quick and elusive, but I manage to catch it in the net! It’s so beautiful…especially by the light of the setting sun. Its colors remind me of the sunset.

      “Can we keep it?” Kumajirou asks.

      “No, silly. Butterflies are meant to be free. He wouldn’t be happy inside our house,” I open the net, and the butterfly happily takes to the sky, “See?”

      With his head jerked toward the sky, Kumajirou watches as the butterfly flies away; he turns his head to the ground, dejected, “Oh.”



Meet Arlaine, the Real Me

Out of Darkness    [video game-esque, action/adventure, fantasy]    {fantasy violence and dealing with decay of towns and/or disturbing ideas}

I Have Seen the Future (enchan)  Molly teaches second grade and dreams of writing a novel while rushing back and forth through her crazy life where she is allowed no time to stop and wonder as her mother fades further and further away. But, when she does have time, she begins to notice strange, poetic notes the new student, Enchantee is leaving her. Almost as though that girl knows more than she seems... (all ages? the reading's a bit advanced)  [fiction, novel, some fantasy, life]


The world is at my throat. I run all day, but I can never escape reality’s grasp. Sometimes I think fate has confined me to this path: working, working, working with no hopes of escape from this vicious cycle. Yes, my days since the big economy boom consist of this simple schedule: waking up, bringing my disabled mother breakfast in bed, running off to teaching at the elementary school, tutoring on weekends, running home for a five-minute nap during the week, calming my mother before running off to teaching grammar for the night shift at college, and—finally—passing out on my worn-out cloud bed for three hours of restless twilight cadence. This nightmare will never end. I’m sure pinching pennies and performing numerous feats for survival was the main plot description for the story God wrote to be my life. The sad thing is I’ve gotten so used to this mundane schedule that it’s become like clockwork for me; in truth, I don’t mind it at all. It’s beautiful to know that my childhood optimism and blind faith never truly left me. Me, Molly ­­Patton-Sullivan. Part-time caregiver, full-time teacher, closet novelist with departed dreams.

     A heart-jerking crash reminiscent of a bad car accident jerks me out of sleep. My eyes instinctually dart for the LED clock’s haunting glow. Four a.m. Time to get up. A melancholy sigh disguises my breath; I drag myself out of bed, and I don’t bother rearranging the maroon floral bed sheets until after I’m dressed. The soft streaks of city lights sigh through the semi-transparent blinds covering my bedroom windows. These lights, or “fairies” as I call them, always help me find my way to the bathroom, and thus, the light switch. Upon opening the light’s natural luminescence, my school attire is visible and ready for me to begin another morning and thusly, another non-stop day.

     By the time I have finished taking my shower, changing my clothes, and brushing my hair, it is about 4:30 a.m. At this time, a few city birds wake to greet the sun when it rises, and traffic lulls gently before the first rush of money-hungry workers amass on the streets. This is, as they say, the calm before the storm. I cherish this quiet time, like I cherish all the small, quiet moments of my day; they are little breaths I can take in before sprinting again. I don’t want to work myself too hard, lest I forget my hair is brown, my eyes are green, and my name is Molly.

     My thirty-minute breather comes to an end at 5:00; the time I must rise and feed my mother. My bed is made, my shades are drawn up to reveal the silhouetted skyline, and my bathroom light is still on so as to guide me through the dark halls to my mother’s room. I cautiously slip on my white bunny slippers, and I proceed to tiptoe down the narrow, choking hall. The light behind me stretches to reach that hallowed door. The tickling scent of dense hair spray is getting stronger, and so is the feeling of one at her death bed. The wooden door is cracked open slightly, as usual, and it provides me with a glimpse into her world. I cautiously swing open the door using a nudge from my hand to give the door momentum. The light from down the hall strains itself to stretch toward my mother’s snowy, robed head, but it cannot reach her shadow. I hold my breath to listen for hers. Through the silence speaks a shallow, shaky breath coming in and out, following a certain undeterminable rhythm. I smile slightly. She will live to see another day. It is time to make her breakfast.


What Used to Be   Sybil has always been blind, but she's enjoyed living in the world she's always seen--a bright and brilliant place on the prairie with a kind teacher who always takes care of her at the one-room schoolhouse. But once the marvel of modern medicine grants her eyesight, she realizes the world that surrounds her looks nothing like the place she's always known. Surrounded by glass and steel, Sybil has to learn to adjust to her new surroundings...and wonder just where the other place went--and if it once belonged here, too. (all ages tech) [scifi, fiction, nature, past and future]


“Hey, Sybil, you want the window seat? I sure don’t need to see outside again!” Casey offers, scooting over. 

          “Sure; thanks!” I switch with her, and the window offers a sneak peek of the world around me—the world now shown by my new eyes.

          A dot of my reflection speeds by me, blurred, in the windows. The air rushes through the bus—I recall the sound because it would fill my ears while I walked to school in my daydreams. Where did I walk? In the…fields? I still can’t remember, though the scenes come back very quickly sometimes. The pictures disappear before I can grasp them again. The bus rattles the clinky-clangy ground, and the blue sky is everywhere—peeking in reflections up and down and sideways. Limpid blue with puffy clouds. It’s an illusion, confusing me—I can’t find the real sky.

          Now that I think about it, all the buildings look strange. They’re all angled in odd ways—pointing up and down and facing uknown directions. From the dips in the road, it is hard to tell whether we are still outside or if we’re inside these strange buildings. Everything is just like how it was from the hospital room: shiny silver and clear glass with some color splashed in from the sky and pieces of different-colored buildings. I never learned about these things in school, and I never saw these kinds of things in my old world, so I don’t know what they are called.

          A big block over the street puts us in darkness for a minute, and the bus takes a sharp turn before we leave the “tunnel” (That’s what Casey says it is called) and the light comes back. The shiny bus comes to a stop in front of an enormous building in stark contrast from the rest of the buildings. It is milky white and very tall and wide. It doesn’t look like the school I remember; the entrance has a tower that climbs to a dome protecting a golden bell, and around the recognizable façade are extensions like big blocks that were added on with time. All the kids grab their packs and shuffle from their seats. This can’t be the school.


The Magic Within You (TMWY)  Lacey wants to be a good cook and studies hard at her cooking school, but no matter how hard she tries, she always ends up making silly mistakes! But then everything changes when she gets fairies that grant all her wishes! But will they really just grant her wish to be the best? (all ages)  [fiction, series, comedic, cartoon??]

(I know what you're thinking) (and I'm sorry)

Dear Diary     Jacob Victor has read every single book in existence, and he's grown so terribly bored. But when he delves into a tattered, esoteric journal his mom found at a flea market, he's entranced by a real-life story of a girl no one ever knew.   (all ages) [story, journal, fiction, realistic fiction]  {some instances of abuse and neglect in the entries}

My mom is home from her usual flea market and antique shop runs. My mom’s a fanatic for all things antiquitous; if we were millionaires, she’d spend all our money at an antique auction for sure—along with a big, Victorian home to put everything in.

            “I’m back, Jacob!” she tries to get through the front door with her hands full, “You’ll never guess what I found!”

            “Is it a book?” I always ask, though I know the answer. I guess I just want her to know I feel excited.

            “Even better! While I was at an estate sale, I found some old books. It turns out they were diaries from a girl in town! Strangest thing. I thought you’d like them, anyway, so I got them. No one else wanted them, after all!”

            My juvenile face sinks to a frown, “But, Mom…Why would I want to read some girl’s diary?”

            “You never know; you might find something interesting in them.”

            She really does think I’ll read anything. I sigh and give in. I guess it’s better than being bored.

            Mom sets her paper bags full of knickknacks carefully on the antique wooden table and sets off to find the perfect location for each olden treasure. The old diaries are already out of the bag and sitting in front of me. They’re not at all what I expected to see. I shimmy off the couch and grab them for a closer look. Boy, are they heavy! I plop the books down next to my seat at the couch, and I sit down again. Inspecting the first book, I find it is not that heavy by itself—about the weight of a guinea pig. The spine is ruffled at the top, and watermarks cover the light brown cloth cover of the book at various spots. It looks like a regular old book from a bookstore except without any words on the covers—no wonder Mom thought they were just normal books. One thing’s for sure: it’s one fancy diary. I like to familiarize myself with a book before reading it—examining the book, flipping through the pages to get an idea of length and structure, reading through those “boring” first pages to take in the simple things and author’s history of hard work…All that fun stuff. After getting an idea of the book, without further ado, I begin to read. Beyond the plain cover, cream-colored, thick pages full of writing in many colors of gel pens draw my attention. Now I know it’s a girl’s diary. Although hidden behind history.

            Spelled out in neat light pink handwriting is her first entry:

            Dear Diary,

       My mom said I have to get a diary so I have someone to talk to, so I chose you. I liked the look of your cover. It’s old and reminds me of history.

            Hm. Sounds familiar.

       I also liked that you look like a normal book cuz it makes me feel like an author, though I know I’ll never write a book, probably. I’m not that good at writing. I guess I better tell you a bit about me: My name is Amy Trellis, and I like polka dots and horses—especially the mythical kinds like Pegasus and unicorns. People say they don’t exist, but I think it’s just because no one’s discovered them yet. My favorite subject is history, but enough about that. I don’t really feel like talking about myself right now. I don’t know what else to say… You know, having a diary is pretty stupid cuz you can’t talk back to me. Who am I even writing to, anyway? Myself? I hope my mom doesn’t see this. Maybe she’s making me write because she wants to know what I think about. Well, too bad for her because I’m hiding this diary where no one will find it. It’s for me and you, only diary. I mean that.

            Great. Now I know I’m intruding. I shut the book and cut off ties with the girl. It just doesn’t seem right reading a girl’s diary. Although…I can’t stop thinking about what her life was like and why she needed someone to talk to. Darn it; it’s happening again—my thirst to read more is overpowering me. That’s just the way I am—even if it’s a predictable story ending, I have to know what’s coming next! After all, the prediction might not come true. Once again, I delve into a book. This time, a book of real life.


Secret to Happiness  Another college story (young adult)  [fiction]    {casual references to real-life things} Basically, I have no idea. I'm reworking this book a lot

It Calls for Thee   Matthew Reed fulfills his lifelong dream to become a veterinarian, but it comes with its share of struggles. (all ages?) [fiction, life story, general]    {just the fact that he regrets not being able to save all animals as a vet}


My red pickup speeds across the road, leaving the dusty trails of the country behind. The sky ahead of me is blue, brimming with possibilities, and golden with sunlight. College and the big city await me. It feels great finally leaving Meridon and my uncle’s stuffy house—plus all those years of moping and standing on the edge of depression. Those are the gray clouds looming in the rear view mirror; those days are gone now.

            Two hours of driving blow by in an instant, and my radio is hoarse from blasting country music for so long. I snap the dial to “off,” and the screaming sounds of the tires hovering over the asphalt covers my ears the rest of the way. I had already stopped at an oasis for lunch—McDonald’s—and I’m three-fourths of the way there. The skyscrapers are painting a landscape portrait in the sky through the smog and haze. It calls me forth.

            Maybe it was a sign, after all—the college letter on top of my grandma’s letters, I mean. I never believed in fantasy stuff happening in reality, but something told me it was just about time for my troubled life to change. Something told me I’d find the real Matthew Reed in the city—Chicago, the city of opportunity.

            I hold my breath as my dusty truck crosses the bridge to the city. The city is nothing like I ever could have imagined, and it definitely isn’t anything like the pictures—it is real and in-your-face. The skyscrapers are really just that: sky scrapers. They command to replace the sky—to be taller than the sky, itself. They’re all the same size and structure with some variations. Their color is metallic, and at certain angles, the sun surges off them like a supernova and practically blinds everything in its wake. The streets are lined with every car they could possibly pack into such a cramped place; in fact, without the cars, I’m sure the city would appear to be more vacuous than it really is; with the cars, it’s like living in a sardine can. Flashbacks to Uncle Jack’s are imminent, but I suppress them and focus on not getting killed by the oppressive drivers. And the people—oh, the people! It’s like a microcosm; a miniature world of people and races converging in this sardine can along with machine and metal! The only thing missing seems to be nature…the only thing I had at home.

            After two hours of arduous driving and headbanging, I spot the university, and tears of joy almost escape me. I fish out some change from my jeans and find a parking spot at the massive parking garage. My maroon truck, its normal lustrous red marred by dirt and dust, is hilariously easy to spot among the legions of compact cars and SUVs—it’s almost like a “find it” game. I’ll be lucky never to lose my car here. The car alarm chirps, and I walk away with my books and a vague idea of where to go for class. This day ought to turn out well.


~The Guardian of Subconscious Influences (GSI)  FM has another adventure as he becomes the guardian of my characters in my subconscious. As he watches over everyone, he begins to understand us all further and to connect some intrinsic parallels between all of us. Meanwhile, he deals with his burgeoning infatuation with Mariah and his troubles from the past as he tries t move on. (14+)  [fiction, novel, young adult, fantasy, supernatural, symbolic, literary]    {this is one of my strict TV-14s for reasons listed in the book}


Ah, the sweet wind’s caress lifts me from my nap, and I once again find myself overtaken by that new, yet now familiar sensation that has thusly cloaked my heart. All the world appears sweeter and very carefree; my worries have since ceased, and my thoughts show me nothing but she. Dearest Mariah. Ah, that the mention of her name produces a sigh from me makes me appear a fool. So foolish am I that I have lain here for many an hour pondering about her and occasionally watching her. Even now, I find myself relishing in the guilty joy of seeing her smile and skip in the flowers as though she knows no pain. Why? Why does my heart feel this way?    

          Ah, I must know more about her. Though, I may not ask her such silly questions; I feel she would cast me aside or perhaps turn shy and lower her smile, exchanging it for an air of pale gray. Sigh. It is hopeless. Is it not merely enough for me to dream about her? Why…do these odd ideas intrigue me? Why do such finite notions pull me as though I were on reigns? How does she dream? What are her colors? Why does her smile make my heart feel inexplicably warm inside? Why…do I want to hold her so badly?       

          Sigh. I must abandon these notions, for I am much too shy to ask her such frivolous questions in exchange for her musings upon life and her adorable expression of joy that reduces me to a mere puddle. Is there no one I may ask instead? Ah, but I recall she has shown me the realms of two others that reside here—Yes, those called Elaine and Cera. Do they share her story? Perhaps they shall know some things about her that they shall wish to bequeath to me. In attempt to sneak past the magnificent girl quietly, I crawl upon the ground, staying level with the bushes, and inch my way to the abode of the one called Elaine.  

          Yet, it seems the forest’s reaches are closed, and nothing seems willing to part the fortified trees so that I may pass. At this blockade, I sigh, and my wish is thusly granted. Softly, as though a careful melody, the forest departs from sight, and a path of crushed stones leads me to the abode of Elaine (or so I presume), which is an old-fashioned and rather tender house of white and of simple square structure. Though it may not be too terribly old, the home’s integrity has fallen thusly, and its overall countenance bears the mark of solemn age. Ah, yet I wonder how long she has lived here.

          The simplistic wooden door allows me passage to the realm of her mundane, normal, yet partially cryptic life. Inside, I find only darkness to greet me once again. All is cloaked in a shroud of dust, and the home seems so painfully alone—so eerily yet tearfully silent. 

          But amid the hushed ambiance of gray shines a calm, gentle light which wafts from the upstairs as though it were a kind of soul—a guardian leading me to and from the realm of dreams. Cautiously, I follow the luminescence. The stairs creak as though I were too drastically heavy, yet my essence feels oddly misplaced and incomprehensibly light—similar to the lambent candle which has led me simply to the girl’s equally as uninhabited room. Nothing waits. Ah, yet even the other doors are locked tightly, as though enclosed and introverted. They take care to remain that way.


A Shadow in Darkness [Aika Village] (Aika)   A fanfiction that explores the more psychological properties of Aika village and portrays her as a character that has to deal with her mistakes and regrets. (honestly...I don't know, teen?) [fanfiction, psychological, half-verse?, experimental?, horror?]    {ironically, not much except for an innate fear for her life. constantly. paranoia}


After a long day of hiking and hiding out in the thickets, I reached my grandmother’s house. It had been empty for years; I don’t know why it was even still standing then. It was so empty that the house itself seemed to echo. Cobwebs covered the front door, and the metal on wood made an ominous creek as I pried the door open. Unlocked, as usual. Grandma always welcomed me into her house—I was the special child. I’m sure if I had other siblings or even cousins, I still would have been the one that made her eyes light up as her old head turned at the sound of the door, warm smile beaming as she cried, “Come in, Aika! I’m glad you’re here!”

            Not anymore. It was just more darkness waiting for me. Quiet waiting to close me in and drive me even more insane. But I had to hide somewhere. And where else could I have gone?

            Darkness. How I hated it. It drained everything in the house of its color and warmth, making the familiar and kind place haunted and morbid. The furniture was stripped away, and all that was left were her shelves of books—so many books. Oh, how she loved to read. Because there was no library in town, she wanted to make a kind of sanction in her living room for everyone—books galore of all kinds and shapes and sizes. The walls of the room were knowledge, the foundation of her life and her heart for the community. But then, as I returned, the books collected dust and only wanted to fade away into dust themselves.

            As I knew I had to close myself in, I dropped everything I had and mustered up all the strength my kid body had. Rolling up my sleeves, I took a deep breath and marched up to a tall shelf across the way. It looked like it was reaching toward the sky. With a huff and a pull, I dragged it across the wooden floor—each pull forcing the bookshelf further and further from its past as it made a terrible screeching sound as though it were in intense pain. It was agony, pure agony. The veins popped in my arms, and my face burned bright red from the strain—but I kept manipulating the giant bookcase until it covered the entrance of the house. Until it locked me in. shut it all away.

            Falling to my bottom, I caught my breath and, retrospectively, admired my work. “This would work just fine,” I thought. And so, pushing away all thoughts and contradiction, I made quick work with the rest of the shelves. Until I had formed a maze that kept even me from reaching myself as I cloistered myself in the back room.



SFC College  A side-story for the SFC Trilogy that follows Cera, Elaine, and Mariah to college! They all deal with discovery of themselves and pursuit of their own dreams and futures. But Mariah is the one going through the most grief and troubles now...where's Friendship Club when you need it most?  (young adult) [fiction, novel, young adult, college] {mostly just emotional issues as usual}


“I brought Maximillian with me!” Mariah displays as her guinea pig finds rest upon a simple but erudite platform on the coffee table beside her bed.

            “You brought your guinea pig with you?” Cera questions in complete, utter disbelief.

            “Yep! He’s a world traveler!” Mariah beams, feeling second-hand pride for her beloved pet, who was most probably forced into such an excursion across a border he never wished to traverse.

            “But how did they even let him across the border? They wouldn’t even let me take my pet rock with me,” Cera continues with her overly-exaggerated and perfectly aggravated tone. At this point, she feels compelled to add a pinch more sarcasm than usual. It seemed the recipe was flawed.

            “You don’t have a pet rock!” Mariah bursts.

            The conversation continues like this for a few moments, but it reaches no interesting developments.

            “Aw,” Elaine calms down the vibe with a generous reach, “is that your cute guinea pig you’ve been telling me about? I remember when you wrote about him a few times for our writing assignment. And that one art picture! He must really be something.”

            “He is!” Mariah enlightens. “Such a cutie!”

            “You mean ‘Mr. World Conqueror’?” Cera muttered not into the air but in to the vacuous confines of her abyssal mind which is always fluttering with so many tsundere remarks.

            “Hey, Cera, you remember when I painted that picture of him wearing the cute conqueror’s hat, right?” Mariah flashes a sly grin as she continuously nudges Cera so only as to force a response from her—preferably one of the friendly kind.

            “Oh, please,” Cera remarks, “Why would I recall something so stupid?” In truth, she is very fond of the adorable picture, and the glorious sight returns so often—revenant—in her mind to perk up her face and spirits whenever her mood sours.



Falling, Rapid Emotions (Falling, Rapid)  A girl who longs to save her crybaby boyfriend from the facility. A strange, younger girl who is treated like a mouse. Literal tears that fall from the sky like rain. (young adult?)  [short story, part of a collection, scifi, adventure]    {just the scifi themes are creepy}


[MANY, MANY Short Stories

The World I See (Sketchbook)    [

~CRK in Patiroyale   Join me as I join Victorique's establishment and make pastries in this "auto-fanfiction." Yes, I get bored. (all ages) [series] {again, I get emotional and depressed} 


The building itself is not an impressive structure; it is rather quaint and simplistic—just big enough to hold a few master bakers and decorateurs. It is only a production kitchen, after all.  The building sits on a ledge below the hustle and bustle of town and near the calm, lonely river flowing through the city. I’m glad I was able to find PâtiRoyale quickly; the whole “district, city, areas” thing is unbearably confusing to me. I’m just a simple country girl, after all! I wonder how overwhelmed and confused Victorique was when she came here looking for her dreams…

My knocking is drowned by the many hums and noises produced by the machines inside. The inside is bright, and all the pâtissiers are working or pacing the room, completely focused on their tasks. Luckily, it seems I was able to catch the attention of Printemps, one of Victorique’s newest specialty chefs, the one who is most like me.

Leaving her petits fours, Printemps jogs to the door, avoiding the others so as not to disturb them, and shyly opens the door while saying (surprisingly rather confidently), “Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider ?”

“Hey there, Printemps. It’s me—Claire. I’m Victorique’s friend from the US.”

“Oh!” Prin’s face beamed, “Hello! Would you like me to get the Chef for you?”

“That’s OK; I can—”

And just then, the infamous Chef throws open the back door and enters the kitchen, thus filling the room with her commanding presence. How does she always know when someone strange has entered her kitchen?

“Well…” Victorique begins as she crosses the room all the while looking me straight in the eyes with her piercing (yet friendly) glare, “What made you think you could spend your first day lollygagging along the streets of Paris?” She’s speaking in accent.


“No, don’t answer!” she turns her back to me, making a dramatic and rather despondent pose, “I am not mad; I am just disappointed, that’s all! I expected more of you!”


“I just thought that the ‘Great Chef of the New World’ would be more precise, that’s all. Why, I half-expected to wake up this morning and find you at my marble table tempering chocolate for me and saying very loudly, ‘Bonjour, Chef!’”

“Victorique!” I hope to get her attention finally by shouting.

“But…this is not important. So, you want to wash dishes today, yes?”

“Wash dishes?”

“Of course. That is why you are so late!” Inbetween talking, Victorique shoos her hand to Printemps, signaling her to return to her work. Prin does so shyly.

“What do you mean ‘late’?”

“Late! Have you not changed your watch?”

“I didn’t come early because I figured that you wouldn’t let me bake, anyway!”

At this, she released her most annoying laugh. “Of course I would not let you bake! You must prove your worth to me first. For the next few weeks, you shall be helping Oliver with the dishes. And no complaining. You like him, don’t you?”

“The next few weeks?!”

“You need to climb the ladder, so to speak; after you have finished with the dishes, you can be promoted by helping the others being an assistant.”

“But…” I’m stymied.

“No complaining. This is how it is.”

“Are you trying to tell me that if I’d gotten here early today…you would have promoted me right away?!” I’m practically crying anime-style by now.

“Yes, that’s right. Now go do the dishes,” Victorique pats my shoulder before she returns to her kitchen and leaves me alone.

A puppy whimper much like That Child’s escapes me right now as I dangle my head to the floor.


Winter  A fairy tale-esque novella following a young grl named Winter as she discovers a new story as a book of her life literally appears in her hands and begins narrating her journey as she goes. (tech all ages but...kids aren't going to get it) [literary, fairy tale, novel, fantasy, adventure, action]    {not sure yet but certain things happen}


Tears of sunlight streak through the gray clouds as I wake, wipe my eyes, and behold the morning. I unwrap myself from all four quilts and gently fold the heavy fabrics on top of each other as they layer the bed. The cottage is practically an ice rink; the chilling air seizes the night very quickly, and I cannot leave a fire unattended as I dream. So, I light a fire in the fireplace as soon as I wake, using the warmth to cook some soup. Despite my sensitivity to extreme warmth and my affinity for the cold, I am still human-like in many ways, so I must take care to my internal temperature, which is lower than normal humans'.

            The humble log cabin creaks and stretches, as though waking from its nocturnal slumber. Wrapping a fur coat around my shoulders, I pick up a match from the side-table and swipe it against the fireplace's stony ledge. A spark ignites, and the firewood bursts into bloom, wafting a strong scent of smoke and filling the house with warmth. I fall to my knees before the fire and allow it to warm me before I leave to make my breakfast. The fire's soft crackling and emanation instill me with fuzzy memories associated with this humble cabin: the day I was first born, the time I rescued a starving bunny rabbit and let it sleep on the plaid quilt as it made a makeshift bed upon the hardwood floor, the days I would clean and dust while attempting to rearrange the home's furniture—always coming to the same conclusion that it should remain just as it is now: suspended in time. The bed has always slept in the far corner of the room, to the left of the window leading to the blustery winds outside; the kitchen has always been small, consisting only of a fridge no taller than I am and a small sink with enough space to fit five dishes at once or a few pounds of potato peels; the fireplace, naturally, is the centerpiece of the house, bringing harmony to the discombobulated sections (kitchen, dining table big enough for four scooched together, bed, and clothes rack at front) and providing them a suitable place to stay and to live. The front window, by the door, always provides a lovely view, so that is where I always sit to knit, to read, or to contemplate.

            For now, I will wait here, keeping the fire company, to eat my soup in peace.

            Breakfast seems so long ago now that the sun has broken through the fluffy clouds, which dematerialize slowly into mist. To my skin, the air is not so cold—much like a refreshing spring breeze. The birds, however, huddle in their nests and scrounge for suet and seeds I leave for them in wide, red saucers upon the snow. The other animals puff their furry coats and brave the snow in search of adventure to break their boredom. Now that my morning job is finished, I am beginning to sympathize with the creatures' search for adventure. I never imagined I would someday tire of acknowledging the same routine every day, but I suppose anything's possible.

            All that surrounds me is a seemingly endless world of white—my tiny home on this large, diverse earth of ours. I have never ventured beyond here, for I was told as a child I should not do so, because some areas of the world are far too dangerous for someone like me. I was never told which places are safe and which are forbidden, so I just stay here to be ensured I'll be safe.

            But…what if I just looked? If I stay in the snow, at least, I will still be home, but I can look into the distance and imagine what it would be like to explore such distant lands. Casually, I walk, following the unlaid path of snow to the horizon on the east. Scattered evergreens pass me by, and many more of their friends spring up in dense company further toward the horizon. I continue under the canopy of leaves, and I am mesmerized as I am enclosed by nature—a much different feeling than the nostalgic sense of sitting in the "garden" or the serene emotion that covers me while sitting and looking outside through the front window at the falling snowflakes. Gradually, the snow melts until only patches of white remain; the new horizon before me unfolds green and spiky. Among the verdant carpet live flowers of numerous colors and innumerable styles. The air is much warmer here, but not too different from the warmer days in winter. The sun, however, is much more vibrant here; as though it is an entirely different sun.

            "Of course," I explain aloud, "this is the area of Spring: the Land of Flowers."

            Cautiously, my foot taps the green ground, tasting its properties as one would test a pool of water for temperature. Feeling comfortable, I flatten my foot on the grass and allow my other foot to join it. The grass doesn't feel cold or wet through my white, cobbled shoes like the snow does. My snowy hair dangles in the wind, and a glint in the trees catches my eyes as I twirl around, observing. Curiously, I run to the trees across the field of flowers; the sprouting colors fill my nose with a flood of pleasant smells. I could linger here forever, holding on to the dream-like scents while staring into the endless, blue sky.


Daisy   Daisy Buchanan is the town's optimist who helps out her friends and helps out her dad at his antique shop. Dealing with real-world issues and helping her friends along for the ride, she helps pull everyone off the ground and back up again. (all ages) [cartoon series I wish, book series, life, kids, fiction]   {yes but in a way kids may not actually be scarred by???}

Natsuna Akuma, Defender of the Online World (NA)  Natsuna Akuma sees beyond what everyone else notices--and halts the offenders that trash the multiple u-devices and technology that pervade everyone's life. But, through it all, is there something even more sinister than the villains' detailed attacks? (all ages?) [scifi, anime action/adventure, fantasy, technology, short series]  {scifi realization}

Life in the Shadows  Just the typical story of the typical girl who doesn't have a life. But then suddenly gets one (new adult--because that exists)  [new adult, college age, college, life, literally life, romance]    {love...???}

Anonymity  A world where words slowly deteriorate their meanings until they mean absolutely nothing. But, through this strange movement and across this odd world, one girl discovers a secret cavern out in the middle of nowhere...full of books. Dictionaries, to be precise. (young adult)  [young adult, scifi, adventure]    {this really should scare you}

Chocobo & the Anime Store of Wonders  Chocobo, a silly girl with floofy hair, falls from the sky one day and ends up at a fun anime store that's full of interesting things! Except they're all very useful items in this world that grant powers and great abilities. (teen, 10+)  [fantasy, anime, series]  {some really dramatic episodes, violence and fantasy violence} No, it's not a fanfiction. But I'll be mad if that name is actually copyrighted and I can't use it. Also...think Inuyasha.

What Will Life be Like Today?    [

Pepper   Pepper watches her friends change and mature...some for the worse, some for the better. And regrets how the past dwindles away. (all?) [short story]

Poppett's House for Guinea Pigs  Poppett works many part-time cafe jobs to keep her multiple guinea pigs happy. She can't stand seeing guinea pigs without a happy home, so she keeps adopting all those who need some love. This is her tale of her and her guinea pigs. (all ages)  [slice of life, stories, manga?]   {loss in a way that isn't creepy}

Playground Project    [    {main character...has something happen to her}

 2014 (the Era of the Muse)

*d'Aller Jusqu'au Bout (d'ajb)  Emotional novel about (aph) France and his journey through the Hundred Years' War...and his time with Jeanne. All the lessons they taught each other and all the promises they kept to stand together until the bitter end. (15+) [fanfiction (Hetalia), historical fiction, fantasy?, war, romance?, life]    {YES. TV-14 EXTREME EMOTIONS. LOSS. VIOLENCE, PAIN, HEARTBREAK, WAR, AND JUST...INSANITY. Oh, but it's SO worth it}


When we arrived at the castle I claimed for myself, little Jeanne admired the structure and interior of the humble building with wide, curious eyes. The castle wasn’t nearly as big as the usual ones, though there were the minimum number of rooms, including a dining area and a kitchen and a parlor. Wherever I lead, she followed me close, noting the echoes that came from the solitude.

“It is a bit lonely with only the two of us in this large castle,” she commented.

“Well, I have another smaller house nearby; we could go there if you’d prefer,” I said.

“Oh, that is all right, Monsieur France. You do not have to cater to my ungrateful responses. It really is thoughtful of you to invite me here to stay.”

“Good. I just want you to be comfortable,” I assured softly.

With a sigh, she perched at the edge of the bed in the main quarters, looking down thoughtfully.

“What is it?” I asked, concerned, refraining myself from sitting next to her.

“Well, it is strange. The King also said I would be welcome to stay at his castle. But it seems strange—as though there could be another motive behind his words. Though, he said I could visit my brothers there.”

“That’s fine. You can visit them if you’d like.” I tried to sound as caring as possible in my gentle tone of voice. “I want you to feel free to do what you would like to do, ma petite. I just request…if you go, please let me know so I can go along with you to see you there. I don’t want you to go alone; I want to make sure you’re safe.”

Tired of being told what to do by the King and the others, she was comforted by my words. For the first time in what seemed to be months, she smiled warmly, delicate and refreshing like the sun’s rays. My heart melted to cool spring water.      


Since then, in that cool but lonely autumn, began the days where we had only each other. Time slowed to a quiet pace, drifting by like a stray puffy cloud against the bright, blue sky. It wasn’t exactly a lonely time because we had each other, but Jeanne nevertheless often fought with isolation and worries. I didn’t like seeing her with such a sad face—stricken by hopelessness and aimlessness. Following my instructions, she asked me to escort her places, most often to see her brothers at the castle, and to accompany me on my walks when I decided to leave. Admittedly, it was a nice change of pace. Very casual. Each day felt refreshingly normal and uneventful—but beautiful because I shared them with her.

It was during this slow time that I was able to keep up on my diary, something I felt compelled to keep the moment I first met Jeanne. I don’t know why I felt so adamantly persuaded to chronicle every single event and line of her life…perhaps to cherish it, perhaps to retain every ounce of her memory, perhaps just because I was gradually and inexplicably drawn to her—to the point where I fell and tumbled madly in love. Either way, we now have extensive records about her life because of the journal I kept and papers I have hoarded… I just couldn’t bear to see them fade away to the flow of time like lost sands taken by the ocean’s waves. She wasn’t just ephemeral. I wanted her to be immortalized… even if it were only in memory and documents. Places and stepping stones. Statues and days. She’s still here—beside me. Somehow. Somewhere.

Either way, I spent a lot of time writing in my journal—so much so that she actually became concerned about me and was curious about what exactly I spent so much time working on. With a smile, I just explained that sometimes one needs to confine one’s thoughts to something… to let it be heard. Remembered—even to my future self with ailing mind that, even in all its struggle and deterioration, would never allow any detail of her to slip away.

She was compassionate to my need to say confidential, and she didn’t really ask me much more after that. Though, curiously enough, she joined me those nights I sat to write, and she practiced stitching and knitting, which she was quite good at. It seemed to help ease her troubles, as it recalled the days she would help her mother back at her house and on the farm. I was glad to see her so content. She even made us both little blankets. So adorable. And sometimes she would practice her letters, learning how to write her name and mine. It was cute, to me, to see her with such a determined look on her face as she tried to copy my examples. We made the simple days such a pleasure to relax and to just enjoy each other’s company.


-The Francophone Friendly Restaurant! (FFR)  Me, Victorique, FM, and (aph) France join together to make our own restaurant! Many antics and heartwarming moments ensue! See life as it really is in the kitchen. (all ages tech)  [series, anime jk, slice of life] {dramatic moments later; it gets progressively dramatic}


With a loving smile and a wink, Big Brother hands me the pain au chocolat wrapped in a napkin, and the steam from the pastry dances in the cool air. A living dream. It’s by this time, I realize to myself, that Big Brother and I don’t need any more words between us. It’s as though our hearts are always in conversation and souls always in waiting for consolation.

Ironically, it’s the opposite between me and FM. For us, the more words, the better. We’ve gotten in the habit of exchanging or hiding letters to each other as well as getting together to discuss and read literature. We even made weekly retreats to the literary cafés just to pretend we were famous authors having a casual discussion over soup and sandwich. I’ve begun to cherish the moments. Now that he’s stopped acting so stupid and romantic around me.    

I have to admit that, in the beginning, I never dreamed we’d all get together each morning and observe the sun soar into the sky as we relax quietly and savor our croissants and warm drinks. We’re such a strange bunch, but we’ve somehow made it all work, haven’t we? Maybe more just with the temperament of time rather than actual work and compromise. Just like I’ve gotten used to this silly routine.

As the last of the crumbs fade away, Bonnie straightens his stack of papers and gives us our instructions and information for the day. I can’t help it that every time he reads the menu with all its delicious-sounding glory that I practically rise to Heaven. But, oddly, he falters a little when delivering the description of the main fish dish. Is he still thinking it over? With eyes lost in thought, he scratches out some words and writes something else—only to scratch that out again.

“What’s wrong, Bonnie?” I ask, stretching my aching back so as to snap it in place again. My back’s angry again today; what else is new.

“Oh…it’s just…” he mutters to himself, keeping his musings secret.

“If you’re out of ideas, you could just ask me for advice,” Victorique suggests, puffing up her chest like a distinguished monarch.

“No. I’m fine,” France brushes her off.

Even though he keeps scratching up the list of ideas, we all stay quiet and a little confused. Finally, he stands up suddenly, pushing the chair aside and marches into the kitchen, keeping intent and frustrated gaze at the piece of parchment.

Concerned, I follow him (and the others follow me). Could it be he’s really out of ideas? Is that even possible? He’s reused past recipes (I mean, who hasn’t?), so that’s certainly not the issue. If not that…what is it?

Suddenly, whipping out a giant book from a hidden drawer, he slams the tome on the granite countertop and leafs through all the pages, scrolling through an index list…when suddenly, his finger stops on a word, and his eyes fall solemn.

“What is it, Bonnie? Looking for a recipe?”

He sighs. Closing the book, he returns the compendium to the secluded drawer and turns about face to declare his decision. Or not.

“It’s all right,” his expression switches to a sweet smile. “Please go about your work today.” Switching his eyes between me and V, he declares, “Please get to work on those fruit tarts, you two. And the custard, as well. For the bread, make the usual baguettes and slice them thinly once they come out of the oven, all right?” Turning to FM, he instructs, “I’ll need some good white wine for cooking today. Also, please reorganize the stock of the counter in the dining room for me. I’ll check it later.” 

We all stare blankly for a few seconds before disbanding our act as though we rehearsed it. But I don’t follow V to the baker’s table. “Bonnie. Please tell me what’s bothering you,” I request in my usual “cutie” manner to him as he’s sharpening his knives for prep work.

With a quiet sigh disguised in an exhale, he forms a touched smile and carefully sets the chef’s knife aside. “Well, I have an extensive repertoire of sauces, but it’s been a while since I’ve made all of them. It’s difficult sometimes to remember them all. And when I woke up thinking of salmon with vegetable risotto…” he voice trails away.

“You were thinking of what?”

He chuckles, admitting under his breath, “Sauce Bonnefoy.”

“Only you, Bonnie!” I criticize him, bopping his shoulder. My reaction elicits a joyful laugh from him.

“Wouldn’t you know it, though? It’s been forever since I’ve made it! I’m practically nervous!”


“Because…” he blushes. “I made it up.” Turning his head away like a shy boy, he reiterates, “I of all people should know how to make it.”

Please do not take this as historical fact.

“Just make a practice one for our lunch.”

“I know,” he laughs sheepishly. “I guess I shouldn’t be so particular.”

He’s so precious when he’s flustered. “Don’t worry, Cutie. You’ll do fine.”

“That’s my line,” he asserts with a kind smile and a sudden, loving embrace.

“I know,” I return.


-I'll Be Waiting for You There Come Tomorrow (TBTS)  Annie hears the voice of the land and cherishes its stories as they flow through her veins. Though she and her siblings just arrived here from their other world, a void dimension filled with nothing, she feels already she belongs here. Though the others don't sense her idealism and connection to this place and search for others. But Annie discovers so much about this land that she knows she just can't let go--and she can't wait to bring it back to the blank world to fill it with newfound life. (all ages tech though advanced reading for sure)  [literary, fiction, culture, discovery]


Now, the sky has changed. Blue mingling, transforming, with light and dancing with flickers of orange as the horizon darkens to a rogue violet waltzing with the sunshine’s lost pastel yellow. The land tells me the people sleep once the magnificent sun falls—so I wonder. Following the last of the day as it slips away into mysterious night and greeting the tepid compassion once it returns from its journey. How magical.

            And now that the sun has faded, everything falls to what the land deems as darkness. But it is not malevolent as I had believed. The face of the sky has transformed—flecked with millions of tiny lights and swirls of color that were once unseen. Many wishes, unshed tears, hopes that wait but always listen. The inspiration of dreams, eternal companions that—as the land states—even exist during the sun’s reign but are hidden from sight by its brightness.

            The different face—how fascinating. It is the mysterious side of the sky—beautiful and daring—poetic as each mind of this world longs to describe her majesty. But I prefer the day’s fair face, full of grace and peace. Kind in conduct and mild-mannered as it is reveled to the source of life itself as it grounds its joy in meaning and purpose.

            The sky is, I believe, as every woman longs to be and should be. I will strive.

            I suppose I should heed the night’s fair lullaby and try to sleep as the people do in this fair land. I don’t know how to be tired or just yet how to sleep. But, faintly, I register the land’s hushed cadence as it sweetly bids my eyes to close and my dreams to wander.

            Dreams? Thoughts that come alive much like our wishes to fill our blank world with tangible meaning? Oh, yes. I believe… I shall love dreams.


These Days That Are (TDTA)  Robin longs to find the cure for the curse that changes people as they grow older, a plague that has taken over the family. (recc young adult)  [fiction, novel, life, philosophical, journal]    {ref to wierdos}


Today, my thoughts were stirred by disturbing dreams of dark, swirling figures like my oldest cousin’s drawings surrounding me—inspecting me—and standing, masked in complete silence, as I rattled in fear. My heart stirred. I couldn’t fight the nerves to return to sleep, so I rubbed my eyes and stayed up to watch the sun rise. I pulled back the shade, and the sky was still, dark—nebulous—and gray. The light wouldn’t come for another 20 minutes, so I wondered if it would rain; the gray sky was coated in blue with tints of white like streaks of paint with no beginning or end—no purpose or destination. In the end, the sun didn’t rise, but the sky poured out lighter colors, and the scenery became more clear. I was disappointed, for I really wanted to see the sun come up from the horizon and wish it good morning. The only other time I saw the sun rise was on our family road trip to Florida when I was 6 or 7. It was like an inferno in control—a great fiery orb of orange bursting from the ground. Old Mom told me not to stare at it or else I’d go blind.

            My job is to do nothing all day each day I am still alive. There is no real, other purpose for me. Occasionally, I will take to housework—as the keeper of the house has since faded to the sky—or take odd jobs producing items on a computer like a mini secretary, for, as the youngest, I’m one of the few in the family that knows how to use a computer. I like to make the reports, flyers, and documents colorful, but my creativity isn’t accepted as much as my imagination adores the tiny, stylized pictures and addition of text in drops of color—different spectrums.

            Other than the small work, there is no other place in the world for me. No one will hire me for real work, for they either believe quiet individuals are products of the devil or that all kids my age are good for is making trouble and breaking banks. It could also be that I seem a little slow or spacey at first sight, but I can get something done once I get going and understand the process in my own way. In a related note, lots of older folks lately have become paranoid of us kids cuz they feel we’ll destroy the world with technology or something because we’re so savvy. I’m not that smart; all I can do is type and print and add those little pictures in the right places.


The Place Where 2 Worlds Converge (PW2WC)  Haruka Kanata was born with a parallel dimension inside of her that she retreats to at night to get away from the dark--her greatest fear. There, she enjoys the company of her boyfriend and her closest friends. But what will happen when she forms a connection with someone in her waking world and life? As the land begins to crack and her spirit start to break, Haruka wonders just where she should remain...in life or in dreams?  [fiction, fantasy?, realistic fiction, supernatural, some horror but not really]    {one creepy guy that...manipulates...}


I am no part of this world; I contribute nothing, and it contributes nothing to me. It is a mutual relationship—strained, painful, and emotionless…but mutual. Reality allows me to spend a little time here, and I give It a tiny amount of space in my mind to stay, for its words and advice to fester, for its memories and charms to remain—if only for a split second before, like time, it is gone and unable to grasp again.  

If only the night lived here instead of in my dreams—then I would have no reason to stay and no reason to complain about my drifting away.

But nature, light, and dark are universal. Nature always takes me into its warm, sweet embrace. Especially the forests; I love them—they feel alive to me. The trees’ whispers reach my heart, and I store them safely away—never a soul to tell. (I’d never tell anyway)

Now that I’m outside to clear my head, the rain has stopped, and the gray, fluffy clouds sail across the sky amid the patches of azure. {~CRK taught me that word!} There’s something special about the autumn sky—the fresh, blustering winds. This autumn’s colors are more subdued than usual, but the patterns and simplicity the palates hold have their own, unique charm. The muted oranges and yellows with the grand maple trees freckled with red… And the scarlet ivy winding around the trunks of the dangling tall and skinny trees. I feel at home among the trees. They don’t reprimand me for being “spacey” or forgetful. I can dream all I want, and they cherish those floating dreams and catch them in their canvassed leaves like dream catchers would—holding them close to the sky.

I can forget all my troubles when I am here.

Maybe I’ll take some more pictures; I’d like to preserve the muted colors the trees are displaying. I wish I could also preserve the feeling and mutual understanding it brings me—so I could share the feeling with others, too.

Who knows.


Emelie & Marc  Children's picture books I kind of scrapped. About France, naturally.  [

*The Fancy Ladies Club  Early readers series about girls who form a club to become fancy ladies. They learn about the past and strive to be proper girls! (young, early readers)  [series, chapter books, fiction]


“Good morning, Sunshine,” her mom says, smiling, while serving her fresh scrambled eggs and toast smothered with blackberry jam—Catherine’s favorite.

        “G’morning, Mom!” Catherine receives the plate and scoots into her chair at the kitchen table to eat.

        Once she’s finished eating, she grabs her backpack and runs out to the front door to wait for the bus to come. Catherine takes this time to enjoy the nice weather while she can. She loves spring mornings because they always feel so new—like a breath of fresh air. The slight breeze is a cool, refreshing contrast to the warm sunlight. The ground is sparkling and wet with dew; the flowers have just awaken, yawning and stretching, and they take time to enjoy the morning, too.

        This calm in the air and the quiet of the just-awaking town gives the little girl time to calm down and to think. Just as the big, yellow bus comes over the hill and stops at the houses down the street, Catherine gets a great idea.

        “I should start a fancy ladies club! I bet the other girls in my class would think it’s fun!” She boards the bus confidently as it stops in front of her and flashes its red lights. All the way to school, she looks out the window at the passing world and contemplates what the other kids will say about her great idea.


        Dearborn Elementary is bustling with children, all chattering and scurrying to their respective classrooms. Catherine likes to take her time and to walk slowly, so she is last to hang her coat on the hook, set her lunchbox on the shelf, and place her backpack under the shelf marked with a green, smiling caterpillar picture with her name drawn over it with black marker. With a big smile on her face, the neatly-dressed young lady enters the fourth grade classroom. Catherine loves to learn.

        At recess, the children are unleashed outside; they all joyfully play as though recess lasts forever. Catherine, wanting to join the others, hesitates a while and looks over the clusters of students playing on the blacktop. After a minute of quiet thought, Catherine joins the four girls playing with their dolls under the big oak tree beside the blacktop.

        “Hey, girls! Can I play, too?” Catherine asks nicely.



-Someday I'll Have My Day  Becca (who calls herself Elysian) promised that this year is the year she'll come out of her shell and share her kindness with people. Granted with a full-time job and a different life, she promises to make steps this winter. But why is it so difficult? (all ages tech)  [novella, short book, fiction, simple] {nothing but it leaves you feeling melancholic}


Ever since the clock turned to 12:01—a metamorphosis of small but titanic significance—I’ve been increasingly pondering about my life. I joked the other day (last year, technically) that I would, too, transform—in a small but enormous way—in this new year. But maybe wishing isn’t that simple. And becoming is almost impossible.

       They say it’s something beautiful when you finally come out of your shell. The words of my grade school guidance counselor are forever imbued in my mind’s hearing:

       “Someday, you will realize the world of worth you have inside of you to give. And someday, you’ll realize you were meant to share it. When you want to share it with someone, just give it a try! Then you’ll see it’s not so bad, after all!”

       But maybe it’s true. At midnight, I realized maybe I’m not so bad after all as I have always believed. Maybe I’m supposed to share my kindness with others and make friends. Even if it seems impossible at first. At 12:01, I realized I want to share it—and have therefore reached the next level of her advice.

       The pain isn’t in being shy. There is no pain in it, for I’m safe by myself. The pain comes in knowing I can’t share my kindness with anyone or that if I try to open my heart, they won’t understand. That’s what the midnight stars helped me comprehend. That’s the struggle I will have to face this year. Conquering those inevitable fears. I know I will have to be prepared.


-Chocolate Anime  Kimberly's always been seen as worthless by her family--and rightfully so. She has no skills and hardly ever does anything. So when her old friend and teacher gives her a chocolate mold and says she believe she can be a great chocolatier like Kimberly dreamed of as a child...can she really step up and do it?   (all ages technically but it's aimed towards those in the transitional sort of college stage because that's what it's about)  [story, novel, chocolate, discovery, growth, young adult, new adult]    {the pain of life jk} {some minor mental/emotional breakdowns}

-Ebb & Flow  light [this is the character's name] has always been drawn to the seaside cliff, which is constantly battered by the waves below. She believes that she can learn everything about life from that cliff...and perhaps maybe she can. (all ages though you have to be in a certain realm to get it. Even I'm not) [literary, verse, novella, surreal, supernatural, fantasy]

people spend the longest time thinking of the perfect word for things.

            complicated and fancy words for the abstract or the pretty things-

            when there is already a word for them.

is that word not enough?

            there are so many different names-as though they want to be as unique and numerous

            as the people in the world

            but there are so many that share the same name-of now or of different times…

            names come and go-become in or out of style-but they must mean something if they keep being used

            if they still convey the same meaning over times and times again.

            they keep coming back.


            so that’s why i decided on such a simple word for my name.

            the word that means just what it was supposed to represent

            the word that means nothing but what it is-by itself-

alone and fully whole.



Pansy    [

The Muse Awaits Your Call  (aph) France, now the Muse, wanders around the world in my mind (seen in GSI) and interacts with my fellow characters, all the while realizing they could use a little love and care, too. Together, they overcome their troubles and France finally feels confident enough to write his own book which troubles him so much and to, little-by-little, open up to someone who's willing to listen and to care.   (15+)  [series, side-story, AU, fanfiction???, novel, discovery, life and love, drama]    {TV14 see D'AJB also GSI}


Leaving the flowers, I whisper a soft “I’ll be back” to tend to my cutie’s call. As usual, she’s housed in the computer room upstairs. The shade is drawn slightly so the sunlight pours on the floor but sadly avoids the rest of the room, making everything a bit stuffy and warm. Sitting on the ground, she stares blankly at the large writing desk before her that always captures most of her attention when she’s writing at the keyboard.

            “What’s wrong, ma belle?”

            With a swift sigh and a nervous twitch, she instructs me not to say anything…but motions me to lie down. The rolling chair has been tossed aside to the wall, adding another scuff to the already wide mark she’s formed. And, with her knees to the ground, my cutie looks so despairent.

            “Do you need something?” I question.

            “I’ve just been wondering something is all. It’s not important. Just lie down,” she comments frantically, pushing down her nervousness.

            What is it, my love?

            I follow her wish, reclining on the scruffy and uncomfortable floor. But it feels good to stretch out.

            Quietly and calmly, she pushes away all doubts and turns to me. Unfolding, she stretches her limbs and rests gently atop me, nuzzling her head close to my heart. Her arms, shaking, loosely wrap around me, and her muscles refuse to relax for this gentle nap.

            Cutie. Is she testing me? Maybe she just wants someone close to her. I can understand that. Without any questions, I sigh to myself and rest my head on hers. “It’s OK,” I console her gently, petting her soft ruffles of earthy hair. “Just relax. Big Brother understands.”

            Her weight is so warm—but so contained in a way. It’s as though she doesn’t want to burden me with her pressure, though she would some day like to learn to trust me.

            “Big Brother…?” she mutters softly.

            “Yes, Cutie?” I love it when she calls me that. It fills my cavern with a patch of vibrant flowers.

            “Will you…lull me to sleep?” she requests softly in that cute, innocent voice.

            Hm? Ah, is that what she wants? “Are you tired? Is that it?” I reply in an interested voice.

            “I guess so,” she says in her silly way, hiding her thoughts. She makes me smile.

            “OK. I’d love to.” With a quiet sigh in my own heart, I ready myself to console my sweetie. “Would you like a story? A song?”

            “A…song would be OK, I guess.”

            A pleased sigh escapes me. “All right. That sounds nice,” I reply softly.

            Ruffling her sweet auburn curls, I lull her to sleep with a sweet song, humming softly just as I had done before with the other sweeties I had looked after in my long, turbulent life. Having someone to care for…dewy eyes to look to me for consolation and a brimming smile—that made it all worthwhile. And this time is no different. Losing herself in the melody, her worries dissolve as her muscles relax, and she slips into a beautiful dream. My little dreamer. She’s so peaceful when she’s at rest.

            A tiny puddle forms around my heart, and I realize she’s crying to herself—and I halt my song. “Are you all right, ma belle?” I question her, reaching my arms around her delicate but vivid frame.

            “It’s just…” her caring voice breaks slightly amid the tears. “It’s so strange. It’s so familiar somehow. Like…the big brother I never had. Someone who cares so much…”


            “I don’t know what this feeling is!”

            Haha. How cute. You really like Big Brother, don’t you, Sweetie? Resting my chin upon her head, I whisper, “I’m glad I could help you, Cutie. That’s…sweet to hear you say.”

            I could stay here with you forever, as well, my sweet flower. You mean everything to me… I’m so glad… We can care for each other. It erases the pain and nurtures the soul that aches whenever the world turns dark again. You shall always be my light. And I’m so glad I can be yours.

Do I have problems?




Jeanne & I (JA&I)  A fluffy fanfiction meant to be the exact opposite of d'ajb and its heaviness. (aph) France and (young) Jeanne have fun all around the countryside and Paris just enjoying life and having little adventures. It's just one of those things.   (all ages, leaning more towards the child in all of us)  [fanfiction, short stories]    {just the bonus episode because I have a sickness}


As she runs off, her rushing through the grass adds to the swishing symphony of nature, and I follow, my command of nature’s instrument sounding much less gentle and refined as hers. I sound like a monster coming by—trying to sound quiet and sneaky but doing a really bad job of it.

            “Come. Here,” she instructs, patting the ground beside her. There’s a small clearing for us to sit and enjoy the sunset as though we were watching a movie on the big screen. So nice. The sky is so wide and pretty.


            I nod.

            “Good.” She turns, taking in the quiet of the evening and the sun’s beauty—coated enough that we can look right at it but bright enough that it still fills us with warmth.

            “The sunset changes, you know,” I say, shifting in my seat.

            “Oh?” she questions with those same, curious eyes as she holds the drooping lavender stalk with both hands.

            “Yes. Each minute, it looks different. Different colors and patterns…almost like a kaleidoscope or different paintings that switch out.”

            Testing my notion, she watches the sky intently as time passes, determined to see what I have told. And, sure enough, some of the purple fades away, replaced by powdery pink. And the violet color from the clouds instead reaches for the pale blue, giving it some of its soul.

            “You’re right!” she gasps with awe. “I wonder how it will change now?”

            I smile. I like it when she enjoys my silly ideas—often too romantic or poetic for others to truly care. “That’s what makes it fun,” I explain.

            And so we stay and watch the colors change in the sky. Transforming to all colors of the rainbow… Soft orange and pale yellow tinted with pastel green or hot pink with purple and kind blue. Or sometimes all of them at once. Streaks of clouds making their own paintings in the evening sky. And the faded blue reaching into eternity, running off to the other side of the sky with navy blue and dark silhouettes of distant trees and soaring birds. Such a clear sky.

            Until, finally, the sun receded. And the colors gradually and gradually faded away.


Seraphim Estrella    [


Recording series I deem good enough to be on this list:

*HM WTFB / -HM SOY        {HM SOY has some...ummm...things}

-Cocoa & Beau Adventures / -Honey & Bernadette

I may someday turn them into books, too. I have no idea.

-Meditations, Reveries (M/R)  FM returns with a final extensive collection of many, many stories and musings about life now that he whiles away his last days.  (all ages? But advanced reading)   [story collection/compilation, novel, literary, philosophical, memoirs, fiction, letters, poetry]     {not really compared to his other books. It's practically snow white compared to GSI}

[Can't tell if M/R is 2014>>2015 or 2015        >.>]

Thoughts as I Stray Precariously Close to the Deadline

       Yet sometimes they tell me what to say, I am the master of my own words, and I always manage to complete each entry before the designated date. For writing does come easily to me, and when my spirit does rise above the rest of the world, then do my words flow easily and beautifully as I command them always to do so. Yet, today, I find myself lacking, as I have for the past few weeks, and now there is no such time left for me to wait for the meanings of the world to come to me as they always have—from thin air as I stretch toward the sky in my ponderings. Ah, it is times like these in addition to the moments they send me “reviews” that I do curse my sending for the voluntary position of sharing my intellect and ideas for the frivolous exchange of monetary value. What fool ever heard of such a concept?     

            Yet I told myself I would partake in the somehow required advantary that all human beings at one point in their mundane lives must encompass known as a “job” which allows me to save up the banality known simply as “money” so that I may, as I have always told myself I would, return to Paris someday. Though, in truth, I may return at any time, my heart somehow tells me my psyche is not yet ready, and I fear that on the day I may return, my soul will fly away thusly into the sky like a frightened dove—never to return to this sad, cruel, yet somehow beautiful world. And so, of course, I would like to return, yet for as often as I have daydreamed about how I may die, the idea of it coming so swiftly suddenly surprises me and chills me. Ah, how ironic. It somehow amuses me. Yet why should it?

            Ah, yet I am straying from the task at hand. Still, I must question myself as to why I agreed to send that small piece of parchment stamped with a picture that costs some insignificant amount and sent the letter thusly to the publishing house in Paris. They do accept “submissions,” as they deem them, diminishing the beauty and value of such art imbued with soul that is no more words than what we spoke during the “interview” they gave me. Yet my words of few are so much more significant than those they did share with me and the ones they do continue to impart with me as I begrudgingly and bemusingly accept their prompt “payment” for my “submissions” of which I had sent them. On time. I suppose they find it then enlightening to me that each month, I then receive their giant volume of papers bound together in the mail as it waits upon my doorstep until I realize it is there—usually right before the tome is to be drowned in torrential rain. And I suppose, then, that they must believe I find it amusing to take in the tome thusly and leaf through the hundreds of other idiotic “submissions” in order to spot my name before the purposefully small and very out-of-place trinket which I, in all my humility and heart, have decided to bequeath to them. Ah, nay, I share it. For I am, by nature, a very generous soul.     

            Ah, yes, I must admit that a slight smile does creep up my face as I spy my name buried among the thousands of many. Yet it is only a fleeting sort of comfort. I may barely even call it “happiness.” Yes, it is there. Just as it has been for the past many months I have been “submitting” my muses to you. Am I still now supposed to be amused by this? Truly, I do enjoy the ponderings I contribute, and they do indeed reflect my natural style and brand of “FM-ness,” but, truly, it does bore the soul oftentimes that I have succumbed to this. A name buried among others in a literary magazine. Yet, that is how the other authors and writers of old did make their marks, and I feel compelled to contribute somehow. Yet I miss the days they did ask me about my books. Now they just hand me a check—which I may never cash, for I have no account at a bank. Nor a name which I may provide them for such an account. Nor anything which I may provide for a name. What may I show them? My certificate from l’Ecole des Mimes? Ah, it comforts me to know I am still not a part of society. And that I shall never be.

            Ah, yet the blank page does confine me to madness. It traps me in an invisible box—as everything does these days. Ah, the agony. I may not follow your wishes, my dear page—those fools who do believe that I have a “bank account”—or those idiots who believe I enjoy providing small facets of my intelligence so as to amuse the occasional eye that skims the giant literary compendium. Sigh. Nay, it is true. For once in my short, tragic life, I have nothing more to say. What may I? I have provided all I could, lest I reuse something in one of my books or return a segment that I have already penned thus. Ah, yet they shall be furious of me if I were to repeat my words. Perhaps confused; befuddled, thus. Ah, yet it would amuse me to see their expressions. It would be something I, myself, would strive to copy; something of grand significance and simple intrigue. Perhaps I will then.

            Ah, but I may not, for they would truly anger. I shall, from the thin air, find something of which I may contemplate and ponder—perhaps to share—but I may… Ah, yet why must I share my best words? Should I keep them all to myself? The fools never did care at all, did they? Perhaps I have been going about this all wrong. I will steal the words and keep them only for myself. And then, in my rebellion, with a flash of smile and insight, I shall present to them, with a wry comment kept to myself, simply only a blank page. Ah, of course, and I am sure, somehow, the fools will find it brilliant.

            Yet, in truth, I will mean to say this:

As I reach my hands toward the sky, the sun burns brighter, consuming the world in its greed. There is no sensation of heat; I do not crumble to the floor but stand straight—more than ever—with valiance. The grass disappears along with the trees, swallowed by light. Soon, the cobblestone, too, is drawn away. But, still, I remain—holding on to the last sights of the world before I am taken—drained, thusly—by the ravenous, engulfing color. Until I, too, like all the world around it, is left stark and lost. All but nothing. White. Blank. As this page is now.

            Ah, yet perhaps I shan’t give up such a thing. For then they may understand its meaning. As it is only blank now, the ideas will fly over their heads. Ah, truly, as they always have. And as they always will.


 2015 (vibe)


In Place of My Heart   Tabbitha Varn has been drawn to the clearing in the forest ever since she first saw it. There, she ritually finds lost objects that tell her stories that she believes to be leading her to discovering the meaning to life. But then the stories start to become a little too familiar--about her life and her new family on the farm.    (young adult)  [young adult, teen, coming-of-age, discovery, life, farm]    {technically to force herself "awake" from the visions she has to...diee??? Also some of the kids had some rough lives} as a note, it takes place during little house on the prairie days

The door swings open triumphantly, and the youngest, Sanry, hops into the house with a jubilant shout. “I’m here to bring the water!” she announces, walking up to Mary.

            “OK! But be careful because the kettle is heavy. Use the pail this time, all right?” Mary advises Sanry, though the young girl’s confidence knows no bounds.

            “I can take it this time! I’m almost 10!” she announces pridefully, taking grip on the kettle and straining with all her might to lift the mighty vessel off the ground.

            Mary, shaking her head, offers some help, and the two set off outside. The outdoor air whips through the room, ruffling the quilt, reminding me of the coming cold. I suppose I should help with dinner, too, setting the quilt aside because I’m not very skilled especially when my thoughts are elsewhere.

            Matilda fans the fire in preparation for the stew and lifts herself up off the ground yet again to fix up the vegetables. Picking up the peeler, I stand by to assist once the girls return with the kettle. The table piles up with fresh carrots and potatoes for our stew. I don’t look forward to winter when all there are are root vegetables that taste very strange, though I enjoy making stews with everyone and especially enjoy the warmth the broth instills in the cold season. The way the steam escalates and trails away into the ceiling, returning to the sky, entrances me every time.

            “Want to peel the potatoes?” Mary questions, waving me back to reality with a potato. I must have been lost in thought again; I need to stop doing that.

            I nod, receiving the washed potato in my hand and working on slicing off the peels, which pile on each other on the tabletop for later. We use them to feed the pigs sometimes if we have some. For now, the peels will wait until that date or maybe nourish the ground for winter. As Mary & I peel, Matilda chops the vegetables into little chunks and sets them in the water over the fire. I’ve always found it strange that the vegetables float in the water; it seems like they’d sink rather than float. When the surface of the water is packed with floating vegetables, the scene looks like a lake filled with rowboats and sailboats. It would be fun to go sailing someday, I believe; one of my favorite tales the objects have told me was one story from a patch of a sail. The ship conquered the sea, embarking on a long journey along clear waters under clear skies. Unfortunately, the story didn’t end very well, but I enjoyed the liberating experience I felt while sailing on the ship, catching blue as far as the eye could see. We take land so much for granted here. I wonder what it would be like to cook a stew on the sea?

            A sudden, sharp sensation pricks my nerves and runs my entire face dry. No. I didn’t. My knees give way, sending me sliding to the ground.

            “Tabbitha!” Mary yells out, dropping to her knees beside me. “Are you all right?” she asks calmly, cradling her hands around my quivering right hand.

            My body refuses to react to anything other than with fear and desire for isolation, but Mary manages to discover the cause of my panic despite my pulling away.

            “Oh, it’s a little cut, I see,” Mary observes, reaching for Matilda to bring a towel. “It’ll be fine, Tabby. Just relax.”

            A towel is wrapped around my hand and tightly wrung around my index finger until the pressure halts the pain slightly. My breathing slows to a steadier panic, but my head still feels light like my inner self could just float away at any second. I can’t feel my arms; I think I overdid it this time.

            “Just relax. This towel will help,” Mary assures, holding on to my hand in consolation.

            I let out a giant breath, one that rings through me like a nourishing chime of a bell. I’ll be all right. I don’t know why panic cripples me whenever I feel pain. I hate being hurt. It reminds me how fragile I am.

            “There! All better now,” Mary declares after a moment and releases the towel completely. “Here. I’ll help you up.”

            Humbly, I hide my right hand behind my back and reach for her with my left. Once off the ground, I feel a bit more relaxed. Stronger as I’ve encountered pain and surmounted it. I just hope it doesn’t happen again.

            “Here,” Mary voices while handing me the peeler she was using, “use this peeler. It’s much less temperamental than the one you were using. Even I can’t get that one to work.”

            I nod once again, taking the tool in hand while a released breath disguises itself as a sigh of dreadful worry. I’ll just be more careful. Maybe I’ll peel the carrots instead.


Lillia/ The Heart Has Always Known   Lillia has no idea who she is and how she lost herself, but she floats between times and moments to try to figure out what she once was. Yah this is one of those surreal books. (tech all but def advanced reading)  [verse, novel, philosophical, experimental?, contemporary, discovery, theory of self]    {it just hurts me subconsciously. Also...she's unstable}


Too far



I missed my mark

To catch that arrow

To take me to my dream


I’m wandering



Wandering and lost in time

No path to take

          No feelings to make

Concrete as they were so much in your eyes.



Your eyes -  my inspiration

I sought so much pleasure from them

As they danced like flames in the night

Or shimmered like the sun’s laughter on the ocean[‘s beams]


But that day wasn’t like

Anything I’d ever seen in you


          Was fear

Of me finding out.

Of you hurting me

Of what would happen to me

I’m sure.

And so I ran.


I didn’t want answers

No wonders or truth

I just wanted to fade away

To disappear…

          A part of me did

A part of the world did, too

My dreams, my life,

My personality,

          Those did, too


But you

          Your likes, your dislikes

          Your favorites

                             Your dreams

The way your eyes

Echoed in the moonlight as

You showed me all the stars

Or fluttered as you enlightened

Me about all the horticulture’s stories

And nature’s lingering dreams –

Humanity’s stories


That I never forgot.

It’s the only hope I hold dear

That it is still alive in me

          (as I am)

That someday I’ll be able to

          See it again


Because now –

          Then –

The last I saw of you


          As I only see of you now

          Vividly – not floating –


Was disappointment.




I’ve never felt pain

Like that before either


Too bad.                            

I can’t forget that, too.





                   Not stay

Not even if I tried


          It is only me


Only me.

          And you.


As I Lie Here    [    {just this whole thing}

-I See the Ominous Fog    [    {15+ very very creepy as an ode to RPG maker horror games. That was a phase}

Nameless Project    [

{Old Movie Book}    [

The Painting, Life Without Color  Hana is intrigued by the local painter known as Chartreuse, a recluse who paints in a strange style. Oddly, the two meet and begin to cross paths in quiet and profound ways.  (all ages)  [short book, fiction, art]

Phantom Isles  A girl loves to wander in nature and follows a strange cat somewhere...only to discover she can see and communicate with the spirits of dead animals.  (all ages/10+ tentatively) [novel, fantasy, paranormal]

*Beyond the Further Sea (Charlotte)   A mysterious shared journal that transcends time and space holds the tales of 5 seemingly-unrelated kids. As they share their stories and connect with each other, they all offer a light into each other's lives and help to discover themselves.  (15+, teen, young adult)   [contemporary, novel, journal, experimental?, poetry, speculative fiction]    {15+ ...the stabs... one chara is schizo and...ummmmm also ref to wierdos also longing and loss also insane asylum and self-afflicted psychosis}

-Autumn       2015-      (Felicia)

Autumn’s leaves tumble and fall

When I try to grasp them all

Words and sentiments fade away

Except when you arrive to stay

Will nothing savor my hints and wisps

When the fog blinds and binds my own mists?

        Pushed aside perhaps not the same

        It’s not my fault I wasn’t told how to play the game

        That was made up long, long ago

        And continues to persist into the unknown

Sky shimmering with stars

Glimmers in eyes that were once ours

Pain that breaks as we stumble and fall

Tears that sweep away, vision and all

        Books may help me to understand my plight

        But hearing all the same things won’t help me fight

I’d rather know of an ethereal delight

That can sweep me away to my dreams at night

        Did you know that I can hear your thoughts?

        Sometimes when I rest awake during the day

        Because I knew you too well and still do, though distraught,

        I know you too well, more than me, so they say

The sky is kind and full of stars

I wonder which ones will be ours

But maybe they’re waiting in a tiny spot

That has yet to be filled by our soul’s dot

        Time wanders farther and farther away

        Until tomorrow is no longer today

        Tumbling, tossing and turning into the distant sea

        That swallows itself up endlessly

If time were its own dictator

And we the scribes of our lives

I wonder how natural events would differ

And how greatly our choices would thrive

        I don’t have a choice

        At least none left I see

        No one hears my voice

        And that’s just fine with me


-Snow & Raven  Raven finds an odd necklace one day...and then this girl Snow just appears out of nowhere and teaches her about the art of gems and their affects on helping us control our emotions. Through all this, magical girl battles ensue on emotions! And why does Raven seem oddly familiar to Snow? And why do they have matching necklaces?  [novel, action/adventure, fantasy, gem lore and zen relaxation]    {it's pure. until the very end. and then...sigh I'm sorry}

                            2015 Starry   (the current era)

JUMPSCAPE  Jenene is fascinated by film and cinematagraphy, believing herself to be a living camera as she views and captures beautiful scenes with her eyes. She records her life and experiences in her journal scrapbook.   (10+, teen for reading comprehension level)  [journal, book]  {she begins to wonder about being someone other than herself which brings about odd events to happen within herself}

Why does the world have to bring rain?

If suffering were rain, we’d wish it’d hardly scatter

If suffering were rain, we’d run and hide at the slightest patter

If suffering were rain, murky skies would drown us all

If suffering were rain, into thick despair I’d fall


But it is not rain, though. It does not stop

My feeble body from spewing tears whenever I return home

And the news is tainting us all with

The harsh reminders that dreams can never

Come true in a place like this.




Only if we work together


>>-once- before there were tears  she knows she has seen her before...but where? Or when? Could she be a past life? A long-lost sibling kept from her memory? A mysterious figure that calls for her from the past? Her true self? Or...perhaps something no one ever expected?     (all but truly advanced reading)  [novel, verse/prose] JUST THIS

I’m not sure where my soul finds itself wandering when I’m not here in this waking world. Maybe comfortably nestled between fond memories or skipping along the starry walkways of time that has passed us by. Either way, manifesting here is a refreshing adventure I embrace with open arms, and all that once was fades like droplets in the presence of the sun. I’m here—and, in a small way, alive.

The first thing I met was my reflection, waiting in ripples, shrouded in the river’s crystal waters. The waves ripped and tumbled over my lunar face, dragging away my image with foam. Then, at last, my watery self returned from the fight, only to be washed away by the circles designed by the falling rain. I sat for the longest time and watched. Some icy droplets fell straight into my eyes while others just nudged the ripples to trace my face before they disappeared into the essence of the mighty river. I felt none of it; I could imagine the icicles to the eyes wouldn’t have been pleasant, but I’d never really know. The pain was only felt by my reflection, which gazed at higher skies than I, and it showed no sign of pain. Stoic pride. Unwavering gaze.

I blinked back, forcing my eyes, away, and the water lapped over the repetition of my sorrowful eyes and downturned smile, refusing to believe they were ever there for the mortal soul taken residence in the mercurial waters. That’s fine by me. reflections fascinate me—I’m sure I could watch them all day. Maybe you could, too.

Once my eyes pried from the hypnotic waters, I discovered where I had landed in this waking world. Trees stood sentry over the memories; the royal blue slides spread out forever to younger eyes that rode their paths across their daydreams. The placid chrome shines like it once had, though some of the surfaces have dulled slightly with age, shedding a tear or two yet enjoying their wisdom of age they bestow to the innocent children they keep company with a casual smile. My favorites, though, are the swings that carry you closer and closer to the sky; that wave you to and fro until your toes slash the mighty trees’ leaves or until the highest point is reached and the chains bounce, leaving you suspended in space for a moment, catching your first taste of flight before the hinges swing back to take you away.

This park fetters my soul, containing it forever in the majesty of childhood and the freedom I once had. Now it is only a chain that keeps me from leaping to the sky much like the swings—I can experience the weightless release but can never let go and take to the liberty of the air. But that’s fine now, I suppose. I’m content reminiscing about my further days and appearing here to cherish the tender moments. I have been placed here of all locations and abstractions of sentiments, after all—and I’m all the more glad for it.

On an aimless stroll, my quiet feet kicked up some rocks, trickling them down the walkway as I kept close watch on them to make sure they don’t fall astray. The shade of the tree takes me in, closing me in its embrace and shutting away the violent rain. Such a magnificent tree with a wide trunk that only a circle of three kids could surround fully. With such an amount of love It must be provided to embrace, it gives even more back with its kind nudges, bountiful leaves dripping with amber, and wide umbrella held high. After a long day at the park fulfilling grand adventures and conquering vast kingdoms and valleys, I like nothing more than to rest in the shade of a good tree and read or rest my eyes as my ears fall away to the passive sound of the swishing of leaves. My inner world rests peacefully then, and my heart restores its temperate cadence. There’s nothing better than a good tree to relax under.

I ruffle the dust and dirt off the root bulging from the ground like a little seat and take a rest, lying my back on the rigged chestnut trunk. The moist, cool air fills me up sufficiently like a balloon before retreating back into the sky. Closing my eyes, I let go of all thoughts and earthly things, letting my consciousness slip away.

But then you came.


The Heart Is Sacred {memory}   she holds on to memories-all those that passed through her spirit. But they want her to rid of those discarded selves and her identity to be like the rest of them    [scifi???, story, short story?]

Traces of Where I've Been (Lady Mary)   Mary wanders the boulevard of darkness and leaves traces of herself at the waiting homes so they do not forget her presence and all she has brought them. Basically, she's the name Mary. And she recounts all her different "lives."    (all ages?)   [surreal, verse, whatever this is]

It is an empty road I walk.

            My heart is empty as is my path.

            My thoughts beckon me but there is nowhere to go

            Am I you today?

            So many lives flash me by—

            I leave a token of me at your doorstep

            All the doorsteps along the eternal and gray path

            To show what I was once before

            To show that I was once there.

            And there is a gleam in my never-ending soul

            Besides a washed-over gray

            A gray that can be colored any hue.

            Dark and rainy nights are where I belong

            Never anything past a plain simper

            On my face. A neutral expression

            Often mistaken for suffering

            But I’m not in pain.

            I’m just empty

            A name looking for a home

            Skipping through eternity for a kindness

            That was never left for me

            I am Mary—

            That is my name.

            I am Mary

            But I am one.

            But I don’t know who I am.


Further Shores Than I Can See  a kind of "sequel" to Beyond the Further Sea except much lighter.  (10+)  []   {the major theme among them all is relationships. Sometimes this can get a little...dark --psychology-wise, I mean}


{stars & comets}           A meaningful life lived once, in retrospect, can seem a bit lacking. A lot lacking, actually. So one soul returns to find purpose in another path. Then, realizing the true beauty of simplicity, the soul returns...cherishing a fruitful life filled with those things less tangible but much more profound.  (basically all ages but definitely advanced reading) [] {}

(This was inspired by an essay on someone's blog. They know it, too XD)


{Greetings, Sky, From Illinois}      Simple book that is a collection of poems, stories, and ideas from a small-town girl who lets loose her melancholic and somehow inspiring feelings free on her blog (TBD)  []   {}


Hopeless Romantic       --A secret project of mine that's basically a memoir collection because I just realized that I can write whoops. I'm so stupid sometimes




====>I have no idea what to say for the genres for these.

 2014>>2015-like stuff recently added

{tumblr book}    [    {attempted suicide and suicidal thoughts also negative comments towards others and life in general. but she's set straight}

Stray Animal Society    [    {...no comment}

-{luminescent flower and cork}   a kind of old-fashioned book akin to the "girly" classics [

I'm sorry it's so many

Current sad-sack count: 112 (or so)

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