Oh. um. I guess so. But otherwise, I do write, but I haven't had the time to write any stories, though Fox has really nice ones, I've read them. So yeah
KandyAnd I don't know. You might find them around, but there are many of mine on pages 1-10 of ff. but I don't really think I'm a good writer.
But it smells like vanilla. So does this big black guy I go to school with. He like, lathers his balls with it And I'll post some bits of stories here
I write too but my writer's block is getting to me Check out the Writer's Café while you're there Kandy! I have a lot of Plot Bunnies though!
You don't have to swear, Kandy. But thanks for the thought. But still, I'll bump my stories up then,
I'm done with fan fiction. But here's what I'm working on now. I can't explain what's going on because its a surprise Deamon looks at me with a sideways look, the one I haven’t seen in at least three months, and whistles lowly. My heart jumps at this. I manage to force my attention back to Mr. Martin’s droning lecture on the faults in the current political and electoral systems. I can feel Lybra’s eyes staring into the side of my face along with Deamon’s, waiting for a reaction. After a few moments of facing the class, Mr. Martin begins to pull up diagrams on the smart-board. “What,” I turn and look at Lybra with her long, dark eyelashes and brown eyes looking at me intently. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that, Mrs. Lets-make-googoo-eyes-at-Deamon,” she fires back without a pause. “Erm, no,” I raise my eyebrow, fully aware of the faces Deamon is making at me from behind her. “The-,” Her last reply is cut off by Martin. “Lybra, Aniolle, which one of you would like to explain the style of polling known as straw voting and its cons?” Lybra glances at me, I sigh and launch into the answer, glancing at my detailed notes, “Straw voting is style of voting where a simple question is broadcasted to a large audience. A con of it is the...” I finish the long winded explanation. “Was that good,” I smile. “Simply fantastic. Don’t talk in my class anymore.” The second his back is turned, several fingers go up in the air at his back and a folded post-it lands on my desk. I lay my hand over it, the neon green revealing its sender before I even unfold it to read the sprawling cursive. Dear God, I think to myself, does he ever stop, before carefully unfolding the crinkly paper. We have a new mission. Meet me after school behind the big bird that lurks behind the cat. Bring food. If I recall, it is your turn. Deamon I almost ball it up and throw it on the ground. I don’t want this, I don’t need this. It’s the first year stuff counts. I have straight A’s, no behavior marks, not even a demerit, I can’t do this. I nod my head to myself and barely pay attention the the lecture as I fight with myself not to think about the possible pranks and victims Deamon can have planned already. ---- The bell is a shrill-toned savior, cutting Mr. Martin off at the end of his explanation of poll taxes. I scoop up my books, grab my leather jacket off the back of my desk, and sprint out of the room. I catch up with Deamon’s gangly steps, his heels barely touch the ground, almost as if he was bouncing along instead of speed-walking to get as far away from me as possible before I explode my gingery anger on him. “Deamon Anthony Remonse,” I plant my feet in front of him, saying his name loud enough half of the hallway turns to look. “Anoielle Wisteria Zarofski,” his reply is snarky and curt. He tries to shove past me, but I place my steel-toed combat boot over his flimsy Sperrys. “We need to talk. Now. Not later. Like right this effing second,” I hiss at him, very, very tempted to dig the toe of my shoe into his. My only reply is a small nod. No one else would’ve been able to notice the slight gesture. I turn, fulfilling my temptation of crushing his toes, and walk swiftly down the hall with him following like a dejected puppy. I get all the way outside of the high school building and halfway around the lower gym before Deamon opens his big mouth. “What Annie,” he calls me his nickname for me. What type of world is this where your enemy is your partner in crime and has a nickname for you? “You know what Dea!” “Act-,” I cut him off, “Not all of us can rely on sports and Daddy’s money to get into some fancy college that looks good for jobs! I can’t risk ANYTHING this year. Or the next three after. If you wanted mischief we had all summer but I didn’t get a single call or reply to my ideas that I so painstakingly wrote in code.” “There’s a reason for all of that,” his arms are thrown defensively in front of him, his blue eyes racing for an explanation. “This ought to be good,” I mutter to myself, rolling my eyes and leaning against the chipping brick wall behind me. “I was at reformatory school... planning one very amazing, very epic, very memorial, very foolproof prank.” “That contradicts on so many levels. As long as there isn’t ponies, elves, or hot glue, I will consider it. Don’t expect a yes though.” He leans forward to capture me in one of his awkward and warm hugs, I sidestep, watching his face scrape the bricks. “See you after school,” I walk away from him wondering how I’ll make it through the next three hours of gruelingly pointless formulas, running, and lectures. --- The bricks hit my face out of nowhere. "Fuc- I mean, Bye Annie," I moan. It stings. That girl, she's something. I swing my deadweight bag onto my back and follow Annie from a distance up to our next class. Her hair glitters blonde in the sunlight, the tips tapering into a burst of rainbow color. Her slim hips wiggle slightly with her walk, tights dipping into black boots streamline her curves. I'm tempted to whistle.
Hoho! I too do write stories but, they're not in here. I'm more of a wattpad writer. But I checked out some stories in fan fiction and truth be told, I was really blown away by the stories written there. I love the highschool of the dead. Hohoho!