I'M STILL A MEMBER OF THIS, RIGHT?

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Hopefully, because I'm posting my stuff anyways!

Firstly, because I doubt anyone will actually read all of that down there, have a little poem I wrote today and posted on my tumblr. Uh, yeah, here it is.

quicksilver.

they used to call you quicksilver.

a taunt in it’s purest form, but you liked the idea of it.

to slip through their fingers

and to disappear

leaving only your bitter taste behind.

sometimes in the mornings

i can hear your ghost

whispering beautiful nothings to me.

and i smile,

because they’re all lies.

Secondly, a little something I made in my two week historical fiction class at The Loft. (I love The Loft so much, ughhhh. <3) It takes place in 1920s Paris~.

THAT'S ALL OF AN EXPLANATION YOU GET. >:c

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April 24th, 1923

Large droplets of water pounded down on Simon’s brow like bullets and weighed him down until he was on his knees, howling at God to feel remorse for His actions, to feel guilt for taking Jeanette away from him—his love, his only love—flayed on the brick pavement like a rag doll, mixing crimson with water in such a careless way that Simon wanted to shake her slim shoulders and tell Jeanette to stop wasting the beautiful deep, deep, red; a red fit for a king’s cloak, for a field of poppies; not for Jeanette’s chillingly black coat—a black color so dark and deceptive and reeking of death that Simon wanted to light a candle and see what beast lay underneath, what cruel monstrosity of a man would dare stab a young maiden in her breast and watch her bleed.

The knife, which was cast aside in the shadow of an overlooking building only then caught his eye, and he shuddered at the reminder that this was real. Jeanette, the woman Simon had loved—had always loved—was dead, and the evidence was quickly being washed away in the downpour.

And he? He would go on living. Without her.

He would live.

September 21st 1922

Paris seemed to burn; the green leaves that adorned the trees caught a beautiful orange flame that spread throughout the City of Light until it reached the oak outside of Simon’s window, which was always the last tree to turn. Autumn had struck, and alas, all of Paris grunted at the season that year. Even Le Hibou’s mild owner, Évrard—who looked more like a circus strongman than an owner of a café—could often be found grumbling about the season while sweeping the fallen leaves into the gutter. His glare was one of daggers, and many hungry Parisans found themselves hurrying away from the quaint café in terror. Even Simon, who knew the man well enough to know that he would never hurt a fly had to rush inside the building in fear for what the man may be capable of doing.

Jeanette was already there at their table, resting her head in the palm of her hand. The watery light lit up her figure in a cold, but elegant manner, and Simon could not help but think that she resembled royalty or someone of high class. It would not be so unexpected; Le Hibou was notorious as a gathering place of scholars and artists, and often he had seen men in corners who resembled famous poets or musicians; and if asked, would casually reveal themselves to be.

However, most of the time Simon was too occupied with his discussions with Jeanette to even bother to look around him. It was tradition for them to meet at the café every Thursday just before noon, and so far they had both honored it. Jeanette was fancisating, and Simon honestly enjoyed talking with her. It reminded him of the days when they both were young and snuck out and hid from his father in his family’s sunflower field.

Jeanette had took notice of him by then, and waved Simon over.

“So, are you having any luck on your paintings?” Jeanette asked once he had sat down. She was tracing circles on the rim of her coffee cup as she spoke—obviously more intent on making it sing than actually drinking it. A habit of hers, but a beautiful one, that proved his belief that anything a ballerina—such as Jeanette—did was graceful in the finest form of the word.

Simon forced himself out of his inner monologue. “No, I’m not. I mean, it’s not that I don’t have any ideas. I have far too many.”

His face warped as he sipped his tea; it was far too bitter. Simon began to spoon sugar into it.

Jeanette blinked. “…Then, what is it that’s stopping you?” She had stopped tracing circles now, and was instead looking at Simon intently. For a split second dark eyes met blue, only until he quickly drew his darker pair back to his tea.

He paused to search for the words. The buzz of the café faded into the background, until the only sound they could hear was his spoon as it clinked against the porcelain.

“Um, i-it’s just that the world and my ideas are far too beautiful to put on an easel...” His mouth felt dry, and the words were sour and lumpy on his tongue. They seemed to hang in the air for a painfully long time, reactionless and awkward, and Simon began to wish he hadn’t forced them out at all.

As he mustered up the courage to look at Jeanette, Simon once again felt as if the light was cloaking her, and making her shine brighter than he—the man with coal hair, waxy locks and eyes darker than black—ever had. Her lips slowly turned upward into a smile that was overwhelmingly empathetic, and in exactly the right moment began to laugh.

“I love you so much right now, Simon!”

And he smiled along with her, for, in the end, friendship and kindness and innocent words were much more cruel than any weapon.

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I LOVE YOU SO MUCH IF YOU READ ALL OF THAT. <333