I’m not attracted to you, ” she says. He shrugs and he grins and hopes his heart doesn’t show between his toes. “That’s okay. I was never attracted to you either. ” She shrugs right back, they turn away, two lovers lost in disarray. Then he moves without sound. Without thought, he turns around. He grabs her hair, he pulls hard. She gasps and throws her head back and her eyes flutter closed. His lips move to her neck but all he does is whisper, “You’re so completely full of shit, ” and lets her hair go in disgust. She composes herself as best she can, and she shrugs and she grins with pink in her cheeks and she says, “But so are you. ” And they take one last look before they shrug and turn away, two lovers lost in disarray.

She’s like a butterfly. Fluttering from one garden party to the next. Wearing pretty dresses and holding witty conversations.

I’m more like a caterpillar. Preferable to cozy cocoons. Quiet afternoons, with the click of typewriters, and tea-stained library books.

We’re different, and we are the same. 
But if you pick me I can show you. If you love me, you will know.

I am the kind of extraordinary that takes time to see.

—  A scribbler // The Butterfly Effect

anonymous asked:

OK, What are some good books that have action, romance, adventure? no YA

OOOH I can offer more help with this.

Checks All Three Boxes: 
THE DOG STARS by Peter Heller
THE PAINTER by Peter Heller
OUTLANDER by Diana Gabaldon

Checks two boxes:
The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey (adventure/romance)
Ready Player One by Earnest Cline (action/adventure - light on the romance)
Stardust by Neil Gaiman (Adventure/Romance)
A Man of His Own by Susan Wilson (Action (WWII) /Romance)
Mr. Penumbra’s 24 Hour Book Store by Robin Sloan (Modern Adventure / light on the romance)
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams (Adventure/Romance)

Books that may work but that I didn’t care for:
The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly
The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde

I feel like I’m missing some. I’ll check my shelves for more after dinner!

haven't written in awhile.

“when she got up a wave of fabric softener from the sheets and cigarette smoke, from cigarettes she ‘doesn’t’ smoke, followed her. I closed my eyes and listened to her muffled steps cross the carpet towards the bathroom door. the unending drip of the leaky faucet rose in tempo as she turned on warmer water to splash her face. and then it subsided back to the slow tempo of a drip drip drip.
I heard the door to my room click while my eyes were still closed and I knew she was back. I could feel her resonating in my bones, the places within me she took hold and made her own were my favorite spots.
the bed squeaked as it shifted and welcomed her onto it. she slid onto me like hands on silk and she was soft. and she was wonderful.
quickly, she was asleep making dainty noises and I hoped her dreams were good as I covered us in the blankets at arms reach.
and she was beautiful.”
-evin mcclusky

I think fiction comes from everything you’ve ever done, and said, and dreamed, and imagined. It comes from everything you’ve read and haven’t read…I think my work comes out of the culture of the world around me. I think that’s where my language comes from.
—  Don DeLillo, from David Remnick’s “Exile on Main Street: Don DeLillo’s Undisclosed Underworld” in The New Yorker
To Kill a Blue Jay

[A/N: This is a vent fic I wrote to cope with the ending of Episode 3 and also - in my preferred theory’s opinion - the inevitability of Chloe’s fate in Episode 5. This is not confirmed! This is not canon! This is just what I think the ending might look like and I wanted to delve into Max’s mind and heart, because the situation is agonizing to conceive and it gets me teared up every time I think about it. So here it is! Warning: Angst and tears abound! Also I named it To Kill a Blue Jay because I’m a sucker for motifs in things, but the closest thing to a motif in Life Is Strange is the recurring themes of spirit animals and that distinctive colour of blue. Chloe’s spirit animal is the blue jay, therefore I thought the name fit quite nicely. Enjoy!]

The picture pulsed and hummed and flashed in tune with the racing beating of Max’s heart and the stream of tears cemented onto her face.

With a flash, she woke up, standing in the middle of the bathroom floor, isolated and alone.

“I’m here again…” she breathed, trying to control herself and numb the pain coursing through her veins.

The further she rewound, the worse the agony. How she didn’t scream when she went back to save Chloe’s dad was a mystery, because now she felt like she might pass out from the churning pain.

However, a swimming cocktail of guilt and heartache contributed to the physical effects she was feeling.

Checking her pocket, she noted the absence of the butterfly photo, gaging precisely how far back she was.

Now she had to retrace her steps.

For the third time that week, she repeated the ritual of using the faucets and splashing her face with water, thankful that the cold dulled the burning of her forehead and numbed her aching, bloodshot eyes.

Suddenly though, Max was overwhelmed with nausea, the realization of what she knew was about to happen slamming into with the velocity of a car crash.

She forced herself to remain strong and composed, despite knowing that something as simple as using the faucets was like twisting a knife into Chloe’s heart.

Max felt like a murderer. She was, in some ways, just as guilty as Nathan, even though she had no choice in what had to be done.

It was Chloe or the world.

The only reason she managed to choose the world was after she asked herself what Chloe would want her to do.

Chloe wouldn’t want me to save her if the world had to suffer, she reminded herself, over and over again, chanting it like a mantra. I’m doing this for Chloe…

Gazing to her left, Max saw the brilliant blue butterfly flutter in from the blinding white light outside, its wondrous shade illuminating like a small beacon contrasted against the gloom of the bathroom setting.

Once again, she followed its idle path, eventually settling upon the bucket with its wings tickling the air.

Slowly, hesitantly, Max withdrew her camera and knelt down in front of the beautiful creature.

To Max, the snapping of her camera could have just as easily been the pulling of the trigger; both were sealing Chloe’s fate all the same.

After the photo developed, Max stared numbly at it for a few moments, flashing back to how she felt when she first took the beautiful photo.

Pride. Awe. Contentment.

Now she felt a choking sorrow, a gnawing guilt and an unbearable pain.

Tucking the photo away, she wallowed in the silence, finding no tranquillity or compassion from it. It was… musky and unclean. The air was there, yet it wasn’t, and Max briefly considered the otherworldly state she was feeling could symbolize that she was, in face, simply a part of some horrible dream.

However, with blistering realization, she knew that wasn’t the case.

She as stuck there, in the present, dreading the future, loathing the past.

Shuffling awkwardly in place, she tapped her fingers impatiently, finding the anticipation more painful than she could have possibly imagined.

If it has to happen, just get it over with…

The door opened. It was Nathan.

Max shrivelled back, biting her lip to force back a scream, begging and pleading with universe to let her take her rash impatience back.

It was happening… it was actually happening…

Despite knowing how the rewind time worked better than anyone, it still came as a horrible surprise and shock when the events unfolded just as it did.

Maybe, deep down inside, she was hoping that Dana or Victoria would walk in, upsetting the balance and allowing her more time to figure out a solution.

Chloe walked in.

Oh gosh…

Max’s eyes shot to the fire alarm, the pounding in her head drowning out the voices surrounding her.

Maybe I can go back again, she pleaded with herself, desperately. Just give me another five days. There’s no harm in letting me spend another five days with her, is there?

But inside, she knew. She knew she couldn’t back out now, no matter how much she wanted to. It’d be just as painful the next time, and how could she spend all that time with Chloe again, this time knowing she only had five days to live?

She wished she could go back. Not just for five days, but back before she abandoned Chloe.

She thought longingly about everything they used to do together, how they had birthday parties and dressed up as pirates, how they used to have sleepovers and stay up until the early hours of the morning gossiping and laughing together…

She thought about what she missed in those five years, how they could have gone to Blackwell together and how she could’ve stopped Chloe from dropping out, how she could’ve been there for Chloe when she was at her lowest, and laughed with her at her best.

She thought about everything they will miss together.

That was the most painful of all.

She thought about how she never got a chance to tell Chloe just how much she meant to her, how special their time was together.

Though her feelings were all mixed up in her mind, Max felt that, given time, she would love Chloe beyond the boundaries of friendship.

But mourning the past and the future was futile.

This was correcting the present.

It was what had to be done.

“Get that gun away from me, psycho!” Chloe yelled, her voice weaving its way through Max’s veins and into her heart, piercing it.

The bullet crashed.

Chloe’s body fell to the floor.

Silently, Max wept uncontrollably, curling up into a tight ball on the floor, her body a shivering mess. Tears streamed down her clammy red features, dripping a sickly salt into her mouth.

It made her want to throw up.

She’s gone… Max sobbed, burying her face in her palms, not noticing when her camera fell to the floor, quietly smashing the lens.

She’s gone…

In The Cage

A fight’s the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.

But it’s better if you do. I’m still reeling from that last good fight.

Then she was gone. And I’m not sure I ever left the sage.

I don’t remember how I got drunk, but I sure as hell remember why. It’s sad proof that I’m building up a tolerance. Not just to the drinks, either. Before, I used to worry about scratches on my skin or scrapes on my shoulders. After a while, I learned that they’re always looking at the girl regardless. Let ‘em look. All the attention gets you numb if it’s not the attention you want. And it wasn’t.

I keep trying to forget you, so I go back to instincts. For me? That’s a fist. When he told me I shouldn’t be so down. So dark. So dour? He looked right past my split lip and my blistered knuckles and wondered what my pretty little smile looked like. I could have blown him off. I was low, but warming up. But like I said - the drink didn’t hit as hard as it used to. Hurting myself held no thrill. So I needed somebody else. I had to get it out somehow, get her out.

So I pounded my skull hard into the bridge of his nose. I bet that burned. Me? I saw stars, but I smiled. There I was, dolled up in cheap mascara and a drunk boy’s blood, and wouldn’t you believe it, but I laughed? I laughed so hard, he hit me back, and then I laughed because he hit me back. That surprised and impressed me. So? I really got into it. I got intimate, got on top of him. Got wild.

Clothes tore. So did hair and skin. I left him crawling to the door, a pretty mess.

Boy, was his face red. Hell, so was mine. For just a second, I was punchdrunk. 

Then? I passed out. I woke up in a gutter after a wet dream with the girl I love. That… was nice, until reality interrupted. Being awake hurt, in a way that nothing else could hurt. I couldn’t even feel the bruises bloating on my body.

I was still stuck in my head, still making love to ghosts of her. That last good fight. I was trapped and, God… God help me. I knew I was going crazy, but…

But I didn’t want to let go just yet.

Prompt: An incarcerated Anonymous sent me…

They say your head can be a prison. If so, then these are just conjugal visits.

I wanted something queer and violent. Don’t ask me why. I have no idea.

Last: Declaration - What if love didn’t have to be the bravest story?

My bike pedals squeaked on the bridge. The wind was heavy with salt and blew against my chest. It’s not often I cross out of Cambridge. I drifted along the riverbanks on the Boston side, pausing to lie on wooden docks where water thwacked against the pilings. Tiny waves kissed at the hulls of nearby boats. I crossed above busy streets to the green, grassy heart of the city. A man stood confused on the sidewalk. He wore the loose orange vest of a construction worker. He was young. Just out of high school. His beard was thin and patchy. He blinked sweat from his eyes. He looked unsure in the shadows of red brick mansions cuddled one into the next. Rows of fine homes embraced a walkway with statues of stone men reclining in the calm of wisdom and wealth and pedigree. I nodded, one foot on the hot pavement, waiting for the light to change from red to green. The young man smiled. You know where the closest convenience store is? he asked. I shook my head. No. I looked around, over both shoulders but all I saw was more luxury. More dwellings. He was thirsty for water or a Gatorade. Maybe he left his bottle at home, far away from this corner, water dripping into it from a leaky faucet. Probably that way I pointed ahead a few long blocks where the pointy tops of downtown office buildings rose over the tufts of brownstone roof gardens. Yeah, probably, he laughed. Thanks he yelled. I moved through the light, now green. Thanks for what? I wondered. No sweat I said. I covered three streets and a few miles back to the bridge. Cleaning women with dark curls pulled tight in ponytails buzzed at heavy front doors with buckets of cleaners and sponges. Men lugged planks of wood from triple-parked trucks to make the buildings worth a few more million. I pedaled over the bridge with the wind at my back. A block from my apartment a man leaned out the window of a Maserati that shone like polished onyx. When the light changed to green, the woman behind him blasted the horn of her bondoed Honda Accord in defiance. Right on I said aloud to the warm and salty wind.

[Postcard: Boston in the Future, marked 1910]

I never thought of heaven until I ended up below

The reach of a god, counting coins out loud

Building towers of gold towards the skyline

Muttering in his sleep ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine’

‘But, baby, how can we pay for this? The

Rent is due and the car needs servicing

And the man with the spitting snarl told

Me he needs his money back tomorrow’

I lost count of the colours wrapped up in

The plastic cups at the bowling alley

Boys with greased back hair, chewing gum

Like some 1950s do-wop daydream

We only knew when we were young.

Truth upon truth is, sweetheart, I hate you.

I just can’t think about that right now

So please turn the television on.

Let The Air In

“I guess the countdown in my room was for nothing after all.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Sheila.” Henry tried to get her to look up at him, so that he could smile reassuringly at her. but she was too busy staring at her drink.

“See,” she said, “all of the days meant nothing. We’d gotten so far, but then it all just disappeared. All the hope. It disappeared.” Her voice settled on the last word with a raspy hum. She was trying so hard not to think about it, goddamnit. And what was with Henry, anyhow? Why was he trying to make her feel better?

”We can make it, darling, I know we can.” But she could only laugh at that measly reassurance. What did he know?

He didn’t, that was the thing. He didn’t know the half of it. It was just a concept to him. He wasn’t the one suffering. He didn’t know a thing.