food librarian

anonymous asked:

Soulmate AU where your soulmark doesn't only symbolise your soulmate, but also how you'll realise that they are your soulmate. (because unlike the romace novels it isn't always "bond" at first sight, sometimes it takes YEARS to discover what was there all along). Now imagine Stiles so obsessed with his very-much everlasting state of virginity because of his bite mark on his chest and HELLO what else could that mean. (part 2 in the next ask)

Part 2: Or imagine derek trying everything to get rid of his mark, because the bullet shaped mark was the reason his young naive self approached the argents, and KATE, in the first place. And we all know how that went.

The water was cold as it splashed on his face – cold and refreshing – and his hands stayed pressed against his face for a long minute, his eyes closed and a tired sigh leaving him. Slowly, Derek dropped his hands from his face and grabbed the edges of the sink. He hesitated before finally lifting his gaze to the mirror in front of him.

His eyes, blank with a hint of sadness and bags heavy underneath them, found the bullet shaped mark slightly to the left of the center of his chest immediately.

Derek had been five when his mom had sat him down and told him about soulmates and soulmarks for the first time. And because of his soulmark, it had also been when he was told of hunters and how he needed to be careful. More careful than any of his siblings and any of his friends.

He had been five and hadn’t listened. He hadn’t listened when he was thirteen either, nor when he was sixteen and approached the woman he thought he was his soulmate.

It had been years – long and painful years – and he had yet to forgive himself for that. He doubted he ever would,and looking at his soulmark made him feel sick to his stomach.

Keep reading

Imagine trying to sneak in some snacks into the library and getting caught by librarian!DK. Despite him catching you in the act, he promises not to tell on you if you share those snacks with him.

Happy International Workers’ Day

Here’s to the unions and the non-unionized

Here’s to migrant farm workers and registered nurses, teachers and barbers, gas station attendants and restaurant owners

Here’s to all the people who struggle and hustle

Here’s to the exploited and the exploitable

Here’s to our mothers and their mothers’ mothers

Here’s to sweatshop laborers sewing in 100-degree heat with no breaks or meals or daycare in economic “free zones”

Here’s to longshore people and truck drivers, sex workers and fast-food employees, janitors and librarians, sheep herders and gardeners

Here’s to the women of the maquiladoras whose deaths and disappearances are altogether ignored by Uncle Sam and his plutocrats

Don’t just celebrate May Day

Remember

Mourn

And get angry

Bacon Bookmarks

Keowee Courier, South Carolina, October 8, 1919

The Daily Times, Salisbury, Michigan, May 23, 1925

The Sandusky Register, Ohio, July 25, 1937

Fitchburg Sentinel, Massachusetts, January 31, 1939

The News-Herald, Franklin, Pennsylvania, January 15, 1940

Valley Morning Star, Harlingen, Texas, Demceber 5, 1941

The San Bernardino County Sun, California, 1943

The Escanaba Daily Press, Michigan, February 6, 1947

The Corpus Christi Caller-Times, Texas, May 16, 1951

The La Crosse Tribune, Wisconsin, January 6, 1957

Pasadena Independent, California, January 31, 1961

The Progress-Index, Petersburg, Virginia, April 2, 1961

The Eugene Guard, Oregon, April 8, 1961

After a long day of librarianing - which consisted of separate visits by the fire dept and the PoPo - I’m just gonna sit here with this so-far-so-awesome story and share this plate of air-fried taters with my old hound dog. Cause it’s Saturday night and I’m a nerd 🤓♥️📚

anonymous asked:

If you could make a list of modern day au! jobs for Bull that didn't play into the big guy = blue collar stereotype, what jobs would they be?

if i could make a list of some jobs he might have (by no means all) it would take his canonical skills and interests into account, and look something like this:

languages: translator– government, medical, ancient texts/poetry. professor of Qunlat in a school/university setting. advisor for historical accuracy on movie sets.

dragons (definitely a skill): preservation expert/zookeeper. educational ambassador (goes to classrooms and teaches kids about animals). trainer/breeder. 

childcare (this is a headcanon, i know): early developmental care (infants). special education (specialized education for kids with learning disabilities/nd kids and specialized education for kids who work way ahead of their grade). homeroom/language arts teacher. social worker. guidance counselor.

miscellaneous skills: writer. architect. accountant. video game coder. lawyer. advice columnist. business owner. model. art historian. astronaut. professor. editor. food critic/food blogger. nurse. lepidopterist. librarian. personal assistant/secretary. coach for competitive chess players. costume designer. travel writer. environmental scientist. therapist. detective/fbi profiler. actor. spy.

Tall Tales and Short Stories

Originally posted by super-sootica

Pairing: Gabriel x reader

Words: 1300+

Summary: You manage to befriend the strange janitor at your college.

Based on the request by: @becca-boop1310

Warnings: Bullying

A/N: My hiatus is over. Miss me?

[General masterlist]

Your name: submit What is this?

Nobody ever notices the people in the background. Nobody thanks the lunch lady for serving food, nobody asks the librarian how their day was, nobody ever says hello to the janitor. And that’s exactly what Gabriel was counting on.

As the janitor of Crawford Hall University, the Trickster could go anywhere, listen in on anyone, and nobody would bat an eye. It was the perfect disguise, hiding in plain sight. Nobody would ever know, hell nobody would ever ask, who he was.

Keep reading

6

Librarian-Poo, from The Truth by Sir Terry Pratchett!

I snortled when I read this bit, because it contains two of the most fearsome creatures in Ankh-Morpork - Vimes himself, and a certain simian slinger of books:

‘Mister Vimes is going to go round the twist,’ said the voice of Deep Bone. ‘He’s going to go totally Librarian-poo. He’s going to invent new ways of being angry just so’s he can try them out on you -’

[As always, thank you so much for supporting me and my book!]

Keep reading

“Somebody…please believe me…

Through tear stained eyes she looked upon the hot summer day and the last scene her living sight would ever know.

Clothes tousled, pale skin covered in cuts and scrapes. On her right arm a gaping wound seeped black ooze onto ragged bandages that had not been changed in days. Her hands were bound with coils of rope. 

The yellow flower in her hair fluttered in the warm breeze, an uncaring damnation of the girl who had begged pitifully for her life from her judges, her jury, and now her executioners: the people she had once called ‘friends’

Keep reading

3

05.10.17 It’s been a while but here I am ~ Things have changed, I am not a student anymore and I am going to work in a library! I am still studying languages tough, and reading books. I am also writing for the Christmas Challenge (a French writing challenge with 25 themes). I will post on Tumblr - but first I need to write - Plus, I was thinking I could make book reviews - in French but maybe in English too if some of you want to read in French and can’t choose. The vocabulary list comes from https://krjpstudy.tumblr.com/post/166019386129/spooky-japanese-vocab but I translated it in French. @krjpstudy I am eating a lot of carrots.

Originally posted by silverwindow

npr.org
Ring In 'Lemony Snicket' On Netflix With A Series Of Unfortunate Recipes
In the children's books, food is practically a supporting character. So why not welcome the poor Baudelaire orphans with a delightfully miserable repast while binge-watching the new show?

The rather unfortunate Baudelaire children cooked and ate some interesting meals throughout the Series. Enjoy the Netflix series with tastier versions of what the Baudelaire children would eat (and yes, this includes Aunt Josephine’s chilled cucumber soup).

A Walking Paradox (Michael/4)

On Tuesday June 14 @0kbutmichaelclifford and @jigglypufftribe held a Hogwarts!5sos Blurb Night. Unfortunately I had a Psychology exam that week and no time to start a queue for it, yay me! However, I was inspired by it and today I’ve finished writing the first idea that came to mind. Please enjoy the 2k of Hogwarts!Michael below!

1. Platform 9 ¾

Fully aware of the fact that King’s Cross Station will be crawling with tourists on a last-minute city trip to London and bustling with businesspeople rushing to attend their important meetings, you leave early for Platform 9 ¾. You’ve agreed on meeting your friends at 10.50 AM and you still want to finish your book before they start ranting about all their adventures this summer.

It’s just past 10.20 AM when you roll your cart through the seemingly solid brick wall and find yourself on the wizard’s platform. It’s quiet, only the occassional Prefect and this year’s Head Boy and Head Girl already there. You find your usual compartment on the Hogwarts Express, stowing your trunk in the overhead compartment, and smile when you notice the initials you and your friends had inked into the little table. Seems like the magic marker used at the end of the previous semester really was as permanent as it promised to be.

Knowing that your friends will surely be quite a bit later than the agreed 10.50 AM, you grab your book and step back out onto the platform, finding somewhere to sit and quietly read. (Much like you’d expected, your group of friends are some of the very last people to arrive. The lot of them are chattering and laughing, hugging and squealing in excitement when catching up with each other.)

You’re found by your best friend, seemingly still engrossed in your story. She knows you better than that though, and upon closer inspection notices that your eyes keep flitting away from the paper and flying over the crowd that’s slowly gathered before you. You start biting your lip when you finally fixate on something. Your friend smirks a little when she sees what, or rather who, is holding your attention.

Michael Clifford, a Sixth Year like yourself, is standing a little bit away. The Slytherin is surrounded by his three best friends (2 of Gryffindor’s finest and one of his fellow Slytherins) and his cat’s curled around his neck and shoulders. You’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for him, though you’d rather jump off the Astronomy Tower than admit it.

Clifford’s a sight to behold: he’s wearing his usual attire, and while it’s no longer uncommon to see wizards dressed in Muggle clothing, he stands out. He’s wearing black skinny jeans with colorful patches haphazardly sewn over the legs (tight enough that you could swear the jeans were painted on), a black faded and torn jean jacket (with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tattoos curling around his forearm) and a plain black t-shirt. The all-black ensemble looks great against his fair skin and green-and-silver hair.

You squeak, a flush crawling all over your face and up to the roots of your hair, when his eyes fly over you and your friend. You know there’s no chance that Michael Clifford was looking at you, a mousy Ravenclaw, but you’re mortified enough as it without being caught staring.

Your friend giggles when you start dragging her to the train, leaving your other friends to follow, and winks when Michael raises a curious eyebrow at your back when you pass him by.

2. Hallowe’en Detention

October has been unusually kind to the students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year: it’s been warm and sunny up until the very end and it seems as though the weather’s not changing anytime soon. Tomorrow’s a Hogsmeade weekend and knowing your friends, you’ll be going out as soon as the Professors allow you to and you won’t be getting back until you absolutely have to.

Curse you for befriending not one, but several adventurous Gryffindors (bloody energetic lot of them).

You realize that there’s not a single chance that you’ll get to finish the impromptu History of Magic essay Professor Binns sprung on you if you don’t start it now and thus, despite the Hallowe’en Feast happening in the Great Hall, you make your way up to the library. You’d convinced some of the house-elves to pack you some food in a picnic basket and shrinking the basket, you plan on sneaking the food past the librarian.

The library is empty when you push open the heavy doors, no librarian in sight, and you find yourself an empty desk in the farthest corner of the room. You’re mostly hidden from sight (you don’t want to be caught eating in there), but you’ve still got a clear view of the doors. Nibbling on some pumpkin pastries, you start working on the 4-foot-long essay.

The whole table soon gets cluttered with discarded feathers, spare bottles of ink and copious amounts of spare parchment. Towers of books are surrounding you and the only sound that’s heard is the furious scribbling of your feather on the scroll in front of you. It comes as a total surprise when the doors to the library fly open.

Hogwarts’ caretaker stomps inside, dragging a boy behind him by his ear. The boy whines about it hurting, the whole thing being rather amusing as it comes from a person well over six feet tall.

“You think this is funny?” The caretaker growls at the unidentified boy. “Creating not only a swamp in the entrance hall, but also filling it with Grindylows?”

The boy mutters, clearly not finding it as funny now in the face of punishment, but you’re impressed. That’s some level of magic skills, not to mention patience! Getting your hands on multiple Grindylows? Talk about commitment

The boy’s gotten himself out of the grip of the caretaker, disgruntledly rubbing his sore ear and rolling his eyes when the older man takes away the boy’s wand and threatens to keep him inside the castle for the rest of the boy’s Hogwarts career if the returned books are not put back in their proper place when he gets back from the Feast. The boy eyes the cart the books are in and whines anew.

“There’s got to be at least a hundred books in there and I’m hungryyyyy…” The boy moans. “You can’t keep me away from dinner. That’s child abuse!”

“Shut up, boy,” The caretaker warns. “And get started if you want to ever again feel the fresh Scottish winds blowing through that ridiculous hair of yours!”

The old man slams the doors shut with an almighty bang and the boy starts cursing. You hear him mumble something about Peeves the Poltergeist and a quest for revenge, before he promptly drops the large volume he’s holding on his foot. He curses again and you stifle your laugh.

The boy rights his back and the sudden beam of moonlight catches his face. He gives a girly shriek (‘Excuse you, but that was a very manly shout, thank you very much!’) when the light reflects in your eyes and your breath hitches when you recognize the boy.

The green-and-silver hair, the usually-emerald-but-now-turned-silver-in-the-lighting eyes, the dark ink decorating the bared skin of his forearms… Michael Clifford was the apparent culprit. (You’re not entirely sure why you’re surprised by that denouement: Michael and his friends aren’t exactly what you’d call innocent little angels.)

Worst of all, he seems to recognize you as well. He cocks his head to the side a little in what appears to be confusion.

“Little Rowena Ravenclaw,” He eventually says. You groan internally when you’re reminded of your ancestor. It appears as though that’s the one thing everyone can focus on when talking to you for the first time. “Now what are you doing here on a night like this?”

You gesture to the books surrounding you. “Being little Rowena Ravenclaw?” You say sarcastically. (What? Just because you’re a little shy, doesn’t mean you’ve got no backbone.)

“Tonight?” He seems curious, coming a little closer. “You do realize it’s Hallowe’en, tonight? And there’s a glorious feast being served in the Great Hall?”

You don’t do it often, but you do it now: you smirk. “I know,” You whisper mischievously, beckoning him a little closer and showing him the basket hidden under your desk. “I got first pick.”

He moans when he sinks his teeth in the pumpkin pastry you hand him, patting his stomach contently and taking a seat in the chair opposite yours. “What are you working on?” He asks between big gulps of the juice the elves had packed you.

“Binns’ essay,” You groan. “Idiot assigns a four-foot-long essay the day before a Hogsmeade weekend…”

Michael nods sympathetically. “Calum said something about that. Pretty sure he won’t complete it or force me to write it, but hey: at least this time he remembered the homework! Progress!”

The both of you laugh a little, before calming down again. Then something dawns on you.

“Wait, Calum forces you to write his?” Michael nods. “So you’re good at this?”

Michael shrugs. “I have trouble sleeping sometimes, so I read History of Magic when I can’t doze off. Works like a charm, no pun intended: stupid shit bores you right to sleep!”

You grin a little. “Have you, by any chance, already read the chapter on the Giant Wars?”

“Why? Little Rowena Ravenclaw about to make me do her dirty work?” He winks and you shrug bashfully.

“I’ll write it, I promise,” You assure him. “I just don’t feel like reading through the entire chapter…”

“Can’t blame you.” He grins. “Sure, I’ll help. ‘S not like that old bat can actually keep me inside for forever if those books don’t find their way back to their shelves.”

You raise an eyebrow at him before whipping out your wand. Michael’s eyes widen and he lets out a surprised laugh. “Why would he?” And you wave your wand at the cart. The books start flying through the air as you and Michael get to work.

(A couple of hours later, your sides hurt from laughing as much as you did and your friends grow steadily frustrated when you refuse to spill why you practically floated all the way up to Ravenclaw Tower. Their curiosity worsens when the First Year who’d come in with you tells them that he had to help you solve the riddle the bronze eagle guarding the entrance to the Common Room had given you.)

3. Before Winter Break

The night of the Hallowe’en Feast has changed things for you. It’s no longer rare to suddenly find someone else in whatever deserted corner of the library you happen to be inhabiting. You’ve turned it into somewhat of a game: will he find you? How long will it take him?

(Spoiler alert: yes, he’ll find you. Another spoiler: it won’t take him long.)

It still startles you however, when you suddenly find yourself being jostled out of the story you were reading. His hair’s red now and he’s got tiny little Christmas ornaments hanging from the piercings in his ears. He’s also wearing the world’s ugliest sweater and a pair of reindeer antlers are planted on his head. (It takes a lot to convince yourself that no, that wasn’t a whimper of longing and adoration fighting its way up your throat, but merely the beginning of a cold. It’s been going around the Common Room, okay?)

You wonder what Michael’s doing here; the semester is over and most people are getting ready to go home the next day to spend Christmas with their families. Shouldn’t he be spending his time wreaking havoc and causing mayhem before leaving the caretaker to deal with it? Shouldn’t he be spending time with his friends before they’re split up for three weeks?

He shrugs when you ask him. “Pretty sure I’ll find them in my kitchen first thing tomorrow, forcing my mum to make them her special pancakes she usually saves just for me.” You laugh a little at his extensive eye rolling. “Besides, I’d rather spend tonight with you…”

You flush, because Michael Clifford would rather sit with the shy Ravenclaw in an all-but-deserted library on a musty, lumpy couch than cause mischief? That’s not something one sees every day…

“You’re weird, Clifford.” You shake your head and he shrugs. He winks, too. “Also, I’m sure the caretaker will be positively heartbroken by the lack of a Christmas present…”

Michael laughs. A bit too loudly, but you’re prepared to glare at the librarian until all hell freezes over and You-Know-Who rises from the grave if she dares to shush him. A sound so joyful shouldn’t be shushed in your (honest, but totally unbiased) opinion.

“He shouldn’t worry,” Michael whispers conspiratorially. “I didn’t forget him. No use asking me; I don’t want anyone to spoil his surprise.”

You whine a little, but Michael won’t budge. He does however, advice you to stay away from the Christmas baubles in the Great Hall. (“Highly unstable,” He pretends to be offended. “Flitwick’s wand work isn’t what it used to be.”)

Your eyes widen, but you decide to not ask. If you don’t know, you can’t be blamed for it.

“What’s with the festive attire?” You’ve put your book in your bag and when you’re settled in a more comfortable position, he’s pulling at a loose thread hanging from his sweater.

“Christmas is my favorite time of year. We Cliffords go all out for it.” His cheeks turn an adorable pinkish color and you’re careful to keep the cooing sounds struggling to escape, inside. Instead you shake your head.

“You’re a walking paradox, Michael Clifford.” He moves his hand in a way that asks you to elaborate before he drops his head in your lap and closes his eyes. (You think he’s beautiful in that moment, but you’re careful to keep that dangerous thought to yourself.)

“You’re pureblooded as far as one can trace back the Clifford-family tree, yet you’re the biggest Muggles’ rights activist anyone will ever meet. You can’t make it through a single one of Professor Binns’ History of Magic lectures without falling asleep, yet you’re the only one in the whole entire year who’s ever read Hogwarts: A History. You cast spells, spells that tend to trouble Aurors when altering their appearances for undercover work, to dye your hair shocking colors. You have piercings, which by the way are an unusual thing for a wizard to have, and tattoos, yet the love of your life seems to be your almost-fully-grown cat…”

Michael sputters, interrupting you, and one green eye glares at you. “She’s just a tiny baby kitten, Y/N. I need to show her love and affection or she’ll become some roguelike creature.”

“You’ve had Voodoo for over a year, Michael.” You grin. “Face it: the kitten is gone.”

Michael grumbles and you continue. “You’re a Slytherin through and through, yet Calum and Ashton are two of your best friends and they’re both Gryffindors. You’re tough as nails and scare the shit out of all the younger students, and most of the older ones too, yet you’re practically purring in my lap right now.”

Michael smirks and nudges his head against your stomach, closely resembling a cat asking to have its head petted. (You indulge him. You can’t help it: he’s Michael Clifford. Anyone who wants to make a big deal out of it, can piss off.)

The two of you end up sitting on that musty, lumpy couch until the librarian shoos the both of you out, shaking her head at your silliness.

(For the first time in probably forever she catches herself not reprimanding a student for not being quiet in her beloved library. She sees the way you look at him and she understands.)

The loud-mouthed prankster and the shy bookworm.

The center of attention wherever he goes and the frail wallflower blooming in his rays of sunshine.

Him, the all-consuming force of nature, and you, the inevitable casualty that comes with his aftermath.

A walking paradox…

A/N: First piece of writing in months… I’m actually really insecure about it?! I liked the idea when it first came to me, but I’m not totally sold on the final result?! Please let me know if you liked it and whether or not I should bother writing the other Hogwarts!5SOS-blurb sketches I’ve got?

2

For Valentine’s Day I made HEART SHAPED Toasted (AKA Breaded and Fried) Ravioli with an almond cheese (homemade) and olive filling. Served with marinara. 

AND, Death by Chocolate Mousse Cake. 

Om nom nom

Sorry grad school is taking up all of my time. I’ll post the recipe soon! 

Author

The reader is a writer and have a few books already published (thats how matthew met her. He likes her books) and she likes to help him with his scripts. And at the same time, he teaches her a lot about directing. And she likes to give him ideas for music and scenes…

So this is a bit of a loaded prompt, so I’m trimming it down a bit.  I do hope you still enjoy it, though.  Here is your one-shot, comin’ ‘atcha!

(Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Epilogue)


Sitting in the library as you hide your coffee between your legs, you stare at your blank computer screen as you quietly sigh.

You had no idea your little book would have been so popular, and now you were tasked with the job of writing a sequel…

And you had no idea where to start.

Groaning as you take the secret coffee cup from between your legs, you take a light sip before placing it back between your thighs, careful to make sure the librarian wouldn’t see you out of the corner of his eye.

That man had a sixth sense about that kind of stuff.

Just as you were about to give in to the writer’s block and go home, you see a notification flash up on your laptop screen.

1 New Email.

Grinning as you click on the flashing icon, you watch your inbox pop up as you stifle a girlish giggle.

You were wondering when he was going to email you back.

After your first book garnered some attention, you had been flooded with fan-mail, but one in particular had stood out to you: it was a man claiming to be an actor and director who wanted to use the basis of your story for a script he was writing and directing for some television show he worked on.

You had given him the okay, with your only stipulation being that he credits the book and your authorship somewhere in the credits.

His response had been a resounding “duh.”

From there it had morphed into friendly conversation.  “How are you”’s and “I’m alright”’s and “How is work”’s and even a few “What’s up this weekend?”’s.

And when the news of a second book hit the papers, he had sent you varying degrees of “Holy crap!”’s and “You should do this!”’s and “Oh my god, I’m so excited!”’s.  His emails made you smile, as well as aided your brain in jump-starting the creative process since sometimes, out of the blue, he would send you random ideas he thought would be “spectacularly awesome” for your next book.

And you found yourself taking one of his suggestions and running with it.

It started out innocent at first, a way to kick-start your mind back into it’s own world so that you could flesh out an idea of your own, but soon you found yourself developing an entire world around this one random idea, so you had taken to email and asked the mysterious man whether or not he would be alright with you actually using his idea.

And his response had been “as long as you credit the source.” You know, along with a various amounts of emoji faces denoting varying degrees of hilarity and joke.

But you were serious.  You wanted to use his idea, and you wanted to credit him somehow for it.  Intellectual property wasn’t something you had come to value until you decided to write a book…even if it was just so you could say you had.

So when you shot him an email back saying you were being serious, and you really did want to credit him for the idea, you hadn’t heard from him.

For two weeks.

Until now.

Opening up the email, your hand shaking lightly as your eyes scroll across the screen, the smile from your face drops lightly as you furrow your brow.

You can’t credit someone you’ve never met.

That was all it said.

“You can’t credit someone you’ve never met.”

What did he mean by that?  Did he mean don’t worry about it?  Was he serious about that sentiment?  Did he mean he wanted to be credited, and this was his smooth way of trying to meet you.  Was he going to be crazy?  Or try to kill you?

Or try to expose you?

It was obvious that you were writing under a pen-name.  It made you feel more comfortable in expressing some of the ideas that ran through your head during your initial book, and it would allow you to keep your reputation for being a “stay-at-home-not-too-talkative-homebody-with-no-life” persona while also writing crime dramas filled with real-life issues, some of which were sexual in nature.

Feeling your heart pound in your chest, you crack your knuckles as you begin to type back, but as you go to send the email, you see a little box pop up in the bottom left-hand corner of your screen.

I hope this is alright? -MGG

“Oh, god,” you breathe, your breathing picking up as you stare blankly at the flashing chat box.

Are you there? -MGG

“Come on,” you whisper to yourself, placing your fingers on your keyboard, “it’s just a chat-box.”

Yes, I’m here.

Waiting for his response was gut-wrenching.

Hi!  Oh my god, I’m so excited you’re there.  I didn’t know if you would respond. -MGG

For whatever reason, that comment made you smile.

Yeah, well, I was about to send you an email back, so when I saw this pop-up I decided to go ahead and run with it.

Well, I’m glad you decided to. -MGG

“I’m glad I did, too,” you mutter to yourself.

So, what was your email about? -MGG

Oh, yeah.  The email.

Um…it was essentially asking what you meant by yours.

The pause was aching.  You could hear your pulse in your head as your legs begin to shake.

Why were you so nervous?

Honestly?  It meant that if you wanted to credit the idea to me, we should probably meet so you know who you’re crediting. -MGG

Makes sense.

Or you could just give me your name and I could credit you on the opening page?

Go you.  Always avoiding unnecessary social situations.

Well, I’m kind of like you.  I’m nervous to give you my name. -MGG

I’m not nervous to give my name, you shoot back, I’m nervous to put a familiar face to the book I wrote.

Why? -MGG

Good question.  One you had asked yourself many times before.

I don’t know.  I guess people expect a very different person than who I am to write the book that I wrote.

You could tell he was trying to formulate his answer.  For what reason, you didn’t know, but the response he shot back made you smile.

Your book is incredible, and could only come from an incredible woman.  That’s all anyone needs to know. -MGG

Incredible?  He thought you were incredible?

Wait…how did he know you were a woman?

Wait…how do you know he’s a man…?

How do you know I’m a woman?

I…uh… -MGG

You were entertained that he put his flustered response in a chat window.

Have I been flirting with a dude? -MGG

Flirting?

Have you been flirting?

Well, if you don’t know then I’m doing a bad job of it. -MGG

Now it was your turn to pause.

A strange man who had supposedly taken your story and turned it into something for some show somewhere that he had allegedly written and directed was flirting with you.

You’re a guy…right…?

Hahahah, yes.  I am all male. -MGG

A guy.  Was flirting.  With you.

But you’ve never seen me…

Is that important? -MGG

It always is!

Well, then you’ve been talking with the wrong guys. -MGG

I don’t talk to anyone, in general.

Pause.

You talk to me. -MGG

Yes.  Yes you do.

You looked forward to his email.  His comments.  His answers to your mundane questions.  His corny dad-jokes that he sometimes sent you.  One time you were even so lucky as to receive a picture from him.  Some sort drawing he had finished along with a stuffed animal of said drawing that he had made.

You remember telling him how talented he was.

You still there? -MGG

Jumping at the flashing screen, you begin to furiously type.

Yes.  I am.  Sorry, got side-tracked.

Side-tracked writing that new book? ;) -MGG

Uh oh, was he fishing for information?

A little stuck on it, but I’ll be alright.

As a lull in the conversation takes over, you turn back to your blank Word document, closing your eyes as you pinch the bridge of your nose.

You couldn’t get that idea out of your mind.

The idea that had come from him.

Your mind had fleshed out characters, created an outline, and even had a basic plot…and all because of some random email guy’s plot suggestions.

You felt tears prickle the back of your eyes.

You didn’t feel right profiting off of someone else’s idea.  It was wrong.  Unless you attributed it to him somehow.

Is there any way I can cite you in this book without meeting?

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to.  You just…felt overwhelmed.  Meeting new people was a task in and of itself, and when you found a job writing from home for various things, you took great pains to make sure you kept your jobs.  And when your book took off, you cried when that first check from the publishing company came in.  Your perfect life was unfolding…one that didn’t involve the hefty daily interaction with others that exhausted you to your bones.

His pause was so much longer than you were expecting.

I suppose you could do something on a dedication page… -MGG

The ellipses.

The disappointment of the internet.

The three little dots that conveyed hesitancy, caution, and sadness.

Who would have thought that three little dots would have such a heavy burden to carry?

I can do that.

Period.

To period someone’s ellipses is to not only run-over their emotions, its to keep your head straight as they recede in your rear-view mirror.  It’s to not acknowledge that you are aware of their feelings.  It’s to overlook the fine print that you know is there, but don’t have the guts to talk about.

To period someone’s ellipses is to make yourself a coward.

A callous coward.

Good luck with the book. -MGG

And with that, you watch him log-off, his chat nickname turning grey as you let out the breath you were holding, your teeth darting out to grasp your bottom lip as you close your eyes.

“Ma’am?”

Sighing heavily as you recognize the voice, you open your weary eyes as you slowly turn your head towards the librarian.

“No food or drink allowed,” he says, signaling to your lap as you groan lightly.

Getting up as you grasp your coffee, you take three huge gulps before tossing it in the trash can beside you, your legs meandering your lifeless body back over to your laptop as you plop haphazardly back down into your chair.

“Well, here goes nothin’,” you say, cracking your knuckles one last time before switching over to your empty Word document.

And as you begin to write the dedication page, a short and sweet acknowledgement of intellectual property, you feel the words of the book simmering at the tips of your fingers as your eyes re-read the dedication, tears leaking down your cheeks as you begin to type through your first page:

This book is dedicated to the brains behind the idea: if there is one thing I want you to know, it’s that I’m not always the period to someone’s ellipses.