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Kaye Allen (KayeAllen-official) - Wattpad
Author. Singer. Fangirl. College Girl. Writing is my obsession.

To all Wattpad users! :)

Yes, I’m finally updating here haha I’ll be transferring my works here throughout the week. Don’t be surprised though once you see my work profile, since some of the stories would be placed in different  collections (and may) be changed a bit. :)) 

For example, The Art of Falling (Vol. 1 of my love Narratives Collection) will contain short stories about falling in love (no duh) so that includes some of our story favorites here like “The Art of Falling” (Jin), Blanket Kicks & Chocolate Sticks”(Jimin), and Slow Dance (Kris). I will also be including some original short stories here. :) 


For the Dark & Wild series, Vengeance and Crave are already posted so check them out:)  They are posted as separate books. Laws of Motion & Attraction. Some of my KPOP scenarios are posted in as well. 

I’m fairly new to Wattpad (well I ahven’t sued it in a while) and I hope to garner readers and meet writers there as well as I did here. So if you have accounts, I would appreciate reads and follows. Also, if you know people from Wattpad, maybe recommend them to read my works? keke~ My advertisements are my readers because who knows my works better than anyone else (other than myself, of course)?

It’s you guys. <3 So reblog, likes, posts about this is REALLY APPRECIATED. 

PS: Also, a lot of people are getting offers of publicationhere so I’m hoping~ *fingers-crossed* that my works can be spotted haha! 

Thank you so much! And enjoy reading~ <3

-Kaye Allen

S.A.D.

When I as in 8th grade, my English teacher explained to me what the seasons meant and despite being born in June I was always in love with December and the reigning cold and death it plagued into the country and so the child who was born into the sunshine and summer thunder storms longed to see the way rolling hills looked blanketed in snow and rain pounding the roof so hard it was nothing but white noise.
So while the child fell in love with this symbolic seasons suicide he fell into the seasonal ritual of death along with the trees. Despite the evergreens, he still believed and saw nothing but the lost leaves, searching for fading homes and disappearing parents. He became one of them, a relit cigarette hoping for some taste but never quite reaching the pinnacle of relief, the gentle reminder that a flame that’s lit again will never burn as brightly and a leaf won’t ever find its way back home but might end up somewhere twice as beautiful.

She is worried, and then she is angry at herself for worrying, for always thinking about herself and for always looking at the world so darkly. But she doesn’t know how to stop.
—  Lydia Davis; Five Signs of Disturbance

So, um…I seem to have won a Nebula Award for Jackalope Wives.

Holy crap. I didn’t see that one coming.

For those of you who don’t follow this all that closely, one of the other nominees was Eugie Foster, an enormously talented writer who passed away last year and When It Ends, He Catches Her was her final story. I assumed she would win. I was all set to cheer when she did. (I met her husband at the con, he’s very sweet, and as it happens, I did the art for the cover of one of her self-published anthologies, a fact I’d forgotten because brain, sieve, etc.)

Did I want to win? Well, of course, but I didn’t want to want to win, if that makes any sense, because hey, I’ll write other stories. Maybe one of them will get nominated for a Nebula. And as I learned from the Hugos, the statue is fantastic, but the nomination is actually the thing. When they say “It’s an honor just to be nominated,” cliche as it sounds, it’s true.* The statue, sure, maybe you compete for, but the nomination is a gift from the people who believe in you.

I truly believe that if it’s not a gift, it’s not worth much of anything.

And I suspect that I also truly believed I wasn’t going to win, because before the Hugos, when people had been telling me I had a shot, I couldn’t eat for sheer nerves, and I cheerfully polished off a chicken dinner and a glass of wine at the Nebula banquet, and mostly was sweating for Sarah Monette, aka Katherine Addison, aka author of The Goblin Emperor which book gave me all the feels forever and who is a lovely person and I was hoping hard for her.

When they called my name, I, being the cool operator I am, said “What?”

Then I said “What?” again, several times.

And Kevin said “What?” which was good, because then I felt slightly less out of the loop.

Then I noticed that all the people at my table (we were sitting with a contingent of Chinese science fiction authors who had come to cheer for Cixin Liu, and the founder of Strange Horizons, among others) were all looking at me and cheering and Kevin was rooting through his sporran for my speech, which I’d written for the Alternate Universe Nebulas that take place afterwards, where everybody gets together in the foyer and reads their acceptance speeches for the alternate universe where they won.

The speech that, because I had written it for that alternate universe, addressed the audience as if they were giant chickens.

It occurred to me that I had possibly made a tactical error.

I took the speech and went up to the front and I am actually almost good at this part because I am thinking gotta make a speech gotta make a speech not holy crap I’ve won a Nebula and then they handed me the big cube with the planets in it and I accidentally thought holy crap I’ve won a Nebula and that was a big mistake because then I turned to the microphone, and my voice cracked and I said the first thing that came into my head, which was “Aw shit, guys, you were supposed to give this to Eugie.”

Grace under pressure, thy name is someone else.

But I gave the speech, and fortunately explaining the giant chicken bit got me past the bit where I was getting choked up and then I was just giving the speech which was mostly telling stories about tattooing and selkies and then I walked back and people were congratulating me on the way.

—  Ursula Vernon on winning the 2015 Nebula Awards for Jackalope Wives

“But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.”

—from The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

My short story, “The Cure,” is now available at Interfictions

I am very pleased to announce that my short story, “The Cure,” is now available to read for free online at Interfictions.

I wrote “The Cure” last summer while I was researching hysteria, which was once believed to be a medical condition that afflicted women, but has since been discounted as basically sexist poppycock. However, so many physicians attempted to fix hysteria that many treatments were devised, some involving plunging women into freezing baths or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, treating them with vibrators. (There is a great movie about this starring Maggie Gyllenhaal called, fittingly, Hysteria.)

[Illustration depicts the first stage in a hysterical attack (Source: Hysteria and Certain Allied Conditions by George J. Preston, M.D., 1897)]

My story, “The Cure,” is about one possible cure for hysteria. It was inspired by the quote that opens the story — a quote from a real physician describing hysteria:

“A hysterical girl is a vampire who sucks the blood of the healthy people about her.”
— Oliver Wendell Holmes

(Sidenote: The quote above is from Holmes Sr., a physician. His son, Holmes Jr., became a justice of the United States Supreme Court.)

“The Cure” is different from the other short stories I’ve written because it’s my first story to be published as adult fiction! It’s kind of a hybrid between horror, fantasy, and historical fiction, which is why I’m so pleased that I could submit it to Interfictions, an online literary journal that is precisely for stories that cross genre.

It’s a pretty short short story, so rather than say more about it, I will just point you to this link so you can read “The Cure” for yourself. I hope you enjoy it!

The way she was. Well, she reminded me of the moon. She was surrounded by darkness yet all she did was shine. She would shine to all the darkness, but her own, she was immune to her own light. Her spirit gave laughter and love to everyone around, but she couldn’t keep any for herself. It was both her greatest strength and weakness. What she gave to the world she was unable to give to herself. She reminded me of the moon; she always left my view too soon. Sometimes, I’d see a flash of her but then she’d disappear again without a trace. I know I could count on her return for it can only stay dark for as long as the light will diminish.
WELCOME

In honor of our upcoming project THE ANATOMY OF CURIOSITY, and in honor of our own awesome selves, we three Merry Fates have decided to spent three months publishing a bunch of our very favorite (and possibly very worst) short stories on Tumblr! 

Starting July 6th maggie-stiefvater, brennayovanoff, and I, tessagratton will be posting one of our original stories from the Merry Fates blog Monday thru Saturday. That’s six stories a week! It’ll go all the way up to the release week of ANATOMY, the week of October 1st. 

Imagine it: 72 stories from the three of us over three months. MIND BLOWING.

Follow this blog to be part of the action. 

The follow-up to the acclaimed novel The Curiosities: A Collection of Stories by Maggie Stiefvater, Tessa Gratton, and Brenna Yovanoff. 

In an unassuming corner of Brooklyn, a young woman learns to be ladylike, to love context, and to speak her mind from a very curious sort of tutor.

In a faraway land convulsed by war, a young soldier hears the desert’s curious hum as he disarms bombs with the person he doesn’t know how to love.

In a place so shriveled by drought that any drowning is a curiosity, a young writer tries again and again to tread water beneath the surface of a vast and unusual sea.

Three new stories—complete with commentary on the creative process—from three acclaimed young adult authors working at the height of their powers.

Curious?

Moving Trains

It happens as you sit with your forehead pressed against the glass of a window on a moving train; you realize that a distance has grown between you and everything else. Someone has built a Plexiglas wall, five feet thick and indestructible, around the shape of your body. You can see fine, you can hear fine; you can taste, touch, smell, think, move, but you cannot do it all at once. For some reason, your mind no longer processes these things simultaneously; your five senses are disconnected and now more like foreign countries rather than neighboring towns.

You think of how everything and everyone is fake, just manmade forms like your Plexiglas wall, like your old silver car, like your kitchen sink, like all the bad music you pretended to like in high school so that you could have something “in common” with other people. You think of the books you’ve read and the movies you’ve watched and the food you’ve eaten; you think of the lies you tell your parents when they call you every Monday night, you think of the way your body shudders like an old house when you cry alone in a dark bathroom, you think of the word “estranged”.

Almost everything confuses you nowadays. Almost nothing makes sense. And you are just now realizing how dazed you’ve been, how little of the world you’ve been absorbing. You’re only just now acknowledging your blind spot, you’ve only just now become strong enough to carry the burden that is giving up blissful ignorance.

You eat a deformed-looking Swedish Fish. Your molars and canine teeth pulverize a red monstrosity. You taste pain, you taste blood, you taste snowstorms in April. You taste crimson. Sweetness means nothing to your taste buds anymore; your tongue only understands memory. Your tongue no longer speaks the language you want it to.

The train moves faster.  Music swells in your ears, in the plastic nubs stuck inside those two holes in the sides of your head. Everything is orchestrated, everything is written by someone just as bored as you, someone just looking to kill time. Someone just looking to play God.

Have you lost the ability to love? Have you lost the ability to sleep? Do you feel human, still, after all these days walking like a ghost through walls and through people?

When did you let cold indifference get the better of you?

You are chewing up the dead bodies of a dozen old versions of yourself; you are chewing up something dry and chalky, chewing up a bitter multivitamin, chewing up the last remnants of your sanity. You are swallowing depersonalization. Swallow an empty promise, swallow a white lie, swallow your medicine. Everything is tinted the color of virtual reality, everything is backlit the same way your cell phone screen is backlit. Everything is technological, robotic. Everything is dehumanized.

The world slows to the molasses pace of your blood coursing, slows to the pace of your heart beating, gets so slow you think maybe it isn’t moving anymore; maybe your heart isn’t pumping blood to your fingertips anymore.

You can feel it even in your hair and in your nails, this sense of detachment. You’re reminded of that experiment you did in elementary school; the one where you stuck a white carnation in a cup of water and food coloring and the carnation sucked up all that blue liquid and it was no longer a white carnation but instead some sort of strange midnight-colored organism that you couldn’t put a name to. You are the carnation and your increasing lack of self-awareness is a cup of water and blood-red food coloring. You drink in the darkness, void of all taste and texture. Your edges turn red. The whites of your eyes go from white carnation-white to red food coloring-red. You’re not what you used to be. And you wonder if these are your true colors. Were you always this way?

You watch everything outside pass by in a blur, so fast that none of it makes sense, none of it is trees or sidewalks or people or lakes or oceans or mountains, none of it is anything at all. It’s all faded away into the crackling, boiling gray of the static of a broken television set. You don’t speak this language anymore, your eyes don’t read these visual cues, your eyes don’t read letters as formulas for creating words that create sentences; you see only strange shapes and fallen branches. You don’t speak this language. You don’t speak, not anymore.

You sit with your forehead pressed against the glass of a window on a train that is no longer moving, and you gather your things and exit through the rear door of the car. As you make one sweeping stride over the gap between the train and the platform, you wonder about what worlds might be hiding down there in the dark, what worlds might have slipped between the cracks and fallen into oblivion. Perhaps your world is down there, perhaps you are not the problem, perhaps none of this is your fault and you simply belong somewhere else.

Perhaps. It isn’t likely, though, and probably you’re just insane.

You go to work for the day and you don’t tell anybody these things you think about.

1. The Jar and The Professor

A philosophy professor stood before his class with some items on the table in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with tennis balls, about 2 inches in diameter.

He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
So the professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles, of course, rolled into the open areas between the rocks.

He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up the remaining open areas of the jar.

He then asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous “Yes.”

“Now,” said the professor, “I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The rocks are the important things – your family, your partner, your health, your children – things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter – like your job, your house, your car. The sand is everything else, the small stuff.”

“If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the rocks. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take your partner out dancing. There will always be time to go to work, clean the house, give a dinner party, or fix the disposal.”

“Take care of the rocks first – the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

via: (5 Short And Unique Motivational Stories)