Down the Rabbit Hole

Genre: Fan Fiction
Pairing: Jai Courtney/OFC (Roo)
Warnings: Language, Slight Depression
Rating: PG13
Length: Short Story
Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: It’s short, but I promise it is very, very, very important! 

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31 - My Mother’s Face

The only I had ever seen my Father cry was when the police showed up at our door. My Father had always been the quiet type and was never really known to show his emotions. His whole face turned bright tomato red, even his eyes, and his body slumped to the ground as he closed the door. It terrified me, I didn’t know what was happening to him. I ran upstairs to my bed and hid under my covers so not to hear him screaming. I laid there for the rest of the night, waiting for Mom to come home to make it all better. Mom never did come home, and the screams only got louder.

My Mom was the love of his life, his everything. I had heard stories of how they met in college and he would always stare at her across the room dreaming up ways to get her to notice him. It might have been in the way he told those stories of them together, but to me it sounded just like a fairy tale. These memories would always bring just the slightest smile to his lips, a sight much akin to seeing a unicorn. I think that when he heard the news, it probably felt like having a piece of himself ripped out; a piece that he could never get back. He never told me this, of course, but he never quite seemed the same after that night.

As time went on, he stopped telling those stories and the face of the man that I thought could not show emotion has now turned completely blank. One by one, he took down all of the pictures of her in the house. I think that it was because the thought of living in a world without her was unbearable for him and seeing her smiling face was just another reminder of that. I could tell that my Father was hurting, but I was still too young to really understand. I had never so much as hugged my Father before, Mom had always taken care of that. Slowly, I was beginning to feel the warmth of our home fade away and there was nothing I knew how to do to bring it back.

It was a few years before my Father was able consider being with another woman. I began to see this one woman around more and more, even though I was never really formally introduced, and my Father was seen at home less and less. At the time it seemed like everything was happening all at once. When my Father offered to take me out to brunch one summer’s morning, I knew that something big was coming. If there was ever something important that my Father had to tell me, he would always do it over brunch. Sure enough, I was right and two weeks later the mysterious woman would  be moving in.

Her name was Ms Fletcher. She was a very thin woman, in fact I think that I had pencils that were thicker than her. Her clothes were nicely tailored and even in the earliest mornings she would always look put together. Where my Father seemed to lack emotion, she seemed to have too much. It was almost unnerving. Once again, I found that the air in the house had changed. I wouldn’t say that her and I never got along, but I found that I was never quite able to get used to her presence. Despite this, I truly hoped that she was helping my Father feel better again. It was impossible to tell just by looking at him.

My Mom was never brought up ever in the house again, though I still thought of her every day. I was never able to find those old pictures of her that my Father had hid, though I once found the corner of what looked like a photograph sticking out from the ash of the wood stove. As I would lay awake at night, trying to remember all of those happy times, it would feel as though her face was becoming blurrier and blurrier until one day it struck me that I could no longer remember what she looked like. That terrified me more than anything.

Time went on and I felt my Mom slip further away from my mind. My body was beginning to do strange things. I didn’t know what was happening and I wasn’t sure who do go to for help. I thought to ask Ms Fletcher, who had since taken on my Father’s name, but I had still not yet felt close enough to her. I definitely could not ask my Father, that was for certain. It was around this time that I noticed that he would no longer look me in the eye. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I had never been good with that sort of thing with him. I ended up getting all the information I needed from the books in the library, all the while a terrible loneliness crept inside my mind.

I had always known my Father to be quiet, perhaps that’s why it had taken so long to realize that he would no longer speak with me. Over dinner he would bury his face in his paper while I would attempt to tell him about my day. Eventually I just stopped talking all together. Ms Fletcher would smile at me, but in her eyes I could see that she was uncomfortable at how quiet the house had become.

The first time my Father spoke to me in three years was the day I was told to leave. It had actually been Ms Fletcher who had broken the news to me. Her jaw trembled as she spoke and I knew that it had not been her decision. She held me in her arms, but the feeling felt foreign and strange. She was a kind woman, but I didn’t realize it at the time. When I had finished packing up all my things and my Grandma had come to pick me up, I found myself unable to even look my Father in eye. He stood silently in the foyer, his eyes fixed on the hardwood floor. It was only as I was closing the door behind me that I was able to make out the faintest whisper of his voice.

“I’m sorry.”

That night, I cried. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I had last cried. I wanted to curse myself for being so weak, but the tears kept on coming. When I finally able to wipe the last of it from my cheeks, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I saw a face staring back at me that I had not seen in a very long time, that I thought I had completely forgotten. It was just like all of those pictures, the last one that he couldn’t burn.


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Alina went pale. <<You haven’t, right?>>, she asked.

Emmett shook his head. <<No, I haven’t. But I have half a thought of doing it>>, he responded.

Alina almost choked on her own spit. <<No!>>, she exclaimed, pulling herself up. Swiftly, Emmett turned around and wrapped her in his arms.

<<That bad, uh?>>, he said melancholically, holding her hand over his heart. <<Have I screwed up so much that the thought of marrying me disgust you?>>.

Alina shook her head, pulling Emmett closer to her. <<No, of course not. I love you. And maybe, one day. But not now, Emm. You’ve already almost gotten married once to make your mom happy and look where it’s gotten us>>, she countered.

Stories For Children (Who Grew Up To Be Sad Adults)
#1 - Adrian Wears A Grey Suit

    “Follow your dreams,” Adrian was always told. His parents told him to follow his dreams, as did his teachers and friends. Follow your dreams. But Adrian didn’t have any dreams - not any big ones, anyway - and even if he did, he just didn’t know how to follow them. 

    One day, a man in a grey suit came into school and all the students took a test to find out what job they should do. Adrian answered the questions honestly, and a few days later, the results said that he should wear a grey suit. 

    So Adrian went out and bought a grey suit. He looked in the mirror and it didn’t suit him at all - the arms seemed too long, while the legs appears too short - but he had been told to wear a grey suit, and as he didn’t have any other ideas, he decided to keep wearing it. 

    Adrian got up every morning and put on his grey suit. He sat at a desk in a building with lots of other men who wore grey suits, from Monday to Friday, from eight-thirty in the morning until six in the evening. Sometimes he would wonder when his dream would come along, but the most part he tried not to think about it too much. Such thoughts made his head ache. 

    Fifty years went by but Adrian’s dream never arrived. One day everyone in the office - by now there were lots of women working there, and they wore bright colours; even some of the men would occasionally wear a yellow tie, or a red tie - gathered around his desk and said some nice things about him. They handed him a golden watch and suddenly Adrian didn’t have to come into the office any more. 

    From then on, Adrian would sit in front of the television all day, but even then he wore his grey suit. Suddenly he became so angry that he smashed the golden watch his co-workers had given him against the wall, and it flew into a thousand tiny pieces. 

    “What happened to my dreams?” Adrian screamed, but there was nobody there to answer him. So he took off his grey suit and went out into the yard, where he built a fire and burned his clothes. Now Adrian had nothing to wear, and Adrian didn’t feel much like Adrian any more. 


 - Chris Lees

Hansol - Can I sleep in your bed?

I don’t know where this came from but it’s a short thing I wrote yesterday. Enjoy



“Can I sleep on your bed?” The soft voice woke Hansol up. Opening his eyes he saw her, along with her teddy bear and her pillow, standing in front of the bed with tears in her eyes.

“Hey sweetie, what’s wrong?” he asked and moved to pick her up and laid her in the bed next to him.  Pulling her into a conforming hug.

“Dad I had the same dream again. Mommy was there. I miss her. When is she coming back?” she asks innocently. He freezes for a couple of seconds looking at his daughter. Her eyes were moisturized with tears. Her brown hair was all over her pillow and her face, he picks up her hair with his hand to move it out of her face.

“Honey, I miss her too. But she’s in a better place now. Someday we will see her again; I bet right now she’s looking at us from above” He tried to explain the situation gentility to his daughter.

“I want her here” She answers, cuddling to his side.

“Me too baby, me too” he mutters letting out a couple of tears of his own.


I know… it’s too much but don’t judge me!

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Original Story Five ~ Found Amongst the Growth

I awoke from sleep, stirred by the soft crackling of leaves under the foot of another.

Looking around, I saw no one - just plants, and trees, and whimsical things: sprites, flys, bees, and the like… Nothing significant, and certainly nothing that would make a noise worth waking to.

The forest floor was lit up with delicate fairylight, and the soil lay unmoving.

For a moment, I lay and appreciated nature in its rawest form: peaceful and undisturbed.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

I rested for several seconds

And then came the noise once more.

It didn’t come in the usual progressive tone, like the curve of a foot. More like forked twigs, being pressed into the longways of a crackling leaf.

It had once again startled me, and so I leant out of my bed amongst the leaves for a better look around.

I whispered, “Hello?”

And there amongst the trees, sat a shaking creature of wood: like a tree stump, that twisted at the top into sprouting Autumn leaves. It offered only a single golden eye, in the centre of its body.

In amazement, I rose onto crouched legs, and approached it slowly.

I whispered once more,
“Hey there, little guy…”

It seemed nervous, and backed off, tripping over itself and landing on its back.

“Hey hey hey don’t worry..” I breathed.

I moved quickly, calmly, and quietly through the leaves, and kneeled before it, gently picking it up off the floor.
It was only about a foot tall, but seemed to weigh a hefty amount.

I set it back upright, and it trembled, its stumpy hands set behind its back.

It approached me slowly on its teetering feet, and touched my lowered knee with one hand, its other hand still set behind it.

After a moment of consideration, it brought its other hand forwards, and dropped a silver stone and some string onto my lap.
I looked down to see my necklace, sitting there, looking back up at me.

The creature sat there for a second, seeming hesitant to stay.
And for a moment, I felt angry that it’d gone through my possessions,
But that quickly faded, and I chuckled for a long second: this little being had managed to get to me, take my necklace from my neck, and would’ve gotten away, if it weren’t for the leaves on the ground.

“What a smart creature…” I said aloud. “Beautiful… Perfect.”

It sat for a moment, and watched me, its eye giving off a friendly glow.

I picked up my necklace, and looped it around one of the points on the top of its head..
I felt no aggression from either side of the stare, and I knew I’d found a companion.

It stayed with me that night, and it’s stayed with me ever since.

Because even a hunter can do with a friend.

One day I fell asleep and I never woke up

This is no fanfiction, but something I wrote a while back and that I kind of still like. So, have some original writing, I guess? It’s inspired by this wonderful Animation by Katy Towell, Never Woke Up. If you don’t know her you’re missing out on something good.


One day I fell asleep and I never woke up.

In my dream I was walking through a forest, a beautiful place with fog like mist on the ground, with trees so high I couldn’t make out the sky between them anymore. I felt calm there, as if the worries of my life wouldn’t affect me anymore – yes, as if I was flying even. All through the forest was a light that made me feel warm and safe, a light that almost felt as if it was alive.

In the distance I saw a different light though, it was bight and glowing, drawing me towards it with those colorful spirals inside. It looked like thousands of rainbows, broken out of their usual shape, were twirling inside it. I had never seen something so beautiful in my life and I knew I never would again.

My bare feet moved on their own, the tall grass tickled my ankles as I kept going. Sometimes it seemed like there were faces in the light, familiar faces of people I met through my life. I could never make out one of them though, so I kept walking and walking and walking.

Even when the light changed – when the colorful rainbows turned into darkness and the light itself became a dooming and pulsating crimson color – I kept walking, unable to stop. I don’t know how long I was walking, how long I stared into the abysses opening and closing whenever one of the dark spirals collapsed and created a new one, I just walked towards it and I’m still waking.

There is no time in my dream, there is no way to stop myself. I’m walking towards something that will be the end of me, I know it. This light is alive, it’s luring me in and when I’m completely lost and out of my mind it’s going to devour me and there will be nothing left of myself in this world – not even a trace that I had ever been anything else but prey for the darkness in my dreams. I’m scared to arrive, to see what this darkness truly is, but I can’t stop my feet from moving. Because I’m still dreaming…

Because one day I fell asleep and I never woke up.

In 1955, Hugh Hefner published a short story in Playboy about a heterosexual man being persecuted in a world where homosexuality was the norm. After receiving many angry letters, he responded to the criticism with, “if it was wrong to persecute heterosexuals in a homosexual society, then the reverse was wrong too.“ Source Source 2

Many and many a reader has asked that. When the story first came out, in the New England Magazine about 1891, a Boston physician made protest in The Transcript. Such a story ought not to be written, he said; it was enough to drive anyone mad to read it.

Another physician, in Kansas I think, wrote to say that it was the best description of incipient insanity he had ever seen, and–begging my pardon–had I been there?

Now the story of the story is this:

For many years I suffered from a severe and continuous nervous breakdown tending to melancholia–and beyond. During about the third year of this trouble I went, in devout faith and some faint stir of hope, to a noted specialist in nervous diseases, the best known in the country. This wise man put me to bed and applied the rest cure, to which a still-good physique responded so promptly that he concluded there was nothing much the matter with me, and sent me home with solemn advice to “live as domestic a life as far as possible,” to “have but two hours’ intellectual life a day,” and “never to touch pen, brush, or pencil again” as long as I lived.

This was in 1887.

I went home and obeyed those directions for some three months, and came so near the borderline of utter mental ruin that I could see over.

Then, using the remnants of intelligence that remained, and helped by a wise friend, I cast the noted specialist’s advice to the winds and went to work again–work, the normal life of every human being; work, in which is joy and growth and service, without which one is a pauper and a parasite–ultimately recovering some measure of power.

Being naturally moved to rejoicing by this narrow escape, I wrote The Yellow Wallpaper, with its embellishments and additions, to carry out the ideal (I never had hallucinations or objections to my mural decorations) and sent a copy to the physician who so nearly drove me mad. He never acknowledged it.

The little book is valued by alienists and as a good specimen of one kind of literature. It has, to my knowledge, saved one woman from a similar fate–so terrifying her family that they let her out into normal activity and she recovered.

But the best result is this. Many years later I was told that the great specialist had admitted to friends of his that he had altered his treatment of neurasthenia since reading The Yellow Wallpaper.

It was not intended to drive people crazy, but to save people from being driven crazy, and it worked.
—  “Why I Wrote ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’“ by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

before he sells the beans to jack, he is born in a house that smells of ceder.

his name is Tiffany. a bold bright name. a stardust name. a girl name. but he is not a girl. he knows this, even if others don’t. his mother puts him in dresses, teaches him how to sew, chastises him when he lets his voice get low.

“my great-aunt’s friend’s sister,” says his mother, with her red lips tight, “once knew these girls that spoke and diamonds came out of their mouths. you know what happened to the nasty one? she got toads. that’s your future if you don’t figure out how to be a nice little girl.”

so he speaks gently. but the whole time he is wondering: who gave them the language of gems. who gave them the language that rolled out of them. it must be magic. and if there is magic, maybe there is hope for him.

he takes off in a dark night. a sad night. one where the fire was too low and he was sick of mirrors. he leaves his mother a note: gone to find where the gems grow. 

in the black woods, he cuts off his hair. wears his father’s clothes. feels, at last, whole. runs and runs and runs until his air comes out in a wheeze. walks for weeks and weeks.

he finds the old woman carrying water. she is ugly, her mouth all twisted angry. but she carries the water alone. 

the boy does not have much. but he has shoulders. a good back. hands that work. when he takes her burden, she says, “thank you, young man.” and he smiles at her, but doesn’t say anything.

her house is damp. she feeds him stew, apologizes. says she used to make lovely foods but the price of milk and eggs got far too high. she says: if you carry my water for five weeks, i will give you something special. and he agrees.

she talks for him. spends a lot of time telling him of people he never met. girls with lips blood red. girls with white fairy dresses. boys who fell in love with swans. 

the boy says little. just nods. sleeps on the floor of her empty barn. when she’s not looking, he darns her clothes for her, keeps the floors swept, fills the lanterns with oil, makes her a blanket for the coming winter. 

on the end of the fifth week, she gives him the beans. tells him that they have been passed down in her family, that this was her portion. she says that she is too old now for such adventures. that she hears the beans will bring treasure. fortune. all the things of greed. she says: i will give them to you, for what you have done to me.

in the morning, he takes off. he feels the weight of them in his pocket. he thinks of the old woman and the stories and the sight of her tired hands. he stands in the market for a long time, unspeaking, simply staring at the cobblestones beneath him.

jack’s voice is the last call in the evening. a beautiful cow, young and thick and healthy. 

the boy has no money. he bounces the magic bean in his pocket, and thinks of treasures. 

“wait,” he says. 

jack turns. 

transaction complete: one cow for a handful of magic beans. the boy walks the cow home to the old woman, gets there in the morning. they are both very tired. he falls asleep beside the beast in the hay. dreams of the foods the old woman can cook now that she can get milk.

when he wakes up, he is changed. it is as if he simply turned into who he was made to be. not a new body. familiar. the body he could always see.

the old woman stands at the door of his barn. she says, “good morning,” and then she says a new word. a word he’s never heard. a name. his name. a boy name. 

he repeats it. it is a jewel in his mouth, so he says it again. another diamond.

“time to fetch water,” she says, winking. the whole way, he whispers his name. it never quite tastes the same, always beautiful, always a fine thing, always his. the something special he was lacking.

in the back of his pocket, there is one last magic bean. he will fetch the water and plant it. and he will carry that old woman to the castles she has never seen.

I feel bad for people who are truly lonely. The ones who are unloved and have to question if people really like them or only say so because hell, what if they just say shit just to say it?

I feel sad for people who can’t figure out what to do with their lives. What if I never make it anywhere in life? What if I never get a second chance at happiness? What if that moment was the one solid opportunity and I fucked it up? What if for the rest of my life, I’m just a corner of a maze…? Those are the questions I’m sure they will have asked themselves and I don’t know if that’s sad or realistic… One thing is certain, my heart goes out to you.

I feel angry for people who can’t see their own beauty. Have you read that quote? The one that says, she loved him like he placed the stars into the night. Maybe that’s not accurate, but fuck it, you get what I mean. What if they never get a chance to have someone feel like that to them? What if we don’t see it even if it’s in front of our eyes? What if I’m not worth your time? The questions I’ve been dying to ask, but too afraid to know the answers. I seek to feel more, but I end up just feeling less.

I’m a problem and sometimes,
I know that if I go away;
If I died, I might be the solution.

I feel sick to my stomach, but it has to do with my head and my heart is never around.

It’s somewhere in the books that I never finish. It’s in some scene that I still cry for when the movies start playing those jacked up piano keys intended for tears to fall because what’s Hollywood if we don’t romanticize heartache? Then again, what’s poetry if we don’t make our readers feel a thing or two?

I feel anguish for those that feel this way
because I feel it too. I feel it just like you.

You’re not alone. I promise you’re not.

“Me?”

Yes. You.

The reader.
The listener.
The sick.
The bloody sea.
The tired rose.
The gasoline drenched forest.
The bridge before it burns.
The match before it’s flick.
The half put out cigarette.
The after thought.
The mirage.
The dream confused as a nightmare.
The thoughts coming past 4 am.
The razor blade near the sink.
The bullet holes inside your heart.
The brightness of the sun.
The sadness of the moon.
The angle of your smile.
The I’m sorry in your voice.

That’s why you’re always the last choice.

If you ever needed to hear it:

Today, you are the first choice.

The first choice of my poetry.

—  Because everyone needs to hear this every once in a while. You’re important. You’re special. You’re needed. You’re wanted. You’re here. You’re alive. You’ve made it. You’re going to get through this. You’re here. You’re finally home.
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SHIBA BAKER INU. I finally finished it! After much planning and editing, I decided to make this into a shorter story than PLANT. It’s a simple story about an owner remembering about her dog, Tobi. She’s remembering that one specific day they shared the most delicious meal together. The bread and soup is up to the readers imagination! This story is more on the supernatural side. Enjoy! To read the story click on the link below!

SHIBA BAKER INU

I think once you move on, you start to see the person as less and you thought they where. They aren’t a hurricane of heart break or a glorious ocean any more. Their eyes don’t remind you of chocolate or the sky, and their presence doesn’t make your heart skip an extra beat. They just become a person who loved you a little less than you loved them.
—  11:02 - wish we were just strangers
I miss her man, I miss her so much. But how the hell do I tell her that?”, my friend asked me once. It might have been the stupidest question I had ever heard because the answer was so obvious. “You do not tell her, you show her. Show her that you care and show her that her presence makes your day better.
—  It is so easy to say things but taking actions is the hardest part. // ck.writes
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Tittle: Graduate, Osomatsu
Artist: id=2130530 / @rusan23 (tumblr)
Translation: @diagonal-6010  
Typesetting: Me/Kidokon-kontsu 

Part 1 / Part 2

(Since the story is long, I have to separate it into 2 parts) 

(Note: The artist made this comic few days before the air of ep 25.)

※Permission to translate & reprint this was given by the artist.

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