spring cleaning in my drafts

As much as I love Ellie and Joel’s and relationship - slightly unhealthy co-dependency and all - part of me can’t help but wonder what would have happened if, instead of killing Sara off for manpain, she’d been the one to survive, and Joel was the one who got shot that night.

There’s just so much potential in a tough-as-nails, thirty-two year old Sara, who was forced to grow up way too fast in those years following the collapse of society, tasked with escorting a 14 year old girl who reminds her just a little too much of herself (before everything went to shit that is). And she comes to care about her in spite of that, maybe as a daughter, or a younger sister, or a protege, or even just as a projection of her own lost youth, trampled underfoot by a world that isn’t kind to little girls, even before everything falls apart.

Like I’m a big fan of the current trend of sad dad’s passing the proverbial torch to their murder daughters, but you know what’s missing from pretty much every AAA game? Mother-daughter relationships. I can’t think of a single game off the top of my head with two female characters that share a relationship that is in any way comparable to Ellie and Joel’s. And that’s a huge fucking shame, because there’s a massive untapped market of brutal, angry momma-bear protagonists who’ve been through hell, and will claw their way through it again to make sure their girls never have to end up scarred and hardened like them.

I’m not saying the Last of Us would have been better if Sara had been the primary protagonist, but it would have been an interesting departure from a tired and frankly, kinda patronizing formula. And the more I think about it, the more I feel like we missed out on something that could have been absolutely incredible.

I was tagged by @the-raven-haired-goddess, thanks 😀

5 things you’ll find in my bag:
Wallet
Sudoku book
Notepad and pen
Book
Phone

5 things you’ll find in my bedroom:
2 cats (usually)
Where’s Wally calendar
Loads of books
A million sheets of scrapbooking papers and assorted scissors, guillotine etc
More notebooks and general writing detritus

5 things I’ve always wanted to do:
Create a working ‘river’ water feature that spans the whole house block
Return to Mount Hotham, but in the spring this time
Publish something
Find a treasure map and follow it
Find a secret passageway in my house, or build the kind of house that has secret passageway

5 things that make me happy:
Coffee
Family and friends
Rhymes and puns
Blueberries
My dad doing a snack run, he returns with BAGS of snacks. It’s fantastic

5 things I’m currently in to:
Sudoku
Watching classic sci-fi movies
Gardening
Digital art
Playing 'After the end’

5 things on my to-do list:
Spring cleaning
Rose pruning
Father’s Day wrapping
Reply to emails
Sift through my drafts pile for ideas

4

the killing + you can’t put a price on wisdom

  • some things you can’t fix. maybe they just stay broke.
  • if the truth hurts, you ain’t living right.
  • sometimes i think you just run away just so someone will come looking for you. staying put is a kind of running away.
  • empathy can poison your brain. it’s like elephants. i mean, they mourn their dead. go nuts over them.
  • bad luck either destroys you or makes you the man you really are.
  • just the wrong place at the wrong time. sometimes it just comes down to that, i guess. just the randomness.
  • sometimes what you get isn’t really what you want.
  • sometimes the ones who hide are the ones who want to be found the most.
  • it’s a measure of a person’s life, i think, those who come see you in the end.
  • it’s the loneliest thing in the world, waiting to be found.

“Now you wait just a second,” Iris West says as the door swings shut behind her. She’s drenched from the downpour, and she knows her waterlogged hair is going to be a problem as soon as it dries. She doesn’t care.

The Flash hesitates, lightning already cracking around him.

“You’re just going to save me and run?” she demands, her hands firmly planted on her hips. “Is that it? Not even say a word to me?”

She sees him vibrate for a second, his whole body fading in and out of her line of sight, but then he sighs and comes back to her. He’s a vision in crimson, as always; tall, imposing, magnificent.

Iris can hear sirens in the distance, and Barry holds his hand against his ear as if he’s waiting for some word to release him, to give him a way out, but he doesn’t move. She hopes that Cisco heard her yell, that even if there is a criminal roaming the streets of the city, he chooses to give them a minute to themselves.

Barry stands up straight, his shoulders pushed back, his body rigid. She sees the set of his jaw and the way he chooses a point, just above her head on which to fix his gaze. “I’m glad you’re safe, Miss West,” he says. 

His response, so calm, calculated, and detached, makes her nostrils flare with anger. So they’ve fallen back into the territory of Miss West, have they? Like he can’t even say her name out loud? The nerve of him. 

“Seriously? That’s all?” Iris takes a step forward, then two, her line of sight centered on the vibrating mask of Barry’s face. He doesn’t move, which is a relief in and of itself. Every time she’d tried to approach him in the past two weeks, he’d run away from her faster than she could even blink. 

He shimmers, like the energy inside of him can’t wait to get out. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, his voice still polite and detached. Iris clicks her tongue and thinks, this sonofabitch

Keep reading

the girl who can roll a joint in a parking lot by the light of a cellphone is sharpened enough. the boy who took a bullet and let it crawl inside his stomach, let it bleed him red, white, blue, is brave enough. the mother who watches her child grow more hateful every day and refuses to give up hope on him is strong enough.

I am not any of these things.

I can barely tear my hair from roots every morning to leave the shackles of my bedside table. there is an explorer who writes her own maps, and she gets out of bed every morning, shakes the dust from her paranoid synapses and closes their gaps. I am not an explorer. I’m barely even human.

there is a story the hero told me once about a girl and a graveyard. he said that people will get their feet stuck in graves if they don’t love hard enough. I told him that it’s hard to love others when you don’t love yourself. he said it’s time to learn how.

maybe it is.

the girl who rolls joints in the convenience store parking lot is looking for a place at call home. the soldier with a hole in his chest never got the chance to fall in love. the mother with the son who chews out joy and spits it out mangled, blackened, broken, wants someone to tell her darling, beautiful, perfect son that happiness is the only thing worth a damn in this world.

I’ve learned all these lessons already. the explorer taught me all of them. I thought it’d be the hero, but he’s got too many people to save and I am just too far down on the list. the explorer learned how to save people in her spare time. it’s a hobby. three clicks of her chunky black heels, a kiss on the cheek and poof, all better. maybe one day she’ll be the hero.

maybe one day I’ll be the hero.

I’m building my backbone from metal instead of driftwood, weaving spiderwebs between my ribs, putting handles on my hips because I need to help others, hero. I need to.

maybe by the time this book ends, I’ll be the hero because in the beginning you were barely a soldier. things change. everything changes, all of the time. we barely talk anymore, hero, but I’m still writing these poems to you because I know you’re strong and I know you can take the weight.

but slowly, I’m learning how to take some weight myself. maybe one day I’ll take it all.
—  the hero dies in this one, by windy sharpe