writer's residency

Image: An exterior view of the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minn. (Adam Bettcher/ Getty Images)

You guys: The Mall of America is looking for a writer-in-residence. According to their website, they want “a special scribe” to “spend five days deeply immersed in the Mall atmosphere while writing on-the-fly impressions in their own words.”

“It sounds like the dream of a 1990s teenager,” say our friends at Minnesota Public Radio. “Or the nightmare of anyone who doesn’t love crowds and the ever-present scent of Cinnabon.”

If you’re one of those dreamers, the application period ends March 10. So, you know, get to work!


Shed Your Skin

Originally posted by kylogue

Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

A/N: I am shamelessly in love with this story line, even though the writing may not be perfect and I’m really nervous about it. There is a part 2 already posted. This was always designed specifically to be multi-part, I’ll explain that more in the note on part 2. No spoilers.

P. S. This isn’t a Bughead fic by any means so I didn’t tag it as such (I’m sorry, guys), but the pairing is included in part

Summary: Being a newly inducted Serpent comes with unforseen benefits for Riverdale’s most poetic soul, like cool jackets and … personal bodyguards???

Word Count: 3,226

Warnings: gang activity, swearing, drug mentions, (Bughead angst, if that counts as a warning.)

Keep reading


Summary: Jughead reflects on why the road trip with Archie meant so much to him; and when his deep, dark secret is exposed, he doesn’t know what to do.


Frankly, Jughead knew, deep inside him somewhere (even though it was probably buried so deep, it would have to be excavated), that Archie didn’t mean it. The redhead didn’t mean to leave his best friend waiting for three hours at the spot they’d meant to have met, instead opting to text him with five words- “Sorry Jug, can’t make it.”

To others, it seemed like such a small thing to stop talking about- one cancelled road trip, but to Jughead, it was going to mark a pivotal moment.

The moment when he’d tell his best friend, the one he can trust with everything, that no, Jughead currently didn’t have a home- only an excuse of one. He’d been debating whether to tell Archie, let alone his friends, for weeks, but had only now decided to accept that his living situation was just shitty and he needed help.

But of course, Archie didn’t show up, which just reiterated the doubt that had always lingered at the back of Jughead’s mind- what Archie was to him, he wasn’t to Archie.

What was so incredibly frustrating was that now, Jughead couldn’t tell anyone else. Even if he’d wanted to, when Archie drifted away, so did Betty, who was devoted to him. Who did he have to turn to now?

As he sat in the lunchroom if Riverdale High, blasting ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ through his earphones, his shoulders slumped.

Maybe he was talking to Archie, and consequently Betty, now, their friendship wasn’t what it used to be before.

And when Jughead found out later that Archie ditched their road trip so that he could ‘do the do’ with that pedophilic teacher on July 4th, Jughead couldn’t help but feel resentment boil inside him.

This is what their years spent hanging together in treehouses and sneaking behind their parent’s backs meant to him?

Therefore, Jughead couldn’t bring himself to admit that now, with the drive-on closing, he really might have no one to turn to.

Ignoring the strange sensation in his chest-sadness, if he wasn’t mistaken, he increased the volume of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, tuning out the din of the lunchroom, choosing instead, to focus on the titillating harmonies as his fingers tapped on his keyboard.


There were times, times like these, when Jughead truly hated Cheryl Blossom. No, despised her, and what she embodied- the rich bitch who could definitely not be trusted.

Yes, bad things had happened to her. Yes, her twin brother had been murdered. Yes, the murderer was still, in all likeliness, galavanting around Riverdale, and yes, all she could do was wait.

That still gave her no excuse to do what she was currently doing.

Phone in hand, evidence of what she was letting the rest of the biology class know -he didn’t know how Prof. Phylum could deal with her at all- that Jughead was hiding a deep, dark secret.

“We have a Serpent in our midst.” She said, turning around and shoving her phone in Jughead’s face. There it was. A picture of Jughead and his dad talking, that terrible day when he’d moved out of the driveway and into his father’s despicable house.

“And if those of you haven’t realised from this picture, it’s Jughead Jones, Riverdale’s resident writer.” With a smirk, Cheryl flipped her hair to one side and sat down.

Jughead put his head in his hands. If Betty, Veronica, and Archie weren’t there, then Jughead’s wouldn’t really have cared.

But they were, they were there, currently looking at Jughead with betrayal, hurt and disbelief on their faces.

Jughead put his head in his hands.

“Alright, class, enough.” Phylum said, only after regarding Jughead with disdain. “Back to dissection. The stomach…”

Jughead tuned out. What was once comfortable silence turned unconformable. He was ashamed, yes, and would give up nearly anything on the Earth’s surface not to be affiliated with his father, but right now, what choice did he have? His secret was out in the open, and there was nowhere for Jughead to run.

The Serpents… So what if the school found out? It was his friends that he was worried about.

He dared not to turn around and look at Archie’s expression, or Betty’s. He didn’t even bother thinking about Cheryl’s satisfied smirk.

Shit. They were going to find out that he had been homeless soon enough. They were going to raise questions about Jellybean, his mom, his entire life…. They were going to realise why’d he’d been so worked up about the Drive In shutting down.

Jughead was an outsider. Even though he pretended to be fine with it, he wasn’t.

After the pep rally, when he’d made up with Archie, he’d experienced a taste of something he’d been longing for- contentment.

Being homeless- those months were encompassed with loneliness- but hanging out with the gang at Pop’s- that was his ambrosia.

Now it was probably all gone.

When the bell rung, he didn’t bother waiting for his friends and made his way straight to the door, not making eye contact with anyone. Until Cheryl stood in front of him- hands on her hips, her ruby red lips angled upwards.

Neither said anything, but Jughead looked up and gave her the fiercest, deepest and most hatred-filled glare he could muster, gaining some satisfaction when the cheerleader shrunk back ever so slightly.

Ignoring her, he walked out the door into the hallway, paying no heed to the calls of Betty, Archie and Veronica.

It was like those cliché high school scenes- everyone turning towards him, whispers of serpents and secrets exchanged between them, hasty glares.

Honestly, he didn’t know what he was trying to achieve, running away from the blonde, redhead and brunette chasing after him. They were going to corner him eventually. When he realised this, he abruptly turned.

They almost crashed into him, taken aback. Betty looked at him. “Let’s take this somewhere else.”

She turned around, and Jughead followed.


“Juggie, what’s going on?” Betty asked, taking Jughead by surprise when he saw concern on her face.

“We want to hear it from you, not Cheryl.” Archie added.

All four of them sat at Pop’s, Biology having been the last period that day, and they’d conveniently forced Jughead into a corner booth, so he couldn’t boot.

Jughead sighed. What’s there to lose?

And so, he poured his heart out. He told them how his father had joined the notorious gang earlier that year, and how his mother had left a week later, unable to resolve her conflict with his dad, taking his dear Jellybean with her.

He talked about how he’d wanted nothing to do with his dad, even though he had no other choice. He spoke about the things he’d seen from his limited proximity to the gang- theft, assault, looting, pillaging, and that was just what he knew.

He told them how he’d stayed on his dad’s side at first, after being led to believe that this was the only option to get them out of the debt their parents were falling into. When Fred Andrews fired his dad, Jughead had naively believed that his dad could do only good.

His hatred began when he’d overheard the Serpents talking- and found out that his father had been feeding him pure lies.

So then, he’d moved out. He had discovered the Drive In- perfect for a temporary shelter. He’d even got a job there, which made it all the more suitable.

At some point, his father had come there and tried to reconcile- and Jughead had accepted. Now, whenever they encountered each other, Jughead tried to forget all the terrible things his father had done.

Jughead spoke about how devastated he’d been when the Drive In shut down. He’d said that it was almost his home- if only they’d known how literal he had been.

Those Twilight months were the lonely ones, he said, without even the company of his little sister to help pacify him. Now all contact he had to Jellybean was through a payphone near Twilight.

After Twilight shut down, Jughead had tried to find accommodation somewhere, but to no avail. Last week, he’d moved back into his father’s hovel, trying to spend as less time there are possible. His father tended to get drunk late in the night, and though nothing had been inflicted upon Jughead yet, he was not eager to stay.

But right now, he wasn’t spoilt for choices.

He ended his explanation with an “I’m sorry.” And waited.

Betty, sitting near him, looked at him, tears in her eyes and just hugged him.

Veronica, sitting across from him, grabbed his hand, and Archie said, “Jughead…”

Honestly, Jughead expected them to be angry.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Betty asked, hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t know. You guys were busy…”

“Bullshit.” Betty’s eyes narrowed. “Jughead, you’ve been through so much already, and you clearly needed help. We would’ve done everything we could! Right, Arch?”

Archie looked slightly guilty at failing to notice what his best friend had been going through all these months. “Definitely.” He said, and leaned forward. “Jughead, if you need a place to stay…”

Months of tension had finally been released, relief coursing through Jughead’s veins. A tear trickled down his smiling face, only encouraging Betty’s tears to fall and Archie’s eyes to water. Veronica massaged Jughead’s hand.

“Yes.” Jughead accepted. Yes, his family was still torn apart, and yes, his father still engaged in abominable activities in a very violent gang, but right now, Jughead could rest.

Franz Kafka’s Residence (1889-1896), Prague.

During Kafka’s early childhood, his family lived in a 17th-century house – called the House of the Minute (Minuta) with beautiful Italian Renaissance-style sgraffito frescos on biblical and classical themes – located to the left of the Old Town Hall. From this house, little Franz, accompanied by the family’s Czech cook, walked to the elementary school that Kafka described years later as “horror.”

In school I was always terrible in math. If I passed I was thrilled, but I usually didn’t pass and had to repeat the class or go to summer school. In tenth grade, my parents shipped me off to a difficult private all boys boarding school because I was doing so poorly in public school. It was a disaster. That first year I flunked math and most other classes as well. Summer school loomed. Not only that, but summer school at that school which meant I would have to live for another month on campus. I didn’t like school but my best subject was English, so I decided since I had to be there anyway, I might as well take the creative writing course that was being offered. It was taught by a man who had published a couple of stories in THE NEW YORKER years before, so he was considered the school’s writer in residence.

After the class had been in session for a couple of weeks, he came in one morning and said today we’re going to do something different; I’m going to read you a story. I don’t know if the class groaned but we probably did. It was summer. It was hot. We were fifteen. There were a million other things we would rather have been doing. Most of us read only for school and then only because we were forced to.

It was a story by Thomas Wolfe entitled “Circus at Dawn.” It’s about two little boys who live in rural North Carolina at the turn of the century. The high point of every year for them was when the circus came to town for a few days. The story is essentially a description of the boys sneaking out of the house very early one summer morning to watch the circus train arrive at the station, unload, and then set up. The kids watch as exotic animals are led out of their boxcars, performers appear, the workmen start to assemble the tent and other things. Of course these rural kids are goggle eyed with wonder at everything. To my surprise, the story was pretty interesting. While listening to the teacher read, I gazed out the window at the summer sky.

Towards the end of the story when the tent had been raised and most of the work was finished, the circus people all sat down together to eat. Wolfe described in glorious delicious sensuous detail the meal they were served: Stacks of pancakes and waffles with butter and maple syrup, hot smoking canisters of coffee, fried eggs with rashers of bacon, steaks and hamburgers hot off the grill, etcetera. He went on and on just describing breakfast. Caught up in those gorgeous details, I was right there smelling, tasting, eating that breakfast too. The teacher stopped to take a breath. I heard the slightest plip sound somewhere nearby. Slowly looking down at my brown wood desk, I saw a shiny spot. Saliva. I had drooled. I was so affected by Wolfe’s descriptions of food that I had unconsciously drooled. I stared at that small shiny drop on my desk and to this day I remember very clearly the blossoming awe I felt.


That’s when I knew I wanted to be a writer. If something I wrote could have that effect on someone fifty years after I’d written it, then that’s what I wanted to do.


Jonathan Carroll

jael-paris  asked:

Hey, resident script writer! Could you tell us more about script doctoring since we all just learned Carrie Fisher's been doing it in the shadows for decades?

Of course! XD And thanks for asking!

First, let me give you the technical definition of a script doctor, as given to us by the Great God Wikipedia:

[[Screencap of Google Wikipedia result, which says: A script doctor, also called a script consultant, is a screenwriter or playwright hired by a film, television or theatre production to rewrite an existing script or polish specific aspects of it, including structure, characterization, dialogue, pacing, theme, and other elements.]]

This is true, as far as it goes. What this definition leaves out, though, is that a script doctor is the Hollywood screenplay version of a ghost-writer – meaning, they don’t usually get official credit for their work.  They are paid a set amount to “doctor” an existing script – which can mean anything from a quick “punch up” (i.e., a polish,) of the existing dialogue and action, to a rewrite of the plot itself – but the credit for the screenplay will most likely still be given to the original screenwriter(s).

Why is this? Well, for a number of reasons, both commercial and artistic. 

Firstly, we must remember that writers work in a primarily intellectual and intangible medium – words on paper can be easily scrubbed out, files erased, and notes lost. So it becomes difficult sometimes to prove that a story came from one writer’s brain as opposed to another. Things get even more complicated because there are those who are the Idea Guys, those who are the Collaboration Kids, those who are the Nuts and Bolts Gals, and those who are all three. So, one person might have come up with the idea for a movie or a television pilot, written the treatment (synopsis,) or outlined the story – and then another person will be the one who actually writes the script.  

Because of this, one of the most often contested issues in the Writer’s Guild becomes, “Who gets credit for this??” This is vital, because whoever gets the credit gets three VERY important things: 

  1. A reputation-boosting line on their resume
  2. A step towards eligibility to join the WGA, the writers’ union 
  3. The right to residual profits (i.e., royalties.) 

Since a screenwriter’s career depends entirely upon selling their next script, you can see how gaining a good reputation and joining the union is of utmost importance. As for royalties, while often not much, they can be enough to keep a writer from homelessness in lean times – also rather important.

And yet. And YET. Just because someone came up with the idea, or wrote a screenplay, doesn’t mean it’s good. In fact, one of the best-kept secrets in the industry is just how AWFUL first drafts can be. But the machine needs to be fed, meaning that if an agent or a producer sees potential in a poorly written mess of a script, they’ll still try to pitch it, getting as much momentum and interest for the story itself until they inevitably run into the road-block of said poor story, dialogue, characterization, etc. 

This is when they call in the script-doctor – usually someone experienced, with a knack for witty dialogue or fixing plot holes. (This happens a hell of a lot with both comedy and action scripts, for some strange reason.)

But why call in a third-party at all, you ask? Why not give a few notes/criticisms, then let the original writer take another crack at it? 

The answer is eminently practical: We believe what you show us. If a screenwriter has turned in a mess of a script, the producers who see it assume that said mess is the best that writer can do – otherwise, why wouldn’t they have submitted something better? Since every re-write takes time and money, it’s a much safer bet to give the mess to a veteran writer you KNOW can turn out good product than to give the moron who screwed it up the first time a chance to screw up again.

The problem with this approach, however, is that once a script doctor takes control, at what point does the script stop being the intellectual property of the original writer, and start being the property of the person who’s rebuilt it from the ground up?

A perfect example of this would be the over 30 uncredited screenwriters who worked on the movie The Flinstones. THIRTY WRITERS! Why? Well, every time the film changed directors, or producers, it was given to a new writer or group of writers to do a draft. The original story ended up being chopped and changed and sewn back together a bazillion times. It came out barely watchable mush, but that’s not the point; the point is, it still made money, so who gets it?

Deciding on the credit for The Flintstones became such a circus that it forced the WGA (Writer’s Guild of America) to change its bylaws.  Now, a screenwriter must contribute more than 50% of a script, or 33% of an adaptation, to retain credit. 

So, in order to keep a script doctor at the level of “ghost-writer”, or uncredited, the production company only has to make certain that they use only 49% of the script doctor’s rewrites. Or that they hire two script doctors, and split the rewrites half-and-half. Of course, sometimes the script doctor has to do what they call a “page-one” rewrite, meaning they basically recreated the script from the ground up. That guy gets a writing credit for sure. But since the WGA does not like having more than 3 writers credited on any given project, a producer’s choices might be influenced by not wanting to have to go to arbitration in order to give credits to the 10 writers that actually helped the project.

Thing is, all writers all good writers have the ability to edit and fix other people’s work. It’s really far easier to fix a poorly executed story that already exists than to come up with something original oneself. So often, well-established writers will take script doctoring jobs on the down low to help pay the bills, and just forget about the credits because 

  1. They don’t need the credits that badly, and
  2. They get more out of gaining a reputation as a good script doctor, like future jobs as word gets around about them.

This, I believe, was how it worked for our Carrie. She was well-known in the industry for her ability to fix terrible dialogue, although there were a few movies she worked on that I don’t think anyone could have salvaged. The first time she showed her dialogue-honing chops was rumored to be by fixing her own lines in the original Star Wars trilogy. Lucas was so impressed with her work there that years later he asked her to do a punch up on Attack of the Clones, and to write a script for the Young Indy series

She also punched up Hook, Sister Act, The Wedding Singer, and a bunch of others.  Here’s a short video about her script-doctoring career:

So, that’s how it works! But if you’re thinking of doing this for a living, understand that it’s harder nowadays to get into script doctoring, because they make you pitch ideas and notes before they give you a chance – and who wants to give their ideas away for free??  

If you want to read more, there’s a short article on script doctoring here that I like.

forfutureglory  asked:

For the resident angst writer, #32 for the prompts. Gimme *chokes on tears* gimme all you got.

Kit, I apologize for what you are about to read.

Eleven sat on the swings by the middle school, the place that had always been “their spot” since she came back seven years ago. Mike had asked her to meet him there but he was running late, as usual. She lazily swung back and forth, foot nervously tapping. There was something she needed to tell him, and tonight was as good as ever. Soon she heard Mike’s call and saw him jogging over, hair flopping as he went. After their customary kiss, she quickly spoke up.

“I have to talk to you about something.”

“I have to talk to you about something. Wait, let me go first.”

She let him, she could wait another minute. But then he got down on one knee in front of her and the world started spinning. She heard the rush of blood in her ears, so loud it drowned out what he was saying. Her heart ached, physically ached, and she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth in an effort to keep from throwing up. This couldn’t be happening. But then he stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly and she knew what he was waiting for.

“I can’t,” She whispered.

He froze, just his eyes widening. He clearly wasn’t expecting this response.

“Is it because we’re still young?”

She shook her head, struggling not to look away.

“But…I love you. Don’t you want to be together?”

She sighed. “I’m leaving Hawkins. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I applied for the Peace Corps. And they accepted me. I leave in a couple months.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said, his voice cracking and making it sound like a question.

“No. I have to do this alone. For me. I can’t go from being the lab’s property to Hop’s daughter to Mike Wheeler’s wife. I have to be me.” She took a deep breathe, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“I am…suffocating in this relationship. Haven’t you noticed anything?

“I thought things were fine.”

“I know. Because they should be. Because you’re perfect and we’ve been together forever and nothing is wrong. But I feel like I’m drowning and…and I hate myself for it. But I need something else. And I need to be by myself.”

He was sitting on the ground at this point, just staring off at the slide. He didn’t know what to say. He always knew what to say.

“I have to do this,” she repeated.

She had to get out of there. She couldn’t look at him. As she stood from the swing, his voice came one more time.

“Will you come back to me?”

“I can’t promise that.” She refused to look back at him, refused to lose her nerve, to stay where things were safe and warm and…and not enough.

“I love you,” he softly said. She couldn’t say it back. Instead she walked briskly out of the park.

Sometimes things don’t happen the way you thought they would. And sometimes things aren’t the same as when you’re twelve years old.

She roughly wiped the tears from her cheeks and continued to walk into the night.

Alcohol, Juggie, and his dad.

Did anyone see Jughead hide FP’s flask after the jam session, when he and Archie are talking?
Whatever you do, don’t imagine Jughead watching his father drown out his troubles with alcohol. Don’t think about how Jughead watched his dad fall into a spiral of doom, one bottle at a time. Don’t imagine Jughead despising alcohol for all it’s done to his family- tearing them apart.
Avoid contemplating whether Jughead dealt with a drunk FP Jones every night or so, listening to his liquor-induced ramblings about how he’s failed his family. Don’t wonder whether our resident writer spent almost every night worried that his father would drive under influence, and end someone’s life. Maybe even his own. Stop yourself from deliberating the number of bottles or flasks or secret stashes Jughead has probably had to hide.
Just don’t. Because I did, and I’m crying.

I lied and I am not a writer.

I had always called myself a writer. It is a passion I had since childhood. I remember writing short stories and dialogues on those red and blue lined papers. I remember writing in blue ink. I still have the papers somewhere, stored in a pink High School Musical envelope. 

The stories were simple, definitely something a child would write. There was one, though, that was unique in the fact that it was written in English and that it was in a tone unfit for a kid. Eight year old me wrote, “The last poem is when I die.” How depressing. But how utterly, incredibly honest. To this day, I do not know how I came up with it or what was going on through my brain when I scribbled the words. I guess mortality was something I wanted to confront, or something I vividly want to understand.

Since then, I was writing, writing, writing. In sixth grade, I was writing essays on an old computer, saving them for who knows what. In high school I was writing for the school publication. I was blogging my thoughts– a more intimate look to who I was a writer. It was public, but it had a sense of privacy which I craved.

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kittygamer29  asked:

Imagine warfstache's reaction to having to take care the reader after they ate a single bad piece of candy and turned into a small pink kitten.

THIS IS SO CUTE!! Seeing as I am the resident cat writer I guess this one is on me. I’ll get on it soon.

celticorca  asked:

After I win the lottery jackpot, I will pay for you to be writer-in-residence. Until then I hope the Shrek CD helps.

I am listening to it right now I am so pleased.

Surprise presents in the mail are the best kind of presents.  :) :) :)

The Night Sky

The night sky
harbors the lost.
Thousands of wishes
lay upon each star.
Midnight marks
the battle cry
Of the insomniac
faint of heart.

Men’s conscience
Pleads guilty,
Under the oath
Of the moon’s
Lost boys questions
Never land closer,
To finding their

The night sky
harbors The lost.
As the damned
cry Their life
The night sky
Harbors the lost.
Where those whose
Time has past

I would read the new books that were being sent in by publishers and well-meaning people, and I found that I didn’t like what I read. They were all basically books about this mess we’re living in the middle of called modern-day life: teenage angst and divorce problems and abuse. I thought, Where’s the magic? The good yarns and adventures? So I wrote Redwall.

“I bought myself a packet of pens and a load of cheap recycled pads. I wrote every night after I’d come in from the clubs. I’d sit up most of the night, with the dog looking at me as if I was stupid. You know, When are you going to bed? It turned out to be eight hundred pages of this thick recycled paper. I kept it in a plastic Safeway supermarket shopping bag. I was on my way to the School for the Blind one day and stopped in at the Everyman Theatre, where I’d been the writer in residence. The man who was chairman of the theatre at the time, a dapper little man named Allen Durband, always wanted to read anything that I wrote. He would say to me, ‘I know you can write, but you’re too much of a bloody rough diamond!’ I was a folksinger, a standup comic, a newspaper columnist, the whole lot. 'You’re spread too bloody wide, Brian.’ So on this day, when he asked me, 'Now tell me, Brian, what have you been writing?’ I said, 'It’s a kids’ story. Your time is far too valuable to read it.’ But Allen said, 'No, no. If you’ve written it, I want to read it.’ So I gave him my only copy of Redwall and thought no more of it. I didn’t hear from him for four months. Finally when I saw him, I said, 'Did you ever read it?’ 'Do you know what I’ve done with it?’ he said. 'I sent it to my publishers with a note saying they’d be fools if they didn’t publish it.’ So, that was it.

- Brian Jacques, author of the Redwall series, on how Redwall got started.

anonymous asked:

I got you fam, consider me your resident fanfic writer from now on. Okay, so, imagine this. You're up late doing homework and you here squip groan. They're on your bed, pillow over their face. You ask what's wrong and they just look at you and then slam the pillow back on their face. You're a little concerned so you put your stuff down and slowly walk over to them (1/?) -Angst/Fic Anon


OPPORTUNITY ALERT:  VSC has a special fellowship earmarked for black women! Get on it.  (And there are fellowships for other folks, too.)

Voices Rising Fellowship
This fellowship is for an African American woman fiction writer with demonstrable financial need. Given in honor of women writers of color such as Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, and Zora Neale Hurston, whose voices have inspired so many, this award also comes with a $2,000 stipend to help offset costs associated with the residency, such as travel, childcare, lost wages, rent, etc..

More details here! http://www.vermontstudiocenter.org/fellowships

Ava — Hoshi

Originally posted by gyuhan-17

A/N: hi guys, your resident smut writer admin japchae here! so admin mae wanted a hoshi smut based on this song she loves (”ava” by famy) so of course, I provided her with one. admin mae I hope you like this and also grab some tissues because this is pretty emo as well

Plot: You will always be in love with Soonyoung even if he will never love you back, even if he will only be your friend with benefits, even if he falls in love with a girl named Ava.

Word Count: 5,047 words
Song: “Ava” by Famy
Content: angst, cunnilingus, blowjob, cowgirl style, doggy style

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It’s episode 3.  There isn’t enough episode 3, so we get to watch the puppet show again.  It’s like the extended opening on the Simpsons - if Lisa gets a sax solo, you know the writers were stuck.

A series of long zooms and pans over still images follows.

In this scene, the illusion of motion is created via the expedient of synchronized bobbing:

Kind of jiggle your scroll wheel up and down a little to get the full effect.

We are in a slightly lower-rent iteration of the Academy today.  This is because we are outside the pattern.  The rules of the rose seal dictate that every member of the student council has to fight a duel, in a set order.  The boss would prefer it if that were the only thing that ever happened, over and over, indefinitely.  Unfortunately, there are 13 episodes in a season and only like four or five student council members, so even allowing for two-parters and rematches there are going to have to be some stories in here that aren’t about dueling.  These stories differ slightly in character from the rest, and in order to describe how, I am going to have to use a metaphor.

There is a landscape. In this landscape there are valleys and peaks.  The valleys have been worn deep over time by erosion [repetition] caused by running water [obsession].  The water makes the valleys fertile [structured] and so civilization [narrative] blossoms there. But life also exists on the peaks [filler episodes].  It is harder to live there, because the water [money, suddenly] naturally trickles down to the valleys [plot episodes].  The air [sense of decorum] is also thinner, leading to oxygen deprivation [oxygen deprivation] on the part of the residents [writers], which can lead in turn to chaos and confusion [episode 8], but can also generate ecstatic, surreal visions [episode 8], and lay the groundwork for sudden, brilliant innovations [episode 33], while down below the constraints of social stratification [plot structure] can lead to tragedy, as in the case of the Irish potato famine [episode 21.]

I hope that explains things.

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