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[sticky post] Feb. 29th, 2020

So, I've decided to save links to all my stories on pinboard.  Everything is there now.

It's here, if you want to check it out.

ETA 2016: I'll only be using this to keep track of my comment_fic fills from now on.

I give blanket permission for podficcing and other things -- but let me know what's being done with my fics, and if you want to do anything with any of my original stuff, you have to ask me first. DO NOT repost any of my works anywhere, though links are fine.
So, in two separate classes this semester I've had other students tell me that they really enjoy my writing.

I have no idea how to take compliments in person. But it really made me happy.
This has been a terrible, confusing year, and I’m so fucking tired of it.

Nov. 29th, 2016

In 1987, the year before I was born, Freire said, “Language gives you a glimpse of how people survive,” (p. 137). It’s a cliché, perhaps, but who writes the history books? Whose exploits are recorded, remembered? When looking into the past, who is the default and who, it seems, never lived or did anything of worth at all? If there is no record of your existence, did you? I used to write frantically, skipping words in their entirety, messy and confusing, my opinions and my beliefs, my hopes and my fears, and I imagined that someone, somehow, someday, would find it and read it and know I had existed, that frightened and angst-filled 13-year-old. I wrote and so I would be remembered. I write. I have written and I will write. I will still be writing tomorrow and next week and decades from now. I’ll look back at that diary I kept in middle-school and I’ll remember the girl I was, the girl who couldn’t begin to fathom the woman she’d grow up to be.
So tonight there was a shooting roughly a block from my apartment that killed one person and injured two more.

I didn't know about it until my older sister texted me to make sure I was alright as though there was reason I shouldn't be.

I fucking hate guns.



Written November 27, 2016

I ask you
and you turn away
with no reply.
I chase after you down the block
(me or you?)
and you don’t look back.
You don’t look back.
You never have.
I never learn.
I take it all—
I pull it in
until all I am is your reflection.
Have I ever been my own?
Caught in your lies,
tangled in your smile and your touch,
your toy when you think of me.
Your toy,
you toy—
I hold my breath,
faint with hope that always flees.
You don’t see me.
I ask you
and you leave me.
I chase after you
tears on my cheek,
tears in my throat,
and I know you’d never cry for me.
You’d never cry for me.
You’d never turn back.
You never have.
I watch you walk away,
your spine straight,
your steps sure,
and I exhale.
I ask you
but once.
A single time.
A single breath.
The dirt is cold beneath my knees.
The sun shines.
I chase after you
but you’ve never seen me
for me.
I’m just a reflection.
I breathe
as you turn the corner.
The ground is steady
and the sun is warm
and I shudder in relief.
Is this the kindest you’ve ever been to me?
You won’t turn back.
I never learn—
But time is all I have now.

Nov. 18th, 2016

I just called both my senators! Holy shit, wow. Left a voicemail with one and talked to a person who took my number for a callback at the other.

Also, of course, my premium for insurance is going up almost $200 next year, so I’m scrambling for something else. Having insurance this year was AMAZING and I’m so fucking frustrated.

And I have THREE major projects all due the same week that I really need to power through.

But I have rainbow hair now, and I keep smiling every time I look in a mirror, so there’s that.
There's still hope! Holy shit, I had no idea about this. And it comes down to Louisiana?!


So, I have to write two papers on Freire for the first week of December: one is about his concept of conscientization and the importance he placed on dialogue in emergent literacy while the other is a synthesis of his and Macedo’s book Literacy: Reading the Word and the World.

I thought his work was apropos before last week. But now? Now it’s like holy shit.

Freire in 1987: “When you use ‘minority’ in the US context to refer to the majority of people who are not part of the dominant class, you alter its semantic value. When you refer to ‘minority’ you are in fact talking about the ‘majority’ who find themselves outside the sphere of political and economic dominance.”

Doctor Who/Merlin part 2

Title: (the folly of) youth
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)/Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Merlin, Arthur, Jethro, Jethro’s parents, and the Doctor aren’t mine
Warnings: post-series for Merlin; during season 3 and 4 for Doctor Who; time travel shenanigans
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1730
Point of view: third

Arthur is born as Jethro and his parents settle into their hotel on Midnight.

Nov. 12th, 2016

Prompt: shrieking
Written November 8, 2016, waiting for class to start, before the results started rolling in. I reread it on Nov 11 in order to type it up. It hurt. It stoked my rage, which I managed to bank after a day of avoiding my tumblr dash. I wrote this thinking about how Hillary Rodham Clinton felt after years under scrutiny.

They call it shrieking
when they don’t want to listen,
don’t want to give you your due,
don’t want to spare attention,
when they know better than you.
They call it shrieking
when your words don’t matter
and your voice is discarded.
They call it shrieking
and they’ll talk over you
because their words are more important,
their words deserve to be heard
unlike yours because
their voices aren’t shrieking.

(Take a breath.
Breathe out.
Make them shake.
Shriek. )
Can you guess what my favorite book is?


1) Read comments on any article about this catastrophe.

2) Engage with uneducated, insensitive people on facebook.

(But SERIOUSLY if you tell my cousin who’s married to an immigrant that she’s overreacting because she broke down in tears when the election was called, my inner big sister is going to strike. It doesn’t matter that she’s older than me. It doesn’t matter that she has a Ph.D. in some nuclear science I don’t understand at all. She is in distress and you are being a fuckwad, and I am going to tell you so.)

(Also: do not tell me that not everyone who voted for Trump is an asshole. Don’t tell me they wanted to change the old government to get better care for the military, better health care, and better laws on abortion. Don’t tell me you actually paid attention and that’s what you gleaned.)


copying and pasting from my tumblr

I’m never saying the pledge, singing the national anthem, or saluting the flag again.


I’ve never been proud of my country, exactly, but in all my life, I’ve never been more ashamed of it than I am right now.


The garbage bag wearing a human suit can’t even finish a coherent sentence, so how did so many people vote for him? How did any woman? I hadn’t actually realized what ex-felons being unable to vote could do. I hadn’t even realized a Voting Acts Right existed much less was taken away in 20 fucking 13.

If I, a middle class white woman, feel this horrified and terrified… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

I need to find something GOOD to do because I’m about to crawl out of my skin.


I have school projects to work on and I can't focus. I need something to do that will actually help people, make a positive difference in someone's life because I'm about to crawl out of my skin.


I’m going to check the results, I’m going to finish this episode of Elementary, and then I am going to lie awake in my bed and tell myself a story as I try to fall asleep, and when I wake up in the morning, Hillary will have won because anything else is a horrible, terrible mistake that can’t possibly have happened.

(Just... how? I legitimately never once actually thought he could win. How?)


Nov. 8th, 2016





*deep breath*

To those who don't live in the US - are you as nervous as we are?


Today has been so awesome so far! I really hope it continues like this, because it’s been the best morning I’ve had in a long time.



king of the jungle
questioning in order to create

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