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deviation in storage by enduringdelilah

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Cut!
Well, it's been awhile, hasn't it? This comic short is brought to you by Temporary Writer's Block, a subsidiary of Procrastination. Basically, I've ground to a halt in my novel, and instead of slamming my head against this scene that just doesn't want to work for me, I drew pictures of my frustration instead. I forgot how fun it was to reduce my characters to three/four-heads tall cartoon versions and steal one of their fingers. :evillaugh: 

In short, William and Ettienne won't fight the way I want them to even though I've gotten Will edgy enough and Etti drunk enough (I have a picture of myself sitting on the sidelines shouting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"), Jennifer is drinking the scenery, Reede's been psychologically scarred by a marauding werewolf that tried to eat him, and Jehan demands to be the center of attention. Jennifer's reaction to Jehan stems from the scene right before the one I'm stuck on where he basically terrorizes her without actually doing anything but be creepy, answer questions with more questions, and invade her personal space. 

Characters are from my long on-going novel project (fourth draft, ftw! Seriously, this is the last version, I really want to write book two). Jehan used to be spelled "Jean" way back when (if you browse the gallery, you'll find similar comics when his name was Jean Inver; he has undergone a name-change). 

Mechanical pencil, for the most part. Text added 'cause my handwriting is illegible and put in lazy digital bubbles 'cause I can. Also, any typos will eventually be corrected. Eventually.
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       On Chicago, there’s a man named Tigo. Tigo and I, we’ve had occasion to meet before. In both cases, we shot each other. First time, he got me right in the chest. Had I been human, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. Second time, I got him in the leg.
       Needless to say, I was a little worried where this meeting would end up.
Tigo’s ship was parked ‘round the bad part of town in Bronzeville, a small grungy city not too far from Bridgeport. His ship matched the city: small and grungy. From what my untrained eye could deduce, it’d been a military barracks transport before someone hacked off the top level, replaced it with an Ion Canon, and painted the whole thing black (though now it was more black, red, and grey with rust and peeling paint). Oh, and secured giant spikes to the four thrusters sticking out of the sides.  
       A real eyesore.
       I’d considered my options at that point. I could’ve gone in all stealthy-like and catch Tigo with his drawers down. Or I could’ve blown something up out here and lured his boys outside, then run like blazes (trust me, nothing runs faster than a vampire sure he’s about to be shot).
       Yet, none of those options felt right to me. In the end, I dragged my M52 Automatic Pulse Rifle out from its hiding place under the pilot’s console. Weighs about fifteen pounds and feels like I’m lugging a mini-canon around at my hip but damn is it a flashy piece of work. If you’ve got one of those on, most sane folk leave you be. I call her ‘Old Bess’.
       I strapped Bess to my chest as I stepped out of my office. Maeve stared at me.
       “Good God, Jack, what is that thing?”
       “This?” I hefted it, sliding the cocking mechanism down the barrel. “It’s an Automatic Pulse Rifle.”
       Her jaw dropped open. “What are you going to do?”
       I pulled my tan suit jacket on over Bess’ straps and untangled my tie from the central buckle. “Get some answers.”
       And with that, I strode out of my ship into the last rays of twilight and right up to Tigo’s. Getting past the pair of guards at his open docking hatch was easy. One good wave of Bess at their faces and the docking hatch was not only open but abandoned, the sound of the guards’ feet pattering on the concrete in the distance.
       I entered Tigo’s less-than-humble abode and followed the hallways until I got to his command center. He’d remodeled this room too. The sprawling map table in the center had been ripped out, replaced by four poker tables on a dark red carpet. At least ten of Tigo’s boys lounged around the room, some sitting at the tables drinking and gaming, others standing on the suspended walkway that wrapped around the room.
       Tigo lounged in the captain’s chair behind the poker table farthest from the door, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, cards in the other. He’s a short, dumpy little man, prone to wearing Hawaiian tourist shirts and brown dress slacks. Broad red face, little brown eyes, and mousy hair. Like his ship, a bit of an eyesore.
       “Jack! What a—oh, er, um, right.” He stared at Bess and I fancied a look of panic in his piggy eyes. He lowered his cards but kept the drink. “You mean business.”
       “Damn right I do, Tigo. I’m looking for Bobby Sims.”  
       “Bobby? Haven’t seen him.” Tigo took a sip of whiskey, eyes averted.
       “Come on, Tigo. Don’t lie to me.”
       Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of Tigo’s men—a bruno dressed in a dark green suit that matched the tables—inching closer, his hand on his Pulse sidearm.
       I swung Bess around to point at his face. Bess made that slight, high-pitched whine of her power coils heating up for a fifty-round Pulse shot.
What I hoped they didn’t know was that I hadn’t had the batteries to power Bess for twenty years now. Making that noise was about all she did.
       Thankfully, the man didn’t seem in the mood to tempt fate or my trigger finger and backed down, hands spread and far from his gun. I turned back to Tigo and hefted Bess. “Start talking or I start carving holes in your ship, in your men, and most of all, in you.”
       Tigo held up his hands, one still occupied with holding his whiskey. “All right, all right! No need to get hasty. I’m willing to cooperate. Bobby’s over in Avondale. He’s got a ship there, the Albatross. Ask the docking committee to run a search. He’s registered. You got a death-wish, Jack. That guy’s a real piece of work.”
       “You let me worry about him.”
       There was a soft clicking behind me, growing louder with each passing nanosecond. I turned and found Maeve standing in the doorway of Tigo’s command center. Before I could speak, the whine of a charging Pulse weapon filled the air followed by—
       Bzzz-zat.
       And my back exploded in a fiery mushroom of agony.
       Tigo shot me.
       Again.
       Goddammit!  
       I probably screamed, I’m not sure. Instinct kicked in and I ran, praying that my undead feet would carry me faster than a second pulse shot. I grabbed hold of Maeve’s hand as I passed, towing her along behind me.
       “Jack—?”
       I didn’t answer.
       “Jack, you’re bleeding. And kind of burnt.”
       Really? Why, I would never have noticed. “Yeah,” I managed between gasps. “I know.”
Remember when I said nothing runs faster than a vampire scared of being shot? Yeah, well, I take that back. Nothing runs faster than a vampire who has been shot. We made it back to my ship in record time.
       “Close it, close it! Gloria, get the engine running! Tigo’s got an Ion Canon!” I tossed Bess down on the flooring plates, the polymer casing of the rifle slamming into the metal with a resounding bang.
       “Since when does Tigo have an Ion Canon?” came Gloria’s shout from the engine room below. Maeve smashed the buttons on the docking hatch control panel.
       “Since now!”
       The doors slid shut behind us with a bang, cutting off the sound of Tigo’s men firing at my ship with Pulse weapons and the deep bass hum of the Ion Canon firing up. I stumbled down the hallway to the pilot’s cockpit, my wounded back screaming it didn’t want me using my legs and my legs screaming that if I didn’t sit down right now, my knees were going to give out.
       I collapsed in the pilot’s chair, disengaged the landing gear, and started the takeoff sequence. The high-pitched pinging of the Pulse shots ricocheting off the hull of the ship punctuated the roar of the engine and the shriek of the thrusters firing. We shot off the ground at a good 235 MPH just as that damn Ion Canon went off, tearing a crater in the concrete where my ship had been sitting.
       Only through a liberal application of sheer dumb luck and pain-induced adrenaline did I manage to avoid getting blown out of the sky or plowing my poor ship into a skyscraper or some other poor bastard waiting in a landing lane. We ducked, weaved, and twisted our way through Bronzeville. A few minutes later, we broke through the city’s outer crust, headed toward Avondale.
       I leaned back in the pilot’s chair, shaking. It was a miracle we got out of there without me killing us. How I flew with my hands practically vibrating is beyond me.
       Around that point, the adrenaline high started wearing off and the pain came back full force. I entered into a whole world of misery, waiting for my supernatural healing powers to kick in and patch me up.
Jack Monohan, P.I. (Deceased), Part II
And so we continue with Jack's story. As I'd said in the first part, there's a game here of finding all of the SF and vampire references in this story (more SF shows than vampires, but there's one big vampire-one in here). I'd also forgotten how delightfully silly this is, and I've been having a blast rereading it (copy-edits before it hits dA, for the most part). 
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        Name’s Jack Monahan, gumshoe. Yeah, you read the card right. I’m deceased but still kicking. Been dead for a good eighty years, not that you care. Nice “Federal Detainment Unit” you got here. Very clean. White. Adds so much personality to Chicago. And Chicago’s such a nice little moon too. Why’d you call this place the FEDU? Doesn’t strike fear in the hearts of man, that acronym.  
       Okay, okay. I get it. Interrogation. Fine. Pull up a chair. Might as well make yourself comfortable.
       It started in my office.
       My office is a reliable little ship, and at the time, was parked on the Springfield Space Station. Used to be a garbage disposal unit in a previous life. Not much for the eyes to feast on—looks a bit like rhombus with wings and landing legs, held together by rust and my undying love—but it’s my tin-can space baby. Got a pilot’s cockpit (I use it as my office), a short hallway leading to the airlock (my secretary’s desk is in there) and the living quarters right next to the wings, and all the walls painted a dull teal (I haven’t gotten around to changing it yet). It gets me where I need to go. There’s the occasional FTL engine hiccup that leaves me sticking my digital thumb out the window in hopes that some passing transport can give me a tow, but for the most part, she’s the best. I call her Serena.
       There is the smell though. No matter how much bleach I poured on those flooring plates, I just couldn’t quite get rid of the lingering stench of garbage. I’ve taken to sticking up those little ship air fresheners that smell like pine trees all over my office space.
       Anyway, I sat in the pilot’s chair, fiddling with the seating controls. Outside the view window, stars glittered on the field of black. The only lights on in my office were the floodlights that framed the window, casting a soft yellow-white glare over the navigational controls on the dash. A stack of blank invoices hid the guidance system’s screen. I unbuttoned my cufflinks, rolled my sleeves up, cracked my knuckles, and lifted my fountain pen from its place wedged between the console’s plating.
       I hesitated, my hand poised over the first page.
       Something’s missing from this picture.
       Ah, right. I needed a drink, bad. Without looking away from the papers on my desk, I fumbled the handle of the metal drawer on the front of the console. It banged open and I pulled out a pharmacy issue bottle of O-neg.
       Oh, didn’t I mention? Vampire. Yeah, that heartbreaking she-wolf named Maeve not only tore my heart out when she left, she tore a great honkin’ hole in my jugular and left me for dead. Didn’t quite make it to the autopsy slab thanks to some ancestral blood-curse that had me sprouting fangs and avoiding direct sunlight for the rest of my unnatural life.
       I unscrewed the cap and took a swig. The sweet taste of salt and copper coated the inside of my mouth, down my throat, right to the shriveled excuse in my gut for a stomach. Already I felt stronger, more alert, and ready to attack that stack of paperwork.
       The high-pitched jingle of the access pad on the door behind me rang through my office. It had originally been the boring bee-doop default before I changed it to an electronic rendition of the jazzy opening bars of Broken Blue Sky. The polytonic tone didn’t do Joe Braxton’s sax justice.
       I put down the bottle and made it look like I’d been reading papers this whole time. “Come in.”
       The door opened behind me and Gloria, sweet little Gloria from Cleveland with the four-inch pumps clicking on the flooring plates, walked in. “Jack, I’ve got a Ping from Alan Walker and—”
       She screamed that bloodcurdling scream that only petite waifs can manage. I twisted in my seat, my hand going for my Pulse Revolver. She raised a hand and pointed a single finger at the navigation console.
       “Jack! Is that what I think it is?”
       I looked between her finger and my makeshift desk. “I know it’s a shock, but I am filling out my invoices. I took your complaint letter to heart.”
       “No, not the paperwork. The bottle!”
       Okay. Not what I was expecting, but I can roll with that. “What’s wrong with it?”
       “Dammit, Jack! You swore off the blood, remember? The more you drink that stuff, the more scared I get that I’m going to start looking like a t-bone steak to you!”
       “Gloria, sweetheart, you already look like a t-bone steak.”
       “That doesn’t make me feel better!”
       I wanted to tell that girl, “You’re my employee, not my mother,” but I figured she’d just yell at me more. Or take my bottle. So I screwed the cap back on and dropped it in my desk drawer. “Better?”
       “For now.”
       I waved my hand holding the fountain pen at her. “What did Walker want?”
       “Oh, his wife’s run off with that red-headed Schwarzenegger again. He wants you to track her down and tell her she either comes home, or he cuts off her access to his credit chips.”
Walker paid well. Damn well. I could power my ship for a week and eat for two on what he would afford. And yet, I couldn’t quite manage to muster a thrilled-to-the-core reaction to this prospect. Most of the time, a self-employed gumshoe lacks a certain drama the old Vids promised.
But I like eating. And I like my ship flying.
       And, yeah, Gloria likes having a paycheck. As much as I wish she’d do her job for free, the union would have me crucified if I gypped her.
       “Give him a ping back. Tell him I’ll take the job, I’ll need the first thirty percent wired to my account as a deposit, and have him send me a list of her last credit transactions and any information he might have on her whereabouts.”
       I’d turned back around in my chair and hunched over my desk, scribbling down my personal information in the “Biller” boxes.
       “Got it.”
       Click, click, click. Silence. “Jack?”
       “Hmm?”
       “Jack, I really think you should turn around.”
       Grumbling, I did so. “What is it—?”
       This time, the Pulse Revolver did come out of my holster. I knelt with one knee on my seat, using the back of the chair to both support my gun and as cover.
       Maeve stood in the doorway of my office/pilot’s cockpit, clad in a slinky red silk dress with matching heels. Her long hair, the exact same shade as the singularity of a black hole, spilled down her shoulders and framed her rather voluptuous breasts. She held Gloria against her body, one arm wrapped around my secretary’s throat, the other around her waist.
       My mouth went dry.
       “Jack, put down the gun. I want a civilized conversation, not a firefight.” Maeve fixed me with a incredulous look. The hand that’d held Gloria’s waist now rested on Maeve’s hip. “And a Pulse Revolver? Really, Jack. You’re a vampire. You have teeth.”
       Why was it the first response that came to mind was, “And you have a push-up bra”?
       I lowered the Pulse Revolver a few inches so that it pointed at her midsection rather than her head. “Maeve, let her go.”
       “If I let her go, you’ll shoot me.” She held up a finger to silence my protest. “And don’t even try to promise me you won’t. You’re a no-good lying rascal, Jack. I wouldn’t trust you any further than I could throw you.”
       I wasn’t going to point out the flaw in that statement. Maeve had proven before she could throw me with little difficulty, no matter my two hundred pounds and boxy frame.
       She seemed to notice where my train of thought was going and frowned. “You know what I mean.”
       “Fine. What do you want?”
       “Though it pains me to admit it, I need to hire a private detective, and you’re all I’ve got left now.”
       “Hire me?” A baffled smile crossed my lips and I almost laughed. “Hire me? Maeve, you murdered me! You left me to bleed out in that abandoned transport on some Godforsaken moon! I’ve been planning on how to kill you for eighty years!”
       Maeve shook her head, the arm around Gloria’s neck loosening. “Too late for that, Jack. That’s why I want to hire you. I want you to find my murderer.”
       Okay, at this point, I’ll admit, not only was I sputtering, my gun had slid from being pointed at her gut to Gloria’s feet. I also knelt a bit too high to use the chair as a proper shield. “Uh. Maeve. You’re already dead. You’re a vampire.”
       She rolled her eyes. “How very observant of you. Yes, I know, I’m dead but someone’s done something and now I’m dying again. For good, this time. I need you to find out who. I’ll pay you handsomely for it.”
       Those were the magic words. An interesting case, a real stumper of a mystery, and a really big payday. How could I pass that up?
       I raised my hands, holding my Pulse Revolver away from my body. “All right. You’ve got me. I’ll put away my piece and you let my secretary go.”
       Maeve flung Gloria away from her. Gloria stumbled and fell to the ground with a squawked curse. I holstered my revolver as Gloria picked herself up from the floor, grumbling.
       “All right, Jack. Let’s do business.”
       Maeve took a seat on the navigation console, crossing her long and gorgeous pale legs, and I settled back into my seat.
       “Start at the beginning.”
       Maeve gave me a dark look. “Really? I would never have thought of giving you the whole story un—”
       “Okay, okay. Just tell me.”
       “I was making my way through Avondale on Chicago, tasting the local cuisine, hitting all the hot tourist spots—” In other words, she was making herself fat on the blood of hapless civilians. “—when I was set upon by four thugs. I manage to kill one of them—snapped his neck clean in two—but was overpowered. One of them stuck this in my neck.”
       At “this,” she reached down the front of her dress and pulled from her cleavage a clear bubble about three inches across with a long plastic bit jutting from one end. I did my best not to stare.
       I failed miserably.
       She held the thing out to me. I took it and turned it around a few times between my fingers. “Okay, I give up. What is it?”
       “I’m not sure. It’s some sort of syringe. Here,” she pulled the plastic from the end, revealing a thin steel needle. “They pumped me full of some sort of drug and ever since...Jack, I can’t eat. Every time I drink, a few minutes later, I vomit it all back up again.”
       “Is that such a bad thing?”
       Damn. Sometimes, Gloria needed to practice that old adage, “Silence is Golden."
       Maeve rolled her head on her shoulders and glared at Gloria. “Yes, it’s a bad thing. I’m starving, girl, and I don’t want to die. Jack,” she said, turning to look at me, “find out who did this to me and how to fix it. I’m only a hundred and forty-eight—”
       “Only?”
       Maeve shot Gloria a glare. “Yes, only. I’m not ready to die.” She turned back to me, lower lip thrust out in a pout, eyes pleading. If I didn’t know she could cry crocodile tears on demand, the look might’ve worked. Now, though, it just made me want to tell her to go to hell.
       “Before I passed out, I heard one of them say a name. Bobby Sims.”
       I groaned.
       Maeve gave me a puzzled look. “Do you know what this means?”
       “Unfortunately.” I swept the papers from the navigation console and dumped them on the floor. “Gloria? Man the engine. Maeve, go take a seat somewhere and strap yourself in.”
       Gloria:
       “Where are we going?”
       Maeve:
       “Why?”
       I turned to Gloria first. “Bronzeville, Chicago.” To Maeve I said, “Because we’re going to have a bit of turbulence getting off this space station.”
       Gloria’s heels clicked over the metal panels as she hurried to the engine room. Maeve frowned. “Jack, please tell me this lump of metal has thrust dampeners.”
       I grinned and flipped the switches for the take-off sequence to engage. “They were sacrificed.”
       “Sacrificed? What for?”
       “Didn't you see those snazzy floodlights on the wings? The ones pointing at my name on the sides?”
       Maeve gaped at me. “You didn’t!”
       “Oh, I most certainly did.” Gloria’s ping of “Ready!” showed up on my screen. I clipped my seatbelt and eased the steering wheel back into my lap. I switched off the docking mechanism and pulled the boxy radio down from its clip on the ceiling of the cockpit. “I’d hang onto something if I were you. Gloria criticizes my takeoffs as needlessly reckless.” I clicked the radio on. “Springfield? This is Serena. Requesting docking release.”
       I released the button and waited. After a moment, the docking technician’s voice crackled over the radio speaker. “This is Springfield, you’re cleared for takeoff.” With a click and a hum, the docking clamps on my ship released and Serena floated free in the vacuum. “Have a nice day, Serena.”
       “Thanks, Springfield.”
       With that, I slammed my hand down on the thruster handle. The thrusters on the wings roared to life and the ship’s body vibrated with the force. About ten minutes out, I activated the FTL engine and we shot off towards Chicago with a silent bang. As they say in the old Vids, I floored it and we were off, rattling and shaking the whole way.


...TO BE CONTINUED
Jack Monohan, P.I. (Deceased), Part I
This one's an oldie (about three years old, now) but it still makes me laugh. I'm posting this in four parts on the scene breaks, each chunk about the same length. There's a game that goes with this story called "Can you find the reference?" Scattered throughout this, there are references to Science Fiction movies, TV shows, books, and a few vampire-specific media. See if you can find everything (there isn't a prize, it's just for shits and giggles). 

My playlist for this story: 
You Spin Me Right Round (Like A Record) by Dead or Alive
You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi

Tune in next time for Jack Monohan's showdown with a sleazy underworld boss and some clever bluffing with a gun named Bess...
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Lately (at least a year, probably longer), I've been struggling with my sense of confidence in what I create and something that's often called Impostor Syndrome. I won't go too far into it, because it's a negative ball of toxic crap and burns anyone who touches it, including me, and I don't really want to inflict that on you, but I've realized, importantly, that I don't share my art with anyone anymore. And I think that's shriveling me on the inside. 

While at college, I hid a lot of things because I felt shame. Shame that I wrote so many pages and people gave me dagger-looks for it, and I had to choose between being prolific and being good, because in their minds, you can't be both. Shame that I wrote what they called "genre" instead of the "true" art-form of "literature." Shame that I could draw, too. I'll never forget that one kid who saw me doodling and demanded, "If you draw like that, why are you trying to get a writing degree?" That one hurt, 'cause drawing is my hobby and something that makes me happy, but writing is my passion and something that fills me with joy. 

I had a few associates. I don't know if I'd call most of them friends, since I couldn't share that one thing that was so personal to me--my creativity--because I did so once and the jerk burned me so badly, I still hear his voice in my head (he took me apart, piece by piece, for two years; I'm still fixing the damage he caused). 

But I so, so desperately want to share what I do. It's hard to keep screaming into a void and never hearing anything but my own voice echoing back across an impossible distance. I want to share what I make in a space where I feel safe. And yesterday, I remembered: 

"I felt safe on DeviantART." 

I miss the community I had on here. I miss the friends that I made. I miss the connection I had with other people, a connection that wasn't toxic or competitive or destructive. I miss all of you and I want to come back. 

I've decided to share my writing on here. Maybe a bit more art, since I've been doing more of it now (though not much is finished). Mostly, I'll share the stuff that I either can't find a market for, or was fun but not publishable for whatever reason. I'm going to try to be more active again and give as much as I take. 
  • Mood: Neutral
  • Listening to: My novel playlist
  • Reading: Moonshifted by Cassie Alexander
  • Watching: Highlander
  • Playing: Legend of Grimrock 2 (final boss battle)
  • Eating: Had breakfast of oatmeal
  • Drinking: Coffee. Cold coffee.
  • Mood: Christmas Spirited
  • Listening to: My mother watching Little Mosque in the next room
  • Reading: Shards of Time by Lynn Flewelling
  • Watching: Not much. Everything is on winter hiatus.
  • Playing: Neverwinter Nights 2
  • Eating: Nuffin'
  • Drinking: Water
Somehow, Christmas crept up on me. The school semester is finished (and, oh, was it a semester from HELL; I am SO glad it's over and done with and I never have to experience it again), I'm doing art again, and I really need to get back on a writing schedule. I'd done quite a bit of art during the semester, but since they were gift-doodles on other people's manuscripts, I don't have copies. Ah, well. I have quite a few pieces that are half-done that I'll get around to completing and uploading. 

For the first time in, maybe, ever, I get to have a quiet Christmas. No major explosions of chaos, no craziness, just peace and quiet and an easy dinner. 

How are your winter breaks going? Anyone else in college taking the opportunity to do all the art they couldn't do during class? If you don't have a full winter break, what're you doing for the holidays? 

deviantID

Mytherea
R. Taylor
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
Interests
Lately (at least a year, probably longer), I've been struggling with my sense of confidence in what I create and something that's often called Impostor Syndrome. I won't go too far into it, because it's a negative ball of toxic crap and burns anyone who touches it, including me, and I don't really want to inflict that on you, but I've realized, importantly, that I don't share my art with anyone anymore. And I think that's shriveling me on the inside. 

While at college, I hid a lot of things because I felt shame. Shame that I wrote so many pages and people gave me dagger-looks for it, and I had to choose between being prolific and being good, because in their minds, you can't be both. Shame that I wrote what they called "genre" instead of the "true" art-form of "literature." Shame that I could draw, too. I'll never forget that one kid who saw me doodling and demanded, "If you draw like that, why are you trying to get a writing degree?" That one hurt, 'cause drawing is my hobby and something that makes me happy, but writing is my passion and something that fills me with joy. 

I had a few associates. I don't know if I'd call most of them friends, since I couldn't share that one thing that was so personal to me--my creativity--because I did so once and the jerk burned me so badly, I still hear his voice in my head (he took me apart, piece by piece, for two years; I'm still fixing the damage he caused). 

But I so, so desperately want to share what I do. It's hard to keep screaming into a void and never hearing anything but my own voice echoing back across an impossible distance. I want to share what I make in a space where I feel safe. And yesterday, I remembered: 

"I felt safe on DeviantART." 

I miss the community I had on here. I miss the friends that I made. I miss the connection I had with other people, a connection that wasn't toxic or competitive or destructive. I miss all of you and I want to come back. 

I've decided to share my writing on here. Maybe a bit more art, since I've been doing more of it now (though not much is finished). Mostly, I'll share the stuff that I either can't find a market for, or was fun but not publishable for whatever reason. I'm going to try to be more active again and give as much as I take. 
  • Mood: Neutral
  • Listening to: My novel playlist
  • Reading: Moonshifted by Cassie Alexander
  • Watching: Highlander
  • Playing: Legend of Grimrock 2 (final boss battle)
  • Eating: Had breakfast of oatmeal
  • Drinking: Coffee. Cold coffee.

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:iconsorelliena:
Sorelliena Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2014  Student Digital Artist
hiya mythy C:  how are you doing?  it's been a long while since we've talked!
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:iconmytherea:
Mytherea Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Hey! Long time no talk indeed. I'm doing okay, though college is really draining my energy (thus, my online social life has pretty much died). Mostly, I'm writing, working on school, and doodling when I get the chance. How's things with you?
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:iconsorelliena:
Sorelliena Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2014  Student Digital Artist
That sounds like  me!  I'm in second year atm and it's just... /explodes all over floor.

Juggling a job on top of commissions on top of school on top of volunteer graphic design work.  /roooolls.  
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:icondaniel-av666:
Daniel-AV666 Featured By Owner Dec 16, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday!
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:iconmytherea:
Mytherea Featured By Owner Dec 17, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you! :la:
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