"Just this once, can we climb up to the moon?"

Ameral looked over at the girl with the light blonde wispy hair, the pale green overcoat and black fluffy skirt, the glittery golden shoes, and the glazed doughnut in her hands, and she bit her lip.

Clover. She was everything Ameral had dreamed of. She was a thin slip of a girl, lost in some sort of dreamland or alternate reality; gazing off at something no one else could see, blinking rapidly or not at all, rushing past every time Ameral wanted to reach out and grab her.

Today, Ameral took a deep breath, steadied her shaking hands, and walked over to where Clover was frowning into her doughnut. She asked: "Are you going to eat that?"

Clover started, her hands jolting in that heart-stopping moment of uncertainty regarding the safety of her desired food. Ameral sighed. She was sorry she had come.

"Oh! Yes! I am!" Clover clenched down harder on the doughnut and looked up straight into Ameral's face. Ameral found herself staring into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

Clover wondered how many calories this doughnut had, because it was glazed and also alarmingly large, and her stomach sank. That whole morning she had fantasised about eating a gigantic glazed doughnut, and now that she had one in her hands she found herself mulling over every reason not to.

"Are you going to eat that?" came a voice astoundingly close, and Clover looked up to see a strange girl staring down at her. Ameral. That's right... isn't it?

Clover could hardly be sure of her own memory these days. She had seen this girl in some of her classes, maybe art and history. Ameral was tall, thin, pale, her black hair cut in a jaggered shoulder-length bob, a thickly cut fringe, big brown eyes, and had a dark aura about her. Clover had always dreamed of asking this girl around to visit her Aunty Mirren who read people's auras, tea leaves, told fortunes, and practised what some would call 'The Dark Arts'. She could feel something heavy around Ameral, something almost twisted and angry.

"I mean, there's a bin right there," Ameral said, pointing to the rubbish can a few feet away.

"No, I'm eating it!" Clover said indignantly. 

"Ok."

Ameral kind of shrugged and Clover looked back at the doughnut. 

"Well, the glaze isn't real syrup anyway, is it?" she asked rhetorically to no one in particular. "It's mostly just a number, like 307 or E5, and they don't have any calories."

Ameral stared. Wasn't E5 a highway? Out loud she asked: "You're counting calories?"

A shifty, almost embarrassed, look came over Clover's face. Ameral shivered. "Well, no, I'm not," Cover said, but then added, "Well, I am. I'm trying to eat 300 calories a day."

"What! Three hundred calories!?" Ameral felt like grabbing her shoulders and shaking this ludicrous idea right out of her pretty little head.

Clover shrugged. "Why not?"

"God!" Ameral lifted a hand in a fit of outrage, Clover noticed, and before anyone could do anything about this atrocity, a boy called Norman ran past them both bumping into Clover who lurched forwards just as Ameral went to swipe the hideous doughnut out of Clover's hands.

Clover squealed. Norman cried "Sorry!" and laughed as he ran. Ameral ended up slapping Clover in the chest at the same time her doughnut flew up, as high as any doughnut had ever flown before, then fell to the ground, landing with a splatter.

"Shitdammitfuck!" Clover yelled.

"Fucking christ!" Ameral exclaimed, yanking her hand back as if touching a hot poker. 

"I wanted that all day!"

"Jesus," Ameral shoved both her hands into her skirt pockets. "Boys are dumb as fuck."

"So dumb. Why do they have to run around the place anyway?"

"There's more out there, you know," Ameral said with a tone of revealing a long-forgotten secret.

Clover looked up at her, still scowling, but with a little glint in her eyes. "I know, they sell them at PayLess."

Ameral took a breath and said in a rush, "Do you want to go to a cafe? With me?"

"Now?"

"No! Not now! After school."

"Oh..." Clover stared off into the distance, unblinking, as if searching for the answer there. Ameral felt her heart pound so loud and so fast it was as if it took up her whole rib-cage. She wished there was a speed button so she could turn it back to steady.

"Ok, sure," Clover said casually, and Ameral felt her world shift suddenly, and also fall into place.

Can I tell you a long-winded story?

One thing is certain when travelling to unknown places, and, indeed, life, and that is this: always take your own magick with you.
Yes! Your own!
And yes! With a k afterwards, because otherwise you're just taking along magic tricks, and who wants those?
~Exactly.

THINGS I AM DOING IN LIFE:
-- Eating iced-coffee timtams  ^__^

-- Growing calendula and other unknown flowers from seeds. > They are going really well so far, I have about 50 all growing, some bunched up with others that are doing HIGH BALL LIFE growth-wise, and others on their own as they had withered a bit and I believed it was due to fighting for nutrients among their bunch. Yesterday 6 whole unicorn paper cups full of dirt and growing seedlings fell from my windowsill. I managed to save most of them, however, it was a sad time in my flowering community, because, let's face it, while I haven't named them all yet, I still think of them as beings that require love and attention and proper sustenance and minimal traumatic experiences in their dainty, leafy, innocent plant lives. 

-- I was doing AMAZINGLY with my healthy eating/no junk/no dinner or heavy food in evening/lots of water lifestyle until a woman from work committed suicide and I found myself wandering the supermarket with an actual for real trolley putting in all these chips and chocolates and ice creams and forty dollars worth of yoghurts (which I did end up buying because yoghurt is life, people! Life!), and things just got out of hand.
> And I mean 'turning trolley around to put back two out of the five packets of timtams, seven different bars of chocolate, a box of ice creams, two out of four bags of chips, one packet of lollies, three out of four packets of specialty chocolates, and two boxes of packet mix cake' out of hand. Because I then purchased two packets of chips, one can of pringles, three different specialty chocolates, and three packets of timtams. I think a madness descends upon one who tires to comprehend a shocking death and that results in spacey moods, a live quick attitude, and a life motto based around 'Why Not?' and 'I need this to fill a hole'.

~And so... I really crave salty foods now.

-- Trying to get into a life routine. I have never had a life routine. For one thing, I work on a permanent-part time basis and because my work always needs shifts covered I tend to always get extra shifts. This mean I have never had the same paycheck, ever, in my life. And it's kind of annoying me lately. This also means that I once spent a whole hour painstakingly going over my permanent shifts to create a life roster of days I could gym it up, time of day I could shop, free mornings to craft or write or draw, etc, and it literally never happened.
> Extra shifts equal extra money, which is nice if I want to buy land and build a house, or travel to Japan, or just have nice clothes, but bad if I want to seize life now that I have actually experienced a suicide event and dreamt about crashing my car, making me think about my own mortality. I refuse to slog around for the 'man' just to wake up, go to work, make small conversation, pay my bills, pay my taxes, eat some form of cheapass food, and go back to bed, thinking: 'fuck yeah! I can make some jewellery tomorrow on my day off' only to look at my calendar and realise I accepted to work a double-shift two months ago and now I have no time to do washing or get my car serviced.

THIS BRINGS ME TO...
-- My Magickal Event.
Today my boyf and I went up to the hills to visit and great place which I will not name, but just know that it was a town of red/orange/yellow/green leaves because of Autumn, quaint cafes, old-style buildings, spontaneous occurrences, and eclectic shops that didn't seem to fit in with the modern fast pace life of this year. For instance, I tried to find a Roadside Assistance shop, and could not, therefore could not pay my bill, but I was comforted by the four op-shops available and went into every one.
THEN...
We happened to gaily pass another op shop with crystals and such out the front and I said 'LET'S DO THIS ONE! YOLO!' and I pushed open the door. I came face to face with the magickiest magickal shop ever to exist. The whole inside was overloaded with magickal jewellery, pendants, crystals, books, clothes, ornaments, and the smell of incense was HEAVENLY. I could literally feel my soul being cleansed at once.
As if in a trance I picked up a pot of Love and Intimacy body butter and paid 33 dollars. Anyone who knows me would gasp in horror! THIRTY THREE DOLLARYDOOS??? On BODY BUTTER??!!
Why not just grab an olive grove tub from the fridge and at your local PayLess and get down to business?
It's true, this was not my style, I was acting out and I was IN HEAVEN.
HEAVEN.
MAGICK.
INCENSE.
COLOURED LEAVES ALL AROUND.
HAVE WE NOT SPRUNG RIGHT INTO WONDERLAND WHERE THE ESSENCE OF SOUL-CLEANSING SERUM CAN BE POURED RIGHT INTO ONE'S SOUL IF ONLY ONE WOULD ENTER THE RIGHT PLACE?? ENTER IT! AND JOURNEY DOWN A PATH OF MYSTIC AND SUPER COLD FINGERS.
It was insanely cold out there today.

Ok! So that brings this blog up to speed with my newfound plans to one day open a magick shop full of my own healing balms and lotions, crystals, clothes made by hand, jewellery, possibly even coffee and health foods- so much to think about and so little coffee with which to spur me on...

I spent the whole car ride home squealing with laughter, as Bae was being exceptionally funny for no reason. Example: *driving up to traffic lights. Lights change. Bae 'of course they turn orange'. Me 'SQUEAL'... then 'What colour should they change to?' Bae 'green'. Me 'SQUEAL SQUEAL SQUEAL SQUEAL'. And much of the same.

It was a delight and all round enlightening trip.


*~~ I hope all of you are having extremely spectacular times in life. Don't take it too seriously, just take it to lunch!

💖

Are you watching that?

Josephine's real name was Amarin Twenst but she had changed it the day she met Merceline at the bus stop on a cloudy winter's morning at approximately 9.47.

Merceline was everything Amarin wasn't. She was organised, for a start. 

"What a cold wet day today huh!" Amarin exclaimed loudly as she plonked herself down next to a very straight, very thin elderly woman wearing a long crisp red coat that bunched in at the waist giving her a look of French fashion know-how and high dark green boots. 

Amarin breathed in sharply as she took in Merceline's dress, and she felt something drop deep down into an unused space that had long ago held ambition mixed with sparks of energy. Like a penny falling through the opening of a glass jar full of cobwebs.

Merceline gave a small smile and said, "Indeed."

Suddenly, Amarin felt rather small, like a baby pine cone, so she waved her arm around her in a wide gesture and asked, "Where do you live then?! Far from here?"

Merceline looked at her with raised eyebrows and a bit of a smirk. "I live down there," she pointed to the right, and Amarin said quickly, "Oh me too!" even though she didn't.

"Have you also experienced that awful mailboy?" Merceline asked with distaste.

"Oh! I have!"

"Have you really, well he is just god awful. Throws my papers into the puddles and expects me to pick them up. Me! I pay my taxes! I expunged four children! Didn't I!"

"Did you?" Amarin asked in alarm. She had no idea what 'expunged' meant, but could only guess it was something foul. Her pulse quickened. Murder, she thought.

"This is the thanks I receive! Letting my hard earned catalogues air out for days on my dish rack, unable to complete my dishwashing, unable to buy anything within sale times... good for nothing hooligans!" Merceline looked like she was about to raise her arm in a shake of protest, but caught herself just in time.

"Oh yes," Amarin heard herself say, as her heart continued to beat as loud as a drummer-boy playing right next to her ear, "Oh, I have that trouble all the time!"

"Isn't it the crows feet?"

"Crows feet?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Well-"

"And what are you doing today that you must catch a bus for?" Merceline leaned in a little closer with a friendlier, wider smile, her silver-streaked dark hair catching the little sun that was glimmering through the clouds.

"Oh, well, umm..." Amarin wondered if she should say that she was, in fact, going out to buy ham and bread rolls for lunch to commemorate her husband's fourth year dead, because she'd rather eat his favourite meal in front of the tv than sit at a grave while it rained on her tatty raincoat as she described to his headstone how she was going to eat his favourite meal, but she suddenly had a lot of things to consider. Firstly: was this woman a child-killing lunatic who needed locking up? Secondly: the woman's boots and coat made her undeniably self-conscious about her own bright pink blouse and tie-dye skirt that reached her ankles. Thirdly: how exactly did this woman manage to curl her hair and then also pin each curl to her head as if dressing up for some kind of old-fashioned play? Amarin was dying to know so she, too, could disguise her own grey hair in a sheer blanket of elegance. 

"Is it that complicated?" Merceline asked in horror.

"Oh, no! It's just, I- I'm going to mourn my late husband and wa-" 

"Good heavens!" Merceline cried. "What are you doing in that outfit?! You don't wear pink and hippy drag to a mourning! It's not on! I'll show you, come on." 

Merceline stood up and beckoned Amarin to do the same. "Oh my! That is, if you'd take my assistance?" she peered down at Amarin in a concerned, faintly motherly, way, and Amarin was lost for words. Her fingers unconsciously pulled at her skirt while she had visions of herself and this well-dressed woman walking around the gardens picking flowers, having high-tea in a country club where everything was white and floral, sharing a laugh while walking this woman's two well-behaved dogs, and chattering over a roast dinner about the rude young boys of the newer century.

"Of course you ca-" she started but Merceline cut over her.

"Of course I must! How would you refuse such a request? Come along, I'll straighten you out, come on..."

Amarin stood up and swung her handbag over her shoulder as Merceline stuck out her hand in the most daintiest gesture Amarin had ever seen. She supposed her skin felt soft, smooth, and supple, like a baby's talcumed bottom. 

"How rude of me, I haven't introduced myself. My name is Merceline."

"Hello, I'm... I'm- uh, well, my name is... Josephine. Yes, my name is Josephine." The rush Amarin felt was probably akin to doing ecstasy, she supposed as she had never tried. It felt pure and simple. And also like fireworks going off. 

"Oh, wait I'm sorry! Why were you catching the bus? I'm taking you away from your plans."

"Me?" Merceline laughed. "Oh, I was just going to the casino!"

How long must I keep saving you?

Burgoise staggered up clutching the stick. In the distance she could see two people at the opposite sides of her vision moving towards each other.

The sky cracked. Clouds seemed to gather above her: grey and full of misery.

Burgoise squinted. The two figures kept walking in such a slow, steady fashion, that Burgoise fancied they had planned this. Am I in a play? she wondered, looking around wildly. No cameramen in tight pants wearing over-sized sunglasses while eating sandwiches, no light stands, no props of any kind. Just the thick prickly grass of this field, spanning out as far as Burgoise could see, trees lining the edges, the two figures moving like slinking cats against the dull backdrop. Why are they here?

She squinted harder. She had a funny feeling brewing in her gut. Something was wrong. The figure on her right looked like a girl wearing a long dress, her hair blowing out around her. She was holding something. The figure on her left looked masculine, wearing pants, some sort of top, short hair that was also fluttering in the wind.

Burgoise leaned forwards. There was something about that fluttering hair...

Burgoise's heard dropped right to the center of the earth, It started to rain. She gasped. They finally met, embraced.

"No!"

The stick fell from her hand as she stepped back, her eyes wide, her hands shaking, her heart pumping insanely loud somewhere next to her ears.

Rain drops fell silently in front of her face as if instructed. As if trying to dampen this mutiny by washing it away or packing it down.

"Clae..." Burgoise breathed, hardly daring to look but unable to tear her eyes away.

There he was, like a silhouette on a stage, kissing another girl.

"Oh no, no, no... no..."

She couldn't see it, but Burgoise thought she could make out laughter. The rain was so heavy on her face. Or was that tears?

The figures moved apart, Burgoise found herself leaning forwards once again, thunder crackled, there was a thin vein of lightning that illuminated the horrendous sight before her and she saw clearly the two figures who were smiling at each other. Clae and Mira.

Mira. The girl who had pushed her into the toilets and forced her to eat a rotten orange. The girl who had stolen her gym shoes, her pens, her mobile phone, and her sister's necklace, wrecked them all, then left them for Burgoise to find in her locker. The girl who had broken her nose with a soccer ball to the face, trailed a Bunsen burner flame down her arm, pushed her into a rose bush, cut a giant Nazi symbol into her only jumper, and set her backpack on fire as she walked home.

And Clae.

Clae. The Clae with whom she had bought ice cream and strolled along the pier, laughing at seagulls and kicking shells into the ocean. The Clae who had picked her right up and hoisted her over the log fence as if she was a bag of carrots. The Clae who had kissed her, once under a blossom tree and once outside the music classroom, as if she was the only one worth kissing, ever.

Another crack of thunder. The rain suddenly came down in earnest, much like how Burgoise supposed she must look. Torn down her chest and pouring out all her blood at once.

She could barely see anymore. A rage wild and ragged ravaged her entire body, rage as white as an after-spot from looking into the sun and as hot as a pot full of boiling caramel. It shot up into her shoulders, her brain, down into her fingers. She tilted a little to the right.

She opened her mouth and screamed. At the very same time, thunder grumbled overhead in a continuous melody, lightning streaked all over the sky in violent bursts, and sparks shot out of Burgoise's open hands like fireworks.

Trade you my knee bone for your Kingdom?

She came out of the woods like a disease: slow, unnoticed, and craving attention. By the time Celeste turned around with a slight feeling of unease, the woman was right behind her, half-closed eyes the colour of red-gum wood, wild green hair like mossy fern sprouting out from her scalp and falling down to her waist, and smooth, pale fingers flashing gemstone rings as they moved precariously in time with the wind.
"I didn't do it!" Celeste cried out horribly.
The woman closed her eyes and said softly, "They must not meet again. It has been foretold... of great..."
Celeste felt rage bubble up in her stomach. How dare this old hag seek her out here, in her secret spot, and demand things.
"I will not!" she shouted.
"There is no other way..."
"Leave me alone!" she took a step back and stumbled as her heel hit a root. Fuck the roots, Celeste thought angrily, the words flashing in her mind like a neon sign. Her bum hit the muddy ground. Fuck this bitch!
The wild woman gazed down at her with an expression of inhumane quality. Celeste could not make it out, but it fueled her rage further. She's just too green, Celeste wailed inside her head, too green to be human... She gasped out-loud. "YOU'RE AN ALIEN!" she screamed, pointing a finger.
The woman leaned forward and reached out a hand. "Only you can light the path..."
Celeste stared. No, this bitch glittered like Bucky- she wasn't an alien. The sunbeams poking their way through the gloomy overcast afternoon bounced off her hand, lighting it up like she had painstakingly glued a million sparkly stick-on diamonds all over her skin on a boring winter's day, and Celeste suddenly felt true fear.
She scrambled up, knocking the woman's hand away. There was a small zap upon contact as if Celeste had touched an electrical socket. The woman withdrew.
"You're a goddess," Celeste spat.
The woman drew  herself up, "I am a-"
"You're all the same!" Celeste shouted. "Stay away from me! And leave Fern alone!"
She turned and ran, glancing back only once to see the woman standing in the same spot, glaring, shoulders hunched, a darkness gathering about her that Celeste could not see but knew to be there. As Celeste looked up at her face, the woman's eyes flashed. Pain seared up her right arm. She stumbled, slipped on the mud, but kept running. She knew she couldn't outrun a Goddess, she had no magick yet, so she clutched her crystals tight and prayed for a miracle.

When will dinner ever be ready?

You know what?
I've been perusing Pinterest like a love-sick stalking mofo slash drug-addict ~c r a v i n g~ their next fix, and I have come to realise that my view of Alyssa, Frances, and Cate is bleak, dark, depressing, not to mention awkward and hollow. Like, do they not have good characteristics? I MUST dive really deep into their situations, I just must, because without focusing entirely on their whole beings I will never truly feel comfortable writing about them.
Are you supposed to feel comfortable writing, though? Surely whilst writing a mammoth of a novel you would feel all sorts of emotions and uncomfortable is one of them. However, I feel that you should at least be comfortable with your characters, at least comfortable because you know them inside out so writing them is not such a challenge, compared with writing about what they do.
If I know my character is a dick, fine, but I know that so it flows. Alternatively, are characters able to surprise you by doing something sinister or becoming someone sinful, and does this not, then, make you uncomfortable?
Ok! Enough with writing the word uncomfortable! For some reason I have spelled it wrong every single time.

Maybe so, and maybe not. The fact is: maybe my novel will actually have some really lovely bits in it that will make it a pleasure to write and not so cringe worthy to read.

I do believe that if one always goes around creased, unkempt, and with stains, that person will then acquire a life that is so. Therefore, the action of sweeping oneself, checking the mirror, attending to disarray when it should unfold- because it will such as life itself does!- would be the upmost importance and required at all times!

And a good day to you! Sir!

Holy crap the smell of food cooking is the BEST. FUCK YES. GIVE ME ALL THE FOOD. I AM AS HUNGRY AS A HALF STARVED GIANT.

~ This has been an update of the Novel Kind. Will Cerri ever continue with her random short stories? Is Avalon still part of her life, or has she been cast away in a fit of fuzzy minded blasphemy? Has Vincent found his true self, or is he stark raving mad as well as stark raving naked? Stay tuned! For more nonsensical nonsense..

How did you know it was your last?

TIDBITS
Being the cheapass woman that I currently am, I have not had and still do not have any desire to go back out into the big wide world to purchase the microsoft office package once again. That shiz is about one hundred dollars that I do not have on account of paying a mortgage and also moving house. Yes! I'm doing the delightfully fantastically thing that is moving all my possessions from one side of the city to the other. The Joy!
But it really is a joy. This new house is always slightly warm, which I'm hoping will be amazeballs in winter, but for now it just means that I wear hardly any clothes and try not to sweat out all the nutrients I put in.
And this carpet is THE BEST THING since sliced bread, and WE ALL KNOW how versed I am on the subject of bread. Peace. Love. Light be with you.

Ok. So there's the Word problem. How do I go about writing out the stories and ideas that I do not want published on here without actually buying Word, or slaving away at the public library, where privacy is nil and the computers are as slow as they were when dial-up was a thing?
Why, pen and paper of course!
Pfftt! Wrong! I can tell you now that my handwriting is so atrocious I should have been a doctor, in fact, I may actually still have time to study and graduate and do the whole lounging back on the office chair with a stethoscope around my neck and say things like 'the test results were inconclusive' and 'the bathroom is just down the hall, only half of the cup needs to be filled', while gazing serenely over my steeple fingers or gesturing calmly to the door with a bowed head.
It's not the path I chose, but it is the path that I can and probably should not fill. I am grey enough already.
Not to mention the cramp-hand I would get from all that writing. Weeks down the line I will squint at my notes in a fit of despair, scratch my head, and most likely toss a million dollar idea down the drain.

@__@

Yes! Apart from using my failing ipad that has a keyboard setup akin to a sensation of dragging your fingernails down a chalkboard or rowing a canoe while scraping your knuckles on the hard edge every time, I have decided to use this blog as a way to calm my swelling tide.

Without further ado! I present...

THE NOVEL
It's been 12 years since I lugged this folder around with me to math class and science class. I'm sure my classmates thought I was super studious, but the fact was I just hid my pages of novel notes on graph paper, and I LOVED it. I simply adored carrying this folder class to class with ideas swirling around in my head like a melting rainbow paddlepop. I felt like this folder contained my life work and I never imagined for one second that I would leave it on a shelf for TWELVE YEARS.
I'm almost (almost huehue) heartbroken and deeply ashamed.

In the sleeve of this folder contains pain sample cards, really old, from a paint shop, with names like: Pink Orbit MID
Orange Fizz W
Ice Needles
Peach Portion
Candy Time
Rose Relic

I fancied I would incorporate those names into the novel. I believe Peach portion, candy time and rose relic all relate to one of my characters called Rose.

CHARACTERS
My favourite character and one featured in many short draft stories is Eden. I love the name and her theme is Faeries. She is obsessed with them. I feel like I based her on myself, and that she is maybe particularly easy to write, or was easy to write back in the day.

Next is Brandi- the girl obsessed with becoming a Water Goddess. She meets a gnome when little (a real-live tall man who looks gnomish or otherworldly who says he comes from the caves) and he promises to turn her into a water goddess if she commits a real act of sin. It's horrendous, but she is in the right frame of mind to do so. Things become really tricky and nasty afterwards. I enjoyed her as well because she had more going on. Eden was perhaps a little boring as a character, even though she has a lot of elements I like, but Brandi has this cool plot and twists, darkness, a real fine detail to her. She meets Eden when they share a class together and they both sort of faun over each other. It's very cute.

Alyssa and her younger sister Frances are both witches, or really into witchcraft. They start off with some amateur spells from books and do some rituals, but soon they notice things happening and I must say, their story is the darkest of them all. I shy away from writing about them because I don't fully understand them. As a result of a family tragedy, they have their younger cousin Cate, who is about Frances's age, come and stay with them so the girls get her in on it, too. Their story saddens me. I think it's going to be the toughest emotionally to write.

Last is Rose! Rose is the fun one. She has the misfortune of becoming cupid, or the messenger in which love can travel through. Rose must run all over the place creating love and magic, while trying to sort out her own life. Her story is chaos, and I have a hard time getting it together. I have elements I like but they all seem to be different, which makes it hard to flesh out an actual character and situation without it seeming childish or silly. Cupid, love, and potions are tricky because it can go one way or the other. Also, Rose is about three or four years older than the others. She doesn't have the dominating figure of parents, so I have to be mindful of that and hopefully some of the scenarios show her maturity.

So there is the faery, the witch, the cupid, and the goddess.

All of them interweave. The younger girls all go to the same school, and Eden and Brandi meet and become friends, the other girls notice each other in a 'background character' way. Rose is the only girl not in school. I envisioned a scene where they're all on a train and they all unite when it crashes or something, but that was around the time I stopped writing to focus on my 'real world goals' of getting a job and being a normal woman of society. Life gets in the way.

Aside from that! It's all running on a shell of a novel. The outer structure is there in place, I have the colours, the general gist, the beginnings and the endings, I just need to fill it all in.

>I admit, I feel quite anxious about writing due to the fact I have matured over the years. A decade has passed, I have new memories and experiences, and even though I have not changed much in appearance or character, I feel like this novel represents an age-old me with a naivety and ideas that will be hard to replicate.

In essence, I feel a bit boring. When I first looked at this novel a couple of months ago I became overwhelmed with nostalgia. Life is better for me now but in every character I saw pieces of myself or my life back then.



~
We're going home

If we make it or we don't
we won't be alone

When I see your light shine I know I'm home

*💝*