• Blog,  Blogging,  Fiction,  Personal Posts,  Tourist

    Tourist | Postmortem

    Content warning for discussion of depression and suicide.

    Two nights ago, I decided I would arbitrarily pick a day to celebrate finishing Tourist. So, tonight, I am going to celebrate exactly that, even if I technically posted the final chapter a couple weeks ago. I don’t know if I’m happy with the serial as a whole, but finishing any decently-sized project is worth celebration. We all need to be proud of the things we do achieve.

    Tourist began with a thought: how would another person experience depression and asexuality if they were to suddenly find themselves in my brain and body? I had lived with depression for so long that I had grown used to it. I’d forgotten how much all of us with mental illness fight to exist every day. That realization hit me hard as I showered in my best friend’s bathroom, staring up at the bright blue sky through a skylight.

    I dried myself off and quickly opened Keep—as I do—to scribble down my idea.

    I wasn’t exactly looking for a new serial project after finishing Mountain SoundTourist just kind of came to me. A very different sort of story to Mountain Sound, which had been something I’d been thinking about for a few years before starting. Tourist would be first person, have a bigger cast, a more complex mystery, and would be leaning more YA. I knew from the start how the story would resolve and very quickly figured out an outline with key events and brief descriptions for characters: the AI, the Original, the Best Friend, the Girlfriend, the Sister, the Sad Girl, and the Douche. Audrey came in a little later as a character, so she never ended up with a nickname.

    I was like, “Oh yeah, this is easy, I can churn this out with no problems.” Haha, oh, how naive we all are when we begin a new project! My outline for Tourist was finished very early 2016. I finally posted the final chapter (the epilogue) in October 2018. What happened? What went wrong? How the hell could I screw up my own plans so terribly?

  • Fiction,  Tourist

    Tourist | Epilogue

    The sight of Redistance’s facade brings my feet to a sudden, scuffling stop. Fingers tug at mine and Paiden turns back to me, laughter on her lips dying as her momentum pulls against the gravity of my inertia.

    “Allie?” She steps close, brushes my cheek with her thumb. “Hey, it’s okay. You’ll be fine.”

    Logically: yes, Paiden, I know that already. Emotionally: I want to turn and run. Run all the way home and burrow into the blankets and clean laundry piled upon my bed. (Clean, at least. Finally.)

    Paiden brushes my fringe—too long, she keeps reminding me—out of my eyes and gives me the most radiant smile in the entire world. I would swear on my dying breath that on the rainiest day, I could feel the sun’s warmth when she smiles at me, and I can feel it now. She thaws my frozen bones, breathes life back into my moribund soul.

    I turn my face up to meet hers, and, oh, how happy I am to have her here with me. With her golden hair held back by a bouquet of a hairclip and her sunbeam eyes, I’d believe I’m staring right into the face of all that is good in the world.

    “Hey Allie,” she says.

    “Hey,” I say. She kisses my forehead and leans back, fingers intertwined with mine.

    “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know. Nobody would think less of you.”

    Over her shoulder, I catch Chase as he spots us through the gallery windows. He starts to wave, then frowns and tries to pretend he hasn’t seen us at all. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that he’s not so good at pretending anything.

    I shake my head. “I need to.”

  • Blog,  Fiction,  Tourist

    Tourist | Fourteen

    The audio cuts off at the loamy scrape of a shovel tasting soil. We are torn from Lissa’s voice back into the real world. Moments stretch within Chase’s apartment. We sit frozen and silent: Audrey with her hand over her mouth, Chase’s fist balled tight upon the desk, hot tears dripping from my chin. We are, the three of us, briefly connected in our shock, our horror, our infinite sorrow for Lissa.

    “This isn’t fair,” Audrey whispers. Her fingers muffle her words, yet they fill the room. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair, I decide—had decided long ago, as glass shattered and metal crumpled around my fragile, biological body.

    There’s movement to my side. Chase slumping onto forearms, fingertips clawing chaotic hair. Audrey lays a hand on his back, her bright eyes meeting mine over his hunched form. Here we are: human and ersatz. We all mourn the same losses when it comes down to it. No wonder artificials so often stick to our own, I realise. We don’t die the same. We don’t lose the same.

    And then it hits me: the trade-off I’ve never considered. Paiden, with her open home and loving fathers, can only be all too aware of their impending mortality. While I wanted to live like her, maybe she was looking at my eternal sister and wishing her own family could continue on and on until the end of time.

    Shit. When this is all over, I need to apologize to her.

  • Fiction,  Tourist

    Tourist | Thirteen

    Brief note: this ended up not being the last chapter, oops! One more. 


    A phone rings.

    In this room, a phone rings. It’s a quiet tone, so soft and melodic I almost mistake it for the music from the TV. Except that music stopped playing over an hour ago.

    This is something else.

    When I look around, Chase is sitting cross-legged before the window, his body silhouetted by the streetlight, his face lit by the ringing phone in his hand. He tilts his head up, eyes meeting my own. How mine must glow for him, here in this dark room.

    “You have her phone,” he says.

    “You’re the blocked number,” I say. There’s a pause, a tense, heavy breath held between the two of us. He averts his gaze.

    “You’re not telling me something, Chase,” I push. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but I know you and Audrey lied about why Emily attacked Lissa.” I hang up the call and wave the phone in his direction. “Now I know Lissa didn’t want to see you, and you went to her house anyway. What did you say to her—what did you do to her?”

  • Fiction,  Tourist

    Tourist | Twelve

    Content warnings for alcohol, suicide, allusions to sexual violence.


    If there’s one person I never want to see when I wake, it’s Sam. So when I open my eyes to her sitting at an unfamiliar desk in an unfamiliar room, her back to me, my first reaction isn’t confusion. It’s a sudden exhaustion at the unfairness of the world to place me somewhere so obviously hers.

    The room is a mess. Creased clothes tossed over every surface, at least three mugs on the desk, photos peeling from where they were stuck to the wall. Gaps like gaping holes where pictures have already fallen into the chaos of the room. What sticks out most of all is a jar filled with half-dead flowers beside Sam. There’s enough life in them still to justify keeping them, but I can’t help but feel that the room itself is pulling the flowers closer to death. The limp, purple blossoms lean away from Sam as if trying to escape her anger—her room’s atrophying presence.

    Or maybe that’s just how things are when you’re organic. Flowers die. Sam loses Lissa. I continue existing.

  • Fiction,  Tourist

    Tourist | One

    My eyes fly open. I am not where I should be.

    White light flashes overhead, stars flicker and flare in the darkness that rings my vision. People in white and blue yell soundlessly around me, their voices drowned out by the ringing in my ears. Panic surges through me first. Then comes the pain.

    Utter, blinding agony burns through my body, except for where it doesn’t: dark patches, like voids, that scare me more than what hurts. Places I can’t feel anymore, where parts of me are missing.

    I don’t look down at myself—can’t look down, even if I wanted to. Bile rises in my throat, tears burn my eyes, and my head—oh, god, my head—feels as if it’s splitting apart. My heart hammers against my ribcage, struggling against the inevitable.

    I’m dying. I feel my body giving up around me, the heaviness tugging at my mind. The doctors seem less frantic now, having realized the same thing as me. They are waiting, their too-bright eyes darting off to the side.

    If I close my eyes, I can remember fragments of where I should be: a scorching car, wind lashing my face, Paiden laughing as her soft hands caress the steering wheel, her hair lit by summer sunlight—

    I gasp, choke, gripped by panic once more at the thought of Paiden. A nurse leans close as I try to form the sounds that make up Paiden’s name. It’s almost impossible for me, but she seems to understand. Through the cacophony in my mind, I hear the nurse’s words.

    “She’s going to be fine.”

    I blink in response, it’s all the thanks I can give. The nurse raises her hand to show me a hypodermic needle filled with a clear liquid, her eyebrows drawn together apologetically. There’s no need for words, I understand instantly. My breath quickens. No, I don’t want to lose this, I scream in my head. Don’t let me lose this.

    All I can manage is a weak moan. I can’t fight this.

    “I’m sorry,” the nurse says, though I barely hear her. “This won’t hurt at all. I’ll see you on the other side.”

    I don’t even feel the needle pierce my skin.

  • Blog,  Mountain Sound

    Mountain Sound | Postmortem

    When it comes to my own personal work, I view deadlines as more of a guideline than hard law. I’m not bad at time or project management, I just have 0 accountability when I know I only have myself relying on me to finish. Mountain Sound was one part testing my ability to start and finish an on-going project, one part forcing myself to share creative writing, and one part actually making myself consistently write my own story.

    My initial goals were to post chapters on time and to write a story I could be proud of. Whether or not it gained an audience wasn’t part of my plans, so when people did read and enjoy Mountain Sound, that was just a super cool bonus!

    What worked:
  • Blog,  Mountain Sound

    Mountain Sound | About

    Starting (northern hemisphere) Friday next week, I’ll be releasing my FIRST serial fiction story: Mountain Sound, with a new chapter every third Friday from then on.

    With the cities aflame and massive warships silhouetting the sun, the human race is once more on the verge of destroying itself. The countryside was supposed to be far from the war, but death spreads like a virus—not that Efa would know. An android built for many jobs, Efa was given only one: to protect the sheep placed under her care.

    Until a dying girl stumbles upon the flock, shattering Efa’s peaceful existence and forcing the android to think beyond her basic programming. The war is coming—has already come—raising new questions neither of them can answer alone. All Efa knows is that she cannot abandon her sheep.

    Mountain Sound is a story about humanity, love, responsibility, and sheep. I don’t know exactly when it will end, but I’m planning around 10 chapters. I have a page dedicated to keeping track of chapters and characters, and it will be updated as the story progresses.

    This is an effort to start showing my creative writing more, as all I’ve done publicly for the last year plus is write editorials and book reviews, with my creative stuff hidden behind-the-scenes. No more!

    Patrons will get to see chapters early, on Wednesdays!

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