lowovis

This is a tale of two children.

The first child grew up happily in a loving home, with a loving mother who did all she could for her children. They often spent time with their grandparents, who gave them great food and crafted things with them. The child often built toys with their grandfather and played around together, went swimming, went for rides on the grandfathers motorcycle, and had the greatest of times. The child had amazing imagination and made stories when playing with their toys and building lego cities and such, they also made lots of drawings of all sorts of imaginative things. They were great at school and did everything they were supposed to do and had big dreams for a bright future. The child enjoyed everything they did with their family and cherished every moment. They got everything they wanted to have and couldn’t ask for more; they felt loved and safe and had a perfect childhood.

The other child grew up in a home of neglect. The mother was almost never there, and the alcoholic father had abandoned the family while the child was a newborn. The mother focused more on meeting new men than tending to her children, leaving the children to their own. The childs sister was a troublemaker: she constantly lied, she stole things, she got into fights, started rumors, she ran away, never cleaned her room, she started to scream and cry if she didn’t get things her way. The mother always tried to make things go her daughters way to please her, by giving her anything she pointed at, but the other child was not seen. The other child did not dare to beg for anything and their family was very very poor. They saved their weekly pocket money to be able to buy themselves what they wanted to have. Many things they could not afford so they had to make things themselves. One christmas they got christmas for a sum of only 10$, that was shared with their sister. Since they were so poor they never could afford to go abroad for vacation and spent the time at home. The child always felt jealous when hearing other kids at school tell tales about what they had done during the summers. They did not have many friends - at school they spent a lot of time hanging out by a tree where ants ran up and down. The ants were their friends. Once at a party they got a bag of candy and in that bag there was a big jelly rat. They made this rat their friend and created a little house for it in their room, in a small basket. After many months the jelly rat got stiff and “died”, which made the child sad. They thought they had friends in school, best friends, but time after time these friends choose other children to hang out with. They were never able to hang out well in groups. They had a horrible childhood and they couldn’t ask for more; because then they would have been a burden.

Now these two children, are two sides of the same coin - they are the same child. One story filling in the gaps of the other, one story creating the other. Things can be both good and bad, without one perspective being more true than the other. As the child grew older, into an adult, they got new perspectives at their childhood. Changing the picture from a happy one, to being able to see the cracks in everything, being able to see that their childhood was not a good one, many years after it ended. Never once did they resent their mom, as they had been raised with love, they were also thought to be compassionate. At the same time, they couldn’t help but feel that without that love, they would have wound up so much worse. Perhaps even a villain.

I told her that she wasn’t good enough.

I told her that she had no dreams, no life of her own and that she seemed to do nothing to change that.

And that it wasn’t good enough for me.

I was always so ambitious. Wanted that everything should become better, improve. That what currently was wasn’t good enough.

And none of this aged well.

My ambitions led me forward in life, it made me flourish.

But it did not make “life” itself flourish.

While I built myself a foundation to stand on, I was so focused on creating something grand, that I forgot to paint the walls.

I built a castle because I was good at building, but I never asked myself if what I wanted to do was to build a castle.

And then I found myself, sitting in my castle.

Alone.

Impenetrable walls.

Undaunted.

But there was no paint on the walls. There were no flowers. No decorations.

There was nothing but me and my castle, oh so strong.

But oh so fragile.

Because where was the life in all of it?

Were there any dreams?

And then I realised; I wasn’t good enough.

And even the strongest of castles have cracks. And without being filled with people, with life to tend to it, it would not be nourished. It would not flourish.

It would end up in cold ruins, and one day fall into rubble.

I’ve had an idea for a Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure fic for a while, starring only OC’s and taking place in the part 7+8 timeline, present day. This is the first chapter WIP, will probably develop it later. This story has a sport setting, personally I do not like sports and think it’s boring, but I found it had many possibilites for a JJBA-setting. It also features many lgbtq-characters and themes, which is more important. Hope this reaches someone who found it interesting, enjoy reading.

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CHAPTER 1: HER OWN WAY

The sounds of cheering came from everywhere, chanting, horns sounding and the commentators’ voices filling the air of the arena. Her heart beating quickly, making her chest pound while breathing heavily. She leaned backwards and brushed her long brown hair out of her face, reaching her arm towards the sky. Her palm open as if trying to grasp the sun in the blue sky, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

“What a world championship football finals! The Italian team has brought the Swedes to their knees just as the match is almost over! The score is now 7-7! Will the reigning champions be able to defend their title or will the challengers overpower them?!” the first commentator shouted out. The second commentator followed up gasping, “Wait, over there at the Swedes court, their captain reaching for the sky! She is doing her famous pose! Will the Italians be able to stop her?” She firmly clenched her hand into a fist and opened her eyes, looking at her fist blocking out the sun. Sweat ran down her arm into her already soaked blue and yellow shirt, she steadied her breathing and calmed her mind and heart. She then swiftly dragged her arm downwards and opened her palm in front of her face, fingers spread, following up with pointing towards the opposing team. “I, Johanna Joestar, will not face defeat today, nor any other day!”

This is a short story or something, idk, that I wrote from the prompt “Roots” in an art collab with @gardneria. She gave me the word “Roots” and is currently making a drawing based on this story. For a very long time, she had walked. She barely remembered when she left. One day she had left it all and walked away from everything. Walking where ever her feet took her. She did not know her destination, nor did she have a goal; the journey had its own value she thought.

A walk towards nothing was a never-ending journey. A never-ending journey was also a journey full of possibilities. She saw things, she experienced things. But she never stayed, she was always on the move. But the further she walked, the more tired she became. A never-ending journey is also a restless journey. And the restlessness grew. It started as a sprout somewhere deep within her. She kept experiencing new things, keeping the restlessness at bay, keeping the sprout from being cultivated. But the more she saw, the less surprised she became. The surroundings lost their colours, the sounds lost their melodies, the people lost their faces. Everything became the same, and everything felt slower. Yet she kept on walking.

The journey became slower, but never stalled, her attempts to see new things in everything grey never ceased. But it became harder and harder to distinguish the new in a mass so familiar end old. It was as if her eyesight faltered with each and every step she took. Every step became heavier, every breath became longer. At one point she barely knew if she was still moving forward. It was hard to tell when everything looked the same, everything felt the same, everything was the same. But she kept walking.

Until one day she stopped. She did not know when she stopped walking. She tried to move but couldn’t muster the strength to her limbs. She couldn’t distinguish herself from her surroundings. Without noticing, the sprout within her had grown larger with time. It had grown leaves and branches, which she had not been able to see as everything had looked the same. She wasn’t able to move anymore. Without realising it, roots had started to grow and anchored her somewhere. She did not know where. Perhaps it did not matter? She was walking towards nowhere, she was walking towards eternity. And somehow, she had reached nothing, and time stood still.

Was she at peace? Had the journey fulfilled the goal of its own value, or had the journey lost its value on the way? Or did the journey, perhaps, never have a value? If she wasn’t walking towards something, was she in fact, rather walking away, from something? As she stood rooted in one place, it felt as nothing had changed since the day she left. She wanted to walk away from it all once again but she could not. She had already tried it. Where did that sprout come from, anyway? A sprout comes from a seed. And a seed needs to fall off from something. Was the seed always in her? Was she the one that dropped the seed? The seed had once fallen from herself and then again made it back to herself. All this time it wasn’t that she was walking towards nothing. She had been walking away from herself, something she could never escape.

She sighed and stared up into the ceiling. After a while she sat up, with her face in her hands, breathing slowly. She rose from the bed and walked to her desk and picked up her phone, dialling a number. Beep, beep, beep… *click* “Hi mom, it’s me… Yeah. ... I’m coming back home. …. No. …. Yeah. I’m going to see a therapist. … Mhm. Talk to you later. Love you” *click* She put the phone down at her desk and walked up to her bedroom window, and opened it. A fresh breeze pulled in and she looked out into the sunlight. Perhaps it was not too late to find a light, and instead of walking away from herself, she could walk towards herself.

Today while showering I got some inspiration, and this night I finally wrote down some stuff instead of just having it in my head! This is a rough sketch, but is a scene where some of the most important side characters for my scifi-novel “Between the space and the stars” are introduced. The scene itself shows earth facing a crisis, being handled from the moon base of operations. The beginning of the scene is down here, the rest under the cut. Hope you enjoy it!

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Commander Adesina had just begun her morning shift at the bridge of Lunar centre, stationed at transmission and subspace monitoring. It was only 06:15 UTC and she yawned accordingly. The bridge was quite calm at this time but as always fully staffed, but not much chatter nor conversation, the only sounds being low humming from the computers and occasional beeps. Lunar centre had for many years been the main base of operations for earths space strategy coordination, placed on the moon. This was also earths oldest and first off-world planetary base, but was continuously upgraded and refitted along with new technological advances and conducting research. It was also the home for many moon colonists who worked there, or who had been stationed there. That was the case for Elisabeth Adesina. She had worked at Lunar centre for about seven years, with occasional months operating on earth instead, to be able to be closer to her children living there. Those months were very much appreciated, not only from the family point of view but also to get an environmental exchange and not being stuck in space too much. Although being one of Earth Space Forces finest science officers, she was not a huge fan of working in space. She felt it was so wast and deep, hiding things one could never imagine. On the other hand, she knew this also meant wonderous scientific things waiting to be discovered, and this made her very fascinated with space in ways that made it worth being out in the vast darkness. However, from her station on the bridge, she often had an excellent view of the earth through the huge window in the front of the room. That made her feel a little bit closer to home, compared to when she had been on deep space science missions on starships, where home might never be seen again.

That special moment when we are at each other’s fingertips. She could remember the times, clear as day, in her memory.

Was it a beginning, or an ending?

The first tight embrace. Slightly too long. But not in the bad kind of sense. Too long in the sense that this isn’t the ordinary hug. When it ends, the arms slowly follow each other. A tingling feeling of euphoria. Heart beating fast, blood rushing. Hands running down along the arms. Hands that at a tiny point in time, just barely touches each other by connecting. Connecting by a slight touch at the fingertips. A connection that is over just as fast as it came to be, but left traces lasting much longer. Emotions of joy, hope and a connection deeper beyond physical meaning. A beginning.

Was it a beginning, or an ending?

The last tight embrace. Slightly too long. But not long enough. A hug that one might want to let go off, or perhaps, never let go off. When it ends, the arms hastily follow each other. But their movement feels as if they were in slow-motion, never-ending. Reminding of something that once was. A cold feeling of despair. Heart beating slowly, pressure adding to the chest. Pressure adding to the troat. Hands running down along the arms. Hands that at a tiny point in time, just barely touches each other by connecting. Connecting by a slight touch at the fingertips. Or was they really connecting, perhaps they were in fact, disconnecting? Disconnecting all the emotions of joy, hope and deep connection beyond physical meaning. A disconnecting leaving sadness, hopelessness and creating a bigger distance than ever before - both emotionally and physically. A distance feeling like miles, even though you stand next to each other. Leaving not traces, but scars, that no one knows how long they last. An ending.

Was it a beginning, or an ending?

A connection, or a disconnection?

No matter what it was, it was all, at your fingertips.

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Writing prompt from February 2020 prompt set by @downwithwritersblock​

Many times she had felt it. Ever since she was a kid. Sometimes it was instant, sometimes it showed up after a little while. Sometimes it took years. She always knew when it was there.

When she was nine, hanging out with her two best friends, Maria and Erina, sitting on the floor on the second floor in Marias home. Being with them, she felt it.

When she was fifteen, waking up next to her best friend Louie, she felt it.

When she was fourteen, meeting her text roleplay friend Sabrina from online for the first time, she felt it.

When she was fourteen, doing online text roleplay and then chatting with her new friend Cassandra, she felt it.

When she was fifteen, looking at her friend Carlos lips, she felt it.

That one time when she was 22 and took that evening course about racism and someone said “Hey, I like your handwriting. It looks so unique!”, she felt it.

And when she was studying when she was 21, and got to learn Mira and Joseph, she felt it.

When she was 27 and helped and slowly got to know Chris, she felt it.

When she was 25 and said “it’s like an adventure!” at the same time as her classmates Lizzy, and they laughed together, she felt it.

She didn’t remember when, but around her age of 24-26, she first felt it for her best friend Cecilia. Then, a year later, she felt it for her best friend Emma. They were all friends. She felt it, and she felt it.

Last week, soon to be 29, when she talked to a stranger in her class, about politics, she felt it.

What was it?

She wasn’t supposed to like both Maria and Erina. You can only like one person. You an only be with one person. First she was with one, then with the other. Everyone ended up fighting. Guilt.

She couldn’t tell Louie. Back then, she wasn’t supposed to like boys. She could tell no one. Guilt.

She couldn’t feel like this from someone online. It’s not real. Guilt.

She wasn’t supposed to feel this for Cassandra, she had a relationship with Sabrina. Guilt.

She was not allowed to look at Carlos lips like that. Just like with Louie, she wasn’t supposed to like boys. Guilt.

This person just gave her a compliment, nameless. Meaningless. Guilt.

She had to choose, Mira or Joseph? She wasn’t supposed to have to choose. Guilt.

Because of the circumstances, things not being the right time and right place and right people, it was wrong to think like that about Chris. Guilt.

Lizzy was older than her and had a child. She didn’t even like children. They barely knew each other anyway. Guilt.

Cecilia and Emma are her best friends. Where did this come from? She knew things would become different, words would make different. Guilt.

It was just a talk about politics. Sure, she had been looking towards her sometimes during class, didn’t think they’d ever talk. But they obviously came from totally different worlds. It was stupid. Guilt.

She felt it many times more. It was in different degrees, never the same. Sometimes small, sometimes big. But no matter the size, she always knew it would come. Guilt.

Guilt for feeling too fast. Feeling too small. Feeling too much. Feeling too many times. Feeling wrong. Guilt for just feeling. Guilt for having feelings.

She was tired of having feelings. She did not know if the guilt would end. She did not know how the story would end. But this text ends right here.

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Writing prompt from February 2020 prompt set by @downwithwritersblock​ I choose this spare prompt for the 2nd february, instead of the intended “Silk” which just was too hard for me to make something out of haha!

Many years ago, she came over a box filled with little boxes. “Are we going to throw these out?” she asked her coworkers. “Yeah, we’re gonna put it in the recycle bin,” one of her coworkers asked. “Okay,” she replied.

She took some of the little boxes. Many of the little boxes. Was it, perhaps, all of the little boxes? Probably 40 of them. She was a creative mind and liked to create. She built things using all sorts of small components. The little boxes were very small in size, just about 5x5x2 centimetres. They were perfect for small components.

She took the boxes home and went through her drawer filled with things. She tried to sort everything into the little boxes, giving them labels showing their content. Metal this, metal that, wire this, rings that... She filled about ten of the boxes and many little boxes were empty.

“What to do with all these little boxes?” she asked herself and pondered while looking around her apartment. She also had large boxes and one of them was empty.

“Maybe this will fit?” she said and started to store the little boxes in a larger box. All of the remaining little boxes neatly fit perfectly in the bigger box. She labeled the big box “the box-box”. As things should be, the box-box got its place among other bigger boxes containing bigger materials.

However, the years went by and the empty little boxes inside the box-box still remained there. The filled little boxes, now having their place in a drawer, rarely - or rather never - emptied out. She asked herself, what happened to my creativeness? Eager to find spaces and places to organize her creative vein, she had only seemed to store emptiness.

She barely created anymore. Things had their place, but that was all it was. Materials, components, neatly sorted. Never to be touched. Had she somehow, in all the sorting and organizing, perhaps by mistake put her creativity away, too? Somewhere, perhaps in a little box? Somewhere on a shelf she had forgotten? Perhaps it was out of reach? Placed too high up, placed too far in behind other boxes? She looked for the box. What was its shape? How big was it? How big of a box do you need to fit a single persons creativity? Was it heavy? She wasn’t sure anymore. But something was heavy. She could feel it. She found a box. A big box. She opened it. And she found nothing. The box was filled with emptiness. Just like the little boxes.

“Is this all that is left?” she asked herself, “Was this all I stored away? What do I have left?”

The only thing she had left was her own words, her own thoughts.

She barely created anymore. But she created this.

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Writing prompt from February 2020 prompt set by @downwithwritersblock​