#meepyonnee

Piece three for our 2nd annual GHHQ Fan Art Giveaway!

A scene from the fanfiction Distractions 

Created for @rmnitb

Created by @books-tea-ghosts

In light on recent, mind-boggling revelations, I present a new headcannon: 

Big Sister Lin~

 -:- 

"Look Keiko, I don't care if Takahashi said he started taking writing classes! Just because he can rhyme a couple verses like any other kindergartner doesn't mean he's a changed man! Nor does it make him a real poet!" 

Glaring a hole into the ceiling, I heave out a large breath and take the telephone handle away from my ear. I count until seven, following the tempo of the steady tap tap tapping of the keyboard from the other side of the room. Keiko's gushing and valiant defense continue to stream out of the receiver, still loud enough for me to hear even with the phone an arm's length away. This girl never learns, really. Takahashi has cheated on her several times this year but each time she takes him back anyway after a couple half-assed apologies on his part. 

With another sigh, I place the phone next to my ear again. 

"-- oh Mai, if only you heard the piece he dedicated for me at poetry night last week, aaaahhhhhhh it still gets me every time!" Her squeals continue, and I take the phone away from my ear again. I'm so very very tempted to slam the receiver and hang up on her midsentence. 

Calmly, I take my other hand and cover the telephone's mic, take two deep breaths and -- s c r e a m. 

Everything falls to a hush. The keyboard typing stops, Keiko's constant buzzing continues droning in the background. From the other side of the common area, a man clears out his throat. 

"You might want to consider just supporting your friend for now if you think she's happy, but don't trust her judgement completely. Ambush the guy and interview him personally. Bring as many friends as you can because a teenage boy cowers in the face of a legion of young women." 

I blink. Twice. 

"Uh. That's -- that's pretty good advice. Thanks, Lin." 

Guys help. Any idea what Noll and Gene’s middle initials stand for??

Now there’s nothing left for us to do Except for you to be good to me And me to be good to you

-:-

In that large event hall, air heavy from electric anticipation—curiosity, dread, excitement—a family of three generations and seven branches buzzes around as they continue to mingle, catch up, oh, how is my favorite nephew? Has he been doing well in school?—Their laughs are strained. It’s amusing how they've believed that conspiracy, deluding themselves into thinking it's going to be the end of the world in a few minutes come the new year of 2000, the new millennium.

You and I stay on that makeshift stage beside one of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the ballroom, paid to play on our instruments without pause. I've lost count of the times I've stared out the window, distracted by bursts of fireworks splashing across the night sky as midnight comes closer—lost count of the times my eyes gravitated back to you.

You play on that grand piano with a flourish I've never seen on you in a long time. Notes crisper, trills playing on a faster cadence. You smile like you have a secret, those lips upturned on one corner, eyes fixed back at me.

Your lilting accompaniment to my melody urges my left hand to jump across the fingerboard faster, up in first position, going down and down and down to the bridge as we approach the climax of the song, its notes going higher and higher and higher.

How to write a poem, according to (the illustrious) Egbert Colin

So I found out about a speculative fiction writing workshop which will be held at the most prestigous university around here, and I’ll be submitting two of my stories. I have one ready, and the other one’s already in the works.

Problem is, I found out about this workshop only three days ago, the submission deadline is two and a half hours away, and I have only 2/3 done.

I barely have enough time to really, really edit!! I’m panicking!!!! But anyhoo, please, chaebal, help me D:

Below is a third of the entire story – completely unedited and hastily put together. Please read it, maybe? And tell me what you think about it please?

Thank youuuuuu ♡♡♡

-:-:-:-:-

An orange door at the end of a long hallway, subtle scratches on the wooden surface, tightly shut with no hopes of opening it without its key. The solitary letter ‘K’ atop its jamb.

Yet again, Laramie found herself standing in front of the damn door instead of behind it. She had forgotten to bring her key for the fourth time this week, and she really didn’t want to bother the landlord again – he’s a total grouch.

She really just wanted to go inside and stuff her face into a pillow. It had been a long day at the convenience store today. There weren’t that many customers, but the new supervisor was a real asshole. He kept ignoring her, brushing off her questions and pretending she wasn’t there.

“Mom! Open up!” she shouted, knocking on the door for one minute straight. Taking out her phone from her pocket, she pressed number one on speed dial and waited for her mother to pick it up.

No luck. That woman was a heavier sleeper that Laramie was. She glanced at her wristwatch – 03:17 AM. Three more hours til her mother would wake up and get ready for work.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and leaned against the sealed window behind her. Should she wait downstairs again? The couch at the lobby wasn’t exactly as comfortable as it looked, and the last time she had taken a nap there, she woke up to a creep staring at her from the other side of the room. Shaggy hair, tattered clothes, sunken eyes and a shameless, lustful grin. He must be another very cheerful, very polite tenant of this dingy apartelle.

White paint chipped off the thin wooden walls of the hallway, which stretched endlessly to Laramie’s right. There was a mirror situated at the end, squarely facing the gray metal door to her left. It was battered and unimposing. I R X I T, the red sign above it said. Fire exit. She tried to open that door many times, yet it never once budged. What, should she throw herself off a balcony instead if the building was being burned to the ground?

She rolled her eyes and brought her gaze back to the bright orange door of unit 5K. It grew dimmer and dimmer the more she glared at it. Bright orange to dull russet, deep red to murky brown.

She groaned in frustration and kicked the door. It shook violently, though it stayed shut.

Maybe my key’s in my bag … I probably just didn’t look hard enough.

Pursing her lips, she removed her backpack from her shoulders and turned it upside down. Her wallet fell, and so did an eraser. That was it. She grabbed them, stuffed the back into her bag, and then checked all the pockets. She already knew what she was looking for wasn’t there, but she hoped anyway.

Well. All she came up with was a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

That’s what you get for hoping, she mused.

Her eyebrows rose in question, nonetheless. She held the pack of cigarettes up to her nose, inspecting every side as she turned it around and around. It was empty, but … why did she have it in the first place? Neither she nor her mother smoked. And they had lockers at her workplace too, so none of her co-workers could have put it in her bag, accidentally or not.

“What’s this doing here …” she wondered aloud as she stood up.

With her eyes still downcast, two small feet entered her line of vision.

“Holy–!”

She jumped back in surprise, way back to the metal door. Drums pounded against her chest, her breath stuck in her throat. She relaxed only when she realized it was just a kid.

“Jesus,” she huffed, straightening her jacket. “Make some noise or something. Are you always like this? You’ll make someone die of a heart attack one day if you keep doing this, dammit.”

The boy stayed silent, eyes glued to the ground. He wore simple clothes, just a plain white shirt and red trousers. It was hard to tell how tall he was exactly, but with his shoulders hunched, he was about half as tall as Laramie.

“What do you need, kid?” she grumbled as she kneeled down and picked up her bag.

The kid fiddled with his fingers and curled his toes, turning his head to the side. He opened his mouth once, twice, but closed it and didn’t utter a word.

“Hello? Am I talkin’ to anyone here?” she asked a bit louder that she should have, her voice reverberating throughout the hallway. She meant to wave directly in front of his eyes to catch his attention, but he flinched away the moment she raised her hand.

Their eyes met. His were wide, dark, frightened, lonely.

He averted his gaze.

“W-what do you need …” he murmured, his voice almost lost to the wind. Laramie barely heard him.

She blinked. “Hey, hey. I’m the one who should be asking that, seeing as you’re the one who came to my place,” she pointed to the rusty letter K on top of the orange door. “What do you need?”

“But … This where I …”

“No, this is 5K. Five. K. My unit, not yours,” she said slowly, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “I can’t exactly get in right now to prove it  … to you …”

Her left hand brushed into something inside her pocket, something cold and pointy. She closed her eyes and exhaled, resisting the urge to bash her head into a wall.

Her key was inside her pocket this whole time.

“Here, see?” She pulled the key out and showed it to the kid. “The key to this door. Now scram – or did you need something other than waste my time?”

She stuck the key into the knob hastily, missing the hole twice before getting it right. All she wanted right now to get inside and pass out.

The kid said nothing in reply. He fidgetted constantly, though his eyes were fixed on her key.

Twisting her wrist, she pushed the lever knob down.

Scratch that. She tried to push it down, yet it refused to.

“What the –”

She turned the key again, then pushed the knob down. It woudn’t budge.

“This is n-not your house,” the kid said. For some reason, his voice was shaking, almost as if he was about to cry.

Laramie’s eyes widened to that. “Hey, yeah, okay! Fine, I don’t live here, I must’ve gone to the wrong floor,” she muttered. “You don’t have to cry about it sheesh,” she added, her words biting, though her tone soft.

The kid was back to staring holes at the tiled floor again. He stopped squirming, instead perfectly still that, if Laramie hadn’t just talked to him a second ago, she could’ve thought he was a statue. His chalky complexion completed the look, too.

Minutes passed, and the kid continued to ignore her. Laramie was too tired, too fed up to deal with this, and really though, a kid – or anyone in general –who was that calm while angry would never accept a half-hearted apology.

Laramie simply walked away. Her steps multiplied as they echoed against the walls, and while she trudged through the long hallway, she watched her reflection in the mirror at the end. She could see the bags under her eyes from meters away. Shifting her gaze, she zeroed in on the kid. He continued to stand there, motionless.

She rounded the corner and went straight for the elevator. While waiting for it to come down from the top floor, she noticed the number mounted on the wall next to stairs.

[4]

The doors opened. She stared into the small space inside until they closed again.

She owed the boy an apology, huh?

Letting her feet guide her back before she changed her mind, she doubled back.

“Hey, kid!” she shouted just before she stepped into the hallway. “I’m sorry, you were ri –”

There was no one there. The kid disappeared, the kid that stood like a damn statue just two minutes ago.

“He might’ve just went in,” she thought to herself aloud. “Yeah, he went in.”

She turned one-eighty degrees and marched forward, keeping her pace levelled. It was nothing, she reassured herself. The kid went inside, that’s all.

tadaaaah

New chapter! In which we explore how many obscure jokes, well-loved tropes and star wars references we can fit into 3000 words. The HMS Narota has set sail once more.

Ghost Hunt fanfiction by Meepyonnee

"I don't remember everything . . . I just know your name, Naru. And that I love you." -:- A series of vignettes. Reverse chronology.

- VIII -

"Here," he said, handing her the paintbrush she'd been looking for all day. Her doctor had given her this, saying drawing and painting would help her rehabilitation. "I found your roommate using it as a drum stick."

"Thank you, Naru."

"You're welcome, Mai."

As the sun set, it painted the sky with shades of color she could never capture no matter how many times she'd tried. The sketchbook in her hands housed many different versions of the sunset — from the view outside her ward, at the rooftop, or here at the garden. Not one of them was quite pink enough, or had the right amount of orange, with blues too blue and reds too faint.

What she struggled with the most was how the sun painted the horizon, how it painted him. The colors flattered him perfectly. The pinks and reds caressing his pale skin, the blues giving a shine to his hair, the warm orange bringing out a sparkle in his eyes.

She'd never attempted to capture his image, afraid she wouldn't give him justice. And every time she'd thought to try, there was a small voice in her mind telling her to stop—it said his eyes would be too dull, his hair too flat, his posture too rigid. As if it knew what he should have looked like.

And maybe be the voice did. Maybe she did.

She hoped so.

She wanted to remember him.

-:-:-:-:-