Greetings! I'm KallyPaige, KP, and I wanted a place to put my writings, for people to look at, and maybe review. They're probably garbo. :P
Principles
- Please don't intentionally say mean things about my stories, I put a lot of heart into these. <3
- Be nice to others who comment!
- I, Love, commas, and, will use, them, OBESSIVELY.
- I might put certain reviews up here for "Best", " Most Critical", and "Funniest"! If I get any, lol.
So long! See you later fams.
Greetings! I'm KallyPaige, KP, and I wanted a place to put my writings, for people to look at, and maybe review. They're probably garbo. :P
Principles
- Please don't intentionally say mean things about my stories, I put a lot of heart into these. <3
- Be nice to others who comment!
- I, Love, commas, and, will use, them, OBESSIVELY.
- I might put certain reviews up here for "Best", " Most Critical", and "Funniest"! If I get any, lol.
So long! See you later fams.
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Most of my Permas are in my HibDen, please check there for Forum Games too please.
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Story #1: An Average Day.
Characters: Westley (Westley, Firage), Reighton, Keaton
Length: 913 words
Summary: It's an average day for a 23-year-old man, who suffers of DID.
Story:
Westley rests his head on his desk, gripping his left wrist, trying to stop the trembling that refuses to let him do his work in peace. He mumbled under his breath weakly, pleading, begging it not to let his mind stop being his own.
He feels a gentle hand on his back, he gives a weak grunt in response. "Hey, it's okay, you'll be okay, " Reighton consoles, rubbing his back, "you're okay… I know you're stressed out. But it's okay, it won't matter tomorrow-"
Westley grunts, giving a long shiver, then another sigh. He sits back up. He runs a hand through his white hair. He turns and looks at the teenage boy, and gives a tired smile. "Afternoon, Reight." His voice is modulated, calculated, much unlike Westley's gently British accented, tired voice.
"Ah, um, hello, Firage…" Reighton ateps back, recalling that Firage doesn't enjoy touch, "I should go."
Firage hums and nods, "Yes, go ahead, run along, Reight." He turns back to the work and tsks, shaking his head and starts ordering the pages properly, then puts them away in order. He works on them as he does, not really not wanting to be called out again if Westley wakes up to this.
He stands up once done, and six hours have passed. He hums, pursing his lips, and picks up his facemask from it's coat rack hook. For whatever bizarre reason, it just won't stay on, so he goes to the attached bathroom, giving a brief shiver from the freezing, clinically white, floor tiles. He looks into the mirror and his right arm begins trembling, "that's not the right face…" Firage mumbles, vision suddenly hazy. He leans against the sink and coughs, closing his eyes, dropping the mask to the floor, soon to be forgotten.
Wesley opens his eyes, and looks around. He looks to the clock inside the mirror before him, '7:22 PM' it reads. His hands start to quake again, more lost time. What did he do this time? Did he get into another screaming match with his father? He hoped not.
He couldn't remember anything from those missing six hours. It was late, his stomach grumbled at him. He missed lunch too, it seemed.
He took a washcloth from the side cabinet, and turned on the water. He wetted it, then gently placed down his glasses on the rim of the bowl. He pressed the cold, soaked cloth to his face, trying to calm himself down, to soothe the flushing on his face.
A knock sounds at the door, "Wes?" It was his father, Keaton, "Are you hungry? We're eating out tonight if you want to come with Reighton and I."
Westley gave a timid sigh, setting the cloth on the rim of the sink, and picked up his glasses. He put them on as he shuffled over to the door, opening it. His own face blinked up at him, though older and hardened, then gave an anxious smile, "Westley?"
"Yeah, it's me, " he answered, looking away briefly, then back at him, "I heard you, I'd like to come. Reighton can have shotgun."
A distant yell is heard from downstairs, "HECK YEAH." Keaton snorts, shaking his head, "We should go then, c'mon." He leads the way, down the stairs, to where Reighton already is, bundled up in his thick snow coat, aunt-knitted scarf and matching hat.
Story #2:
Characters:
Length:
Summary:
Story:
Story #1: An Average Day.
Characters: Westley (Westley, Firage), Reighton, Keaton
Length: 913 words
Summary: It's an average day for a 23-year-old man, who suffers of DID.
Story:
Westley rests his head on his desk, gripping his left wrist, trying to stop the trembling that refuses to let him do his work in peace. He mumbled under his breath weakly, pleading, begging it not to let his mind stop being his own.
He feels a gentle hand on his back, he gives a weak grunt in response. "Hey, it's okay, you'll be okay, " Reighton consoles, rubbing his back, "you're okay… I know you're stressed out. But it's okay, it won't matter tomorrow-"
Westley grunts, giving a long shiver, then another sigh. He sits back up. He runs a hand through his white hair. He turns and looks at the teenage boy, and gives a tired smile. "Afternoon, Reight." His voice is modulated, calculated, much unlike Westley's gently British accented, tired voice.
"Ah, um, hello, Firage…" Reighton ateps back, recalling that Firage doesn't enjoy touch, "I should go."
Firage hums and nods, "Yes, go ahead, run along, Reight." He turns back to the work and tsks, shaking his head and starts ordering the pages properly, then puts them away in order. He works on them as he does, not really not wanting to be called out again if Westley wakes up to this.
He stands up once done, and six hours have passed. He hums, pursing his lips, and picks up his facemask from it's coat rack hook. For whatever bizarre reason, it just won't stay on, so he goes to the attached bathroom, giving a brief shiver from the freezing, clinically white, floor tiles. He looks into the mirror and his right arm begins trembling, "that's not the right face…" Firage mumbles, vision suddenly hazy. He leans against the sink and coughs, closing his eyes, dropping the mask to the floor, soon to be forgotten.
Wesley opens his eyes, and looks around. He looks to the clock inside the mirror before him, '7:22 PM' it reads. His hands start to quake again, more lost time. What did he do this time? Did he get into another screaming match with his father? He hoped not.
He couldn't remember anything from those missing six hours. It was late, his stomach grumbled at him. He missed lunch too, it seemed.
He took a washcloth from the side cabinet, and turned on the water. He wetted it, then gently placed down his glasses on the rim of the bowl. He pressed the cold, soaked cloth to his face, trying to calm himself down, to soothe the flushing on his face.
A knock sounds at the door, "Wes?" It was his father, Keaton, "Are you hungry? We're eating out tonight if you want to come with Reighton and I."
Westley gave a timid sigh, setting the cloth on the rim of the sink, and picked up his glasses. He put them on as he shuffled over to the door, opening it. His own face blinked up at him, though older and hardened, then gave an anxious smile, "Westley?"
"Yeah, it's me, " he answered, looking away briefly, then back at him, "I heard you, I'd like to come. Reighton can have shotgun."
A distant yell is heard from downstairs, "HECK YEAH." Keaton snorts, shaking his head, "We should go then, c'mon." He leads the way, down the stairs, to where Reighton already is, bundled up in his thick snow coat, aunt-knitted scarf and matching hat.
Story #2:
Characters:
Length:
Summary:
Story:
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Most of my Permas are in my HibDen, please check there for Forum Games too please.
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