"The Arrival"

"The Arrival"

Dedicated to: Grandma and Mitch, my inspiration in much more than writing
Love: Kayla

          Every year is a new adventure, a familiar escape seen through  new eyes—ones merely a year older.  Practically every year is the same ritual performed through longer and longer strides by a girl painted with older and older features. Though she has changed, she realizes with comfort that the fantasy land she has come to love hasn't. This sanctuary would always be her escape from the world of passing and failing into a land of impossibilities and fantasy.
          Once she passes through those magical pines, dusted finely with the most sumptuous of powdered sugars, she realizes her impossible journey is complete. With boots, slippers, or sometimes holed shoes, she shoots down a smooth, concrete hill with nothing but momentum and the gentle guidance of air keeping her feet planted firmly to the icy ground. When she looks back, headlights are following behind her, illuminating the white puffs of her breath. But she can only trumpet with mirth, continuing without complaint, ignoring every snowflake catching in her hair. The best is yet to come, she realizes, dashing up stairs and onto a porch. With eyes wide with amazement, she peers up at wide double doors and finally spots her target: a circular milky-white button. Once the beams of the lights cease and her fellow travelers catch up, her fingers make contact with the button and the building inhales as if preparing to perform some mammoth task. Without a second more of hesitation, the home's breath rushes out in the form of tolling bells, ancient but nostalgic.
          The teenage girl bounces on her heels, shivering under her light, frost-crisped jacket, waiting for the inhabitants of her fantasy land to open their portal and continue her adventure. After all, that year's chapter began the moment she woke up that morning, groggy from a lack of sleep and filled to the brim with anticipation. Shaking the last thought of sleep from her mind, she summons up her brightest smile as the door opens to reveal a meek woman and a towering man, both exhausted from preparations. Twirling on the tips of her toes, she lunges inside to meet the comforting warmth and engulfs the two in embraces, glossy-eyed the entire time. The smells: soup and winter and ancient woods and magic. The sights: floral tiles and dimly lit rooms and plush carpet and friendly faces. The sounds: greetings and shuffling feet and crinkling jackets and the beating of hearts.
          The love: filial and wistful and celebratory and… warm.
          This girl, she knows she's home. And even though she knows this displacement is not permanent (it never is), she realizes that this magic is everywhere: especially in her heart.

I Can't Draw, But That Doesn't Stop Me

For my attempt at a roleplaying site. I've always wanted a mean girl....
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Character Name : Felice Etude

Anime : OC  (And if there was one: Fish Tales)

Clubs : To Be Determined

Personality : Once a player, always a player, Felice is the flirt every girlfriend dreads and the girl every teenage boy dreams of. At least, that's her opinion. Haughty and quick to flare up in anger, she is one enemy one does not want to make. It is unknown whether she has a gentle persona as well, though the faked ones are as common as the nasty. Her intelligence is often mistaken as being quite low due to her lack of vocalization; those familiar with her schemes know that her beauty is merely pretty wrapping for that which lies beneath.

Quick Biography :
She appeared on the school's doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm and refuses to speak. Even moreso, she refuses to reveal any of her past. It is rumored, that same fateful night, that there was a monster koi in the academy's pool, a fantail with luminescent purple scales and a golden trail.

Character’s Looks : Despite the fashion of the rest in the area, she refuses to conform to any other clothing style save the one she has already perfected. Corsets, ribbons (especially in the hair), and flowing laces are what she fancies the most, along with the most sumptuous of imported dresses and skirts. Her border-line curly hair is a light lavender, an inherited trait from her mother; her eyes happen to be a darker shade of the hue as well. With a curvy but slim build, it is no surprise she is used to boys pining for her. Below her right eye, the outline of a teardrop peeks out when she peers at one from the right angle. A feathery white shroud is all that hides her mouth, lips caught silently moving on occasion. Her voice is yet to be heard.