Vanilla

Hey y’all! I’m just a teenage girl, don’t be afraid, I don’t bite. I am and have been a water addict for my whole life; can’t live without it. Love a good snack. Writes all kind of stuff, I like to say I dabble. And I’d love a cookie right now.

Vanilla

Slater+Andalin

Vanilla

7 min read

(This is a scene from a book I wanna finish someday. It’s called Code Seven. Seven is growing and letting some beliefs go. (Seven is slater but she don’t know that yet.) It matches the prompt I promise 😭)

(Andalin’s pov)

 Seven sat on a cot to one side of the dingy room. I studied him from the other end. He had given me the bed even though I’d protested. He was injured and needed the comfort more than me, but he’d insisted I take it anyway. For all his cold and hardened exterior, sometimes he could be quite thoughtful. 
 Full of surprises, I am knocked off balence at every turn. Like today for example. First he was rushing to take me back into captivity under his cruel employers, then the next thing I know is they have left him to fend for himself, the cops show up, and they start open firing. Seven pushes me out of danger and takes a bullet for me without another word. I can’t figure out why. I’d already come to terms with the idea that Seven’s employers don’t particularly care if I perish at this point. I’d only be a set back if I died. So why? Why take such a risk for me? Someone completely expendable? I’d questioned him about it throughout all of the time it took for him to lead us to a forgotten safe house by his employers, where we are now, but he’s even more stubborn than me. I couldn’t get anything out of him. So now I’m just left with my wonderings as to what is going on behind those blue eyes. 
 I watch his whole body wince as he attempts to lay on his side. The same side as the arm the bullet had grazed leaving a deep wound. He seems determined to not let the pain get to him as he shifts around for a moment to find a bearable position on his side. His fight is both admirable and stupid. He eventually gives up and lays on his back muttering in frustration. 
 I stare at his arm. He’d taken the bottom half of his shirt to create a tourniquet to help it keep from bleeding, leaving him in a black jaggedly cropped shirt that was somehow working for him.
 I shook my head to despell whatever kind of impulse thought that idea would be good to put up there. Seven was not hot. At all. He was a main key player in my kidnapping. Not some sweet guy who’d had been abandoned by the only sort of family he seemed to have and then taken a bullet for me. My thoughts turning back to somewhat safer waters, I thought about his wound. It must be bothering him. I know it was pretty deep. It will probably scar if not properly taken care of. To be honest, it will probably scar either way, but it’d be less painful, heal faster, and potentially avoid infection. I bit my lip. 
 “If you don’t take care of that it’s going to scar.”
 Seven stiffened at my voice and his reply was one of forced ease.
“Scars are hot.”
 My face reddened at this, as I remembered my earlier thoughts. I took comfort though, he could have no idea as to what I was thinking. Thank goodness.
 “Not if they are ugly, puckered, and infected.”

I thought I saw him smirk at this. “True. Much less attractive.” For some reason I doubted my own words that a scar would have any effect on his attractiveness, which made me irritated at myself I was still thinking about it. I cleared my throat in attempt to steer my thoughts in the right direction again. “Seven just let me clean and wrap it.” His expression hardened. “No.” I realized I needed this though. Why did I need this so badly? “Let me do it or I’ll knock you out and then do it.” He smiled clearly amused. I, however, was not. Heavy darkness filled my heart. Guilt. I needed this because I felt guilty. I felt bad he’d been hurt on my account and as much as I hated the thought, I care about him. I’m not exactly sure when that happened, but I care. “Please, Seven. It’s the least I could do.” Seven stilled. He spoke softly, “You don’t owe me anything Andalin, and I don’t need your help.” He struck my pride as if he had yelled his words. Reality came crashing down and I remembered who this was. This was Seven. My captor. Not some boy with real emotions. A boy whose real name I don’t even know. A thought rooted in insecurity surfaced. He’d probably took the bullet knowing he could withstand it better than me. So I wouldn’t slow him down as he dragged me around trying to find his people who have clearly abandoned him. I was angry. And I wanted to hurt him. But I didn’t know how. My temper spoke for me. “Are you really so scared? Scared of what might happen if you actually let me in? Accepted help? You’re eighteen Seven. You think you’re so tough being all alone in this world but you’re not. Trying to be strong when you need help is cowardly and stubborn. Are you really so scared of me you won’t accept help?” He was quiet a moment. I expected a blow back or a dismissive response. What I didn’t expect was a real answer. “Of course I’m scared. I’m terrified,” She saw him shrug as if trying to shrugging off dark memories. A broken, sad, almost defeated motion. “Wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t.” My eyes were once again drawn to his arm. I wasn’t being fair. Even if he was being the most annoying stubborn person I have ever met. “What will they do to you if you don’t bring me back in? What happens if you fail your objective?” The thought that I was just a mission once more makes me sick. But my stomach grows more uneasy as he doesn’t respond. Which is almost more unsettling than if he had. “Get some rest Andalin.” Worry made another nest in my heart laying doubts and fears. For some stupid reason I still wanted to help him. “Let me dress your arm first.” Irritation colored his tone. “Three shots—“ I cut him off. “Just let me dress it. Then I’ll be good I promise.” He growled and sat up on the cot. “Fine. Make it quick. We have a lot to do tomorrow.” I silently hunted for supplies fearing that if I spoke he would change his mind. In a cupboard in the little kitchen I found a small med kit as well as alcohol. He watched me as I made my way over to him. His eyes challenged me and I took it by sitting down next to him on the cot. I gently unwrapped his wound. It looked worse than I remembered. Taking a deep breath I uncapped the alcohol. “This is going to hurt…” Seven nodded and I poured the alcohol on the wound. Seven tensed but his walls survived as I dabbed the wound with a wash rag I’d found. Seven slowly relaxed as I carefully spread salve onto the wound. Studying the now clean and disinfected wound I had some unfortunate news for Seven. “It’s going to need stitches.” He nodded once more. Given the okay I found some surgical thread and needle and set to work. I didn’t have anything to numb the pain so I gave him some pain meds and worked quickly. Soon enough his walls fell as I repeatedly shoved a needle in his arm. Raw agony defined his features. It propelled me to work faster. When I was done I rapped his arm tightly in a white bandage. Some instinct in me made me want to kiss his forehead and tell him he was all better like I used to with my little brother but I definitely could not do that. So I pushed myself away and took the medical supplies back to the kitchen. When I returned, Seven looked less pale and stood to walk to a dresser next to the door to the bathroom. Rummaging around inside for a minute he came back with a t-shirt that was far to big for him. He took off his cropped shirt which I was largely unprepared for, and pulled on the new one. I averted my gaze trying very hard to ban the words “why is Seven so jacked?” from my mind repeatedly. When I allowed my self to look up again, Seven was walking to the cot. A very embarrassing giggle escaped my mouth. On the back of the t-shirt was a giant cartoonish flower underneath the words: “Happy Day!!”. Somehow it softened his edges and made him almost innocent and gentle looking opposed to his normal countanace. He met my eyes with uncertainty. “What?” I grinned and shook my head trying to keep from laughing. “Nothing.” Seven rolled his eyes and layed down in his cot. I snuggled down into the bed somehow comfortable. Minutes went by. When I had thought that Seven had surely fallen asleep due to all the strain of the day, “Three shots?” I rolled over so I faced him. He stared at the ceiling. “Hmm?” “Thanks.” I smiled as I looked over at him in the dark. “No problem, Seven.” He rolled on the the side of the arm that wasn’t injured so he was facing me. All of his gaurds had been dropped and I realized he didn’t know I could see him. He was just an eighteen year old boy. With no one but himself to rely on. “Hey Seven?” “Hmm?” “You can call me Andy. If you want.” I watched his face as confliction passed over it ending in what looked like gratitude. His voice was hoarse when he responded. “Okay…Andy. Night.” “Goodnight Seven.” I rolled back over onto my other side. I grinned into the dark. My intimate name felt just that coming from him. Not for the first time, I wondered at his name. This is what I was thinking about as I fell asleep.

Romance

Action

Traffic In The Sky.

Vanilla

1 min read

The sky was clear as it rained. It wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Summer could be like that.

Taylor walked down the street. He carried his umbrella, yet he was soaked. Water dripped from his black hair into his eyes as he passed the town library. He imagined the lion statues shaking their manes and trying to catch the drizzle in their gaping jaws. This made his lips turn in a little smile. Traffic In The Sky by JJ lazily flowed from Taylor’s headphones. The melodies streamed from them in colors of blue, green, and yellow. They mixed and mingled with rain as they slow danced around him.

As Taylor approached a stoplight he waited for the walk sign to blink. He tilted his head back and allowed the cold sweet drops of rain roll down his face erasing the heat of the last two months. As the chorus played Taylor mouthed the words as the world moved around him.

A tap at his shoulder.

Pulling the cord to his headphone the sound of rain slapping the pavement met his ears.

Blue eyes grinned up at him.

“Hi.”

“Um hi.”

She was drenched too. She looked cold, but her smile was warm.

“Have you ever wondered how it feels to be the rain?”

Taylor thought about it watching the sky fall without a care. Without reserve.

“I think it would feel alive.”

The girl’s smile widened.

“I think so too.”

She tilted her head back as Taylor had. He smiled as he watched her gentle deep breaths healed something for her.

He knew

The way only one who’d been healed can.

The walk sign illuminated indicating it was time to move on.

Taylor paused.

His brown and her blue asked an unsaid question.

He grinned and made room for her under his umbrella.

She returned the look and joined him. Together they moved on.

As they walked away weaving through the traffic in the sky, laughter harmonized with the new verse.

Taylor smirked as his voice became distant.

“By the way…

What’s your name?”

…

YA fiction

A Wise Man Said.

Vanilla

1 min read

A wise man once said,

On the brink of being dead,

A chance, risked,

For the benifit instead,

Of an opportunity missed.

An “always”

Put worry to bed.

For the thoughts in your head,

Shouldn’t hold your breath by a thread.

Take your shot,

Stranger still,

You might only get

one.

Poetry

12/4/2024

Vanilla

1 min read

There is something haunting

And achingly beautiful about

A winter sunset.

The colors are muted

And numb.

And ever so gentle.

Raw and unapologetic

Under-appreciated and quiet.

A cold, unnerving, but almost peaceful

Sorrow

Sinks into the breath

Of everything breathing tighter

Together

It’s bitter and unforgiving

But also warm and nostalgic

A somber joy resting in the details

Of frost coated sonder

lethargic, heavy and slippery

But wakefull of

Wonderment

Bridged with

Confliction.

Mistakes and memory

Stitch the quilt that

Wraps us in the comfort

Of mortality.

Beautiful.

Haunting.

Isn’t it?

Poetry

A Broken Bridge

Vanilla

1 min read

Long time no see. Locked myself in without a key.

Which version is even me?

I’ve gotta book Of what they say Heartbreak Is the highest price to pay.

Opinion upon opinion My thoughts Pinned under their dominion.

Guys and Girls can’t be friends Mental games I don’t care to contend.

What’s real, And how much I’ll have to heal?

If I cannot reach that other side, My only choice is to hide.

Each and every ship sinks Reaching that bitter sweet end

So I’ll ignore that pink And every confidential wink

Guys and girls can’t be friends.

That’s why I must reenforce

Each and every rule that bends.

Changing our crash course,

We are strangers.

Until it is all Water under the bridge.

Poetry

The Lances.

Vanilla

2 min read

(TW: READ AT OWN RISK.)

MIA (MN: CAMREY) LANCE 11/12/2024

“I love him.”

SUSPECT 1. 13:27 pm.

“Listen Mia, I know that.”

BROUGHT IN FOR QUESTIONING.

“Then you must understand.”

REGARDING HER HUSBAND’S DISAPPEARANCE.

“I do. But a lot of people in here don’t. They don’t want to help you Mia.”

13:39 pm.

“Can you tell me what happened from the beginning? Start with your husband coming home from work.”

MISSING FOR 72 HOURS.

“He came home from Tangies after grabbing dinner with a coworker. I’d made a pie and I offered him a piece when he came home. Mix berry is his favorite.”

THREE KIDS, ALL COLLEGE STUDENTS. ONE OUT OF STATE.

“And then what happened.”

MARRIED 12 YEARS.

“He’d refused saying he was full after eating at Tangies.”

SIGNS OF ABUSE.

“You said he’d gone to bed early that night?”

4 NEIGHBOR TESTIMONIES REPORTING HOSTILITY TOWARDS HUSBAND.

“Yes.”

REPORTED MISSING 13 HOURS AFTER LAST SIGHTING.

“He was gone in the morning?”

RECORDS OF MARRIAGE COUNSELING.

“Yes.”

TERMINATED TWO WEEKS AGO.

“Mia, you previously mentioned that this wasn’t totally out of character for your husband. Can you expound on that?”

SUSPECT CURRENTLY UNEMPLOYED.

“Yes. Sometimes, my husband was a quitter. When times get…rough, he often would leave for hours at a time.”

PENDING FURTHER INVESTIGATION AT SCENE OF APPARENT DEPARTURE.

“What else can you tell me, Mia?”

EVIDENCES OF A STRUGGLE.

“He loved me.”

BLOOD DNA MATCHING MISSING PERSONS, RADIO THE CHEIF.

“Mia, I’m—sorry, the cheif, yes. A new development in the case…? Oh. I understand. I will. Thank you. Yes ma’am. Yes. Okay. Thank you.”

FIRST DEGREE MURDER SENTENCES: DEATH, OR LIFE IN PRISON.

“Mia, I’m sorry to inform you, they’ve found your husband. He’s no longer with us.”

PREMEDITATED, INTENTIONAL, MALICIOUS. __ _“_Mia…?”

BODY FOUND 14:21

“They dug up the river?”

BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA TO THE HEAD.

“…Mia, how did you..?”

UNCOVERED DUE TO A FLASH FLOOD TIMED ABOUT 8:30 am.

“Mia, please sit down. How did you get a gun in here? —Detectives!!”

THREE SHOTS FIRED.

“You understand don’t you?”

MISSED PERSCRIPTION FILLING SEVERAL DAYS AGO.

“I loved him.”

APPROX TIME OF DEATH: 65 HOURS AGO.

“So I had to kill him.”

CHARGES AGAINST SUSPECT SUBMITTED TO PROCESSING.

FUNERAL FOR A MRS AND MR LANCE, 12:30 11/15/2024

END OF REPORT.

Horror

10:09~10:19

Vanilla

1 min read

Time is a cruel mistress. And I find her very hard to please. So many demons, minutes squashed underfoot. If then and now so when was the last?

The last time I looked at the animated faces and felt something some would call hope.

The last time I felt I was anything but just new, Anything to you.

The last time I checked my what must be broken phone for the lifelessness it stares at me with.

I was foolish. My demons, I thought I could tame.

Do you ever wonder if you’re looking at life freeze frame by freeze frame?

Poetry

Murder.

Vanilla

1 min read

First there was one crow, and he was beautiful. Then came the other crows. The ocean was still. That’s how you knew that somewhere else in the world, all was in disarray. Jameson walked across campus every morning passing the old dying willow. He’d strip the limbs and weave them into a crown fit for a sinner. He’d learned the skill as a kid from his mother, before she passed. A seagull landed on a branch close to the willows rotting trunk. His mother’s favorite bird was a seagull. Jameson used to see them all the time when he was walking with his mother on a trail not far from their home. She’d say,

 “Some say they’re thieves, but I think they just do what they are willing to do to survive. Whatever happens Jamie, you survive okay?”

Jameson would always say yes.

 Until his mother had not survived stage four lung cancer.

Nowadays he didn’t see many seagulls. Mostly crows. But he thought they were okay. They seemed to speak his misery for him. He liked that. Broken harmony. Today he walked passed the willow looking up at the bird. He stopped to watch it. It studied him back. And then, a crow landed next to the seagull. Black feathers sleek and shining. Jameson smiled. His mom and his misery making peace. Another crow dismounted on another branch. Jameson watched in wonder as hundreds of crows started to fill the boughs of the old decomposing tree. A moment of quiet settled over the murder. And then they pounced. They ripped the seagull to shreds. Tearing at feathers drawing blood. Jameson stared in horror at the scene. And there, emerging from the seagulls remains, a crow. Beading its black bottomless eyes at Jameson as the rest of the murder focused on him. All was quiet.

Mystery

Thriller

Slap Stick.

Vanilla

3 min read

I pull my hood lower trying to cover my green ringlets that often get in my eyes. I needed a hair cut. Down a dark alley, I walk into a mirror, my clothes turning sharp and angular, sparkling with a rainbow sheen you can’t see if you focus directly on. I check my golden pocket watch. Following three o clock I find my exit into a different alley. I step through, my clothes returning to their basic state. I wear moon socks, baggy gray sweats, my cropped stardust hoodie, and of course, the mandatory band around my arm letting the whole tree know my station. Deep burgundy. Like the dried blood of a crime scene. A Slap Stick. Or in other words a nobody with a pen. I pull out my pad of empty stencil paper and my fountain pen. I draw my trademark. A mandatory license. Slap Sticks can go wherever, but not without Roots knowing exactly where you are. Still caged. Just in a bigger trap, with no where to call home. An extra puzzle piece that nobody needs. I finish off my trade. Big thick lettering that spell out “AWQZTEAR” It means, son of sorrow. It’s my name in the native tongue of the lost generation. It translates to something like Benoni. My parents called me Ben. My friends just call me Noni. I pull the stencil from the paper and tuck my pen and pad back into my waist band. I walk from the alley into a Main Street of Sharp Suger City, or as us sticks call it, the Axis Gate. One of the biggest branches of The Tree, it holds the most nodes intersecting the sub branches. I pass many shops, several, selling themselves. The is no sense of reservation or class. These sugar rots will swindle your every point, until you got no currency left. Leaving you, in more ways then one, pointless. Most buildings are made out of sugar bricks, but a few of the oldest establishments are still elaborately carved from sugar crystals ranging in color. They are beautiful. A sugar rot steps into my path. Her breath is sickly sweet. I hate this place. “Hello there young man! Can I offer you some Cane Shots that will help save you from a premature death? By the sheen of your lovely brown skin I can tell it’s right around the corner. What a shame it would be! Only thirty points. We accept currency from several branches, almost all twenty five!” I tell her to shove off. Most everyone worth their own two can see Cane Shots are actually just diluted shots of maple syrup. First off gross, second off, total scam. I slide pass the jabbering rot and move into the thick of the crowd to avoid being singled out a again. The woman obviously didn’t notice my band, because we sticks are not welcomed in the Axis Gate. Not welcome, but we survive. I hop on the back of a stem route that was speeding towards The Trunk. Sticks can travel from anywhere, but it’s easier if we are closer to The Trunk of The Tree. It opens up the rest of the branches. Not just the twenty five everyone else can use, but all seven hundred. Most of the general population of the twenty five often get annoyed that Slap Sticks can travel wherever. They’d even tried to limit us in the past. It has never worked because each stick’s slap is different, so they police us instead. What the general public don’t know is that most of the other branches are hostile and dangerous. We’ve made homes in the outer branches because we aren’t allowed in the twenty five after moon dawn. However, we often have to rebuild because the branches snap. Sometimes you can tell in advance, other times, lots of sticks are lost. As the stem route closes in on a platt ahead, I jump off and coming to a rolling stand. I jog into the shadows of a giant abandoned crystal cathedral. After sneaking in through a side door I walk around in awe taking in the carved scaffolding. I look at the thinned windows depicting the lost generation’s up bringing. Saplings born from fire. Molded from the matter of the great before. Cutting fabric into the first three branches.
I wandered away before painful memories took hold of me. Coming to the pews I sat in one. Grinning I started down at my trademark. It was time. I hoped he hadn’t slept in. I wanted to go comet racing. “Branch 32.” I whispered, slapping the sticker down on the pew. In a flash of dirt, water, and light I was gone. I was going to my home, or as close as it gets. I was going to see Kibou.

BRANCH 32. OFF GILTED BRANCH. ORIGIN:: STAR CENTURY BALANCE/ ENTRY: STICK 22698.

BENONI LAVENTRY

**_six minutes before moon dawn.

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Fantasy

National Geographic

Vanilla

2 min read

So here our story begins. In the thick of our beautiful national park. Jam Ram Park. Where the lovely river, Jamima, is life blood of all ecosystems, probably ever. There is over at least ten species of animals that live here. Most of them eat. The wooded areas are home to creatures like birds and there are a lot of animals that graze. Most of them also eat grass. Which is abundant on this planet. Ah yes, the river Jamima herself! She is home to several fish. Fishes? Um… They are all exotic shades of existing colors that you would normally see fish sport. And not basic at all, because Mother Teresa, is a wonder. Erm sorry, I meant Mother Nature. Mother Nature is a treasure—Wonder. Ahem. Mother Nature is a wonderful treasure? Yeah. That works. …Now for the star of the show… And there he is! Bernard. A magnificent juvinile grizzly. Just two weeks since separating from his young cub life and on his way out into the world. Much like a new blood college student, this is the first time his hunting skills will truly be put up to the test. He is absolutely starved from his recent hibernation of 12 hours, something we humans call night, so he has quite the attitude. A little hangry fellow. He makes the thirty yard trek from his former family’s cave to good ol Jamima for the beginning of our adventure. Bernard is alone... If you forget his mother and younger siblings twenty feet downstream fishing. He looks into the river as the anticipation builds. His first mid-term has approached; catching dinner on his own, apart from a family hunt. He coils like a spring ready to pounce. He lunges! The tricky salmon gets away just barely. Devastating. Now soaking wet, surely Bernard burns with shame, most likely feeling the disappointment of his mother not twenty five feet away. How utterly embarrassing. But Bernard is not giving up just yet. He carfully wades deeper into Jamima. He stalks his prey as the wood around quiets and watches him make a second grab at a fish. And…success!! Satisfaction. He has caught a salmon. A very, very basic colored salmon. But something is wrong…what is he? Is he…crying? Bernard seems to be mortified over taking this fish’s life. This might possibly be the first time I can claim that bears sob. A full out tantrum. Oooh, ouch. That log didn’t deserve such a massacre. Oh he seems to be calming down now. He walks from the river and shakes his stunning pelt spraying water everywhere. Bernard paces as he thinks about what he’s done. He seems to—wait he’s leaving the fish on the shore. He…has put himself in a corner? He is staring quite intently at that rock there. He paces, seemingly trying to hype himself up to confront his meal. He makes his approach. He gets closer. And….he’s running away? Very speedily indeed. Bernard runs away faster than I do when I hear my mother in law is coming to dinner. Oh well. I suppose Bernard is better off a vegetarian. Good show everyone and thanks so much For tuning in. We’ll catch you next time for The mood swings of a gorilla in her teen years out in the wetlands of Idaho, Nebraska, of the Asia provinces. Have a wonderful evening.