writing

stories/essays on the left, poems on the right. have fun reading my edgy bullshit!

The After (also posted to my AO3

“Remind me, Mason,” Aspen raised his voice in order to be heard over the music blasting throughout the car. “Why are we wasting gas on this?” Aspen couldn’t put a name to the song, but he recognized the iconic voice of an aging Johnny Cash. The car’s speakers were actually broken at the moment (though Mason had been promising to himself and his companions he would fix them when he got the chance.) Instead, the music was coming from a marred, battery-powered CD player resting on the center console. Aspen slapped the stop button.

“Because,” Mason replied, casually turning his head toward Aspen. It didn’t matter if you kept your eyes on the road anymore, not when there was barely anyone left to drive on them. “Venus hasn’t been running well lately.”

His voice expressed a certain melancholy. He patted the dash of “Venus,” his beloved 2005 Jeep Grand Cherokee. Venus had been the main benefactor of his paychecks since he bought her when he was 17, but the fact was, she was getting old.

“I’m worried it means our gas is going bad. Or worse, it already has.”

He shifted his gaze back to the road. Aspen wasn’t around when Mason bought Venus, he wasn’t around to see the hundreds of hours of work that had been put into fixing her up. Aspen had always been more of a nature guy anyways, forestry and botany. He didn’t understand the bond between man and machine — or at least the bond between Mason and Venus. Mason took a breath, before continuing.

“Within the next year or so, gasoline's gonna expire, and there will be no way to get more considering…” He trailed off, gesturing with his left hand to the eerily deserted world around them. “Y’know.”

An air of silence fell over the car. Aspen could tell his friend was sad about the looming loss of his car, but he didn't really know how to comfort him. He had never been overly emotionally intelligent. People crying had always made him uncomfortable. (He suspected that had something to do with his father.) But he wasn't necessarily emotionally unintelligent, or at least he liked to think so. He wasn't any worse than Mason, who's unintelligence showed through his previous relationship with Kristina. God, Aspen hated thinking about Kristina. He didn't ever get to know her that well before everything fell apart. All he knew was that she died quickly, and Mason didn't take it well. If it weren't for Aspen acting as a lifeline, his friend might've … Aspen shook the thought out of his head. And there was no use in thinking about The Before now. He couldn't change the past. (Mason had suggested The Before a few months back. And although Aspen had thought it was silly, it was beginning to grow on him.)

After a good few minutes of dark silence, Mason spoke up. “But anyways.” The voice pulled Aspen out of his thoughts, and he looked over to Mason expectantly. “We're gonna pick up necessities first, and then…” He looked over to Aspen, a slight grin growing on his face — a stupid, gap-toothed grin.

“Then… what?” Aspen said with a distasteful look. He recognized the expression. An expression that only came onto Mason's face when he was about to say something Aspen wouldn't like.

The grin persisted, as Aspen grew more and more impatient. “What, Mase?” Mason hated the nickname. Said he was ‘above nicknames.’

“What's the date?” Mason asked a seemingly unrelated question, although he already knew the answer.

“Who knows the date anymore?” Aspen scoffed, turning his head to look out his passenger side window. Colorado was still beautiful in the spring. Out of winter life bloomed again with the revival of deciduous trees and native flowers. The idea of curated lawns had died with the human race, allowing wildlife to regain control, unregulated. It had only been — what had it been, two years? — and the pavement of the roads had already begun to be taken over by roots and creeping grasses. It was awful for the Jeep’s rims, sure, but there was beauty to be found in the chaos of the reclaimed wilderness. Aspen couldn't help but wonder if it was always meant to be like this. He wasn't a religious guy by any means — he pretty much gave up on the idea of religion by the time he was 9 — but looking out over the terrain, seeing the concrete crack and buckle and fall victim to the fiery whip of the wild, watching in real time as man-made creation was destroyed by the sheer force of nature. … It got him thinking, at the very least.

“I know today’s date.” Mason said, pulling the other out of his thoughts again. “It's April 17th. In 2 days it will be…”

Aw, man.

“God — Mason!” Aspen yelled suddenly, turning to face him. “I told you we weren't doing that this year!” He felt blood rush to his face in a mix of frustration and embarrassment. “I'm not celebrating.”

“Oh come on Aspen! You don't even know what I have planned.”

“I told you this, man. I don't do birthdays.”

Twenty-one. It would've been a very special age — if it weren't for the apocalypse.

“Come oooonn, Aspen!” Mason whined. “It won't be like last year.”

Aspen shuddered at the mention of last year's festivities.

Mason continued, undeterred. “Dude, just trust me on this! It's gonna be fun.”

“I don't do birthdays.”

“You're an idiot.”

“I know.” Aspen sighed.

A pause. “...You want your early gift?” That stupid, stupid grin returned. The gap-toothed bitch.

“No.” He did.

“Yer’ getting it anyway.” Mason chuckled, reaching down near his feet, rummaging for a moment. The motion jerked the steering wheel, swerving the car halfway into the next lane. “Fuck, Mason!” Aspen yelped.

Mason chuckled, seemingly unbothered by the motion of the car as he returned to his regular position and handed Aspen a small box, wrapped in the cloth of an old patterned t-shirt, something you’d expect to find in the closet of your grandmother. “I uh, couldn't find any wrapping paper.” His face flushed. Aspen hadn’t expected it to be wrapped at all. Gifts were usually hurled at his head if they were given by Mason.

“You can open it. It's probably better if you do now.”

Aspen hesitated at the abnormality of the gift, before opening it slowly by sliding the fabric off the box. It…

“No way.” Aspen gasped, looking at the CD case before him. “Mason— no way! Where'd you find this I've been looking all over—”

“So… you like it?”

“Like it — Mason, I've been looking for this album for a year!” This was the happiest Aspen had looked in months, as he held the Pinkerton CD in his hands.

A laugh escaped Mason's mouth. “Really? You suck at searching then, cuz I found that within like, the first five stores I went to.”

“Seriously man, thank you.”

The sincerity caught Mason off guard. “Uh, yeah sure, whatever. It’s not a big deal.” He laughed nervously, avoiding eye contact. “You can put it in the player if you want. I already checked, it’s not a different disc or anything.”

Aspen did so without another word, the car falling still as they listened.

They were halfway into Pink Triangle when it happened.

Aspen could barely process what Mason yelled as the car swerved and his face slammed into the dash.



… He was only out for around 30 seconds. When he came to, he had been dragged out of the car and was lying on the pavement, and he had a bitch of a headache. Kneeling by his side was his friend, and… someone else. A girl, maybe a little younger than them. Her lip quivered like she was on the verge of a breakdown.

“Aspen? Aspen!” Mason’s voice became unmuffled. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his friend open his eyes. “Jeez man, you scared me. Are you okay?”

“Eughhfhgg… Mase?”

“Yeah dude, I’m here. Shit, I was worried. C’mon, let me help you up.” Mason reached for the other’s hands, but was stopped.

“I’ll, uh… Stay down for a second.”

Mason shrugged, standing up and turning to face the gravesite of Venus. Crunched against a tree, steam emanating slowly from her hood. He breathed, eyes wet as he blankly stared ahead. “My car.” His voice was barely audible.

“Sir, I’m so sorry—” The stranger began. She flinched as Mason turned around, his sadness instantly dissipating as his anger rose.

“You’re sorry? You ran out in front of a car on the highway— the only one out here for miles — how hard are we to miss!” He yelled, getting uncomfortably close as he pointed a finger to her chest.

“I- I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to-” She began to back up.

“You didn’t mean to?! Because of you, my car is totaled. How did you not hear the engine you fucking…” He trailed off as his eyes wandered to a poorly dressed wound on her upper arm. “...Moron.” He grabbed at her forearm, inspecting the wound. She struggled, yelling something that Mason didn’t deem interesting enough to care about. To her dismay, he began gingerly peeling back the bandage wraps to reveal a patch of rotting, necrotic skin, surrounding what appeared to be a bite mark. The stranger shrunk back, beginning to panic. Mason shifted away in disgust, letting go of her arm. “She’s bit.” A twinge of disgust bled through in Mason’s voice, as he stared at the infected wound. “Aspen, we gotta go.” Aspen turned around at Mason’s voice, just having managed to stand up, inspecting his black eye and bloodied nose in the window of the wreck of a car.

“Hey, hey, don’t leave me here-” She began, panic rising in her voice. “I- I barely even got bit, it doesn’t even hurt-” She laughed nervously. “I’m sure I’ll be fine! I just-”

“Lady,” Mason began, anger rising in his voice. “Your arm is rotting. I don’t wanna hear any of your ‘it’ll be fine’ stuff, because I've heard all this shit before. You’re gonna turn soon, and I don’t wanna be here when it happens.” He turned on his heel, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking over to Aspen. “Let’s go.”

“Mason, what about Venus?” Aspen looked back to his friend, wiping blood from his lip with his sleeve.

“She’s gone. There’s no use.” Mason sighed.

Aspen paused for a moment, nodding. “So… What do we do about her?” His voice lowered as he gestured to the girl behind them, who was pacing and talking to herself, rubbing at her wound aggressively.

Mason turned to look at her. A frown crept across his face. “Yo, you good?” He called over to her. No response. “Lady, are you good?” He stepped closer. Barely. Before he could ask again, he was being shoved to the ground with a monstrous strength by the thing that had replaced the body of the girl. He yelped as he was thrown violently to the concrete, the girl-turned-zombie’s nails digging into his shoulders. He felt her its hot breath on his neck as it snapped its teeth, trying desperately to rip at his flesh. His hands frantically locked onto its shoulders, using all his strength to try and push it away. “Shit!” he panted, grappling with the creature for his life. He’d fought zombies before, but he, for good reason, tried to stay as far away from them as possible. The scariest thing about them wasn’t the bloodlust, or the strength. They still looked human. They continued to look human until the corpse started rotting, which could take up to a week in the right conditions. They didn’t start looking like a stereotypical zombie right away. In his head he knew that she it wasn’t the girl he had almost hit with his car, knew that she it was already dead, but it… it just didn’t look dead. And fighting this… thing that looked so human… It was a form of torture all by itself.

He was ripped out of his thoughts as the monster was flung off of him with a CLANG! Eyes widened in shock as the weight of the creature was lifted off of him. He realized just how heavily he had been breathing. Aspen stood above him, holding what appeared to be the rusted remnants of a road sign. The creature lay still by his side, knocked out — he hoped.

Aspen and Mason stood in silence for a moment, breathing heavily, staring at the limp body on the concrete.

“...Thanks.”

“No problem."

The two gathered their things from the car— rations, essentials— whatever they could scavenge from the remnants and fit in their packs. Aspen slipped his CD into his pack silently. They prepared to make the rest of the journey on foot. Aspen tasked himself with making sure the creature wouldn’t reanimate. The sound was always the worst, but cleaning up a splash of brain matter wasn’t fun either. He washed his hands, trying to ignore the sick, guilty feeling rising in his stomach. When they continued on the road, the only evidence that they had been there in the first place was the wreckage of Venus and a grave.

Don't Call Home (also posted to my AO3

Stanley Pines was not a good person. He was a failed conman, a grifter living out of his shitty car as he tried to scrounge up enough money to pay off circling loan sharks while simultaneously trying to escape the grimy hand of the law. Not to mention avoiding the angry mobs of displeased customers. He was pretty widely hated, actually. By his friends, his family. His father. Hey, it's not like he didn't deserve dad's hatred. His fondest memories of the guy were half-approving nods shot in his direction from across the dinner table. There wasn't anything gentle about the man. He was rough around the edges. The man that customers met in the pawn shop— that tough, no-nonsense, "take that bullshit somewhere else before I call the cops" persona, wasn't a persona at all. That's just how Filbrick was. Though there were some things he saved for the home. His outbursts. And god, when he had a bad day, no one, not even Ma, could calm him down. He just destroyed everything in his path, a tornado of suppressed emotions and fury.

Y'know it was funny, how Filbrick could act so hypocritical. Told Stan to be honest, was never honest with his clients. Told Stan not to pick fights, came back late from the bar with a black eye and a heavy hand. Told Stan to take pride in their religion. Took the long way back from Synagogue so no one would see.

Stanley Pines was not a good person. Maybe it was genetic.

Stanley Pines was not a good person.

And he was tired.

…

Stan felt his bones themselves shiver as a freezing wind shook him to his core. Fuckin' Minnesota, he thought as he huddled his knees to his chest, trying to preserve his warmth. See, this? Shit like this was why he preferred the warm states. (Thinking of the warmth of New Mexico sent another shiver down his spine.) Even if it was hot as the Devil's asscrack and the bugs would eat you alive, at least you didn't have to worry about freezing to death and only being found 3 months later once the snow melted, a perfectly preserved icecube. Though at this rate, maybe the snow would never melt. The sherpa inside his shitty, stolen coat had pilled a long time ago as dry rot consumed the exterior. There was a hole just above the waistband on the left side that had probably been started by a cigarette burn, but was now about the size of a quarter. He would catch himself fidgeting with it, sticking his finger through when he got nervous, stopping immediately so as to not expand it.

And the best part? His car, his beloved El Diablo, had broken down on the side of the road, stranding him in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. Calling a mechanic had cost him an hour's walk and 2 quarters, because he dropped the first one down a sewer grate before he even got to the payphone. The mechanic bill itself set him back 56.20, which left him with 16 dollars and 83 cents to his name. All in all, he was fucked. He wouldn't have even paid the mechanic except for the fact that he demanded the money up front, and in choosing being back to square one or being super homeless, he chose the former.

So he sat there, on the ground in some alley of some small town, waiting for morning when he could go pick up his fucking car. Hey, maybe they'll fix the heater too. He chuckled dryly at the thought. Mechanics were just another species of conman, one that he knew too well, and one that he chose to avoid at all costs. Because the cost this time? Was him losing the money for Rico.

5,600 dollars in debt to a major crime lord. 2 years of Stan's life spent trying to repay him. 6 warrants out for his arrest, 2 stints in prison, 4 failed attempts and not nearly enough calls to his mother.

He flicked his lighter on, letting it burn for a moment, basking in its warmth, before drawing his last pack out of his pocket. He was down to 2 cigarettes, noting to get more as he brought one up to his lips, lighting it and drawing a long breath. Warmth filled his core as thick, hot smoke entered his lungs. He was almost reluctant to breathe it out, clinging to any semblance of warmth he could get, but did so anyway, sighing out a plume of smoke. He watched silently as the smoke floated up into the air and disappeared, colder than before. It was a really shitty habit, the smoking, and he hated it, (liar) but he had bigger things on his mind than quitting. He really didn't want to have to deal with withdrawals in addition to everything else in his life. His hands shook enough on their own, thank you.

His head snapped up. The sounds of nearby footsteps sounded through the alley. Stan jumped, scurrying to look like he wasn't sitting on his ass, freezing to death by dumpsters. He leaned against the wall, hiding his face with the hood of his coat. Waited for the person to pass. Listened to the crunch of snow under their shoes. Sounded like boots.

They stopped.

What the hell?

He stood still, silent for a moment, before his curiosity got the better of him. Cautiously, he walked towards the street. Stan wasn't stupid, and he had gotten mugged enough times to know that this was a bad idea, but this felt off somehow.

He peeked his head out of the alley to find... nothing. Nothing? What the—

His thoughts were interrupted by a firm set of hands being placed on his shoulders.

The next 2-ish? seconds were a blur; he didn't even realize what he had done until it was over. Stan stood there, trying desperately to catch his panicked breath. Watched with the light of the streetlamps as the figure, curled up on the ground, held their nose in pain.

“Fuck, Lee!” The voice was gruff. The voice was familiar. The voice was—

“Jimmy?” Stan's voice conveyed more surprise than he'd have wanted it to as he stepped forward, grabbing the other off the ground by the collar to get a better look at their face. Holy shit. “Jimmy!” Stan laughed, dropping the other man and offering him a hand up. “Jesus, man, you scared me!”

Jimmy motherfucking Snakes. Possibly one of the most badass men alive in Stan's eyes. Jimmy had bailed Stan's ass out of trouble more times than he could count. He had held Stan's hair back as he puked his guts out behind some shitty bar in Toronto. Jimmy was a good person. Stan didn't know why he kept him around for so long, or why he continued to find him around the country. There were a lot of things Stan didn't know.

“Jesus, Lee, why'd you punch me?” Jimmy laughed as he rubbed his nose.

“I'm so sorry, man, you scared me—”

Stan was cut off as he was pulled into a tight hug. “Long time no see, old friend.”

“Jesus, Stan, you're freezing.” Jimmy pulled back, a worried expression lying on his face under the blonde mustache.

“I, uh…” Stan trailed off. “I'm fine, really.”

“No ‘yer not, so quit lying to me.” His expression hardened. “C'mon, let's get a meal in you.”

Stan was too tired and malnourished to argue.

-------------

This is chapter 1 of my gravity falls fanfic "Don't Call Home" on AO3! Chapter 2 is in the works, but shits been crazy, so I don't know when it will be released yet.

untitled no. 1

The apartments at 24 Dell Lane, Chicago were— to say the least— shitty. A thin layer of grime covered the floors, no matter how hard the tenants scrubbed. or what blend of toxic chemicals they used. The walls of every room in the building (aside from the landlord's office) was painted a hideous shade beige-ish green, which, no matter the amount of complaints, the landlord refused to change. The rooms were fated by some accursed deity to always smell faintly of soggy carpet and cat urine, (although pets of any and all varieties were strictly forbidden) as it always has been.

The landlord was a small, stout, caucasian man, who dressed himself strictly in gray sweatpants and stained wife-beaters. He had a short layer of graying stubble sprouting from his neck and chin. He shaved every other morning, but it grew back at comedic pace. Wherever he went, he carried a small wooden ball, which he twirled through his pudgy fingers with an ease that could only be achieved through years of nervous fidgeting. He had a strange habit— more of a tic, really— of fluttering his eyelashes whenever he spoke to someone. Maybe it was the sweat dripping down his face getting into his eyes. Either way, he had a short temper, and a would evict on shorter notice. Yet Aspen had managed to live there his whole life.

It was in these apartments that Aspen was raised. It was in these apartments— with their rotting floors and traces of mold—that Aspen grew up. They grew with him. It was in these apartments that he took his first steps, that his dad buzzed his hair every Sunday, that he put his first A+ on the fridge. It was in these apartments that he brought home his first girlfriend. It was in these apartments that he met the woman from CPS for the first time. He was shaped by them, and likewise, they were shaped by him. They left their marks on eachother, they each left their scars. The holes in the wall, the notch in the brow. The building carried the memories which he could not— the memories of which he had tried so hard to forget. The vivid memories of his father. The blurred memories of his mother.

Aspen was the one to burn them down.

He watched as the building blazed in the night. There were no sirens, not anymore. No one would care. The dead couldn't care. The rotted wood was finally being put to rest, the mold and the piss and the rats finally being cleaned, killed for good. The smell of nearly expired gasoline wafted through the air, filling his nostrils. A soft smile sat on his face. He took pleasure in this act.