writing

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

Don't Call Home (also posted to 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.

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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.