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Wed Jun 06, 2018 8:56 pm
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Magestorrow says...


[A Saeverse Storybook]

In a world where everything is explainable, there is one thing that can't be given a convenient explanation: for as long as you can remember, you've been able to find things on your body that shouldn't be there. Little pen marks on your hands, when you've only used pencil that day. Elaborate little doodles on your arms, even though you've never been the type to draw on yourself. Reminders for things you'd never do, and sometimes a cheat for a test you'll never take. Of course you tried writing back, especially after finding all of those soulmate fanfictions online. But there was never a response, and you resigned yourself into believing you were a scientific freak of nature.

When you were younger, the adults would come up with all sorts of explanations. You fell asleep in daycare, and another kid started to draw on you, even though you never had. You got that paint stain from an art project, no matter how many times you tell them you didn't have it that day. As you got older, you and your parents came to an agreement. Though they were sure you were hiding things from them, they wouldn't press you for information. Tattoo, doodle, chem formula from a unit you did two months ago – the thing didn't matter, as long as they didn't ask.

Then it's the twenty-first of October, and you should be absolutely thrilled about it. It's your eighteenth birthday, and you're finally an adult! Even if you don't understand why things randomly appear on your body, adulthood provides the perfect escape from both the parents and the peers who have always judged you for what you can't control. But with your adulthood comes an unexpected twist. You've been getting the oddest feelings of déjà vu, and you're starting to suspect that something larger is at play here.

You're going to find out what's going.

It's just a matter of figuring out how.

x Cast x
“You cannot get through a single day
without having an impact on
the world around you.

What you do makes a difference,
and you have to decide what kind
of difference you want to make.”

Jane Goodall

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509 Reviews


Gender: Female
Points: 4369
Reviews: 509
Sun Jul 15, 2018 2:13 pm
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Magestorrow says...


There was a new set of burns on her hands today.

These burns in particular were on the back of her right hand, as if she had somehow brushed against a hot object she had no memory of touching. She had spent the past hour or so studying them as she sat in bed. It was of the upmost importance that she jotted down her observations about each one in her most recent notebook. A few pictures with her instant camera combined with the time they appeared at could tell a story all by themselves. She just needed to understand the plot.

She grabbed the closest pen on her desk – a black gel one, because it always glided across the page and wrote it the way she was aiming for. She had gone to bed early the previous night, and had arisen a bit earlier than usual this morning. She logged the time frame in her notebook and gently shut it. There had been a reason for turning in early the night before. It was her eighteenth birthday, and she was absolutely ecstatic.

Eighteen was a special number, she reasoned. It was the number that was given to you when you were finally old enough to handle yourself in the world, and the number that showed older, supposedly more experienced adults that you were no long a child. The combination of the freedom and respect was an intoxicating perspective.

Of course, she still had an entire year before she could technically leave this life behind. Graduating high school did have its merits, despite giving her no help in regards to her research. College was an equally useless perspective. A historian was probably the closest she could get to her goal, and there was little she could do with a degree that she couldn't do without.

But high school would undoubtedly come in handy, so she'd stick around just long enough to graduate. Then she's be off into world, using the abilities – and money – at her disposal to learn everything she could. It was the only logical course of action for her.

Because, at the age of seven, she saw something extraordinary.

It was a pleasant thing to think about in the current moment. Eighteen, after all, was a culmination of past experiences. And no experience had been quite as defining as that one. There had been that man. There had been that glowing heart in his hands, glowing the same shade of green her hair currently was. And then she had never seen him again. But that hadn't mattered in the long run; what had mattered was the love of magic that it had fostered.

She slipped her notebook into her bag. Her favorite gel pen as well, just for good measure. Her parents had likely already left for work, which meant she had a day all to herself. What a wonderful way to spend her eighteenth birthday! She'd stop by the library first, maybe getting a bite to eat at that cute little coffee shop right around the corner. Then she'd do a little walking, because walking was the perfect stimulant. She'd return home, do some reading and maybe binge Stranger Things again.

That had been her plan, anyways.

Her plans never seemed to work exactly like she wanted them to.

She made it to the coffee shop and had a nice little crepe there. She had even made it to the library. But just as she was parking her bike in front of it, she started to get an intense headache. She had bad ones in the past, but none compared to this one. She managed to somehow get inside the building. Plopping herself down on the nearest beanbag, she desperately waited for the pain to pass. While she waited, she pulled out her pen and started to doodle on her arms. They were just random little symbols she had seen in that last magic book she found, but it was a good way to pass the time.

It took a good minute or two for her wish to come true.

When it did, she was hit with the strangest feeling of déjà vu.

She was used to odd things. She had been getting weird marks on her for as long as she could remember, and she had been studying the magical side of the world for a little more than a decade. But this took the cake. It wasn't a normal feeling of déjà vu. Almost like she was experiencing something that wasn't quite her own memory, but that would be absurd.


She hesitantly rose and started to wander the shelves. The feeling persisted. She felt like she had been here – or a library like this one – with someone else once, but she couldn't figure out who. Something within her hinted that she had been close to that person, but that didn't make much sense at all. She was a loner. Her classmates and parents were convinced she wasn't quite right in the head, even though they'd never tell it to her face.

So who could it have been?

She spent more time in the library than she had intended to. She eventually left with more questions than answers, and was certain that something big was at play here. It admittedly thrilled her. She should have been terrified that another thing was influencing her life in inexplicable ways, but she had ceased being afraid of things she didn't understand a long time ago.

She had a new mystery to solve.

To her joy, the feeling came back when she was riding her bike down the street. She once again got the feeling that she had done this with someone special to her, but the feeling refused to get into anymore details. No matter. She'd just this down the minute she got home in her special notebook, and then she'd get to work on researching it.

Well, Mint, she thought, it looks like you've got yourself quite the interesting eighteenth birthday!
“You cannot get through a single day
without having an impact on
the world around you.

What you do makes a difference,
and you have to decide what kind
of difference you want to make.”

Jane Goodall

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Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:19 pm
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kat13254 says...

Kittie Harman

I rub my eyes, sitting up. Fuck my head. The hangover is absolutely brutal, but I guess it's my fault. 18, I smile to myself. I look over at my clock, 11:23. I grab my phone, unplugging it and turning it on with my face ID. My early birthday present, IPhone X. Now if it's X or Ten is beyond me, but I don't care. The selfies it takes are fucking deadly. I roll out of bed, and look at my arms, sighing at the array of small cuts and burns on my arms, cursing my drunk self for being so reckless before covering them with thin bandages and a thick layer of my covering concealer.

I fix my hair and put on my "nothing" makeup, and lie down, making sure to take a handful of selfies in different poses, checking to make sure there's at least one decent one of each pose and then move in front of my full length mirror on my knees. My private insta has only paying followers. Which all the photos have been semi-NSFW but now that I'm 18, that restriction doesn't apply anymore. I take a handful more pictures slowly getting more NSFW, before decided the about 80 photos I took are enough to last me the day, and plop back into bed naked. I post a photo on both accounts and go to turn off my phone until I see a message notification.

I smile, and open it. It's from Derek.

"Hey, saw your insta post :) Let's meet up today okay? I want you to meet some friends of mine." Ugh. His friends are weird, but they are all around his age, 27, and have major money, so I comply, texting him "Kk, seeya *kiss**kiss*"

"KATARINA! Out of bed now!!" I hear mom yell at me from the bottom of the stairs and I groan. I get out of bed, wipe off my morning makeup and put on a full face before slipping into my high waisted skinny jeans and a knit crop top. I curl my hair at the ends and slide my sunglasses carefully into my hair on the top of my head. I walk over to my full mirror and check myself over, biting my lip when I see the tag of my jeans poking out, the *2* standing out to me. I still need to bring that down. I grab my purse, double checking my card and phone are securely in there and rush down the stairs, grabbing a handful of assorted chopped fruit.

"Let me guess. That's your breakfast Katarina."

"You know it is."

"Good, you seem to have been getting a bit pudgy again. I don't need to be buying you new clothes considering how spoiled you already are." She sticks a finger into the waist of my pants, pointing out the fact they're a bit tighter than her liking. "Your medication is upstairs." I hate her use of the word "medication" like I need it. It's her stupid "herbal supplements" also known as appetite suppressors. I grab a few extra berries and scurry out the door like a cat with its tail between its legs.

I walk down the road to the old park, it's wooden structure once a joy, now too old to be considered safe after so much use. The towns petitions to fix it all met with a red stamp of disapproval due to the monetary cost. As I walk into the park a sharp pain runs through my temples, almost knocking me off my feet. I get to the wooden playset and sit on the ledge of one of the 'step' platforms. A weird feeling rushes over me, almost like deja vu. I open my bag, grab a xan, and pop it. The pill making the problems seem to lose clarity as I'm washed over with the medicated calm. I pull out my favourite skin safe pen and start doodling just whatever comes to mind, a strawberry, and as I go to adjust my arm I scrape it against a loose board, a cut releasing blood, coating the strawberry with its natural colour.

I curse under my breath, and dig through my bag, only stopping once I pull out a bandage and cover the cut.

"Kittie there you are." I jump at the voice, sighing when I see its just Derek. "I tried to pick you up at your house, but you weren't home."

"Idiot! Did my mom answer?"

"Yeah she did. She just told me you're gone off to whore around, like normal. Not my words, hers."

"Ugh. I hate her." I stand and tap Derek's head causing him to rapid try to fix his hair while I hug myself into his chest.

"I know Kittie, I know. Buuut you're 18 now, so you can leave."

"Yeah like she'd let me. You know she thinks I'm just an extension of her."

"Speaking of growing up I have a present!" He pulls out a small jewelry box and I gasp in suprise. He opens it slowly, the braclet a rose gold colour, with a weird symbol on it. It looks almost like a cartoon heart, but it has all this weird stuff on it. It looks familiar, but despite my thinking I can't pinpoint where.

"It's something special to me, this braclet. It has a lot of family history and I want you to wear it." I gasp at the sweetness in his voice and hold out my wrist. He clasps it and it is an absolute perfect fit.

I look into his eyes and just as I'm about to kiss him his phone blows up with his annoying ass ring tone he uses for the guys.

"One sec kit." He turns around and answers the call. I drown out his call by popping in my headphones and turning on whatever comes on. I bob my head to the beat, annoyance on my face. Finally after what feels like forever he puts his phone back into his pocket, and I pull out my headphones.

"The boys want us to go meet up with them." I sigh and roll my eyes,

"Can't we just hang out without them."

"No Kittie, they're planning on going out and want us to take you with us."

"Fine. But know I'm not very happy about it."
Mew ฅ(⌯͒• ɪ •⌯͒)ฅ❣

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Wed Aug 15, 2018 5:17 pm
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fishsashimi says...


"The sun is shining brightly
Like a golden beam of light
It encases me in its warth
And I feel calm"

He had been in his room writing down these strange messages that appeared on his arms. He has journals full of snippits of poetry. Sometimes it was something like "Meet Friends at Mall 12:30" or an appointment. He was never much of a poetry guy, in fact, he didn't really read. What he did was bake. He finished jotting down the words and ran downstairs. He and his mom ran a small bakery and cafe.

"Lester, I need you to start on those muffins, get the bread dough set, and grind the coffe beans." She runs into the dining area.

It was his 18th birthday, but he didn't mind. He was used to working all day, especially on weekends. Normally, he and his mother would bake a gigantic cake, and they would have leftovers for weeks and weeks. He started on the muffins and put them in the oven. He rolled his sleeve and stared at the words on his arm. This birthday seems different.

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Sun Sep 09, 2018 12:15 am
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AliceinBluue says...

Eleanor was having a pretty okay birthday all things considered. She had woken up that morning just as her alarm was going off and her eyeliner wings had turned out perfectly on the first try. On the car ride over to school, her favorite song had come on just as she pulled out of her driveway and when her teacher had called out a pop quiz halfway through class she had known all the answers.

The poem segment that had come to her right before she had fallen asleep last night at 2am was still inked on her arm, but none of the other mystery marks that sometimes appeared on her hands had developed all day. So the concealer she kept in her backpack’s front pocket went unused all day.

So all in all, when Eleanor got home, she considered today a win and flopped down on the couch to watch some television until her parents got home. They were going out for her birthday and Eleanor was craving some sushi like the world was about to end.

She sent her mom a quick text about her dinner pick and flicked through the channels until she settled on a rerun of America’s Next Top Model. Some girl was throwing a fit on the screen about something another one of the girls had done or said. Eleanor let it fade into the background as she focused on the story idea that had been floating around in the back of her mind for a few days now, gaining momentum.

She still had not figured out a name for her main character, but she knew she was a selkie who was trying to get out of her forced marriage to the man who had stolen her pelt. There was an second character forming and that was who Eleanor focused on now.

They were the selkie’s aid and friend in the house, but she could not figure out anything else about them, her mind kept getting distracted by the marks she knew were on her hands and the person they must belong to.

She had no idea where the marks had come from or who they belonged to. She did not even know if they knew she existed, they had never given her any indication that they were aware of her and the marks they gave her. But they were her’s. They were her’s in a way no one else really was.

They were the person Eleanor wrote half her poems for. They were the person she had imagined and reimagined into every story she told herself. They were the person who had been there for every moment, the good the bad the ugly and everything in between. They were her constant companion and they shared a bond that she had never seen or experienced anywhere else. They were undeniably connected, and that connection was written all over her skin.

She was pulled out her head as her text tone went off. She shook off the remnants of the familiar thought process as if it was gauze attached to her head and looked down at her phone.

It was her mom texting back a confirmation about the dinner place and Eleanor felt guilty. Her parents, while they had never looked down at her for her connection, they had made their displeasure with her near infatuation with it and the person attached to it clear. It was one of the reasons why she so often covered up her marks in concealer, it made her parents happier thinking she was distancing herself from her partner.

She was not an idiot, she knew what the lines that appeared on her palms for days on end looked like self harm marks, and that if it looked like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it was probably a duck. When her parents had seen the marks they had been more concerned than her but she had caught on around middle school and had nearly had a panic attack when one appeared. She had sworn to her parents that she would not bring up the marks so she had not been able to explain why the air had burned with every breath she had managed into her lungs.

But after months of the marks appearing, she had stopped thinking of them as her partner trying to leave, now they showed that her partner was still there, still connected.

She sighed and tried to push all thoughts of her partner to the back of her mind as she got up and went to go cover her palms in concealer before her dad got home from work. This was her night and she did not want her parents giving her passive aggressive glares all night because a mark had appeared halfway through.

As she rifled through her backback she was overwhelmed by the sense that this had played out before. She held still for a second, closing her eyes, waiting for the feeling to pass.

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Sun Sep 09, 2018 9:49 pm
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Corvid says...

It was Clarice's eighteenth birthday.

She marked the occasion by leaving her home in the early hours of the morning, stealing her uncle's bike and setting off down the road. It was, by all accounts, a rather grim way to start her ascent into adulthood. She tried not to dwell on it.

Clarice took the bike to the nearest highway, then dumped it in a ditch. She couldn’t keep it. It was too recognizable, too familiar. If she looked at it for long she might feel sentimental, and sentimentality was not something she could afford. Not now. Not ever again.

She walked along the highway for several hours, until a moving van pulled over to the side of the road. The driver was a older man, with a long white beard and sunburnt skin. He had a look in his eyes that should’ve set off Clarice’s fight-or-flight response, but she smiled at him nonetheless.

“You look like you need a ride.” He said, more a question than a statement. When Clarice nodded, he smiled and popped the lock. “Name’s Burt. Hop on in.”

“Ruth,” Clarice said, the fake name slipping seamlessly off her tongue. She subtly slipped her sacrificial knife into her sleeve. “Thanks.”

“So,” Burt began. “Where you headed?”

“Nowhere.” Clarice said. “Where are you heading?”

“The city.”

“Oh.” Clarice glanced to the side, briefly averting her gaze. “Will we be stopping before then?”

“We need gas, don’t we?” Burt laughed, a raspy but lively sound. “We’ll be stopping in an hour or so. There’s a nice little town not too far from here.”

Clarice smiled, nodded. She kept her gaze set on the road ahead of her and listened absentmindedly to the radio.

Soon enough, the lights of a town appeared on the horizon. Burt pulled into a gas station, and Clarice turned to hop out of the van. She turned back around for a moment and looked at Burt.

“Thank you,” She said.

“Anytime.” Burt smiled. “And good luck.”

Clarice smiled, nodded. She turned back around and got out of the van. She went into the gas station's convenience store. It was the same as any other convenience store. There were several rows of snacks and drinks, and some cigarettes behind the counter. The
store was deserted, more or less.

Clarice walked through the store for a few minutes, until she found a map. She looked
through it for a moment, checking where she was, before putting it back down and walking to the back of the store. It's there that she found the door to the bathroom,
which she went inside.

She locked the door behind her, then made a beeline for the sink. Clarice pulled out her knife and carefully placed it on the counter. She gathered her hair into a low ponytail and picked up it back up.

An inhale, an exhale. Clarice cut through her hair in a single swift stroke. Gripping the hair she'd cut off, she lowered her hand and tossed it into the garbage. There could be no sign of her here.

She sheathed her knife and tucked it into her waistband, then looked up at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was bunched up where she'd been holding it, but a shake of her head fixed that. Clarice smiled. Her hair, although choppy, framed her face nicely. It looked nice and, more importantly, completely different.

After giving her face and hands a quick wash, Clarice went on her way. She left the gas station and began to walk through the town. She passed through the residential area, only to wind up outside of the school. She looked towards it, and got the strangest feeling of deja-vu.

She'd been getting similar feelings lately, but this had to be the most irritating one to date. She hadn't been to school in over a decade, and she certainly did not need to be reminded of that by her own subconscious.

Clarice frowned and turned away from the school. She walked across the street as quickly as she could, and found herself standing in front of a bakery. She lingered by the door for a moment, looking at the 'help wanted' sign. She'd have to get a job sooner or later, but jobs required papers. Papers which she didn't have.

Clarice ran a hand down her face and sighed. She walked down the same street for a while, until she came to a restaurant. It also had a help-wanted sign. From what she knew from television — which, apart from her uncle's outdated atlases, had been her only form of education — restaurant workers often worked under the table. The pay would be less, but at least she'd have a job. Until then, she'd still need to find some way to survive.
Without money. Or friends. Or, well, anything.

Which brought her to the most pressing matter: food. Clarice hadn't eaten anything the day before — her punishment for forgetting to feed the chickens — and she was starting to feel the effects. She knew that she'd have to find something to eat soon.

Which led her to the alley. To the restaurant dumpster. When she checked it initially, it was empty. So she sat down next to it and waited, only to be yelled at by the employee sent to take out the trash.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I'm hiding from my ex." Clarice lied. "He's an ass. I'm staying."

"Whatever, man." They threw the garbage into the dumpster and turned to leave. "Just don't get caught."

The door closed behind them, and Clarice pried open the dumpster. She climbed halfway in, only for the roof of it to fall on-top of her.

- albert einstein

I exist as I am, that is enough
— Walt Whitman