killswitchfile

Title: In For a Penny Fandom: Harry Potter Characters: Harry Potter, Dudley Dursley, Severus Snape Prompt: 003. Ends Pairing: Suggested HP/SS Word Count: 629 Rating: PG Summary: Coffee, Vietnam, and graveyards. Harry and Dudley meet after the war is over. Dudley recalls going to America for the summer hols with his parents. They had visited New York, to see the Statue of Liberty, and the Museum of Natural History, and he remembers how, walking down the grimy street, long-forgotten trash fluttering about him, a hand had suddenly reached out from a pile of rubbish sitting in front of an alleyway. The hand had been old, varicose veins

Title: Dammerung Fandom: Harry Potter Characters: Tom Riddle Prompt: 001. Beginnings Word Count: 416 Rating: PG-13 Summary: Wizards would ask themselves, ‘What could prompt such an intelligent young man to do such terrible things?’ Years prior, muggle Jews mourned their dead and asked the same question. From September of 1940 to May of 1941, the German Luftwaffe commenced what would become known throughout history as ‘the Blitz’: the systematic bombing of London, England for 73 consecutive nights. Over 43,000 civilians were killed. The children huddle in and underneath their beds. Many of the older ones, teenagers

A Loser's Guide to Surviving High School (One Emotional Breakdown at a Time) Chapter One Q: Why Are Sophomores More Like Old Jello Than Humans? A: They Congeal. The first day of sophomority  is hell. People talk about their first day of high school, how everything around them is new and big and frightening. It is nothing when compared to your second year, when all the things are familiar, but you still don't know where you stand with the people. I am Heather-nolife-nolastname. I took German in my freshman year, and have since changed my name to Sebastian. I have people call me 'Sebby' for short, since it is a long name, and a male one,

I had a dream last night. A White Cow and a Black Cow, sitting in a field, playing chess. The White Cow, playing black, places the Black Cow, playing white, in check. The White Cow, thinking it has won, lows victoriously. The Black Cow, in retaliation, eats the remaining pieces. Winner?

It is not ordinary angst that drives me to write, nor is it the stress of schoolwork, of family, of friends. It is an unnamable thing, something as misty and selfish as a cold morning, stealing away heat and thoughts and all semblance of reason. I write because I am compelled to. I write because walls have more personality than people. I write because that chair over there looks lonely. I write because devastation is fun to watch. I write because I loved his hands, but not him. All these things with no more worth than a falling star crashing into the world and setting it ablaze.

There was a hand, a hand, a hand, that, separate from its body, crawled upon a rock and, in a woeful mood, inscribed its initials in chalk: five cloud-white protrusions, knuckles, bulgy, sticking-out like swollen cow's teeth in humid weather. And this hand, this hand, this hand, wrote poetry like water falling, like sun rising, like leaves dying, but, illegible, no one could read it because, you know, hands don't have brains.