NOV. 25, 2024
《The dragon's favorite》
>WHIMSY WRITES
A young girl with dark skin and black fox ears wanders into the woodland, a thick book under her arm.
The forest calls to her with its gentle breezes, moving her hair as she stepped through grass and thicket.
She softly walked across the simple plank of wood that acted as a river bridge, and finally stopped at a hilly clearing with a brook cutting through it.
The little girl with pointy fox ears opened the leatherbound book she had, which had an illustration of majestic dragons embossed in the cover. She flipped to the page she had marked with the red ribbon bookmark, which had the colored drawing of a lithe dragon with scales as black as night.
“■■■ likes to slumber in peaceful woods, under the warmth of an afternoon sun,” the page’s text read.
Indeed the dragon did, as the real life rendition of the drawing was curled on a patch of lush grasses on the opposite side of the brook, sunlight glittering off the dusky scales of the dragon.
The little girl’s eyes widened as she laid eyes on the beast that had come to life from the drawing on the page, hesitating as she pulled her book close to her chest.
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SEPT. 9, 2024
《Merely a girl》
>WHIMSY WRITES
A hundred identical gray cells, floating by with footsteps ahead as he walked down the eerily empty hall.
The corridor of identicals stopped as soon as he met eyes with her.
Yes, she was already looking in his direction, as if she had been waiting for someone to arrive.
Those eyes of hers were eerily alert; it really did seem as if she had been waiting.
Hmm, or maybe waiting wasn’t the right word. Expecting, perhaps.
There was something supernatural hidden behind those eyes; or, at least, that’s how it seemed to him.
That’s why he was here, after all.
”So you’ve finally come to rescue me, my knight in shining armor?”
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SEPT. 4, 2024
《This isn’t where it started》
>WHIMSY WRITES
Why is my mind so perverted that I keep fantasizing about a life that’s not mine?
Why are my thoughts so twisted that I cannot accept my very own reality?
Even as I think to myself that I accept this life that’s called mine, something feels indefinitely wrong.
Like this shouldn’t be real.
Like there is something profoundly missing.
Like a puzzle said to be “finished,” when it is obviously missing one single, tiny piece.
But that makes all the difference.
Looking out the Porsche’s window at the snow falling and tumbling quickly by, the girl with long black hair and quiet, dark eyes turned her head in a start at the sound of a voice speaking toward her.
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