John's never seen a kid like him. He has this beautiful, crazy grace - withheld behind a smug smile and wisecracks that make John frustrated in so many different kinds of ways. And his eyes; crystal clear, decisive, cleaning through the unimportant things to find the valuables in life. He may or may not have a thing for smoking and James Bond, his favorite ice cream is mint with a chocolate swirl, and he is absolutely addicted to Pop Rocks and toffee. He enjoys pretty boys and warehouses, where he can hoard and think and be alone. Also, bumper cars, and John Watson. But Sherlock Holmes's thing, his niche, his calling in life... is to steal. Books. Wallets. Phones. Cars. Everything you've ever wanted, he's had. Everything you've ever wished for, he's stolen. Everything you are, everything you told yourself that you weren't, he owns, and he plays you like an out-of-tune violin. Does that mean that John's going to let him steal his heart? Not a shot in hell.

❝ 'it's beautiful,' she says, 'roses are so pretty.' ❞ ❝ 'it's just like romance,' i tell her, 'it's beautiful, but it doesn't last.' ❞ + + + In which I write poetry about an ephemeral romance. [ #206 in Poetry // 5.3.16 ]

❝ − It's a terrible thing, the destruction of words.❞ All rights reserved @ o p t i c a l i t y | 2017

THE STORY OF LUKAS LANCASTER, AND HOW HE BECAME -- or, how a phoenix needs a spectacular flame to be reborn again. [ #204 spiritual 12.19.15 ]

Casual sex is harder than it seems. In order to keep it safe, both emotionally and physically, Jake comes up with a set of rules.

When faced with a time loop, an adorable boyfriend, and impending death, you can, may, and probably will experience crazy stuff. But that's good; crazy is good. It means that something's going on. And that's what we need to have a story.

includes comedies, satires, and tragedies.

the only heaven I'll be sent to is when i'm alone with you.

"Sometimes happiness feels like a chore." A short story chronicling the relationships (and lack thereof) of Drew; in which nights and days are spent curled up in the tear-and-food-stained sheets, with and without the warmth of another living soul, because he has lived like this and he'll probably die like this -- whether he likes it or not. (As if life ever bothered to ask). Otherwise known as: Sleep is for the weak, and love is for those asleep. So Andrew shouldn't wonder why he's virtually a self-induced insomniac who might just very well die of loneliness one day.

A dialogue short story about the things we wake up to that remind us there are still things in this life worth waking up for. ante meridiem - [adv. & adj.] "before noon;" Abbr: A.M. Or a.m. [credit to owner of image (not me)]