It was Rory’s Grandma that made the two predictions; the day of her own death, and the day Rory would die. Nobody really takes Grandma seriously – that is, until she suddenly passes away on the exact date she’s predicted. In a fit of panic, Rory decides to embark on a bizarre, crazed mission to live life to the full. Together with her friends, she throws the rulebook out of the window and tastes what the world has to offer; excessively wild nights, malicious revenge plans, and arrogant, beautiful boys. Rory thinks she has nothing to lose. But her family is slowly starting to crumble, and her friends are getting sick of her reckless attitude. There’s only so long she can party before the terror of her deathday rolls around. Rory has to choose between bowing out disgracefully, with her name seared into the town’s memory – or fighting the out-of-control girl she’s become before it’s too late.

Sometimes all you really need is a place to call home. * * * Being re-written completely as of May 14, 2021

There in those city lights, there was no her and there was no him. There was just everything and nothing and the spaces in between, like flickering lights against a never-ending, black sky. There in those city lights, there was no love and there was no hate. There was just listening and talking and understanding every single thing, like the 'ready, stop, go' of car-chasers and dream-makers. There in those city lights, there was no sadness and there was no happiness. There was just candid smiles and wasted tears and bottom lips chewed off, like the overflowing boulevard of things unseen. There in those city lights, there was no lady and there was no man. There was just a boy and a girl, who promised to fall in love, not with each other, but in those city lights. [a blind collaboration by @hepburnettes & @cityscape]

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)]

"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.

In which I am you, you are me, and we are the moments that define us.