The last TWO chapters of Jade Harley and the Rise of the Underworld are out!
He’s walking out of the cafe, pristine white mug sloshing with coffee every step he takes, and she’s next to him bouncing up and down, like she’s got somewhere to be.
It’s six steps to the table (he estimated) when she yells “Trust fall!” and goes straight as a board.
He’s got two options.
One: Let her hit the ground. She wont be hurt, nothing can hurt that girl, she’s like some kind of invincible danger-prone demi-god-bird. Her butt will hit the stone with a loud squish and she’ll look up at him and pout. Hilarity ensues, the audience claps, he will try to hide the smile that creeps over his face unwillingly, and she will be mad.
Two: Catch her. This will require sacrificing his coffee, as he knows back to front he’s unable to muster up the sheer suavity to balance a full cup of liquid on one side and a full arm of cute girl on the other. But she’ll smile and laugh and try to buy him a new cup, but realize she only has enough change to cover half of it and he has to spot the rest.
He doesn’t even know why he thinks of different possibilities in this kind of scenario. He always goes for the same option.
And as he throws his coffee in the air with a gesture akin to a careless shrug, he thinks briefly that he’s so damn predictable with her. But she has to know, has to remember every time, that she can trust every bone in his body to be there for her.
Fakiru Week Day 7: Trust
that’s all, kiddos. it’s been fun.
Fakiru Week Day 4: Balance
challenged myself to do a five minute speed coloring, for better or worse.
He thought he should try something different.
Keep to the same structured rules he learned in a forgotten library in a township he doesn’t care to remember, but do it in a way he’s never tried before, a way which he’s finally come to in his desperation: Detached.
He starts with a clean description of the body: give the readers the information, plain with no purple prose, a brief overview of appearance without mincing words which would never befit her. “A braid threaded like a basket filled with maize on a fall day—” scratched, she is no farmer, there is no worthy imagery. “A braid orange as the sunburns on her skin” is better, but he has tried those passages before, words filled with passion and all of his heart and all that she meant to him, and she never came into his house dressed in human skin.
I will be participating in fakiru week in these precious seven days so if you don’t want to see shitty doodles of a ballerino trying to bone a duck princess then blacklist: #fakiru week
also finally starting work on the last chapter of jade harley and the rise of something or other, should see that coming up to the table in a week or so.