The Wrong Time to Visit the Supermarket

Author’s Note: So I did do this a while back, as part of a long story that is… oh, it’s a mess. I wish it wasn’t, but it has three arcs, I couldn’t pick one, kept thinking no one would want to read various parts of them, and so it’s all jumbled now and I even let myself skip around a bit while writing it, which is worse in some ways. I just… I have shared some with these characters before, but I was reviving the Kabobbles Sing Along Album Challenge again, and I randomly grabbed an album to pull out Melanie’s Stoneground Words. First song up was Together Alone, and I was going to do something with Dillon for this, but it fit to do Quinn, too, maybe even more than Dillon, and I wasn’t willing to start any new stories (tempted, but no) and so I picked out this section as it fit with the lines of

We’ll grow old, we’ll take care of each other
I’ll be your sister, your mother, your lover

and also, much more importantly, this part, as it is the betrayal Quinn’s forced to disclose here that did so much damage to him and his faith in everyone.

We’re believers, we’ve been hurt by believing
Needing people, we know looking’s not seeing


The Wrong Time to Visit the Supermarket

“And eggs. We’re going to need eggs.”

Quinn rolled his eyes, and Candelaria tried to ignore him. He hadn’t wanted to take her to the store, and he was making things as difficult as he could. She could hate him so easily, and most of the time she did, but with the Howells out of town for the weekend, he was the only one in the house with a driver’s license. She knew they probably would have been fine without the things they were low or out of, but she didn’t know that she could keep Quinn in line for a whole weekend. This wasn’t like the hours she had watched all of them in the past, not even the overnight trips. This was different, and she was nervous. Quinn made these times out like a joke, and so far he hadn’t done anything to defy her, hadn’t run off, but if he was going to do it, this would be the time.

“You know they’ll be back in a day, right? Why bother with all this food?”

“Because I know how much Beacan can eat these days, and I know you still like having your food in its own package, so we need stuff. At least this time I won’t have to ask for help with everything on the top shelf. You can get it for me.”

“You can’t reach?”

She gave him a dirty look. He was such a jerk. She always said that, but she kept being reminded of how true it was. “How many times have you made comments about how short I am compared to you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’ve grown a bit. Oh, look, you come up to my knee now. You’re so big these days. I don’t know what we’ll do with you.”

She smacked him, and he just shrugged. “Eggs last. If there’s something else you need, tell me so that we can get it and go.”

“If you go get a bag of flour and bring it back, I’ll take care of the fresh vegetables without you, since I know you hate that.”

“Fine,” he muttered, taking off in the opposite direction. She pushed the cart down the aisle, grabbing a couple of cans of soup before she left.

Turning the corner, she almost smacked into one of the employees, and she winced. That guy was always getting her the stuff off the top shelf, and she felt bad for bumping into him. She whispered an apology and tried to back away, but he saw her. “Miss Howell? I thought I recognized those ribbons. Where’s your mother today?”

She had never bothered to explain that Mrs. Howell wasn’t really her mother, and she didn’t intend to do that now. “Oh, she was busy today. It’s all right, though. I’ve got my—someone—with me to help me get anything I can’t reach or carry.”

“Someone? This wouldn’t be a boyfriend, would it? You’re not sneaking around behind your mother’s back, are you?”

Candelaria winced. She should have said her brother, though she didn’t call Quinn that, and he didn’t let her call him that, either. She sighed. “My foster brother. I’m sorry I bumped into you. Excuse me. I have to get the vegetables.”

“You haven’t gotten them yet? Why does it take so long to do one thing?”

“You had the one thing, Quinn, not me. We need plenty of vegetables and—”

“Quinn. Long time no see.”

Quinn swallowed, dropping the flour in the cart. The bag tore, and she frowned. She swore she’d never seen Quinn this scared before, not in all the years she’d known him. She looked back at the man, biting her lip.

“Not long enough,” Quinn managed, his voice cold. He took her arm, tugging on it. “Come on, Laria. If you need to cook something with vegetables, you can do it with something canned.”

“I didn’t think you were the type that ran. You that afraid to face me after what you did?”

Quinn whirled back, looking like he’d attack the man in a second, and she thought it would be worse than when he fought the jocks. “What I did? You son of a—”

“Watch it. You were the one who attacked me, remember? You were the one who tried to cover up a bad drug habit with an even worse lie.”

“I didn’t lie. You did.”

Candelaria took a breath. “Quinn, why don’t you bring the car up closer so we can load it fast and go? We need to pick up Beacan and Leah in a few minutes.”

“I can’t believe they let you have a license,” Kevin said, and Quinn glared back at him. She looked at the cart and shook her head.

“We don’t need this. We’ll just go. Mrs. Howell can come back for it later.” She wrapped her arm around his, pushing him toward the door.


Quinn pulled away from her just outside the store, going to the trash and throwing up. Candelaria watched him with a frown, not sure how to react to any of this. He’d been ready to panic back there, and she didn’t like what that man had said, either.

He reached into his pocket and dug out the keys, holding them out to her. She frowned, not taking them. He dropped them, heaving again, and she watched, worried. She didn’t know what to think of what Quinn had done back there or what that man had said. If Quinn was sick—

“Go get the car. You’re driving us home.”

“I don’t have a license,” she hissed. “Just a permit. I can’t do that.”

“You have to. I don’t think I can get my stomach calm, and I can’t drive like this. It’s coming back. Not again. Not now…”

She reached down and grabbed the keys, ducking under his arm and letting herself support him like she had after one of his fights. He leaned on her, and she tried not to think about how he’d just puked. “Let’s get you to the car before you collapse.”

“The colors are all funny and everything’s spinning—no, this isn’t funny—not the monster, not again…”

Candelaria cursed, realizing what he’d meant by it coming back. He must have been in one of his acid flashbacks, and if he was, he wouldn’t be driving anywhere. That just wasn’t happening. She knew that. She didn’t want to do it without a license, but she had to get him home. “Kevin was the one that gave you the drugs, wasn’t he?”

Quinn shuddered. “Don’t… Can’t talk to you like this.”

“Yes, you can. You know I wasn’t a part of any of that. Use my voice. Stay here with me and forget the acid. Forget the colors and the monster. All that’s here is your watchdog. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

She stopped them against the car, going to open the door before she pulled him over to the passenger seat. “Think you can manage to put your seat belt on?”

He looked up at her. “You are way too small to take on the monster. When I was that small, I couldn’t stop it. It got what it wanted. Always. I tried to fight it, but it was stronger, and it would use those claws on me. Claws and teeth…”

“The monster won’t get close to you again,” Candelaria assured him, shutting the door and running around to the other side. She hoped that she could do this without wrecking the car or getting caught.

“Did you really attack him?” She asked as she pulled out of the spot, somehow managing to dodge the cars around them.

“I just wanted him to admit what he’d done to me. He… He wouldn’t even acknowledge that he’d given me the drugs, kept saying he didn’t know what I was talking about, and I thought I could get him to tell me the truth if I scared it out of him, beat it out of him… You heard him. He still says the whole thing was me.”

“You don’t know what he did to you?”

“No. I told you… I don’t remember what really happened. I remember before the acid kicks in—Kevin was the only one there besides me, and he was the one that gave me the food—and then it’s this monster and it’s trying to kill me… I could take it if he had knocked me around. He could have put me right back in the hospital. I don’t care about that. That’s upfront. I understand that part. I can handle it if I understand it. I don’t know why he had to mess with my head, make it so I’m stuck always wondering what happened. I thought I was going crazy the first few times it happened. I didn’t think I was high—I thought I was losing my mind. I just don’t get it. Why do you do that to someone?”

“Power? Control? He’s some kind of sadist? He liked watching you suffer when you were confused and having you doubt your own mind was… a bonus?”

“I hate him so much. I wish I’d killed him. I still wouldn’t have my answers, but I’d feel a lot better knowing he was gone.”

“You don’t want to be a killer.”

“Yes, I do. Him I want dead. I came close. If I hadn’t hesitated…”

Candelaria swerved, jerking the car back on the road with people honking around them. She didn’t believe what she was hearing. “Quinn…”

“Thanks to him I have probation ’til I’m eighteen. And they think I’m deranged. I hate him. I wasn’t good, I wasn’t perfect, but drugs were one of the lines I didn’t cross. I didn’t do that, and I didn’t… I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“No matter what anyone says about me—I never turned tricks. Ever. Not even when I was desperate for something to eat. I stole, and I’ve vandalized places, but I didn’t do that.”

“I never thought you did.”

“You’re going to have to watch me close, watchdog. Now that I know where he is again… I don’t trust myself.”

So I May Need to Write a Bonus Story

So we’re thinking that part of the reason why Just a Whim’s cover is not cooperating is the size of the spine and if the book were longer it might not be a problem, or maybe not in the same way.

So my thought was maybe including a little bonus story. I’m trying to figure out what to do, though, as I’ve had a hard time writing much, Whim and I have a complicated relationship, and I have a hard time writing short.

Any thoughts?

Feel free to leave them here or on facebook or twitter or even on the tumblr.

A Brief Summary of Experience as a Language Student

Mine, mine alone, and I’m not an expert but I saw a post again that irritated me by assuming that people did things wrong by doing what I did daily and had to say something for my own peace of mind.

I took French and Spanish in school. I’m an English speaker by birth but I’ve wanted to learn other languages since I was a kid. Mostly French, but I once had grand ideas about knowing them all. I was going to take my French and Spanish and learn all romance languages. I learned a bit of Dutch because of the guy I was dating. I taught myself some Irish and some Italian for stories. I tried hard to learn Ojibwe/Chippewa as I am of that descent.

Now I’m older and I know I won’t be learning everything, but here’s what I know from my experience…

I was at a point where I would and did think in other languages. I would mix all three of them in the same sentence even though I knew the words in English. I would dream in the other languages.

Even today I will randomly ask “ou est mon -?” Like with my phone, even though the last word is almost always in English. I speak bits and pieces of things in other languages no matter what I’m doing or who I’m with, and yes that can be embarrassing but just because I’m around all English speakers doesn’t mean I won’t mangle some French or Spanish in there.

I am someone who doesn’t use bad language as a rule, but believe me, I abused the heck out of knowing the curse words in my other languages, especially in French at work, I swear.

I read a lot of French in the past, sight translating it. I went crazy and collected French music and sometimes randomly sing it.

My friend is learning Spanish to communicate with her step-mother-in-law, and it has sparked a reawakening of both languages in my mind, not just Spanish. I’m mixing in more words in thoughts and spoken sentences than I have in years.

I find it irritating to be told people don’t act like I did myself and that shouldn’t be in the story. I lived it like this, so it shapes my writing. Maybe I’m not the most popular example, but I’m not invalid, either. I exist. I did this. So people do it.

My point with languages like everything else is that it’s unique to the individual. Someone else’s experience as a bilingual/trilingual will be different from mine, and I accept that. I just wish I wasn’t seeing a very popular post going around telling me what I lived was wrong and telling thousands of writers not to write like I lived.

The Tragedy of the Hats

So I made a mistake.

I ordered some hats online. I had good intentions. I had ideals. I had these notions that if they were going to sell hats, they knew what they were doing. I figured the hats were pretty and the thing I had to worry about most was them fitting my head, right?

Oh, no. No, I was wrong.

I waited. Waited. And waited.

And then I finally come home after a really rotten day of work, see packages in the mailbox and on the porch and get excited.

The porch one was Whim’s proof, wrong again and making me feel like burning it in frustration.

Still, that was somewhat less of a let down than opening up a bag to find it is full of hats. Yes, my hats came in a bag. Three of them in individual bags, placed in a larger bag. This had the effect of knocking off their decoration, if it was ever on, causing one to look like a bird had died, with its feathers all mangled. Still, I could have lived with broken decorations.

The hats themselves have been smooshed so badly they’re bent with a permanent crease and several indentations that won’t come out. I’ve tried to fix that, but I can’t.

My hats are misshapen lumps. Worse still is that I bought one to replace one that was already damaged/misshapen, and now its replacement is misshapen, too.

I am so depressed by this. I love hats. I never managed to do the hat challenge I put to myself years ago, but I still love my hats.

Only… these are ruined and I can’t wear any of them tomorrow like I would have.

And I keep asking myself, “who ships hats in a bag???”

*sigh*

I need new hats. I wish it was worth trying to return these, but it’s not, so I am stuck with misshapen lumps of hat and a very strong need to cry.

Because I Already Wrote That

Author’s Note: So I was doing my window flipping thing, and I looked at prompts on the dashboard and one popped up that had me going, “but I already wrote that.”

I didn’t finish the idea, but I wrote it. At least a year ago. I’d have to dig into emails and stuff to figure out just how long ago it was.

The prompt said this: They found out a good way to make soldiers was to remove the memory function entirely.

This was my start of that kind of concept.


A Hint of Something More

No one remembered what was before. That was gone forever, and no part of it would ever return. That was what everyone knew, what everyone had been told. The before was gone. Only the now existed. Only the war and their training. Nothing else.

Yet alone, unbidden and unexpected, something like a memory stirred in her, a moment so clear it burned almost enough to cause physical pain where here neuroimplant was. She wasn’t supposed to feel pain there, not supposed to know where it was, but then she wasn’t supposed to remember anything, either.

She did. She swore she did.

They would tell her she misunderstood it, that it was something from training, but how could it be? She could not forget the sense of the forbidden, the thrill as well as the guilt, the quickening of her pulse and her breath.

He touched her. Gentle, soft as it was, it felt like fire, burning where his hand had been, and though she knew it would never happen again—it should never have happened at all—she would feel it always. He broke the rules. He touched her, taking her elbow to aid her, but he didn’t—shouldn’t—and yet for that action they could both be punished.

She forced her eyes away from where his hand had been, needing to see his face.

She never did. That part of the memory was gone. Still, with as many times as she’d been grabbed, hit, and manhandled in training—both live and simulated—she could not believe the memory was anything to do with that. She would not have thought it forbidden. Touch was expected in a time of war, and the rules here were simple: follow orders and defeat the enemy. The enemy was merciless, relentless, and seemingly endless, outnumbering them and outclassing them, and so fighting could easily be vicious and painful, even if only with other soldiers. No touch was too far against the enemy, and lethal was only held back in training, since allies were few but opposition numerous.

That moment was not from training. It must have been from before.

Lying in her bunk, she stared up at the bed above her, listening to other soldiers sleep and wondering who she had been. She was not supposed to care, but the memory made her question so much—where had she been that someone touching her could be a crime? Was it a fault in her or in him that made it wrong? Who was he? Had she known him well or was he a stranger? Why could she never remember his face? She wanted to know so much, to understand it, and she would not, not without more memories.

Or him.

If he was a soldier, then he was dead. She knew most of her contemporaries were already gone, the same ones implanted and washed when she was were almost all dead. They had the same training as she did. She just lasted longer, not by any special means of her own, but by what they would say was accident, not even stubbornness or favorable fortune.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the memory again. So far, none of her attempts to bring back more of it had worked, but she didn’t want to stop trying. She replayed the image in her head, focusing on the hand, memorizing every line and wrinkle, every possible scar and identifying mark.

If she ever saw that hand again, she’d know it.

She also knew she was a fool—nothing from the before existed, and she needed to fight in the now. This was a war. She was a soldier.

She had nothing else.

Just the illusion of a memory.

On Giving Advice

I started this about a bit of writing advice I saw, though I think it can be stretched a bit to other things, to a point. I got done with it, and despite the headache and the way I feel right now, I thought that it was something worth sharing here, too.

I just got done seeing another bit of writing advice, and I’ve actually had this conversation and see the person’s point. Mom could attest to that, if I was going to be more specific, but I don’t want to start anything and it’s not just this one post I saw that I found upsetting. Still, Mom and I discussed the issue before, and as I said, we sort of reached the same conclusion this person had reached.

Only I did not and do not agree with the way they said it.

Here’s the thing:

Advice is your opinion.

You have experience. You know things. You’ve seen it or discussed it.

You have that knowledge. You have things you can share. You have strong feelings about it.

I get it.

Just remember, this advice you’re giving doesn’t always work for everyone. Your opinion is no more law than the one you’re so very against.

Stop and think about the words you’re using (yes, this is ironic about a post for word choice) and remember, you are talking to an audience. Maybe even a young one. An aspiring author can be more fragile than you realize.

Many writers take years to hone their skills. My skills now compared to what I did when I started are very different.

Back then, though, if I’d seen someone call the way I’d been taught to write what this post did, I’d have been crushed. Even now, after making the changes I have and even following this advice of theirs to a point, I feel hurt.

I just think that people need to remember that it is not just about what they have to say but how they say it.

You can ruin the best, most necessary advice, the thing someone needs to hear if you say it wrong.

So consider what you’re saying. How you’re saying it. Think about how it may impact someone. If you are speaking to be a force for good, do your words reflect that?

I hope mine do. I hope if anyone does read my advice it makes them think, but it doesn’t make them hurt.

A Possible Opening Scene

Author’s Note: This scene has been reworked a couple times, changing it from what it was. I originally had a discovery about the car made a lot sooner, and so this is the second version where I backed it off a little in the hopes of developing the plot more naturally. I thought I’d try sharing some actual writing, even if this is something I wrote a while back just haven’t really been able to continue.

I did share some of this story before, just not this part of it, which I should have as it’s the first scene.


A Possible Job

“And so when I saw that picture in the paper, I figured that you were the best person to bring this to,” the woman said, and Mackenna tried not to grimace as she spoke. She did not want to think about what picture had been in what paper, since all the stories had exaggerated the situation and made her into something that she wasn’t. She didn’t want to have to explain the truth right now, either.

She should just be glad that it meant more business for her, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted it, not like this. She used to think any publicity was good publicity, a way to create a foothold in a profession dominated by men, but what happened a few months ago had changed her opinion on all of that. She ran her hands over her arms, hoping she still had a few more weeks before fall settled in. She would need them if she was going to do this. “I’m not a miracle worker, Mrs. Brendt. I may not be able to do much with this, even if it looks to be more or less intact. You can see that there was damage done to the frame here and here, and beyond that, there’s a good deal of rust. I believe this car sat outside for a very long time, though some of it could have been from a leak if that roof was in poor shape. I’m really not in a state to make any promises here.”

“It’s Dorie. Or Dorinda. Leave off the Brendt as much as possible. One of these days, I’ll get it all switched back to my maiden name, but I haven’t quite managed that yet.”

“Oh.” Mackenna hadn’t realized that the other woman was divorced, and she was almost tempted to hide the ring on her own finger after that statement. Not that she’d had anything to do with Dorie’s marital troubles, but she didn’t need to be flaunting the fact that she was a happy newlywed, either.

“Sorry. You wouldn’t know. It’s… It’s still a bit of a sore spot for me, him leaving me for a girl that’s barely out of high school, and there’s an unkind part of me that figures that he doesn’t want them any older than that, since that’s how old I was when I fell for his crap, but I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. I’m afraid my mouth runs off when it gets started.”

Mackenna smiled, tempted to laugh. She was reminded of someone, and at the same time, she had to wonder if she brought this kind of reaction out in people, since Carson had been a lot like this when he pulled into the farm with his car. “It’s fine, trust me. I just want you to understand what we’re looking at here.”

“You mean besides a wreck?” Dorie laughed, pulling back the loose parts of her hair. “I can see that much for myself, but since I’m on the preservation committee and getting this car appraised is not only a part of my job but might mean something we can use either as an investment—the car would be worth a lot more repaired if the repairs are feasible within our budget—or as a part of the exhibit they’d like to create from the site where it was taken. I’m not sure we can accomplish either of those things, but it’s a shame to see an old classic like this just shoved away in the nearest junkyard.”

Mackenna nodded. “I hate seeing any cars going to the junkyard.”

“That’s not true. You let my car go there without any tears. You couldn’t wait to see that thing go,” Carson said, coming up behind her, and she turned back to him with a smile. She tried not to let it turn into a frown. From the expression on his face, the job hunting was still going badly, and he looked like he’d just as soon crawl into bed than spend any time with her or Mac tonight, but she’d see if she could cheer him up after Dorie was gone.

“That thing was a menace. It wasn’t even worth what you paid for it the first time,” Mackenna said, wrapping her arms around his waist. Maybe it was a good thing it was almost fall. He might be all sweaty if it wasn’t. “I didn’t hear you pull up.”

“The Woodsman died three miles back. I walked the rest of the way.”

“Oh.” She didn’t need Dorie hearing that. What kind of mechanic couldn’t keep her own truck running? Mackenna forced herself not to think about that and kissed his cheek. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up and rest your feet for a bit? Dorie and I have a few more things to discuss about her car here, and then I can heat up dinner.”

“If it just needs to be heated, I can handle that. You’re the one with the job,” Carson said, shaking his head. She knew they’d have to have another conversation about that later. She didn’t subscribe to the idea that the man had to be the breadwinner, and she didn’t think he did, either, but he was getting paranoid about not pulling his own weight. “You go ahead and take as long as you need.”

She put her hands on his face. She didn’t like that tone at all. “Don’t tell me more of them were idiots about this thing with your dad. Come on, that’s ridiculous. You know that you’re not responsible for anything he might have—”

“That’s not what they care about. Still, it’s not like the rest of my family were exactly… honest in that matter, either, so that doesn’t help. On the bright side, you can have me as your shade and water boy and all that while you get to work on this one.”

She shook her head. “As much as I love having your company while I’m fixing the cars, it’s not right that they won’t hire you. You’d be great at it. You’re over-qualified for most of these positions anyway.”

“It’s a recession. They want the excuse to not to hire me because they would have to pay me more. Or something. I’m going to head in and shower.” He kissed her cheek, and she sighed as she watched him walk away. She didn’t understand this world sometimes. Carson was a good man, and he’d be a good worker, but someone always found an excuse not to hire him. She’d do it, if she could afford to pay anyone else, and if he knew anything about cars. Without that, it was kind of pointless. She would keep teaching him in the meantime, both her and Mac would, but she didn’t know how much of a difference that would make.

She turned back to Dorie. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even introduce you.”

“I figured that was your husband. I saw the papers. That must have been a beautiful wedding.”

“I should have decked that reporter,” Mackenna muttered, shaking her head. She hadn’t thought their wedding would end up near the front page or that it would get into the associated press because of the rest of the stories about her and him and his father’s murder. Some of the stories were all about the way they’d dressed, and others exaggerated her role as the heroine again. She’d ripped up most of the ones she found, but she knew her sister-in-law was keeping a scrapbook of all that nonsense. “I’m going to get the forms real quick. Just sign them, and you’ll be good to go. You can leave the car with me for evaluation, and I’ll give you an estimate. I do charge for the evaluation, though.”

“Naturally. That’s not a problem. I’ll sign whatever needs to get signed. I still think you are the right person for this job.”

Mackenna forced a smile and hurried off to get the forms.

Once More with Questions Instead of Actual Writing

Though in part I’m trying to drum up some inspiration for finishing the sequel to Forgotten Legacy I started forever ago and can’t get far into. It’s a wonderful idea, I think, but I can’t seem to get it going.

And this makes me very sad.

So… I am doing another OTP list with Carson and Mackenna. 😛

OTP Questions

1. What is their favourite thing to cook for one another? As a joke, finnian haddie. Though he hates it, she just likes to do it because of her grandfather and their original teasing about it.

2. If they went to a fair, what would they do? Despite a slight fear of heights, they’d do the ferris wheel. And they’d eat cotton candy and walk the booths. They’d be an attraction in of themselves because they do this in costume sometimes. Especially at the end of the car run.

3. How do they make each other smile? By smiling. Teasing. Funny socks. Card games. Making fun of his brothers. Doing their song game. Pretending they can dance. Doing just about anything to get the required reaction out of Mac.

4. Who likes to give forehead kisses? He does, being taller. She can only do it when he’s sitting so it’s a bit awkward.

5. If they got a couple tattoo, what would they get? They wouldn’t get a permanent one, though she might talk him into a henna one for a while as a part of something. Makenna will try a lot of stuff because she has a need to prove she’s brave even though everyone knows she is.

6. Would one of them want them to coordinate their outfits? She did, quite famously, as they were the talk of the town in their matching period costumes for the run and they’ve only made more of them as time goes on, for other cars and time periods and thier wedding. He was resistant at first but he likes it more now. He also really likes her in costume so he will do just about anything to see it.

7. What would they binge watch on Neflix? Old movies with Mac. Things her grandmother loved.

8. What do they do when it’s a rain day? They’ll play cards with Mac or the boys at the Legion. Mackenna can’t work on the Maxwells so she does other things to keep herself busy.

9. Who kisses the other person’s cheek before they fall asleep? Depends on who falls asleep first. Whoever’s awake last usually will before dosing off.

10. Who tickles the other when they are feeling sad to cheer them up? Mackenna will get his feet sometimes but she’s the more ticklish one, to her endless dismay.

As an Example

I decided to go ahead and post something that I was talking about before, as writing is… well, it’s not happening so far this weekend. Work is still giving me trouble and so is life.

Still, I mentioned before that there are questions and stuff in addition to prompts, and this is an example of what I mean. I didn’t make the list, but it’s kind of fun to answer them, and I’ll just do one set, for a familiar couple, that of Carson and Mackenna from Forgotten Legacy, with a few mentions of how her grandfather sees their actions, of course.

Otp Questions

1. Who is more nervous on their first date? Carson. He feels he has a lot to make up for because of the mess he drew them both into and his lingering issues after the discovery they made about his father. Mackenna tries to talk him out of this, but he has a hard time accepting it.

2. Who can’t stop giggling when their partner kisses them all over their face? Neither of them, as Carson would never make that kind of move, and Mackenna wouldn’t, either.

3. Who accidentally wears the other’s hat one day? Mackenna, though it was hardly accidental. She took his “zoot suit” hat he has for when they drive the Airstream and paired it with her dress as a joking thing like they were more Bonnie and Clyde than they ever could be.

4. Who is in love with the other person’s laugh? Carson, because Mackenna’s laugh is somewhat melodic and definitely infectious.

5. Who covers the other person with a blanket when they fall asleep somewhere other than their bed? Both of them. He’ll find her outside sleeping in one of the Maxwells and cover her up or join her, and since he still has bad dreams, she’ll do it for him if he falls asleep somewhere strange, too.

6. Who cracks open their beverage before handing it to their partner? She does. It’s a running joke that she’s stronger than him, which she usually threatens to end that argument with one of her wrenches. Mac watches them and tells them no blood on the cars.

7. What dance moves do they break out on the dancefloor together? Oh, they can’t dance. They both have vague hopes of learning someday, as Mackenna’s period outfits kind of ask for it, but she never learned and he can barely shuffle, especially if his brothers are “cheering” him on. Their wedding dance was very difficult for them.

8. What would be their dream vacation? They really bonded over his antique car, and they’re still restoring it, but the plan is to take it around and show it off when they’re done.

9. If they tried to do the yoga couple’s challenge, how would they do? Terrible. Not that Mackenna would ever be caught dead doing yoga. That’s so very much not her.

10. Where do they spend most of their time together? Carson moved in to Mac’s farm when they married, and that’s their home. Mackenna does her restoration work there, and while Carson’s still floating between careers after quitting his last one over a matter of conscience, he always tries to help even if he’s far from mechanically inclined.

11. Who runs their thumb over the other person’s skin to comfort them? He does. Mackenna’s not big on huge gestures of affection or being weak in front of anyone, but that’s a small enough thing it’s prefect for them.

12. Who accidentally falls asleep on the other? Mostly Mackenna. She’s a workaholic who gets really wrapped up in her restorations and it’s physically taxing work so she doesn’t realize how drained she is until they sit down after supper and she passes out on him. Mac grunts, but Carson just smiles and lets himself doze off with her. He’s been known to fall asleep on her, too.

13. Who would run a bath for the other person? Carson. He’ll do one for her after a long day of her working, and she rolls her eyes and makes jokes about how he must think she smells and he just shakes his head until Mac tells her to wash up for dinner.

14. What would their wedding look like? It was period. Mackenna made a dress with the help of Carson’s sister-in-law Carrie that went along with the Maxwells. He dressed up and got a top hat. They made papers. It humiliated them both, but they were adorable, aside from the really awkward wedding dance.

15. Who would try to do something artsy for their partner and just before they were going to throw it out because they thought it sucked, their partner comes in and loves the art piece? Carson. He considers himself very untalented, but Mackenna loved its hideousness and kept it. Mac banned it to the barn, though.