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Classic Trope  - Click the link to read my work on AO3.

 Description: He’s just angry. Craig should know. Because he is just as angry as Craig, and that’s the only kind of relationship they have.

He crosses his arms again as the principal drones on, glaring at Tweek, jittering jittering jittering and thinking Didn’t I beat this kid up one time?

___

Craig hates this situation he's been put into. And he's definitely not gay.

Classic Trope

Written December 1st, 2024

He’s seething; Shaking around; Jumping in his seat, though it’s not from his jittery nerves or anxiety or whatever the fuck mental illness he has. He’s just angry. He should know. Because he is just as angry as Craig, and that’s the only kind of relationship they have. Craig side eyes Tweek, who is so angry he’s starting to come up with patches of his hair gripped between his clawed fists. They’ve been screaming for hours. Both of them respectively, not together. To be clear. 

He thought the principal would address the rumors that have been coming up about them, some girls drawing gay porn of him and Tweek, but he’s just made things worse, caused more tension (which he confidently refers to as a ‘lovers quarrel’ between Craig and Tweek). 

The whole school thinks he’s some queer. He looks over to Tweek again, who seems like he’s having too many emotions about this, and part of Craig wonders if that Tweek kid really is gay. 

Can we just have one normal day here?

Craig’s knuckles crack as he winds and unwinds his fists by his side. Ever since he got involved with those lameo kids his life has been all kinds of fucked. This whole town has been all kinds of fucked forever now, trapped in a time capsule with perpetuity, hunting for the bare minimum of wokeness to say “Hey, look! We’re relevant! We’re trendy!,” Then shit like this happens. And Craig gets fucked by it every single time. 

He rolls his eyes from seething at Tweek to the principal. He hasn’t looked at him a single time since he saw Tweek in this office. He’s just been glaring, distracted by this brand new thing that’s ruined his life; Ruining his life.  

“Craig, can I touch your penis?” Tweek grumbles angrily, tearing at his scraggly hair, still shaking like a kicked puppy. 

It’s infuriating, but this guy is stuck in the same kind of situation he is. 

Craig realizes he wasn’t paying attention to what was being said. He looks at the principal, who prompts him to accept, so he tries to recall what either of them had just said. He glowers and PC Prinicpal goes on again and he almost considers flipping him off. 

“No, you may not,” Craig rolls his eyes, ready to wreak havoc in this office like he used to when Principal Victoria was around, the idea settling into his head as the only way out of here. One scandal into another.  

He crosses his arms again as the principal drones on, glaring at Tweek, jittering jittering jittering, muttering something about “too much pressure”  and “no way man” and he has the sudden thought; Didn’t I beat this kid up one time? 

—-

The next time he sees Tweek he’s throwing his fist as hard as he can into his face. He doesn’t want this weirdo around him anymore. He doesn’t want this kid, stuck in the same situation as him, making things worse. So he’s throwing punches, the manliest thing he knows, telling this jerk to fuck all the way off. A crowd forms around them and Craig just barely has time to hear Cartman cheer. Just because of Cartman he hits Tweek extra hard on his next downswing. Tweek starts punching back, though he’s not surprised because this isn’t their first fight. 

“I told you to leave me alone!” He screams at Tweek, pulling his gloves off his hands just in time to get socked in the mouth. 

“You’re acting like this is my fault!?” Tweek groans, grasping at his hair again, then shoving Craig away from him, “You know I come down this hallway every day, this is your fault. You’re making everything worse!” He shrills.

Craig hits Tweek so hard in the gut that he goes flying across the hallway. Everyone shouts and Craig can’t hear anything except himself.

Tweek jumps back up and lunges towards him, tackling him to the floor.

Then he doesn’t remember much else until he finds himself in the principal’s office with no punishment and at home with no dinner. 

—

“Aren’t you sick of this shit, Tweek?” Craig hurls at him.

The boy, who Craig has learned is just as straight as he is, turns around, dazed and confused. 

“Hurmm, what do you mean?” He asks, quickly plucking at one of his locks, feeding it between his fingers.

Craig catches up, skipping over the cracks of the sidewalk as they make their way home from school. They always go the long way around so that they can stop holding hands for at least a little bit. He meets Tweek’s side, yanking on the straps of his backpack.

“It’s been like a month dude.” He squeezes on them angrily, “Aren’t you sick of pretending to be a couple of fags?” 

Tweek nibbles his lip and keeps plucking on unruly strands of hair. 

“I think you need to calm down, man.” He shakes his head quickly, “It’s not like they’ll listen to us anyways.” 

Craig rolls his eyes, frustrated as he watches his “boyfriend” trip on the crumbly and uneven sidewalk. 

“You know, I bet it’s all those assholes fault.” He spits.

“Who?” Tweek jumps, startled.

“You know, those assholes Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and them.” He points out, “Everything that’s ever gone wrong in this town is somehow related to them.” 

“Oh wow, really?” Tweek grunts, yanking on larger sections of his hair, “I, I, I, I never really noticed that before.”

“Woah dude,” Craig grabs his hands and removes them from Tweek’s fierce work of tugging, “You’re going to rip out all of your hair like that.” 

They’re stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, about to cross back into their own neighborhood where it’s busy, where everyone cares about the token gay representation putting their sleepy mountain town on the map. Tweek stares at Craig, feeling a little nervous like he might spew his guts or something and Craig’s face dusts pink as he watches Tweek’s nervous face twitch from the corners of his mouth.

“Who’s being a fag now?” Tweek says, pulling his hands away from Craig, but he doesn’t reach for his hair again. 

Craig is behind him again, running across the street after him like an idiot and fumbling over his words. He gets back in front, walking backward up the street.

“Whatever, you can lose all your hair and be bald for all I care,” He smoothly spins around on his heels, then tosses over his shoulder, “I just figured if we’re stuck together we should at least be friends.” 

“Like, like when we got into that fight in woodshop?” Tweek teases, linking his arm through Craig’s as they approach a group of people.

“See!” Craig exclaims, ignoring the awes and gushing, “I told you, those guys are at the center of everything. I didn’t give a fuck about you until those assholes were pipping up.” 

“Then, I guess you’re right,” Tweek chews on his lip again, nervously looking around, “We should be friends just to spite them.”

“No dude, we need to go farther than that. We need to plot against them!”

“Aw geez, man. That’s too much pressure!” He instinctively clutches on Craig’s arm, pulling him downward as he trips over his balance.

“Oh no, not this pussy shit again,” Craig rolls his eyes, “And be careful, you’re going to make me get hit by a car or something.” 

“I know you used to be like a ‘bad boy’ or something, but I’m not built for a life of crime, Craig!” Tweek squeaks, but Craig knows he’s still listening because he is gentler with his squeeze on Craig’s arm this time. 

“What?”

“I need my recess, man!” Tweek bites his lip, pulling Craig to the side of his yard from his shoulders. 

“Woah, calm down dude!” Craig shouts trying to pry Tweek’s grip from himself, but he’s surprisingly strong, which confuses Craig because this asswipe is such a puss.

“Tweek, let go, I-” He sighs hands curling into fists on top of Tweek’s shoulders, literally arms-length apart, “Your parents are watching from the window again.” He interrupts himself, catching Tweek’s panicked stumble off the ledge of the path and into his grassy front yard.

“What?” Tweek breaks, trying to turn around to catch them, but they cheekily hide behind the curtains just as his head swings all the way around. 

“Looks like we have to kiss again,” Craig sighs.

“What! I can’t do it again, this is like the third time this week.” 

“Craig, just hold still so I can get this over with.” He groans, leaning in. 

“What, man! No way, that’s way too much pressure!” His arms are off of Craig’s shoulders and now thrown up into the air, pathetic like a mugging in broad daylight. 

“Tweek,” Craig grabs his hands to keep him from running away, but instead of flopping around like a fish like he normally does, he seems somewhat startled by the touch and frozen with still and ragged breathing. 

“Fine,” Tweek says, letting out a deep shudder, which Craig assumes is embarrassment. 

So Craig leans in, to kiss him on the cheek like he does whenever their parents are around to spy. But, he sees that anxious twitch in Tweek’s lips again as he bites his cheek from the inside, like he always does. And because today (and today only) Craig was a bit distracted by it, he aims wrong and lands his kiss right there in the corner where, for a split second, he swears the frown flips to a sick little smirk. 

“Woah,” Craig says, kind of taken aback himself, and just as shocked as Tweek, “Sorry….. Man…” He apologizes confused, but Tweek is already up his porch, reaching for the doorknob and waving goodbye. 

“See you tomorrow, Craig.” He smiles, though his eyes look twitchy and he licks his teeth like he’s trying to keep them from chattering. 

Craig chalks it up to Tweek’s ADHD. It’s also a fine reason to excuse the pink on his cheeks.  Because neither of them are fags, they were just normal guys put into the same situation. He feels his own face flush and thinks Fuck, ADHD is contagious! Those sixth graders were right. Because that’s the only reason he would have such drastic personality changes like this when he wanted nothing more than to beat the shit out of this kid three weeks ago. 

“Yeah, sure.” Craig’s voice cracks.

Then he walks home and doesn’t think about what happened ever again. 

Diggin' Old Mate   - Okay so if you read my prompt book you'll be familiar with the text conversation, but I did tweak it a little bit. The rest of this is brand new! Hot off the press, mate! My Bluey OCs have been eating away at my sanity for a while, and I just created Joey just for the sake of this fic, so he's new too lol. I was originally going to like actually code some text message boxes in, but it's waaaay too complex for me to even know where to start so I gave up (oops). I hope it's still easy to distinguish the texts and writing? They have usernames btw, I imagined something like Discord in my head. Discord DMs with the bros smh.

Diggin' Old Mate

Written Jan 14, 2024

Gelato is sitting in the dark digging through his bag. He’s taking a break from his hitchhiking, staying in some house (It’s a friend’s of a friend’s, someone nice near Castle Combe in the unruly countryside.) in a room he doesn’t know. It has a bathroom. He’s glad to brush out his hair finally and he’s never been so desperate for a shower in his life. He’s trying to find his toothbrush. It’s gotten lost under the pile of sweaters and picks and trash in his duffel bag.

He glances at his guitar. It could use a tune-up tonight, also. There was so much he needed to get done while he was actually put up in a house. He guesses he took it for granted.

On the charger across the room on the bed, his phone chimes. It’s been dead for a few days. But now it chirps loudly and vibrates against the mattress.

He doesn’t exactly hurry to it, but when he gets there there are three new text messages from his messenger app. The texts before them were dated 3:34 am; March 26th, two and a half years ago.

Digger: Hey did you get the new equipment yet? I've been pretty holed up here

Digger: [image attachment]

Gelato squints at the photo. It looks like a pile of dirt. Actually, it’s towering far above whoever took the picture. In fact, he seems submerged in the earth itself. He rubs his tired eyes to understand more coherently.

JellyJammer: Risco?

The reply is quick. His phone dings again.

Digger: Oh!

Digger: Sorry, mate. Wrong number.

JellyJammer: Is that a mountain of dirt? Where are you????

Digger: I can't really see.

Digger: I'm digging.

Digger: I took a break.

JellyJammer: You still like to dig???? Bonza mate...

JellyJammer: It's pretty huge, are you underground?

Digger: Oh! Gelato.

Digger: I haven't heard from you in a while.

Digger: Wow.

Digger: How's that music thing going?

Gelato winces, glaring at the instrument. He ditched high school for it.

JellyJammer: Oh, um pretty good. I'm actually traveling at the moment.

Digger: Come back to Australia!

Digger: [Sticker sent]

Digger: I can bring my boss to a show, he plays the guitar too!

JellyJammer: Wait, aren't you drowning in dirt? Get back to work.

Digger: Oh

Digger: I'm not drowning...

JellyJammer: I'd be scared if there was that much dirt about to topple over!

Digger: Nothing would happen.

Digger: I’ll dig myself out! Wouldn't that be awesome!

Digger: [sticker sent]

JellyJammer: What about that equipment?

Digger: Oh! Yeah!

Digger: Gotta text my boss.

JellyJammer: And get back to work?

JellyJammer: Wait, what are you even doing?

JellyJammer: Why do you dig holes like that for work????

Digger: Sorry, was texting the bif man.

Digger: *bigg

Digger: *byg

Digger: *BIG

JellyJammer: Lol?

Digger: It's hard to type with one hand!

JellyJammer: Why do you only have one hand?

Digger: The shovel.

JellyJammer: Wait you're still in the hole?

Digger: Yeah. :p

JellyJammer: I'm surprised you haven't made more typos.

Digger: Voice to text, mate.

JellyJammer: Of course.

JellyJammer: Doesn't that disturb your colleagues?

Digger: I work alone.

Digger: Except for Bandit

Digger: (Big man)

Digger: I'm an intern.

Digger: College, yk?

JellyJammer: Still? What are you fooling around with schoolwork too?

Digger: Naw.

Digger: Okay wait, I found something.

Digger: [image attachment]

Gelato jumps straight up. His phone almost shoots out of his hands too, but he really can’t afford a fix right now so he quickly readjusts it. He zooms in on the picture the best he can, there’s something white sticking out of the bottom of the hole. It’s awful doglike in nature…

JellyJammer: IS THAT A BONE?

Digger: Maybe.

Digger: I dig stuff up.

Digger: I didn't think I would find anything tho. ovo

JellyJammer: Wait, then why are you digging?

Digger: It's fun to dig a hole.

JellyJammer: You literally never change. Sigh.

Digger: Don'y phone sigh me.

Digger: Ok....

Digger: I need to go.....

Digger: Gotta chck in wth this..... bome

Digger: *boke

JellyJammer: **Bone.

Digger: Tank u

JellyJammer: I just couldn't handle sitting through that again.

Digger: Well.

Digger: igtg......

Digger: hmu later :D

JellyJammer: Okay, Risco.

Digger::D

[Digger went offline]

Gelato stares at the chatroom as the online icon blinks off. He’s not sure what to think of the conversation. He goes back to trying to find his toothbrush.

Risco hasn’t changed much, in fact, the only difference is he seems happier than he was before. Which he was laughably so before, so not much at all. It’s infuriating to Gelato. He went to high school with Risco, and when Gelato had “graduated” the freshman had begged and begged for his phone number.

He finds it, finally. Luckily the situation hasn’t had much time to simmer. So he’s brushing his teeth. And brushing his hair. And poking at the bags under his eyes. And tuning his guitar, annoyingly precise.

Until there’s a knock at the door.

It’s his host. They’re inviting him down for dinner. Gelato has half the mind to refuse, he’s really been bothering this man far too much. But the man insists. And the loner Gelato joins this stranger for dinner and they talk about music and performing and dropping out of high school and bands and the kinds of places he’s performed at.

But it doesn’t really feel the same. It makes him upset. Risco had to go and ruin the whole thing, ruin his whole evening.

And he doesn’t even have the courtesy to be here Gelato scoffs to himself, drinking some of sparkling water with disdain. He makes a face when the carbonation tickles his tongue. This dog was a full-on hipster. Single guy, who owns a house, and lets troubadours stay in his guest room.

He says he likes the company. Gelato doesn’t get it, but he’s grateful anyhow. So he eats his dinner while they make awkward small talk. It’s awkward for Gelato, not for the gray old afghan sitting in front of him. He’s babbling away about all the people he’s put up in this house of his. Musicians, mostly, but sometimes he speaks of the theatre troupes and whatnot that passed by many years ago.

“So how did Busker meet you?” Gelato asks politely.

The old man stops to think for a moment, pinching at his small round glasses perched upon his long snout. They’re black and shiny, but Gelato’s not sure if he can see anything out of them. Joey (Gelato finds in the pause of chatter that he can finally remember his host’s name) seems like he’s trying to recall who Busker might be.

He waves his hand playfully, “Oh, just that Jojo mojo, you know.”

He laughs at his joke with that charming kind of vintage style. Gelato doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get anything this old man is up to. Joey ceases his laughter and adjusts his glasses as if to look at him for the first time.

“Oh, he says you play a piano quite well,” Joey adds with a nod, unrelated and confusing.

Joey continues, “I used to play myself, when I was much younger. On tour with them lovely, erm,” He stares up at his ceiling like it's telling him the answer. Gelato plays with his fork while he waits, sick of the old kook bouncing off his rockers.

“Ah yes!” He exclaims, snapping Gelato’s attention back, “That fella Dogfred Dogg, quite a lovely bunch they were,” He nods again.

“You played piano for them?” Gelato quips skeptically.

“Ah, yes, yes. But enough about me, Busker tells me you play beautifully,"

Gelato feels like he’s hinting at the old salon piano tucked into the corner of the living room but he doesn’t budge.

“I’m sure Busker says a lot of things.” He says embarrassedly.

“A good friend, he is. Speaks of you well, you two must be close.” Joey leans back in his chair, fiddling with his glasses again.

“Well, not really."

It comes out on accident and without him thinking. He quickly searches Joey’s face, he’s not sure how to explain that he doesn’t really have any friends at all.

Joey lifts his floppy ear in a pointed direction and squints his eyes to hear him better.

“I beg your pardon, could you speak up mate?”

Gelato chuckles to himself, collecting the dishes.

“Perhaps it’s time to tuck in for the night?” He suggests.

Joey’s eyes light up and his hand claps on Gelato’s back.

“Right-o mate, good call. It’s getting quite late anyhow,”

So Gelato resumes his mindless and quiet chatter with his host as they clean up the table. Gelato feels guilty making the old man wash the dishes, so he does it for him while he turns the lights off in the house and calls goodnight. He tells Gelato he’s free to eat what’s in the kitchen or play the piano if he wishes (Which he doesn’t, and would never hope to in this hour). But it leaves him with a lot of time to think.

Just like Risco, Busker had begged and begged for his phone number when they had met, insistent on making connections. But it didn’t feel the same as it did with Risco, though he doubted Risco even considered him a friend too.

He paused the dish he was drying.

Maybe that’s what felt odd about it.

When he walks back up the stairs to his room, the first thing he finds is his phone. The chat opens back up and Gelato’s just staring at Risco’s activity status.

[Digger is online]

He sighs, flopping into the bed.

“Hit me up…” He reads out loud to himself.

That’s what felt so different about this.

He could text Busker. He couldn’t text Risco. And he had no idea why.

He seemed happy, though, digging his holes and it seemed like he had a job now. That was nice, he reckoned. Better than himself.

He scrolls back up the chat to look at their previous conversation. The last text there was also sent by Risco

Digger: Talk to you later?

Gelato cringes. He left him on read…

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He’s lying in bed, in the dark. He’s staring at a bright phone screen at a profile picture of a cartoon dog.

He sighs, clicking his phone off and rolling over. Now he’s lying in bed, in a dark room, staring at the most interesting wall he’s ever seen. Nothing abnormal. Nothing abnormal at all for the loner Gelato.

2023-2024 CREATIVE WRITING PROMPTS  - Click the link to read my work on AO3. Description: A collection of writing prompts for my creative writing class. The collection will obviously be completed when I complete my final prompt. Gonna edit and revise this a bit more and then post it separately. aughhh I love my Bluey OCs so much. The prompt was "Write a wrong text message" Typical story you know teehee. Features my ocs Gelato and Risco.

Prompt 15: Wrong number!

Written Jan 12, 2024

Digger: Hey did you get the new equipment yet? I've been tied up here

Digger: [image attachment]

JellyJammer: Risco?

Digger: Oh!

Digger: Sorry, mate. Wrong number.

JellyJammer: Is that a mountain of dirt? Where are you????

Digger: I can't really see.

Digger: I'm digging.

Digger: I took a break.

JellyJammer: You still like to dig???? Bonza mate....

JellyJammer: It's pretty huge, are you underground?

Digger: Oh! Gelato.

Digger: I haven't heard from you in a while.

Digger: Wow.

Digger: How's that music thing going?

JellyJammer: Oh, um pretty good. I'm actually traveling at the moment.

Digger: Come back to Australia!

Digger: [Sticker sent]

Digger: I can bring my boss, he plays the guitar too!

JellyJammer: Wait, aren't you drowning in dirt? Get back to work

Digger: Oh

Digger: I'm not drowning...

JellyJammer: I'd be scared if there was that much dirt about to topple over!

Digger: I'll dig myself out! Wouldn't that be awesome!

Digger: [sticker sent]

JellyJammer: What about that equipment?

Digger: Oh! Yeah!

Digger: Gotta text my boss.

JellyJammer: And get back to work?

JellyJammer: Wait, what are you even doing?

JellyJammer: Why do you dig holes like that for work????

Digger: Sorry, was texting the bif man.

Digger: *bigg

Digger: *byg

Digger: *BIG

JellyJammer: Lol?

Digger: It's hard to type with one hand!

JellyJammer: Why do you only have one hand?

Digger: The shovel.

JellyJammer: Wait you're still in the hole?

Digger: Yeah. :p

JellyJammer: I'm surprised you haven't made more typos.

Digger: Voice to text, mate.

JellyJammer: Of course.

JellyJammer: Doesn't that disturb your colleagues?

Digger: I work alone.

Digger: Except for Bandit

Digger: (Big man)

Digger: I'm an intern.

Digger: College, yk?

JellyJammer: Still? What are you fooling around with schoolwork too?

Digger: Naw.

Digger: Okay wait, I found something.

Digger: [image attachment]

JellyJammer: IS THAT A BONE?

Digger: Maybe.

Digger: I dig stuff up.

Digger: I didn't think I would find anything.

JellyJammer: Wait, then why are you digging?

Digger: It's fun to dig a hole.

JellyJammer: You literally never change. Sigh.

Digger: Don'y phone sigh me.

Digger: Ok....

Digger: I need to go.....

Digger: Gotta chck in wth this..... bome

Digger: *boke

JellyJammer: **Bone.

Digger: Tank u

JellyJammer: I just couldn't handle sitting through that again.

Digger: Well.

Digger: igtg......

Digger: hmu later :D

JellyJammer: Okay, Risco.

Digger: :D

[Digger went offline]

Afterparty  - Click the link to read my work on AO3. Description: Poncho finds himself in the care of Poodle after yet another wicked rager. Drinking, hangover, toxic relationshipsCW for Drinking, hangover, toxic relationships

Afterparty

Written Jan 10, 2024, added Jan 11, 2024

Poncho looked down at the teacup that was carefully cradled between his paws. His fur was a disheveled mess, ratty and knotted and carelessly abandoned. He smelled awful too, like beer and cigarettes. He winced as Poodle came up behind him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Could you be more careful with that, Party?” He whines as she tears the hairbrush through his long ears.

She needed to be rough. It was the only way that nest was going to get untangled. He was surprised it had even gotten this bad. He tried to ignore the clumps of hair that began to pile up on the floor.

“Why don’t we just shave it again, yeah?” He offers meekly.

She quickly takes the back end of the brush to the back of his head. Poncho yelps, grabbing at the sore spot. He can’t say anything. He just turns around and stares at her with his round blue eyes and small pink muzzle pressed into a whimper.

“What even happened?” She scoffed, running after some clippers.

He couldn’t remember anything from last night. He watches as Party digs through a sparkly toolbox. Of course, she had every hair-tuning device to exist. She was an elegant and regal poodle after all. Party Poddle snaps his head back towards the table and Poncho takes a sip of his tea.

He feels a yank on the back of his head and she pushes his neck back up to keep him straight, “I still have to brush it first.”

For a moment they sit in silence and, Poncho hates to use this word, but the room felt awfully pregnant with suspicion.

Poncho embarrassedly chuckles to himself as he scratches at his head in thought.

“Oh, erm, you know…” He awkwardly teeters off in shame, “Victor sure loves to party, yeah?”

There’s another beat of silence before she brings the brush up to smack the back of his head again.

“Your roommate sure is something, isn’t he?” She scoffs before returning to the pleasing strokes.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” He feels another tug, but his hair isn’t tangled together anymore, “But, he brought me to another party, and well, can’t not drink at a party like that you know?”

His sister is silent as she turns on the razor and starts to work on shearing the extra length around his ears and the back of his head.

“Doesn’t explain why you’re such a mess.” She quips an eyebrow.

He watches as his hair piles up on the floor. The teacup has been put back on the table and he doesn’t care for it now. The fur looks like disgusting stuffing torn from a puppy’s toy: Full of slobber and drool and piss and grime.

“Shit.” Poncho chuckles, rubbing up and down his clean-shaven ears.

It feels a lot different than his stubbly face.

Poodle still hasn’t said anything. The clippers are buzzing at the back of his head and neck and she reaches down to get his back and shoulders too. He forgot that you needed to get rid of everything, you can’t just only get rid of the bad parts. When was the last time he trimmed his hair?

“Victor isn’t that bad, you know,” He smiles, but Poodle doesn’t seem to join him, “He’s just a party animal.”

She’s fixed on the point she’s carefully attending to on his tail. She doesn’t look up. Her mouth barely moves, mostly like it was a comment to herself.

“He’s a bit toxic.”

Poncho could feel the sludge roll around in his stomach. Suddenly the pile of fur is covering his feet. The new shaven layers are nice and bright. He’s returned to his bright pink color. The hair piled on the floor is dark and muted, overgrown. He hasn’t taken care of himself. He needs to get home. He catches a spot of purple tangled in with some of the hair from his stomach.

“He’s just strange.” Poncho winces, trying to free himself from the wild cat’s hair, “You get used to him.”

She scoffs, turning the razor off. Poncho has finished plucking the fur from his stomach, and painstakingly it’s left some patches of bald. His sister says nothing else. She tosses the broom at him, silently demanding that he clean up his own mess.

It Was a Memory, Almost an Ugly Friend.  - Click the link to read my work on AO3. Description: I remember death so much it feels just like a memory. As an assignment for my creative writing class we had to watch Hamilton and study the passage of time in stories, then write a deleted scene that expresses the passage of time. 

It Was A Memory, Almost An Ugly Friend.

October 22, 2023

When Peggy died. 

They were standing there, staring down at an open casket.  It was a beautifully warm March morning. This was the prettiest Alexander had ever seen her. Angelica said they had put her in her favorite dress; Green petticoats and warm daisies surrounding her. She looked like a porcelain doll. It made him a little sick to look at. The priest prattled on in blessing, and, almost bored, Alex pulled his wife close to his side while she wept quietly to herself because this whole thing wasn’t about her at all. He glanced down at her. She couldn’t even look at the body. She wasn’t even facing the right direction. He mundanely wrapped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her close to hide the sight from her.

When Peggy had died, Eliza was shredded to ribbons in a pile on their parlor floor. Her sobs came out in shrieking gasps and Alexander thought her collapse might bring down the entire house. The news had come by mail, addressed by the dead herself. It may have been an expected one, but it did not make it easier for her to swallow. Of course, Alexander flew to the floor, arms around his beloved wife, saddened by the death of his sister-in-law, sure. But he had no real attachment to Peggy. She was a face from the hallways, portraits, and parties from the last twenty or so years. 

He did his best to comfort her. He tried his best to comfort her. He couldn’t say he wasn’t relieved though when Angelica burst through those doors but a week later to take her sister away. Angelica was coming to visit Peggy, but it was too late by the time she arrived from London. She was still a bit jaded about the last circumstance of her visit, and when she passed by Alexander in the doorway she leaned in and whispered;

“Must I only see you in tragedy?”

She always had a sharp wit, and an even sharper tongue. Alexander couldn’t help but feel offended by it. But he shook his head quietly to himself as she sauntered over to embrace her sister, because this was no tragedy for him. 

He didn’t give much thought to those words until she had arrived for her next visit.

Not nine months after the death of her sister, her eldest son had died too. Alexander had been there when it happened. He watched his son heave his last breaths, explaining the error in some sort of attempt to justify his death to his father. He kept shushing him. Alexander kept shushing him because it wasn’t his fault. A lousy cheater wasn’t his fault. But it was his death. When Eliza had raced into the hostpital, Alexander had never been so terrified. Here he was to watch the death of his own son and now his wife must pay the burden, too. He tried to push her away, but he found himself too weak to stop the barreling woman as she clamored to her son in his final moments. 

“Did you know?” She gasped.

He was too stunned to speak, too stunned to lie. But Phillip chimed in, interrupted to save the fight in fleeting moments. He insisted he was okay, a weak and miserable lie to his mother as he hacked away. 

“Of course, of course!” She sobbed.

And then she began to sing. 

She sang to him in French, those numbers. A song. The piano? Alex wasn’t sure. But Phillip sang back to her. And in his last words, where he fell stiff and limp, it was like Alexander wasn’t even there. He was a shadow on the wall, far away, and uninvolved. 

Eliza screamed so loud his ears rang with dizzy. He put a hand on her back. He wasn't even sure how to tame himself, let alone his wife. So the lights went dim all around them and even though Eliza was the only one crying, Alexander felt a tear slip in the dark. 

His funeral had to be done quickly, since winter was approaching. There was no time to wait for Angelica. There was no time to gather. It was cold, and clear, and crisp. Luckily the first wasn’t frozen hard yet. They dug a hole near where Peggy was and in a few simple words he was below the ground where they stood. Alex felt the ledge in front of him wobble and bend as he stared down where the coffin was nailed shut. He felt himself heavy. He almost fell, he thinks.  But it must not have been a tragedy because he hadn’t seen Angelica. 

If your sister and your son dying in the same year was not enough, then the tragic death of your loving husband might have been just the thing to push you over the edge. He died for honor, that’s what Alex wanted to tell himself. He died for Peggy and Phillip and Eliza and the revolution. That’s all he could think about in his last moments. Deathbed a foot from where his son had felled three years ago. There was no hospital, he was dead on shot. He doesn’t remember if Eliza howled in misery at the news. He doesn’t know if the man who made himself his father felt grieved or at rest with his death. He doesn’t know if his son, named after that father, saw him again in death. He doesn’t know anything and he remembers nothing. His only friend is death. It’s an ugly thing. A plague. It took his mother. He was all alone. 

It took Eliza’s sister and created a heavy heart for her. And he could do nothing for cure. 

It took their son. His son. His bright ideas and pride. His pride for his father who didn’t deserve it; Who didn’t even know about the piano and his mother.

It took him, too. Swallowed him heavy. He realized too late what it meant. He was a name that would be lost to the sands of time. No one would remember him and his terrible deeds. No one would remember his righteous actions and him. Like an old friend, Iago; It swept away his pride. 

He remembers one thing:

It rained a lot at his funeral. 

Like the world was weeping for him.