LET ME DO A QUICK UPDATE + The Curious Tale of a Boy named Edgar Root

WELL HELLO BLOGGIE I MISSED YOU SORTA. ;u;

Man, I used to use you as a place for ranting haha. And I'd rant about... well, stupid things like like how I couldn't bear not being liked back by so on and so forth and it was idiotic. Yep. Though I'm not saying I won't be posting immature things anymore nope nope there's still more where that came from.

Maybe I'll use you to post crappy writings and ideas and all. You could be my draft blog, you know. If I can't post things on tumblr or if I'm too shy and would like to let out something more personal elsewhere, I'd use you. That'll be cool. And since all my followers are people I personally know, all the comments I'd get are those from friends, so yeah, that's a bonus.

Do I sound like a five year old? I hope not.

So, firstly:

The Curious Tale of a Boy Named Edgar Root

There was something abnormal about Edgar Root.

He was always cold, bitter, and unwelcoming to lay a hand on. On the parts where a normal boy should be the warmest, Edgar was the coldest. When Edgar plays in the sun, his face blooms blue and his skin turns icy. On those rare occasions when Edgar felt happy, his cheeks would blush to the colour of your lips when you were cold, and he’d be embarrassed of it, because he knows this would only make the blue deeper. No one wanted to touch him. No one wanted to speak to him: for who would ever want to be with someone so frosty, so dead to the touch? He doesn’t feel it, but others do. And it hurt him.

When he asked Mrs Root about why he was like that (‘Mama, is there something wrong with me? Why won’t the others like me?’), all he received from her was a firm glare. Mama did not like talking about the strange characteristics of her child. Often, Edgar would have a feeling that even his Mama did not want him in the same room as he was. She never liked the cold, and Edgar could not help it if every room he wanders in turn chilly in his presence. When Edgar watches the other children hug their Mamas, there would always be this twitch in his heart. It was a painful twitch. It was a twitch that drowned him in his sleep so that his weeping came unheard. It was a twitch that kicked him on the shins whenever he saw his Mama but can never touch her; a twitch that beat his insides, like a bully, reminding him he would never be like one of those children who would sleep in the warm embrace of their mothers whenever they wanted to, because they were warm themselves—because their mothers loved them. So Edgar would turn to his Papa.

Mr Root did not mind Edgar. Every evening, before he went to bed, Edgar would clamber up to his father’s lap as he dozed in his favourite armchair, a newspaper draped across his torso. It would send Mr Root jolting out of his slumber to feel this sudden cold bundle on his lap, and Edgar would feel guilty for waking him up. But Papa forgives. Papa would laugh. He would wrap his arms around Edgar’s cold body and leave him there, safe and cozy.

When Edgar was eight, he hid himself in one of the cupboards in school. It wasn’t the first time the boy had done it—several times he had found himself within the darkness of this enclosure, coveted away from the insults and sneering of the bigger boys. It was one place where Edgar felt safe. No one wanted Edgar to be out and about in the playground, speculating the children who would be playing and mucking around, and that was just fine. He hadn’t told anyone, but he always had a friend with him. It was a little creature; sort of like a cat but with the mane of a lion, and perhaps with the wings of a swan, and maybe even the tail of a chinchilla, and was the colour of pistachio ice-cream—Edgar couldn’t decide, but he always made the friendliest and warmest company on the worst of days.

The cupboard had slits on its door which allowed Edgar to peek through to the empty hallway. It stood directly opposite a window, and through that, Edgar would be able to see children playing in the courtyard. During a damp, dreary autumn morning, he watched from the slits as the children stomped in the mud, oblivious to the spatters of dirt on their shorts and skirts; ignoring almost intentionally the fact that their Mamas would be angry at them when they got home for their dirtied wardrobes. It was only then that Edgar heard a noise. A series of footsteps echoed through the hallway—a collection of rushed, anxious scurrying, and Edgar wondered who it could be. He felt his breath hitch.

The footsteps grew louder, and Edgar leaned forwards to catch a glimpse of the sprinter. At the peak of the strides, a figure appeared in front of the slits—first as a blur, but then it stopped as quickly as it had come. Edgar saw the torso of a young boy, slightly pudgy, but a lot more muddy. Conscious of his own raspy breaths, Edgar stopped himself from breathing. It did little help. The figure swept around to face Edgar's door, and without a second’s hesitation, he dived forwards to yank at the knob of the cupboard—

Edgar yelped. He raised his hands up, curling instantly into a ball. The light smacked him smartly on his face, and the feeling of horror drenched him of the so little colour he had left. Alas, he was found! Now he had to wait for the first beating, or the second lash this morning, or the third sneer of the day, but—

‘Oh, it’s you,’ the boy said. Edgar looked up, blinking. And without asking if it was all right to do so, the boy scrambled in the narrow cupboard with Edgar, shushing him to keep silent, and after a brief moment of shuffling and grunting, he finally stood still. Edgar felt his heart pound on his eardrums. He felt his breath rush and his mind swirl. He hid so well away from the rest of the children, and now – this boy! This boy had opened his shelter and barged insistently in, never mind the fact that there was the cold body of a young child inside, which may as well resemble that of a fresh, dead corpse, no matter how very much alive it still was...

---

There you go, something to waste your time on. I'd like to publish it on tumblr (PFF PFF) you know, to test my guts, but then my writing is sklfjalsfja; and the font on my blog is also blargh, but I don't wanna change my theme, so /kanyeshrug.

Something I did a long time ago. Left it unfinished olololol

When will I be able to write awesomely. Oh But I bet if I keep doing things I like with passion I'd get somewhere???? idk.