Life’s Good. Now What?

It’s been about a year since the worst period of my life started to fade back into normalcy. I learnt so much through the pain and the anguish I endured, things I could never have learnt had God let me continue breezing through life unscathed. I learnt how to see the never-dimming light through the trials and to always believe in the hope of a miracle.

But then I got better. And when this happened it was the crowning glory of my entire journey, the proof, as it were, of God’s miraculous healing power that is still in effect today. But time goes on, and I realised something extremely strange:

I had nothing to say to God any more.

Of course I thanked him for healing me and bringing me out from the pit during the first few months of my recovery. I thanked him every time I did something I could not have imagined doing when I was sick. But it seemed to stop there. I was only thanking him. I had nothing to petition him for, it seemed.

There are no hardships in my life currently at all. I have finished school and university entrance exams are only in the last few months of the year. I am at home relaxing and unemployed for now. I am free from pain and sickness. I am not suffering at all. If I were to use the metaphor of life being an ocean, right now the waves are absolutely still. Nothing’s rocking my boat.

So in experiencing this I started to wonder: what emotion do I put into my worship? Is it simply thanksgiving? Because strangely enough, that felt insufficient. There was something yet lacking, if I only came to God to thank him and not to ask him for help. I felt as if I needed something to go wrong in my life so that I could once again cry out for God to fix it. I felt as if I were doing something wrong, living day to day without actually needing God to bring me out of misery. It felt oddly misplaced to be living in peace and calm when I had come out of the storm.

Then God spoke to me during a time of worship, and suddenly I knew what I had to do now in this season of my life.

In this time in which I am experiencing no troubles, I have to seek out pain in other people’s lives. When I pray, instead of asking for help for myself, I now have to intercede for others. Right now I have no discernible troubles, but that does not mean the world is all roses. The world is messed up, and there are people around me experiencing pain I might not even know about at this point. But now it is my ministry, my assignment as it were, for me to reach out to these people from a place of joy and sow hope into their lives, being with them and being a living testimony to the fact that they are not alone and that they will come out of this. In this way I must help them to heal, and pray for them where before I would pray for myself.

This is not going to be easy. I am not a people-person by nature, definitely not one of those charismatic people you’re drawn to instantly. I even lean towards selfishness and the mindset of ‘every man for himself’ in my cynical times. But somehow I have to learn to fine-tune my sensitivity, to become more understanding of troubles I have no way of relating to. I have to wake up to what’s going around in the lives of others, instead of constantly thinking about myself. I have to learn to put others first and express genuine care and concern for them. I am introverted, task-oriented thinker, which seems to be the exact opposite of a person you would want to be with you through a hard time. But somehow I’ll have to make this work. Now I have another thing to pray for help about.

I don’t know how many people can relate to this, even. I don’t even know if it’s possible for many people nowadays to actually be in the situation I am in, that of a life void of hardships. Everyone seems too busy to be able to enjoy this luxury. But regardless of whether this is relatable or not, at least it solidifies in my mind what I now need to do.

I am to help people heal.

It is a terrifying idea, but a beautiful prospect, isn’t it?

 

 

 

 

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God Is Not Enough

It’s funny how little it can take to touch someone’s heart.

In 2016, I encountered loneliness so deep and painful that sometimes I actually wanted to die. There was physical pain, which already broke me in a hundred different ways; and then there was the utter hopelessness and loneliness I felt every day when I woke up. I would actually hope that each night would be my last sleep, and that I would not wake up, because even death would be better than waking up in that pain. Jesus, I told myself, had surely suffered less on the cross because at least for him it was over sooner.

No one knew this.

A few months ago I finally told a close friend that I had wanted to die at the time. Her instant response was heartbroken: she never knew this, next time please tell her if I ever felt that way again. I had never even mentioned my pain (we communicated mostly over messages and didn’t see each other often) because I didn’t want to bother her. She was busy packing to move back to the United States. I didn’t want to give her an extra thing to worry about.

I never told anyone because I felt no one cared enough. There was no one in my life to whom telling these thoughts would not be a burden. I felt burdensome and useless. I didn’t want to accentuate this by telling my sobstory to a person who potentially might not truly care, and who might reply me with trite, cliché encouragement that they didn’t really mean. I didn’t know who could love me enough to actually care. Several times I stared at my phone and scrolled through the contacts, contemplating whether I could send anyone a message asking for comfort—a cry for help, as it were—but the immense fear of being an unwanted burden crippled me. Everyone was busy with their own lives. No one had the time to love me.

There was God, of course, and every day I cried out to him and begged him to take this away from me. And he sent comfort when I spoke to him. He showed me verses and gave me peace. But the problem still loomed—God, almighty though he is, is not tangible. And for my shallow human heart, omnipresence without tangibility was not enough for me.

This hurt most when I knew what I needed: I needed a shoulder to cry on; I needed someone to tell me they still loved me and that I was not worthless, or that no one cared about my disfigurement. I needed someone to hold me tight and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I needed someone who loved me enough to shoulder the burdens alongside me.

No one ever did that.

Yes, several people asked after me when they saw me. I kept it light. I didn’t want to bother them. I don’t believe anyone not in my family knew at the time the extent of the phsyical pain I was going through. And I never told anyone of the mental agony. I was scared that they were just asking out of small talk; they didn’t really want to know the full extent of my pain. I didn’t want to be an emo person sharing my sob story—something deeply personal and painful—with someone who had just asked how I was out of small talk. I didn’t want to scare them away. So I hid under a cover as best as I could. I wanted to be strong. But inside, way deep inside—I wanted someone just to be there with me and love me. I cried out to God, asking him to send someone to just message me and ask how I was. It never happened. I continued forging through alone. The pain ended and I am healed now, but this is not at all how I would want it ideally.

What am I getting at? Already at the beginning God decreed: “It is not good that man should be alone” (Genesis 2:18). This is so much broader than just marriage. I sometimes hear preachers speak of the ‘God-shaped void’ in each one of us. I put it to you that there is also a similar human-shaped void within our hearts. It doesn’t matter whether you’re an introvert or an extrovert. We all need people. My love language isn’t even physical touch, but I craved it nonetheless. We just need love, love as such as can be felt tangibly, because sometimes we are too shallow to appreciate the magnitude of God’s love. We need something we can experience on an equal level. Yes, his grace is sufficient, but sole reliance on God when no one else is there is extremely difficult. It would have been far easier to live if someone had just reached out to me in my darkest point.

No one should have to go through their struggles alone, especially in Christian circles. The church is the Body of Christ: when one part is hurt, the whole body is sick. It is incredibly wrong that someone should have to hide their pain and bottle up negative emotions when people in the church should be there for the expressed purpose of loving and healing. It pains me whenever I hear of people putting on a happy front and suffering untold misery on the inside. It shouldn’t be that way. It should never be that way.

So what can be done to counter this? The simplest way to put it is to take the initiative. Most of the time people will hide their pain in an effort to be strong. In fact, most of the time you may not even know whether someone is even hurting. It falls to you to gently peel back the layers until you find what is hurting them the most. Ask them how they are doing, and mean it. It’s extremely obvious when this is said out of casual insincerity. Show them you care, you truly care. Don’t just ask once. Come back to them again and again, proving that it wasn’t flippant the first time you asked. Message them asking them if they’re okay, or whether they need to talk about anything. Just be there. Be available so that they know you do love them enough.

Sit down with the person, if possible, and really talk to them. Probe them till you find signs of an inner pain, then start to unearth it, never judging them, only loving them. Assure them of your sincere love and care for them, and reiterate this until they believe it. Pray for them right there and then. The next time you see them, tell them that you have been praying. You have no idea how much it means when someone tells you that they have been praying for you. “I have been praying” is infinitely more meaningful than “I will be praying”. Anyone can say the latter.

I don’t think anyone would want to find themselves in the position of not having known when one of your close friends was suffering. It may even horrify you when you find out years later that they had been hurting at the time and you had never realised. You have to ask after those whom you care about. Check in on them.

On the other side of the coin, there are the people like me, who experience untold suffering but insist on bottling it up because they feel no one cares enough to take time on their woes. Don’t do this. I have told my story to a couple of close friends long after the painful period, and the response was the same. They wished they had known. They wished they had been there to comfort me, because they would have had they only known. I know you want to be strong. I know you don’t want to burden people in their busy lives. But let it occur to you that sometimes they would want to share the burden—if they would even know that it exists. I know it’s hard, and it’s terrifying for you to take the first move and ask for help. But if no one reaches out to you first, don’t be scared. Reach out to the people you love. Ten to one they will throw aside their busy lives and spend time talking to you. I know I would do that.

My story is not entirely unhappy. There were times, little pockets of light in the seemingly neverending tunnel, when people came up to me. I could sense their sincerity, and it touched me so deeply.

“Can I pray for you?”

“Are you okay?”

“We’ve been praying for you every day.”

“So tell me about this.”

I remember you, even if you don’t remember saying this to me. I remember you, and I remember the warm feeling that blossomed in my heart when you took the first move and showed that you thought a little about me. I remember how I smiled that night, with that much more hope that maybe people did love me, even if so little. I remember, and you mean so much to me.

But imagine how much easier it would have been for me if this had been taken a step forward. Imagine if people had messaged me, not only asking about me when they saw me. Imagine if they had messaged me when I woke up in the middle of the night in pain, or when I was at home crying because of that heavy sense of loneliness. Imagine if they had had a long talk with me, taking the time out of their busy lives just to uncover my façade and find out my darkest, most painful thoughts.

I don’t want it to be the way I faced it for anyone else. It’s honestly not that hard.

So take the initiative to love.

 

 

 

Dance

Dance through life.

Doesn’t matter what they say–

Why bother?

Play to the audience.

Play for yourself.

The expression’s what counts, so smile.

Show your teeth,

Wide smile, beaming face.

Fall to the ground, roll over,

Oh, anything’s artistic

As long as it means something

To someone,

To anyone,

To you.

Does that count?

Five, six, seven, eight

Of course it counts.

Curl your fingers, pointe your toes,

Own that stage.

You don’t have to look pretty,

Because,

When you dance,

No matter what moves you make,

You’re more than pretty.

You’re beautiful.

_________________

Had a ballet exam today after four years of no exams. It was exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Also, I’ve neglected this old thing for such a long time. I guess it’s time to get back into it. I have been writing a little, I promise. Just nothing that publishable. Not that this is anything great, but hey, it’s something. Enjoy.

Blown Away: Hamilton Fan Fiction (part IV)

I’ve been restless and fidgety the whole day. I haven’t seen Father at all for days now: he leaves the house before dawn and returns when I am already sleeping. The last time I saw him was when I woke up in the middle of the night and saw him standing over my bed like a spectre, with a ghastly look on his face.

Yet I’ve never been happier. Philip meets me every day with his classic grin and we walk the city together. And although we get stared at everywhere we go, I don’t even care any more. Let the whole of New York gossip. We love each other. There can be no politics in love.

“Would you like to come for tea with my family today?” asks Philip one day.

I start. “With your father?” The elder Mr Hamilton is as opposed to our relationship as my own father.

He shakes his head, smiling. “My father has an engagement outside. By family I mean my mother and some of my siblings.”

“Are you sure this is a wise idea? Will I not spark any schism between you and your mother?”

“She says she will be delighted to meet the young lady who has been fascinating me for so long,” he says, laughing as he presses my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there, won’t I?”

“If you say so,” I murmur.

“Not sold yet, are you?” He lowers his voice as if about to share a secret. “This is my way of telling you you’re more special than any other girl I’ve ever been with. I’ve never asked this of any other girl.”

Although I try to hide it, my lips curl up into a smile.

“Ah, there’s the Theodosia I know and love.”

An hour later I cross the threshold into the Hamilton front parlour. “Mother,” Philip calls, “I’m home with Miss Burr.”

A woman comes out from further inside the house and I see Eliza Hamilton for the first time. What I see shocks me into speechlessness. Philip has spoken so often of his mother that I had formed my own image of who and what she was, but—

Eliza Hamilton’s face is the face of a woman who has gone through immense suffering. Every feature is frozen and hardened into absolute hauteur and impassiveness; her forehead is creased unnaturally with signs of traumatic stress. She looks at me stiffly and her mouth struggles to form a smile. The effect is ghastly. It’s a twisted, crooked grimace.

“Miss Burr,” she says, the contorted smile still plastered over her face. “Take a seat in the dining room, please. I’m glad to meet you.”

She looks anything but glad. Trying to keep my look of horror minimal, I turn slowly to Philip. He doesn’t seem to think his mother’s appearance and behaviour unusual. He’s even smiling. He has spoken so many times of how wonderful and kind she is; I had surely never expected to see a woman like this.

“Thank you, Mrs Hamilton,” I say at last. She flinches at my words, as if jabbed with a needle. This is a woman who has undergone much pain. This is a woman who is trying desperately to be strong, but is nearly at the end of her tether.

“Philip,” says Eliza Hamilton, “show Miss Burr to the dining room. I will get the tea.” She shuffles slowly away to the kitchen, and as she leaves us I find I have been holding my breath.

Philip takes my arm, and when we are seated, asks, “What’s wrong, Theo? You look spooked.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I tried to hide it. But—oh, never mind, it’s fine.” I don’t want to badmouth his mother, especially if he doesn’t see anything unusual about her.

He knows, nonetheless. “Is it Mother?” As I nod, he sighs. “She has been like this ever since my father published his—his affair. She never cried; she never shed a single tear that I saw. She just—she just froze into this new person, and I don’t know that that’s better or worse than if she had lashed out at Father. But when he came back that day she coolly told him that he would have to sleep in his office now.”

“Oh, Philip,” I say, “I’m so sorry.”

“She bears up wonderfully though. I’m so proud of her but so worried. At the same time I’m so angry with Father but I love him all the same. But that’s why I try to stay out and have fun most of the time.”

He falls silent abruptly as his mother returns, tea tray in her hands. She pours tea for us in the stillness, a strange look of intense concentration on her face as if she will drop the pot if she forgets to concentrate. At last it is over and she sets the pot down, her hands shaking palsy-like.

“Miss Burr.” I start, not having expected her to speak to me. “How is your family?”

Her face is immensely pale, her dark eyes dilating in it to provide a sharp contrast. In it are years of full blossoming beauty that had shrivelled up in only a matter of days.

“My father is well,” I say slowly, wondering if I am lying. But surely Father is fine.

“And your mother?” she says.

“My mother passed away a few years ago.”

At this an unearthly look of bliss passes over her face. “What must it be like to fade away from this world,” she murmurs, suddenly unaware of my presence.

Philip rises from his seat and goes over to his mother. “Mother, I think you should take a break and lie down for a short while.”

A scornful peal of laughter emanates from her mouth. “I told him that, didn’t I, Philip? What am I talking about? How would you know? You were nine! Forgive me, Miss Burr, I don’t know what has come over me. I’m usually not like this. Tell her, Philip.”

I stand up. “I think I should take my leave,” I say slowly.

Philip says, “I’ll come with you; just give me a moment.”

“No,” I say. “Your mother needs you. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

Once I am out of the house I feel as if an evil presence has been lifted from my soul. But all the way home I see Eliza Hamilton’s frozen face hanging in my mind’s eye, and it unsettles me.


I got disgruntled doing this because no one was viewing my posts. But then new encouragement came along so I picked up again.

I’ve wanted to do this scene of Theodosia meeting Eliza since I conceptualised this fan fiction. To me the implication of Philip Hamilton not dying meant that It’s Quiet Uptown would never happen, which means no “forgiveness, can you imagine”, which in turn means that Eliza is still at odds with Ham. This is how I envision a broken Eliza. I hope you enjoyed it!! Please comment and subscribe 🙂

Blown Away: Hamilton Fan Fiction (part III)

“Let’s not go to the play,” says Philip Hamilton, breaking the long silence.

I stare at him, startled. I had forgotten I was walking with him.

“Miss Burr, you’re clearly out of sorts today,” he says. He lets go of my arm. “Please. Let me take you somewhere else.”

“My father does not approve,” I murmur. “So in my opinion we should just stay with the itinerary. When I come back he’ll ask me how the play was. How can I lie to him, sir?”

He bounces on his toes and looks disapprovingly at me. “I should have thought you to have more spunk than that, Miss Burr. But as you wish. We shall head to the theatre.”

We start walking again; this time he does not offer me his arm.

“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry about my father. I don’t know if you heard what he said before you knocked, but—”

“Oh, I heard every word.” He laughs aloud. “From—what was it?—oh, ‘of all people you go see a play with the son of Alexander Hamilton?’ It wasn’t fate’s opportune hand that led me to knock just as your father was forbidding you to go out. Alack, I was eavesdropping.” He feigns a clumsy bow, and I smile faintly.

“I hope you’re not offended, sir.”

“Ha! Why should I be?”

Softly I say, “You were headed to a duel with George Eacker because of what he said about your father? My father was saying things of equal measure, sir. Yet this time you laugh.”

“Oh, but this time I had a lovely lady defending me hotly,” he says, winking slyly at me.

“Jokes aside, Mr Hamilton,” I say quickly.

“I beg your pardon. As I was saying, your father and mine are staunch political enemies. Of course Mr Burr would insult my father so. It’s only when complete strangers like that Eacker say things they know nothing about that I cannot let it slide.”

“Mr Eacker was a tough one to crack,” I say. “He nearly refused to budge.”

He murmurs something. I don’t hear it clearly, but he turns his face as if hiding a smile.

“Did you say something, sir?”

He grins. “Again, lovely lady defending me.” I frown, and he says, “See, I knew you wouldn’t like it. That’s why I said it under my breath.”

“Please, sir.”

“Will you stop calling me ‘sir’? It’s so unsettling. My name is Philip. Call me that.”

“Oh. If you wish, sir—I mean, Philip.”

His name sounds forced coming from my mouth. But he smiles.

“Theodosia,” he says, smiling again at me. Through his lips my name suddenly takes on different colour. No one has ever said it like that. A warm thrill rushes through me.

Is this called falling in love?

I blush. Then in a very small voice, “I’m afraid that isn’t proper.” I sound like my mother now. Is that good? Is that bad?

He stops walking. “I’m afraid I’ve never been proper, Miss Burr.”

But I want him to say my name again. I do, I do. “Well,” I say slowly, “you may call me by my name if you wish. But only when no one is around. My father may hear of it.”

“There is no one around now, Theodosia,” he says, laughing. “I’m sorry, did I drop your arm? Here, let’s be proper, if only in certain aspects and not others.”

I take his hand. It’s warm and strong and I feel ashamed of myself for succumbing to his charms so easily. I’ve seen him with the girls before. He does this with every girl. I know he does this with every girl.

“You’re different, you know that?” he says, as if reading my mind. “I’ve never seen someone like you before. I’ve known you for so short a time, but every thing you do is different from any other girl. You don’t flirt, but you offer to be a man’s second for a duel. That’s admirable.”

I don’t say anything. I’d rather have him forsake me entirely than flirt like this.

“You don’t like it? See, that’s what I mean. Oh, look, we’re at the theatre already. Shall I get tickets?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I run my fingers through my hair distractedly. “I mean, we could just sit somewhere and talk, right?

He laughs. It’s as if he’s saying: See, I told you we wouldn’t see the play. Instead he says, “Can I buy you a drink?”

Somehow I feel that this has all happened before, in another generation.

I say, “That would be nice.”

Philip grins at me. Before I know what is happening, he strokes his hand down my hair. Then he’s gone, smiling wide as he walks off.

And even though I know that this is probably nothing special to him, I cannot help covering my face to hide the blush that creeps up on me.

Is this called falling in love?


So sorry that this is late. The internet at my house was down for a while and when it got back up again I was having a really packed day. Forgiveness? Can you imagine? Oh well.

Blown Away: Hamilton Fan Fiction (part II)

I’m alone at home dressing for the play the next day when I hear a knock the front door.

It’s Father. “I hadn’t expected you back so early,” I stammer, surreptitiously glancing towards the clock. Philip Hamilton should be arriving very soon.

Father’s face is exceptionally haggard. He has been this way ever since Mother died, but today the creases in his face are deeper.

“Theo, someone told me he saw you George Eacker yesterday,” he says. “What am I supposed to make of that?”

What on earth—I had thought the meeting was private! How could anyone have seen me with Eacker? Despite my shock I smile briefly in remembrance of the successful peacemaking. Father seizes upon it.

“Don’t tell me you’re seeing him,” he warns. “How long has this been going on? I’ll not have it.”

“Oh, Father,” I say as lightly as possible, “it was nothing important. I’m sure whatever you heard was blown up by exaggerations.”

He frowns, unconvinced. Again I glance towards the clock. It’s five till six. If I can leave the house now I might be able to intercept Hamilton before he comes to the door. If Father sees him he might just blow up, especially right after hearing about me and George Eacker.

Just as I think this I see Father’s eye glance down at my dress. He frowns again. “Going out?”

“To see a play,” I say, taking a step towards the door.

Suddenly Father’s face brightens. “I’ll go with you,” he says. “I need some relaxation after all the drama at work.”

In spite of myself I feel my face flush. “Oh…Father, I would love to go with you, but I—I can’t, not today…I’m…I’m going with someone…” I trail off, helpless to avoid the arriving explosion.

It deeply saddens me to see the short-lived joy disappear off his face as quickly as it appeared. “Who’s going with you?” he says.

I murmur, “Philip Hamilton.”

He flares red to his ears. “Theodosia!”

“Father…”

“And I thought George Eacker was bad,” he says, almost to himself. “What will people say? Of all people you go see a play with the son of Alexander Hamilton? Don’t you know how he has disgraced himself? I have the Reynolds pamphlet right here somewhere, Theo, would you like to read it? Maybe then you’ll think twice about seeing his son.”

“Father, it’s just a play! And why should a son have to suffer the disgrace of his father?”

“Forget it, Theo. You won’t understand these political matters. I forbid you to go out tonight—”

Three knocks sound on the door, and I catch my breath. With a furtive look back at Father, I reach for the doorknob and open the door.

“Oh,” says Philip Hamilton, as he meets Father’s stony gaze. I take a breath to speak, but the silence between is an eternity.

“Father, this is Mr Philip Hamilton.” I keep my voice as calm and steady as possible. “Mr Hamilton, my father, Senator Aaron Burr.”

Mother would be proud.

I’m impressed at how quickly the young Hamilton recovers from his surprise. He proffers his hand to Father, as he does so cordially saying, “Mr Burr, sir.”

Almost grudgingly Father takes his hand.

“Sir,” says Hamilton, “I’ll have your daughter back before nine.”

I watch him with bated breath.

At last he grunts, but it is at least assent. Elated, I grasp his hands and beam at him. “Thank you, Father!” In a way I have the psychological advantage: I figured out long ago that when I smile a certain way I remind him of Mother.

I may have chosen a wrong moment: a tear appears in Father’s eye and he turns away, clearly embarrassed in front of the both of us. Realising the gravity of the situation I turn to Hamilton and whisper, “Shall we?”

He nods, and we exit the house. But as I shut the door behind me I see Father sink wearily into his armchair, head in his hands as if it hurts. For a moment I remain staring listlessly at the closed door.

“Miss Burr,” says Philip Hamilton, softly.

I snap out of my reverie and look distractedly into his face. Again I’m struck by the vividness of his expression. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “My father…”

“I understand.” He offers me his arm; I take it and for a moment we walk in silence.


Today’s selection is a bit short because if I added the next bit it’d be abnormally long. I guess you people will just have to wait for next week. I wanted to delve into the relationship between Burr and Theodosia, so here’s my take. There’ll be more OTP moments in the next one, all you fangirls/boys.

 

 

 

Quick Update and Apologies :(

Hey to all my six followers who have probably forgotten all about this corner of the Internet…sorry for the long break.

(I know that probably no one realised that I was gone. But now I’m back.)

So in the past seven or so months a lot has been happening. Not that I’ve been too busy to blog. Just that I shifted this little space to my lowest priorities. I was even thinking about shutting the whole thing down.

But one day someone messaged me telling me that I “needed to write a fan fiction about Philip Hamilton and Theodosia”, and that I should post in on my blog. This dying blog.

I was game. Why not? For the past month and a half I have been drowning in love for all things Hamilton. (It’s my first current ‘fandom’. But I wouldn’t call myself a fangirl, per se.) And I hadn’t been writing anything for a terribly long while, so fan fiction would be better than blank pages.

So I whacked a mediocre little thing onto the computer and posted it. Apparently people like it. Thank you for the encouragement.

Over the next few weeks I’ll release the next few parts. I have no idea how many parts there will be. I have a vague idea of what’s going to happen but I might change my mind as I go.

I’m currently on break from school till November. So you might expect a tiny increase in the number of posts (well, anything is more than zero, so). I’ll try to prioritise more, but I can’t promise.

To all those random Internet people who came just to read fan fiction, please subscribe? I will post other stuff too. If you scroll down after the fiction piece you’ll see samples. Anything is much appreciated.

Till the next post,

Sarah.