white claudia

the room is filled with insects

But maybe not…

I have decided… to seriously consider… posting on /r/nosleep and /r/shortscarystories.

I’ve already filled up an entire page with ideas, but I am so very skittish.

Coming soooooooooooon


Playing with textures and other shit. It’s gonna be a few more days because I’m still writing it, but I think it’s going pretty well.

ETA: It would probably be going a lot better if I could remember which chapter I’m actually on lmao



Go tell Aunt Rhody…

I just love when I have a ton of ideas, but no motivation. It’s so much fun to have this kind of creative constipation. Almost as fun as ordinary constipation.

I want to start using my Angela tumblr as a dumping ground for short stories (from Angela’s POV) and random pictures around her house and Pleasantview and shit. I just gotta sit my ass down and force myself to be productive.

 But God, I’m just so lazy. So. Lazy.

My daughter is turning 6 in less than a month. Madness. It feels like only yesterday the midwife was trying to wrench my cervix open by hand… good times.

I need to start “auditioning” cupcake recipes pretty soon. Doing a Shopkins theme for some reason. Google tells me that a cupcake in a yellow wrapper with a dark turquoise frosting will suffice, which is good because I can bake just fine, but I can’t decorate for shit.

And that is life right now…

Sensible Chuckle

“I’m a very new person to the cooking world so I just want to make sure. I’musing raw wings and they will cook fine if I just bake them?”


Hero, Part 3


No warnings.

Read the rest of this entry »

I Write Like…

I fuckin’ guess? For most of my writing samples, I always get Stephen King… except for that time I got Bram Stoker.

My ROR fan fiction tends to get me Mark Twain or Margaret Mitchell, though. They must be turning in their graves.


October. The sneaking onset of darkness suggested a much later hour, but it was early yet. Too early for her to be in bed already, but what difference did the hour make anyway? She’d been lying there for days…

The light patter of rain tapping at the roof muffled his footsteps as he crept down the hall to her room. There was no reason to be quiet. But there was no reason to rampage through the house like an asshole, either. So he was quiet. Stealthy. Sneaky. Moving soundless toward the door to her room, and the only noise to be heard was the endless ticking of that weird little clock she kept beside her bed, even though she’d never bothered to set the time.

“What difference does it make?” She’d asked, and he’d shrugged his shoulders in response, because he wasn’t going to argue with her over a cheap thrift store cast off she shouldn’t have bought in the first place. He’d shrugged his shoulders, and left her alone with her useless clock with the hands keeping track of some alternate timeline, in another universe where maybe she gave some semblance of a shit, but probably not.

The room was dark. The heap of blankets in the middle of the bed was motionless, but he knew better than believe it.

She was awake. She was always awake. She hadn’t slept since the night in the basement. Nightmares on both sides of her eyelids now, but at least the ones while she was awake could be contained.

So he hoped, anyway.

Her skin had taken on a vaguely gray pallor, and her eyes stared at him, unblinking, from heavy, sleep-bruised lids. He could still see the faint stains of unwashed makeup crusted in her lashes, and her hair looked both dry and greasy. He imagined himself trying to touch it and having it tear away from her scalp, stuck to his fingers in clumps and tangles, raw strips of skin still hanging off the ends. A real horror show. Movie-worthy.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was a strange kind of perversion to think about his sister that way. Disturbing and filthy and unkind.

He just wanted to touch her. He knew, even before he reached out to her, that her old black shirt would be sweat damp, but she wouldn’t kick the blankets off. Even when they were kids, she had to have the blankets pulled up to her chest. The sweltering heat of summer couldn’t dissuade her; she’d just lie there and boil in her own sweat. Nobody fought her on it, because it was the only area of her life where she showed any determination.

So they let her suffer.

Looking at her now made him sick. She had to be miserable, lying there on her dirty sheets with her dirty hair and her bloodshot eyes that never closed. It had to be maddening to lie there and listen to the clock ticking and tocking as it sat there on the nightstand, lying about the time.

He didn’t talk to her as he gently touched her shoulder. He didn’t ask if she was hungry, or thirsty, or bored, or completely fucking insane, because she wouldn’t answer, and what difference did it make, anyway?

He didn’t say I’m sorry, or It was an accident, or I didn’t mean to. She already knew all of that. She had absolved him that same evening, tucked his hair behind his ear and kissed him softly on his forehead (just a feather light scrape of dry lips across his brow, because he wasn’t her favorite, wasn’t his twin, wasn’t her dog) and then she’d gone to her room to lie down and hadn’t gotten back up.

Instead, he just stood there, with his hand on her shoulder and felt the wet heat radiating off of her, felt her breathing even though he couldn’t hear it over the ticking and the pattering of the rain and the violent bloodstorm in his own head.

There was nothing to be done now, nothing that would make any difference. He just stood there, and stroked her hair and though it was almost gummy with filth, it didn’t detach from her skull in thick bleeding patches, and he let her suffer.

Desideratum – Chapter 3

I like how John and Natasha are kind of like a gender-flipped Mulder and Scully. I love that you seem to be keeping their relationship platonic, too. I haven’t really explored Desiderata Valley, but I’ve always viewed John and Natasha as being best friends who like to irritate each other moreso than potential romantic partners.

I’m probably just not looking hard enough, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen anyone actually explore Erin’s “psychic” persona, so I’m excited. I can’t wait to see her become more involved with Natasha and John.

I love the story so far. Chapter 4 sounds like it’s going to be amazing, I love when the various neighborhoods mingle.

Jaydesims' TS4 Stories


Chapter 3, one of my favorites! Hope you all enjoy.:)

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There were very few things Natasha would stop halfway through painting to see. A freshly made grilled cheese or John doing something stupid made that list, and seeing one of her old friends from Sim State was another one.

“Erin, you’re here!”

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“Yup! Thank you so much for inviting me down.” Erin giggled. “I needed a break from the other girls. Sometimes it’s too much living in that house!”

“Well feel free to make yourself at home. Are you hungry? I could make you a grilled cheese.”

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“Forget that Nat, I want to meet John! Didn’t you say he’s like a secret agent or something like that?” Erin smiled, blushing a bit. She had always had a thing for mysterious men.

“Uh, well, something like that.” Natasha mumbled. She already knew John was going to be mad at her for…

View original post 2,599 more words

Nothing and nowhere.

I had an idea for a short (original!) story that I was going to work on today… but then I laid down on the couch with Pumpkin and fell asleep. Now I can’t remember a damn thing.

Good work, me.

DDP Yoga came today, though, so hopefully I’ll have time motivation to give that a go later. I’ve wanted to try it for about a year now, but I kept forgetting to order it, which is just… the ultimate form of laziness. If I accomplish nothing else in this life, at least I will have unlocked the highest level of sloth. #trophywhore

I don’t know. I’ve been itching to write for a few days now, but every time I sit down at my computer, I just end up reblogging shit on tumblr for a while.

Also my stomach hurts and I don’t want to go swimming, but I promised my kid, sooooo… fuck it, I guess. I need the exercise, anyway.

They’re alive, but sometimes I forget…

Mostly I write fan fiction. Mostly for dead or dying Fandoms (my specialty). Mostly I’m okay with it, because fuck it, I write for me and for the experience.

The thing is, I do have some OCs. They’ve been tumbling about in my head in one form or another since I was 15, but I’ve never actually bothered to commit any of their exploits to writing. General laziness along with some weird Gollum-like urge to horde my preciouses.

Either way, it’s been over 15 years and nothing has ever gotten done.

I think the last original character I bothered with was some homicidal psycho named Ginger who had spent most of her life on an extended killing spree. I was around seventeen at the time, so you can imagine just about how delicately I handled the subject matter.

And then this whole post comes undone once I remember Dogbane Hollow, because that one is full of OCs. I just didn’t make them.



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