Hey, I'm deepblue1028. I got my start in writing futzing around with roleplaying and fanfiction, and am now pursuing an English degree to hopefully make something useful about this love o' mine.

If you like what you see here, feel free to check out my account here. The name's actually deepblue10281, which pisses me off way more than it should, but there you are. It's some more of my serious stuff. Feel free to give it a shot ~

A bit about me: I'm a massive Harry Potter fan, because how could one not be, and other favorites include The Catcher in the Rye, Memoirs of a Geisha, The Great Gatsby, and every single word David Foster Wallace has ever written. I found his college syllabi on the internet, once, and actually read them for fun. And they were flippin' fantastic.

Besides storytelling, my other loves include music - guitar, ukulele, flute, voice; smatterings of violin and piano - video games, manga, painting, graphic design; basically anything artsy. And tea. God, I love tea. I literally own more tea than I do food. It's an obsession.

Well, I believe that's everything particularly interesting about me. I do hope you enjoy my stories! They aren't perfect, we all have to start somewhere. Any constructive feedback is absolutely adored - I've got to improve somehow!

I'll leave you with a favorite snippet of mine, the words of Percy Shelley. It's from The Necessity of Atheism, which in subject (though I subscribe to the belief) is something that doesn't have much context here, besides the fact that it's quite breathtakingly beautiful.

By the word death, we express that condition in which natures resembling ourselves apparently

cease to be that which they are. We no longer hear them speak, nor see them move. If they have

sensations and apprehensions, we no longer participate in them. We know no more than that

those external organs, and all that fine texture of material frame, without which we have no

experience that life or thought can subsist, are dissolved and scattered abroad. The body is placed

under the earth, and after a certain period there remains no vestige even of its form. This is that

contemplation of inexhaustible melancholy, whose shadow eclipses the brightness of the world.

The common observer is struck with dejection of the spectacle. He contends in vain against the

persuasion of the grave, that the dead indeed cease to be. The corpse at his feet is prophetic of his

own destiny. Those who have preceded him, and whose voice was delightful to his ear; whose

touch met his like sweet and subtle fire: whose aspect spread a visionary light upon his path --

these he cannot meet again. The organs of sense are destroyed, and the intellectual operations

dependent on them have perished with their sources. How can a corpse see or feel? its eyes are

eaten out, and its heart is black and without motion. What intercourse can two heaps of putrid

Clay and crumbling bones hold together? When you can discover where the fresh colors of the

faded flower abide, or the music of the broken lyre seek life among the dead. Such are the

anxious and fearful contemplations of the common observer, though the popular religion often

prevents him from confessing them even to himself.