olivia-frascino

I'm at Hogwarts where are you?

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The Life and Soul of Jenny Carlyle by olivia-frascino, literature

Literature

The Life and Soul of Jenny Carlyle

Death is seen as a negative phenomenon but for some people it is a blessing. I never intended for my life to end this way, or this soon, but things got out of control somewhere down the line and from that point on I was never able to regain it. As many psychologists do, mine thought my depression was due to something in my childhood. As I looked back in my therapy sessions I could find nothing in my life that was traumatic enough to cause such emotional damage. I had a loving family, good friends, exceptional grades, and a positive outlook on life. I was happy. My mom use to love to tell this story to her friends about the time my family got

Special by olivia-frascino, literature

Literature

Special

It's hard to remember the first thing I ever wrote but I must have been 5 or 6 because thats when I learned that letters made up words and words made up stories. I can't recall the first compliment I got on a poem or the subject of which I wrote, but I do remember how it made me feel. Suddenly I was smart, I knew what went where and why. I knew when a sentence was too short or too long, and I knew I was finally good at something. For once I felt like the golden chid, the one who wasn't the younger sister or, later on, the kid who had problems. For once I was special.

My Angel by olivia-frascino, literature

Literature

My Angel

The true face of an Angel Is not what you’d think. No Cherub like cheeks Or freckles that splatter the bridge of a nose. No, it is that of a man in his 40’s With soft brown eyes And a shiny bald head. A short, stout body And feet he rocks slightly back and forth on His laughter is an explosion of happiness Coming from the ever smiling face You can’t help but love. The guiding light You never knew was yours Until it was gone.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things by olivia-frascino, literature

Literature

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

"What’s your favorite thing in the world?” That is the first question my therapist ever asked me. At first I didn’t know how to answer this, an open ended question with an open ended answer. I’ve thought about it often in the years that have passed and have come up with an answer, however long it may be. It’s the sound of the ocean, the smell of a cinnamon scented candle at night, and the feeling of flannel sheets. It’s the comfort of wearing sweatpants that are 2 sizes too big, the warmth of a hug, and the enjoyment you get from reading a good book. It’s all the little things in life that make me hap

Writing is like airSomething by olivia-frascino, literature

Literature

Writing is like airSomething

Writing is like air Something we need and infinitely ours Like stars that twinkle trillions of miles away In a solar system we can only dream of How amazing is it That we can delve into the concaves of our minds And come up for that forever ours air with a fully formed story Ready to rock the nation with words like euphemism and polytheistic How come we, The people of planet Earth Get to dream up these wildly fantastic worlds but never Get a chance to travel to them? Why is it so hard to believe they just might exist?

Harry Potter Fanfic by olivia-frascino, literature

Literature

Harry Potter Fanfic

Smoke billowed from the ground below as a young orphan by the name of Mirabella Stone walked briskly to the bus stop on the corner of 5th Avenue and Saint Madison Square in Berkeley, Gloucestershire. Even with her black hoddie wrapped tightly around her lean body Mira shook furiously. Her long black hair was braided delicately into a ponytail and her shining green eyes sparkled with what could only be hope. As she came to a stop at the corner, a large barn owl hooted softly from the lamppost above, grabbing her attention. As she laid her eyes upon the bird, a piece of parchment fell from its open beak and fell to the ground below. As she bent

Coffee With a Side of Fangirl by olivia-frascino, literature

Literature

Coffee With a Side of Fangirl

Strokes of a brush untangle the mop of hair on my head. I scrunch my eyes as a clump of particularly tangled hair is roughly run through. The mornings after a concert bring the smell of cheaply brewed coffee and bleary sights through the unforgiving, unawake, eyes of band members. Gerard walks out to the main part of the bus in his skull pajamas that are two sizes too big, vigorously rubbing his eyes. He acknowledges me with the nod of his head and I return the gesture. I stretch my arms as a yawn worthy of a lion escapes my overly stretched mouth. Last night's sleep was uneventful and I was still wearing Frank's Mummy shirt. It takes me a fe