My name is Andrea and I'm an 19 year old. I decided a while back to make a separate blog for my "writings" and here it is. I will be trying to add more frequently since I really have to get back to this. Much like drawing, I do this mostly to relieve stress or for fun. Grammar and spelling mistakes galore!

Hi! This is Andrea (mysticadventure) this is my writing blog previously “theadventurerbook” but I felt very detached from that url/this blog and decided to change it. I will try to update on here more/write more things like I used to. I don’t know if any of the people that follow this really are still interested in my writing. 

Grass Roots

The world was never meant for it to be held in my palm or be in any way special to me, I was here and I had to get out. I had read my fair share of heroines and heroes that felt the universe was in action to either hurt them or benefit them, but to me this wasn’t the case. There was no way everything had a meaning, especially not my life. And no other person could really change this aspect, or the fact that my life consisted of “normalitites” and boring events.
It’s funny, how people always expect more but why? What does the “world” even owe to anyone if it’s just a place where we all happen to be living in? And you’re probably wondering what exactly is the point of such a person, such as myself, is to talk about if there is nothing, well exactly that- the everything in the nothingness and the complete comfort in it.
Due to the fact of seeing just how horrible things can go for “ordinary people” I decided that there was, in fact, no way it could be fixed for them. Unlike book characters, in which we focus on someone, there are plenty of people out there with their hands tied and evil dooers that can’t be helped. There’s definitely not a fairy godmother for all of them.
I was a lucky one, to use lucky lightly, since everything that occured in my life was a straight line with no beyond-ordinary events.
I was just a meaningless piece of grass in this field of a world and honestly, I didn’t mind it one bit. If anything, the world with everyone beyond special was disgustingly pretentious.
There was enough already to “worry” about.
note:this is probably the exact oppostite of what I think i’m just trying to get in the mood of writing

I like to pretend I don’t care about love and everything about it
I like to pretend that someday someone will change that

but in truth I’m just waiting for this to happen and I know that it wont
because I’m a selfish person and
waiting for things to come
is the stupidest thing to do

For When I Forget

For myself when I no longer recall these memories.

I always woke up the same. Groggy and cold. Consistent. I got up slowly and got dressed slowly. My sister doing the same. Make myself a cup of coffee and then we headed out.

The bitter air gnawing at our faces, pink spots created, we walked to school. At intervals of quiet we had, sometimes I would let the morning soak into me. I felt like she was doing the same. I thought of what my friends were doing at the same time. Our feet knew the path so well that we no longer need to pay much attention to our surroundings.

All the days were usually the same. Class and friends and teachers and whatever the weather brought up.

But I know all those days weren’t particularly the same at all. Not all of them, but some of them, brought new things and new lessons to teach me.


I always wished to be older and adults always told me to be patient. I don’t know when it happened but I grew older and came to a different stage. I don’t know what it was but it was if something was sucked right out of my life. I was no longer inhabiting the same world. It was colder and darker.

I kept asking for adventure but I surely didn’t expect this. It wasn’t an event that told me I was now an adult. A grown up. I don’t know what it was; it was just a feeling.

The Wind-Opened Doors

The cold air blew through me chilling every inch of my bones and skin.

As if I were naked. Exposed.

I walked alone, past the crowds of chattering teenagers. I wasn’t lonely though.I thought of the days mediocre events with a little smile. Soon these days would be gone and I was unsure of how to feel. I kept walking, each step feeling harder than the one before. My feet were getting heavy and the wind kept blowing.

I reached the top of the hill and I came to a slow stop.

A car passed by, but I knew what I had seen across the street.

No. It couldn’t be for my grandfather had died. It just wasn’t him.

"Move it," someone muttered past me and a group of boys, rushed past me, a weird limp in their walk. I held my backpack straps strong, for sheer comfort.

He was still standing there.A basket in hand and a small white flower in the other. He looked as if he were going on a date. He was staring right at me.

I looked around and no one seemed to take notice of him. I reached him, crinkles around his eyes forming, but I noticed his facial features kept shifting. Which grandfather was it? He held out his hand with the white flower and handed it to me. I courteously accepted it, coming to the assumption that I was dreaming now. I was probably still in eight period government class just in a deep slumber.

He then turned and started walking. I followed behind.

He led me to a park which was completely deserted thanks to the winter weather. He set down the picnic basket and prepared  a picnic which I knew would turn out disastrous. It was just going to blow away, of course.  I blinked. Everything changed.

I blinked again in confusion.

The park was bathed in warm sunlight. There was my grandfather waiting for me sitting on the picnic blanket.

The sun felt good against my skin. I was clothed again. Full. Complete. It had come full circle.

I walked towards him and ate lunch.

Hello ! I might actually be updating this more frequently although I like posting my stories on my “main” blog. I haven’t written in a while and I might use this as a daily writing creative things. I would appreciate it if you guys gave me feedback occasionally. Thank you! The five or so of you that follow this blog.

I have not been able to send anything lately. I appologize for that. 

My mother has been taken away and my father has not returned. I’m alone. I tried talking to Mark but he avoided me. I didn’t have anyone else and I decided to make a home at the junkyard. I don’t know why but I felt safe there. They wouldn’t find me there. 

When they took my mother away, I barely even noticed. I had been gone. It was a day or two after the storm. The machine had been beeping a lot over those days and it turned out that it could change shape. It is much smaller now. Less bulky. 

I can carry it everywhere now and it is much easier. I know I’m supposed to be recording important data but there really isn’t anything much of importance. The people took my parents. I’m alone. In a junkyard. I’m a horrible person. 

My birthday was everything but good. 

Mark usually comes by to celebrate but this time he didn’t show up. My mom was gone too. I went to the junkyard, since that was my tradition. One year I took my mom along with me. That was a nice birthday. When I got back my dad had a cake. I don’t like cakes much since they are very bland but I enjoyed it. Cakes are a rare thing to eat. 

This birthday I spent my day at the junkyard, at first because I wanted to but later on because I had to. 

I was prepared for anything fearing that that was what I had to do. I grabbed an old sack that I had hidden, filled with different pouches for different things. I put in a few photographs I had taken with a camera I had found and got a few vials of medicine. I brought clothes and a few food items. I brought the recording machine and an old looking metal thing. 

The machine is beeping. 

It’s raining. 

They’re coming. 

Hello, I would really appreciate if I could get some feedback on the stories I have here. If you have read all the parts to any of the stories, let me know what you think. I’m debating whether or not it’s worth it trying to continue them.

Silly attempt at writing

I walked by the wall on my way home, hoping that something would happen. As I walked beside it, I counted all of the steps I took; anxious. It was quite, the only sound was the soft rustling of leaves and other plants as a warm breeze passed by. I had almost reached the end of the road when I heard a louder noise. A noise that is not all that loud; a whisper.