You've Got Male Models

A 20-year old prodigy heart surgeon, Chris Cahill, did not expect to share her apartment (or her life) with two aspiring male models when she finally gains her independence. A story in the process of their interesting (and equally hilarious!) adventures of three different individuals living in the present.


I write on a whim, and somewhere along the line, I have collected journals full of phrases and ideas that I use to spark a story. Got any ideas, feel free to share them. How would you interpret a JournalWord?


Gladiators, Bad-ass priests, Robots, Demons, Cowboys, Demon-Cowboys, Fast-food cashiers, Ninjas, Butlers, Pirates, Sailors... The list goes on and they all make me swoon! (We are instant best buddies if you feel the same, just saying)


Albeit reluctantly, Sarah finds herself with the responsibility of raising an angel after he crashes from the sky. Sci-fi, supernatural, and a little silly.


I'm a fiend. *cheeky smile*

Friday, 30 November 2012

A Glass of Promenade

JournalWord: Grandeur fun can be had by all with a simple salute.


The night is young and breathes of celebration, which is usually the excuse for a party; randomly conjured at the stroke of seven. A house, shrouded in lights and lanterns that break through the sunset’s last shimmering rays, entices the locals to dress up in their most pompous dresses and their newest suits. Couples and groups of arm-linked friends, gather their skirts and neckties, and set off to spend the hours before midnight distracting themselves from plagues and evils in the uninterrupted sway of music and good company. 

Alice arrives at the iron gates alone and late. She enters and smiles at the gatekeepers, who are tipping back their heads to a shot of some sort. A man behind a table offers her a curvaceous glass of a crystal drink, and she politely reaches for the glass’s stem. 

 Her voluminous skirt is bunched up in her fists as she climbs the stairs to the party in her new shoes. However, as soon as she catches a glimpse of the laughter and dancing, Alice is immediately swept into someone’s arms and swirling. She sips her drink and places it on a platter, balanced on the palm of a dazed waiter. Her heels trip and slide in an attempt to right herself from her capture, and when she looks up, she’s welcomed with a lopsided smile from her wild-haired cousin. 

“Hey Alice,” he greets, obviously having indulged the punch. “Care to dance?”

He doesn't wait for an answer, instead twirling her into the heart of the dance floor on skipping feet. They laugh at their clumsy waltz, like children in a daisy field. Just as they finish a sluggish spin, her hands are lifted from her cousin’s and she’s faced by a young woman, face rosy of drink and hair falling out of its pinned curls. “Hey,” she giggles, and they loop their arms over their heads, spinning as fast as they can in the press of joyous and swaying dancers. 

Alice has to close her eyes in the rotations, for fear of collapsing in the energy, instead adding her own howls of laughter to the flutter of high-spirited guests. She doesn't even notice the change of hands or the “Hey” initiating a switch of partners. She prances with her alien partner, sharing blinded smiles as they kick up their feet in the small space between them. 

The orchestra pauses to end a song, however the break doesn't stop the buzz of the room. Alice’s partner bows and grins a farewell, picking up another set of hands from one of the dancers beside him. Everyone shifts, readying themselves for another round. Alice’s next partner gently picks up her hands, beams a friendly greeting and starts a frolic she isn't accustomed to. 

Her toes hop from under her layers of skirts to the unknown rhythm and her heel accidentally stomps onto his toes. She apologizes furiously, ashamed in ruining her partner’s happy mood with a stab of her new shoes. He shakes his head, a grimace under a smile plastered on by a couple chugs of the punch. “Don’t worry,” he slurs, definitely intoxicated. “Some men would pay to have a young woman step all over them,” he assures with a chuckle to brighten up her face.  

Others like Alice are pulled from the door and asked to join the jig. Faces blur and conversations dull down to giggles and greetings of new partners. Evils are expelled at every toss of the sparkling punch and fresh initiation of dance. Everyone dances, and in the midst of the sashaying and blissful guffaws of glee, glasses clink with new arrivals.


I like a little silly story. They can really bring a little silly smile :)  

Thursday, 29 November 2012

Kinky Games

JournalWord: "Are kinky games like Twister?"


"What are kinky games, Mr. Luke?" Ruben pipes up from his mess of newspapers. He is constructing a series of piles from the shredded newspaper scrapings on a mangy rug. He smiles expectantly up at the man hidden behind the economy section.

Luke chokes on his saliva and lowers the newspaper to patiently reply. "They aren't very fun to play," Luke says, hiding behind the section of paper and hoping that his answer will be enough to soothe the curiosities of the child.

His hopes are denied, though when Ruben's high pitched voice interrupts again.

"Are they like Hungry, Hungry, Hippos?"

"No, Ruben."

"Are they like Duck, Duck, Goose?"

"No, Ruben."

"Are they like Twister?"

"No, Ruben, they are not-" Luke pauses, lowering his paper slightly to contemplate. "Well, perhaps just a little," he concludes, dropping the section onto the floor for Ruben to tear apart and picking up the business section.

"I like playing Twister, Mr. Luke," Ruben says, and Luke attempts to block out the annoying high pitched voice, humming to seem like he is listening. "Can we play kinky games later?"

Luke hums without acknowledgement, unconcerned when Ruben shouts in excitement and runs up to the game closet, excitement bubbling as he yells that he's going to be "playing kinky games with Mr. Luke".


Yeah, my comedy lies in perversion. I like being naughty ;)
I'm not going to stay PG, as there will be hints (and bluntly stated) innuendos and inclinations to sex (like kinky stuff, fetishes, and threesomes). 
Just a warning in the future.
I'm an adult so my writing will be adult, as well.

BTF: Awake and In Thought

I'm taking a break before I properly dry my hair and stuff my long-forgotten purse with necessities.
A girls day at the mall with some pretty amazing gals. It's strange that now that exams are here in a week, my schedule has been packed with get-togethers with friends and shopping trips.

I'm just taking a moment to finally realize that I'm a big girl now. I mean, I've been 19 since October but the finality of growing up hasn't really settled in (probably because I'm still tied to the tight leash held by my parents...). This is my moment to find myself and experience everything :)

This time, last year, I was a mess. I carried on my mess for two semesters of university, dwelling on it throughout my summer and only confronting my depression a couple weeks before I started university again the following fall. It took a lot of convincing from others (I love you all for your support!) and the push of bravery from myself, to realize that I need to do things at my own pace and find something I truly enjoy. 

It seems simple and obvious, but sometimes the most obvious can easily slip from under your nose and leave you feeling stranded. I was fortunate to have my friends catch what I missed, and I'm truly grateful for their concern. 

And with their same support and concerns, I was advised to take up something to relieve the stress I had built up over the last year with my struggles and loneliness. And that's when I remembered that I liked to write (though I am a bit rusty at times now), so this blog was born. 

All of you who pass through this blog as a fleeting visitor; I adore you for the time to dwell a moment into my fictional mind (that will expand, probably for the greater bad.. teehee!). 

Fans don't come easy, I understand. I'll still attempt to woo you all (I'm learning how to ;) yeah, I'm a socially awkward beast)!

Ah, my attempts at wooing... I used the skills I learned from a book (I borrow strange 'how-to's' from the library. They don't question me about it anymore) and after a successful flirting session, I had managed a number, a free pair of shoelaces (yeah.. my brothers were extremely happy though!), and a thorough seminar in longboards (he works at West49). I still have to work on the exit though because he wouldn't let me leave as he talked on and on, and showed off his skills. 

I'm trying to be human, I swear!

Anyways, thank you for reading! I can't tell you all how much I appreciate the traffic :) 

I'll be posting a story of some sort later this evening, just gotta decide whether it'll be another JournalWord (I've got quite a few of those now), a list (haven't done on in a while), or a continuation of You've Got Male Models (do you wanna know what Chris comes home to? ;P). 

Drop me a hint of what you'd like :)

Wednesday, 28 November 2012

The Colors of Madness

JournalWord: Girls in wires.


Bony fingers tug on his jacket, displaying the thick cuff with clear black numbers carved into the heavy band of metal triple the size of her wrist. He follows the pale, vein-stricken arm, past the cords and wires that creep from under the swatches of dirty bandages, to meet the unwavering stare of two empty eyes.

His first impulse is to rip away from her grasp and run away from the experiment, however, he's frozen in her stare. That's when he realizes that her "empty eyes" are actually a brilliant combination of blue and green. Strange, he thinks, but rephrases when they blink to combine a shade of violet around the black centers, and he finally finds himself saying, "Beautiful."

He startles himself out of his stupor and pulls his jacket from her hold, pausing a moment before he pivots and stalks off to his desk. Sitting in the safe, familiar, confines of his office, he exhales the breath he'd held. 

He can't remember when he held it in; whether it be when she grabbed his jacket or when he saw her eyes. He tries to shake away the memory and picks up a file on his desk beckoning for his attention, but he can't bring himself to read a sentence.

The dull thud of metal smacking concrete whispers from the corners of his consciousness, and he can see the frail arm, outweighed by the cuff, hitting the cold floor of the lab.
Shivers run the span of his back and up his arms like little fingers taunting him in his unknown fear.Why was he scared of her? he questions himself. She can't do anything to him. 

He rubs away the little fingers before they reach his face, but behind his hands, behind his eyes, she's laying on the floor of her cell, mummified in the encasement of wires and brown bandages. Her hair, his mind mocks, pushing snapshots of her bright pink hair pooling around her short gray dress in brilliant waves, in cruel comparison to what she has become.

And then, like a horrible nightmare, the whole picture emerges, clogging his screams and frantic. Eyes shut, pink hair smothered in alien filth lounged on the floor of her cell, thin limbs crushed from being malnourished, wires dangling, face frozen, and arm, still outside her cell, presenting herself only as experiment 9746. 

And voice he remembers all to well, reminds him that he could have been like her.


Gotta love sci-fi at it's morbid and creepy glory! I love knowing what you think so drop me a comment (and follow my blog via GFC if I really strike your fancy ;) ).

Tuesday, 27 November 2012


JournalWord: Dampening the stink of stomach acid.


The scent hits her nose, and suddenly she can smell everything.
The thick, cloying salve that feels like it's gathering at the back of her mouth, the sourness of the binding agent she just applied to the wounds, and the heavy smell of raw meat. Human meat.

Very professionally, she sits back on her heels, wiping her hands on a length of bandage, swiveling away from her patient in a precise half-circle, and vomits.
He is at her side in an instant, slipping his hands around her shoulders to steady her so the wracking coughs don't knock her over. "Hey, are you okay?"

"It's nothing," she says, and sips a mouthful of the water he offers to rinse her teeth.
He kicks loose dirt over the incriminating spot with his foot after he turns her face into his shoulder so she can compose herself. He kicks more dirt on the spot, dampening the stink of stomach acid. "Are you sure?"

She lifts her head and pushes away from him, and he lets her go when she spares him a small smile. "Uh-huh. Just, you know," she trails off, turning back to her patient and picking up where she left off in wrapping a heavily burned arm, freshly skinned, in bandages.

His eyes soften and his voice whispers with a gentle tease. "Bothersome. It's not even morning." 

Her back relaxes at his tease and he deems her fine for now. He continues his patrol of the open medical tent, regarding the harsh, hot, winds threatening to topple the tarps and poles into the scorching sands.


Something small to pass the time. This is a gentle story snippet of hard times.
I seem to have a thing for writing about those tied to the medical sciences, hahaha. How interesting. Learning something new about myself everyday :)
p.s. I have a poll going on right now, just my curiosity of whether anyone is reading :) Thank you for reading and please take the time to comment. >.< (I really appreciate it!)

Monday, 26 November 2012

BTF: It's going to get better.

I know I need to get through the beginning of YGMM. It's pretty dry and boring, I know, but that is Chris. Chris hasn't got much of a personality; she's a blank slate, overprotected by others. She doesn't find herself familiar with other people and opts to work whole-heartily into her job, saving lives and learning about people from their medical records and by observation. 

Her interactions with Tristan and Jones will introduce her to the real world, though at this moment, Tristan and Jones are very guarded against Chris. She wasn't easily swayed by their charm as their landlord was, and I'll be doing their point of view on the situation when she arrives at the apartment, next. So watch out for that!

I am on my last week of classes right now before my final exams crush me with more stress than I'm suffering right now (writing is my outlet for stress, so this might be the only thing keeping me from having a stress-induced nervous breakdown. I've had one and it is not fun). I was on the run from my stress as I wrote the two stories yesterday (I was on a roll and I still have stories I didn't publish yet). I'm extremely happy with Where Our Demons Reside, that really expressed a story just aching to be let out. And maybe I'll elaborate about it later.

All those that read this (You!), I absolutely adore you for the time and I hope that there is something I write that brings a smile to your face (Cuz I bet it's a gorgeous face!). I await your comments and hope one day I'll have someone come back to my blog after a visit.
 That would be absolutely fabulous!  

Thank you again for the visit. Stop by again, please :)

Listening to: Halcyon by Ellie Goulding 
(She's essentially amazing. And it's definitely going to get better.)

YGMM: A Moment of Her Time


I shrug off my lab coat and drop it onto a hook as I walk into my new office. I walk toward the large desk, tucking the door closed behind me as I locate a brand new chair, graciously falling into the over-sized cushions behind the desk. Laying my head back, I take notes on what I have done today, tallying up meetings and tours and the countless introductions to the rest of the medical staff in the Cardiac department. 

I glance at the pile of papers on my desk, sectioned into folders. Some are light and sparse with a couple sheets of paper paper-clipped to the cover of the folder. When I was first handed the stack of folders, after a round of meetings and introductions with the other surgeons, Audrey had to snap the male nurse from his star-struck stupor with a bark to return to his rounds. He had quickly let go of my hand and the folders, fleeing down the hall before I could thank him. 

Audrey Jarvis, the head of the Cardiac department, beamed and personally took me on a tour of the hospital, gushing about the honor of having me on her team and the such. I wasn't very interested in her flattery, but her concern for my well being in the hospital was touching. She scowled when the nurses aimed to flock me and barked at the occasional newscaster that roamed the halls in hopes of interviewing me on my first day.     

I reach for one of the particularly large folders. The flimsy folder is overflowing with sheets and graphs, held together with large clips and a couple rubber bands for ensured safety. I weigh the book of papers in my hands, the hint of a smile gracing my lips as I wonder about the story the papers will unveil about the patient.

I will meet my patients in the coming weeks so I vow to read and memorize everything about them tonight so I'll be prepared for their surgery prep. Placing the folder back onto the pile on my desk, I stretch for my messenger bag, carefully packing the folders into the bag so all seven folders of varying thickness fit.

I've spent over eight hours in the hospital, spending most of the time with Audrey in her office, where she hides me away from the eyes of the rest of the hospital and following her to meetings. I suppose she has taken it upon herself to protect me, ignoring my protests, and treating me like one of her three children.

It's frustrating to be judged by your age. I sigh and tuck a lock of my black hair behind my ear as I zip up my bag. Straightening, I conclude it could be worst. I could be surrounded by the media and fanatics. Shaking my head, I respite the concept of my fame, I mean, it was not my intention to be a great, young cardiac surgeon. I'm just doing my job, one that I really enjoy without the hassle of fame.

Regarding the scene outside, down below on the streets and the descending sun, I assume I should be leaving now. Home, I hesitate, taking a moment to dwell on what is waiting at the apartment. 

Tristan and Jones. Should I have agreed to the living arrangement? Thinking it over once again, I conclude it should fit fine, especially if I am going to be on call and at the hospital for most of my time. I'm sure I won't be part of their lives. We'll pass by each other, I mean, I'm not someone that they'll want to associate with. Jones' cold behavior is testament to the attitude he wishes to set for the arrangement.

With that in mind and set plan to go to the apartment and indulge in the medical history of my first patients at this hospital, I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and start out the door, pausing momentarily to lock the door before heading to the apartment with the intention to disregard my roommates as they seem to want to do to me.


Just a filler of some sort. A little bit into the mind of Chris. It'll all make sense eventually.
This is a dynamic relationship that grows along with the characters, so I'm afraid it is a bit dry right now. I've been dreading the beginning of this story for years now, always opting for the juicy, fun bits instead. Just gotta get through this!

Sunday, 25 November 2012

Where Our Demons Reside

JournalWord: An immortal who carries around a pocket watch as a reference.

"A demon.."

The first accusation floats through the gathering crowd. I keep my head up, boots kicking up dirt as I march through the parting crowds. 

"We are goners. This town is done for. We're all going to be eaten.."

The air around me hums with the whispers and tension of my presence. Parents grasp their children and push them behind themselves like I would snatch them right there. Old men scowl and glare, muttering curses and prayers all in the same breath.

This has become a familiar scenario now so I don't stop my march, face impassive and cold as they stare at the mark burned over the skin of my left eye. My dark travelers cloak and long scarf whip around me, snapping at the knees of the people, encouraging them to jump back and out of my path. The only part of me visible is my face, especially my mark which glows metallic black against my pale skin in sharp curves and surrounds the highlighted strike down the center of my eyelid. 

I muse how stricken their expressions are; too scared to run and hide. I continue to follow the path they have made, regarding the buildings the town supports. I regard a trinket shop when a cry calls for me to stop and a sound collision causes the people to gasp and shout. 

The people plead for the child to get up and run away for disturbing the demon. I turn around and look down at the child laying face down in the dirt road, arms outstretched towards my cloak. Much to the crowd's horror, I bend down and extend my hands to lift the child out of the dirt.

"You-you left me behind," the little girl wails when she is settled on her feet. Fat tears start to roll down her cheeks, running trails through the layer of dirt on her face.

The crowd's screams of terror only frighten the little girl more and I have had enough of their ridiculous behavior. 

"She's my goddamn sister," I shout over their howls, effectively silencing them. "Now shut up. She's scared of you lot enough as it is," I finish, lifting the girl into my arms and wiping her tears away with my sleeve. 

I turn away from their gaping mouths and wide eyes, cooing to the girl in my arms in the hope of quelling her fright and apologizing for swearing in her presence. 

I follow the break in the crowd to a large building where I glare at the stares of the guards and let myself in. Ignoring the sputtering of those that see me pass through the guards, I make my way up the stairs, following my own instinct in finding the mayor of this town. 

I find a door heavily guarded and conclude that this is where I will find the mayor. I peck the little girl with a kiss on her mop of soft brown hair and apologize in advance for my rough behavior. I wait for her to nod and place her hands over her ears before heading towards the guards, barking that I want to speak with their mayor. 

There is a moment of hesitation and the shaking of their hands as they point their guns encourage me to step forward. The guards disperse out of my way, dropping their guns on the marble floor as they take cover under their arms. I sneer at their cowardly act, deeming the civilians have more gall than the guards.

I step into the large, luxuriously decorated room of the mayor. My sister pops a small gasp at the bright, gold chandelier overhead and I fight a smile at her adoration of shiny objects. The mayor is seated in one of the plush red couches in the center of the room, so I make my way to the adjacent couch, dropping myself down into the cushion.

The mayor is sweating profusely, stark white like he is on the verge of having a heart attack. I regard the tea set in front of me on the low table, ignoring the terrorized eyes of the mayor, and pluck a honey biscuit from the overflowing platter of cookies. I coax my sister to drop her hands from her ears and offer her favorite biscuit as a reward for being on her best behavior. 

The mayor looks like he's about to faint when she mews in delight. Guards are peeking their heads from the open door and I cough, sending them scrabbling from the doorway. 

Back to business, I speak, causing the mayor to crawl further into the crack between the cushions. "We need lodgings and food," I demand. 

The mayor sputters and finally begs, "You can't ask me to send you my people for your appetite-"

I stop him with a sneer. "I don't want your people," I glower, and his fear is overshadowed by his confusion. "I want bread, dried meat, and milk-" Her little hand tugs at my cloak and I lean down to hear her shy whisper. "And honey biscuits and tarts," I conclude, reaching to hand her another honey biscuit.

I raise my eyebrow at his silence and lean back. He starts to sputter again, horrified to service a demon in his own town. I drop my heavy boots down onto the low table, rattling the silverware and porcelain dishes. The tower of cookies tumbles and crumbles onto the carpet. 

The mayor regains his voice just long enough to call for his adviser to meet my demands and find me a place to stay.  A guard walks in a few moments later, face hardened and without a weapon. I note this and regard he is either aware that a weapon is useless against an immortal or he is a glorified idiot to fight me bare-handed.

Lifting my sister up onto my shoulders, I follow this guard, curious by his unwavering march as he leads me to a small cottage a few blocks from the town hall. He opens the door and leads me in, lighting candles, and I notice that the sun has started it's descent. I pluck my pocket watch out of my vest and peek at the time.

"Why would an immortal carry around a pocket watch?" the guard asks. His question is not accusing, instead, curious and unguarded. I regard his leaning figure beside the door, tucking the pocket watch back into my vest.

Lifting my sister from my shoulders, I unstrap her backpack and toss it onto the bed before ruffling her hair, much to her delight. "As a reference," I answer, peeling my cloak off and tossing it onto the bed as well. 

I take my sister by the hand when I spot a tub in the corner of the room, steaming from just being filled with hot water. The guard watches from his perch as I settle my sister in for a much needed bath before dinner arrives. The guard doesn't speak again until after my sister falls asleep during a story picked from the book in her back pack.


Children can settle the soul of even the most demonic. 
Though in this case, the demon isn't very demonic.

I love writing about children, they make my heart soar by being so goddamn cute! Many of my stories center around them :) their reactions are so interesting (and comical!).
I plan on having a son named Hexane and another named Volta >.<!!! Guess where those names are from ;P

I'd love to know what you think about this story, and this character. (Didn't realize how long this one is..)
I swear I'm trying to get better as a writer! 
Just believe in me :)

Start Screaming Already!

JournalWord: Evil organization's paperwork.
While everyone downstairs is happily beating each other for the last remnants of an overdue prisoner, Tina sits in her office, shuffling around paperwork to the eerie shrieks of a prisoner who has taken the men's interest. Must have finished up with the dead guy, she muses, popping a pen lid between her teeth and aiming her pen tip at the task at hand.

It is an unfortunate fact that evil organizations are as susceptible to bureaucracy as any company, whether it be a flock of maniacal zombies or a stapler factory. Currently, Tina is attacking the Equal Opportunities form.

First question: Are they accessible for the disabled? Tina peeks her head out of her window, a sheer drop of several hundred feet into a raging ocean of  impenetrable tides. She optimistically ticks the box. They have managed to get several heavily disabled enemies into their castle, and even right down into their dungeons. In fact, they have found that it is easier to get their prisoners inside once they've chopped off a limb or two, and very amusing to watch as they flop around while they bite and wiggle furiously in pain.

Next question: Are there any non-heterosexual members in their organization? Truthfully, none of them were really that fussy, but Tina is unsure whether it would look good to claim that at least 88% of the organisation has the same sexuality. She neatly prints "Ishin likes men", pauses for a moment in hesitation, and then adds "Big hairy ones with mullets".

Handling disabled members is an easy one. They could always chop off one of Ishin's legs if an Equal Opportunity officer came visiting. Between the children and the finicky men downstairs, the age range question is answered. As for gender, Tina is sure that she can threaten Ishin into a dress long enough to bring the male-to-female ration down if anyone calls round.

She spends the next half hour signing every other form, humming thoughtfully. She swoops and arcs her name one last time for the day, adding her signature curved heart, before stabbing her last document into its designated envelope. Tina stretches her arms behind her head, leaning back into the only decent chair in the whole castle and smiles to herself.

The floor suddenly rumbles and the bookshelf across her desk collapses when she curses.
Downstairs, Varence is doing the laundry.

Welcome to my own personal evil organization! Many of which are zombies, maniacal scientists, satanists and the such. Gotta love fictional characters!

(This is purely comical, and I had no intention to offend anyone.)


P.S. I'm absolutely loving the traffic and I sincerely thank you for reading :) -airkiss!-

Friday, 23 November 2012

A Tiny Tune

JournalWord: When a misfit comes home.

He stumbles into the cafe, slamming shut the front door from the peeking rays of the morning. The jumbled chime of the bells over the door announces his arrival and he grunts, clutching his head at the sharp pain the sound induces. 

He shuffles one of the tables, knocking down a chair from it's upside door position on the tabletop. It's too early for anyone to be up. Dan isn't even up yet to turn down the chairs for the day.

Placing the chair on it's legs, he falls into the wooden seat, ducking his head under his arms as he places them on the table. He attempts to ignore the pounding at the back of his head with whispered curses. No one messes with him. No one should mess with him, he corrects. It's their own goddamn fault for bringing a bat to a fist fight, he scowls. 

So he fights the beginning of pain, knowing if he doesn't sleep now, the bruises will be keeping him up for days. Dan will know, then, and when he knows he's been in another fight, he'll have to be kicked out. 

He doesn't know why he fights. Dan should have kicked him out months ago. Coming home every week with a new set of bruises and gang members out for revenge, he's endangering Diana and the cafe for being here.

Damn, he curses again, a fist meeting the wooden surface of the table. A jagged pain runs through his knuckles for his efforts and he swears quietly, praying he doesn't have any broken bones or fractures. Then he wouldn't be able to help out. Then he wouldn't be able to teach Diana her lessons. 

He cradles his hand in his lap, hiding his eyes in his other forearm, wiping away ungrateful tears. He doesn't even deserve to cry, not for his actions, and not for his broken promises. He's still mentally cursing himself when tiny pattering of feet sneak down the stairs into the dining hall.  

He wipes his eyes again and plucks his head up from his arm to the stumbling tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. He watches as she struggles over the keys of the old upright piano. Her tiny fingers flutter and stretch to reach the ivory keys, tripping over others in the obstacle to complete the children's tune. 

She finally finishes the song and spins on the bench, her nightgown twirling along with her long hazel braid. She beams when she sees he's been watching. "Are you feeling a little better now?" she asks, hopeful.

"Not in the least," he gruffly replies at the child. Her smile falters and he adds, "yeah, so play it again for me."

He drops his head back down onto his arm, hiding his smile in the crook of his arm when she starts to play the tune again, this time with an exited gusto. He stays awake knowing she'll be lonely when he falls asleep. The pain will be worth it, he vows. It's the only equivalent to the sweet serenade of an angel.

Love, love, love misfits!!

I'm realizing I like writing from a limited third-person point of view. Seems to feel right.
Let me know what you think!

Thursday, 22 November 2012

You've Got Male Models: The Start Pt. 3

This is the final installment of the The Start.
I wake to the steady strum of a healthy heart. The lull of the arias and ventricular walls almost send me back to sleep. Almost, because the morning glare turns the inside of my eyelids red and I quickly realize I can't struggle to move away from the light. Alarm sets in and I force myself to pry my eyelids open. It takes a lot of fluttering as my hands can't reach to rub away the grittiness. 

My face is pressed against the skin of a planed chest.

My legs kick out in a conditioned reflex and I struggle to shimmy my shoulders out of the vice-grip that has pinned my arms to my sides.

He lets out a sharp yelp when I knee him in the thigh, releasing his grip over my arms momentarily in confusion.

Realizing too late that my arms are asleep, in an attempt to sit up, I end up slipping over the plastic of the mattress in my squirming and tumble to the hardwood floor. A chuckle gains my attention from my ungraceful fall and I peer up at my bed.

"Morning, sweetheart," Tristan chimes, yawning, peeking over the mattress to address me. He props his head up with his hand, smiling brightly under his halo of ruffled blonde curls. 

The bedroom door slams open and Jones surveys the room in a panic. "Someone fell," he starts then notices me on the floor. He visibly relaxes and shoots Tristan an accusing glare. 

Rolling my shoulder and clenching my hands to regain the circulation, I regard Tristan as well. "Why are you in my bed?"

He shrugs and rolls over onto his back, his head hanging over the edge. "We don't have a bed and you do. And it's very comfy." He flutters his green eyes at me, upside-down. "You're pretty comfy to cuddle, too."

I stare at him, head cocked to the side, dissecting whether the comment is rhetorical or if he expects a compliment as well.

My confusion causes Tristan to flip over again to face me and he mirrors my confusion with furrowed eyebrows directed at Jones.

Jones sidles beside me, stretching out his hand and I take the offer to pull myself up, glad to be off the cold floor.

"I got us coffee," Jones states, "we'll talk over coffee."

I can only nod, remembering yesterday and the predicament, so Tristan and I follow Jones to the kitchen where three take-out cups of coffee sit on the counter. Yesterday's mess is completely gone and the kitchen has been wiped down to a shine. Jones hands me a coffee, then offers Tristan one.

"Our plan isn't going to work," he says, picking up his own coffee and pointing it at me. "She's not going to be easily persuaded."

"I don't take lightly to being talked about when I am right here, so tell me what you are talking about," I interject, sipping the coffee. Tristan smiles and throws an arm around my shoulders, almost knocking my cup out of my hands. 

"Well," Tristan drawls, leaning himself into me. He's over 6 ft tall and his weight is starting to cause me to stagger. "We were going to use our charming powers to seduce you to move out." He flutters his eyelashes at me, probably to soften the manipulative plot. 

I don't sputter. Instead, realizing that this must be how they convinced Mrs. Truant, I nod my head as the pieces start to fit together. "Alright, I suppose now you can move out. I have not been charmed."

Tristan abandons his coffee on the counter to throw his other arm around me as well, locking me in a hug. "No, we need this place!" he wails. Jones perches himself on the counter to watch, sipping his coffee with mild amusement. "We have no where else to go! We came to his city with dreams! We promise to pay our half of the rent and we won't bother you or anything! We'll be lamps, I swear!"

My feet aren't touching the ground anymore and my coffee dangles from my trapped hands. Jones sighs and hops off the counter to pluck my coffee out of my hands. "Tris, put her down. Guilt-tripping her isn't working either."

Tristan gently lowers me back onto the ground with an apologetic smile. I collapse on the floor, sitting cross-legged to think. "Have you tried anywhere else?" I ask.

Jones joins me on the floor, sliding my coffee towards me. "Yes, but they're all full. Mrs. Truant says this apartment has two bedrooms and Tristan and I can share a room. We'll pay for half of the rent. We have the money, so that'll cover for a couple months before we start our jobs."

Tristan sits beside Jones and nods his head. "We just signed our contracts for a modeling agency and they have a couple photo shoots for us next week."

I take a moment to calculate the living arrangement and they have far better outcomes than living alone with my hectic schedule and the large space. They'll be able to be here when I'm at the hospital and since this would be a shared space, maintenance of the apartment would not be an issue anymore. Rent would be split, although money isn't the issue for me. So, reluctantly, I agree. 

Jones holds back Tristan from pouncing on me with a hand firmly on his nude chest. "Well, we'll start again with the formal introductions then," he begins, nodding. "I'm Jones Sedlack."

"I'm Tristan Kayle." He bends at the waist with a dramatic bow, waving his hands around himself as he dips his head. "And, since yesterday, we are officially male models."

I try to think back to high school for references of what a "male model" is and tuck away it away for something to research after work.

Work! I shoot up off the floor and march to my bedroom, realizing that I have to be at my new hospital today. Tristan and Jones follow me to my room, alarmed and curious to my sudden departure. They hang around my door, blocking my exit. 

Tucking my towel, change of clothes and toiletry bag under my arm, I attempt to squeeze through between their tall bodies. "I have to be at the hospital today and I would like to be on time on my first day," is my explanation when they refuse to move.

"Are you sick?" Tristan asks, concern washing over his face in an unfamiliar frown.
I stop to regard his concern for me as it is genuine. "No," I speak, calmly, recognizing devastation and handling it as I would with my patients. "I'm the new heart surgeon and I need to be on time to tour the hospital." 

They open up enough space for me to get through, as if in a stunned daze. I head to the bathroom down the hall, showering efficiently and quickly dressing. When I open the bathroom door ten minutes later, they stand in front of the doorway. 

"You haven't introduced yourself," Jones supplies, arms crossed. He attempts to use his height to intimidate me, but I'm used to the height disadvantage and ignore it.

"Chris Cahill," I state, and they open up a path for me between themselves like a gate. I deposit what's in my arms on my desk, deciding it's perfect now that it wasn't set up in the other room, and grab my messenger bag from my travel bag. I fly past them in the hallway, unfolding the bag as I scurry past the living room and straight out the door without acknowledging their wide eyes and gaping mouths.


I promise to properly fix these in the future, as these are just rough drafts and I will probably want to elaborate on details and such after I've shaped my characters.

Thank you so much for putting up with this, I'll definitely reward you all with something fun!

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

You've Got Male Models: The Start Pt. 2

I toss my travel bag through the door as soon as I crack it open, pulling out my key and displacing myself to the other side of the door so I can slam it closed. I immediately fumble with the lock, jumping away just as it clicks into place. Scrambling, I grab my bag and creep into the first room, ignoring the deep voices still trekking the halls and opting to even my breathing and slow my heartbeat down.

I'm not normally this jumpy, but then again I don't usually miss so much sleep or drink coffee. Taking those connecting flights was definitely a bad idea.

The large space in front of me is lit up by the shafts of sunlight streaming from the balcony's glass sliding door. On my right, my boxes are stacked neatly in a triangle against the wall.

A box marked "Text books" juts out of a corner of the triangle and I slouch onto the box, surveying the room with a smile. Exactly like the pictures the landlord sent, I note nodding towards the stove peeking out of a doorway and a hall leading to two rooms and a bathroom.

'Hopefully the moving company set up my bed', I muse, grabbing my travel bag and abandoning my boxes to search for my room. I had specifically told them to set up my bed in the farthest bedroom and when I peek inside, the new oak bed frame and mattresses are set up against the farthest wall, centered in the room. I almost frown at my desk, though. It should be in the other room, not set up here.

I shrug it off as something to deal with later and take a moment to launch myself onto the mattresses. Settling into the plastic wrap, I close my eyes and enjoy the silence. The sleepless flight finally hits me and, deciding that the door should be locked, I squirm onto my side, fully intent on sleeping the rest of the afternoon away.

My eyelids have just settled into a lull when the crashing begins and the shouting starts. 'Very close,' I detect from the sharpness and clarity of the swear words. I sit up and slide off the plastic, stretching my shoulders and arms, rotating them in a familiar fashion as I tiptoe towards the hallway. 

The smell of smoke is trailing out of the kitchen, as is all of the shouting.
"Wrong stove top!"
"Get this thing off me!" 
Hands cocked into fists and curled at my waist for precision aim, I peek into the kitchen doorway, immediately disturbed by the scenario. 
Tristan is holding down something in the sink, presumably his own shirt as he is shirtless, which is producing a plume of smoke as it fizzles under the running tap. Jones shuts off the stove top, currently a fiery red and smoking. A charred Styrofoam cup is crushed on the floor in front of the stove by Jones' feet.

"Hey roomie," Tristan calls from the sink, hands still under the running tap. He's smiling with the same smile he had in the elevator.
Before he can say anything else, I walk over to the sink and shut off the tap before the sink overflows. 

 "Now," I start, ignoring his earlier comment, voice calm and quiet. "Why are you burning down my apartment?"
Jones scoffs and I set a glare at him. He turns away from me to lift Tristan's shirt out of the sink, allowing the water to drain, and pushing Tristan away. 
Tristan sheepishly grins, wiping his dripping hands on his jeans. "We live here," he supplies.

"No, no you don't. I rented this place out two months ago. I have a key. All my things are here. This is my apartment," I reassure.

"Well," Jones drawls, wringing out the shirt a final time. He snaps the shirt out of it's twist and lays it to dry from the curve of the tap. "According to Mrs. Truant, we are entitled to half of this space." 

"That can't be true," I sputter, eyes wide, absolutely horrified at the thought of sharing my apartment. Surveying the disaster is enough incentive that they would make terrible roommates. "No, she wouldn't."

"How about we ask her and find out?" Jones challenges, eyebrow arched and arms crossed over his chest.

I'm too tired to disagree and somehow I am dragged back down the elevator with Tristan tugging me along. They lead me to a door marked 'Landlord' on the main floor, politely knocking before a short, aging woman beckons us in with an excited smile and offer of tea.

"Now, boys," she turns to face Tristan and Jones, face crinkling into a smile as she plucks her teacup. "How is the apartment?"

"Absolutely fabulous," Tristan appraises, sending crumbs flying from his biscuit. Mrs. Truant looks endeared at his approval and hands him a napkin, while surveying his bare chest.

"Actually, Mrs. Truant, we seem to have had a misunderstanding," I interject, ignoring my tea. "I am renting apartment 3223, but they claim that the apartment belongs to them. Please vacant them from my apartment." 

"I should, but I won't."
My silence and wide eyes prompt her to continue. The guys fidget with their teacups and cookies, rattling the  silverware as Mrs. Truant takes a slow sip of her tea.

"The boys convinced me that it would be terribly murder to allow a young lady to live by herself without the protection of gentlemen." She reaches for my hands, picking them from my lap to cradle my hands in hers. "Just like a historical romance! You'll fall in love with one of them and it'll be a beautiful story!" Her cheeks have flushed and I grip her hands in my own, feeling for her pulse, pausing to count beats.

Love? Her heart rate and blood flow are normal so I let her hands fall from my own. She's just excited, not a heart attack. I must have pronounced my confusion because Mrs. Truant continues her exclamation.

"Yes! Love! Every young lady needs love, and dear, I am giving you the opportunity! Just look at these prime examples of the male species!" And with that, she lifts me from her floral love seat and drags me to the door, waving her ringed hand at the boys to follow. "Now, enjoy this opportunity, because your mother and I would not be able to live with ourselves if you didn't."

Mother? What does she have to do with this? This is another media scheme.

"Now, you boys take good care of her, and for heavens sake, she needs to sleep, especially after her flight. And dear, don't you worry about your deposit; I sent half of it back as the boys will take care of their half. Now, off you go!" She shuts her door after a final push, we stand stranded in the lobby.

I immediately start a stroll to the elevator, realizing that, yes, I am terribly tired and really just want to sleep.
The boys hurry to join me in the elevator, pressing for our floor. I'll figure this out later when my brain can compute. Without even noticing it, my head starts to droop and the floor comes rushing towards me. 


I swear I'm getting better!

Sunday, 18 November 2012

Morbid, much?

JournalWord: Truant

There he is. 
A school-uniformed, cocky teenage truant!
He tugs at his striped tie, languidly stopping beside my bush in front of my house.
Acting suspicious, tossing his head back and forth. Faking to flip his hair out of his eyes, he checks around him, making sure the coast is clear.
With a grin, he picks a ripe, heavy blackberry off my bush. He has the audacity to roll the berry over his tongue, cheekily, watching my window as if he knows I hide there.

So smugly self-assured. 
I scowl as he continues picking, stuffing his cheeks until crushed juices spill from his lips and down his chin. 

He finally eats his fill, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the evidence of his thievery before finding my window again and smirking.
He leaves my violated bush, hands tucked into his pockets, a skip in his step at his victory. 
Watching his retreating figure as I have for the last three days, witnessing for the second time his reoccurring theft, I can only smile.
I turn to the clock, grinning before turning back to regard my towering blackberry bush and it's alluring, shiny berries.
The poison has dried quite nicely, I note, counting down the minutes before the chemicals kick in.


Just a quick story of just-do's.
(What should I write next? The second part of YGMM, perhaps? You tell me.)


Saturday, 17 November 2012

I could totally write this.

In the early rays of morning, and the late wakes of night. After a night of browsing the internet and not a 
wink of sleep, a bright spark of interest for entering contests takes over her last shred of mental capacity and blinks into a haze. 
So, for an hour and a half before she is knocked out cold by exhaustion, she enters online contests, clicking 
links and filling out entries in a blind haze. 

Yes, welcome to my life of giveaway and contest obsessions. This is actually usually how I spend my evenings and extra time when I can't find my sleep monster anywhere.

So, I'm going to compile a list of the such I would absolutely dream of winning:

Butlers. (Who doesn't?!)
Jewellery. (Love the shiny!)
Pens. (To write with.)
Books. (To write on with.)
Cars. (They're shiny, too! And jets! I need to invest in an airplane one day.)
Watches. (Shiny.)
Clothes. (Gotta look fetching!)
Hats. (They're silly.)
Money. (Moooooola!)
Spa treatments. (Pampering is a pleasure.)
Makeup. (I'm addicted to it.)
Vacations. (Everone could use one, or a few..)
Food. (I like food.)
Electronic lover. (Y'know, like from Absolute Boyfriend, the manga)

Can't think of anymore, too tired.
What am I missing?
I want to know, I really, really, do.
So tell me.
Good night!
(Or good morning! Or good afternoon!)

You've Got Male Models: The Start Pt.1

The key I've kept close since it arrived in the mail a couple weeks ago, fits into the crevasses of my palms without pinching. I slowly exhale a breath I've been holding all afternoon and push the straight fringe of my dark hair out of my eyes. 

The chime of the elevator interrupts my train of thought and I slide into the empty wooden box. My eyes sweep over the column of of numbered buttons and I press the button for the top floor. The doors start to slide close with another short chime and I retreat back to my afternoon.

I recall the dramatics of my mother as she clung to me, persuading me to not leave her. I can only shake my head at the memory and frown. She only thinks of herself and how she can't flaunt me anymore to her friends and the media.

I'm twenty years old. She can find other ways to fuel her fame without me being right beside her.

I squeeze the key in my hand reassuringly and abruptly freeze. In the narrowing space of the sliding doors, a dark blue suitcase has managed to lodge itself between the two wooden doors. Pausing, I measure the air between the wheels, still spinning from being launched, and the tip of my nose. 

"Hey, sorry about that."

The doors retreat away from the obstruction and the suitcase drops to the rugged floor of the lobby in front of me. "I hope that didn't freak you out-"

"You, the man, Jonesy! Awesome timing!"

A blonde punches his friend playfully in the arm as his friend, this "Jonesy", runs a hand through his brown hair and eyes me with a cold stare. The blonde stops his hassling to shoot an excited smile at me. "Going up?"

"Jonesy" picks up his suitcase and shoulders his friend out of his way as he sidles to stand beside me. The blonde hustles in, stabbing the same button I had pressed. 

Anyways, back to this afternoon, the first class air flight hadn't been a problem, although the media swarming me before my flight was a hindrance. They were probably alerted from mother's complaints-

"The name's Tristan," the blonde on my right introduces, effectively ruining my plan to ignore them, an expectant smile beams. "And you're pretty." Immediately a hand shoots into my own and my key drops to the floor of the elevator as he pumps my hand into an exuberant handshake. His green eyes sparkle as he chatters about the coincidence of being on the same floor and he bends to pick up my key. 

"Hey," he says, showering me in a bright smile. His smile annoys me slightly, and I attempt to remember what I was told about people and their reasons for having to display fake smiles. "We have the same key!"

"Stop flirting, idiot," the deep voice patronizes, however, his head of brown hair hovers over my shoulder for a closer inspection. He passes a key to Tristan who compares the two keys by aligning them against each other. 

There's a pause as we watch the key teeth align perfectly together, but just when something should be said, the doors chime open to our floor. 

Quickly analyzing the situation with very few explanations for why the teeth would perfectly align, I grab my key from their hands and hoist my travel bag strap over my shoulder and stride down the hall. 

There are only three apartments on this floor and finding apartment 3223 isn't difficult. The landlord must be frugal, I conclude from my list of explanations, finding this one to be the only one I would believe. She doesn't want to spend money on different locks for all the apartments in this building. I take note to immediately buy a new lock and install it before reprimanding the landlord for taking shortcuts. 

I anxiously shove the key into the keyhole, grateful for the catch of the lock as the door unlocks. I'm turning the knob when I hear their deep voices travelling from  down the hall.


To be continued.

(Tell me what you think!)

Friday, 16 November 2012

Prison Papas

JournalWord: "They're in jail."


5-year old Melody turns to wave before skipping over puddles beside her father, heading towards a car parked down the street. The sky has cleared up since this afternoon and the stars are already peeking over the remaining glow of the sunset. Walking back into the daycare, I start collecting strewn toys as I stroll down the orange and blue hallway. Stuffed bears and railway cars are piling in the crook of my arm and I occasionally press down falling, taped corners of scribbled sheets decorating the walls.

Dumping the collection of toys into an overflowing chest of Legos and plastic dinosaurs, I stretch, cracking my back.

"Ouch!" I rub at the base of my spine, vowing for a hot soak in my bathtub later while cursing the twins for convincing me that I am still young enough to give all ten of the children a gallop around the playroom. 

"You will be their neighbor," a cheery voice states from the playroom. Following his voice to the yellow room, filled with alphabet mats for story time and mountains of toys and children's books in all four corners of the room, I watch Joey sort dolls in front of himself while narrating where they will be living. 

"You're going to have to live by the pet store," he instructs a doll with short black hair, sporting an outfit combination of a blue summer dress and neon tights. She only has one pink heel. "We don't want the snakes and lizards to escape. You lost your shoe chasing after them last time."

It's almost 6 O'clock and this will be the third time Laura has been late to pick Joey up. Picking up some of the toys around me, I shuffle the toys a bit in my hands so Joey knows I'm here. His babbling stops but he walks a Barbie slowly, tracing an "S" into the mat on her stroll. 

I toss the toys into one of the mountains in the corner before gently settling beside Joey on the mat. He doesn't look up from the doll in his hand, picking at the red skirt. 

"So tell me," I start, smiling when he lifts his head. "Where does this Barbie live?"

His face brightens with his smile and I remember how proud he was when he lost his first tooth a couple weeks ago. "She's a doctor," he says, placing her down and picking up the little boy doll beside her. "And this is her son." 

Joey starts to introduce five pairs of dolls, indicating the mother's job and each mother's daughter or son. He is all smiles but falters at the last set of dolls, hands hesitating over the three dolls. 

I notice his hesitancy but urge him on. "And what about these lovely dolls?" I ask, picking up the set of three and raise my eyebrows with an interested smile to encourage him. 

He eyes the dolls, not taking any notice in my exuberance. "That's the mommy, and this is the son, and this is the mommy." He points to each respective doll in my hands, a small, shy smile on his lips.

I take the time to nod my head in understanding, handing the dolls to Joey's waiting palms, watching as he carefully places them in front of him, patting their heads. 

I finally bring up the question I've been meaning to ask. "Now, where are all the daddies?" indicating the neglected male dolls in surfer shorts and suits laying on the other side of the room.

"Oh," he snaps his head up, a surprised expression in his eyes, head tilted like I should know, "they're all in jail," he answers, a frown of disappointment present on his face at my lack of knowledge.

Stunned by his answer, I don't notice the doorbell. Joey jumps up and starts to run down the hall, and he makes it halfway before I catch up to him, reminding him not to open the door without an adult present.
Laura is apologetic for being late again, thanking me for taking care of Joey before helping him gather his boots and jacket. As they leave, Joey babbling on about his day at school, I lock up the front door. 

Cleaning up the remainder of the toys in the playroom and turning off lights, I recall Laura talking to me last week about her engagement to her long time boyfriend, and Joey's father, and their wedding five months from now. 


I'd love to know what you think and what comes to mind as soon as you are given the statement, 
"They're in jail.". 

All my keywords that spark my writing are from a personal collection of phrases, ideas, and words that I have compiled from my everyday excursions. I did want to base my writing on a published book, compiled with a list of already written writing prompts (and none of that mumbo-jumbo about how to write and where to find inspiration and such), but apparently such a book does not exist (as according to the Chapters employee who sat me down and instructed me to write it myself). Yeah, that may or may not happen. 
We shall see!

Thank you for reading!!!

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