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*

Thursday, 30 May 2013

Quite The View

JournalWord: Peek.


A flurry of white skirt sweeps the green grass as she saunters toward the apple tree at the edge of the field. Her horse totters obediently behind her, a peach mare that has trailed after her since foalhood. In her hand is an empty basket, soon to be filled with the red delicious apples. The field is hers, the only treasure left by her mother and father to support hers and her brother's livelihood. 

This time of year, the wheat is growing prosperously and the apples are beginning to ripen. Spring is ending and summer is taking its place. Once in the shade of the tree, she drops her basket and proceeds to tie her mare to the tree. Then glancing left and right, she hitches her skirt and begins to climb the tree. There are not many red ones as they are only starting to ripen. Plucking the scarlet apples, she drops them on the grass, aiming for the basket near the truck.

A few yards away, he is out riding on his mount, witnessing a curious scene. Apples are falling on the ground, some landing into a woven basket while a light mare is grazing peacefully on the grass. A closer inspection reveals that someone is picking apples and dropping them onto the ground. He edges nearer and finds a woman, balancing her feet on a bough while her hands reach for a shiny red apple at the end of the branch. 

She does not seem to realize his arrival, preoccupied she is with her task. From where he stands under the tree looking up, he is offered an interesting view up her skirt of her slender legs.


Hello all!

How are all of ya'll this lovely day? :)

This is definitely going to be a busy (and stressful!) month ahead in June, but hopefully I'll keep strong (and sane) by keeping the stories coming! Recently I've become more focused on Protagonize and introducing myself to the world of collaboration, so check those out if you haven't :) They're kind of fun.

Keep bubbly!

Saturday, 25 May 2013

Growing Up

JournalWord: Rain boots.


He takes one look at her and shakes his head. She continues to tug her rain boots on her socked feet, unbeknownst to the expression of disapproval on his face.

He sighs and decides to make his opinion known. "You're going to get sick."

She turns her head to see him leaning on the banister of the staircase. Still bent over, she tugs her foot completely into the boot and straightens up, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Eventually," she agrees. "It's inevitable."

He shakes his head again and points his mug, half-full of cooling coffee, at her light purple hoodie and frayed, cut-off shorts. "Wear something a little warmer," he demands. "It's pouring outside and you're going to be soaked halfway down the street."

"I have rain boots," she defends, kicking her feet out to indicate her point.

"Not good enough," he states, pushing off from the banister and walking down the stairs. He walks around her and heads to the closet, rifling through the selections of coats with one hand while deftly sipping coffee thoughtfully with the other.

He finds what he is looking for and strips the coat off the hanger, tossing it in her direction over his shoulder. "Wear that and no complaints," he commands, closing the closet doors and heading up the stairs. "Put up the hood and come home before dinner," he finishes, disappearing into the upper recesses of the house.

She looks down at the coat and slips it on. The coat hangs down to her knees and she struggles with the zipper as the sleeves are too long and refuse any effort to be pushed up her arms or folded over. Pulling on the hood, she finds her vision cut off by the oversized bill.

She wants to shake her head at the ridiculousness of wearing such a big coat, but decides against complaining when she whiffs the light musky scent of his cologne on the inside of his collar. She smiles, opening the door and stepping out into the rain, feeling warm.


Something sweet to get through the day.

I am at a loss at the moment, deciding my reaction to an invitation to the program interview at BCIT. I wasn't hopeful of actually being invited as the bulk of my application was received just on the date of the deadline, and my university transcript was received well afterwards.

So now I'm in a state of shock and disbelief.

And now I know what I'll be doing tomorrow, haha :) Studying for the interview in a few weeks!

Keeping cheery,

Thursday, 23 May 2013

Fear of Happiness

JournalWord: These flowers have teeth.


The bouquet of flowers fly through the air in a heap of bright green hydrangeas and crisp white and yellow daisies. The dark blue ribbon wrapped and tied around the stalks flutters, like wings aching to take to the skies, as they soar towards the pitched, excited shrieks.

Her heart drops at the site, pooling close to her knees. Not now, she begs, trained to the spot in the center of the reaching arms and summer dresses. Please, she prays, watching, frozen, as the flutter of petals sail closer. 

Her eyes are wide when the flowers crush and crash into her forehead, bouncing off her gaping expression like a physical shield.

A soft noise of disappointment rings through the crowd of whining girls when a familiar hand catches the rejected bunch of posies. Her head snaps at the frown hidden under the forgiving smile and she catches him shaking his head. 

"It's our turn," he whispers, a promise, reaching for her clenched hands entangled into the fabric of her violet bridesmaid dress. 

The flowers are missing chunks of petals and the ribbon is loose when she is forced to hold the offending object. It's so cold in her sweating palm.


I'm on a wedding phase!
Although both post so far are far from conventional wedding ideas...

Hopefully these give your mind a little exercise :P 

Keep cheery!

Monday, 20 May 2013

Leave Not A Sip Behind

JournalWord: Sharing wine with together.


Despite the groans and protest, she smiles as she shushes her bridesmaids while ushering them out the door. She waits until the last mumble and grumble cannot be heard before sliding the lock into place and softly sighing between her glossy, pink lips. 

It is a shocking moment of realization of how quiet this beach side resort is, with only the tropical breeze rustling the palm trees in place of the constant chatter and excitement as they had prepared for her nuptials.

In her wedding dress, a sweet, light, long white gown with a flowing train and roped straps, she sweeps through the mess of hastily tossed hair curlers and mascara wands for her overnight bag, shaking her primped head and scooped up curls at the sight of foundation splashed onto a zipper and dripping from the tube down the side. Shrugging off the spill in the case it ruins her expensive dress, she quickly unzips and pries a bottle from underneath a stack of shorts and tank tops well away from the impending disaster. 

Holding up her prize, she admires the simple, short, dark bottle with a cheap label slapped onto its face. Quickly locating a wine glass from the tower on the complimentary service bar, and hopping over piles of clothes for the cork screw, she settles herself onto the balcony overlooking the ocean and tropical trees. 

With a practiced hand, she swiftly uncorks the bottle and gently pours the crude wine into her glass, noting the dark red liquid absorbing the light. Hesitantly, she swirls and sniffs the concoction before taking a bold sip.

Instantly, she pulls herself away from the foul taste, crinkling her nose at the unrefined flavor, but urges herself to swallow the vile potion. Glaring at the crystal goblet, she chuckles and tips her head up to the sky, staring at the morning sunrise to bate off any offending tears.

"This terrible, Renaldo," she whispers, almost a croak, and the edges of her painted lips quiver and struggle to lift. "Your first wine tastes like shit," she states, voice loud and clear. 

Holding up the braided stem, she allows herself another sip without moving her gaze from the changing horizon. She finishes the glass, and then the short bottle before her bridesmaids interrupt her last moment with her Spanish lover.


There comes a time when a loss can be celebrated in the same fashion as a meeting. 

My idea was a bride who attempts to find time alone for a moment to uncover the last gift she will receive from the man she loves before they truly must separate ways.

I wasn't intending for this to be sad (as I like to believe I am fairly optimistic), as I was hoping it would be a sort of sentiment to moving on with life and forever embedding cherished moment and people into your memory.

I hope you enjoyed reading :)
Keep cheery!

Tuesday, 14 May 2013

YGMM: Crowded

JournalWord: In sickness.


Jones tips his head back so it drapes over the back of the couch, letting off a throaty groan and pathetic sniff.

"We can hear ya," Tristan calls over the running water. He dries the last plate after Chris hands it to him and stacks it onto the dish rack to be dealt with tomorrow. "I've got you, Jonesy," he reassures as he wipes his hands on a clean towel and heads for their room. 

Chris dries her hands as well, wiping off the spilled water around the sink before hanging the towel up. She hears a series of shuffling from the living room as she heads to her own room. Without shutting the door, she gathers her patient files, pen, and notebook swiftly and turns back into the hallway. 

Jones has dropped himself to cover the length of the couch, and when Chris walks in, he is busy kicking his long legs over the back and arm as he fights for a comfortable position. He frustratingly grunts at the effort before giving up and throwing an arm over his eyes and allowing his other arm to dangle so his knuckles rest onto the floor. 

Chris settles her files and notebook onto the coffee table, and using the blunt end of her pen, pokes him  in the shoulder. "Shove over you," she commands.

He peeks from under his arm at her with irritation fixated in his expression, but grudgingly shifts to sit up so she has room. 

Tristan had walked in as well during the scene and deduces that Jones couldn't be too angry at her, because as soon as she is nestled into her seat and her work, Jones rests his head on her shoulder.

"If you drool on me, I'll murder you," Chris warns, but otherwise leaves him to close his eyes as she starts writing in her notebook.

Tristan tucks the blanket he has secured from their room around Jones, whom grunts with appreciation without opening his eyes. Figuring that he can't pass this moment by so easily, Tristan approaches the other end of the couch and, yawning widely, settles himself down and nestles his own head onto her free shoulder.

Immediately, Jones's eyes snap open to glare balefully at him. "Idiot, don't you have something else to do?" his scratchy voice demands.

Tristan replies by childishly sticking his tongue out at him. "Nope, took the day off too. I wanted to spend time with my dear Chrisy."

"Your dear Chrisy is going to maim the both of you if you don't quiet up while I'm working," she threatens, not pausing her pen. Although she was annoyed to have been called off of work to take care of Jones, she's more irritated by how much control these two boys have over her superiors in deciding when she should take a day off. 

Jones makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat and closes his eyes once again.

A scratchy throat and stuffy nose does not entail as an "emergency", or a reason to cancel her appointments and responsibilities for the day to shove lunch and medication down Jones's throat.

Tristan muses as he examines Chris's jawline and focus, having realized she's really not as angry as she portrays herself to be. Sure, she was angry initially when he had convinced Alice that Chris should tend to an emergency at home instead of dealing with work. And who knows, if Chrisy hadn't come home and taken over the nursing of poor, old Jonesy, he might have taken a turn for the worse. 

Well, at least there's no need to worry now, Tristan speculates and comfortably curls into Chris's side. How lucky they are to have someone drop their day just for them, and to have someone to rely on in times when neither are capable.

"Thank you, Chrisy," he whispers into her collarbone as he shuts his eyes for a nap as well.


I've been fighting (and failing) a series of persistent headaches, only to find out that I am having tension headaches induced by stress. So hopefully now, with the pain and dizziness under control, I can figure out what I want done :)

It seems like I'm a giant ball of stress. Maybe I'll end up popping, or blowing a blood vessel, before I can write up all my stories and ideas!

Who knows :P

Friday, 10 May 2013

Flower Crowns

JournalWord: Covered in flowers.


The children are silent.

The boy looks up from his lap to gaze at the girl across from him in the squashed patch they had made in the flower field. She's really pretty. Shoulder length blonde hair and cream skin. Her hazel eyes are sad. She's clutching brown teddy bear.

He turns away from the ragged stuffed animal squeezed between her fingers, blowing his dark hair out of his face and remembers what his mother reminded him earlier.

They can see the house just around the hill but his mother stops him by placing her hand gently on his mop of wavy hair. She bends down to his level and looks him in the eyes before speaking.

"You should know, Darren, that the girl you're going to meet is going to be a bit strange."

His mother pauses, scrunching her delicately shaped eyebrows for the right words.

"She's very hurt, sweetie. You have to remember that. She doesn't talk anymore," his mother gives him a smallsmile, 'But I think that you can make her happy.You can be her knight in shining armor."  

How sweet that sounds: to be a knight like one of the heroes in his stories!

He could save people just like his big brother.

It's decided then. He would save her from whatever dragons or wizards that wanted to harm her!

Peeking at her from the corner of his eye, he looks again at her sad form. First, he should make her happy.

Scanning the area for any enemies, he thinks of something for them to do, his eyes landing on the petals of a familiar white flower. He scrambles out of his spot in the field and runs off to search for more.

The girl looks up at his sudden movements and her gaze follows him running back to their spot with an armful of small white flowers tucked into every crevice of his arms. As soon as he sits down, he sets to work.

Curiously, she tries to see what he is doing, but is startled by his pleased grin. He hurriedly finishes up and stretches his arms out to present his gift.

Daisy chains.

"These are for you!"

She's surprised by the gift and gives him an expression of confusion, tweaking her head into angles to decipher what he means with the gift.

He picks up one of the chains and places it on her head. She blinks and fingers the daisies.

And then she laughs. A soft twinkling hymn that swirls in the fluttering breeze.

This wasn't what he expected.

She stands up, letting go of her bear so it topples onto the nest she had created from the tall grass and takes one of the chains in his hands and puts one on his head too.

And that's when he's presented by her angelic smile.

She looked so beautiful with her halo of daisies, but her smile is what defined her as an angel.

She looks down at him and grins. "Daisy!"

His eyebrows rise in amazement. She speaks!

"Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!" She chants, placing necklaces of daisies on both of them.

She pauses at his dumbfound expression, delivering another warm smile that lights up the viridian flecks in her hazel eyes.


And that's when he understands what she is intending. She is saying he is Daisy!

He frowns.

No way is he being named after a flower! Knights aren't named Daisy!

"I am not Daisy. My name is Darren." He huffs, arms crossing his chest in exasperation.

She frowns in confusion, her enchanting smile gone.

Why does it hurt when she doesn't smile? Why can't I look at her when she's like this?

"..Fine.." He sighs, defeated. "I'm Daisy."

Her smile returns and she claps excitedly, pushing more daisies towards him.



Something short and sweet as I attempt to organize myself in preparation of focusing on larger tasks at hand.

I've been extremely flabbergasted by the sheer motivation developed by all the support I've been getting to continue writing. Thank you all! You make my mini-mind world spin!

Keep bubbly!

Monday, 6 May 2013

Wow! I've been featured!!

I've been featured!

This is what the homepage has up of me! *hyperventilate* (and yes, I take crappy photos..)
My short story, Mistaken For A God, has been featured as Editor's Pick on the collaborative and creative fiction community, Protagonize!

Check out the story and my author profile (although I haven't actually spiced up my profile.. should probably get around to doing that)! 
What a load of motivation to continue writing! *Super SMILE!*

Check it out yourself (I dare you ;P) and thank you all for the support! 
Truly made my day :) 

I'll definitely get to cranking out awesome, enjoyable stories for ya'll! 
(Don't hesitate to comment :D)

With prettied boxes sent with love,
Mera! (Randomnese!)

Friday, 3 May 2013

A Muted Glow

JournalWord: Living someone else's life.


"Ms. Curie, these reports look wonderful," Headmaster states, heavy, violet shadowed eyes peeking from over the tops of two of my experiment overviews. She smiles, pleased, as she taps the two reports together and stacks them neatly in front of her on the desk. 

Her long fingers curl and lock into each other in front of her thin mouth, her elbows set on either side of the reports as if trapping them for herself. "But that isn't why I called for you." She waits, expectantly, her thin eyebrows raised as high as her Botox would allow on her forehead. 

Nervously, I tuck a lock of my unruly, dark hair behind my ear. I don't quite understand why everyone calls me Ms. Curie, I mean, I may be the clone of Marie Curie, but Curie is her husband's last name, and I'm only fifteen; far from married. 

Headmaster is still focused on me, so I reply honestly, "If not for my reports, I am at a loss of why my presence is required."

"Ah, yes. I'm sure being away from your laboratory is cumbersome, but Ms. Curie, your instructors have brought to my attention your recent inattention and disagreeable behavior during Personal History lectures. As well, your frequent disappearances from your lab has brought alarm. Care to explain why your instructors would be concerned about one of our very best?"

Immediately a spark of anger furls in my chest at my 'babysitters', because really, they don't teach me anything I don't already know. Their only job is to ensure I am continually researching and experimenting, expanding the original Marie Curie's work. It really is no business of theirs to know where I am during my breaks, or whether I decide to spend my breaks out of my lab. As for my behavior during PH lecture, I've found that it has become increasingly more difficult to listen about who I am supposed to be after speaking with Salvador. 

"Ms. Curie?" she calls, and I turn my solid gaze to meet her attentive stare. 

All signs of my inner turmoil are shielded behind the practiced calm and blank expression fashionably donned by the original Marie. "The time away from my experimentation is irksome and I apologize for focusing solely on my research during Personal History lecture, Headmaster. As for my breaks, I frequent a walk to rejuvenate the neurons and refresh my circulation. Pavlov suggested the light exercise to stimulate my brain and relieve my mild migraines."

It's all lies, and I mentally send an apology to seventeen year old Ivan for using him as an excuse. I'm instantly swept with shame for my betrayal and lies. 

"Of course! How could I doubt you, Ms. Curie. You're one of this school's best!" Her pleased smile is enough for me to bury the shame. Her expectations overshadow any doubt, just like Salvador predicted. "Now for your migraines, please report them to the infirmary if they persist."

I nod in agreement. "Thank you, Headmaster, I will. Now if that is all.." I trail off, eyes locked with hers. I hope she doesn't see the rebellion against her perfectly sculpted, cloning prison flashing behind my irises. 

She waves a manicured, tanned hand towards her door and I graciously stand up. As I turn the elegant door handle of her door, I linger, frowning briefly at how pale my complexion is in comparison, and wonder if the sun reflects off the sand as I had seen in the original collection of Dali. I remember a tuneless conversation when Salvador had commented that his paintings would have more depth if he could see and feel all that the original Dali had, instead of just expanding from taught knowledge of the original's from PH lecture.  

As I walk, I sweep my eyes over the hallways, passing through the cleared areas systematically as if I am on my way to the lab. Straight backed and a blank expression on my face, I remain the famous Marie Curie whom is absorbed in her work at all times, to those that would have passed. I am still her as I walk right past my laboratory, and past Darwin's biological museum. In fact, I am still my original when I walk out of the Sciences and head for the Arts.

My presence here is irrelevant and impertinent to my research, which would be said by the Headmaster if ever she is to find out. I'm just glad that cameras are not deemed a necessity for our facility. Teenage clones of famous researchers and artists are apparently not a danger, and for that I am relieved.

My instructors would constantly harbor the belief that my mind should only need to be filled with chemistry and physics. And although, yes, I've excelled above and beyond their standards for an original, I'm not quite sure I agree with their assumptions. 

Wolfgang Mozart is plucking notes from his piano and furiously jotting onto his stacks of sheets when I enter his studio. The array of shiny instruments greet me with their polished skins. It seems as though the room instills its own ambiance with the haphazard musical sheets strewn everywhere. I take careful steps over the scores in my path towards the bobbing ponytail. 

I envy the length of his hair, already to the length of his lower back and strung up in a simple ribbon. I urge from petting my own shoulder cropped mass, routinely swapped into a messy bun while working. The sleekness of his hair matches the brass winds and I curse my dull curls. Although my jealousy roars, I still recognize that it is a shame he has to hide his glorious mane under a powdered wig while playing for the sponsors.

"Wolf," I whisper gently to stir him from his concerto. 

He whips around, having been so focused, he hadn't heard me creep in. "Marie," he calls, a bright smile exploding across his cheeks. "My dear, you must join me," he exuberantly commands, sliding to pat the space on the mahogany bench. 

I almost forget that he's only ten years old when he speaks, but then again, age does not seem vital to chemically altered geniuses. I return his excited smile with one as bright as his own as I seat myself onto the warm wood. 

"I was just finishing this one up," he explains, quickly swooping his pen over the scores, tacking notes in places he can only see fit. With a flourish, he signs the end of the score with a series of swirls and elaborate lines that don't match with the scores layered on the studio floor.

"Wolf, that isn't your signature," I murmur, not completely sure I am pointing this out for him or for myself. 

His smile falters and he blushes, revealing his true innocence. "Well, this isn't something for the sponsors," he answers and coughs to clear his throat. "This isn't something from Mozart."

And I understand. Wolf stares longingly at the score he will not be able to show or play for anyone and my heart lurches at the thought of this boy hiding his true self for the sake of resurrecting the perfect image and sound of an icon for our rich sponsors. I promise to ask him to play it for me next time.

Tucking the sheets into a folder, he clears the keys of his mess and claps his hands. "Now, for your lessons," he announces, his familiar warm smile welcoming me to his private world. "Do you remember the scale we practiced yesterday?"

Nodding, I take up the ivories, my fingers skipping and slipping occasionally at the unfamiliar motions, but the tinkling of keys and sound relaxes my mind and allows me a moment to breathe.

As I attempt to copy Wolf's fingers, I can't help the disbelief that I, clone of renowned physicist and chemist, Marie Curie, am seated at a piano and creating music instead of in my laboratory, recreating the thoughts of a woman who died for her discoveries. 

For now, I am just Marie, who loves music. Who plays with her best friend on her breaks, and met a boy who questions his original in hopes of being himself. And although the repercussions of this rebellion picks and worries into my existence every day since I first found myself gazing at the piano in Wolfe's studio, I continue to play it because I feel like the teenage girl I should be; not the mother, daughter and wife, I will never be.

I am Marie, who doesn't refuse music like her original. 


Oh my, this was a doozy! 
I had to research a lot on the characters, especially the original's personality (quite a feat considering they were more known for their accomplishes, not attititude). 

Well, I really liked this one, and I hope you enjoyed it as well :D 
Let me know what you thought!

Keep bubbly!

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