Spilling

JournalWord: Premature.

::

She finds him in the bathroom, more specifically, sitting in the claw foot tub. The shower is on and cold water pelts relentlessly at his bowed head. He’s soaked, and the fresh bandages she had taken the time to apply are ruined. 

He’s bleeding again, she realizes when she connects his cupped hand, pressed loosely to the swatch of spreading red on his left side. His other arm hangs over the edge, palm up and fingers curled, as if it had lost it’s grasp. His legs dangle off the side of the porcelain tub, defeated like the rest of him. 

She watches his body tremble and fidget from a shiver and she wants to squeeze herself in and curl up beside him and cry. He’s only twelve, she wants to cry, and he’s too big to fit in her tub. 

Her eyes sting at just the sight of his broken soul, and she can’t imagine the pain he’s been through; all the pain he shouldn't be in. He’s too young to fight alone. He’s too young to fill my tub, like the rest of the army he leads.

::

What would you like to read?

More JournalWords?
More of a specific genre?
More lists?
More dialogues?
More YGMM?

(Drop me a hint in the comments)

I want to know what you like to read. :)

~mera!

Read More

With Minor Differences

JournalWord: A Tuesday wedding.

::

She is humming under her breath as she looks indifferently at her nails. She picks at the flaking edge of her nail and sighs, trying to remember where she buried the polish in her room.

"Do you want to get married?" he asks, his voice deceptively bored-as if he is talking about the weather.

Her mouth pops open into thought as her eyes meet his. His eyebrows slowly rise for an answer.

"Like, in general, or 'Hey Alice, wanna get married?'" she asks flippantly. A leg crosses over the other and she starts to rearrange her mini-skirt over her thighs.

He pauses to think about it. "Hey Alice, wanna get married?"

She laughs and has to forcefully stop herself when she sees hurt in his eyes. She coughs uncomfortably and turns away. "I'm working all week," she finally says. He feels his stomach knot up before he catches the shyness in her soft blush he's missed in the years they've been together. "But I'm free Tuesday."

He takes a moment to process the information and nods. "I'll pick you up at seven."

"No," she says, smiling, "you'll pick me up at four. That was the lousiest proposal ever. The least you can do is take me out to dinner afterwards."

He sighs, but returns the smile. "Fine."

::

Doomsday is coming up~!
I've got a thing for the Apocalypse so I'm all for Doomsday (although I kinda know it might not happen...).

~mera!

Read More

YGMM: Cracking the Chrisy Code

::

"What are you plotting?"

Jones's accusation is hissed as soon as they enter the kitchen. Tristan places the plastic bag full of empty, crumpled wrappings from their burritos and used napkins on the counter beside the sink and starts to run water over his hands. Jones waits patiently for an answer as Tristan washes his hands.

Tristan shuts off the tap and flicks his hands in the air to fling water droplets at Jones's scowl. "I'm making a friend," he finally says, stepping away from the sink. He wipes his palms on his jeans and hoists himself up onto the counter. This is just the start of a very long conversation, he realizes.

Jones takes his place in front of the sink and starts to wash his hands as well. "We don't need friends."

Tristan smiles thoughtfully at Jones's hunched shoulders. "She isn't at all like the others," he defends, "Chris is genuine and she's very interesting. She doesn't want anything from us." 

The tap shuts off and Jones wipes his hands on his jeans. The furrow between his eyebrows is still present. "I trust you," he states, pressing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "I just don't trust your decisions."

Tristan laughs, much to Jones's annoyance. "I'm glad! But you'll be swayed by her charm!" He knowingly points his finger at Jones and winks. "Maybe you already have!"

Jones rolls his eyes and joins Tristan on the counter, leaning back so his head rests against the cupboards. Tristan is usually just as cautious of others, although he outwardly doesn't show his wariness as he does. The trust and unrestrained curiosity Tristan displays around Chris, is usually reserved only in the company of each other. 

"You'll fall for her," Tristan repeats, gently. "She's special, and maybe we need to start trusting people, besides each other." Jones turns his head and watches Tristan focus on the wall opposite them. "We can't keep running. This is our opportunity to change and I think we can do it; we can trust others, starting with Chrisy." 

Jones grips the edge of the counter top contemplating Tristan's words. His decisions are never right but his intentions are always in a good place. Jones sighs and glares at the ceiling. "Fine, but I want in on your new plan. Don't think I didn't catch you scheming." 

Tristan gasps dramatically and pouts. "What plan?" he asks innocently and dodges Jones's jab with a smile. He sobers up and glances at the hallway. "I just want to spend time with her, is that bad? I want to know everything about her; what she likes, what her favorite color is, why she's so defensive against burritos." 

Jones nods, reflecting on Tristan's jovial response at retelling about his information on Chris. "You want to interrogate her."

"No, no, no," he shakes his head slowly, then stops to smile playfully at Jones. "Actually, kinda, yeah."

Jones chuckles to himself. "Fine, but watch what you ask. You've already had a taste of her punches."

Tristan joins in on the chuckle, fingering his jaw, devoid of any swelling. "Yeah," he breathes, "but the aftercare was wonderful." He wiggles his eyebrows at Jones and, once again, dodges a jab. 

Tristan hops off the counter and heads toward the hallway. "Detective Tristan off to crack the Chrisy Code," he announces with a wave, and Jones leans back, digesting the revolution being lead by the blonde idiot.

::

I'm going to keep going and, maybe, I'll reach where I wanna be.

~mera.

Read More

Mutt, Master, Boss, Brat.

JournalWord: "Want some gum?"

***

Lemonade, he huffs as he stirs two teaspoons of sugar into the tall frosting glass. Who would think that an underground genius would be addicted to lemonade? Yorick shakes his head and lifts the spoon from the glass, placing it into the dishwasher. He picks up the glass and carefully transfers it to a silver ornate tray, wiping the ring of condensation the glass left on the kitchen counter with a tea towel. He unties his apron and gently hangs it back up on its hook before relocating down the gray halls. 

Yorick winds through the maze of halls, bypassing the floor’s various voice readers and iris scans that block off certain parts of the Boss’s building. Suited subordinates occasionally pass by, nodding at the lemonade and Yorick knows that if it weren’t for their respect and loyalty to the Boss, they’d surely have a couple comments to say. And with the Boss’s personality, Yorick muses, the Boss would probably have a good laugh and not mind at all. Yorick stops his trek in front of a door, ordinary like every other door he had passed, except for the animated rabbit engraved into the steel over the door knob. 

Yorick gives a sharp knock on the door and waits for a yelp beckoning him in. Yorick opens the door and is welcomed by laughter and the smoke of cigars. He shuts the door quietly behind him and smoothly strides over to the Boss, servicing the glass of lemonade with a composed façade in front of the guest. 

Boss instantly reaches for the glass from the balanced tray without a pause in his current argument. He animatedly barters, a childish challenge in his laughter. The guest, comforted by the cigar and tumbler of vodka in his hands, has loosened up and sunken into the armchair, obviously charmed by the Boss’s childlike manner. 

He underestimates the Boss, Yorick notes as the guest chuckles, and Yorick smirks inwardly when the guest accidentally agrees to sell half his illegal corporate. Vodka is spat in Boss’s general direction when the guest realizes his mistake, but Yorick would never allow any endangerment to the Boss and shields the Boss with a hanging towel that was tucked under into his arm. Guards are snapped to attention from behind shadows and the outraged guest is blindfolded and escorted out the door, his affirmation recorded and taped. Boss crosses his legs and leans back in his leather chair, arms tucked behind his head when peace is restored. 

“He’ll be back in two days with backup. Prepare for an assault,” he says nonchalantly, and a guard instantly dispatches orders into his cuff. Boss raises the dripping glass and takes a long sip, mewing contently like a kitten. “You rationed off the sugar, Yorkie,” he comments, an eyebrow rising menacingly in Yorick’s direction. 

“Boss, your blood sugar level has been on the surge. We don’t want our Boss stricken with diabetes,” Yorick answers coolly. 

Boss lets out an uncharacterised whine and flops sideways on the armchair, kicking off his shoes and attacking his tie while he sips dejectedly at his lemonade. He complains about having to dress up in ties and suits for business warlords. “Why can’t I go back to being anonymous like before?” he gripes, tossing his black tie and coat jacket over his chair. A guard rushes to catch the flying articles, amused by the Boss’s familiar strange character.

Boss has always been like this: babyish and eccentric. He may act like a spoiled child, however, underneath all the quirks and spontaneity lies a brain, trained to perfection to read beyond the beneath. He’s a mastermind who spends hours on end wiring the continuous clockwork in his mind to slow down into comprisable plans. He controls so much but he could care less. He is at the top of markets and economy, but he’s bored with the usual chess game. That’s probably why he set up the meeting with the illegal aristocrat: to stir up some trouble that he has already undoubtedly figured out with his powers of insight and deduction.  

Yorick remembers the night he first met Boss, back in the days when he was a freelance assassin. Those were the days when he didn’t have anything to live for, and nothing to lose. There was a bad fall-out, an assignment gone wrong by a separate invasion and he had ended up on the brink of death with two bullets in each of his thighs, and everyone else piled up on the cold cobblestones of a dank alley. Yorick thought he was alone and that he was going to die under the moonlight. 

He is clutching his legs, trying to stop the blood flow when he catches the glint of silver metal. The man creeps out of the shadows with a relaxed bounce in his step as he surveys the dead. The man cocks his head to the side as he walks closer and pulls down the collar of his coat to reveal a frown. Yorick stares at the revolver pointing at his head but notices the catlike grin that sprouts on the owner's face. 

“Nice eyes. What’s your name?” the man asks, an otherwise friendly comment if it weren't for the gun still aimed at his face. 

Yorick pauses, dumbstruck by the life or death situation. Should he answer? What would it matter, he is going to die anyways. “Yorick Omsby.” 

He starts to sweat at the intense hiatus of his highly probable demise, and he sits in agony in the thick air, his blood pooling into a gutter as he waits for his end. 

“Yorkie.” 

Instantly the dark atmosphere lifts when the man bounces into a crouch in front of Yorick, gun still outstretched but wrist lax and pointing to the stones. “Calling you Yorkie with that scary face of yours is super cute. I am very pleased,” he says, voice merry and gun retreating into the folds of his trench coat.

Yorick can't think, but he is sure he is glaring at the man. 

“Want some gum?” the man adds, fishing through a pocket before thrusting a half full packet of gum at his company. 

At the time, he had twitched his eyebrow sarcastically and agreed, either because he was dizzy from the blood loss or he realized that life was more important than he had initially thought. It could only be those options because Yorick would rather live not knowing about the psychology behind his agreement to become the butler of a renowned underground genius. But it doesn't matter now, because, unlike Boss who delves in the depths of every action and by-product of said action, Yorick would rather not know.

A guard bumps elbows with Yorick to catch his attention, coughing lightly in the direction of the Boss. Yorick rolls his eyes and regains his composure. He presses a button on the wall, lifting the blinds that had covered the surrounding windows of the octagonal room. The sight of the city he owns below his 70 story skyscraper goes unnoticed from underneath a blanket. “Boss, you can’t have a nap right now. Europe is on hold at the moment awaiting your feedback on the  perfume advertisements.” 

Yorick tugs at the blanket and finally rips it off. He sighs at the sight of his employer, curled up in the fetal position and trying to hide his head in the shield of his arms from the sun. 

“You can’t make me, Yorkie” he whines. “They don’t need my opinion on perfume. I don’t even like perfume.” 

“True, but they still want to meet you. Now guards, if you will? Down to level seventeen, room 406.”

Again, Yorick would rather not know the details on how he became the caretaker of the world’s smartest brat.

***

This is my escape. My hideaway home. My mind's black hole.
I'm fairly inadequate with human interaction, so understanding me takes time that isn't capable by vocalization. 
I am a creature that talks through others, usually my characters. 
My characters, their background, their life, their values, are their own, and are easier for me to explain than myself, because they are their own people.
Writing about myself is very difficult, so I'll be sticking to short explanations of my behavior.
~mera.

Read More

Human Feel

I don't feel like a human being.
I don't feel like a girl, a woman, a female.

I am grasping for straws that are out of reach.
I have a mind. I have my own set of morals, which seem like they are diminishing as more restrictions are fenced up.

The more thoughts I have as they struggle through the fog, the more I don't care about why they are not allowed.

I'm being boxed up like an animal, tamed to never have a thought and obediently leaping through the set hoops.

I don't feel real. I am imaginary. A figment of someone's twisted mind, paired to create some creature that is out of place.

I suppose I want to feel like I can break through this dream-like state and inject myself into a reality that makes me happy.

I am realizing that I am not happy.
Can walls without doors make anyone happy?

All these words that contradict. All these pains that only exist.
I'm deathly afraid of something that can only do me good.

I want to leave. I want to find a me. I want to be free.
But I feel so numb, like my limbs are dangling and I can only think.

I need to act. To show I am a person. A person who has grown up into an adult. An adult that needs to know who the hell she is.

Because I'm fairly certain she is someone.

Maybe a human being. Maybe I'm a human being. Maybe I can do more than just feel.
I may need to follow the vocal instructions and never come back to this cage.

Read More

Gifting

JournalWord: Protect me from what I want.

***

3 hours ago, I felt the most excruciating pain of my life. Physically, that is. Emotionally, I felt it an hour ago. I should never have agreed to hold her. I should have turned down the nurse’s offer the moment she entered the room. Now, I can’t pull my arms away from my body. 

Her body is so small; so much more human than what I had been believing for the last nine months. She has a tiny mouth, and a nose that looks like his. I could see the tips of her tiny fingers peeking out of the folds of her pink blanket, and something fluttered in me when I saw all ten, itty-bitty digits. Is that what a mother should feel? The flutter and joy of a newborn? 

I would think so when Margaret and Jerry rushed in. They were beyond happy and Margaret was bright red in the face, exhilarated as if she were the one who had just given birth. They’re going to take my baby away from me. I remember wishing, back when I had first met her and her husband, that she would be the one to go through with this; to go through the pain of labor, to go through with the decision, and to finally have her own child. 

Oh, how I wished it could have been her instead of me. But when they came through that door, anxious to see the person I was giving to them, every dreadful wish of never having this moment became a shattered mess. I don’t want to give my baby up. I am being irrational, I know, but at this moment, all of my concrete decisions blows up into dust. 

I was so scared to give her to them and I squeezed my little girl too hard. She screamed and I panicked, ashamed of how terrible a mother I would have been. Margaret picked her up and cooed to her, like a mother should, and I could only watch as she stopped the crying. Jerry thanked me over and over, and I couldn't even look at him. I felt like I was betraying him for thinking such ludicrous thoughts. 

I couldn't keep her. There isn't any logical reason why a homeless teen like me should be given the gift of a child. I say that but I can’t stop thinking about her tiny hands, curled around Margaret’s ring finger. They thanked me countless times and cried over their new baby for the next fifteen minutes. I couldn't bring myself to look at them, for fear I would crush their dream, crush their chance at a family with a couple words. 

This is for the best, I repeated to myself. This is the best for her. Finally they were ushered out of the room by the same deceitful nurse who scrambled my rationality. However, before they left, they asked me for a name, and although I had continuously spoken of my need to disconnect all ties, my lips moved to form one hurtful word: Allison. 

They seemed taken aback at the mention of my mother, knowing the hate I had for her, for her abandonment. Sitting in my hospital bed, arms still holding my rib cage up, I feel lighter. It might be the loss of six pounds, and it may not be because I've finally forgiven my mother. I can’t tell, but I hope this feeling will leave, because now I've got nothing to fill in the space.    

***

Wanting what we can't have, even if it was our decision to not want it in the first place.

~mera.

Read More

YGMM: The Hands That Crank Her Key

Infinitesimal by Mother Mother. 

"There's a million, billion, trillion stars, but I'm down here low, 
fussin' over scars on my soul, on my soul, on my soul..." 

***

During the nights where the dark side of the world is enchanted by stars peeking through holes in a pitch, black curtain, and dreams are held for all their blissful minutes; one apartment never sleeps. The hush of sighs and quiet murmurs of the asleep is disturbed by the pinprick beep of a pager. 

There’s an emergency and Chris is on-call, and although the other two roommates shouldn't be able to hear the rustles and soft footfalls of her wakening, they do. They’ll find her in the bathroom, splashing cold water onto her sleep stricken face to wake up. She’ll apologize for waking them up and she’ll tell them to go back to bed. They’ll ignore her, following her around the apartment as she scrambles to get dressed and find her bag, and finally to the door as she says a quick goodbye and apology before she leaves for the hospital. 

They never do go back to bed, instead they lounge in the living room. Jones will lay on the couch and Tristan will take up an armchair; both will stare at the clock, counting down the hours until she comes back. They worry, for her and for whoever is in need of her assistance, but usually for her. 

For someone who only turned twenty, she is in need of someone to worry about her. She may be a genius, and she may be amazing at her job, but she’s still twenty, and unlike them at her age, she has someone looking out for her. 

They wait for her to appear in the doorway, tired but smiling, and always with a disappointed shake of the head when she sees them awake. They’d laugh and smile around cups of coffee and she’ll tell them about what happened and how silly they are to wait for her. She would also fall asleep at the table right after she tells her story, not a missing drop of coffee in her cup. 

However, recently, Chris doesn't come back. They usually wait until daybreak for her, but when she doesn't appear, Jones grabs his coat and goes after her. Tristan has tried but always loses in the battle to bring her back, caving in when she ignores his wheedling and pleading to go home and sleep. Jones never fails. By the time he enters the hospital, he’s downright grumpy, and with a stern, icy glare and order of “That’s enough”, Chris will sigh and put down her clipboard and papers. 

Jones and Tristan make sure she’s in bed at six and Tristan always remembers to book Chris off for the next five hours so she can sleep. They have a system, from the first beep of the pager to the alarm of the city waking at sunrise. It’s their promise to help someone when they don’t know they need it.

***

I adore Mother Mother (check them out!), their lyrics are just heart-wrenchingly amazing!
My taste in music is questionable, hehe :P

This is just a snippet that, hopefully, explains the sort of relationship the trio have.

Btw, I sorta have a thing for threesomes. (Go ahead and figure that one out~!)

~mera!!

Read More

Keep Your Colors Blue

Words that describe blue:

***

sky. 

royal.

indigo.

turquoise.

marine.

navy.

teal.

azure.

beryl.

blueberry.

cerulean.

aqua.

gloom.

sea.

depressed.

calm.

midnight.

cool.

sapphire.

robin egg.

cornflower.

steel.

cobalt.

friendly.

***

Did I miss any?

Read More

Driving into Walls

JournalWord: This isn't a throne.

***

I flex my arms, unsatisfied by the muscles I lack. I’m a runner, not a body builder. 

Or I was. 

My hands grip the edge of the tires and I push and pull the wheels for momentum before I heave the wheels forward. The unpracticed motion propels me down the hall too fast, faster than I can control, and with a hiccuped squeal of the tires, I crash into a wall. 

My palms save me from falling, suctioning themselves to the wall, and I push off, landing the wheels back on all four. The swerve of rubber leaves an unsteady streak on the floor and the soreness of my hands whispers my defeat. I wait, holding my breath for someone to come check the noise, but no one comes. 

I slowly exhale, even though I would rather scream. It’s not fair. I slam my fists into my lap, and a tear pricks the corner of my eye when I don't feel anything in response to the blow. My legs are numb, frozen in a state that will never feel pain again. My fists press into my cold thighs, knuckles most likely bruising the skin under my hospital issued pajamas but I don’t care. I want to feel them. I want to feel the knitted muscles of my legs straining against gravity. I want to stretch my legs until I feel my ligaments burn. I want to stand on my own two feet again. 

My knees blur in the haze of streaming tears, and no matter how hard I rub my eyes, the waterfall won’t dam. I give up, cursing how pathetic I feel, how trapped I am in this wheelchair. I grab the wheels again, pushing gently on the soles so my palms don’t smart into blisters. 

I can’t see clearly so when I turn, my right wheel jerks and collides into the corner, switching direction before tipping forward and sliding me face first onto the floor. My hands sting from the impact and I groan when I shift, only to have the wheelchair press painfully into my upper spine. 

The strap is still confining me to the seat, and I feel like I’m being haunted by an execution chair. I bend my arms and struggle to flip the chair over, only to have my elbows collapse in exhaustion. I slam back onto the floor and I just lay there, cheek kissing the tiles, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for someone to free me from this sentence. I’m giving up once and for all. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep fighting this ball and chain. 

***

I am so done with exams, and now I'm finally free! Time to really relax and enjoy a break :)

I'm going to be fiddling with this blog, (maybe posting pictures of my journals... :D) and definitely posting more stories! Input is always encouraged so drop a comment!

Best of holiday blessings to you! Enjoy every last drop of freedom (I definitely will be!!),

~mera!

Read More

Puppy-Love Prostitute

JournalWord: Paid to be someone's puppy.

***

With his torn skinny jeans and shred-style long sleeve shirt, he struts against the wind to the glass doors. He taps his booted feet in the rhythm of his newest single, giving off quiet hums.

In his hand is his guitar case. This one likes listening to him sing, he remembers. He pushes open the glass door with his free hand, walking straight to the elevators. He gives the up button a press, glad that the elevator is fast, and walks right in. The doors slide smoothly closed behind him, and with a press of another button, the elevator is off.

He waits, his lithe frame relaxed. He rocks back on his heels, catching glances of himself in the reflected walls. Good. It doesn't look like he's grown. They like younger, shorter, men.

He watches the lip chain that connects from the middle of his bottom lip to his right ear. He gives his long shaggy hair a toss, spilling strands away from his dark brown eyes. He brings his free hand to the spiked collar at his neck and twists it so that the shiny buckle shows better.

A bell dings and the doors glide open. He casually strolls down the plush carpeted floor to the right door, the turned-down suspenders at his sides swinging with each step. Her doorbell rings and he doesn't have to wait long in front of the door. 

With a catch of a lock, the door is pulled open, a middle-aged woman with obvious expensive taste, greets the door with a smile. She flies into his arms, dispelling her brand perfume like a cloud around her, running her manicured fingers through his hair and down his small, taunt face. He flashes her a smile, dropping his guitar case and wrapping his arms around her slender waist.

"Madam! It's been a while!" he exclaims, his child-like voice giving her pleasant chills. His peculiar politeness is always a shock that pleases his clients.

She lightly fingers the numerous piercings running the length of both his ears. "It has, hasn't it. Mmm.." She snuggles her face into his neck, inhaling his scent. Marlboro cigarettes and strawberry licorice.

He gives off a fit of giggles when her cold nose brushes his collarbone. "Madam, that tickles!"

She smiles, bringing her face up from his neck and tugs his arm towards her room. "Come on! I bought your favorites!" Her youth gleams from her eyes, outshining the makeup and Botox in her face. His presence always seems to bring out the childlike behavior his clients wish to claim from him.

With another eager tug of his sleeve, he picks up his guitar case from the floor and follows her into her hotel room. The door shuts behind him, a soft 'click' echoing the empty hall.

***

I have experienced a prostitute phase, wherein I was constantly fascinated by prostitutes and needed to know everything about the profession. Yes, I consider it a profession. My scientific curiosity respects everything interesting. 

At one point, I was convinced that I should take research into my own hands and become a prostitute! (I can be quite extreme without realizing it. Good thing I have reasonable friends to deter me from my crazy endeavors!)

Anyways! Now I've got a medical thing going on that seems to peek into most of my stories...

This JournalWord brought on many ideas when I happened upon it in one of my journals (most naughty, and of which I may write about later ;D). I picked this idea because I liked the ability to change someone by presence. By choosing who you associate with is enough to drastically change your character and behavior, whether for the best or worst. 

In this case, the prostitute's presence invokes a positive behavior that allows his clients to relive a childlike happiness in simple gestures, like private acoustic guitar performances and candy. The cigarette smell is a reminder that he is still a man and that he is an individual with a separate behavior and lifestyle away from his clients.

Feel free to analyze your interpretations from my stories :) I would love to know!

Be good, 

mera~!

Read More

Unleash Your Inner Artist

JournalWord: Drawing cats.

***

"Miss Tina! I drew a cat!" Jeffrey announces excitedly, swinging the scribbled mass of orange cat drawn on his sheet of paper, through the air above his feathered hair. He bounces from the plastic chair he sits on, the stitches on his body threatening to pop and unravel.

Tina detours from the hallway to enter the children's nursery, musing that the room is actually quite cheery for a room in a castle dungeon full of zombies, maniacal scientists, and a satanist. There is even a great number of normal toys, like trains and dolls strewn on the matted floor. Although the rubber ducky wallpaper is an eyesore. 

"What a lovely cat, Jeffrey," Tina praises, patting the zombie child's head and forcing him down into the seat. He calms down and stops his bouncing to brightly smile at her. Perfect, straight, gleaming white teeth will always be a mystery that the zombies in this household will never reveal. Tina claims that they're actually just stolen dentures from raids. 

"I drew you," Levi cuts in, shoving his picture into Tina's face.

"You drew me?" Tina asks, touched, taking the sketchbook from Levi's hand. She places a hand on her chest and blinks away astonished tears to look at the picture. "What a lovely picture of.. me picking my nose," she finishes flatly. 

She squints her eyes from behind her glasses in hopes that she's interpreting the portrait wrong, however, Levi's impeccable talent in drawing, clearly displays her right index finger plunging into her nostril with incredible detail and realistic texture. 

A glance at Levi's smirk is enough to conclude her suspicions that he really is just an evil brat. She flicks over to the next page to see if there are any better ones, and then she chokes.

"Levi, you can't draw that!" she hisses, looking around frantically. "I'm sure that was a very private moment between Lisa and George-"

Speak of the devil, George walks past them in the hallway, pausing to give Tina a suspicious look. She smiles at him around the mouthful of paper as George walks away with a raised eyebrow.

"Do pictures taste good, Miss Tina?"

Tina turns around at the inquiry and watches, dumbfounded, when Jeffrey starts to stuff his cat picture in his mouth expectantly.

Levi continues a drawing from a page in his sketchbook, accurately depicting a scene from one of Ishin's many questionable rituals that involved too many virgins that a nine year old boy should have witnessed.

***

Art and zombie children. I'm just silly, teehee!

My evil castle dungeon is growing! And yes, there are children (albeit zombies!) who live there. 

Drop a comment, please! 

Be good, 

Mera ;P

Read More

Time Before Reinforcements Arrive

JournalWord: Beds not made for two.

***

He feels a light tap on his shoulder, but doesn't bother with it. Instead, he sighs quietly and pulls the blonde haired girl closer to him. The tap is a little harder now and a low groan escapes his lips.

The tapping is constant now and attempting to bruise his shoulder.

"Mr. Gerson?" He hears a voice whisper.

His eyes stir open, meeting the slightly blurry form of a nurse. At this moment, his eyes snap open, but instead of pushing away the girl he holds in his arms, he pulls her closer. His eyebrows scrunch down and his eyes narrow into a dangerous stare directed at the nurse.

She seems taken aback, to say the least.

"Leave." Ryan says quietly, although his voice is harsh and cold from being woken up.

She frowns. "Mr. Gerson, you're not supp-"

"Leave." Ryan barks, biting out his incisors.

Upon realizing his action could wake the sleeping blonde, he abruptly quiets, although his features harden menacingly. He scowls at the nurse as she frowns once more, his glare becoming deadly when she doesn't move. A sneer starts to slowly form on his lips, effectively disappearing when the nurse finally shuts the door behind her.

Ryan turns back to the girl in his arms, his grip relaxing as he takes in the wires attached to her. She looks so out of place, her content, slumbering form wrapped in IV drips and heart monitors. Her thin body is pressed against him, clinging to him in fistfuls of his shirt, leaving no room between them.

At least now she is asleep. She isn't in pain right now, and can finally rest after being constantly pained for four days. She is being tortured by her own body as her heart slowly fails.

Having her in his arms feels so right. He can be here for her now. And he'll make sure she makes it past every obstacle with his support.

He snuggles his face into her hair, looking forward to catching some more sleep before that wretched nurse comes back with reinforcements. Ryan closes his eyelids, thinking that at least this is a blissful moment.

But he still wishes this one-person hospital bed could hold two people, because, damn, he is squished.

***

I definitely have a fascination with the medical world. Damn you, Medical Sciences, for being so darn interesting!

Possessive people are just so cute :)

Be good,
Mera!

Read More

YGMM: Talkative Eyes.

Slowly chugging along with this story.

::

Chris has unloaded all the documents out of her bag and stacked them neatly on her desk when she entered her bedroom. Her chair that she had bought along with her desk isn't assembled, or unpacked from the boxes yet, so she takes the first file from the stack and locates a pen from her bag, settling onto her bed on her stomach to start reading. 

She is separating pages as she reads, comparing charts to diagnoses and observations when the doorknob of her door jiggles. Tristan peeks his head into the room slowly and grins when he finds her on her bed, twirling a pen between her fingers as she focuses intently at the pages scattered in front of her. 

Tristan doesn't take a moment to contemplate his motion, instead he launches onto the bare space beside her, effectively throwing her in the air above her bed. The papers scatter with her sharp shriek, and, quickly, before she lands back onto the plastic wrapping, she grabs the sheets and charts before they fly away. 

Clutching the patient's file in her hands and arms, she deals a menacing glare at Tristan, who sheepishly grins as he eyes her from under his lashes.

"My bad," he says, lifting his shoulders playfully. When she turns away from him, he winces, regretting his decision to crash her party. Opening his eyes after expecting some sort of physical retribution, he finds her at her desk, shuffling her sheets and charts back into order. 

He gets up and slides off the bed, discovering that he had instilled a large rip into the plastic covering in his grandeur landing. Turning to face her back, he asks, "My bad, do you need help?"

She shakes her head, and thinking she might be lying, he approaches her to peek at the papers. She has organized the papers back into the file, a satisfied smile on her lips when she finds all the papers are there. Tristan stares at her smile, realizing he hasn't seen her smile as of yet. 

She looks up at him then, realizing that he is very close, but before she can say anything about the proximity she finds something she needs to attend to. 

She walks past him to the bed, startling Tristan out of his thoughts to follow her.

"Uh, I can fix that," he starts when he sees her regarding the rip he had created. Her hands finger the rip and suddenly start to tear the plastic off the mattress. 

She struggles with the plastic and turns her head towards him. "Would you mind helping me tear this off?" 

He instantly shoots forward to help her, tearing off the plastic from the mattress with ease. Her politeness had shocked him. He was sure she would yell at him for ruining the plastic, but then again, do mattresses usually come wrapped in a plastic coating? With all the plastic ripped off, she grabs an armful and tows it out of the room. He helps her, finding he enjoys following her and aiding her, and doesn't feel resentful for doing a chore.

She deposits the plastic in the living room against the wall beside her tower of boxes. He deposits his armful on top of her pile on the floor when she takes a second to regard him. "Where is Jones?" she asks when he catches up to her on her way to her room. 

He turns to see her studying his face, her hair still mussed from scrambling for the pages. "Oh, I left him at the burrito shop. I'm much more interested in you." He winks with a crooked smile and she watches, a tad bit dumbfounded as he launches onto her bed again, spreading his arms out to cover the mattress. 

He lifts his head up, along with his arms. "Come join me," he beckons, a bit playful, and is shocked when she obediently follows his instructions, plucking the file from her desk and seating herself on the bed. 

Tristan crawls towards her and drapes his arms over her shoulders, pressing his cheek beside hers. She doesn't struggle under his weight, nor makes any move to touch him back to encourage his actions. "So, what is this you have here? A story?"

"Well, sort of," she breathes, "It's the patient file for Henry Baxter. I am going to be performing an angioplasty for him in a week and I need to review his medical history." 

Tristan oogles at the papers, trying to decipher the codes and foreign words. "What is it you do again?"

Chris turns to face him and he pulls away, arms still draped over her as she turns around. "I'm a heart surgeon at the general hospital; Dr. Chris Cahill." 

Tristan whistles, "Wow, you're a doctor," he repeats, bringing a hand to push back his curls from his face. "How old are you?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow, suddenly suspicious.

She smiles lightly and laughs. "Twenty," she answers and raises both her eyebrows when his eyes grow wide.

"Tristan!" Jones shouts from the living room after slamming the door.

"In Chrisy's room!" Tristan shouts back and winces when Jones slams open the door, glaring murder. Chris furrows her eyebrows at the nickname, but Tristan only shrugs.

"Where the hell did you go? You left me at the shop and I couldn't find you!" 

He breathes deeply to calm himself, stepping into the room and dropping the bag of burritos onto the desk before hooking his arm around Tristan's neck to pull him down as he collapses onto the mattress. Tristan lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, allowing his arms to slip from their hold on Chris. 

Jones jumps when Chris flips a page, having not noticed that she is in the room. 

"Calm it down, Jonesy. Chris is a doctor," he says with a grin, proud to have some information to share.

"Heart surgeon," she corrects, pulling a chart from the file without looking up. 

Tristan plucks it out of her fingers and shares it with Jones. "See, she has x-rays! She's only twenty but she's legitimate!"

Jones scrutinizes Tristan's excited smile, trying not to be doubtful when Tristan is so trusting of her. Then again, there really hasn't been anything that can prove that she isn't, except for the fact that Tristan trusts her. Why start trusting others now? And why start with her?

He glances at Chris as she scans her papers. Tristan accidentally nudges Jones when he shifts to prop himself on his elbow to examine Chris as well. He peeks at Jones and meets his eye to raise his eyebrows in hopes to quiet Jones's worry. 

"Your food is being neglected," she reminds them, bothered by their stares and silent conversations behind her. 

They slide from the bed to reach for their plastic bag. They join her on the edge of the bed, unwrapping their burritos. Tristan tilts her head up from her papers with his fingers and waggles the unwrapped burrito under her nose. "Would you like a bite?" he asks, much to Jones's shock. 

Chris glances at the ripped burrito, peering at the dark meat and bright, charred vegetables peeking from the dough. "No, thank you," she quickly replies like a conditioned response and shakes her head from his grasp.

Jones bites his burrito and chews, lost in thought as he surveys the interaction between Chris and Tristan. Attempting to figure out what it is that is charming Tristan when it really should be the other way around. 

Tristan usually uses his charm to manipulate people, mostly women, to do whatever he wanted, and at the moment, they were supposed to find something to encourage her to want to leave the apartment on her own accord. 

As he broods on his friend's strange behavior, he watches Tristan patiently wait on Chris, scrambling to hand her files when she packs away the papers back into their documents. 

***

I never really notice when a story snippet gets too long. My bad!

These aren't chapters, they're just snippets that after combined together, could potentially comprise a chapter. I just don't trust myself to permanently write something in a mass.

Be good, 
Mera. 

Read More

Basic Logic

JournalWord: Duodenum.

***

Some time later, Varence is casually walking down the stairs when he slips on a large puddle of blood.

He lands on the floor with a thud and finds himself face-to-face with someone's patella. He turns his head slightly to the left and regards an adrenal gland a few feet away. Beyond that, a kidney in another puddle of blood.

He notes that he is short on kidneys this month and straightens to pocket the kidney. Following the bloody trail of body parts, in search of the kidney's mate, he peers around a corner in the winding hallway.

A heavily bruised and bitten, but triumphant woman cackles as she swings something knobby and purple in the air above her head. Nori sprays droplets of blood onto the walls around her but doesn't take notice, as she's also soaked in drying blood.

"What is this called, Ishin?" Nori haughtily asks, wagging the purple body part in front of a lump on the floor.

"Duodenum," Ishin's severed head answers, sulkily.

"And this," Nori picks up something that is unmistakably Ishin's spleen. "How many of these are there?"

"One."

"So if Ishin has one spleen, and Nori takes it away, how many spleens does Ishin have?" She smirks and raises an eyebrow, tossing the spleen into the air to catch it in her palm.

"None."   

"And if Nori has a spleen, and Ishin tries to take it away, how many spleens does Ishin have?"

"No fucking spleens," Ishin bites out, but hesitates at her menacing glare. "Ma'am."

If Varence had not long ago replaced his own heart, he might have felt a tiny flutter in his chest.

***
I like my little horde of zombies >.<!!

A little blood and gore can't hurt anyone, although I still can't stomach or watch horror films... So many conundrums! :D

Be good, 
Mera!

Read More