Metallic

JournalWord: Clean, scraped off.

::

"Hey, I think we're safe-" 

Harry's smile falters when he swivels to reassure her. She's farther in the shadows, and the glow from the moon is casting just enough light from the corner for him to see her. She can only see half his face from her angle, but its enough for her to realize something is utterly wrong. 

"Your arm," he whispers when she piques an eyebrow at his gaping mouth and wide eyes.

"Oh, it's nothing, I just scraped it when I fell," she replies, but when she gazes down to her injured limb to reassure him, she freezes.

The top layers of her skin are missing, clean, scraped off, but instead of the rushing blood and exposed muscles she expects, she is transfixed by the shimmering, metallic patch hidden under her skin. It glitters in the scant light, casting tiny sparkles of green and blue onto the dark concrete walls. The patch radiates a silent hum that enchants attention. 

"What," she starts and stammers. What is this? She tilts her face up at Harry, hoping he will explain, but she's met with a mystified expression similar to her own.

He rips off his tattered t-shirt sleeve from its last holding threads and wraps and ties the ratty fabric securely over the shining wound. "We have to run. We'll deal with this later. Don't think too much about it."

Grabbing her hand, he checks around the corner, before leading her out into the open.

::

Something uber-tiny to pass the time and calm the fluttering creative bugs. I've been feeling under the rocks for a couple days now after the first couple sprigs of midterms, so I'm attempting to recover during my break. It's not really working out as I had planned. -.-' 

So far, I have been caught up in a lot more than I had initially signed up for (uni, working on the side). I've been going to counselling for my extreme anxiety.

After a terrible realization that I am in desperate need of personal help (a personal reflection is always desired, especially when I can't distinguish myself from the social scene), I have signed myself up for counselling with a counselor to delve into ways to combat and confront my tension. Because, apparently, I am an extreme case for anxiety (I spew out swear words during speeches or shake like a 9.0 earthquake in northeastern Japan. The list goes on...); of which my counselor is immensely impressed by. 

Well, I've started a yoga class, on the referral of my counselor, as one of many ways to deviate my stress and tension (and after a couple classes, boy am I tense!), so if anyone has any interest in yoga, please let me know! I'm a complete chicklet to the topic and I am attempting to combat my skepticism with fascination (yes, that's how I combat any fear and it has worked with spiders, the dark, roller coasters, etc.. And, again, my counselor is strangely impressed by the thought process...)

I'll keep chugging along, 

mera.

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Somebody's Secret

JournalWord: Angels kept hidden.

::

Once upon a could have been..

He is enticingly rich. He has the world at his fingertips; anything is possible for him. He gets his way. He is the world's contributor, a giver. He is everyone's beloved benefactor. They don't doubt who they see as perfect.

He has a hobby. Collecting rare, exotic, practically unattainable, birds. But having every bird just isn't enough. He just needs to have the most unattainable, and unreal.

The world doesn't know anything about his possessive and sadistic side.

His mansions stretch far across his lands, each mansion home to the eccentric birds he owns. People from all over the world are guests to visit his immense collection and are free to enter all of the mansions in sight.

That is, except for one. 

Smaller than all the others and the appearance, plain. But he was overly protective of this one, little cottage.

[Inside lies his greatest collection of birds that he will never allow anyone, besides himself, see. Steel cages line the walls, filled with magnificent bird-like creatures. Mutations with feathers; unique, beautiful creations.

An array of colors fill the rooms, melodic voices echo throughout the halls, like choirs of hymns seeping out of the walls.

Simply a heaven. His hidden utopia.

That is until the last door is reached, hidden far away from the rest of the splendid oak decor. Behind the numerous locks and scanners hides a dark room, curtained from light. 

Down a candle illuminated hallway, a door waits solemnly  A plain black door with a silver angel doorknob, back curves as it stretches to fly.

Entrance is achieved with only a swift, smooth turn of the spread wings, and a well furnished room, decorated with elegant dark feathers welcomes the invited.

In the center of the room is a large, curved couch facing a massive, opened, silver cage. And there, perched on her throne, shadowed by the dim-lit room is a heavenly being.

A true angel.

Porcelain skin that illuminates in the scarce light, glittering with an inner glow. Soft, pastel pink hair that frames her face and cascades past her shoulders in gentle gossamer waves, down to meet her waist. All she wears is a simple white, translucent shift that reaches her knees and flares out in a gentle puff.

Her chain bracelet winds down from her tiny wrists, the silver piling beside her seat on the mahogany floorboards, binding her to her chair. And behind her, emerging from between her shoulder blades, are two extraordinary, blinding white, wings. Swooping angelic wings with bright ivory feathers; the obsession of her master.

Her face is soft, ethereal, and heart-shaped. Her expressionless mouth is set in straight in a pout framed by plump pink buds. Her face may seem calm and concentrated, but her eyes are captivating and speak of intensity. Her penetrating, sad, beryl-green irises searches souls, holding breathes with a glance.

She is her master's secret. Her master's treasure. And nobody is to know about it.]

::

Midterms have crashed onto me, and from here on to the rest of the semester, it's going to be a ride. I'm so busy, I haven't had the time to even think about writing anything! But ideas have been popping in bursts throughout my study sessions (-.-') so I've written them down to take note of them so I can revisit them later when I have the time. 

And I have to say, working to improve my writing is not really happening right now, especially if I'm not able to write. How frustrating...

So, I promise that when I do have the time (in May!), I will definitely crack open myself and fix this mess I've left behind (because surely, something must be done with Fool's Paradise and YGMM. They did not come out like I had in mind...).

So, hopefully I can get through this semester and conquer all my issues! It's a crunch right now with application deadlines, midterms, and volunteer jumbling! (BTW, I accomplished a main task on my list: getting my Level 1 in CPR-C and AED! I can properly save/call for help now! But boy, there were some very interesting characters in my class... Haha :P)

I'm going to stay positive (I mean, why not?) and keep on working towards my goals (!!!), so any support is appreciated. And feel free to drop me any thoughts and ideas that come to mind. Or questions! I'm quite open, just spark a convo and I definitely will reply >.<!!

And yes, I have a fascination with experimental angels. 

Be Great!
-Mera! 

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Poison Prince

JournalWord: He is poison.

::

His first memory is war and starvation.

His next memory is of darkness and crying bodies.

He can hear the sobbing of other children beside him, quivering and howling in the pitch dark. He feels the walls behind him, pressing his hands against the rough stones of the cave. 

The howls and cries are so loud and don't stop for nights and days; time he can't decipher anymore.

 His tears of fear have dried from listening to the other children, and he can't find the heart to care about them. After fending for himself all his life on the merciless streets, scraping for days on rotten fruit and dried crumbs, this is an opportunity he must pull through with. 

They are feeding us, he reasons, and that is enough for him to ignore the cries and darkness. Just knowing that there is food to eat, albeit cold because he is squished far back by the walls, he can continue to bear with this hellish hole.

Slowly, his patience and perseverance prove worth when retching sounds start to intermingle with the screams and sobbing. The ground has become soft underneath him and he pushes away the thought of why. The bodies huddled and squished around him are losing their heat, so he pushes them away from him, without a care that they don't make a noise of protest.

The noises are silencing, and the sobbing cries are dwindling to whimpers that snuff out in due time. His food steadily becomes warmer by the time it gets to him until, finally, it comes served piping hot, straight from the oven to his waiting hands. 

He hasn't moved from his place from the back of the cave, eating whatever is given to him without a sound escaping his lips, even when the stomach pains ached for him to scream. The pain has long since passed, along with the cries, without any indication of it being present in the first place.  

He still eats, and the other children die beside him, spoons and bowls clattering around them, but he still eats until his spoon scrapes the bottom of his bowl.

When the first light peeks through the opening at the other end of the cave, a bellow hollers for any survivors to come get their meal. On shaky legs, he makes his first attempt to walk, ignoring the smell he has almost become accustomed to and the mounds of rustic clothes he has to walk over. 

He is met with surprised congratulations at the door and light, and when someone breaks through the crowd to rustle his long, dirty hair, their hand burns black. He passes by the scream and writhing body, walking through the silent path and heading for the table, towards the steaming pot. He sits on the bench, alone, and helps himself to the porridge, having not been fed in nearly two days. 

He has become the poison that he is fed.

::

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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 ;) ).

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Pirates, mafia thugs, butlers, delinquent gangs!

The list goes on to include gladiators and bad-ass priests and clever hackers and fast-food employees and gun-slinging cowboys...

But that's beside the point.

I ADORE THEM ALL.

The excitement! The grandeur! The mundane! (Oh, I swoon!)

It's the details that really get my heart going and set my fingers on a mad dash. I make it a mission to pick apart their respective expectations. At the moment, I'm in a phase where pirates and sailors are my obsession, so much so, I've taken to saying nautical (y'know, naughty and radical!) Yeah, I coined that up myself when I couldn't remember what it meant, although, in my defense I recognized that it was a sailor/ship term. I'm cute so it is forgivable (insert cheeky smile). 

And alas, I am off topic. Anyways, pirates, right. This is a blurb of writing I just wrote that stemmed from the idea of pirates and sailors: Hooks. 

*****

Pulled from a platform and tossed into the water, she flaps her arms to upright herself, splashing water and creating a cascade of rising bubbles. In her panic, she attracts the attention of the fishermen overhead and forces herself to still her movements and to slow her breathing to minimize the bubbles slipping from the genetically altered gills under her jaw. 

She can't see beyond her floating dark hair and the veil of bubbles around her, but she frantically searches for somewhere to hide in the clear green water, knowing she won't escape otherwise. Dark faces and thudding disturbs the water around her in the empty pool. She hears a deep muddled sound, vibrating the surface from overhead. She propels herself to her right, unseeing, swimming through the water like a current, slamming into an invisible wall clouded by gaping faces and excited thumping. She floats away from the horde, ignoring her bruised shoulder, and starts to swim in another direction aimlessly but with force. She slams into another wall and swivels to swim again but the lines have already started to cast. 

Heavy hooks, the size of her head, plop and begin their descent into the pool. She presses herself to the wall, noticing that the hooks are clustered around the center where she was initially deposited, slowly pirouetting and showcasing their jagged points. She bypasses the dangling hooks by swimming around them with her fingertips skimming the wall, in search of a way out. 

A riot of thumping from the wall startles her, and she propels herself quickly away from the disruption, unknowingly heading towards the center. More hooks descend around her, filling up the space around her and she freezes as they sink down beneath her. One grazes her arm in its descent, almost scratching her skin. For a moment she stays completely still, watching the glint off the silver hooks as they float on gossamer strings around her. She marvels at their beauty with a racing heart. 

A hook sharply tugs upward on her left and she jerks away from the movement, shouldering the transparent lines around her. A scream becomes engulfed by the water when a hook she shouldered jerks upward, splits the skin on her right hip. A thin trail of blood starts to cloud around her waist as she desperately palms her wound, wearily regarding the surface where the hook had ascended. The cloud thickens against the jade water, alerting the hooks of her location. 

A tremor of fear almost makes it through her body before the frenzy begins. Hooks are suddenly pulled towards her, ripping through the water in sharp thrusts with an excitement that ripples the surface. She attempts to dodge the hooks zipping around her, following her red beacon. A hook stabs through her shoulder and she produces a shriek that carries through the emerald waves. The hook in her shoulder is sharply tugged upwards just as another clasps around her left arm, the jagged point digging into the crook of her arm. The hooks swarm around her like piranhas, grappling into her arms. A couple miss and hook onto her thighs, sticking and tugging her legs over her head to flip her. The lines are tangling in her flip, causing the lines to furiously pull in hopes to untangle themselves. 

A hook flies from across the pool and fastens around her waist, burying into her flesh to gain purchase before pulling its line tight, flipping her horizontally in the water and tangling her in the net of the lines attached to her arms. More hooks find empty spaces on her hips, and with this new-found boldness, a hook grips into her chest, plunging for a breast. 

All the lines are tight, tugging from all directions in an attempt to untangle themselves, but the flimsy lines hold firm against the forces. A hook darts through the water and she watches, tearfully as it rushes towards her face, catching her throat and snapping her head back before reeling her up.

*****

Yeah... I can be quite morbid (cheeky smile!!). 

There was a tad bit of science fiction in there and I would love to write a companion to this piece with the perspective of one of the fishermen (now, wouldn't that be interesting!).

~Mera 

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