Dungeon

JournalWord: Someone Else's Son

::

I could scream and someone would hear.

The gate is so close, but my parents are so far. And, besides, I don’t know where I am.

But I know, if I scream like I did that night they captured me,

Mum will lose more sleep.

And Nancy and Bill say they’ll kill

Mum and Dad if I tell.

But the gate is open

And the neighbors are out watering their lilies.

Someone will help me

Someone will take me home.

I can’t go, though, because if I am caught again,

Surely the belt blows will break my bones.

I have to keep Mum and Dad safe,

Because I can,

So I’ll stay someone else’s son today.

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Trading Licks For Fire

JournalWord: A cold Hell

::

My fingers are frozen into tight little fists underneath these thin lace gloves. The skin is bright through the spaces between the webs and I worry my fingers won't make it through this winter.

Frostbitten appendages would severely hinder customer appeal.

Angel whimpers beside me, sticking her cold, red nose into my arm as she snuggles closer for warmth. She isn't finding what she needs, neither of us are, but we wrap our arms around each other anyway, watching the doorknobs with dread and hope.

It's warm in there, but warmth comes at a price.

The lamps are dim, and flicker with an uncertainty at our low clientele. We clench our teeth and tug tighter. Our arms wrap around our bodies easily without anything to hold onto except our own hips. Angel shudders under her sheer blouse, tucking her fingertips into the hem of her leather panties, the only real article of fabric that has a chance of staving off the chill. I have no such luck with my own attire comprised of a worn, lacy corset and boa set, and nothing else. I wrap the scraggly boa tighter around my neck, squeezing any ounce of heat the remaining tufts of feathers can produce.

We're not insulated at all. We envy the abundant coats and thick scarves our customers trudge in. They complain as soon as they enter the rooms, immediately ripping off their layers and wiping up patches of sweat. We can only dream for a proper, wool glove.

This rickety bench creaks under our skimpy weight when we shiver. Between clouds of cold breath, we wiggle our toes to fight for circulation. They hang off the edge of this narrow old bench like icicles threatening to fall.

A doorknob down in the shadows clicks as an invitation and I nod my head at Angel. She shakes her head but I untangle her bony arms from my waist and shove her off the bench and towards the door. She squeezes my hand appreciatively and cracks a grateful smile with her full blue lips. A gust of heat escapes before she can shut it behind her and it leaves me envious with its taunt.

Maybe hell is like this, and not warm at all.

::

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Queen Consort of Gloom

JournalWord: Storm

::

The Queen Consort of Gloom is a leviathan of billowing cobalt clouds and vapor. Her face is obscured by her nebulous crown; curling over her taunt, pale cheekbones and sharp jaw.


Her shoulders are rounded, bony, blue in pallor, and hunched into her chest. They strain under the weight of her overcast headdress; neck elongated and exposed through the fog skimming over the top of her arched spine.


The mist lazily swirls over her pointed ears, crackling in the darker concentrations; building steam and smoke in its own condensed reaction. Her tracks are lazy under her skirts of dusty frost and vapor. They're unseen and soaking into the soil. She pauses her solemn trek through the mountains she towers, murky indigo lips, shaped like the clouds she reigns, sighing a puff of air that blows the snow piled on their peaks.


Like the goliath she is and with the thick air of a goddess, she freezes the landscape in a mixture of awe and horror. Successfully snatching back the breath of her spectators, she glares, her eyes dark and a storm in themselves.

::

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Howl Like An Abrupt Combustion

JournalWord: Combustion.

::

You spew, bubble, and steam.
Howling like an instant combustion.
These phases of matter I can't explain.

My dear, you're more complicated than my chemistry research.
Sweet angel, from all these reactants, which will bring about the desired reaction?

I'm mixing, measuring, calculating every equilibrium throughout the day.
With nothing that brings a balance for the nights.

A recipe of hush, lullabies, and rocking, perhaps?
Maybe a beaker of warm milk to soothe your teeth?
Baby girl, you're quite the simple little thing, but simply destructive to my sleep.

::

I think I'm going to revamp my original island story, "Fool's Paradise", into a more fleshed out tale with an actual consistent plot. But this will be a challenge as it is now summing up to be quite a novel in itself -.- I did not expect so much more ideas and plot twists from a simple theme! :D

Well, I'll be working on that, but 

keep cheery!

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A Life Left On The Shores

JournalWord: To an island.

::

His fingers dig into the sand that spills away from his hands. He claws at a hidden rock but the silt sweeps away and pulls his handhold from under his palm. 

They want him to sink back into the depth. 

Coral scrapes at his ankles and shins as punishment for leaving home, and an urchin desperately threatens him to move another step. 

His limbs are numb and he can't feel the chill that waits for him in the morning horizon. His mop of dark hair clings to his neck and forehead as they break the surface, frightened and seeking comfort. Dripping locks dangle on lifelines before his eyes. 

The full height of his body greets the atmosphere, clouds of breath floating like bubbles of air escaping. 

His skin recoils and shudders at the foreign exposure, having shed his original layer during the riptide. He remembers the skin tearing silently as the ocean's hurricane howled around him. 

Absently, he brushes off the leeching seaweed and thick swatches of kelp that tether him to the ocean floor at the sight of the edge of water. The wall of green flora dispels childhood fear for excitement. 

Urging his muscles back to life, he treads through the sea with a renewed vigor, fighting the heavy tides until they are just light, helpless laps around his heels. 

::

Trudging through the waves. 

Lifting numb limbs from the sands. 

With the aim to leave behind the person he was before he makes it to the treeline.

I hope you enjoyed this short piece :) (And had a ball dissecting it :D)

mera.

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Autumn Grace

JournalWord: Autumn.

::

The alarm sets off in a blinding light behind his eyeballs like a protesting scream.

His knee is pounding with every footfall, and he curses between a hiss when they threat to collapse. Spotting a bench, he quickly drops himself onto the wooden seat, immediately stretching his legs out in front of him gingerly as an apology. 

His shirt is sticking to the trail of sweat running down his chest like a waning river. He yanks out the ends of his headphones, greeting silence from thick rock and roll. Flicking his mop of wet hair off his forehead, he leans back and arches his neck over the top of the bench as he regains his breath. A ripple of warm aching rushes up his calves and he flexes them to stave off the prickle, gulping deep inhales of air to cool his steaming body. 

A rustle interrupts his concentrated breathing, and he almost chokes from the startle. He twists his neck awkwardly to the bushes behind him and stills.

Fantasy was never his interest, but he's completely certain he is watching a realm unfamiliar to his own. 

She hums, oblivious, and he can't recognize the foreign tune that chimes sweet and light. He can taste it on the center of his tongue, melting quickly with a sugar coating that lingers. 

She snaps a flower from the plot, the stem between her bright, short fingernails, and sniffs the white petals. They gently caress her blushed cheeks and pollen speckles the tip of her tiny, button nose. In a swift motion that counters her previous ease, she weaves the stem through the floral crown piled between her hair.

The mass doubles her own scalp, interlocking pure black, shiny, straight hair and a cacophony of brilliant brights and silent pastel petals. Varying shades of fire edge the masterpiece, popping pinks and clashing against the dark violets. Like an affectionate, extra extremity, an emerald vine escapes the blossoming sphere, uncurling against her temple and grazing the tip of her thin, slanted, charcoal eyes.

She easily brushes the hanging leaves, twirling and tucking the vine back into her headdress with an absent hand, her light, puckered lips glowing with her hum. She picks up an auburn leaf from the autumn pile, studies it and brushes off any dirt, blowing a light breath as a precaution before sneaking it into her hair. 

Blinking wildly, he wonders if he's seeing right. His phone buzzes in his shorts pocket and his focus wavers as he checks the text message. Dismissing the message, he whips his head back, dragging his legs with him this time at the ache in his neck. 

She's gone like a fallen leaf blown by the wind. 

She's not in sight, her presence lost except for the few leaves and flowers she had plucked but forgotten. His eyes scan for any sign of her escape, but not a branch from the bushes reveals where their exotic autumn goddess disappeared.

His phone vibrates again, this time relentless and he shuts the phone off, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He pauses his merciless attack to peek between his lifelines, miffed when the leaves and flower petals don't move. Sighing, defeated by the mirage, he pulls himself to his tired feet, stomping to revive them. 

He glances once more at the window in the bushes with a twisted mouth and huffs a breath before hiking his knees up for a jog back. Through the eased pain, he muses at the extent of his imagination.

But the hum sticks in his mind, softly blowing like a rustle between the trees, and he can almost see her disappearing through the foliage like the nymph she probably was.

::

Am I back? Perhaps :P

We shall see.

I'm finding that I'm saying that a lot lately, "We shall see," as I am not completely sure. 

I'm going through some life improvement (when am I not? Hah.).

As well, I've been celebrating my 20th birthday over this long weekend :D
What a weekend to feel ultimately loved! 

Anyways, as always,

Keep cheery!

mera.

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Pitch: Tonus: Part 3

The last part.

I hope you've enjoyed my gladiator ;P

::

This time, before he fully straightens, he lunges with his fists, but I easily dodge them for access to his uncovered back. I can feel the bone bend and crack under my knuckles.

He doesn't try to get up, instead he lays on the hot sand and gasps. When I stalk towards him, fear finally settles on his features, sending panic to his scrambling limbs.

Crouching, I easily grab a hold of him, grasping his long, thick golden hair in my left fist. He starts to sob, his mouth, once again, opening and closing, swallowing large gulps of his own tears. His eyes meet mine and suddenly something lodges itself into my throat.

The back of my eyes prickle and I tear my gaze from his to stare at the audience. They're up and stomping, the reverberation calming, but it doesn't stop the choking.

My eyes sweep the stadium, and catch on something glinting in the sand: the shield. It's close enough for me to watch myself debate how to kill him.

Is that his nose? I shake the thought away but the nagging noise in my mind continues to drawl. No, it's been broken too many times.

Angrily I shake my head, enough to sway my whole body and rattle my opponent by the roots of his hair. Slightly dizzy, I find myself staring back at my contorted reflection. 

Ah, there he is, in the eyes. No!

Wrenching his head back and without warning, I rip my right arm guard's metal edge across his throat, slicing through it and ending the show with a great display of shooting blood. Dropping the boy, I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly self-aware.

The thrum of the audience reaches my spine and I ache to know what they are shouting.

I am entitled to hear my own victories! They are mine, and mine alone!

Frustrated and hit with a bout of confusion, I open my own mouth and let out any noise I can muster, disgusted and distraught that I can't even hear myself scream.

::

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Pitch: Tune: Part 2

::

A net is fisted in his left hand, and a square, embellished shield in his right. I'm perplexed by the shield and realize it must be a gift, otherwise the weaponry of choice is appalling.

The shield glints bright and the shine takes me by surprise. I catch my reflection in the polished surface and don't recognize the tall, dark man covered in blood and scars. Is this what I look like? I hide my disappointment behind a stone face as we approach each other.

His eyes sweep over me and I draw myself up hoping to look especially intimidating as I tower over him. He doesn't react as expected, instead seeming to sigh and resign himself by calmly opening and closing his mouth. Enraged by his disrespect, I lunge towards him with a growl, hoping he will stop.

Sensing my fury, he swiftly dodges my attack, surprising me with his agility. Lunging again, he ducks and rolls out of my path and, from the corner of my eye, starts to wind his arm back. He throws his net towards me and I slash my sword as it tries to ensnare me. He quickly draws it back with a flick of his wrist before I can slice it to shreds.

He re-evaluates the move and we circle each other, eyes locked in anticipation. Sweat covers me in a thick layer from my previous matches, slicking uncomfortably from between the metal plates over my torso. The straps over my calves and arms from the guards are starting to feel numb.

The sun shines blindingly off the shield and I have to break out of my revere to focus.

Who was that man? I shush my thoughts when I catch a glimpse of myself again in the mirror-like facet. Where did the boy go?

I lunge towards him and instantly he throws his net at me in response. Holding out my pilum, I tangle the net by weaving the metal head through the openings. He attempts to tug back, but the differences in our strengths is monumental.

I pull hard, but he instantly releases the tether at the end of the net, freeing himself from my trap. I stumble back, driving the end of the staff into the sand to keep from falling.

He opens his mouth again, this time aiming it at the audience with a smile. He jabbers on, flicking his hair off his shoulder, and the annoyance burns.

Leaving behind my ensnared javelin impaled in the sand, I jab my sword at his shield, the force denting the polished metal and sending a shaking pain up the arm of my cocky opponent. He yelps and pulls his arm to his chest protectively, eyeing me with a confused and awed expression.

In reply, I smirk.

Massaging his arm, he regards me then unwinds himself to have a squared position. Unsure of what he is doing, I am caught unaware when he dashes at me, hidden behind his dented shield as he rams me with all his weight.

After a panicked shuffle that causes me to stumble, I'm in the sand, and it is scorching. Spitting the grit from between my teeth, I swing my sword above me to fend off any attacks while I am down. I stop when I realize I'm just slashing at air. Lifting my head, I find him doubled over, his body shaking. Picking myself up, I seethe at the embarrassment of being thrown down by a slight amateur.

Without a second thought, I charge at his exposed back. He catches me in his peripheral and mistakenly releases his shield as he turns to face me. His hands reach for mine around the hilt, and as I charge, he pushes my hands away from himself.

The force is shocking, and the sword with my hands swing right, dangerously close to my cheek. Releasing my sword so it spirals far into the dirt, I twist my wrists out of his hands and marvel at the unexpected tactic.

He starts to move his mouth again, but I can't bother thinking too much anymore. With no weapons in hand, I resolve for my fists. They connect with his exposed navel, quickly disabling him and halting his constant chatter.

He's doubled over again, this time in pain, but I wait for him to straighten up before landing a fist into the side of his ribs. No more games. This is a fair fight with strict rules of life and death, and we're going not playing anymore.

::

Whoa, today was a doozy.

Finally got to go to a concert by THE Mother Mother! 

And I am so psyched by how awesome they are! 

Definitely my favorite band ever. :P

Mera.

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Pitch: Tone: Part 1

JournalWord: Gladiator

::

The air always smells and tastes the same: salty and dusty.

The screams and gurgles go unheard when I plunge my pilum into the throat of my fallen opponent. Not a sound escapes my own as the spectators scream from the surrounding stands.

Dislodging the spearhead from the corpse, I kick at the bloodstained sand underfoot without a glance at the severed neck of the man. Eyes up at my audience instead, I revel at the pulsing reverberation that travels through my chest from the stomping of my fans. A smile approaches my lips, but I halt the action and exchange it for a more appropriate smirk, and the women stare wide eyed and enchanted.

I'm a monster in this stadium and heart breaker out. This bloodthirsty being they play me as is a Gods-given dream. Not a trace of the scrape of a boy left to fend for himself in the slums, abandoned and constantly hungry. Nor a hint of the fear that had wracked the boy's thoughts present in this heavily muscled body.

I usually notice the gate opening by the distinct rumbling of the sand as the chains hoist the metal gate up, but with the stadium in an uproar like this, I take the instant swivel of everyone's head to my left as the signal of my next opponent.

Hefting my javelin over my shoulder, and posing for the ladies with a quick tense of my arms and shoulders, I spin around and hurl the wooden and metal weapon. It ripples the atmosphere and I can feel the dense, humid air being sliced by the bending of minuscule hairs in my ears. It tickles comfortably, like a familiar graze.

Watching the javelin arch gracefully across the arena and find itself home into the chest of my victim, I pick up my feet into a light jog to effortlessly scoop the sword my previous opponent had left behind. He hadn't used it and now I know why; it's unexpectedly heavy. Most likely a cheap apprentice's mishap in allot selection.

Gripping the curved metal between my palms, I race through the sand, avoiding as many patches of dusty burgundy sand as I can. I am quite proud of how easily I can dispel the thoughts for the origins of them.

There isn't much left for me when I finally reach my opponent. He writhes pathetically in the sand, gasping, unarmed, having tossed his wooden shield and rusty dagger far into the dirt, and attempting to stave off the bleeding around the spear's visible staff with his blood-drenched hands.

I bite a scowl through my lips at the trouble of running all the way here for a dead man, shaking my leather sandals of the clumping grit. Deciding that he isn't worth the exertion anymore, I slam my sword down and sever his head to end his misery.

Despite the short conquest, the audience gifts me with another warm thunder to my chest at the sight of the spurting blood. This time I cannot hide the smile that breaks across my sunburned cheeks. Wiping the blood out of my eyes, I end this battle with a flourishing bow in all four directions, adding a couple winks to the noblewomen batting their lashes provocatively.

They love me. Thank the Gods.

The thrumming in my ribs subsides and I instantly regret the loss. It can only be because of another opponent. A bubbling stirs in my gut, of anger, of fear for the loss of adoration. Holding my head high, I pivot to face my next victim, my shoulders flaming from the heat and displeasure.

This one is the match I've been waiting for, I realize when I find my opponent striding towards me in a slow, purposeful stalk. For once since the first months I had entered the arena as a boy, I watch my opponent and study him in detail.

He is lightly tanned and lean, the leather straps of his simple armor wrapped around his slight chest. I scoff at him, proud with only a couple victories under his belt. He's fresh from the gutters. His hair, extremely fair and long, curls around his shoulders, probably to entice the support of the ladies. He has the audacity to keep it untied in the arena.

When he smiles at my audience, fury balls up between my shoulders, boiling unpleasantly. Squeezing the hilt of my sword in my right palm, I grab the staff of my javelin with my left hand and rip it out of the corpse. With my weapons in hand, I decide to greet my guest.

::

Who doesn't like a good bloodthirsty gladiator? ;P

Can you decipher the special characteristic I have left out in this story? 

It's a valuable piece of information about Mr. Gladiator, just saying :D

Also, there will be a second part for this piece, so look forward to it! 

-Mera.

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Precedence

JournalWord: Bubble gum.

::

She blows a pink bubble as she waits for her savior from the dull crowd.

Her slinky silver dress sparkles under the undying shine of the chandeliers, casting slivers of light to bounce off the faces of her admirers. They flaunt their European suits and adoration at her like arrows after a scrambling herd, but she dodges their haphazard attempt to ensnare her. They are ready to pounce, but her black, strappy high heels impatiently tap on the tiles, toes facing the exit.

Snapping her gum between her wisdom teeth angrily, she almost neglects to hear the scrambled whining of a waiter chasing after her as she breaks from the mob. 

"Madam, you most certainly cannot be leaving!" he insists desperately when she doesn't slow her strides. "This is your party for the Nobel-"
 

She interrupts him by swiveling around to face him with a growl tweaking her lips to display her incisors and gums. Spitting her wad of bubblegum into her palm, she slams it onto the empty platter he has been holding up faithfully throughout his run.

He staggers to catch his platter before it tumbles, flabbergasted as she turns back around and spouts, "Don't need it."

::

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Fried

JournalWord: Chicken

::

She cocks her head up, staggering her crown as she stares, unabashed at me through the window.

As if to grind my nerves even further, she scratches at the ground with her demonic talons, further tearing apart the head of lettuce she has currently torn to smithereens.

Suddenly she flaps her wings widely, ruffling her grey speckled white feathers and releasing a wail to summon her brethren to the slaughter of my garden.

Clenching my jaw as my assumption proves correct with the horde of beady-eyed devils cluck maniacally as they clamber towards the hole in my garden fence, I turn away from the window with intent in my mind.

"He loves chickens. What man has a chicken obsession!"

I clutter the kitchen in my search for the biggest cleaver in the house, and when I find it, tucked safely in its matching block behind the canola oil and flour, I come to terms that this winter, we won't have any canned vegetables.

That's fine. It looks like this year we'll just have to live off meat.

::

Well, now I'm off for bed after a long day of shopping (clothes! shoes!) :P

Keep cheery!

mera.

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Imprint

JournalWord: Branded

::

She giggles as she flames the needle point of the pin through the candle light and all I can do is trust her.

Maybe I should be a little nervous, I mean, she does seem unnaturally cheery brandishing that pin. Then again, all those pain killers are making me float, so I smile when she scoots closer to me.

I don't know what she whispers into my ear before she pierces it, I'm distracted by the shine of her dark hair, but what she says afterwards rings sharper than the action.

"You're mine now."

::

I'm extremely out of whack right now, with my days switched with my nights, and my work schedule taking up most of my awake hours...

I'm a mess.

I mean, all I want right now is to take a walk. 

You'd think it would be an easy request at 4 in the morning.

Well, I'll have to put up with my frustration for now, and hopefully by next week I'll start getting back into my routine and crank out cute creative juices :)

Keep cheery,

mera.

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All My Pretties

JournalWord: She likes to collect pretty things.

::

Stepping back from the teal box, she grins and claps her hands in front of herself enthusiastically. "My!" she exclaims,  surveying her work. "That shade of blue really pops out the green in your eyes. You look even more gorgeous than you did half an hour ago."

Her only reply is a series of muffles which she quickly shushes with a firm frown and wagging finger. "That is pure silk, my pretty angel, and it doesn't take well to saliva staining it's brilliance, so stop your sputtering or I'll have to replace that bow over your mouth."

She likes to keep pretty things in boxes, tucked into pastel and floral boxes, and wrapped in big, silky bows. She keeps gems, jewelry, tea cups with matching tea pots, daisies, roses, and anything else that takes her fancy.

Tightening a bow so the ribbons don't twist, she pets the blonde hair peeking through the lush material. Lifting the ornate lid for the box, and ignoring the squirming of her prize, she pats the lid over the box, sealing another precious joy away.

She likes to keep her pretty men in boxes, tucked into pastel and floral boxes, and wrapped in big, silky bows.

::

I'm keeping busy, that's for sure!

I'm attempting to crank out a chapter for a collaboration I'm working on at Protagonize, and right now, with my first priority being work, the progress is a bit slow.

So that means the posts here a tad bit slower than the project :l

I'm going to accomplish this! 

Keep bubbly! :D

mera.

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Jumping The Gun

JournalWord: Hold me in your arms.

::

"Nobody move, or I'll shoot!" he shouts, pressing the muzzle deeper into her dark wavy hair.

Everyone in the bank instantly complies, dropping to the floor like stunned flies and uttering, not a peep.

The girl in his arms starts to struggle, and suddenly he sweats when she squirms easily in his grasp. Panicking, he neglects the reason why she would turn around instead of running away.

"This is so romantic," she exclaims, bright eyed and perky despite the gun aimed at her face.

His hand wavers and someone stifles a sob as the gun sweeps the floor from his wet palm. "What?"

"It'll be like Stockholm Syndrome, and we'll have this great love affair, where the news will be captivated yet disturbed by our affections, and we'll be famous-"

Instantly, he shoves her far from himself, breaking into a sprint out of the bank.

Startled, she runs after him. "Wait! Hold me in your arms again! Come back!"

::

Another short to get me back into the game of writing. Now that I'm not stressed about studying, I am at your service to entertain and write stories to my heart's content! 

So bring on the inspiration and let's get this party started :)

Keeping bubbly!

mera.

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Wooden Horse

JournalWord: Fighting gravity.

::

She examines the horse, poised on the tips of its back hooves and balancing as it stands tall on the clear glass tabletop. The curve of its back is a series of slopes and arches, almost a vertical posture as its front feet kick at the sky.

His mane is tossed back in frozen waves, curling into itself like a tornado, and the wispy tail is a whirlwind of incoming clouds. The dappled grey hide glints from a polish set into the grain. She wonders if he's even touching the table.

"Papa," she asks her grandfather as she settles her head onto the backs of her hands, waiting for the sparkle to appear in its eye. "How long did it take for you to carve him?"

"Two months," is his gruff reply as he tinkers on a wooden cuckoo-clock on his work bench. "It took two months to fight with gravity."

::

Another short!

I'm juggling (when am I not?) work and responsibilities, and studying for my interview is not helping for time to write :(

I'm in need of some time for intimate laptop-me-inspiration cuddles..

Well, keep bubbly, and wish me luck :)

Mera.

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A Drop For A Bottle

JournalWord: Catching teardrops.

::

"A teardrop from the heartless," he whispers with a satisfied smile as he corks the tiny bottle and pockets the glass bottle into the confines of his leather jacket, over his chest.

He starts a leisurely pace out of the shadows of the alley, not a glance or hint of concern at the slumped body perched against the grimy alley wall.

She doesn't move, allowing her tears to collect into a pool in the hollow of her lap. Her hair is now a mess of tangles from where her hand had dug itself a nest to keep from grasping at the truth. Her chest swells as his footsteps echo, almost soundlessly, leaving her behind, as if he hadn't exposed her secrets and flaws, and she curses.

Not a hex touches him, and he grins, having found another addition to his collection.

::

Something super short that I added to a collab on Protagonize :)

He collects teardrops on various emotions and people, going to whatever means to extract the specific teardrop, even using cruel methods to shatter hearts.

On another note, I was extremely busy the last couple of days playing paparazzi for my brother's graduation! :D I'm so proud of my little brother and his accomplishments! 

(And yes, I do have a brother complex.. on both of my little brothers :P)

Keep bubbly!

Mera.

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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!

Mera.

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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,

Mera.

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