Happy 100th Post!

This will be the hundredth post I'll have posted on this blog, and it has been an insane and inspiring ride since my first post.

We've made it through:

• Failures in stranded island fiction
• Short stories about OCD cashiers and mafia geniuses
• Aspiring male models and a young doctor
• Angels crashing into the life of a secretary
• JournalWords that become stranger by the moment
• A maybe not-so-subtle hint of a threesome story
• Gang nurses fighting off perverts
• Lots of stories about demons
• Lists cooked up in minutes
• A wedding phase
• Actually, loads of strange phases.. (can you name them all?)
• Zombies and their evil organization (which hasn't done some evil in a long time..)
• Kinky games
• A peek into the characteristics of a masochist

And a bunch more topics and ideas that I'm definitely going to expand and add to. 

This blog was created with the sole purpose of reawakening my adoration with writing my fantasies and creating an outlet to deter my building depression.

Let's just say, it's working. :)

I've worked through some tough times, including some bouts of depression, stress and writer's block, and reacquainted myself with the joys of living.

My familiar positivism is back and eager for the adventures that are bound to come in the future (skydiving, anyone?).

Thank you all who come back here for a read and for those that have endured through the strange workings of my mind. I adore you all! :)

So, until my 200th post, I hope you all enjoy the fantastical, fictitious world I have conjured up :D  

Keep cheery and I hope you have an excellent day!

Mera

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Slumber

The 5th installment of Bless!

It's just a filler at the moment, because this is such a slow story, but I've mapped out the rest of the story so it definitely is coming together :)

Enjoy!
And to all the Canadians: HAPPY CANADA DAY!!!

::

Sam pauses his knuckles over the grain of Sarah's apartment door, twisting slightly to procure his cell phone from the pocket of his sweat pants to check the time. He sucks in a breath at the late hour, glad he hadn't knocked, in case they are asleep. Stepping back, he scrummages for the nick in the door frame, tongue peeking at his intense concentration as he feels the boards making up the frame with his fingertips.

Dropping his duffelbag onto the floor, he snags the thin string painted the same colour as the boards, and hooks it with his pinky. Tugging the key out of the hidden nook, he chuckles in triumph.

"That little sneaky creature," he playfully chides as he sticks the key into the doorknob and unlocks the door with a congratulatory ping of successfully interlocking metal hooks. 'Always thinking up new hiding places. Hasn't changed a bit.'

Softly, he peels the door open, surprised the lights of the apartment are all on. He recognizes the blaring of infomercials from the living room and he frowns, hoping she hasn't waited up for him.

Locking the door behind him and abandoning his bag with his shoes, his frown lifts at a corner when he enters the scene. Holding back a chuckle, he tiptoes to the T.V. to switch it off, silencing the incessant chattering and revealing the snores escaping from the couch.

For a moment he just watches, absorbing the oblivious couple tucked into the cushions. 'No wrinkles', he marvels, relieved to see his childhood friend as she was years before the worry and stress inhabited her thin shoulders and collected on her brow.

Her hair is tousled, splayed out around her face like an aura to highlight her cheekbones and jaw. A strand tickles her temple and she absently scrunches her face to deter the offending lock. She has slid down the couch to lay across the length of the furniture, her right arm tossed above her head, and her left wrapped around the boy snuggled deep into her chest.

A spark of jealousy spikes through his veins and he remembers the challenging stare the "innocent angel" had displayed.

"You damn cheat," he hisses, and attempts to wipe off the pout that wants to settle on his lips. Instead, to break the losing battle and to satisfy the jealousy building up inside his chest, he pokes Sarah in the cheek, none-too-gently, to wake her up.

After the fifth poke, all unforgiving, she starts to move, although only to shift away from the attack. "Leave me alone," she mutters in her sleep, slipping her arm from around Blue and flipping away to face the back of the couch. "I'm sleepy."

He almost doesn't contain his laughter when Blue is effectively tossed off the edge of the couch from her roll. Managing to stifle his laughter to a smug grin, he remarks, "Looks like both of us are on our own tonight."

Noticing her struggle to curl up against the couch, he twists his mouth before scooping her up into his arms. She doesn't move a lid as she settles into the crooks of his arms as he transfers her into her own bed. Automatically, she sinks into her familiar duvet and pillow, ignoring the feelings of the man watching over her.

Sighing, he pivots on his heel, ready to make himself comfortable on her couch, when he realizes who is making his way to the bedroom.

"Oh, no, you don't," he whispers, wrenching Blue out of the doorway and into the living room. "You get the love seat and I'll take the couch, you sneak," he announces, waiting pointedly for Blue to obey.

As if taking the moment to think over the demand, Blue slowly complies and lays on the cushions, not meeting Sam's eyes as he stares off at the ceiling. Taking this as a sign of obedience, Sam retrieves the spare blankets and pillows from her hallway closet and tosses one of each to the motionless boy before settling himself on the couch so his long legs hang off an armrest with minimal discomfort.

::

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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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Wonder

The fourth installment of Bless! It's a long time coming :P

::

Sarah quickly realizes that aside from feeding Blue, she has run out of ideas to keep him busy. Over her cleared plate, she turns to once again glance at the clock, only to find that it has only been ten minutes since she's last checked. Sighing, she stacks her utensils on her plate and wipes her mouth with her napkin as she studies the brown haired boy across her table. 

This is so strange, she muses, and smiles when he practices his grip on the fork and spoon. The rice topples from the edge of the spoon as he lifts it to his gaping mouth and he frowns as he realizes that he hasn't shoveled anything in.

Where did he come from and why does he not know how to use a spoon? She sips from her glass of water and raises her eyebrows, lightly tapping her temple with her knuckles. Of all questions, why do I have a boy with wings in my apartment? Of course, why do I keep forgetting he's not just a normal, clueless boy.

"Seh-rah," a voice chimes, interrupting her questioning thoughts, and she smiles, remembering when he had initially repeated her name as she was prepping the salad. Now he holds up his spoon, his fork clutched between his right fingers, forgotten as he had opted to concentrate solely on his left hand. 

She isn't quite sure what he is expecting so she sets her water glass down and claps her hands together and maintains her smile. "You did it, awesome," she exclaims and his excitement radiates throughout the kitchen. "Now eat it up before it falls," she adds, noticing the grains dangerously wavering as he holds up the silverware. 

The last spoonful swoops into his mouth and his pleasure flutters his wings underneath his jersey, appearing as if his shoulders are jostling from laughter. A golden glow momentarily encircles the crown of his head, but Sarah quickly shakes away the image with a toss of her blonde hair, blaming the suggestions of angels. 

So before her mind wanders any further, she collects Blue's rice speckled plate as he reaches for his glass of juice and gently tugs the fork and spoon from his hands so he can grip the glass easier. 

"Is there anything you'd like to do, Blue?" she asks, although hesitant. What do boys like to do?  she wonders, thinking back to the days when Sam would disappear without her to play kickball with the neighborhood boys.

"Seh-rah," Blue chimes again, holding up the empty glass for her, an expectant smile breaking his rosy cheeks. He glitters and she unconsciously relaxes under his ethereal glow. 

Stacking the plates and silverware so she can carry all the dishes, she gently pries the glass from his hands, thanking him softly with a congratulatory exclamation. Turning away from him with the dishes, she momentarily breathes a deep breath, finding that the same fluttering doubts and concerns that pop into her head immediately return when she isn't focused on Blue. If I just concentrate on Blue, and think of him as just a boy, maybe I can get through tonight, she hopes and loads her sink with suds.

Drying her hands on the dishtowel, she deems herself calm enough to face the boy kicking his feet as he waits at the table. Her eyes drift away from him before she gets caught up in his bright smile and innocent gaze. She desperately searches for something, anything, to occupy his attention. Considering she hasn't ever really gotten along with children, much less had them over, she can only decide on the one device that would capture any child's attention for hours. 

"Wanna watch T.V.?" she ponders, and he only cocks his head to the side with confusion flitting across his open eyes. 

::

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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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Fear of Happiness

JournalWord: These flowers have teeth.

::

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

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

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

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

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

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

::

I'm on a wedding phase!

Although both post so far are far from conventional wedding ideas...

Hopefully these give your mind a little exercise :P 

Keep cheery!

Mera.

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Leave Not A Sip Behind

JournalWord: Sharing wine with together.

::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::

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

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

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

I hope you enjoyed reading :)

Keep cheery!

Mera.

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YGMM: Crowded

JournalWord: In sickness.

::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::

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

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

Who knows :P
Mera.

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Flower Crowns

JournalWord: Covered in flowers.

***

The children are silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He could save people just like his big brother.

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

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

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

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

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

Daisy chains.

"These are for you!"

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

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

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

This wasn't what he expected.

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

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

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

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

His eyebrows rise in amazement. She speaks!

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

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

"Daisy!"

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

He frowns.

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

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

She frowns in confusion, her enchanting smile gone.

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

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

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

"Daisy!"

***

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

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

Keep bubbly!

Mera. 

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Wow! I've been featured!!

I've been featured!

This is what the homepage has up of me! *hyperventilate* (and yes, I take crappy photos..)

My short story, Mistaken For A God, has been featured as Editor's Pick on the collaborative and creative fiction community, Protagonize!

Check out the story and my author profile (although I haven't actually spiced up my profile.. should probably get around to doing that)! 

What a load of motivation to continue writing! *Super SMILE!*

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

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

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

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A Muted Glow

JournalWord: Living someone else's life.

::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::

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

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

Keep bubbly!

Mera

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