You've Got Male Models

A 20-year old prodigy heart surgeon, Chris Cahill, did not expect to share her apartment (or her life) with two aspiring male models when she finally gains her independence. A story in the process of their interesting (and equally hilarious!) adventures of three different individuals living in the present.


I write on a whim, and somewhere along the line, I have collected journals full of phrases and ideas that I use to spark a story. Got any ideas, feel free to share them. How would you interpret a JournalWord?


Gladiators, Bad-ass priests, Robots, Demons, Cowboys, Demon-Cowboys, Fast-food cashiers, Ninjas, Butlers, Pirates, Sailors... The list goes on and they all make me swoon! (We are instant best buddies if you feel the same, just saying)


Albeit reluctantly, Sarah finds herself with the responsibility of raising an angel after he crashes from the sky. Sci-fi, supernatural, and a little silly.


I'm a fiend. *cheeky smile*

Thursday, 28 November 2013

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!

Friday, 22 November 2013

I'm learning a lot about myself and those that are important to me during these busy times.

Just a tiny subtle slice of a recent thought through a memorable life-shaking reassurance.


It's ten after two AM and I've caught the first snowflake of the season that has reached the valley.

If I hadn't watched it's silent decent onto my fingertip, I wouldn't have known it arrived. It left a fleeting kiss before it disappeared, and I'm certain I won't remember it. 

"Uncle! It's snowing!" And suddenly I'm nine years old and pointing out the obvious.

He smiles and shakes his head, and I know he's tired from working this late with me. "Now get on your way home," he urges, resting his crossed arms on the railing as I trudge towards my car. 

Its companions haven't even started to stick but I feel absolutely glorious under the streetlamps and vortex of cascading snow. They dance provocatively slow through the night sky, reflecting like faint stars.

He doesn't go back inside until my headlights are on and I've pulled out of his driveway. So this is why gentlemen are treasured, I remind myself. Something so small makes me feel so special.

My mind is still on overdrive and the world is so much brighter at night. I question whether it's just my contacts on fatigued eyes. Sometimes the lights glow mightier against a weaker vision.

I've learned so much during these late hours, possibly induced by the lack of sleep, but important in their reassurance. All these secrets are now open and I'm touched by being the recipient of this rare information. 

Confessions are relieving, not just to those that confess, but for those that listen, and I'm glad I could participate in both. 

The streets are so clear, not a car in sight, not a man or bike. All the lights are green on the main road and I feather the pedal excitedly.

Tonight is my night, this is my decision and I feel tremendously blessed.


Saturday, 26 October 2013

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)


Monday, 14 October 2013

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!

Sunday, 22 September 2013

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.

Friday, 13 September 2013

Dreams That Come Alive

 What have I been up to, you ask?

A bloody lot, that's what.

I don't know what exactly has plagued me over the last week, but suddenly, every time I shut my eyes, I'm being barraged by vivid characters and their stories. 

Every night it's something new. Every night I'm flashing through a life that isn't my own and, instead rules a time different from the next.

  • A dystopian world where metal is murderous.
  • A girl who finds a life living in her amnesia.
  • Winning a war in a flash flood with bubblegum.
  • Sitting on a rock feeling majestic.
  • Boys as canines.
  • A mortician's daughter holds her own funeral.
  • ...and a whole lot more...

This is utterly fantastic (aside from the fact that my habit of sleeping in is becoming IMPOSSIBLE now). 

This is just ONE of my dreams, and I haven't even finished it...

Now I'm stuck with packs of pages of entirely different characters, as well as large blurbs (because I spent a majority of my morning purging my head so I don't forget) in my various journals and notepads, both paper and electronic.


I've spent a couple days, just writing. I mean, I skipped out on work just to write any comprendable* word I could snatch from the quickly fleeting dream throughout the day. It was an amazing experience, however not practical for my life right now. Never have I ever been so jealous as to wish for the easy, free-to-write-as-you-will, lifestyle of famous writers. 

My God, what have I become.

So now I definitely have to create my own character sheets, just to keep all these people intact and distinct. (So much I want to do, alas never enough time.. Hah! Writer problems :P)

Well, I'm going to go back to my growing pile of bodies.


*fairly sure that is not a word, as I am being told by the angry red squiggly line underneath it, but I am going to pretend that it is because it sounds interesting.

Saturday, 7 September 2013

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

Sunday, 1 September 2013

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! 


Saturday, 31 August 2013

Disruption of Plans

I like being in control. More specifically, I like being able to control my own plans.

And not having others, particularly my parents, disrupt my plans for their own selfish reasoning. 

And without discussing them with me, either.

I feel like a child. Sugar-coating words and coddling me.

And I thought I was entitled to being treated like the adult I should be.

When will I grow up? When will you let me?

I'm not so easily pushed down. Shove me, toss me, push me. I'll get right back up.

I'm my own rock. I have a road I'm ready to take. 

I'm stacked and structure with passion. Motivation. Dedication. 

Just let me go. 

I've built my own world beyond this home. Beyond this city. Beyond this office.

My age is not limited. Nor is my innocent, doe-eyed face. 

My mind is beyond my life. And my life is beyond these restrictions you've all labelled and pasted onto me.

I'm not a tack-on board. Unpin me.

Friday, 23 August 2013


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."


Sunday, 11 August 2013


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!

Monday, 5 August 2013

My Love Is Late

Something about me that some have trouble comprehending in general.

I don't believe in love.

Sure, people like each other, tolerate each other, and then care for each other, in given time. A logical progression that creates an emotional tether.

And I understand the magic behind maternal and paternal affection for children, I mean, those cute little babes were genetically designed to be adorable so they could be dependent on others to survive. (Ingenious, really!)

It's all quite biological.

I'm just a skeptic about this strange figment that floats about in peoples' fantasies and dreams.

Love at first sight? Merely physical attraction.

So where this brings me: arranged marriage.

Of course, everyone has their own perspective on the case, and if you're not one of those that has ever experienced an arranged marriage, whether first-hand or by knowing someone who has, I'm afraid your validity to what I'm going to confirm will make you upset.

I am wholeheartedly agreeable to the notion. (Although, of course, if it involves non-consent from both parties, or involves young'ins who don't have a choice, I'd be very vocal at the inappropriateness!)

But, after numerous consultations with myself to discuss the non-existent chance I will "fall in love" (ouch!), the idea of finding myself a match that is beneficial is perfect.

You'll notice, if you've been paying attention to my writing, that I do dabble in love in various forms. 

But I will make clear, this "love" is actually a perception of the character and the character's dreams and beliefs.

So to correct myself, love may be real, for those that believe in it. However in my case, I don't.

And life goes on, so my mother and I have decided to book a trip to Indonesia in the fall/winter to start a hunt (Ohh, how predatory.. :P) on men, of which I would choose.

And yes, I know, from countless accusations, I am taking this a bit too logical. 

But again, characters and personalities dictate dreams and beliefs.

Oh! And relationships! They will forever be my muse. :D 


Just a rant I've shortened after being questioned while discussing my plans with some close friends. This is probably a large chunk of my personality that comes out in my writing, so I thought I'd share it.

Hopefully this is insightful. If not, don't be concerned. 
I can't change what is already perceived, I suppose.
And again, personalities and characters. (I still adore them!)

Have an excellent day,

Wednesday, 31 July 2013


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,

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

An Opera Unfolds

This is one of my chapters for a collaboration that a great friend and I are doing. My post with Marie Curie  was also included (with a few tweaks). Also, check out my collaboration partner, JeromeR.Vandamme! He's a fantastic writer! :)


Shutting the door behind me, all noise ceases abruptly like a wall blocking the notes of a concerto. There are little groups of people packed into the corners of the halls, hushing each other to check over their shoulders before continuing their whispers.

Grasping my file folders closer to my chest, I tip-toe down the hallway from Personal History lecture and out of the nearest exit to the courtyard to escape the crackling hum.

Another door to shut, but now I can finally breathe. From a room where my instructors mindlessly repeat what my music style should be, to a hallway where the tension could snap a violin bow before it settles it's strings. Days like today, I wish for the deafness Beethoven has now been spared.

Forcing my chin up and away from its familiar perch on the tops of my music sheets, I set a course to my studio, pondering the source of the rumors.

Where did Martha go?

It was awfully strange for her to not make her rounds before ten last night to bid everyone sweet dreams. Absently my hand prods the bags under my eyes. The instructors had not been happy with them or my honest explanation. Although they did not answer my question regarding Martha's disappearance.

"She has bid a leave, probably for a vacation of sorts, and she'll be back soon, I'm sure. Now, get some sleep Mozart; Headmaster will not be pleased when her genius is not presentable for his next concerto."

Sighing, I drop a hand onto the handle of the Arts building door and breathe. "My concerto," I say in an exhale, and finally twist the handle to let myself in.

"Wolf! Wait up!"

Turning around I hold open the door for Marie and instantly my worries clear away when she smiles. I can still remember when I had caught her in my studio, hesitantly brushing the keys. She was embarrassed. Now she's a complete opposite from the girl who I had seen glimpses in the Personal History hallway.

"How is your opera coming along?" she asks, and I groan inwardly at the reminder.

"It's.. coming along. I have a concerto I also have to work on."

She nods understandably, and we walk in silence to my studio. With the glass doors shut, we head to my piano where she immediately seats herself on the bench and practices her scales while I start sorting the two pieces I am working on into their respective piles.

 "Have you heard the rumors?" she asks nonchalantly without a break in her scales.

I cut myself on a couple sheets from my startle and plop my left index finger into my mouth. "About Martha?" I mumble around my finger.

She nods her wispy bun. "They're saying that she has gone off on vacation," she says with a snort. "But she wouldn't have gone without telling us, right? And anyways, the rumor is that she's finally gotten in trouble with Headmaster."

I suck on my cut as my heart drops from my chest to my belly. There is a dull thud of my heartbeat as I recall Headmaster's cold attitude towards Martha last week when she had complained that I shouldn't have to do a concerto and opera scheduled for this weekend.

"Salvador!" Marie calls abruptly and I snap my head up to see Salvador pass by the studio in the hallway. She's off the bench and opening the door to greet our friend in an instant. Her gasp resonates throughout the room. "Your eyes, Salvador.."

He brushes off her comment with a shrug and I notice the dark bruise over his right eye, partially hidden by his long locks. His hair is usually swept up out of her face, but today it looks greasy and wild.

"What happened?" I ask, dumbfounded that anyone would resort to violence on campus.

"Nothing," he answers but he's not looking at either of us. His eyes are sweeping over our heads. "An instructor got on my nerves, that's all."

"Well, maybe Martha-" Marie starts, but stops herself.

At her dejection, Salvador finally turns to look at her and relaxes, placing a hand on her head to reassure her. I creep closer to them and grab hold of Marie's hand.

"Don't worry," he says, voice clear, and I'm surprised to recognize anger hidden underneath his words. "I'll find her."


And I should really be finishing up the next chapter since it's my turn -.-

Keep cheery!
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