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*

Sunday, 24 February 2013

Perverted Pile of Meat

JournalWord: Seeing some anatomy.


Two weeks ago, one of the henchmen had dragged a bloody carcass into her med bay and dropped it on a gurney. Immediately, she had pounced on him, but her questions ("Who is that?" "Is that all his blood?" "What the hell happened?") seemed to roll off his wide shoulders like water off a duck's back. He merely turned his chilling eyes on her and growled, "Newbie, so fix him," before stalking out without a second glance at her complaints from his muddy and bloody boots.

She had sighed and turned dubiously to the pulpy mess of organs and skin, vowing to bring up his behavior to the Boss. She was flattered by the obvious faith the mafia had put into her healing abilities by bringing her this victim from a B-rated slasher film, but she was a medic, not a miracle worker.

The horrific mass of bone fragments and fleshy lumps on her gurney roughly resembled what the human body would have looked like if someone had dumped a person into a giant blender and slapped puree. Yet, to her utter surprise, and morbid medical fascination, he was still alive and breathing, albeit shallow. 

Rolling up her sleeves and snapping on a pair of latex gloves, she flashed to work healing and rebuilding the battered gangster.

Several intensive hours later, she has transformed the mess of bones and blood on her gurney into a young man with impeccable good looks.

He is tall and long-limbed, with muscles streaming throughout his body like koi in a river. His snow white hair flows messily around his sharp jaw, and as she wipes her washed hands on a dry towel, she wonders if it's his natural hair color. 

Suddenly, his long white eyelashes flutter, casting delicate shadows against his pale cheekbones before slowly flickering open. Sparkling violet eyes reveal themselves and instantly hone in on her with a sharp intensity. His lips crack apart, his eyes still focused on her.

"That uniform is sexy as hell, seriously," he states, voice hoarse from dehydration.

She blinks, certain she had not heard what she thought she has heard. "Excuse me?"

"What, are you fucking deaf? I said, you look hot as fuck in that nurse getup, bitch."

Her jaw drops and a vein in her temple throbs with an rhythm similar to a ticking pipe bomb. "Yeah," she starts, gritting her teeth. "First things first, watch your language. And second, a thank you is in order for saving the pile of meat on my examination table from the pearly gates of Hell," she seethes, straining the towel between her tight fists until the threads beg to snap.

He has the audacity to raise an eyebrow and quirk the corner of his full lips into a cocky smirk. "Well, if I had known an angel was waiting here, I would've arrived back sooner." He licks his lips tantalizingly slow, locking eyes with her as he braces his arms to lift himself up. 

"Lay back down," she scolds, her hands abandoning the towel to force him back down onto the examination table. "I just sewed you up. You could at least let the stitches have time to heal."

His hands trap hers on his shoulders and he easily overpowers her to sit up. He flashes a cocky grin and pulls her arms behind his head. She swings into his chest and he traps her, his hands sliding down her arms, over her shoulders, to settle at her waist. The wires and IV's attached to him strain at his swift movement. "I definitely need your healing," he reassures, his voice husky and smooth, "And it needs to be dealt with right now, if you know what I mean, nurse."

His hand slides lower and her hand whips across his cheek. 

His momentary shock is enough for her to wrench out of his hold and shove him down onto the metal table. He stares up at her, silent, but a strange mixture of sparkle and flame dancing through his eyes. 

"You'll stay right there if you know what's good for you," she heaves, her chest huffing, and he marvels at her mussed brown hair slipping from her high ponytail and her breasts rising and falling as she catches her breath. 

She catches his appreciative gaze and glares menacingly at him. Clenching her fingers into biting fists, she curses "perverted pile of meat" before swiveling and stomping out the med bay doors.

As the doors swing after her furious departure, he locks his arms behind his head, unperturbed by her hostility, and relaxes, tipping his head up to marvel at the ceiling. "Quite the bitchy spitfire," he comments and whistles low. "And, my, what a tight ass."


Something a little bit different. And full of swear words and comments that would make a feminist seethe (like the main character!). Haven't really thought of any names for the characters yet, as this was just something I popped together pretty quick as a middle-of-the-night brain drainer. 

I find that dreams start to become quite interesting after I've written something down with a set of mentally-unstable characters. They're the best! I have a strange fascination with bad boys... (Am I alone on that notion?)

Also, for some reason, that I am not entirely sure why, I have joined another writing site called Protagonize. So check that out and if you are on there, let me know and we could be friends! (My username on there is Randomnese.)

Drop me a hello and review,

Thursday, 21 February 2013

YGMM: Jones Sedlack: A Pessimist at Eleven

This is Jones, recollecting how he met Tristan. This is just to set a background for Jones.


My childhood was built up on days of distrust and premature judgement. From an early age, I was abandoned by my teenage mother to the care of foster homes and irrational caretakers. I was raised in a world surrounded by suspicion and skeptical truths, and by the age of ten, I had made three concrete conclusions:

First, I would never see my mother again. 

Second, happiness is nonexistent in the foster care system. 

Lastly, there isn't anyone worth trusting my life on. 

Three weeks after I turned eleven, however, was the beginning of my crumbling beliefs.

Suzanne, my caretaker at the time, was yelling at me, scolding until her face blistered into a painful red. She was new, as I recall, and yelling like it would instantly reform me. She obviously didn't listen to what ever schooling it took to become a caretaker because she didn't caution off the kitchen. 

Number one of any list of household rules in a foster home was to never let the kids enter the kitchen without permission. She should have read the rule book if she didn't want boys melting crayons on her new stove elements. 

She eventually smartened up to my insolence and decided that I deserved time in the time-out corner, and I was glad. It didn't matter that I wasn't the culprit. I just wanted to read and not be disturbed by the other rambunctious children. 

At the time, I had given up making friends with the other kids. They were wary of my dark and silent demeanor  They thought I was gloomy and cryptic with my dark hair and eyes, and pale complexion. 

They could think what they wanted, but I wasn't always all doom-and-gloom. I used to be excited to meet the new arrivals when I was younger. I eagerly greeted them at the front door, joining the other younger kids in a chant for information on the new sibling. 

However, after years of witnessing the stealing and lies that came with friendships, I doubted anyone could be trustworthy, and I easily gave up the intention to acknowledge the others that came into the shifting homes. That’s the reason I didn't know about Tristan when he arrived two days prior to my scolding. 

I was standing in a corner of the living room, warmed only by the lamp beside me as I bent my head to read the book I had swapped. The cover was warm from where it hugged my back when I hid it under my shirt before being snitched. 

A boy I wasn't familiar with lumbered into the living room just as I was about to flip a page, and after seeing me, immediately sprinted at me. This older boy, sporting bruises and a split lip from a previous rumble, was still buzzing with pent up adrenaline and needed a vent. Much to my disdain, Suzanne forgot about me and sent this bigger, obviously aggressive boy to time out too. 

His fists were too heavy for my arms to block and my book wasn't a proper shield against pubescent rage. I shouted and screamed, rolling over the carpet for foolish escape from the pounding. I honestly believed that I was going to die. In between a fist and my line of sight of the hallway, I saw the frown and wide eyes of a scrawny blonde haired boy who looked to be about my age. 

The hope of help diminished when he disappeared down the hall in a flash of rustic, worn sneakers, and I dejectedly waited for the knuckles to cram into my eye socket. My head hit the carpet and I flopped as I attempted to avoid a blackout. It was inevitable and I did lose myself to the darkness, but before I allowed myself to be sucked in, I saw the triumphant smirk of the blonde haired boy slamming a pot lid into the crown of my murderer.

I obviously wasn't killed as I had believed, and when I woke up in my bed to the throbbing of my eye, I was welcomed by the same smirk that saved my life. He fueled my headache with his chatter and bright, sunny smile as soon as I groaned in pain. 

I couldn't handle the unfamiliar happiness radiating off him or his taste in bright green shirts. What I said next could have been the last of my pride washed down the drain by his rescue and my own helplessness. However, I suspect it had something psychologically to do with my jealousy of his rosy personality. Either way, I snapped at him to shut up. 
He instantly clamped his lips closed, staring at me with an unreadable glare. Guilt lapped at my heart when I saw the bag of frozen peas in his hands. I was about to apologize when he quirked his mouth back into a caring smile, lighting up his green eyes as he held up the bag of peas and pressed it to my eye. 

“My name is Tristan,” he retorted, puffing out his chest in a huff his thin, short build didn't seem comfortable holding. “And you should learn kinder words.” The bag stung and I hissed at him, pawing angrily at his spindly arm to get it off my eye. He easily blocked off my blinded hands, picking up where he left off in his chatter. 
For the next couple of days, he wouldn't leave my side. He would find me wherever I hid, sidling up beside me and chattering aimlessly as I tried to read. Every day I added to my sum of his character, including the nastiest words I could think of. His suspicious cheery attitude was distrustful and his taste in neon shirts wouldn't assist in hiding from bullies, I had concluded and I avoided him at every chance I could. But life has its ways of proving how a stubborn, antisocial boy’s assumptions are wrong, and it just so happened to be in the form of bullying. 

I hadn't had the chance to make a dent in the book when his jade eyes peeked through the crack of the closet doors. He flung the doors open with a hidden strength that defied his puny body, laughing like we have been playing hide and seek for the past four days. I glared at his hand, reaching out to help me up. 

“It’s your turn to be ‘it’,” he said, but I didn't wait around to see his face when I darted past him. I rounded the corners of the winding halls until I reached someone’s bedroom, and I slid underneath a bed, filling in the space farthest from the hall. I heard the light footfalls of his feet and heard the calling of my name. I also heard the taunting from the boy who used me like a punching bag. 

“Looking for your black-eyed boyfriend?” he asked. His friends shuffled and howled behind him. He was inching closer to Tristan with harbored revenge, pushing Tristan down the hallway until they were almost in the doorway. I crawled closer to see, but still hidden under the sagging mattress. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Tristan stated, standing his ground against the bigger boys. “He’s my best friend.”
The boys didn't falter in response and launched themselves at Tristan, before he could run but Tristan just stood there, a determined quirky smile on his face as he waited for the pummeling of fists. He would've taken a beating for me, and somehow that was enough to send me to propel the edge of my hardcover book into the bully’s gut. 

His weight overpowered me and, if Tristan didn't pull me out of the fall zone, I almost would have become the cushion for the four towering boys. We didn't stand around to watch them squirm as they untangled themselves from their gangling knots. 

I remember a quote from the book, ironically the only thing I read from it, stuck into one of the blank pages before the title of the story. It was by a J. Petit Senn, and it said, “It requires less character to discover the faults of others, than to tolerate them.” Senn is right because if I had just looked for all his faults, I would not have a best friend right now. I would not have survived the years until I turned eighteen and escaped the foster care system. I would not have found the courage to find my mother and meet my half-sister. Lastly, I realized that at age eleven, assumptions are never right.


Just a little insight on Jones. He's a character I struggle with. Probably because I personally adore Tristan (haha, I'm biased!).

Let me know what you think. I'm always going to be working on the characters of YGMM, so any input is appreciated! :)

Mera <3

Monday, 18 February 2013


JournalWord: Clean, scraped off.


"Hey, I think we're safe-" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

I'll keep chugging along, 

Saturday, 16 February 2013


2nd Part of Bless. Read that first :)


She unplugs the electric kettle with a tug on the cord when it starts to squeal, immediately squelching the shriek to only clouds of steam. Grabbing a mug from a cupboard overhead, Sarah pulls open a drawer to sidle through her collection of teas. She chooses a raspberry tea from a box and pulls one of the tiny bags from the stack just as her cell phone chimes from her discarded purse. 

Teabag in hand, she sliding on her tiptoes to her purse on the other side of the kitchen counter, mindful of waking up Blue in her bedroom. Adrenaline pumping, she taps at the screen without looking at the caller's name, and heaves a hello as soon as she brings the device to her ear. 

The deep voice on the other line chuckles and she relaxes at the familiar tone. "Did you just run a marathon? You sound winded; did I interrupt something important at work?" Sam asks, and if she hadn't known him since they were twelve, she would've believed he actually cared about calling while she was on the job.

"Actually, I'm taking the day off," she states and smirks at the thought of his dark eyes bulging out of their sockets in disbelief.

"You're kidding," he sputters, and she giggles childishly at his confusion. "Good, little Sarah is skipping out on her job?" He gasps comically. "Has she finally delved to the dark side? When should I bring over the tequila?"

"Hold on," she chides, shaking her blonde hair. "No more tequila. Never, not after the first time."

"We were sixteen," Sam whines, "And we're smart enough now to drink it mixed. I can make a mean tequila sunrise for the ladies."

Sarah scoffs as she's sure he's wiggling his eyebrows with his statement. "I'm sure," she replies sarcastically as she drops the teabag into her mug. "Anyways, I made it part of my conscience to never touch tequila after that, so no chance. I'll stick to my teas," she adds, pouring the steaming water over the teabag and watching the hot water stain rose as she steeps the bag. 

"Fine, but I'm curious. What has driven my sweet Sarah to ditch work, because the only time you've ever taken a day off was after being sent home by your boss. I had to pick you up and you were delirious with a fever and looked like a living hell, and strangely enough, right now you're coherent."

She pauses, glancing at the bedroom door, opened at a crack so she can see the tiny lump in her comforter. "I brought home someone," she starts and instantly corrects herself, "I mean, not a man, but a boy! He was in the park during my break and he's wrapped head to toe in bandages. I think he's running away from abuse, Sam."

Sam blows out a soft breath on the other end of the line and Sarah runs her hand over her face, flustered by her slip-up, realizing that she sounds insane.

"You have gone absolutely mental," he finally says. "That can be the only explanation for why you'd kidnap a boy from the park." He isn't yelling, but his tone is edgy like he isn't quite sure he believes her. 

"He's hurt and he only has a coat. He had no shoes, Sam, I had to do something," she defends, gripping the cellphone in her hands while worrying her lip between her teeth.

"I understand where you're going with this. I know you and you wouldn't do anything to the kid, but this is still kidnapping. You can go to jail for this. You could have taken him to the police. Sarah, does Joel know?"

"No, he doesn't," she relents, but quickly changes the subject. "I did ask Blue but he refuses to speak, and I promised to take him to his house or the police tomorrow morning, before Joel knows about this. Sam, I can't just leave a runaway, you know that, and Joel doesn't need to get involved..." She trails off, suddenly overwhelmed by her decisions and past.

He sighs again. "I know, I know," he trails thoughtfully, "Just let me come over. I'll be at your apartment in five minutes. Calm down and let me figure this out for you."

She squeaks out a simple "Okay" and waits for him to hang up before she ends the call. Placing her phone on the island, she drops herself onto a bar stool and swivels to grab her mug before swiveling back to the island. 

What was I thinking, taking a kid home? Is this kidnapping? "Dammit," she whispers, tapping the knuckles of her clenched fist against the furrows appearing on her forehead. And she hadn't thought about Joel and his reaction to this.

Sam must have taken the stairs at a sprint from his apartment three floors above hers because he knocks at the door just then. Standing, she opens the door for him and he instantly greets her by gripping her shoulders with both his hands and bending at the waist to kiss her lightly on her forehead. 

"Don't you worry about a thing, sweets," he says and she realizes that her panic is showing on her face. "Now where is he?"

He isn't looking at her anymore, instead, his eyes sweep over the living room and kitchen. He is still driven by the rush of running to her apartment and she almost laughs at the curls of his messy dark hair that stick out around his head as if he had just woken up, which she suspects would be correct considering his attire of sweatpants, flip-flops and wrinkled gym tee.

"He's sleeping," she supplies, guiding him towards the kitchen and shutting the door as he steps out of the doorway. 

She joins him at the island and points to her bedroom where the little bump rises and falls with silent snores. Sam creeps quietly to the hallway and she opens up a cupboard to grab another mug from the shelf. 

"What's his name? What did he tell you? How old is he? I thought he'd be a teenager," Sam confesses, climbing onto a stool as she searches for the stash of hot chocolate packs Sam likes whenever he comes over.  

"He doesn't speak. I don't know anything about him, only that he doesn't want to go home or to the police. He wouldn't say his name so I just call him Blue, because of his eyes." She sticks a spoon into the mug after pouring out the contents of the hot chocolate pack and drowning the powder in steaming water. 

He accepts the mug and immediately starts stirring. "This is crazy." He shakes his head and props his chin on his free hand, leaning on the counter as he yawns. "You know nothing about him, much less children. For all you know, he could rob you and take off, or kill you!"

She laughs and he glares as he takes a sip of the hot chocolate. "That's preposterous, Sam. He's just a sweet little kid. I mean, I found him playing with the pigeons in the park."

Sam raises an eyebrow beneath his squashed mop of dark locks. "Found him? Where was he? Your park is just a brick path between a couple trees," he recalls, remembering her favorite place in the city that she spent her breaks in. 

She purses her lips and steals a glance at the bedroom door. "You're not going to believe this, but for a second, I saw a huge flock of pigeons fall from the sky. It was like a ball of feathers smashing into the trees so I chased after it; it was absolutely phenomenal. And when I found the birds, Blue was sitting right in the middle of the landing, covered in pigeons! And when I saw him, wrapped up in bandages, I didn't know what to do, and he wouldn't let go of me so we compromised and I said he could stay with me tonight then I could take him to the police in the morning." When he frowns she pleads, "Sam, just one night of running away is enough, and it's not like I'm helping him leave home forever. He won't make my mistake."

He sets his mug on the island and runs his fingers through his hair and she is, once again, grateful to have Sam, even when she has no one else. He's the only one who didn't abandon her, and the only one who followed her to the city. She lets a small smile touch her lips as he blows out another breath, in thought, as he attempts to help her fix her mess. 

"And Joel doesn't know?" he asks lightly and Sarah frowns at his insistence.

"No, he doesn't. He doesn't need to know anyways," she pleads with a set purse of her lips. 

He holds up his hands beside his face with an apology hanging off his lips. "I get it, I get it. You know how I feel about this marriage. Although, this situation isn't really helping with the wedding coming up and all."

Suddenly her bedroom door creaks open and they both turn to face the boy in the hallway, effectively cutting off any retort of Sarah's. He is wrapped in her comforter, concealing his slim bandaged body, with most of the comforter trailing behind him. He smiles when he sees her and she is instantly enchanted by his cherub grin peeking from between the floral folds. Blue tilts his fair head at Sam, his smile faltering slightly, and Sam hops off his stool, plastering a smile on his sleepy face as he greets the boy. 

"Hey kid, I'm Sam, Sarah's friend," he starts, hand outstretched, but stops when Blue slips between his hand and the kitchen doorway in a flurry of the thick blanket, burying himself into Sarah's side. Blue glares menacingly at Sam from behind Sarah, and Sam is surprised by the ferocious chill that emanates from behind the large bright cerulean irises. 

Sarah attempts to soothe Blue, surprised by his reaction to Sam. Placing a hand on his soft hair, she redirects Blue's attention to her, where he immediately lifts his lips to smile when they lock eyes. "Sam is my best friend, he's not going to do anything," and she meaningfully raises her eyebrows at Sam and waits for his stubborn affirmation before continuing. "Now, you didn't sleep for very long, would you like some juice?"

He nods enthusiastically, but doesn't release his hold on her arm as she stands. She gently pries his fingers from her sleeve and gestures him towards her stool, all the while noting the straight mouth and crossed arms of Sam's disapproval. 

When Blue climbs up onto the stool, she turns to grab a glass from the dish rack, quickly locating orange juice in her fridge. Pivoting to face her guests, Sarah is slammed with the obvious tension between the two boys. The intensity of Sam's displeasure is startling considering his adoration of children. She places the glass on the table, intercepting the staring contest, and pours the juice into the glass.

"Your scarf," Sam mutters and coughs, and she pops her head up at his voice. He takes a sip of his mug and tips his head up in Blue's direction without meeting her eyes. "He's wearing the scarf I gave you, and nothing else," he adds in a muttered tone, indicating the pop of green peeking out from under Blue's chin. 

Remembering Blue's outfit underneath the comforter, she quickly hands Sam the carton in her hand and pushes the glass of juice towards Blue. "Blue, you must be cold. Let me get you something to wear!" 

In an instant, Sarah is out of the kitchen and in her bedroom, ripping open her closet to search for something to cover Blue. How did I forget that all he's wearing is bandages? I would make a terrible mother... Finding a stack of her collection of jerseys, all procured from Sam who insists that she buy one at every sporting event he invites her to, she bundles the stack in her arms and separates them from the mess she has made. 

Triumphant at her luck, she doesn't notice that Blue has sidled beside her on the floor, devoid of the comforter, in front of her closet until he reaches for the bright green jersey of a local hockey team. He tugs at the jersey caught in the stack and she releases her hold on the jerseys so he can pull it out. 

"Blue likes green," Sam notes from her bedroom door and she smiles when Blue admires the jersey with wide eyes. "Maybe you should change his bandages," Sam suggests and Sarah hops back onto her feet to search for her first aid kit in the bathroom, cursing her own incapability to care for children, but eternally grateful to have Sam who has the experience.


The second part of Bless
I'm planning on mapping out these characters (It's been a while since I've done that...), so hopefully this story works out better than my other, not-planned-at-all, attempts. 

Questions will be answered as the story moves along, but feel free to point them out (they'll remind me what needs to be explained. I'm so focused in my own head that I need the reminders). 

Oh! And definitely let me know if you can find all the little character hints about Blue, Sarah, and Sam! I put them in to be noticed (that is, if you did...), and all the other English-class analysis junk :P I took too many of those classes to let them go to waste.

Welcome to my head

Saturday, 9 February 2013

Cruel For Loving You

JournalWord: Hunger for a fool.


There is a pause, and he holds his breath when he hears a rustle and the scraping of her will to stand up. His ears prick up at the slow footsteps of her trek up the slope towards him. She stumbles over loose pebbles and drags her left leg through the dirt, slowly, cautiously, behind her. He can smell her acrid fear from the top of the hill. He feels momentarily sick to his stomach at the spike of dark pleasure and interest; a misplaced sense of rightness at such a morbid situation.

She's getting closer and he barks at her to leave, but inside, in his twisted mind, he taunts her to come closer. The crunching of her soles on the gravel stir up a warmth in his gut when she continues up the hill without hesitation or regard to his growls. He can hear every sharp gasping inhale and deep pant as she struggles to huff in a lungful of air through the biting pain of broken ribs.

She trips on an exposed root and in his feverish mind's eye, he watches her reach out with her uninjured arm to stop her fall. A soft gasp peals from her split lips and his chest flutters at the sound of a prey caught. The gash on her thigh pools blood when she lands and his calves twitch at the silent ripple when she steps in her own puddle when she wavers to get on her scraped knees.

He wants to eat her. Oh, God. Why does she have to be so delectable and sweet? His tongue sweeps the inside of his cheek, searching for any trace of her between his teeth. His stomach reels at his hunger and disgust. All his senses are tipped towards her, even though he struggles to face away from her direction. He's killing himself inside to not launch down the upturned turf and take her between his teeth. She's standing there, having reached the peak, practically in ribbons, looking so delicious.

He can smell her fear from where he stands, and he hates how it's making him delirious. 'She's not food!' he wants to yell, but only a pleased growl hums from between his incisors. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Everything is so bright. So pure and blinding, yet red and hazy. He just wants to run away and hide from this disturbing hunger.

He forces the image of her standing between the pews into his mind to stave off the lust, remembering the smile that lit up her face under her bride's blush. The beast inside of him laughs at his attempt to smother it, forcing a replay of her surprised expression when he sank his canines into her arm and rattled her until her shoulder popped and her arm snapped. He shudders and beats the image away helplessly.

She motions a twisted foot to take a step closer to him. Her foot dangles at a crooked angle and his mind inquires whether that was a result of batting her against the tree trunk. She leans her weight gently on the toes of her injured foot, ready to take another step, but a howl freezes her on the spot. 

The blood he could have ignored, even a small drop spreads a lot. Wounds don't have to be deep to paint someone vibrant, but he remembers the feel and taste of her flesh in his mouth and the sound of her bones cracking between his teeth, like he might wake to remember someone's voice talking next to him as he sleeps.

He had done this to her. And he wants to do even worse.

There is blood and scratches all over his mate, but she stares with a set determination without regard to her state. She cradles her left arm to her chest as she struggles to stay on her bleeding feet. 

"Are you alright?" she asks in a strangled voice and he chuckles humorlessly at her misplaced concern.

He isn't. God. He really isn't.


I am in metaphorical love with this song right now: Fool by Shawn Hook.

"I'm a fool for loving a heart that's cruel, I'm a fool for loving you..."

My, I'm not really one for love (in actuality, I don't believe in it...Although I attempt to write it. Possibly as a method to understand it??) but after listening to this song on repeat countless times, and analyzing what the victim must be thinking.

But then I thought, who really is the fool? (You decide.)

Well, anyways, I hope this got as confusing as it seems >.<

And let me know what you think about Shawn Hook! He's got an amazing set of pipes. 

I'm hoping to write the start writing the second installment of Bless during this long weekend (and before I become swamped in midterms and final exam prep!). So maybe if I'm lucky it'll be up in the next couple of days :)

We shall see, but until then, 
Be awesome.

Thursday, 7 February 2013

Somebody's Secret

JournalWord: Angels kept hidden.


Once upon a could have been..

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

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

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

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

That is, except for one. 

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

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

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

Simply a heaven. His hidden utopia.

That is until the last door is reached, hidden far away from the rest of the splendid oak decor. Behind the numerous locks and scanners hides a dark room, curtained from light. 
Down a candle illuminated hallway, a door waits solemnly  A plain black door with a silver angel doorknob, back curves as it stretches to fly.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

And yes, I have a fascination with experimental angels. 

Be Great!

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