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, 28 April 2013

YGMM: Apron Animus

JournalWord: That straight-jacket feeling.


"You are cooking?" she asks in disbelief. Tristan grins when Chris pulls the strap of her messenger bag over her head and drops it beside the doorway to the kitchen.

Jones picks up the orange book on the counter and waves the pages in the air. "Yup. We bought a cookbook."

Tristan twirls in his flour splattered apron. It's a sunny-yellow apron with smiley-faces decorated everywhere. Jones has his own apron; a cobalt blue apron with fluffy grey clouds. Chris notes that Jones has been spared from the spilled flour.

"You've got everything," she realizes, taking in the colorful array of bowls and matching cooking utensils strewn over the counter tops and cluttering the sink. 

Chris settles herself on a stool, relieved to see that the new stove hasn't been destroyed.

"Oh!" Tristan says, rifling through one of the plastic bags on the counter, "We got you something too!" 

She bristles when Tristan pulls out a lacy pink apron with red hearts out of the bag, tag still attached. "Now we'll all match!" he exclaims, ripping the price tag off.

Tristan tugs Chris off of the stool and turns her around so he can slip the apron over her head. The apron certainly isn't like the others. The boys have the average cotton apron that covers from full-body exposure and almost touched their knees. Chris's, on the other hand, is a totally different story.

"It's lingerie." She states bluntly. 

Tristan just keeps on smiling. "It's an apron," Tristan reassures, ignoring the glare sent his way. 

Jones just picks up the cookbook and scans the page they are on.

"Tristan, I'm not wearing this," Chris says, tugging on the hem of the lacy garment, but it wouldn't stretch from its mid-thigh length. Hell, it shouldn't even be considered clothing.

"Come on!" Tristan pleads, wrapping his arms around her, "You look absolutely delicious."

At that moment, the whole kitchen is silent at the sound of Tristan's husky growl. 

"Okay," Chris nervously starts as Tristan's face buried itself in her neck, "I really have to take this thing off." Chris frantically pulls on the bow behind her, struggling with the knot. "What the hell did you do to this stupid thing? Tristan!"

Tristan just lightly laughs, and smiles at her scrunched eyebrows, utterly amused by her sharp cry. 

"Tristan. Get this thing off of me," she commands, breathing slowly, humiliated that she had resorted to screaming. 

Tristan is ignorant to her still present, hostile expression, and gently rocks them left and right, his arms still around her. "Nope," is his stubborn reply.

Chris has had enough of his games and struggles out of his constricting hold. "Jones, put the damn book down and help me." Chris still tries to wrench the bow off while attempting to back away from Tristan. 

"Jones!" she yells just as Tristan starts running his hands up her sides, erupting an explosion of shrieks. 

"Oh!," Tristan says excitedly, a mischievous sparkle brightening his eyes, "Chrisy is ticklish!"

"Jones! He's going to rape me!" she screeches through a patch of giggles.

Chris and Tristan twist and turn, much to Tristan's pleasure and to Chris's displeasure. "Tris! Stop!" Abruptly, Chris jumps when Tristan pokes her in the side, causing them to lose their balance and topple over. 

Tristan ends up on the floor alone. Jones gives Chris an apologetic smile. "You still breathing?" he asks, letting go of her arms. 

Chris glances from Jones's apologetic but amused smile and Tristan's pleasured grin. "You should join me on the floor, Chrisy," Tristan proposes, leaning back on his hands to invite her in. "I swear I'm comfy."

Chris inches away from his sexual aura and sticks her tongue out at him. Jones's eyebrow raises. "That was very adult."

"I don't care," she pouts. Her hair is splayed around her face and her face is still flushed from the giggles. "I just want to get out of this wretched thing."

Jones gently turns her around and works out the tangled knot. Behind her back, Jones sends a returning grin at Tristan. Tristan watches from his place on the floor, admiring his handiwork being unraveled
"You know, that was going a little too far, Tristan," Jones says conversationally, although Tristan remembers his unabashed and intrigued stare when Chris was calling for help.

Tristan openly ogles at Chris, who is purposely avoiding his stare by turning her gaze to the left. He can still make out the blushed cheeks she is trying to hide with her straight, black hair. She really is a headstrong lass.

"I'm sorry Chrisy," he repents, an apologetic smile directed her way. She nods, but doesn't flinch from her still position
The knot finally comes undone, and Chris immediately strips off the pink apron and tosses it in Tristan's direction without a glance. "It's all yours," she says breathlessly.

Tristan's smile never fades. "That's fine. I'll just find another way to get this beauty worn." He twirls the skimpy attire around his finger.

She glares at him, but her attention is pulled to Jones, who has suddenly disappeared. "Jones?"

"Just a sec," Jones calls from the hall, and he emerges from the hallway, a plastic bag in his hand. He reaches for the green apron in the bag and tosses it her way. 

Chris straightens it out and sucks in a breath. "It's perfect," she says, a light smile gracing her lips. Chris instantly dons the fabric, swiftly tying the back with an absently tied loose bow. She smiles at the green checkered print. "Thank you Jones." 

"Hey, what about me?" Tristan intervenes. "Where's my thank you?"

"What about you, Tristan?" Chris counters with a blank stare, hands on her hips.

"I got you an apron first. I deserve a hug."

"Not a chance."

Jones backs away to the kitchen and picks up the discarded cookbook. 

"What were you planning to cook anyways?" she asks, ignoring Tristan's whines, and walking to the counter. Tristan follows her to the counter, taking a seat on one of the stools beside her.

"Why don't you take a look?" he says, sliding the book across the counter.

Instead of cakes, roasts, and other regular recipes featured in cookbooks, this cook book is full of obscene concoctions.

"'The recipe of a Hate Cake. What?"

"That sounds scrumptious. What's in it?" Tristan leans forward on the counter.

"'First, mix together a handful of dried cat intestines and the blood of the suffering into a bowl.' Okay, I'm not reading anymore." Chris passes the book to Tristan.

"Come on. You haven't even seen any of the other stuff you can cook up," Jones prompts, trying his best to hold in a peal of laughter.

"You have gone nuts."

"Hey," Tristan calls, nose still buried in the pages of the book. "I need those for this one."

Chris shakes her head. "I know you guys make a lot of money now that you're working a lot of bookings, but don't spend it all on this.. crap." She waves her arms out to indicate the mess they've made in the kitchen, but pointedly flicks her wrist at the crumpled fabric on the floor.

"Save me some! I need two cups!"

Jones walks out of the kitchen and flops onto the couch. "You don't need to worry, Chris. We're huge hits." Jones flashes her a lounging pose with his signature smile. 

The smile didn't faze her since she has become used to its dazzle, but the exaggerated pose and concentrated pursed lips unconsciously perks a smile on her face. 

"Alright. It's your money."

Tristan leans sideways on his stool so he can holler into the living room. "Where the hell am I supposed to find a blushing virgin?"


I'm all over the place *sticks tongue out*

I just wanted to expel some of my YGMM obsession, and this is what ya'll got. 
This is set somewhere near the beginning of the timeline where the boys are fascinated and on a mission to figure out Chris.
Even if it requires making her scream.

Yeah... sexual innuendos are extremely prevalent in YGMM.. 

Keep cheery!

Thursday, 25 April 2013

O My Pity

It has now been deemed a moment in my life that requires dire repair.

I need a fellow Mother Mother fan.

I adore this band. It is the epitome of soul-scratching sound. 
Oh man, I can't believe how much not being able to go to their concert is crushing me. 
Gah! This is torture!

They'll be so close, yet so far :(

Well, I suppose I now have a life goal at hand:
To find an equally awesome person of which is a Mother Mother fan.
So we can gush about their music, and listen to their music, and hit up their concerts... and y'know, maybe chill and be normal :D (Naww)

Anyways, mini-rant over!
I'll just repeat the Infinitesimal Fan Video until I fall asleep.. and not feel so lonely. (Just kidding!)

Still, repeating the video over and over and over tonight. 

Join me?

And while I'm at it, I'll add some of my favorite songs (aside from their entire albums, 'cuz they, in themselves, are absolutely amazing!)

Now bask in the awesomeness of their unique and savvy lyrics and funky beats!

Just a little insight to my mind. 
mera <3

Sweet-Talked By The South

JournalWord: Something deliciously sinful.


The barn stands bright and vivid against the blue, cloudless sky, flaunting in it's fresh coat of vibrant red. It towers in comparison to the worn, pale, cream house meters away, and glints it's aluminum roof at the winding dirt road that curls over the hills to the little town in the distance underneath. 

The brilliance and pride of the resurrected building has lost it's spotlight from the boys who had helped nail, saw, and paint the barn only a month ago with their neighbor's father, right after they had graduated from the tiny high school four miles from this very barn. No, the attention has been shifted from personal accomplishment to concern and annoyance fabricated from the weeping of the girl curled up inside.

The wide, white doors are propped open by a rake and hoe, stabbed into the dirt to welcome any sign of a roaming breeze. The boys have taken up their stations in the shade of the building, eyes aimed at the bobbing blonde head hidden behind calloused hands.

"Holly, sweetheart," Cade coos in his Southern drawl, seating himself beside her on the crude bench he had helped slap together with planks of leftover wood from the barn construction. He wipes the sweat from his palms on his faded and dusty Wranglers before gently rubbing comforting circles between her shoulders. "Don't ya cry for him."

"She done deserves it," Ashton retorts gruffly, shirking his light eyes from the scene and ignoring Cade's glare to focus on the tack hanging on the wall across from him. He crosses his tanned arms over his chest, flexing his exposed biceps unconsciously.

"No, Holly, it ain't your fault," Cade reassures, brushing back her sun-bleached locks from her tear and sweat soaked face. "He wasn't fitting for ya." 

"You're spoutin' a load of bull, Cade. She shoulda listened at our warnin'."

"Ashton," Cade abruptly snaps, flicking his mop of dark hair out of his eyes, his face heating up from anger and the humidity. "Make yourself useful and fix her something to drink, why don't ya."

Ashton rolls his shoulders as he pushes himself off the column he was leaning on, uncrossing his heels and arms before strolling out of the barn without a sound, but obeying the order with an aura of menace trailing in the kicking dust. 

Cade watches the sun-streaked highlights of Ashton's hair and mud-caked cowboy boots stomp through the open door as they disappear into the brightness. Cade strokes Holly's hair and rummages into his back pocket to produce his light green handkerchief. He briefly prays thanks to his passed grandmother for instilling the rules of a Southern gentleman into his nature, especially the habit of carrying a handkerchief at all times for damsels.

She isn't crying anymore, but her tear streaked face frowns at him as he holds out the handkerchief. Raising an eyebrow at the expression of disapproval, he asks, "What's that look for?"

She accepts the handkerchief with a soft thank you and fingers the sewn initials of a corner. "He's right," she mutters, her usually light, perky voice heavy with emotion and dragging her vowels. "I'm a fool. A goddamn fool."

"You're not a fool, Hol-"

"She's a fool," Ashton interrupts, slamming the trough pail full of water onto the other side of the bench. Water sloshes over the rim of the aluminum pail and splashes onto the bench and beads on the packed dirt floor. "Drink up," he calls as he swivels to stroll out of the door once again. 

"Ashton!" Cade calls in a warning tone, jumping to his feet, but Ashton's already gone. Holly's sniffle returns him to her side, and he starts an apology. "Holly, he's just cranky. You know he just needs to blow off that steam of his. You'd think he'd have had enough when he knocked that city boy after what he said to you."

She lifts her chin and smiles weakly at him, her golden skin peeking through the dust she must have kicked up when she ran down the dirt road. Taking the handkerchief from her trembling hands, he crouches down in front of her and dips a corner into the pail. 

"I shoulda listened to yours and Ashton's warnin's. I shouldna got ya both involved in my mistake."

"Ya stop right there, Holly. That city boy had done you wrong by stringin' you like a baited fish. He done deserved what he had got," Cade dismisses, tipping her chin up so he can wipe at the mess of her face. 

"I still shoulda trusted my best friends when ya said he was no good. You must think I'm dumb for falling for his tricks. I'm a no good, dumb street-"

"Ya best not finish that thought, Holly," he commands, and his tone stops her. A tear slips from the edge of her lashes and he instantly frets with apologies for making her cry. "No, sweetheart, I'm sorry, so sorry. Don't cry."

Her lips quiver as her eyes glaze over again into her sorrow, and the tears start to cascade again. In desperation, he wraps his arms around her head, pulling her into a hug so his chin tucks the crown of her head to his neck. She cries out in protest, but he keeps his hold onto her. "You're dumb, but cute," he says. "But you're also huggable, and sweet, and he doesn't deserve your pretty smiles or warm apple crumbles." 

She chokes on a laugh and relaxes into his strange embrace as he takes the moment to continue. 

"But ya best remember," he says, but pauses for a thoughtful hesitation. She can hear a slight strain in his voice, and the thudding in his chest quickens. "Ashton and I will protect ya from every stumble and tear." His voice hardens suddenly with a serious tone. "Holly, I love ya."

She doesn't know what to say. Sure, they told each other they loved each other, but with the playful tone of childhood friends, but this serious tone startles her. This is a declaration she hasn't seen coming. 

"Correction, we love ya." 

She snaps her head out from under Cade's chin, but his arms hang loosely around her shoulders, allowing her to easily push out of his embrace. But she doesn't. She doesn't want to, especially when she sees Ashton standing in the barn door, a breeze brushing his hair from his furrowed eyebrows. 

But she also doesn't want to be in this situation. What could this mean? 

Ashton walks forward and gently places the tall, frosted glass of lemonade he had retrieved onto the bench beside the pail. She knows it's an apology for his comments and behavior but she doesn't touch it, no matter how much she's aching to drink it. Instead, she tries to meet his crystal blue eyes, and when she does, he immediately turns away. If she hadn't noticed the red tinge of his ears peeking from under his long locks, she would have thought he was insulted. 

She turns to Cade who retracts his arms from her shoulders, leaning back so she can regain her space. He doesn't smile, but his eyes openly express patience, and she tries to remember if he has ever gazed at her in such a loving warmth before, and why she never noticed. 

"I lo-" she starts, but Ashton interrupts. 

"No," he grunts out, then coughs to clear his voice. "No, don't ya say it unless you're sure." And she reaches out to pull his hand towards her so he will look at her. He refuses so she tugs him by the hand, startling him with the strength that tips him. 

"I love ya both, I really do, and I would never have thought that ya, both of ya'll," she corrects, turning to look both of them in the eyes, "would ever feel this way for me. This is shocking," she breathes. 

"Ya don't have to choose," Cade informs, "We both want ya and we want to share. That is if you'd like us." 

She blinks back tears at the soft catch in his voice, almost like a kicked puppy, and her head swirls. Suddenly she remembers all the times they've spent together, fighting and laughing, and the times they defended her and the times they told each other that they loved each other and the promises they made. She loves them as well, equally with a burning passion, but had set it aside for their deep friendship. 

Her tears over flow from her recollection of why she defied their warnings of George. She wanted to completely rid the love that she believed would rip them apart, and fill it with someone else to retain the friendship. Tears keep streaming but she grips his hand tighter, and uses her other hand to grab Cade's hand as well. 

Her voice shakes momentarily because of the tears and after a moment to still her trembling lips she looks at them both with a set gaze. "I don't even know how long I've been aching for this. I love ya, both of ya'll," she repeats and pauses when they both brush their thumbs over her cheeks, wiping the teardrops. 

"Don't force ya'self," Ashton whispers and she flares, glaring at him and setting her jaw. 

"Stop that," she bites out. "I love ya both, and I have for a long time so ya can't persuade me otherwise. I love ya'll, now shut up about not believing me and kiss me." 

They hesitate and they share a stricken expression between themselves and she wonders at how unfair it is that they've kept this to themselves and left her to dwell by herself. 

"Ya realize this is a sin," Cade supplies.

Ashton shakes his head in agreement. "We have resigned ourselves from the church under our own devices, but we don't want ya to fall with us."

A breeze trickles into the barn and teases the sweat on the nape of their necks, but she doesn't flinch like they do. 

"Well, ya know that I'm not religious, so let's be sinful together."

Ashton stares stunned at her angry pout, recognizing her hurt and determination. Cade chuckles. "Ya heard the queen," his familiar wide smile making its return.

She protests at the jest and opens her mouth to retort, only for Ashton to swoop in to press his lips against hers. He relishes her salty lips and takes advantage of her open-mouthed surprise, welcoming his tongue to meet hers. Cade whines at the loss of attention and they break apart, panting for breath. 

Thumbing her swollen lips and flushed cheeks, he remarks, "That tan of yours can never hide your blushes." She refocuses at his chuckle and he pecks her pursed lips. Before Ashton can give his sarcastic comparison, Cade whispers, "I'll top his kiss next time. I'll promise ya that," and winks.  


Something naughty~!
(Welcome to my messed-up mind.... *ghostly oooh's*)
Let me know what you think, and whether this is too tame.
Maybe I'll take that as a challenge. ;P

Could you hear the southern twang in their voices? 
Could you figure out what had happened to Holly?
Were Cade and Ashton's reaction decipherable? 

Please, let me know :D

Until the next story!
mera *__*

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

Green Devils

JournalWord: Vegetable torture.


She plunks the plate down in front of him with a soft clatter of ceramic plate to wooden table. She smiles, all soft and sweet, and he radiates under the warmth until he gazes down at his plate. His immediate response is to shove it away, but the plate only moves an inch. He trails his eyes from the hand positioned like a wall in front of his plate, up the arm to greet the deceiving curled lips. 

He narrows his eyes, peering at the slightly sinister edge of her lips and he fears that it has something to do with the dirty pair of boxers he had left on the bathroom floor earlier in the day. Gulping, he remembers that she always pays him back for his little domestic misdemeanors.

"What's wrong?" she asks sweetly, and if he hadn't noticed the malice hiding underneath he'd be pouncing on her and not cowering in the chair. "Aren't you going to look at what I made for you?"

He could say he has a stomachache, or that he has other plans and would not be able to have dinner with her tonight, but she'll call him out as a liar and he wouldn't make it very far before she walloped him. It'd be safer to just follow her suggestion and look.

"Oh, no. Nuh-uh. I'm not!"

The plate is loaded with vegetables. Towering with every green vegetable he can name. He doesn't really care for vegetables, especially the tiny little devils peeking from under the broccoli.

"Peas? Why does it have to be peas?" he pleads, discovering the bottom of the plate thickly bedded with peas.

Her smile hikes up into a smirk. "This is only the first course," she reassures, patting his cheek. "Now eat it all up."

He is never changing in the bathroom again.

I'm baaaaccckkk~!
My exams are over *Huzzah!* and now I've got time to spare for some creative fiction adventures!
(Join me in the bubbly cheer :D)

I'm working on something a tad bit long, and a tad bit naughty, so stay tuned ;P
This summer is going to, hopefully, be packed with stories (and maybe some of my adventures).

And to all of you who have been checking out my stories: THANK YOU AND I ADORE YOU! *smooches and hugs!*

Feel free to drop me a comment on any of my stories, and any suggestions for story genres or ideas are generously welcome :)

Keep cheery,

Tuesday, 9 April 2013

Not Forgotten!

Exams are here and I realize that writing right now is not something I should be doing. Distractions everywhere! But bear with me, I need to conquer one thing at a time, and right now its University.
But I haven't forgotten! I mean, I started the board for the plot to Bless so I am reminded where I'm headed and where I want to go!
Yeah, you got it: Bless is the real deal. I'm going for it as a story I'm going to finish (and with a plot! That hopefully makes sense..)!
So give me a couple weeks and I swear I'll answer any questions and hopefully entertain you!
My last exam is on the 22nd so I'll be free after that :D
In the mean time, let me know what sort of stories/lists/writing things you would like me to tackle as soon as I get back into the writing flow. It would be much appreciated, so let me know what you like!

Until then,
Be peachy!
Mera :)
Yes..this is my writing..
Right over my bed as a reminder that I'm serious! >.<!

Thursday, 4 April 2013

YGMM: The Baby Elephant

Warning: This has a lot of description.

JournalWord: Bubble-wrapping desks.


It’s another dreadful, winter afternoon at the downtown hospital. Flurries beat down over the cabin-fevered building, snuffing out light from windows in the mission to bury the hospital in white. The walk ways and paths winding around the hospital grounds, freshly scooped earlier in the day, are piling up again, disguising the stamped footprints and packed snow banks. Bare trees, hidden for months by hanging glass icicles, pack cold powder between frozen branches; puffing up the trees in a strange winter orchard. 

Clumps of snow fall from over the front entrance, landing and becoming welcoming mats to the concerned emergency medical technicians. The ice under the layers of snow crystals shine through the powder, winking danger at every passing victim to slip. Daggered icicles overhead wait for a strong gust of wind to knock them off the ceiling of the entrance, shaking in their patience. The automatic sliding doors are freezing together, sticking and hesitating an extra minute before opening to break the forming ice. 
The lobby of the hospital buzzes like a trapped hive; the air crackling in claustrophobia and fevered escape. The smell of disinfectant and bleach mix into a crude scent with the dank wetness of drenched fabric. Two secretaries slouch over keyboards and files, hiding behind their curved desk like a shield. They shiver and clutch at their layers of jackets and sweaters every time the entrance doors squeak open. A layer of snow that has managed to infiltrate the building, melts on the green mat, vaporizing in the blast of the heating system.

White capped nurses usher hunching, canned seniors away from frosting windows, and back into individual rooms. They muttering inconveniences as they stretch exhausted smiles over painted, chapped lips, attempting to soothe cabin fever with sweet words between grinding teeth. Their fleeting feet track into puddles of sleet, trailing rivers across the lobby’s dull white floor. Tuts and irritated sucking noises peal from their lips whenever they glance at the groups of shifting visitors trapped in by the blizzard.

The visitors cluster together in front of the expanse of the windows. They watch dejectedly as the cold glass is slowly swallowed by the blizzard, stamping their slush saturated boots. They flip their cell phones open and close in frantic clacks; all that is keeping them at bay from running out into the snowstorm. Their gloved hands grasp their coat’s collars, pulling them up to protect their curled mouths from incessant coughs and uncontrollable sneezes for fear of catching a doctor’s attention.

Down a series of corridors, past rooms and floors of various hacking and groans, Dr. Cahill’s office remains shut and ignorant of the gloom surrounding the rest of the medical building. A light shines though the opaque glass slit placed in the wood door, admitting a person inside by a shifting shadow, although the doctor is away, tending to a patient downstairs in the hustle of emergency surgeries. However, despite her absence, the trace sound of shuffling plastic can be heard underneath the howls of pounding wind and sighs of bored patients. 
In the centre of the square room, a slouched figure in dark jeans and a yellow sweater lightly kicks a black office chair out of his way. The expelled oversized, rounded chair slides from its place behind a cedar desk and careens over the floor. The expensive leather chair wobbles and rolls, top-heavy, across the expanse of the hardwood. An armrest collides softly into one of the ceiling-high bookshelves that covers three of the four surrounding walls. 

A thick medical textbook, one of the many hundreds of the like that fill the bronze wood shelves, knocks loose from its categorized fit. The blue hard covers flap open to swallow air into its pages before collapsing flat on pages six-hundred fifty-two and fifty-three. A cloud of aged paper emphasizes the fall and clatter. The books that depended on the toppled volume, tip into each other to sate the empty space. The crash of the fallen echoes like a booing crowd, the sound bouncing a path to the blonde head, snapped to attention.  

The tightness in Tristan’s face relaxes from a clenched frown to a mischievous smirk when he discovers the whereabouts of the sound. He glances at the door, and satisfied by the undisturbed lock on the doorknob, drops his gaze to the desk in front of him. His bottle green eyes frolic at the sight pf his doings, brightening his winter-paled complexion and distributing golden highlights to his already tousled, fair hair. He doesn’t flinch at the howls and scratching of the wind against the walls and windows, instead, masking the sound with a quiet hum of his own. 

The shriek of duct tape ripping off its roll is instantly muffled by the light pats of a hand smoothing the shiny, silver adhesive flat. Tristan’s warm hand skims the ridged tape, exerting just enough pressure to stick the adhesive to the bubbled surface covering the oak desk. Fingers stretch and reach for another roll of duct tape while the dominant left hand holds down another section of curling bubble wrap.

He elongates his lithe body over the length of the large cedar desk, straining for the extra roll tucked behind a tipped, framed photo. The concentration he applies is disguised by his tongue, peeking pink from between his lips, and a flop of wild, static-infused lock suspended inches from his narrowed eyes, His fingers poke the overturned roll, forcing it to flip, however, accidentally setting it on a course over the edge of the desk. 

The silver roll bounces and hops a couple metres before halting in the cushion of stacked bubble wrap sheets waiting in front of the door. A whoosh is exhaled by the stack as the top layer floats off the tower and skids to the door. The bubbled edge of the sheet jam themselves into the crack under the door in a fluid swoop. Tristan lifts his hand off the section of bubble wrap on the desk corner, allowing it to curl into a tube. He straightens to retrieve the roll and finish the job he has started. 

His well worn, tan jacket folds back into familiar creases when he readjusts his posture. He rolls his shoulders at the setting soreness of being slouched for so long, his suede jacket skimming over his torso with a liquid drift as he walks to the door. He bends over to gather the runaway roll, the obsidian buttons on his jacket winking and blinking in the light. They laugh, whether from the glow of the florescent lights overhead or from the radiation casting off Tristan’s quirked grin.

He resumes his position at the desk, smoothing down the curling flap of bubble wrap before taping it down with a swatch of tape. Despite the ear splitting screams and thunderous pounds of pulsing snow, Tristan keeps on humming. The ripping of duct tape unravelling contrasts with the visage of the cloudlike, bubbled desk. The translucent bubbles lining each sheet shine glossy reflections on their rounded shells. A corner of the desk remains unsheathed in safety plastic, but the exception is swiftly dealt with one last tear of tape, smoothed to perfection with the excess carefully tucked under the ledge.

The job is finished with a quick shuffle of desk trinkets, file folders, and framed pictures, all covered in matching bubbly sleeves and placed in their original places. He steps back to admire his work, a whistle of satisfaction and a smile adorning his pink lips. The duct tape roll twirls around is left index finger in admiration. He tilts his head down to check the time on his watch, only to fumble the roll between his hands when he notices the time. He jams the roll into his pocket and gathers and collects the leftover sheets of bubble wrap into his arms. He sprints to the door, hastily turning the doorknob before shutting it closed behind him as he rushes out to the elevators.

The young man smiles to himself in the crowd of frowns and scowls in the lobby. His eyes glitter and dance as he waits for the unrelenting storm to exhaust itself. He waits like everyone else in the lobby for the sun to peek out from behind the angry clouds. However, unlike everyone else, he holds a warmth of adding a smile and shaking head to someone, despite the dreadful afternoon. To him, it’s an otherwise sunny afternoon at the downtown hospital.


I've been busy lately, wrapping up on my classes (just a week left!) and worrying about finals. 
My emotions are on a sloppy run right now, zig-zagging dramatically, and I've been super tired lately. (Maybe from my anxiety peaking again?) Let's just hope I can pull myself together in the next week. 
And maybe crank out some more ideas! Or spend some time working on the ones I've already laid out... :P

Keep bubbly!

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