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, 22 January 2015


Pulling her skin off over her head like a sweater.

His hide slips from over his hips and down his knees. He walks out of them when they reach his ankles, tossing them aside in a crumpled mass behind him. 

She helps him take his upper half off after pulling him in for a kiss - before he loses his lips. 

Her teeth on the last of his skin. 

Standing bared to his bones, she smiles at him and kicks her feet. He grabs her toes and she clacks her jaw as he tugs her bottom half cleanly in one swift pull. 

In their bones, they touch ribs. 

Phalanges stroke tibias. 

Skulls tucked into collarbones.

- This is how I think. Welcome to a small slice of my mind. 

(This is a rough draft. Haven't put much effort into it or decided to work on it yet. Maybe later. Maybe not.)

Monday, 5 January 2015

I Can Be Garbage

I have two slices of cheese in my hand. I had chopped 6 thick chunks because I felt like it, overestimating my own desire to consume them.

Damn new knives that slide through marble blocks like a katana against freaking bamboo. Curse the satisfaction! 

I'm too lazy to put them back in the fridge. That's one reason they're still on my left palm, but the other infuriates me. It's a challenge now of whether I can shove these two slices into my mouth and consume them. 

Challenge accepted, gods! 

I should not have sniffed them first. I can smell how long they've been sitting on my skin. Half an hour is not a pleasant smell on cheese.

I take a gulp of orange juice, making sure to ration the half empty glass through this ordeal. I'm going to need to gargle after this. Braving the first bite is like chewing on molten garbage. Quickly swallowing, I chase it with a mouthful of OJ but it won't go down fast enough. 

It takes a strength in me I'm not sure I like to peel the warm cheese off my life lines and dangle it over my lips. It had left greasy prints behind on my palm and before I can acknowledge my nauseousness, that chunk goes down my throat with the ease of a live goldfish down my esophagus. I drown it in the last of my orange juice and wipe my hand with this morning's towel heaped on the foot of my bed. 

Hah, I win.

Friday, 2 January 2015

Trading Licks For Fire

JournalWord: A cold Hell


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

Frostbitten appendages would severely hinder customer appeal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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