Day 01 - Sweaters

Day 01 – Sweaters

“Are you going to come to bed now?” He asked, teasingly strutting towards the bedroom. “We’ve got some unfinished business.”
She laughed. “Stop it, John. I need to finish this up, and if I join you, I can’t see myself getting it done in the near future.”
“But it’s near Christmas, Layla!” John whined, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. “Please?”
“Give me a while, alright?” By now, her head was ducked down, staring intensely at her laptop, completely immersed in her work.
He sighed, looking at her, this woman he loved so much. She was so kind, and so wonderful, he would have never asked for anyone but her. Ambling into the bedroom, he stripped down before slipping into the inviting warmth of the comforters. As he dozed off, he heard a scream which startled him into awareness. Flinging the comforter off his body, he skidded into the living room to see a person grappling with his wife.
“John.” She pleaded. “Help me!”
The person turned, and one thing that struck him was their vibrant cobalt eyes before he felt something forcefully enter his stomach. His eyes wide, his hands touched his midriff before coming up to enter his vision; showing blood on his suddenly pale hands. Layla screamed, rushing towards him but getting flung back by the imposter. John managed to stay on his feet, using his bulk to punch the intruder twice, effectively dropping him to the ground.
“John?” Layla murmured, her voice thick with tears as she scrabbled up, helping him sit in his regular chair which coincidentally was right behind him. She reached for the phone and when she turned, she screamed in horror.

~ ~ ~

Memories are horrid things. They’re painful. They’re happy. They hold so many emotions that all in turn hurt you. Life isn’t fair. Your memories only reflect that.
My husband and I had been so happy only a simple month ago. One man, who had been convicted, had changed all that. He murdered John, the only man who’d know my love and had ravaged me, leaving me scarred.
I could only sob as I watched John bleed out, and the only thing I could think of was the fact that I’d denied him when he’s asked me to go to bed with him earlier on in the night.
The emotions still plague me, as do the nightmares. They wake me up screaming, and my roommate continuously has to spend time with me; assuring me that no, I wasn’t alone in this world and yes, people still cared for me. It was hard living through this, but I had to battle it through.

At a tender age of 30, I’d given up the idea of working, just living off the money that John and I had mustered up for our future house. We’d saved together for five long years and now that money was all going to fund my alcoholism. Soon, I’d have to start working again but I’d come to that when it happened.
The doorknob hit the wall harshly and I jumped as my roommate walked in, a vexed expression on her face that smoothened out as she saw me sitting in the middle of the floor, John’s sweater bunched up in my hands as I nuzzled it.
“I was looking for you,” she explained. “We’re going out today. Is that alright?” |
Nodding, I looked away, burying my nose in the fabric of the sweater, and taking a deep apprehensive sniff that still managed to retain John’s scent. This brought on a wave of fresh tears, and I struggled to rein them in whilst my roommate was still in the room.
“You’re coming with us.” My roommate, Raina, persisted. “Please?”
“Oh.” I muttered, and getting up from the floor, I gestured to the bathroom. “Do I have time to have a shower?”
“Go for it.” She shrugged, offering me a small smile.

I walked to my room, yanking out my towel all the while holding John’s sweater in my hand. It was one of those corny designs that he’d gotten as a present from his nephew that he was unable to throw away. Thus, he got himself used to it.

I sat in my bed, watching the world go by. I’d made excuses for tonight, I didn’t want to go out in the end. Instead, I wanted to hold John close to me, and tell him I loved him. I’d managed to consume a large amount of alcohol and I guess that one could say that I was inebriated.
“John?” I spoke out, seeing a figure laying across the foot of my bed. His scent surrounded me, the cologne that he’d always use.
But when I blinked again he was gone. No John. He’d been murdered. A month ago? It didn’t matter.
Choking on my tears, I brought the sweater close to me, cuddling it, holding it tight. I was supposed to grow old with him. I was supposed to be his forever. We were supposed to be so happy.
And now he was gone.

Leaving me to cope.

People who say that dying is hard haven’t obviously experienced being left behind. That is the worst pain of all.
Because the one person you love; the one person you need and want.
They’re never going to be there for you. To hold you. To comfort you. To love you.  

This was a bit rushed because my little sister is having a concert, and I probably won't be able to get it done later. I might come back and edit; it was a bit too fast.
Looking forward to seeing yours, m'love. Allons-y.

AND WE ARE ON

Winter 30 Day Drabble Challenge

Alright, sweetheart. We haven't talked in ages and it's bumming me out, so to make up for it, we're going to be doing a winter themed 30 day drabble challenge, and you're going to fucking do it with me whether you want to or not. We need something to link us back together again, and we don't have to comment on anything just read our stories (i mean, commenting is absolutely fine, if you're up for it). 

I think we've established the rules, but how about a reminder? Shall I?

- 500 words no less. 

- smut is highly unnecessary and so yeah

- have fun with it, hon, don't stress yourself out, okay? 

- if someone misses a day then you have to post: NEENER NEENER I AM NINCANPOOP in at least five different blogs, anonymous off.  

- since there are thirty-one prompts here, you are allowed to omit only one. You are able to do this once, goddit?

- i like rule establishing, brings out the woman in me, you know?

• day 01 - sweaters
• day 02 - snowball fights
• day 03 - hot chocolate/hot drinks
• day 04 - books
• day 05 - ice skating
• day 06 - parkas/big jackets
• day 07 - sledding
• day 08 - snow angels
• day 09 - fireplace/candles
• day 10 - snowed in
• day 11 - quilts
• day 12 - mistletoe (or plain smoochies)
• day 13 - snowmen
• day 14 - hot baths
• day 15 - winter hats and mittens
• day 16 - shaking from the cold
• day 17 - snow shoveling
• day 18 - hibernate/sleep
• day 19 - cookies/cake/gingerbread
• day 20 - scarves
• day 21 - soup
• day 22 - huddle for warmth
• day 23 - sick
• day 24 - socks/boots
• day 25 - trade gifts/donate
• day 26 - foggy breaths
• day 27 - ski
• day 28 - knitting
• day 29 - power outage
• day 30 - sing loudly and/or obnoxiously
• day 31 - family/friend pictures

DeemathingIV

Emily wasn’t sure of what was more hilarious: the fact that Myles was forced into wearing swimming trucks, or the fact that Myles was forced into wearing swimming trunks in Disney land’s very own themed water park.

She glanced down at her own attire: a light navy blue cotton dressed freckled with little red flowers, and couldn’t help but pull the hemming of the dress an inch lower. It wasn’t that she felt insecure about her body, but the model-esque girls around her with their outrageously unattainable flat stomachs didn’t make her feel as confident as she would have hoped. She was aware of her own stomach slightly bulging out of her simple one piece, and resisted the urge to drape her arms around her middle lest Beckett, or even worse, Myles, notice her lack of self esteem. She muffled a sadistic sigh as a pair of girls with physiques so slim it was sinful flounced by her, their hips swaying confidently, knowing full well that they’ve captured the attention of about every male specimen at a 10-meter radius.

Beckett craned his head and gave a low appreciate whistle, smiling charismatically at the girls as they tossed their pretty hair over their shoulders with a lazy hand. Emily scowled, smacking Beckett’s shoulder with a little more force than necessary. He turned to her, eyes flashing in confused irritation. “What?” he asked, his smile faltering. Emily bristled, rolling her eyes as Beckett’s attention drifted to a group of Brazilian seeming college students.

“Stop staring at every sodding girl that passes by- It’s so bloody annoying,” she huffed, smoothing the knots in her ponytail. Myles snorted, and Emily’s unforgiving glare flicked over to him, her irritation intensifying. “And what are you laughing about, genius? What’s so funny?” she demanded, bunching the fabric of her dress and dragging the hem lower.

“Absolutely nothing,” he replied, his smirk widening.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” she muttered, furrowing her brow, “and honestly you shouldn’t be laughing Mr. I-Wear-Loafers-In-Theme-Water-Parks,” she continued loftily, looking around for a suitable place to rest. They, that is Emily, Beckett, and Myles, had been walking around the entire water park in search for the perfect place to ditch their belongings and hop on the nearest water slide available. It’s been two hours now, and the place was packed to the brim with hollering babies, whiny preteens, and parents with unflattering sunspots and sunburns.

Emily had absolutely no doubt that as soon as they scavenged a place to sit in, Myles would phone Butler immediately so he could drive him out of the park whilst speed walking to the nearest ice creamery, provided that the place had wi-fi, of course. And so he was left to saunter around the park sporting a steely grey dress shirt and bright red swimming trunks, with Armani loafers that gleamed like the waterslides themselves.

“What’s with the piss poor mood, Em, you’re spoiling the fun,” protested Beckett, prodding her shoulder with a teasing finger. Emily bit her lip and smoothed the creases on her cotton dress. She lifted a careless shoulder, feeling the beginnings of guilt burrow its way through her brain. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, giving her friend a weak smile. “The place is just full of bloody super models from god knows where and I’ve been skipping tennis-“

“Don’t give me that rubbish,” Beckett interrupted firmly. “You look fantastic for someone whose bum is always planted on the couch. Don’t start, okay?”

Emily felt the corner of her lips stretch into an embarrassed smile, but she tried to school her features into a look of pure impatience. “I’ll ‘start’ whenever I please,” she said, smirking broadly at the blond. Myles rolled his eyes, sliding the silky fabric from his wrist to inspect the time.

“It’s four o’clock,” he announced crisply, turning to face the pair, “Can I leave now?”  

Beckett laughed delightedly, clear green eyes dancing with a sly jubilance, and said, “Bro, you are most definitely not leaving my sight until we’re getting out of here and into the Bentley, okay?” Myles pulled a face and pointedly jabbed his Rolex with an index finger. “No, Beckett,” he sighed, “we agreed that I would accompany you until four o clock, which, as you might have noticed, is precisely at this very moment. Wouldn’t want to break your word, now would you?” he continued condescendingly.

Beckett shook his head with feigned horror. “Mum would be very disappointed,” he exclaimed, thoughtfully twisting a stray fair curl. He then smiled wickedly, tapping Myles’ head as if Myles was a disobedient pup. “But mum isn’t here, unfortunately. Wasn’t she busy with that charity in the middle of France? Saint-something-charity bla bla bla? And weren’t you the one who hacked into her bank account to pay for that new shipment you ordered from Taiwan?”

Myles pressed his lips together and Emily noticed his shoulders drooping in defeat. “Bloody bank account...” he muttered, not bothering to conceal his aggravation. “Fine. I’ll stay. You infants need a supervisor anyway, or else this day would have ended in quite the catastrophe.” Beckett rolled his eyes and Emily’s mouth twitched. “What’s up with you, Myles?” she asked. Myles glanced at her, irritation and then something else she couldn’t really pinpoint flashing in his eyes. His scowl deepened. “Not only have you brought me to a water park,” he bit out, “but you’ve forced me into wearing these odious swimming trunks while you know very well that I would have much preferred to stay in the hotel. This place is a waste of good commercial buildings-“

“Don’t say that!” Beckett gasped, dropping his voice into an urgent whisper, “You didn’t mean that- you didn’t mean that, right?” he asked urgently. Emily sighed, deciding that the best thing she should be doing instead of eavesdropping on their conversation was finding a bloody spot she could rest in. Two hours of walking with the bickering company of Myles and Beckett Fowl could do that to a person. A woman with fuchsia sunglasses rushed past her, dragging her struggling son towards the exit gates. Emily scrutinized her vision to the place the woman came from, and. . . hah! She finally found a place! And a decent one at that. . . with shading and everything.

“Guys,” she began excitedly, “hate to break the cat fight, but come on! I’ve found a place!”

Myles and Beckett halted their heated argument mid sentence, and hurried behind Emily as she practically ran to the safe haven. She was almost there when the two girls she had seen earlier dumped their designer bags on top of her spot, already fishing their bags for tanning lotion. That doesn’t even make sense, Emily thought, anger taking over her. If they wanted to bloody tan then don’t go tanning in the shade. Emily heard a low growl sound from one of the boys behind her -Myles most probably- and forced herself to count to ten before pouncing on the thieves that stole her spot.

She elicited a courteous smile before saying really nicely, “Er- hullo. I’m sorry, but this is our spot-“

“No it isn’t, we came here first,” drawled one of the girls in a thick American accent, giving Emily a lazy roll of the eye. She squeezed the tanning lotion into her petite hands and commenced slathering her thighs with it. Emily resisted the urge to slap her head and plowed on. “Err- no, actually. We spotted this place first, and I think me and my friends,” she gestured the twins wildly, “would really appreciate it if you would consider giving it back to us.” Beckett gave a little wave, curving the corner of his mouth with a careful mixture of maturity and appeal, and Myles-

Emily almost dropped her jaw, because she was certain that in the many months she had acquainted herself with her sociopathic friend that she had never, ever seen Myles give any woman a look like that: his eyebrow was quirked almost . . . thoughtfully? and gone was the permanent glower on his face; replacing the sempiternal scowl with a smile so simple it was . . . attractive? Emily felt something bubble in the pit of her stomach, and for reasons unknown to her, her blood burned with grating irritation. Her mouth curled in disgust as the girls slowly lifted their sunglasses from the bridges of their noses, giving both the twins a dazzling smile that graced their bonny features.

“Well . . .” the blonde of the two said, dragging the ‘l’ in a manner so slow that it bewitched any poor soul conversing with her, “I guess we could move . . . if you guys ride the slides with us . . . some of them are pretty scary,” she slurred, her eyes widening in delicious fright. Emily wanted to throw up. She didn’t even bother resisting the tremendous eye roll that itched at her skull. “On second thought-“ Emily clipped, only to be interrupted by Myles.

“We would love to,” he said quickly, eyebrows hitched in earnest. He extended his arm to the blond and she accepted it with a feminine giggle that boiled Emily’s blood. “But only in one condition,” started Beckett, giving the girls a stern look. Finally, thought Emily delightedly, at least Beckett has the sense to-

“You let us buy you girls ice cream first, goddit?”

She almost screamed.

The girls nodded as a beatific blush bloomed on their cheeks, and the red head accepted Beckett’s hand, a giggle escaping her cherubic lips.

Myles turned around, motioning Emily to join them, but she instantly shook her head. “No thank you,” she nearly spat, barely concealing the hurt in her voice, “I’ll just stay here and tan . . . in the bloody shade,” she continued, missing the serious look Myles bored into her. He was about to say something when the blond tugged at his arm, and he left Emily without giving her another word.

Fine, she thought, not exactly knowing why she was so furious in the first place. Whatever.

She dropped the airheads’ bags on the wet floor and dumped her own stuff on the chair, feeling her optimism for the day draining out of her system.

Whatever.

***

Emily was jolted awake.

Funny, she didn’t know she slept... 

Emily lifted her hands to her face and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, her senses flooding back to her. 

“Whas goinon...?” she mumbled, lifting a lazy head at the figures swimming in her blurry vision.

“You fell asleep,” answered the black one in a bored voice. The blond one extended his hand timidly, and Emily could see he was offering her something.

“Emily... are you mad at us?” he asked, biting his lower lip.

Her memories washed over her. She was in a water park. She was with Myles and Beckett. They ditched her.

She was alone.

Emily narrowed her eyes. “Yes,” she mumbled without missing a beat. Beckett dropped his gaze and Myles only smiled at her, looking very amused.

“What?” she snapped, “why are you smiling you bleeding traitor? Had fun with the Americans? Laughed at all your jokes, I’m assuming? Bat their eyelashes at you? I’m sure it was bloody brilliant.” Beckett and Myles exchanged bewildered looks before looking at her, utterly confused. “You didn’t think we were serious, did you?” asked Beckett, pale eyebrows furrowed.

What?

Myles studied Emily for a moment before stretching his lips into a wide smile. He took a seat by the edge of the lounge chair, and Emily lightly kicked his thigh, befuddlement muddling her coherent thinking. Myles chuckled, shaking his head. “She believed us, Beckett,” he said over his shoulder.

Emily’s eyes were slits. “What in the name of Christ are you tossers yammering about?”

Beckett took a seat next to her, helping himself to the ice cream he had offered Emily only mere seconds ago. “You were so intent on getting this spot, correct?” asked Myles slowly, making eye contact with her. Emily nodded, following his train of thought. But then that would mean...

“And you wanted those girls out of your place, yes?” he continued, broadening his smirk. Emily nodded again, the bog in her mind clearing. “You little shits,” she breathed, arching an eyebrow. Beckett laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t be dim, Em. Please don’t tell me you actually thought we were serious.”

Emily pressed her lips together and cast her look away, her neck reddening.

“She did!” Beckett chuckled, slapping his thigh, “am I that good of an actor?” he asked excitedly, turning to Myles, who quietly shook his head. Emily couldn’t help but crack a smile... how the hell did she miss that?

Myles sighed, but his smile didn’t waver. “Emily, your personal insecurities are muddling your clear thinking. Would you honestly think that Beckett and myself would desert you for those two girls?”

Emily only shrugged.

Beckett gasped, grabbing her shoulders and enveloping her into a spine-crushing hug. “Don’t think like that, you stupid, stupid girl. We’d never do that to you, ever, did you hear me?” he demanded, pulling away only to smile at his best friend. Emily’s cheeks hurt from all the smiling and she shrugged Beckett’s arms from hers. “Don’t get all emotional, Beckett... this is a new dress,” she muttered, offering him a weak smile. Myles laughed, an honest to God real laugh, and Emily’s chest swelled.

“You’re such an idiot,” mused Beckett fondly, squeezing her shoulder before standing up. “And. . .” he seized Myles’ left arm and checked the time, ignoring Myles’ scowl. “It’s about lunch time, and I’m starving. Fancy an ice cream before we eat? I sort of ate yours . . . by mistake,” he continued, smiling impishly.

“By all means, brother, lead the way,” nodded Myles, glancing at Emily with a twinkle in his eye. Emily rolled her eyes, but her grin never deserted her, and she stood up, shrugging her bag into place. “Anything but those awful turkey sandwiches, alright?” she called out to Beckett, who was already thirty meters away from her.

“Next time we decide to come here I’m getting Beckett a leash. He’s got the attention span of a Labrador poodle,” Myles voiced, slipping his hands in his pockets. Emily nodded. “And then we’ll tie him to a pole or something, because the strength of both of us combined is no match for that brother of yours,” she agreed, twiddling a stray hem between her fingers. Myles nodded thoughtfully. “Acute observation, Miss Emily Faucet.”

Emily bit back a smile and marveled at the sky’s display; it was a cloudless day, and the burning sun was beginning to lower itself as afternoon slowly seeped into twilight. Both of them refused to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“Why did you react the way you did?” she heard Myles mumble, pulling her out of her reverie. She blinked once. “What?”

Myles gave her a crooked smile. “You know what I said,” he muttered quietly, quirking a single eyebrow. Emily wasn’t going to relent just yet. “React how, exactly?” she persisted, lacing her fingers together.

Myles hesitated. “You know . . . you were practically steaming by the time we left you.”

Emily closed her eyes, and rubbed her forehead. “I- I’m not sure, actually,” she replied. Yes you do, she thought sadly. They were prettier than you. Slimmer than you . . . more sophisticated . . . you don’t stand a bloody chance.

What chance, though? Why had she felt so angry? What was that spiteful feeling she felt surge through her veins when Myles smiled at that blonde ditz? Was she... was she actually... jealous?

Emily felt her ears warm up, and quickly shook her head, hoping to dispel the confusing thoughts that itched at the base of her skull.

Myles considered his words carefully. “You weren’t . . . envious, were you?”

Emily felt her heart drop, and she shook her head quickly. Too quickly.

Myles was aware of this, and Emily didn’t notice the subtle broadening of his beam. “There’s nothing to envy, anyway,” he continued loftily, and Emily looked up at him, a slow smile stretching her face. “Really?” she said, amused, and maybe just a little slaphappy.

“Obviously,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Their hair extensions were simply repulsive, if you want my opinion.”

Obviously.

Obviously.

Emily laughed, and she felt like flying. “Err- thanks, Myles,” she mumbled, lifting her gaze to meet his eyes. Myles nodded once, his smile shifting back to his permanent frown. “Why are you being so nice to me, anyway?” she asked, smiling at him.

Myles snorted. “Because you’re a hormonal mess with appearance issues.”

Emily groaned. “No- don’t give me that! I want nice Myles! Give him back!” she cried, bumping her shoulder with his.

“Nonsense. I’m always nice, you’re just too unaware to notice it,” he replied, returning the gesture with slightly more force. Emily shook her head.

“And we were having such a nice moment too.”

“Pity,” he said indifferently, but his smile was back, and that made all the difference. 

Deemathings III

Pale white snow drifted in slow steady spirals, blanketing the quiet Parisian streets. Occasional snorts of car engines rang through the barren white streets, and collars were turned upwards, protecting those unfortunate enough exposed to the biting, unforgiving wind. 

Emily exhaled shakily, digging her fingers deeper into her grass green cashmere sweater. She glanced at Myles, who was striding purposefully along side of her, his long woolen black coat snapping behind him. “Y-you know,” she chattered, her teeth clattering against each other, “nice guys usually o-offer their coats to girls in the cold  . . . Sweet . . . isn’t it?”  Myles made a noncommercial noise in the back of his throat, and stared straight ahead of him. Emily narrowed her eyes.

“That was a hint, Myles,” she scowled, rubbing her left arm, “give-me-your-jacket.”

Myles snorted, flicking light particles of snow from the collar of his sleeve. “No,” he said.

Emily scoffed. “Please give me your jacket,” she repeated, crossing her arms. Myles, unnervingly unfazed by her tone, continued to walk forwards, taking him a full ten seconds to acknowledge the fact that Emily wasn’t trudging beside him. He turned around, raising a paternalistic eyebrow. “Come along, Emily,” he said patiently, waiting for her to catch up.

“Yeah. Okay. But your jacket. I need it.”

Myles tightened the scarf around his neck. “You don’t need my coat you want my coat, and don’t even dare tell me that I haven’t told you to pack heavy-material clothing before arriving here.” He sighed, swiping a hand through his dark curls. Emily bit her lip. “I’m British,” she protested, “this is o-our normal weather.”

“Of course.”

 Frosted stray leaves crunched under the sole of Myles’ boot and an icy wind whistled in his ears. The moon shown luminous, faint stars burning weakly in the atmosphere. Flames flickered intensely in old-fashioned street lamps. Emily sighed restlessly and rushed towards him, shoving her hands inside her jean pockets. A couple hurried past the pair and the man glanced at Emily sympathetically before throwing Myles a look of pure disgust, securing his arm around his mate’s waist as they made their way towards the parking lot.

“N'avez-vous pas honte! Donner à la femme de votre veste vous ane`!” he shouted before making haste across the street. Myles’ mouth twitched slightly but he didn’t say anything.

Emily kneaded her eyebrows, pinching her now frozen ears. “What’d he say?” she asked. Her voice echoed against the empty street.

Myles shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He thought you were an asshole, d-didn’t he?” she pressed, the corner of her lips curling upwards.

“il était le cretin,” muttered Myles, feeling slightly irritable.

Emily huffed, a puff of transparent smoke materializing momentarily just before fading into the night. “N-not exactly sure of what you just said, but I’m pretty sure it was an insult,” she said. She hugged her stomach tightly, and then asked, “How long do we have to walk to find a damn taxi? I’m cold and tired and we’ve been walking for two hours now. And I’m famished. And I’m cold.”

“Don’t complain. Weren’t you the one who was always opposed to taking taxis in foreign cities? What was it that you said, if my memory serves correct? ‘Myles, I’m opposed to taking taxis in foreign cities?’” He drawled, particularly taking pleasure in the glower that wiped the smirk clean off her face. He craned his neck and spotted a mass of vague shuffling figures clad in dark colors by a silver pyramid structure.

“Yeah w-well, those might not have been my exact words,” she grumbled, rubbing the numbness from her face.

Myles rolled his eyes. “There’s the Louvre, we’ll be able to take a taxi from there and then back to the hotel.”

He noticed Emily cheer at the thought of getting into a toasty warm taxi and smirked. “So the tourist trip is over, I presume?” she asked brightly, practically skipping to the museum.

Myles canted his head. “And I thought you enjoyed learning about other cultures. You’re becoming more and more disappointing by the minute, Emily, soon to morph into one of those giggling air heads 

whose only fervency in life is learning how to properly shade their eyelids.”

Emily considered this. “Well, it takes one to know one.”

Myles opened his mouth, and then closed it, choosing not to argue over something so trivial (his temper would not permit it, he would reason with himself).

They neared the parking lot of the Louvre, and Myles allowed his eyes to sweep the rears of customary taxicabs.

“Wait- what’s the French word for cabbie again?” Emily asked restively, wandering towards a stationary taxi car. Myles ignored her and marched towards a black and white striped taxicab. He filled the driver with scant details about their destination and the French man nodded once. He glanced at Emily’s light cashmere sweater, and then raised an eyebrow at Myles’ thick wooly coat.

“pas beaucoup d'un homme à femmes, êtes-vous?” he smiled crookedly, climbing into the driver’s seat before Myles could answer.

Myles, silently fuming, slammed the door of the back seat and vowed that he would never tip any French man as long as his long life would permit him. Emily made herself comfortable in the cracking leather seats, and rested the side of her head against the windowsill, which proved unwise since the window burned ice. She cursed, turning to Myles, who instinctively shook his head; knowing perfectly well that she knew he knew she knew that Myles cherished his personal space, and would grow exceedingly uncomfortable if she were to do something absurd . . . like rest her head on his chest. 

Myles paled at the idea and turned his nose to the window, trying to pretend he hadn’t heard Emily’s 

chaste sigh of disgruntlement.

The engine sputtered, coughed, and then rumbled to life, causing the car to lurch into motion. Nighttime whirled into a blur, and they were off.

After twenty or so minutes, still half an hour away from the Four Seasons Hotel, Emily drifted to a deep sleep, invading Myles’ personal bubble by latching herself onto his side. The driver glanced at the mirror and smirked at Myles’ too obvious blush. Emily buried her face into his chest, and Myles could smell the faint, sweet, nectarine fragrance of her perfume. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and stared miserably out the window.

“yeux sur la route,” Myles mumbled irritably at the driver, squirming awkwardly in his seat. Emily protested and slid a hand under his coat, and Myles gulped. The driver chuckled, thoroughly amused, and obeyed his customer.

“bénir l'amour des jeunes,” he murmured in response.

Myles glared at the driver before gingerly plucking Emily’s hand from his chest and dropped it at a safe distance away from him. Emily snorted and turned sleeping positions, shifting into a more agreeable position a seat far from a very relieved Myles. She sighed deeply and then wrapped her arms tightly around her legs, a shivering bundle of light night wear in thin leather boots.

She truly is freezing, Myles thought with a quirk of an eyebrow.

He sighed, subdued, and extracted his coat from his body, draping it carefully over Emily, who immediately ceased quivering from the cold. He unwrapped his scarf from his neck and swathed Emily’s neck with it, trying his very best to ignore the amused nod of approval the driver gave him.

Myles didn’t really mind the cold, and seeing as there was more than twenty minutes left to the ride, he made himself comfortable and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax.

“You win,” he whispered, before falling to sleep.

***

The striped black and white taxi rolled into the Four Season’s gateway, wheels slowing to a smooth and steady stop The boy, the driver noticed, eventually drifted to sleep, a look of pure content that hadn’t been apparent when he was first awake smoothing the premature creases on his forehead. The girl had rested her delicate head in the crook of his neck, and the boy his chin on the crown of her head. The driver peered at them more closely, and was pleased to find that the couple’s hands were clasped tightly together; the boy’s thumb gently caressing the girl’s palm. They looked serene, besotted even.

And so it was with a heavy and unwilling heart that the taxi driver woke the couple up from their solicitous slumber.

Don't mind me... just posting weird shit per usual

Ophelia Fox was a very sensible person. Had she known that if she had not drifted to sleep, she wouldn’t have ended up in an infinite stretch of white, facing a seamlessly endless ocean.

But she didn’t know, and so you mustn’t blame her.

Anyway, Ophelia stood in the middle of a vast white beach, pearly sand stretching from the far east to the tips and toes of the far west, the water soundlessly rippling by the shoreline. Ophelia took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She was a practical woman, that Ophelia, and so she reasoned with herself that this absurdity would soon fade away if she concentrated really hard and counted to ten. And so she did just that.

Her eyes fluttered open and she lifted her head above. Instead of a spinning ceiling fan, an endless expanse of radiant blue greeted her, a distant cluster of clouds gathering in the far horizon.

“Well,” she thought to herself, observing the glittering waters, “I might as well get a tan out of it.”

So Ophelia slipped out of her green silk robe and spread it carefully on the beach. She laid herself down on the ground and stretched her arms to her sides, scooping handfuls of cotton soft sand. She felt each grain slide softly back to the beach before she laced her fingers and placed them just under her head.

No seagulls cawed. No dolphins squealed. Only silence welcomed her.

Ophelia squinted her eyes as she studied the pale burning sun. She frowned; clearly she was wasting her time. She lifted herself from the ground and neatly tucked her knees beneath her legs, denting her lower lip. The sky was growing darker, but only by a little. It wasn’t even noticeable if she were being perfectly honest with herself, which she was. Thin clusters of white clouds sailed soundlessly just above her head and the water churned and frothed, plashing gently near the shoreline.

She saw a shock of red scuttle sideways towards her and then it scurried right past her. Ophelia looked behind her to find more endless white. The crab, she noticed, was nowhere insight.

“Where am I,” she wondered out loud, a smidge of worry tugging her lower stomach. She glanced at the sky and her eyebrows narrowed.

The clouds were thickening, getting dimmer and dimmer. Thick plumes twisted and shifted, darkening into a steely grey color. On it a single transparent message: FAKE.

Ophelia’s stomach clenched unpleasantly. She blinked once at the clouds, and the print was no more. She exhaled in relief, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Ophelia gave a dizzy laugh. “This is all turning out to be very odd,” she said to no one in particular. She rested her face on the palm of her hands before stretching them away from her, feeling her elbows chink and crack.

And then Ophelia gasped.

She brought her hands to her face. Tiny, miniscule, blood red scribe etched every inch of bare skin in swirls and patterns, forever shifting in and out of place. She gulped, peering closely at her palms: FAILURE, FAKE, FAILURE, FAKE.

Ophelia shut her eyes, balling her hands into tight fists. She opened her eyes and forced herself to cast a quick glance at both her hands. They were their usual olive self, not a single word in sight.

She giggled shakily and then laughed, going on her tiptoes and spreading her arms above her head, rolling her neck this way and that.

And then she shrieked.

The sky was dense with heavy, bruised, thunderous clouds. Not a shaft of clear sky was visible. Lightning pierced the atmosphere, forming more words: FAKE, NOBODY, UGLY, FAKE, 

FAILURE, FAKE, FAKE.

The sun was nowhere in sight. And the sea crashed violently along the shore, raging dangerously near her. The sand was no longer white, but a murky brown, thousands upon thousands of inky black scorpions spiraling by her feet, spelling the words:

FAKE, FAKE, NOBODY, STUPID, UGLY, FAILURE, FAKE, FAKE, FAKE.

And the ground was tearing, wide cracks slicing the barren ground, and the scorpions were hissing, waving their tails frighteningly close to her feet, and the sky was splitting, booming thunder screaming in her ear.

And Ophelia was not alright. She was not alright.

The wind came tumbling down, snatching Ophelia’s robe with it, hissing the same words over and over into her ear: FAKE, FAKE, NOBODY, STUPID, UGLY, FAILURE, FAKE, FAKE, FAKE. . .

And Ophelia screamed, smashing her hands against her ears, trying desperately to block out those horrible, horrible words.

And were the scorpions getting bigger?

They rattled by her feet, pricking and stabbing and spiking her ankles and shins and calves, whispering the same things over and over and over: FAKE, FAKE, NOBODY, STUPID, UGLY, FAILURE, FAKE, FAKE, FAKE. . .

And they ripped at the hemming of her nightgown, tattering it to millions of pieces as they punctured her bleeding, blistering feet.

And Ophelia howled, flicking the scorpions away from her, hoping they would die and never ever move once more.

The lightening electrocuted the beach, the sea along with it, and more scorpions pitter-pattered towards her, clinging to her sleeves, her fingers, her hair, and they bit her skin and stabbed her neck and tore her gown to nothing. And they did it over and over again until Ophelia was forced on her knees.

And Ophelia wailed, jerking her head at the nips of the beasts, sobbing as the poison erupted into burning fire in her veins.

And Ophelia was not alright. She was not alright.

She could feel her subconscious giving in to the suffering and agony, and her clarity drained piece by piece, snatching bits of her sanity with it. 

And then the words vanished from sight, dwindling back into nothing.

And the scorpions melted into the sand, and the beach returned to its pearly white self.

And the clouds faded back to a radiant blue sky, and the sea quieted to gentle splashes along the shore.

And Ophelia died, because there was nothing else she could do.

Weee.

I looked at him, hurt and lost. His timid figure stood in front of me, dark, unknowing. I couldn't say anything; all words were choked up in my throat. I stared ahead, refusing to let the tears drop, refusing him the pleasure of seeing me in misery and pain.

"So..." He said casually

I gulped, hunching my shoulders automatically, pulling off the act of invisibility, failing as I watched his face contort into pity. Rage started to pour through me, and I felt it trickle down the back of my throat, a sour taste in my mouth.

"I - ," I paused, not knowing how to respond, "I hope that you have a good life."
I turned away, slowly putting one foot in front of another. I tried to ignore the rage, and just walk away, without causing another reason for him to call after me or look at me anymore.

"Wait a minute." He huffed, turning me around.

And that's when I snapped.

"Oh yes, I will wait a minute. In fact, I'll wait an hour because I was so smitten with you!" I yelped in anger, "I should have guessed that you were with someone else, when we were dating! How dare you tell me to wait, when you can't wait for me at all?"
He looked at me, his eyes widening in astonishment.
"And you know what?" I accused him, "You'll never find someone who'll love you. The way that you act, the way that you so blatantly disregard a relationship, no one is ever going to want you! I hope you burn in hell, you insufferable bastard!" With that, I pushed him; hard, making him stumble back, staring at me with hurt decipherable in his eyes. I turned on my heel, slamming the door and running out, tears now streaming down my face. Hot, angry tears that I rubbed away furiously, when I suddenly bumped into someone.
They held my elbows whilst I struggled, "Are you okay?"
"You can go to tell your friend to -" I was cut off, by him picking me up and tossing me over his back.
"Shut up." His voice was amused. "What happened?"

I shrieked, kicking him and falling off as he startled. "Your asshole of a friend."

I got bored in Religion. May add more later. It got stupid. That's why I stopped there.

The Crowned Fool

The poem reads...

Sentiments for a fool,
a fool who wears a crown,
a beak he has, for a tool,
but all that's predicted is going down.
A flap, a croak as she falls,
is all that the rebellion shall need.
All that he's left with is a crawl,
sad, sad king with a wholesome deed.
The clock rings one and the laughter stops.
Today we remember the fallen king
who got greedy and supported the sops.
But now is vanquished, what a thing. 

For English

Science is prevalent in all aspects of life. Except in dreams. That’s where science tries to compensate by informing the people of the stages of sleep that a person goes through.  
What they haven’t realised is that during the sleeping stages; the body heals itself from whatever is plaguing it. And if encouraged correctly, with sleepwalkers inducing the brain, the body is often able to heal itself completely.
A broken leg takes a matter of an hour. A malignant tumour takes three.
And right now, our researchers are working on a way to heal a body from death. Conceptually, it’s possible. The body can be regenerated, and there would probably be a limitation on how long the person could be dead for, to be revived again. For if the mind or soul no longer existed, there were no dreams to enter.
So far, however, the research shows that it can be a long time; longer than the Earth’s existence in the desolate universe. This would help us gain multiple opportunities; finally we would be capable to determine what would happen to the soul after the body died.  

Where the problem lies, however, is society. Society is corrupt in all senses. Not having a brain of their own, they follow what the governments proclaim, amusingly resembling the Pied Piper leading the children off a cliff. If anyone was to get ahold of our information; of our ideas, and experiments; the power that is held in our hands could be used in the wrong way; to damage the body as opposed to heal it. 
I am a sleepwalker. My husband, Rory, had died a month ago through a murder, and I was approached by an agency that had gone through all my possessions, my private information, everything and everyone that I’d ever been associated with. I would not give up until I brought him back to life; even if it cost me my death. His dead body, along with multiple others, lay cold, pale and dead on the ice counters, in an attempt to keep the organs somewhat intact.

“Ready to go under?” The operative looked at me anxiously; sweat dripping down her face, even though the room was cold. This was the first time we were going to attempt to revive the dead, and Rory was our initial subject. I had been given a set of instructions, that involved stimulating the brain again, and then coaxing my husband’s subconscious out. Due to our close relationship, the company had deemed that his mind would seek mine out; as a solace from all the pain and misery experienced on the other side. My insides were trying to claw themselves out, and I was close to hyperventilating; taking deep breaths. If I botched this up; we were going to shut down this idea, only using our abilities to heal people.
I nodded, gingerly climbing up on the table before helping the operative attach myself to the bed. Everything that my spiritual body did would be reflected by my physical form. Since this was our first time, I had to expect the worst. I had to expect the unexpected.

The operative extracted the syringe, almost dropping it leaving streaks of moisture on the outer packaging. She wiped her clammy hands hurriedly against her uniform, before placing it on the table next to me. This needle was large; perhaps the extra dosage to keep me sedated for a longer period of time. I nodded again, and once again, she rubbed her hands on her uniform before picking up the syringe, situating the tip of the needle on the outside of my wrist, before releasing the sedative through my system. I cried out in pain, as I felt the needle exit my body – but I quickly got bleary-eyed.
Had.

To.

Concentrate.

N…

 ~

“Mel?” I heard a voice, so clear and bright, clouded with confusion. “How did you get here?”
I opened my eyes, and once I saw him standing there, looking at me – eyebrows furrowed, I closed them quickly again. Lifting a hand, I cast my hand around around where I was sleeping. Grass. Freshly cut, from the identical bristles. There was no smell in here; but they’d warned me about that. Apparently, the ability to smell was forgotten within the first week of death.
Of course, this was all theoretical. I opened my eyes cautiously, and saw a field. Beautifully maintained; there were patches of flowers around, and a whole section was obviously reserved for the fruit.

“Have you done this?” I asked quietly, running my hands through the hordes of flowers; realising that they were all chrysanthemums; my favourites.
He looked at me, murmuring a tinny yes. I’d never expected it to be this easy to find him. Even healing took longer than this. Instead of taking a long time for his body to be able to function properly; it might be a quick procedure.
“We have to go.” I smiled at him. “Now.”
The furrow between his eyes got deeper. “Where to?”
“I’m taking you home.” I spoke gently, “I’m going to bring you back to life. Have you met anyone else down here?”
He shook his head, and took my hand, squeezing lightly as I pursued my lips in determination. The heavier sedative had been unnecessary and now it would be harder to wake up; and to bring his mind back into his body, before encouraging it to heal it as well.
A gate appeared in front us, suddenly and beyond it, the image was blurred, shimmering.
“Walk through.” I muttered. “Be right behind you.”
He frowned, but listened to what I said. Our joys and sorrows could be celebrated later; I just had to make sure my mind could get out safely. 
However as soon as he stepped through, the silhouette of his body disappearing, the gate shut close.
My eyes widened in alarm as I experienced a sudden sensation of falling, and then my heart was taking flight and I sat up in horror in my bed back at the hospital.

“He’s breathing.” The operative squealed at me and I just looked at her, pity for her obliviousness. Death was meant to occur for a reason. For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. Nature was never meant to be messed around with.

“I’m dying.” I croaked out, and her eyes grew big, scared. She screamed for someone to aid me, and looking at her, I grimaced, pulling on her hand to urge her to look at my mouth. “Tell him… that I l-“

Not that good, I'm aware; I was in a rush to write this because I didn't have any time! I like the plot though; I may try to develop it.
I'm also aware that this was a bit too rushed, sigh. 

Anyway. 

Anyway. 

Dammnit, I wish I COULD WRITE.