I made a few studies (sketches) for the cover of a children’s book I am planning to write and illustrate. This one is my favorite so far. I want to include Babar in the story or make him the main protagonist if Little Miss Sasi would not mind.

copyright 2013 JMKhapra

Their wedding would be soon.  Hethurin had no idea if he was invited.  It seemed Xanaroth wasn’t sure either.  Perhaps he had nothing to do with the invitation list.  Hethurin made a mental note to buy a gift anyway.  He would send it.  He thought it best if he didn’t go, invited or not.

He turned the page, taking a moment to write down a few more things in his notes.  Luckily, despite not being able to study it a bit before returning home last night, this book seemed to be exactly what he was looking for.  It had the spell adjustments he needed, as well as a few new incantations to study.  The adjustments were most important.  He needed them now.

He had planned to wait until after Xyliah and Berwick’s wedding to return to the library, but he wound up needing the information before that.  That was why he made a quick trip in the evening by himself.  He had grown fond of taking Desdeyliri with him to visit places, and the library, though they had been there before, was one of the regular spots that they had to visit.  Hethurin’s own library was lacking, despite the number of bookshelves in the home.  He was slowly trying to build it.  He ordered books while in Tranquillien and Shattrath, and he would frequent the market in search for books in the lower city.  He missed having access to the large libraries in Dalaran, and hated making trips to Silvermoon.  He needed to fill his own shelves with relevant books.

He kept his books for his own studies in his room, bringing them out in his satchel to his practice room or study, when he needed to.  Library books on the subject often sat on a separate shelf in his room.  He had brought a few of them down with him tonight.  He closed the larger one after jotting down a few more things in his notes.

He had gone with Desdeyliri to the Bronze Dragonshrine only a few days ago.  Things had not changed much there since the last time he had visited.  The dragons fought overhead, every now and then, stopping time and restarting.  It was a strong spell.  Hethurin thought it might have to do with anchoring at a certain point in time, but to pull others with you was quite powerful indeed.  He and Desdeyliri were able to observe from the stairs into the shrine without being affected by the spell itself.

He wasn’t quite sure why he took Desdeyliri there.  He could have just as easily gone himself, but he wasn’t sure why he wanted to do that either.  Was he looking for permission?  He glanced at the small jar with a bit of sand in it.  It had been taken from the shrine.  It was sand that was on his shoes, and it would have left the shrine anyway.  It was one of the few things he had taken to Shattrath.  When he left Shattrath, it was one of the few things he brought with him.  He doubted Aeramin missed it.

He started looking over his notes and comparing what was written on the loose paper.  He made a few corrections.  This spell made him nervous.  So far, he had only gone to the future on the same day, but this one was made to skip a few days.  He would arrive about an hour in advance, he hoped.  He would have to remember that, in the future when it was really his time.  He thought it best if he used an invisibility spell after arriving as well.  His plan was to teleport to his bedroom, and open one of the windows.  From there, he would have a clear view of the garden.  With the invisibility spell, no one would see him.  If for any reason he tired of maintaining the spell, he could easily move back from the window, and still watch while remaining unseen.

He looked down at the paper with the spell, and took a deep breath.  He noted his position how he was standing and where his hands were.  It was important as he would return to the same moment he left.  If anyone was watching, they wouldn’t notice him gone at all.  He read over the spell one last time in his head, and glanced at the clock.  He closed his eyes and recited the spell aloud.

He opened his eyes.  The time had changed.  The rat that he kept in a cage in his practice room, was now running in a wheel that Tik had made for it.  It had been sleeping before.  The sunlight showered light into the room.  The time he had just left was dark, almost night, and raining.  The clock put him at exactly the right time that he had been aiming for, but was it the right day?  He cast his invisibility spell and teleported to his bedroom.

The window was already open.  A chair had been placed near the window, along with a small telescope.  Hethurin smiled.  He had prepared for himself.

He sat by the window, maintaining his invisibility, and prepared to watch over himself for the next few hours.

“What is your name?” Chandresh asked.

“Suraiya!” she said, smiling shyly. He sat there watching the red glow of fire playing on her bronzed face. Her huge, dark eyes, her nose pin that sparkled like a star. Her soft full lips, that appeared to be always smiling.

She was cooking the dinner for their small group.

He was traveling with this caravan of gypsies; he wanted an insight in their life so he could write his next novel.

Someone coughed gently; Suraiya quickly covered her head with her veil. She was not supposed to let it slip from her head… but they both have been flirting harmlessly ever since he joined the group.

He was painting her as one of his characters.

He looked up; a tall, handsome man was standing there. He said something to Suraiya in a gruff voice. She quickly left the place.

Another woman took her place.

He never saw her again.

On his last day with the caravan he asked the woman who has replaced Suraiya, “What happened to the girl who used to cook before you…”

The woman looked all around her, when she was confirmed that no one was watching she whispered, “Her lover stabbed her… she was a light hearted girl and he is insanely jealous… he saw her flirting with someone….”

Sharmishtha Basu

writes for

“Uh oh!” She gasped, “The tour bus is coming by. Quick! Hide behind my legs! We’ll have a big to do if the driver sees you all here with me!”

Nestor, Vernon and Rod quickly ducked behind Wisteria’s legs just as the bus came into view. The driver, a very pretty young woman with streaky blonde hair, stopped the bus along side Wisteria’s habitat. “Okay boys and girls.” the driver said in a happy voice into her intercom, “On our left is our African elephant habitat. Say hello to Wisteria everyone. She’s one of the young ladies of our elephant family here at the zoo. Wisteria is 24 years old and weighs a svelte 6200 pounds and stands seven and a half feet tall at the shoulder. Isn’t she magnificent?”

A chorus of oohs and ahhs and wows came from the crowd of children and their parents on the bus.

As if on cue, Wisteria trumpted happily.

“She says hi to you all!”, said the tour guide. “If we’re lucky we might get to see Wisteria give herself a bath. It’s getting close to the time of day when she goes over to her pond, sucks up a bunch of water into her trunk and sprays it over her back to cool off.

” Sorry in advance, boys.” said Wisteria. “Okay, follow along with me and stay behind my legs.” She started walking toward her pond, with Rodney, Vernon and a very nervous Nestor inching along with her, practicing the art of not being seen.

When they got to the pond, Wisteria, stuck her trunk in the water momentarily and then raised it up over her back and sprayed water all over…all over her…all over Rodney…all over Vernon…and worst of all, all over Nestor, a very unhappy, very wet kitty.  “Uh…meow.” he complained. Vernon snickered.

Everyone on the bus applauded. “Okay everyone. Our next stop is the meerkat habitat.” said the tour guide as she pulled the bus away from Wisteria’s habitat.

“Mere cat?!” said Nestor, “There’s nothing mere about a cat. Cats are great! We’re not mere!” He shook his little kitty fist at the bus as it drove away.

“Calm down little friend,” Wisteria soothed him, ” Now as I was saying before we were interrupted…”

She could swear that the waterfall emerged out of nowhere, as she was sucked, or most probably shoved underground and entered a underground tunnel, trying her best to not drown in that rushing water.

She has been walking on the shore, for hours, looking for any sign of life, when she slipped and fell into the lake.

She was swimming to the shore when the water of the lake suddenly parted around her, the lake shrunk and she felt a sudden weightlessness, then the water fell below, like a waterfall with her.

She fell on rock, the water saved her from hurt, she was trying hard to regain her steps then the avalanche of water fell on her, out of nowhere at all. Now she was flowing with the water in an underground tunnel.

Heaven only knew what was waiting on other side.

Jimmy placed his binoculars aside and ran inside. He had to tell mommy what he saw right now.

He was doing his favourite thing, watching the anthill with his daddy’s binocular zoomed to the maximum point.

There was a small waterhole beside it, he called it their lake, he saw a strange insect crawling beside it; the insect looked just like a miniature girl, only it was deep red in colour. It slipped into the waterhole;

A little later an ant came there, it was not from the anthill, it was bigger, and it was carrying a strange thing in its mouth that looked like a pitcher, it dipped the pitcher in the waterhole, scooped out water, but the girl-like insect too got sucked inside.

When the ant saw the girl-like it dropped the water in a drain like ditch, then it dropped another pitcher full at it, to wash it away. The girl-like insect vanished.

Mommy was in kitchen, she was baking cake; the kitchen was filled with its yummy aroma.

“O honey!” mommy hugged him to her soft body; it smelt like the cake she was baking when she heard his story.

She dipped her face in his curly hair and kissed his head.

“Tell me what else you see!” she softly smiled.
He ran out of the kitchen as she watched tenderly at his disappearing back.

He looked out of the window, lightning was dancing in the sky, thunder was applauding and rain was singing. Pouring down lavishly!

His eyes fell on the window opposite to his, across the road, someone was standing there, it was a woman; he could see that by the brief flashes of light that the lightning provided him.

He thought that the house was empty… seemed his neighbour was enjoying the rain. She stood there gazing outside the window, he watched her for a while, the distance was ample enough to forbid him to guess her age or her looks, but the curves of her body hinted she was a young woman.

He fell asleep after a while.

He woke up real late; the cool weather tricked him into a long, peaceful sleep after a fortnight of sleep deprivation. It was so tiring to shift accommodations single handedly, even if one hired good movers to do the packing and moving! He rushed for the office without breakfast.

Her thought first popped up in his mind when he took the turn towards his house, he walked slowly, deliberately, to catch another glimpse… why he was not sure but he was truly curious about this woman… he was not even remotely desperate for a lover, mate, wife… but…

The house looked unkempt… the grass of the lawn was too overgrown, so were the hedges and bushes that seemed like flower plants.

The road in between was quite wide, so it was not possible for him to observe from his side of the road, so he went upstairs.

The window was shut. It was colourless… in bad need of a coat of paint.

He went to bed early, after setting the alarm…

A sweet melody woke him up, someone was singing, the window across the street was open… she was standing at the window, looking outside, singing…

He did not understand the language… but her voice was sweet, magical and his eyes glued shut.

A crashing sound woke him up; he opened his eyes… there were two men in his room.

“He is up you clumsy fool!” one of them hissed.

He saw the flash of a silver blade in the hand of the one rushing towards his bed. His eyes fell on the window across the road… she was standing there watching… the next second she was in the room… both men ran screaming… he fainted.

Next morning he went to the house, after knocking an old man opened the door.

“You have seen her, have not you?” he asked directly.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“She was my aunt, my father’s sister. She fell in love with an Indian man; my father had her lover killed. She went lucid after that. Kept herself confined in that room till she died….” The old man answered. A deep sigh escaped his chest. “Her grave is behind our house. In case….”

It was under a Krishnachura tree, the grave was covered by the red petals of the flowers…with a simple inscription… here lies Isabella… in her eternal sleep.

Sharmishtha Basu

writes for

Photography: OOhGeePhotography

So.. I have been thinking about life in the scheme of everything lately. I tend to think of this most often, but especially now due to the loss of one of my dearest friends a few weeks ago. His rare and unforgettable love has caused me to reevaluate my own way of living. I have always  been obsessed with wanting to live an extraordinary life. But what does “extraordinary” mean? Well.. I suppose beyond the ordinary. However, I am beginning to think: What if the ordinary moments are actually the extraordinary ones?? ( I hope I haven’t lost you).

Let me explain:

So in my own life I have noticed that some of my favorite memories are the simple ones. Where someone expressed love to me, rather it be a  friend, lover, sister, brother, parent, co-worker, janitor, artist, and the list goes on. I realized the occupation of the person normally did not matter, but the way they made me feel did. We hear the stereo typical tales about: the work-a-holic who was the founding CEO, but one thing he regrets is he missed his son’s baseball game, the actress who found stardom, but lost her heart in the process, the silent artist who paints just to be heard, or maybe, the model who just wanted to be seen as beautiful. Most of our actions are motivated by the desires to be loved. Sometimes we think we must do some thing extraordinary in order to win the affections of those around us so that “they”,the people we desire to love us, feel we are worthy of their love.
But what if  you did not have to be anything, but you. You did not need a wild or supreme title. But you could simply be, and that was enough. That you were irreplaceable and irrevocably loved.

The more i realize how important it is to love, and be loved. The less I am worried about who I “grow up to be.” I know longer box myself into an identity based on occupation, talent, skill, connection, image, etc. I find out that I merely hope to love others well. Love has many faces, but one heart beat. I am not sure what it looks like to you, but I know what it feels like.

Love is:

1Cor. 13:4-8 (Not to be clique, but as a reminder)
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. (NIV)

These ordinary moments of love have been overlooked, not due to their inferiority, but their simplicity. But I believe that is why the extraordinary life is experienced by few. It is the hidden joys discovered in the mist of mundane routine that each day has the possibility of being meaningful.

Dedicated to: Zachary David Mills

Zach, You truly have been and will always be extraordinary. You were the first person I knew who personified the unconditional love of God.  You made the most ordinary moments extraordinary. You so graciously invited those around you (regardless of who they were) to accompany you on daring adventures that would changes us inside and out. Daring simply because you dared to love without cost, and very few have had the courage to do that.

One more bird before I get back to work.

It is drizzling outside and through the window I can see the rain drops falling. Each drop resembling the size and shape of the ‘bindi’ on my forehead. I watch each rain drop as it takes shape, first into a round transparent ball and then it widens, elongates and soon bursts into multiple miniature droplets again. Like the magic of the circle of Life, I wonder! Rain has always fascinated me, reminding me of the days my heart used to weep continuously, almost synchronizing with the falling rain drops………………..

It was ten years ago (but now the ten years seem like ten decades!) that I lived in a comfortable flat in a middle class locality, under the patronage of ‘Ayya’ (respected Sir). I called him Ayya, not just for his age but there was something in his character that demanded respect. He carried himself in a dignified manner, always neatly dressed in starched white linen shirts and walked erect commanding admiration at his every stride.

More than all these I had tremendous faith in him as he was the one  who had rescued me from my plight; he brought me out from the red light area and taken this flat in his name and literally transformed my life altogether. That was my salvation and he was my Savior, I thought at that time.   

My past, especially my teens seemed like a bad dream; my beauty, which I thought was a blessing, had indeed turned out to be my curse. Being a final year school   dropout and a rebel at home, looking for the bright prospects in the film city landed me finally in the red light area. By the time I learnt my lessons in life, it was already too late for redemptions.

Ayya, a regular visitor there had taken a fancy for me, heard my sob story and brought me out of the miry clay in to this bright world again (heard he had used his political influence and money power for that). I could hardly contain my happiness those days and would sing and dance around in the house like a winged butterfly gaining her freedom!

Soon the reality of the situation brought me down to earth, hitting me hard straight on my head, I felt.  I was indeed free but nowhere to go, no one to talk to, and no one to communicate and share my newly earned ‘freedom – story’. The other women in the apartment never spoke to me as they knew that Ayya was only ‘an hour’s visitor’ there and soon I was christened the ‘other woman’, and spoken about in hush – hush tones. Men secretly looked at me admiring my beauty, that’s when their wives were not noticing, and even children were emphatically tucked away from me, if at all there was any contact with them.

In this scenario it was like a breath of fresh air for me to see the smiling face of Mangalam, the maid who had agreed to work for me. She had a bright face and the large ‘kumkum’ (bindi) on her fore head reminded me of the color of the red soil in my village farm. I used to bribe her with an extra cup of tea just to make her stay a little longer as I longed for human company. After finishing her work she would sit by the balcony window and tell me the local gossips and keep me informed of the neighborhood news. She would talk in detail about her other employer, a young lady named, Tara, and her engagement in social activities.

 After Mangtala’s visit, it was the dusk that would brighten my heart and on the onset of the twilight rays I would start dressing up for the ‘evening visitor’ as it was time for ‘Ayya’ s visit. On the sound of Ayya’s car approaching the building, I would jump like a gazelle looking for her mate and welcome him. Adorning  the freshly tied ‘kundu mallies’ (the big jasmines) on my long plaited braid, I prided myself in satisfying him in bed and then would sit at his feet pressing his legs waiting for him to say a few words to me………..

It was then I realized I had become pregnant, by accident I must admit. I cried and pleaded with him for the life within me to grow, to be my companion in my loneliness.  Initially he refused, eventually gave in to my constant begging and that s how Meena came into my life.

 Meena, her eyes shaped like a swirling fish was a bubbly, sparkling bundle of joy. We were knit together with chords of love from conception, and suddenly my world changed and there was meaning to life itself, I felt. The gurgling sound of her laughter, not only fed my hungry appetite for companionship but also made me feel a part of mother Earth itself. Sensed a strange oneness with nature by becoming part of the unexplainable mystery of giving birth to another life on this Earth and she was her gift to me, I felt. 

 She was 3 yrs old and even today I remember that evening so vividly. I was practicing in many ways of how I was going to approach the topic of Meena’s schooling to ‘Ayya’, and finally did with great hesitation and much faltering. His was an instant reaction, and a totally different character of ‘Ayya’, I saw that very moment. He snapped at me saying, “appan peyar theriyatha valuku entha schoolae edem kodipangae” (which school will give a admission for a child who’s father’ name is not known). He screamed and abused me using unheard of vocabulary and left the house threatening me the ultimate option of staying there as before or to walk out with my little daughter. He ridiculed me and said I would be left on the streets like a stray dog begging for food, if I decided to take the second option. He then walked out of the house in fury leaving me feeling numbed at heart. I lay there that night, my body curved around little Meena’s and tears kept rolling down my cheeks as if it was coming from an unending source.

‘Where could I go with my little daughter,’ my mind wandered if I would even enter my village I will be stoned to death. Could I find a job like mangala? Who would employ me, not even a widow! But the greatest tragedy of my life, I realized, was to have given birth to a child and not being able to give her the normal growing up experiences that every child is entitled to. The experience of playing with other kids and to have the joy of attending the regular school program. To add to my misery, Mangala did not come home for the next two days. There was not even a phone call from Ayya and I was happy that I was left alone by him to sort out my wretched state of affairs.

 The third day Mangala arrived but her face was covered with the with saree  pallu. When I insisted on removing it, to my horror found her face badly bruised. On enquiry she narrated her story in a monotonous tone that lacked vibrancy and her body did not carry the vividness that is  her usual self and she said,“  Amma two days back my husband came home drunk & started abusing and beating me .This had become a daily ritual at home & I felt it was not healthy for my kids to grow up in such an atmosphere. That very moment I decided to leave him. With Tara amma’s help I rented kudisai (hut) for three of us and this morning I moved in there with my kids”, she finished.

As I heard her story, something burst within me and like a tornado hitting the dam wall and flooding the place, I started sobbing uncontrollably, and the next minute was pouring out my plight to my maid with word tumbling out with emotion. Sorrow knows no boundaries, and words poured out in pain and anguish have no discrimination of class but have  a soothing, equalizing effect on human beings, I realized. 

That out -pour actually was a turning point in my life story. What happened after that was like a bollywood movie script, a dream come true a life- script for me Mangala introduced me to her other employer Tara, a kind hearted young entrepreneur who owned a chain of beauty salons in the city.

 Tara took me as a trainee in one of her parlor and also helped me to get a tiny one- room apartment for Meena and me to stay. Under her able training, I learnt the art of beauty treatments very quickly and even enrolled myself in the Government Institute for Beauty Training and finished the evening classes’ certificate course successfully.  Very strangely, we noticed there wasn’t any enquiry from ‘Ayya’ or from his office and Tara exclaimed her connections with the Human Rights Commission could be the answer to the puzzle. He did not want to tarnish his public image and destroy the ‘vote bank’ for the forth coming elections with my story hitting the local news papers , Tara explained.

Above all these, to me the greatest moment of joy was when Tara enrolled little Meena in a Chettiar Community ( Business caste sect from Tamil Nadu )Charity School nearby .At the school she filled in the form  and gave it to me for my signature and then I saw against the father’s name, “deceased”. I looked at her and she silently nodded and reassured me that it was alright and indeed that’s how I should consider it from then on; she advised just signing that form was symbolically a closure of the past for Meena and me.

 Today Meena is ten years old, and stands tall and beautiful among her classmates. I say she stands tall not for her physical features alone, but, it’s the fact she stands equal with others, without being chastised by the stigma of her birth. 

Today I am a successful entrepreneur running my own beauty parlor. Of course it was Tara who helped me get a bank loan and setup the parlor in a decent locality nearby. We are surrounded by so many people here who become our friends through the parlor; people who love Meena and me and treat us as their own family members. They tell me that there is a healing touch at the parlor and a serene peace prevalent at this place.

Many comment on the name saying it is a peculiar one, but quite apt as it is situated in the cross roads, they decide. Little do they know the real meaning, that I named it The Cross Roads Beauty Parlor to be a constant remainder for me of the day I realized that every individual has a choice of how to live her life and to take control of every step of once own way!   

‘I hear whitenoise.’

‘What?’ the grating sound of pained annoyance at this person’s voice.

‘I am tuning into a different channel,’ said the televisionary, miming the action of spinning a dial.

The woman squinted at Moonwire and she chuckled.

‘Ha ha, they made you a jigsaw piece; a running beast; a tool of the prosaic. Ha ha.’

‘What do you mean, you crazy old bat?’

‘Ah, I see my spirit animal is singing to people again. What I mean is, you rude young girl. That they have a person riding you. Or rather something that thinks it is a person but is more a puppet or a mask than anything independently operating.’

‘And it can’t hear us talking about it now?’

‘No, not here. This place is blanketed in static; you’re invisible here.’

‘Can it be removed?’

‘Surely, but that might not be the best solution.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘A tulpa – something for it to feed on and feedback information from – a dream for its sustenance.’

‘And you know how to do that?’

She smiled. She knew that she was really speaking to Moonwire now, and not the thing that had been seeping its poison into her.

The Televisionary placed forefinger and thumb on either side of Moonwire’s head, slid her fingers to the centre of her forehead, until they met, and suddenly clicked her fingers, and there it was … the thoughtform; the tulpa. And Moonwire could see the thing clasped about it in a murderous embrace.

‘And now we give it a program.’

‘A program?’

‘Oh, yes – there are many screens in here; many channels. Do you not think there are others who have come here and been helped by us in a similar way? If you were to channel surf through these old goggle boxes you would find enough demons to make Legion look like the great pretender.’

‘So, how do you do that? Put it into a program.’

‘Hand me the remote.’

‘OK.’

‘Good, I am retuning him. Now look at that screen.’

Moonwire was not easily shocked, but seeing the vision of her with the monster riding her was not something she could easily process.

‘Good, you are free to go.’

‘This is weird – this keeps happening to me; people help me and then they tell me to leave; tell me that that was the only thing they have for me and I am to never see them again.’

‘Yes, your story is a fast-paced one, Moonwire. You are hurtling towards a meeting with an immoveable object.’

‘A what?’

‘No, a who. And yes, you must leave now, and not come back; this show cannot be repeated. Ha ha ha.’

And gone; a room vanished. Moonwire stamped her foot – this kind of things was obviously helpful in some regards, but in others it was extremely frustrating.

My name is Rachel. I am figure skater. I made this blog to share my stories of skating life with you <3

Hope you like…

It’s rough – the graphic design will need some work, and these drawings would probably suit part of the ‘Director’s Treatment’ section better, so we can swap them out later, but it’s some progress anyway.

Also, maybe we should come up with a less morbid working title than ‘Death Row’ now…I was thinking it doesn’t really fit into the slides.

Restraining order? Please. Merrian just considers it a challenge.

Click one of the links below to download the PDF or view it in your browser. Enjoy!

A Diary for David (Download File)

A Diary for David (Browser File)

By which I mean the beatings my penis took by his overzealous hormone crazed master. I’m not

sure when I discovered that my penis could be used for more than just bathroom activities. If I

had to guess I would say eleven or twelve. I had never felt guilty about playing with myself until

I actually masturbated and sperm came from my dick. The guilt made me swear that I never do

it again. That next night I did it twice and I was still horny as hell. I am not if it was the

hormones or the masturbating itself but my dreams became increasingly sexual. For the better

part of two years my dreams were wholly of a sexual nature. I watch as much porn is I could of

course but I listened to Dr. Ruth Westheimer on the radio religiously also. I can recall this one

caller who was on to inquery about anal sex between him and his girlfriend. For the next three

months it was literally all I could think about. I had never seen porn showing that particular

sexual act and I just assumed only gay men did that. It would nearly ten years until I could work

up the nerve to ask to do that to a woman. It was worth the wait

“FUCK’EM WITH GREASE

I mentioned that my older brother was a drug addict right? At the time my mother refused to

see what her oldest boy really was. But my other brother and I knew what the fuck what was

going on with this nigga. Normally he would come over high and come down eventually around

us. I fucked hated that shit. Being asked the same question a hundred times got old quick.The

stumbling around knocking shit over. I don’t know if he had athlete’s foot or something kind of

nerological disorder but he would scratch at the top of his feet until they bleed. What really put

it over the top for me was the time he came in sober and launched off in the bathroom. I

thought he was bad before this was a whole new ball game. He went off on a tangent about

making sure you “Fuck’em with grease” At first I didn’t want to know what that meant but after

you hear something so many times you can’t help but get curious. Let’s just say drugs may loosen

some inhibitions you have to screwing the same sex. Again something I could have gone without

knowing my entire self.

DEAD FATHER

My father died in Oct of 88′. My mother offered to pay my way to Tennesse but I told her I had

school to go and could not miss it. I was pretty much done with school at least in my head but I

could not fathom going to a funeral for a man I could hardly remember. I don’t go because he was a

bad man for leaving me before I was eight I just had no feelings for the man. I think my mother

was kind of proud I turned her down.

I got the picture from http://www.shazwanihamid.com/2012/12/inherited-acne-or-cosmetic-acne.html

Last night I went home with a bubbly feeling. I had a great time with my friends, we cooked dinner together (well, we heated food, actually) in my friend’s house, had a great convo, and shared some tales. After some time, we headed home. I had had a nice journey, no traffic at all (it was late at night), Jakarta was at peace. When I reached my bed, I did my night routines. I swapped some cleanse on a fresh cotton wipe, faced my face to the mirror, and I freaked out. Omagah! What on earth has had happened to my face? It looked like it had been occupied by bacteria troops. zillion bacteria troops! Nooo (-_-)Zzz

I guess you know what came next. I infiltrated my face skin with 10% benzoil peroxide plus tea tree night cream  and hoped next morning all the redness would go away. Sadly, the next morning, they’re still there covering my forehead, nose, and chin with the uncool redness.

Time for phase two then. The phase two consisted of embarking 5% benzoil peroxide, tea tree pore minimizer, and aloe vera moisturizer. But wait, maybe I need to do more than that. I looked around my bed and thought maybe it’s time to change my bed sheet.

So here I am now, sitting on the new bed sheet writing this post whilst contemplating my long-life battle with acne. I kinda have tried everything from regular visit to dermatologist, taking prescriptions, facial routines, masks, bottles of toner, moisturizer, and foundation. All with the label acne prone on it. Yet, still I get the acnes. I guess acnes just love me too much that they never want to leave me alone or have I forgotten something really important during the battle? I’ll let you know when I find out.

Cry cheers from the acne invaded girl. xx

for the first 3 months I want to live in a top floor apartment in a building that overlooks downtown New York City. To step out on my balcony at night and see all the lights of the city, I want to walk thru Central Park, and ride in a cab, have Chinese take out delivered and go into the high end stores and shop.

the next 3 months I would spend in a secluded cabin in the mountains. One close to a river. I would spend my days in a river learning to fly fish or going hunting, evenings just relaxing on the porch and enjoying the quiet.

My last stop would be for the remaining 6 months. I would spend these months in a beach house in Australia. Learning the culture and customs, going sight seeing and just loving every minute of listening to them talk. Getting to walk along the beach and see the ocean, feeling the sand in my toes, learning to surf….

Of course all of these things are just that….daydreams. It takes me away from the small town I do live in. The whole place is a mile long, and don’t even have a stop light. Not even one of the flashing yellow caution lights. Its just a 4 way stop and a couple stores….I figure 1500 ppl live here lol Nothing wrong with this at all, but I would like to see other places

Hoping yall have a great weekend!!

even sound bad as I let it swirl in my head and let the keystrokes form the words. I don’t remember a

time when I was without comics as a child. At the time it was my badly needed break from reality. Thor,

Silver Surfer, The X men , The Avengers, The Defenders, Conan the Barbarian, The Teen Titans, Batman,

The Flash, Green Lantern, JUSTICE LEAGUE OF AMERICA, Superman these are a few of my favorite

things. The only way I can equate my virtually need for the ink and story line is that of a junkie is his

natural environment of course who has just came from the dope house with his shit (crack,pcp,meth

etc) in his hand. He inspects it several time before he even get to his spot (place of residence). The need,

the flash in his eyes is what I feel when I get my fix. At an early age I hated when some ass would have

the audacity interrupt me whilst reading my comics!!! The garbage can wait! Cleaning my room can

wait!! Eating can wait!!! Playing ball can wait!! I am reading my comics!! Another pet peeve was when

Frank would come around, grab one of my comics to read and proceed to bend the cover of my newly

bought comics Mother fucker!!!!. Anyway I mark some events, not all, but some of the important

happenings are some of the comic books I read in throughout my life which I will gladly recall for you. I

remember being in the hospital after suffering an asthma attack and reading a comic I had never heard

of, Rom the Space Knight. My mother had taken my brother and I to a movie and of course on the way

we had stopped to get comics I had been Peter Parker the Spectacular Spiderman and in it was the first

appearance of Cloak and Dagger. Normally when bring up my comic book addiction and how it has

shaped me I’ve tried to group them by years like 84′ to 87′ or events in my life (back from the punch

drunk love suicide) I will try to be as precise as possible so no fan boys jump all over my ass

admonishing because I forget in which issue of Thor did Loki turned Thor into a frog.

The kid who introduced me to comics was a guy that lived in a shitter house then I did and who had

relatives that were way stranger than mine ever were. Dibby was closer to my older brother’s age then

mine but nevertheless hung out a lot with my friends and I. He would of course catch shit for it and got

his ass handed to him because of it. To my knowledge he never actually did anything to anybody. He did

smell funny and had the worst clothes I had ever seen and he of course took more shit for that. But he

always came back for more and usually had a smile on his face. He had a grandmother who looked like a

black hobbit/witch of some sort who had at one time sold “icy cups” out of her house which ended

abruptly when someone found a roach in their frozen kool aid cups. His brother or uncle seemed like a

ogre or mountain troll to me as a child. One more than one occasion I can recall Dibby asking his

brother a question and mountain troll launching himself at brother/nephew . I made it a point to stay

clear of this person whose name I can’t remember

Welcome to the Secret Cravings Contemporary Romance Blog Hop and welcome to my blog!  My contemporary romance, Black Irish, was released May 8th on the Sweet Cravings Publishing site.

To celebrate the Contemporary Romance Blog Hop, I am giving the following embroidered pillow, shamrock pin and cover flat to a lucky visitor to my blog!

Just enter a comment on my blog and at the end of the Blog Hop on Sunday night I will pick a winner!  Feel free to ask me a question – I’d be happy to answer!  Or just say “Hi”!

Abbey couldn’t believe he was gay. She nearly ran away from her dreams of being a children’s book writer when she was introduced to her illustrator Sloan O’Riley, a dark, sensual Irishman with incredible blue eyes. He certainly couldn’t be good for Abbey’s relationship with her boyfriend back in Iowa. How could she stay in New York and work with the sinfully sexy Sloan even if he was gay? And when Sloan is threatened to be deported, how far would Abbey go to keep him in the US?