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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Hopelessly Entangled)

My thoughts are consumed by him.

I enter a room and always look for him. Our eyes meet and I see a flash of something almost magical light his eyes. That spark only remains for mere seconds, but I notice it every time before it is smothered. And every time, that single look warms me to the core.

In the past, he would always drift my way. I loved the way he looked at me. I felt for the first time that I could be cherished. It was the first time I didn’t feel just like the ugly duckling drifting alone on the edge of the pond.

Time has passed and I still think of him constantly. But those special looks he would sometimes throw in my direction are coming fewer and fewer. He hasn’t drifted my way.

Doubts are overrunning my mind. I want so badly to hold on to my dreams of us, but they’re slipping. I’ve held onto this hope so long, only to be disappointed again.

Have I been crazy this whole time? Where those looks just a coincidental catch of light in his eyes? Did he ever think me pretty? Did he ever have thoughts of me when we weren’t in the same room?

It seems, once again, I may have overanalyzed and overreached. I picked up on nonexistent clues and more of them than I should have.

Even though the truth I thought I had known for so long is turning out to be a lie, I can’t keep myself from pretending that I'm not so completely wrong. I keep hoping he’ll look at me how he used to, or how I thought he used to.

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Senselessness)

Her death was so out of the blue. She was so young, so how could she have had enough time? How is it fair that she should die so young?

She had so much more life to live. I am guessing the burning fire in her heart, with the passion to live, couldn’t withstand the betrayal of her body.

What is the plan in all of this? I know there is one, but why let her die so young?

In the scope of life, she was just a baby. She was innocent and just trying to find herself like the rest of us.

She wanted to become a doctor. Why couldn’t she have lived, so she could save lives? She would have made a difference in this world and left a great legacy.

She loved music. She played her violin all the time, but she was also accomplished at playing the piano. Why cut that short? Music always touches people’s lives.

It was said at the funeral that she had come and done what she had needed to do. She had completed all she could and it was her time to go home.

I miss her.

But I can’t find comfort. I prayed so hard for Jesus to save her. To let her live to make the decision for heaven or to welcome he in his warm and healing embrace, but I don’t know what was in her heart. I want so badly to say she is living in joy and peace now, but I can’t say that because I don’t know.

Everyone is comforted by the fact she is in heaven, but I am so worried we could be wrong. But, what a cruel world it would be if one as great as her couldn’t be welcomed into the kingdom. If she couldn’t have just had one more chance…

Where is she?

Why did she have to die?

Baggage Claim (Part Eight)

Blood trickled down Chance’s face. He lay unconscious in his mangled car.

A man stepped out of the SUV. He stealthily moved closer to Chance’s defenseless body. Light caught on the silver plated handgun clutched in his fist. The gun pointed at Chance’s head in one swift moment.

The black streets were completely quiet. Nothing seemed to move, as if the Earth was holding her breath, anxiously begging Chance to wake up. Moments slowly passed and the only audible sounds were the slow compression of the gun’s trigger and the slow tapping of gas dripping to the ground.

A vibration of a phone sliced through the heavy silence. The humming gently pierced Chance’s consciousness and he began to stir. Groggy, he tried lifting his laden head, but he felt so bruised and weak.

He reached for his phone on the last vibration, but missed the incoming call.

The loud gunshot ran through the night. Chance instinctively ducked. The bullet pierced the steering wheel where Chance had just rested his head. Gunshots peppered the outside of Chance’s car.

With his mind still clouded from the crash, Chance could only hide and pray that the bullets wouldn’t hit him.

Chance knew the gunman was approaching. The volume of each successive gunshot was increasing steadily. He had to find a way out.

Adrenaline started to kick in. Chance reached under the passenger seat.

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Taylor, I Miss You)

It happened so suddenly.

Some platelets piled up in the wrong vein. She fell down to her knees and no one could possibly predict what horror would encompass the next few days.

She lay peacefully on the ground, but things were seriously wrong.

They rushed her to the hospital. She never fully woke up again.

There was a blood clot in her brain. They operated… And operated… And operated again.

The bleeding wouldn’t stop.

News traveled to me. I prayed for so long.

The prognosis was bleak.

My prayer morphed into a cry for the guardian to save her. To either save her for another day to make the choice for eternal life, or to just be welcomed in His arms.

It was just twenty days before she would turn nineteen. She let her last breath escape and she slipped away. I pray she was welcomed into loving arms.

Our days are numbered and you never know when an accident will happen or simply your body could betray you.

Don’t make a mistake in what you believe.

Baggage Claim (Part Seven)

Chance pressed the gas petal harder and swerved around another slow moving car. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Thoughts of rescuing Genevieve from her worst nightmare forced his protective instincts to rise within him and panic pricked his spine.

Honking horns blared in the background, but Chance ignored them. Focusing solely on driving, he accelerated more. Cars blurred past. Traffic lights faded quickly.

In his peripheral vision, Chance failed to recognize a set of headlights.

He heard the crushing of metal. He saw the blinding light. He felt the air bag burst out of confinement.

Glass sprayed his face and right side. Metal cracked and shattered. The door panel closed in on Chance.

His head was tossed around. His arm was caught between the wheel and the bent door. His shoulder dislocated. The contortion of the door pressed his legs into odd angles. His face was cut and bloodied. His chest felt bruised from the airbag.

The car spun from the impact. Tires squealed. Sounds of the crash reverberated through the dark intersection.

No one had witnessed the collision. 

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (How, or Should it be Why?)

How do you grieve when your mind won’t even grasp that it’s true?

How do you remember when all your memories are trapped in tiny compartments locked away in places in your mind you never visit?

How do you trust others when you can only see your selfishness and know everyone else acts in the same way?

How can you not go insane when you know the truth, but you are too good at denying it, for coping reasons?

How can you let yourself cry when you have worked for years to be strong?

How can you let go when you hold onto everything so tightly?

How can you not be apathetic when you hate hoping for things because you have been disappointed so many times?

How can you be so wrong about something you have held so dear for years?

How can you hope again when you realize how ignorant you have been?

How can you find answers when you only keep the deep questions to yourself?

How can you ask the questions when, in the right moment to inquire, your mind always goes blank?

How do you cope when all you can do is lock everything in a little box and set it aside with the wish it would just go away on its own?

How can you survive when all your plans have been for nothing?

How do you dream when you realize what you have wanted for so long and worked so hard to achieve is just a piece of dust?

How can you find answers when you aren’t willing to listen?

How can you slow down and try to listen when you don’t really want to make time for it?

How can you forgive yourself when you know your selfishness always leads to hurting people?

How can you meet everyone’s expectations when you are rebellious by nature?

How can you live as a rebel, but still have the desire to please people?

How can you be selfless without losing yourself?

How can life be so cruel…?

Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Blood)

I have blood on my hands.

The red sticky fluid drips from my fingers. It saturates my skin.

My tears drip and mingle with the blood.

I start rubbing my hands. I can’t get it off. I scratch and scour. I scrub and smear.

Nothing works.

Dred pumps in my veins. Panic floods my mind. Grief freezes my heart.

What have I done?

My face is drenched with fallen tears. My hands covered in another’s blood.

I frantically try to wipe my hands. I have to get this thick liquid off!

What else can I do? How can I redeem myself? How can I get my hands clean?

Numb realization invades. What’s done is done. The past can’t be fixed. A life can’t be saved once lost.

My vision clears. I glance down at my hands. They are clean.

Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Taking a Breather)

Time to breathe.

My schedule has become jam-packed as if I was trying to stuff my whole closet into an overnight bag. Not everything will fit. Like every person in this world, I am wishing for more hours in the day.

The days when it was okay to waste time with boredom are over. There is an ever-growing list of things to do and I am being forced to pick which ones are allowed to hold my attention, but not all are pleasurable.

But try as I might, I can’t always stick to completing the tasks that need to be done. My mind strays to the novel I want to write or the book I would love to get lost in. The daydreams flood in and time ticks on. When my mind snaps back to reality, I see I have drifted off so long that I am out of time.

Why can’t I feel as excited about the work I have to do because it is required of my chosen major? Didn’t I choose this? Will this apathy fade as I delve deeper into the intricacies of my major?

Nonetheless, time is short and my free time is shrinking to oblivion.

Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (I Remember)

Here’s how it happened for me:

I was seven years old. Being a good little second grader, I worked on whatever assignment that had been put in front of me. All around me voices droned on as other little second graders talked with their friends. The room was noisy, but not unpleasantly so.

Breaking through the clutter of chatter, a voice spoke through the intercom. It asked for all the staff leaders (or something like that) to meet. My teacher wasn’t included in that exclusive list, but there was a sudden hush that fell on the class like a heavy fog. Intuition told us something was the matter and all the squirmy second graders were getting anxious.

My teacher excused herself, telling us she would be right in the hall. With no supervision, the class drifted back to their normal activities. Their short attention spans wouldn’t allow them to dwell on the developing drama unfolding in another city. I think I went back to work, but I know there was a whisper of worry and wonder in the back of my mind.

Our teacher came back distraught. All the little second graders had to know what upset her. She told us a plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers in New York.

Our little brains couldn’t grasp the gravity of the situation. It was a city away and we couldn’t see it, so we didn’t seem to care. We were slightly fueled by our teacher’s distress, so we couldn’t go back to class as normal, but we weren’t upset.

Later on, almost in a daze, our teacher told us a story about how she had eating her Thanksgiving dinner in the South tower (I think this was after it had gotten hit by the second plane). Her story got me to thinking of how my dad would sometimes go on flights. Irrationally, because of my underdeveloped brain, I started to worry that my dad could have been on one of those planes. How horrible would that have been? (Such a naïve second grader’s thoughts in light of the pain so many more were feeling because they had really just lost a loved one.)

I remember one girl in my class had gotten upset because her dad was actually traveling that day. I think everything turned out fine for her.

When I got home, I heard my mom’s version and I found out there were four planes: Two for the towers, one for the pentagon, and one for the white house (that was luckily thwarted).

That day, eleven years ago, will live on in all of our hearts. We will never be able to understand the twisted minds of those who planned those horrific events, but we won’t forget those we have lost. 

Baggage Claim (Part Six)

Genevieve couldn't overcome her paralysis from the memory. She felt as if she had just relived the darkest moment of her life. She felt so numb that she didn't even flinch when the needle pierced her skin once again.

Her mind clouded. She felt him loosen the bonds around her ankles and whisper, “Just like old times, before I dispose of you.”

A tear slipped down Genevieve’s face. She thought this torture had been over. She thought she had been free.

More tears glided down her cheeks as she feebly tried to get away from this monster. Her mind flashed through every night that he forced himself on her. He had said she was his prize after a long day’s work, even though all he did was pass her around to every filthy scumbag with enough money to pay the fee.

Genevieve felt so helpless. After escaping his tyranny, she devoted herself to becoming stronger and unbreakable. She hardened her muscles and the walls around her heart so she could never again be taken advantage of, but here she was, back to this powerless routine.

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Baggage Claim (Part Five)

The cold metal of the handcuffs bit into Genevieve’s wrists as she struggled to get free. She pulled at her restraints, but only managed to bruise herself. She kicked out her bound ankles towards her captor. He hopped out of the way.

Genevieve saw a spark of illumination off the tip of the syringe in his hand. For the first time, fear chilled her blood. Memories burned in the back of her mind. The corners of her vision began to cloud. Tears pooled in her eyes.

She was suddenly twelve again. Darkness filled the room. She lay on her bed, numb from the day’s torture. Tears flooded her eyes and she wanted nothing more to let them fall.

A shadow swiftly drifted across her room. She jolted upright. Her heart pounded. Shivers traveled up her spine. She tried to make her eyes focus, but the room was too dim.

Something rustled in the corner. Her head shot in that direction. A cold sweat broke out like hives across her skin. Her arms shook as she wrapped them around her legs. She began to rock back and forth on her bed. She forced her eyes shut in an attempt to block everything out, but she heard another faint shuffle.

A gleam of light sliced through the darkness. The shadow drifted closer. She cowered, scooting into the pile of pillows for protection. The shadow smiled with malice. A sharp needle poked her arm and she cried out.

Genevieve scrambled off of the bed. She ran for the door. Arms grabbed her from behind. She was harshly pulled back. Her feet left the ground as the shadow threw her small body to the bed. She hit the mattress with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. She tried to get up once more, but her mind couldn’t seem to make her muscles respond.

Her head felt heavy and she didn’t have the strength to move. Tears once again came and this time she couldn’t deny their freedom. She wished she could be that free.

As her mind fixated on her unrestrained tears, the shadow slid into the bed with her. She didn’t have the power stop him.

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Secrets)

She has a secret.
Her day begins. She dresses in her best and applies the makeup. She smiles at the reflection in the mirror and practices her acting skills.

People call her outgoing. They are attracted to her sweet attitude like hummingbirds to sugar-water. They buzz around her feeding off of her overflowing positive energy. Entranced, they can’t get enough of her.

She smiles constantly and her joy bubbles outward. Craving the attention, she keeps the conversation tumbling from topic to topic. All eyes are on her and she flourishes under the spotlight.

Little does everyone know, this is all an act.

At night, she takes her carefully crafted mask off and peers into the eyes in the mirror. A sheen of sorrow glistens in those depths and she can’t stop the overpowering emotions swarming her. Unable to block the flood, her mind begins to throb.

Feeling as if her head will burst, she picks up the razor. The metal gleams in the dim light. She slowly presses its hungry teeth against her scared skin. She presses down. A single trickle of blood drips. The cut widens. She thinks she feels release.

Can anyone save her from the pain she hides? Can no one see through her mask without her having to hint that something isn’t right? Can someone not see through her poor acting job?

Are we all so wrapped up in ourselves that we don’t see the obvious depression eating away at this poor creature? Will no one try to save her? Will no one lend her the hand she has been waiting for to pull her out of this hole? Can she be rescued before it is too late?

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (The Devil's Got His Hands on Me)

The hair-thin metallic strings strangle my wrists. They bite into my skin and keep digging deeper until I have no hope for every removing them. My arms are jerked around to do the bidding of this evil manipulator, who gloats every time I unknowingly let him make my decisions.

Hating these bonds, I struggle to break free. I loathe the overwhelming darkness that hangs like a cloud of smoke around me. There isn’t any oxygen to breath here and I am slowly dying from the toxic atmosphere.

My wrists bleed as the wire cuts deeper. My muscles weaken and pain runs up my limbs. Defeat envelops me in its suffocating embrace and I am losing my will to fight the strong tug of the strings.

My strength continues to waver and I feel like giving into the enemy’s prompting. Fighting him off keeps getting harder and harder. His cruel words, whispered into my ears, are helping to chip away at my resolve. I am so close to giving up.

All he wants is to see our destruction.

Finally, I cry out for the only One who can sever the puppet-string manipulating me and a bright shaft of light slices through the oppressive darkness. Sweet air inflates my withered lungs and the strings that bite into my wrists and ankles slacken. I glance up to see a glorious day enveloping me in its gentle warmth and I feel the sweet breeze caress my weary body.

But even after being freed, I somehow seem to slip back into my prison. I take a few wrong turns out of selfishness and I stray away from the sunshine and grace. Running straight back into the darkness, I let the puppet-strings become taut again and this vicious cycle takes another turn.

Dead Blossoms

She gazed into his sparkling blue eyes and saw the pure, unabashed love pouring out. His eyes glowed with desire and a slow smile bloomed on his face. Losing herself, she closed her eyes and soaked in the moment. She breathed in the heavy scent of overpowering affection and sighed.

Opening her eyes to reality, she shoved down her newly discovered feelings for him and gazed once more at the ring he held out to her. Tears begged to crowd her eyes, but she forced them down. She plastered a tight smile on her face and pushed away her shock.

“I bet she’ll love it.” She choked out.

His smile widened and he wrapped her in his arms in an excited hug. Leaning her head on his strong shoulder, she couldn’t stop a lone tear from escaping from her eyes. The hot trail it left behind burned her in the same way his admission did.

As quickly as he had grabbed her, he released her and she immediately missed the warmth of his friendly embrace. A slight breeze ran along her arms and chilled her to the bone. She shivered, feeling all the exhilaration of a few moments ago flee from her now frozen heart.

Hiding her face from him, she wished him luck in proposing, while silently wishing his girlfriend would refuse. As he wished her good-bye, she couldn’t bring herself to glance at the sunny glow illuminating his face. She didn’t want to witness any more of his looks of love for another.

Her best friend walked away with a bounce in his step and she tried to keep from crumpling. Loving him enough to let him go, she turned her back to him and forced herself to move on. 

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Pressured)

Pressure gets to the best of us. This is one such story…

The smoldering cigarette was thrust in his direction. A trail of smoke connected the two boys, as one tempted the other.

He didn’t have an interest in the small, slow death sentence, but the glare in the other boy’s eyes made him feel weak and powerless. He hated those feelings; the feelings that arose when his father had drunk too much and took it out on him. He was sick of feeling like a tick under his father’s skin and he hated feeling feeble.

The little cigarette looked disgusting, but his fascination with fire combated his disgust. He had always loved to see the flames of a fire dance merrily when they consumed wood. He had set many things aflame; just to have the pleasure of watching them burn to ash. He felt so powerful in those moments.

All these thoughts swill viciously in his mind as he decided which path to take at this cross-road in his life. He could relent and let the other boy win, or he could decide to live free of the chains of addiction.

The other boy was getting impatient. He pushed the burning cigarette closer and insisted once more. He used every persuasion technique. He said it was cool and that they helped people relax. He listed all their friends that did it. But when the rest didn’t work, he threatened to never hang out again if he didn’t start the habit.

Pushed into a corner, the boy tentatively took the shrinking cigarette. His hands shook as he lifted it to his dry lips. He inhaled once.

He was hooked for life.

Who is Miranda Clark? (Part Three)

In the beginning, my days trapped in this prison were like my worst nightmares. They constantly jabbed me with needles, taking blood and testing the effects of various sedatives on me. They kept me restrained constantly because I had no desire to stay locked in this lair full of kidnappers.

Every time they left me alone, I would fight against my bonds but all I ended up with was bloody wrists and ankles. But before long, they just sedated me until I would calm down. Having your strength taken away so easily by just the prick of a needle really erodes your will to keep fighting.

Every time they sedated me, my mind couldn’t filter or compartmentalize all the information stored and it would rapidly jump through everything. All the masses of thoughts crowded in and I couldn’t even keep my mind on a linear track. It started to make me crazy and eventually I gave up resisting. I calmed down and let them believe I would bend to their will. For ten years I have been waiting for my chance to escape.

Once they had run all their tests, they discovered I wasn’t influenced by any outside factor. I was just born this way. I was solely unique and that made me more valuable to them. They couldn’t risk letting me go.

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (In The Midst)

I stand in the middle of this crowd of humanity. They pass me by with barely a glance as they move along to the rest of their day. They bump into my still form and don’t stop to acknowledge me.

The crowd continues to thicken.

My mind clutters with frustrated thoughts at how invisible I have become. Boiling blood pulses through my veins and my eyes burn with white-hot anger. I desire to lash out at the carless bodies around me, but I can’t seem to move.

My mind is a cauldron of irritated contemplation, but my body is as frozen as an ice cube. I try to reveal my annoyance, but I can’t. I just can’t move. I can’t show them how they torture me. I just physically can’t.

I plaster the fake smile on my face and they don’t even take a second glance. They only worry about themselves, they are only human.

The crowd swarms like buzzing bees, but I fade into the background in the midst of all these people.

Daisy in the Black Abyss (Part Two)

My survival instincts are kicking into over-drive. I force my hands in opposite directions. The rope stretches a fraction of an inch. Hope flares but is quickly extinguished by the burn igniting on my wrists. Rubbed raw, my arms weaken. I feel the oozing of blood from my tender skin and my strength begins to die once more.

 Tears fill my eyes again and I start to wonder what I had done to land me here, where I will surely die…

A few hours earlier…

Wide awake in the middle of the night, I decided to take one of my customary walks in the dark streets. Adrenaline pumped through me as I stepped out into the alley behind my apartment complex. Deserted and eerie, the alley beckoned to me to take a visit because of the dangers it could hold. Excitement rushed up my spine and I gladly took a step from the safety of my home.

I aimlessly walked from alley to alley and street to street. I took in the sight of the city with the glow of a few street lights. The orange glow illuminated my path and how quiet the streets were.

I kept up the same steady pace until I stumbled upon the first real sign of danger I had seen that night…

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Find A Voice)

I write in the hope that I will impact someone. If I only managed to reach out to one person, I would be satisfied. I just want to mean something to someone.

I want to leave a mark. Start a legacy. Leave a trial.

Just do something.

But in the end, isn’t that what we all want? How do I have any right to think that I am so much better than the next guy and that I should be known for something? There are tons of people out there better at anything I could do, so why do I try? Why do I think someone could care?

Nonetheless, I keep trying. I will keep pushing forward, trying to perfect my work, just so maybe, on the off-chance anyone is paying attention, I could make a difference.

No Way Out (Part One)

A scream ripped through her lungs. Her throat burned. Her vision started to fade. Fear permeated every fiber of her body. Her hands shook uncontrollably. Her voice wavered. The scream emanating from her lips was cut off suddenly.

The sharp blade pierced her delicate skin. The warm trickle glided down her pale neck. The blood stained her skin. Her life poured out from the wound.

Black spots dotted her sight. Her head felt increasingly heavier by the moment. Her eyes slid closed. Her head drooped. Consciousness abandoned her.

Her pale skin lost all of its vibrancy. Her light hair mingled with the sticky blood rushing out of the deadly cut. Her clothes soaked up the thick liquid like an arid sponge. One last breath escaped from her lips in a shallow burst. Her body crumpled in weakness.

The sharp blade slipped from his hand. The noise of it hitting the floor vibrated the silent room. His satisfaction slipped around him, warming his bones. A slight smile slipped across his face. He couldn’t stop starting at her stiffening form.

The sirens wailed in the distance. They didn’t break him from his trance. His mind had twisted into insanity and his common sense had long since abandoned him. He heard the police break down the door, but it seemed so far away.

They shoved him to the ground. Slapped cuffs on his skinny wrists. Forcefully they pulled him up. Dragged him into the back of an awaiting police car and slammed the door in his face.

Not until his line of sight to the massacre he had boldly created was severed, did he finally fight against his imprisonment. He allowed his spastic limps to pummel the cushion seats around him. His breath sped up and his heart raced in his slender chest. His eyes frantically searched for an escape, until they could find none. He gave up and snapped his own neck.

Adalia Zephan (from: No Way Out)

Adalia Zephan is the daughter of a wealthy Irish businessman. She has lived her whole life showered in everything she wants. Nothing has been impossible for her. She has some shallow moments, but she has a good heart. Her father instilled a set of high morals in her and she hates to see cruelty.

She is involved in a charity to help girls who have been forced into the sex trafficking business and she empathizes with people easily. She studied psychology in college and now tries to help the girls that were rescued from the imprisonment.

She is a risk-taker because she hasn’t really ever gotten into a situation that her father’s money couldn’t buy her out of. But she gets in over her head when she helped ruin the success of a few pimps and they want revenge.

Adalia has thick light blonde hair and green eyes. She has an easy smile and dimples on each cheek. Her skin is flawless and it’s a beautiful shade of ivory. Her nails are always perfectly manicured (one of the many perks to her father’s riches) and she loves to have them polished in any shade of pink (her favorite color). She is 5’8’’ and shaped more like a stick than an hour-glass, but she is very beautiful nonetheless.

She always wears a braided bracelet of yellow, blue, and green embroidery floss that her mother helped her make when she was a child. It is the only thing she has left of her mother, aside from the very few memories she has before her mother died. The bracelet is the most inexpensive thing Adalia owns, but it is her most prized possession.

When Adalia is feeling sad (even if it is feeling sorry for others), she fidgets with the fringe at the tied-off end of her bracelet.

Strengths: Empathetic, Confident, Kind, Trusting, Courageous

Weaknesses: Naïve, Impulsive, Spoiled

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Baggage Claim (Part Four)

Chance ducked to avoid the fist homing for his face. In the same motion, he tackled his adversary. They both tumbled to the ground and Chance pinned the other man down. Not ready to lose the fight, the man struggled against Chance’s weight, but Chance threw a few disorienting blows to the man’s face. Bloodied and near unconsciousness, the man slumped under Chance and gave up the battle.

“Now that you’re finally ready to answer my questions, where is he keeping Genevieve?” Chance demanded.

“I’m not telling you anything!”

Chance back-handed the weaker man and tried once more, “tell me where they are keeping her or I will help your employer stumble on the drugs you have skimmed from his stash.”

A flash of fear crossed the man’s eyes and all the information Chance wanted to know poured out of him. Satisfied, Chance knocked the man unconscious and raced to rescue Genevieve.

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Musings of the Smart Girl with Pink Hair and High Heels (Scream for a Voice)

Millions of people live in this world. They all have a voice. They all are shouting out to be found, just like me. They are all desperately searching for their niche.

I yearn to be an individual that can’t be identified with anyone else, but how can I? How can I be my best, but still be not as good as someone else out there? What do I have to offer? How can I change this vast world when I only have my weak voice?

All my intelligence will never be greater than that prodigy kid who outshines the whole nation. My artistic ability will never be considered comparable to any of the famous painters of the past. My musings and scribbles of stories will never be considered a great work of literature. So what can I do?

As these questions swarm my mind, I forget the vast majority of people living are thinking these same things. We all want to belong in this world that craves cookie-cutter-copies. Are we all just day-dreaming?

With all these lost people floating around, trying to flee their life, we all become so introspective and selfish. So often I can’t look past my own desires and emotions that I forget my calling to forget myself, which is the hardest thing that could be asked of me.

Baggage Claim (Part Three)

Genevieve jolted awake from her nightmare into another. Her face was pressed against the rank ground that smelled like a zoo. She cringed and attempted to push herself up, but her sore muscles protested.

Slow, distant footfalls grew louder until they stopped a few feet away from her cell. She heard his evil sneer as she squeezed her eyes closed, hoping he wouldn’t notice her consciousness.

“Ready to decide?” The voice spewed out.

Genevieve forced her fears away once more and opened her eyes to glare at him. “I would rather die than become your prostitute again.”

“Such a waste of a quality piece of meat...”

The pin-pricks of the Taser needles pierced her skin and the violent vibrations of electricity rocked her back into unconsciousness.

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Baggage Claim (Part Two)

In her forced state of sleep, Genevieve couldn’t block out the painful memories:

Many pairs of grubby hands kept reaching out to grab at her clothes. They forced her under them and ripped away her innocence.

Trapped in a castle of slavery, she was constantly used by unsavory men. Every night, she was passed around like a fascinating news article that all the men had to read, but were quickly done with.

Genevieve’s mind flashed through every time she was trapped and without a rescuer to save her from this empty life. She saw all the men’s fat faces and beer-bellies and she felt the heat of their rancid bodies when they pressed against frail one. Every slice in her pale skin was made new as she relived each horrific scene. To force her compliance, they used blunt force or just sharp objects that all left nasty scars.

Before long, she became numb in order to survive her constant torture. She crafted the compartments in her brain and locked away her emotions. Bottling up herself, she learned to become whatever different tramp the despicable men wanted. It lessened her bruises and cuts.

Photoshopping