The Model Life

I sat on the living room couch, eating a bowl filled with lettuce. Fashion Week was coming up soon, and I was watching my figure, but in reality, I was borderline starving. I was about halfway through the lettuce when my roommate came out of her room and sat down next to me. We shared the two-bedroom Manhattan apartment. Rent in New York is not exactly cheap. Especially if you’re an aspiring fashion model.

“Are you going to eat that entire bowl of lettuce?” She asked incredulously as she sipped her coffee. “It’s a salad,” I said, rolling my eyes. My roommate raised an eyebrow at me and replied. “Is it? A salad has more ingredients in it than just lettuce. You have had a salad before right?” Not wanting to answer her, I went back to eating.

Taking my fork, I stabbed a few pieces of the leafy green and shoved it into my mouth. The taste was like eating crunchy, watery cardboard but I can’t afford to put anything else in it. If I weren’t bent on becoming a model for the most well-known fashion brands in the world, I would be eating whatever I want instead of a large bowl of bunny food. What I wouldn’t give for some ramen noodles or a bacon cheeseburger with fries.

“I hear that one of the models does drugs to maintain her slim figure.” My roommate said. “Really? Well, that’s a damn shame because if she keeps that up, she’ll be dead before she’s twenty-five or thirty if she’s lucky.” I said through a mouthful of lettuce. I know that most of the models like to party like there’s no tomorrow after a show. Some wouldn’t show up until about late afternoon for rehearsals, and even then they would either still be tired from the night before or hungover from all the alcohol they consumed. Another reason why I don’t drink or go to parties. Heaving a sigh, I picked at the remaining bits of my “salad,” unable to take another bite. Putting the fork in the bowl, I placed it on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for the modelling life,” I mumbled. “Maybe my mother was right, this is a pipe dream, I should focus on something that’s more stable.” My roommate gave me a sympathetic glance as she put a hand on my shoulder. “You wouldn’t be here sharing an apartment with me if you didn’t think that you can make it someday. Who knows? Perhaps you will be the next Cindy Crawford.” Letting out a breathy chuckle, I thanked my roommate for her encouraging words and informed her that we should be heading to the studio. As I made my way to my room to get ready, a thought entered my mind: I hope she’s right about this.


I Don’t Care. I Love You.

It was the toughest case that either of them have ever come across. An undercover police officer was found murdered. His body was put in an old pre-2000’s Toyota sedan and the vehicle was then set on fire, burning the remains to a crisp. Joseph took it especially hard because the officer that was killed was a law enforcement officer like himself. Erin wanted to comfort her boyfriend, to tell him that they will find the person who did this, but the words were caught in her throat. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug, silently giving him the comfort that he needs.

After questioning a few possible suspects, they managed to find a lead that could make or break the case. The victim was shot with two different weapons and the wound he had sustained had traces of falcon droppings. That’s where the partners are now, searching beneath the only bridge in the city. “How are we going to find evidence of a murder in all this?” Joseph asked, shining his flashlight upwards. “Maybe we can find the shell casings that killed the victim.” Erin replied.

Suddenly, a flowery scent hit the forensic anthropologist’s nostrils. She then got closer to her partner and took big whiff. “Why do you smell like perfume?” Erin asked, her voice suspicious. Did some strange woman or female FBI agent offer him a sympathetic shoulder to lean on? Jealousy began clouding her mind as it conjured up various displeasing scenarios, making her see red.

“It’s the victim’s wife,” Joseph replied, temporarily putting Erin’s jealousy at bay. “She was distraught over her husband’s death and I wanted to let her know that she’s not alone in this. Then I offered her a shoulder to cry on and I guess her perfume got onto my suit.” Overcome with relief and love for her man, Erin kissed her beloved much to the latter’s shock. “Erin, what are you doing?! We’re working!” Joseph whispered after the two broke apart. The forensic anthropologist looked at her soulmate lovingly and said, “I don’t care. I love you.”

Literary Lies

“I don’t need to write it down! I’ll remember it!” Yeah, like hell that’s ever happened. I used to tell myself the same thing. I’ll get an idea in my head and maybe mentally write out the first few sentences. Then later, when it comes down to putting down on the document, my mind draws a complete blank. It was as if the idea never existed in the first place and that, along with other things, can be the worst feeling in the world.

I was walking down the street one day, earphones in and immersed in my own little world when all of a sudden, I got a light bulb idea for a story. It might also be a poetry piece but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I started to envision the scene that will be played out on the page and figured that it could work. A nagging thought in the back of my mind is telling me to find something to write the idea down before I forget.

“Nah, I can still remember stuff,” I said to myself, brushing off the warning. “This brain does not forget.” I finished with the utmost confidence. Soon afterward, pride wenteth before my fall and I could not recall for the life of me what the story idea was. Regret then began to set in as I berated myself on the fact that I should’ve written it down somewhere. Well there’s no use crying over spilt milk. What’s happened has happened. The important thing is to learn from this and to not make the same mistake again.

A few days later, history kind of repeated itself. This time, I had actually written down notes on how I want the story to go. As I sat down in front of the computer, however, I looked at the page in my notebook and it raised more questions than answers. “The hell was I thinking?” I muttered, trying yet again to decipher what I had put down. “What made me think that this would pan out?” I mumbled, placing my head in my hands while a blank page stared emptily into the void.

The Clover

I was making my way down a cobbled street, my high-heeled boots clicking on the stones. I used a spell to hide my appearance so that it doesn’t raise any eyebrows. Then again, for a country whose national animal is the unicorn, they should be used to fantastical creatures.

Rounding a corner, I walked past an alley when suddenly, a voice came from behind me. Turning, I saw a stocky, red-bearded man dressed in a bright green suit and top hat. He beckoned me with a finger to follow him into the alley. Curious, I did as he bid. Once inside, I let the spell drop and revealed my original form, Pegasus wings and all. I stood at my full height before the man, my midnight blue eyes flickering with raw power.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips. The man said nothing as he reached into his coat and produced a locket on a long gold chain. It looked like the gold heart pendant that I used to own before the chain broke. He then handed it to me, expecting me to take it. I hesitated for a moment, a million questions forming in my mind. Then I extended my hand, and the man put the necklace on my palm. When I opened it, I found a perfect four-leaf clover pressed between two small panes of glass. I was about to ask why he’s giving this to me of all people but when I looked up, the red-bearded man is gone.

Heaving a sigh, I pocketed the locket and put the concealment spell back in place before exiting the alley-way. Continuing my trek down the street, I saw something shiny on the ground. Upon close inspection, it was a silver coin. Picking it up, I realized that the coin bears a resemblance to the one that was taken from the National Museum of Scotland due to a robbery that had gone wrong. “Looks like I should return this to the rightful owners,” I said to myself. “Maybe I will get a nice reward for my troubles.” Satisfied with my plan, I spun on my heel and walked in the direction of the museum, unaware that the clover in my pocket is emitting a shamrock green glow.


“It was an accident.” That’s what they always say. “I didn’t mean to do it! I never wanted anyone to get hurt!” Yeah, keep telling that to yourself. Whether you meant to or not, you are still responsible for your actions. I should know, because it’s part of my job.

“So tell me, Ms. I’ve-Never-Harmed-Anyone, what is your deepest, darkest desire?” Lucy asked with a Cheshire grin, her voice sultry and seductive. The woman stared into two hazelnut brown orbs as if in a trance and before she could stop herself, she said, “I want to feel wanted. To be worshipped like a goddess. My husband hadn’t looked at me after all the years that we’ve been married so I had to do something.”

I smirked with satisfaction as the woman snapped out of her stupor, feeling shocked and embarrassed for what she just said. “Looks like you got your man, Detective Stanton, or woman, I should say.” The former Lightbringer said, Cheshire grin still in place as she sat back down. “Yes, it would appear so.” I said, getting up from my own chair and arrested the woman for the murder of her husband.

The next day came a case that threw me for a loop. There were four possible suspects who might be the killer of a young woman found stuffed inside a wooden chest. The chest was found near the Amargosa River buried under the shrubs that grew along the riverbank. Lucy and I found four people who either knew the victim personally or was acquainted with her before she died.

They all gave the usual predictable response. They didn’t kill her and started pointing fingers at each other, thinking that one of them is the true culprit. Lucy tried to draw out their innermost desires but that proved to be pointless as it didn’t contain anything that would lead to a confession. I get that accidents happen, but if it’s not reported as such, it’s considered murder and I will not stop until justice is served.