Random Channel Surfing

He opened his eyes (every morning), turned on his side (every morning), and lovingly gazed out the window (every morning). Every morning, he was greeted with the sight of three little birds on his windowsill. Singing sweet songs, a message to him and you, and even me. Songs about the happy feeling that bubbles in your chest. Songs about taking every day one second, minute, hour at a time. And every morning, he smiled to himself knowing that every little thing was going to be all right. Knowing he was going to have a damned good day.

Q: And realistically, what's the worst that could happen? A: My heart caves in on itself, collapsing from grief and disillusion, never to beat again.

She doesn't know whether the resentment she feels is valid. She knows that he did everything in his power to help her; is aware that he's put himself out for her; and yet, she resents him. She resents that he believes she needs his help. She resents that he knows she'd be lost without him. Most of all, she resents that he didn't choose her in the end. It's never easy when one person loves more than another. She's proof that things don't ever work out the way we want them to. She watches him walk away, her gaze faltering slightly when he reaches his wife. She bites down on her cheek, willing the traitorous tears to stay in their ducts. She feels his eyes on her and, when she meets his remorseful gaze, she feels the anger rise up like lava in an active volcano. She turns on her heel, leaving him, leaving the life she dreamed she'd have when he'd choose her, leaving her old life in ruins. She walks with purpose, her heels click-clacking on the c...

Now that November has come to a close and that I'm not obligated to put fingers to keyboard and write, I'm in a weird mood. I wrote the 50 K so I am a winner , but I didn't finish my story. I had about seven scenes left to write, including the conclusion, and a handful of unfinished scenes to complete, but in my quest to attain 50 K words, the story fell by the wayside and I'm left with an unfinished tale. And now, a day after I reached 50,293 words, part of me feels compelled to visit Adia and Nate and Brendan and finish their story. Tamara asked if I would finish my story, given that I want to keep writing. To be honest, as tempting as that idea is, I think I'm going to wait to finish it. NaNoWriMo makes the Wrimos (the name they use for anyone who participated) promise they'll revise their novel in the "Now What?" months, January and February. Waiting until then will be better because I'll be looking at my story with fresh eyes. I'm not en...

He supposes he should be grateful to her; after all, if she hadn't called off the wedding, they might be on their way to an unfulfilling life where he loved her exponentially more than she could ever love him. Right? Because the fact is this: He always loved her more than she could ever love him. And it's true what they say, love is never equal. One person will always ( always ) love more. And he was happy being that person; she deserves that level of devotion; she deserves that kind of commitment. And she seemed to agree up until 13 hours ago. Thirteen. Unlucky number 13. If she hadn't confronted him on the eve of their wedding, he would have continued assuming that she was happy and sated. But no amount of love he feels for her will ever be enough. No matter how fiercely committed he remained to her, it never measured up. The imbalance was too great and she felt the enormity of it all on her slender tan shoulders. She knew, much sooner than he did, that they w...

In you I found my first regret.

She sees the way he eyes her. How his eyes seem to linger on her lips or her eyes, the fine curve of her neck. And something always twists inside; hurts and stings and punches a hole in her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Because his eyes never linger on her. They flit around the room until they zero in on their intended target. She hates that she's always there to see.

She calls it a craving, but it's more of a need. A necessity she feels almost every day. She knows it's twisted. Knows it's unhealthy, but she can't control it. Has no real energy to fight against this particular demon. Or... sometimes she feels as though she'd prefer to let it win. Life would be simpler if she'd learn to give in. She stares back into the mirror and counts her ribs. She's transfixed by her tiny waist and her tiny arms and her tiny legs and her tiny neck and her much smaller breasts. She hardly sees the bags under her eyes or the sallow colour of her skin. It's easiest to ignore the bad on top of the bad.  She's gone down three dress sizes. She's dropped at least fifteen pounds in three weeks. Why would she, then, give in to that despicable craving? No, she's better off the way she is now. Starving. Shrinking. Smiling, despite the gnawing pain in her stomach and heart. She'd rather turn a dozen heads than go bac...

She used to hate the Killers. Something about Brandon Flowers and his eye makeup would make her cringe inwardly. She'd smile politely when people would talk about how "epic" their sound was, would nod her head when people would go on and on about how "life-changing" their music was. But when they would ask for her opinion, she would be blunt: "they're overrated." So it came as no surprise to her, really, when it turned out that he - the first boy who'd nudged the dormant butterflies in her tummy awake with his smiles and his laugh and his jokes and him - was a fan. He'd gaped at her upon hearing her real opinion about the Killers. It wasn't that she's a snob , really. Okay. Yeah. She was. Is. Whatever. She is pretty snobby about the music she listens to. Looks down on anyone, really, who has less-than stellar taste in music. But that all changed when she fell in love with him . She couldn't think less of him if ...

She means well. It was never her intention to hurt the girl in front of her; she only wanted her to be happy. As happy as she feels when she looks at her husband; the happiness bubbling in her chest the moment she rises in the morning, continuing through to night when she lays down next to him in their bed. She just wants her to have what she has. She's tried setting her up numerous times, but she's too picky. Takes one look at the boys, men, guys in front of her, panic registering in her green eyes before she excuses herself. She idly wonders if she might be gay. It would come as a surprise to her; her oldest, dearest, singlest friend has had her share of beaus. But she's been single for the past three years and does she not crave the feel of a man's body?!?! So she'll keep pointing men out. Keep encouraging her to go home with them at the end of the night. Keep bragging about how wonderful her life with her husband is. She just wants her to be as happy as she is...

Here's what he knows about her. She eats an apple everyday. Often leaves the cores abandoned on the kitchen counter -- little reminders that there's a new body in the house. She never leaves dirty dishes in the sink; makes them all feel really guilty for not cleaning up after themselves. He'll playfully hold his dirty dishes high above her head, but she always insists she loves doing the dishes. Who's he to argue with someone who'll willingly clean up after him? Yeah. No. She takes really long showers every morning. She sings as she cooks. She's obsessed with making lists and leaves them laying around their apartment. She's intelligent and observant. Thoughtful, even. He has a hard time ignoring her most of the time, but on days she wears a dress or short pants, he can't tear his disobedient eyes away from her legs. She has really toned calves. He can't stop staring at her calves and he knows she's noticed. There are times he'll look up to fi...

He's always whistling. The happy boy with the dimpled smile and tousled sandy hair. She knows - without a doubt - that he's in a bad mood if she doesn't hear him whistling first thing every morning. It's like a mood thermometer; helping her gauge how he feels. She's often surprised - delighted, really - when she wakes up to hear him whistling in the kitchen. Hear his whistle coming from the bathroom, sounding over the rush of water. Hear his whistle from his room as he dresses. It comes as a surprise, even if he whistles all the time. And every time she hears his whistle, her heart pinches and the flutter in her stomach bubbles up into a laugh. It's just so surprising, the way he makes her feel. He just makes her happy. He's just so infectious.

She doesn't mean to say the things she does. But somehow the words slip out and she sees it all in her eyes: I thought you were supposed to love me regardless of what I looked like, momma. She drops her daughter's gaze and continues picking up. "You know I'm right," she says. "If you continue eating the way you do, you won't fit into your prom dress. And it'd be a shame." She walks to the door, thinking that the only thing that's shameful about their exchange is the way her little girl's cheeks got red and she self-consciously adjusted her body, hiding her body. "I love you," she promises, leaving the room immediately, lest she heap more doubt and self-hatred. Whoever said being a mother was easy? They were lying.

He knows he's done for the moment he sees her. Wrapped in a towel, apologizing for walking in on him in the kitchen, flushed and embarrassed, hair a mess of curls, he's frozen. "S'okay," he says, smiling, laughing really, at the sight of this flustered girl. His lips keep twitching, a nervous habit, and the laughs just keep coming. This girl will hate him by the end of the night, he worries. She manages a weak nod and makes a direct beeline to what he guesses is her room. "What's so funny, man?" asks Mitch, coming back from getting his jacket. "I think I just embarrassed your sister," he answers, trying so hard not to burst out laughing, again.

She hasn't seen him in over three years. She remembers their last encounter - she didn't know it then that it'd be their last - with the bittersweet aftertaste of someone who's left too many things unsaid. And it frustrates her. Her cowardice. His silence. Her love for him. His indifference. All the would have beens and could have beens outweighing what she knows deep in her heart are should have beens. She sighs, stirring her coffee and reveling in the fact she's in New York. It only took her three years, but she's made it. She slings her bag over her shoulder, secures the lid on her to-go cup and stares at her feet as she exits the Starbucks. She should have paid attention to where she was going. "I'm sorry," a masculine voice says, taking all of the blame. "No, it was totally my fault," she has yet to look up as she brushes the drops of coffee off her jacket. She knows it's hopeless; knows you can't brush liquid...

She had her suspicions. Come to think of it, she always did. Sometimes his gaze would linger on her, his eyes traveling up the swell of her breasts almost shyly, as though his gaze was one sweet caress. Other times he'd lightly push up against her in their crowded kitchen, muttering an insincere apology. And then there were those times he'd walk around their small apartment, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, smirking whenever their eyes met. It flattered her, sure, that her hot as fuck roommate found her attractive, but she didn't know how to proceed. Was it, for all intents and purposes, really a good idea to approach her roommate and confront him about their assumed mutual atraction? Would that ruin the naturally comfortable rapport that they have? Or, would it really work in their favour if they gave in to their animalistic urges and had coitus in the kitchen... the way she imagined whenever she felt the heat of his body pressed against her back? It was a real proble...

Once upon a time, there was a really anxious text editor who was crippled by her feelings of inadequacy. She thought she was not fit for writing. That she was not suited for proudly bearing the title of "writer." That she was better off doing something like editing, instead. It was nonsense, really, since the girl was a fabulous text editor and she had a real imagination. The problem was, that whenever inspiration struck, she'd put her hand to paper, but her fingers would cramp up. Her mind would go blank. A fine sheen of sweat would grace her forehead and her body temperature would rise exponentially. It wasn't really her fault, you see. For her darling Muse, Darla, was too chicken-sh** (pardon the French) to let Marcela's finger muscles relax. To let her mind drift away on a paper sailboat. To let her body feel calm, cool, collected. So, one day, Marcela did the unthinkable. The unforgivable. The most dramatic thing an aspiring writer could do. She fired her Mu...

It's in desperation that you go to his house. It's been days since you've seen him and the distance is making you question your sanity. Your once dignified anger has dissolved into painful regret and no matter what you do, you want to make things right. Damn him! Damn him and his soft eyes. Damn you. Damn you and your weak heart.

She was getting tired of the pitying looks; eyes pinched and lips drawn to form a frown. She hated that look; hated giving it, seeing it, but mostly, she hated receiving it. She didn't need their pity. Her sister had been dead for over four months now and she was doing better. It was easier getting up in the mornings and she no longer felt like the world was slowly closing in on her, collapsing over top of her. Life went on, she soon learned, whether she was all alone in the world or had her sister for company.

She didn't think heartbreak would feel numbing. She'd always assumed it would feel like she couldn't breathe. Or a heart attack, at least.