It’s Official, My Sister Lives in a Shoe Box

“This is where you live?” I asked in surprise as my eyes swept over her small yet surprisingly chic apartment.

Even though it was the size of a tool shed, and it reeked of oil paint and coffee, it wasn’t as bad as I had imagined it to be. I thought she lived in a crypt!

The paintings that covered every inch of her walls were creepy, though. They featured disfigured silver-haired girls with pale, bloodstained faces and sinister, red-eyed animals.

That is Julia in a nutshell, dark, twisted and borderline psychotic.

The open space was furnished with a black, Chesterfield loveseat and tufted armchair. In the middle stood a glass table, and it was covered with an array of charcoal pencils, sharpies, squeezed paint tubes and scrunched up sheets of paper.

Surprisingly, a flat screen TV was mounted to a wall above the electric fireplace and it was paused on Sherlock. I had no idea Julia even knew how to stream on Netflix.

In the dark corner, behind the five-tier bookcase, stood a Queen-sized bed with a tufted headboard. The bedspread was sleek ebony satin with matching shams, and completed with brocade and sequin accent pillows. On each side stood Hexagon, mirrored tables with gilded iron lamps.

Above the headboard hung a large painting of a raven-haired girl with big, anime eyes, and in her arms she cradled a white, rabid bunny.

I peeled my eyes away from the blood that trailed down her frilly, lace dress and said, “I gotta hand it to you, Julia, you may dress like a reject from the Addams Family but you got a knack for interior design.”

She flushed with embarrassment, visibly taken back by the compliment.

“Er—well—uh—it’s a little messy right now,” she mumbled and stumbled over the art supplies that were scattered all over the wooden floor. “I had a couple of friends over last night and I didn’t get a chance to clean today. Obviously.”

I gave her a long, steady gaze.

If she was under the impression that my backhanded compliment would somehow blossom into sisterly affection, then she has a couple of loose screws in her head.

“Stop lying. You don’t have any friends and the voices in your head don’t count.”

“At least I don’t buy my friends unlike some people,” she countered coolly.

I gave her an angelic smile. “How’s your real mom doing in Transylvania? Is she still married to Dracula?”

This polite exchange of words dated back to the summer of my junior high graduation party. Julia slathered on SPF 5,000 on her skin and lounged under the umbrella by the pool with Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven in her white, bony hands.

I was dared to cannon jump into the pool. I had no idea the water would splash her and ruin the book.

Needless to say, she screamed her head off, and claimed that I did it on purpose. Just before my mother ushered her back into the house, she accused me of buying my popularity, in front of all of my friends.

To return the favor, I told everyone my freshman year at Waldorf High that she was adopted and her real family lived in Transylvania. After that rumor circulated the classrooms, she got bombarded with questions about vampires and I got grounded for two months.

Julia seethed with resentment. “You are so stupid, I swear.”

“My 4.0 GPA would state otherwise. Anyway, I hate to break this cute and fuzzy moment but I’m super jet-lagged and I want to get some sleep. So, where’s my bed?”

She curled her lips into a Grinch-like smile and pointed to the loveseat. “There,” she said.

I slumped my shoulders. “You suck.”

It’s Official, My Sister Lives in a Shoe Box

Filthy Sexy Nasty Lust

Selena lies awake in an empty bed. The soft curves of her naked body are enveloped in darkness and her pensive gaze is fixed on the diamond stars that glisten above the tall skyscrapers outside of her windows.

She gives out a hopeless sigh; the kind of a sigh a woman makes when her heart aches for her lover.

The man of her dream is thousands of miles away, on a business trip, and she sates her carnal desire for him with a glass of wine and a boatload of wishful thinking.

Now, her mind is a whirlwind but it’s not riddled with thoughts of her client’s multi-million dollar campaign. It’s infested with dirty, sexy thoughts of him.

She yearns to kiss, bite and lick his lips. She wants him next to her, in this cold and empty bed.

Selena closes her eyes and shuts the world outside. Nothing matters. Not the noisy traffic, not the helicopter in the sky, not even the sound of her phone vibrating against her mirrored side table.

She envisions their bodies tumbling down into a sea of turbulent white, cotton sheets. He lies on top, and his body is warm, inviting and hard as stone. The scent of his skin lingers on her lips and sends a brain-numbing shiver down her spine.

He runs a hand through her midnight-blue locks. His hand is rough and calloused, and yet it feels deliciously soft against her cheek. His thumb outlines the shape of her soft, plump lips, and then it glides down her long neck and finally rests on her collarbone.

Selena gives out a shiver.

Her skin burns underneath his fingertips and with every caress, her body sheds the last ounce of innocence. In its place comes a painfully sensual feeling; it uncoils in the pit of her stomach like a snake and it’s ready to strike.

Selena knows that once she’s bitten, her body will be poisoned with lust.

He waits patiently for her decision, but his treacherous fingers are tracing, caressing, arousing.

Delicately, almost cautiously, her feather-soft lips brush against his and leave a trace of sweetness behind. She relishes the warmth that bursts in the pit of her stomach and pools into her toes and fingertips. His breathing is deep and shallow, and the glisten in his ebony eyes is enough to consume her whole.

He wants her. It’s undeniable.

She parts her lips and welcomes his lust with a wicked grin. His warm breath, sweet as honey and potent as red wine, caresses her cheeks and then his mouth crushes hers in a ‘til-death-do-us-apart kind of a kiss.

The kind of a kiss that threatens to peel the skin off her bones, and robs her lungs of air. The kind of a kiss she wants to share for the rest of her life with the man she fantasizes about almost every single night.

Filthy Sexy Nasty Lust

Tough Love

Evelína Arakari was tough.

Only a tragedy could rattle her nerves and squeeze a tear out of her hazel eyes. As the first rays of sunlight speared the gloomy darkness she couldn’t suppress the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

She cradled her face in her trembling hands and sobbed hysterically as her mind became infested with thoughts of her boyfriend lying in a sterile hospital room, underneath a white, linen sheet.

He was dead.

His body, once strong and healthy, was stabbed four times in the chest. He fell into a coma, and died at the hospital.

His mother cried and screamed like a wounded animal when the doctor pronounced his death, while his father stared silently at the wall with a blank expression on his wrinkly, sallow face.

Evelína rushed out of the hospital and burst into the dark and chilly morning. She fell down on her knees, balled up her fists so tight that her fingernails left bloody marks in her palms, and screamed at the top of her lungs until she lost her voice.

It was now past midnight and the wind howled like a lonely wolf.

She wandered aimlessly down the empty streets of Prague, swayed gently on her feet, and mourned the death of her boyfriend with a quarter bottle of Grey Goose.

Andrei was the one that introduced her to alcohol. He was what the neighborhood called ghetto.

Parents distrusted him, kids in the neighborhood feared him and the police hated his guts. He was sixteen when he died, and spent the last five years of his life in and out of juvenile delinquency. His father was an alcoholic, his mother was a prostitute and his friends were bad news.

Evelína met him by accident.

He sat on the curb, outside of a small souvenir shop. His face was bruised, his knuckles were torn and his nose bled into the palms of his hands.

He got jumped by a group of guys, but he never shared the details.

She offered to buy him a warm sandwich and walk him to the nearest medical center. He accepted the food, but cleaned his wounds with a bottle of vodka instead.

Since that chilly November evening the two of them became inseparable. But now, his body lay six inches under the ground and she had never felt so alone before.

Tough Love

Close My Eyes


Sometimes I get overwhelmed with a heavy tide of painful emotions and in order to escape depression and insomnia, I escape into the darkness of my imaginative mind and breathe life into a world of my own.

When painting pictures with words does not sate my anxiety, anger and sorrow, then I submerge my frantic mind into a world of music.

If the above fail, then I resort to stock media.

I search for footages that would liberate my mind of haunting thoughts and piece my newly uncovered treasures with an appropriate song. Sometimes, the song would weasel into the core of my being and dwell inside of my chest until I either match it with a short story or a carefully arranged media collage.

One way or another, these methods guarantee a peaceful slumber.

Close My Eyes by Mariah Carey
Close My Eyes