Lost In Apple

To those who really enjoyed the characters I wrote on this blog, they have separate accounts now, so don’t worry. If you still want to follow the characters you enjoyed seeing, here are their URLs:

stephenarch (Stephen Arch)

lithgo (Benedict & Margo Lithgow)

jockules (Craig, the android, & Ellie, his sister *now featuring the Professor, too)

But real quick before I rarely use this account again, I want to say thank you to everyone who followed and developed an interest for my characters. I really appreciate it, and I hope for those of you who are writers that you keep writing, and those of you who are readers that you keep reading! 

OH MY GOD THAT IS STRIKE TWO TODAY

“Really?! Orish? I thought you were Irish. I guess I was wrong…” She replied snarkily, closing over his door as she looked around his apartment, noting the abundance of musical paraphernalia around. It reminded her of home and how her dad had insisted on her becoming proficient in at least one musical instrument. At least she could carry a bit of a tune on a piano and she could play ‘Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star’ on the violin if forced to.

Pulled away from her assessment, the brunette scoffed in disgust, shaking her head at him, “Excuse me? I do not objectify buildings - I give them soul. I inspire and delight! When people walk into their offices or their home for the first time, they know they love it already because I put a little bit of them into it. What do you do with your music? Copy everyone else or…or make your students cry because they’ve - dude, come on! Just use the tupperware!”

He turned around, hodling up a finger and protest. “Oi do not make wee kids cry.” And just to bother her further, he ignored her interjection about the Tupperware, pulling out a giant, Christmas cookie plate instead. “An' den expect dare paren’s ter pay me for teachin' dem waaat? 'oy ter cry in style for forty-five minutes? Crazy.” 

“Wonder somewhere farther away, then.”  She didn’t want to face the consequences – whatever they may be – of sleeping with him. If she even did. “S’your job to figure shit out, so go do that.” 

“Your car is the concern here? Really?” A roll of her eyes dismissed him, followed by a wave of her hand. “Take it somewhere, asshole.”

“Well, if we didn’ do anything, then yeah! Yeah,     that’s my fuckin’ concern--that car’s fifteen fuckin’ years old         an’ a piece ‘a’ shit!” 

The Origin of Margo & Ruth’s Friendship (Headcanon)

          Ruth Flores was hired to redesign the waiting room for the official headquarters of Greenlight Magazine, a famous poetry and short fiction monthly magazine. 

          Because of the section of the building was one where drafts and submissions were sent, the man in charge of receiving Ruth was Ethan Lang, an internationally known editor responsible for guiding numerous successful books, magazines and works of the like. 

          Around the time Ruth was hired, Margo Lithgow, who was only 19 years old, was an assistant and apprentice to Ethan, and she sat in with most of his meetings. Ethan, who’s notorious for womanizing and flirting with any woman in sight regardless of being at work, obviously made some very sexual comments towards Ruth during their meeting, and offended, the architect walked out before the hour was even up. Knowing how important the remodeling was, Ethan sent Margo after Ruth to apologize and reschedule. Margo, of course, said the right thing to Ruth because, surprisingly, she returned to the office to finish gathering Ethan’s vision for the new waiting room; and since after the waiting room had finished, Margo and Ruth have casually and gradually grown to be good friends. 

             “EW.”

Ugh. “This is gross – you’re gross. I don’t wanna  talk about this.” A drunken haze from the night be- fore left her with little memory. Benedict – Aeron  scattered in there somewhere. Something about Elvis? A fight, certainly. That was inevitable. Every- thing else was a blur. She was impulsive enough sober,  let alone drunk – who knew what went down; hopefully not her. “This isn’t a conversation I want to have – HEY! How ‘bout this – let’s not and say we did.” She turned to  leave, intent on ignore the subject when she turned back on her heel – “Gimme my pants. Speaking of, how do you know they’re mine?” Possibly the ‘Lee’ written in permanent  marker. Or maybe the fact that a child could comfortably wear them. “Just give’m here, asshole.”

     “Whoa I’m--I’m fuckin’ wonderin’.” He would never admit to blacking out from time to time, or not remembering something as colossal as this ordeal.