Story cover for Aphrodite's Son by JayJayCheshire
Aphrodite's Son
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    Chương 5
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    Thời gian 43m
  • WpView
    LẦN ĐỌC 8,967
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  • WpPart
    Chương 5
  • WpHistory
    Thời gian 43m
Đang sáng tác, Đăng lần đầu thg 5 25, 2013
My name is James Ashe. I'm twenty-seven years old and recently graduated med school. I live in Las Vegas with my father and have my whole life. I've never met my mother in person, but I know she is looking over both of us. I'm short, at only 5'7” and am fairly fragile and...girly looking. I'm also gay, but have never dated anyone. While I'm twenty-seven, I still look eighteen, well technically sixteen considering my height and the way I look. 
We will a fairly quiet life. That is during the time when my many stalkers aren't trying to break into our house and abduct me or anything. I've had stalkers, all men, since I was twelve and my father tries his hardest to keep them away from me. Especially after I was raped by three huge guys one day and since then I've been afraid of men. At least ones larger than me, which isn't hard. 
I recently sent my resume to this hospital in England to try and get a job there as an Ob/gyn. I wanted a job that focused on women as, like I said, men scare me. My father and I are moving to England because of a major scare from one of my more dangerous stalkers and my father wants me to be safe. Plus hopefully I won't have any stalkers there. At least for a while anyway. 
Wish me luck.

My name is Nick Wolfe and I am twenty-nine years old. I'm a werewolf and recently became the Alpha to my pack. But I need my mate, and Luna, to be at full strength and be able to run my pack right. But I was supposed to find my mate when I was sixteen and have begun to lose hope that I'll ever find her/him. And if I ever do, I will never tell anything or anyone hurt them. And if anyone tries. I'll kill them.
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Echo of the Past

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A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.