Some cute romantic-cliché questions :)
  • Coffee Shop: How do you take your coffee?
  • Train Station: Where do you want to travel?
  • Picnic in the Park: Do you enjoy people watching?
  • Kiss Under the Rain: What sounds help you sleep?
  • Butterflies: What unique thing would you/do you enjoy in a partner?
  • Snow Angels: What's your favorite kind of weather?
  • Bed & Breakfast: What do you like to do on Tuesdays?
  • Kiss at the Door: When you hold hands, do you interlock fingers? Swing your arms?
  • Bowling: Do you laugh loudly or giggle more?
  • Chocolates: What's your favorite kind of sweet thing?
  • Roses: Do you blush easily?
  • Cheesy Pick-Up Lines: Are you more of a comic or a romantic?
  • Candlelight: What romantic cliché do you wish for most?

“ From Lapis Lazuli “

But it’s Christmas! It’s the perfect time to be gay! Oh wait, or was it suppose to be Valentines…

I might have been more creative this week, but maybe not.

Dec 22, 2015 Lapidot Tuesday prompt: Presents

Peridot gave her a card that contains an indirect confession; and Lapis gave her a kiss.

Awwww…. How cheesy


Monday is a monster and he treats you like a ghost. “What do you think you’re doing, girl?” he says. “I could love you but it would be a waste of time.”
Monday comes when you have nowhere to run, he says, “Get your hands dirty in me. Call my name, I’ll send you home nothing but a pile of bones.”
Monday is hungry, only kisses with teeth.

Tuesday tries to be gentle but has hands like your father’s.
Tuesday is getting too big for its britches, wants you to stop seeing those other boys. You tell Tuesday that you wish they wouldn’t scream, but all at once you’re out the door and the windows shatter.
Tuesday is saying that you can’t come back, but you know they’ll be there again, always, bringing you roses that still have their thorns.

Wednesday is a tough guy, something out of Hollywood sweatshops. You ride on the back of his motorcycle and tell him to tattoo your name on his thigh; he agrees, says he’ll show you next week. It’s what he said the week before — Wednesday can never keep his promises, but you love that worn-out Harley and the way your mother won’t speak to you anymore.
Useless Wednesday, all big-talk, loud-mouth, love-hard leather.
All aching-jaw, split-lip accident.

Thursday is your neighbor, bakes a pie for your parents the day before prom. Little boy with bow-tie dreams — you kiss him outside when he doesn’t ask to come in, let him pretend not to want you.
Thursday won’t touch you without permission, tucks you into bed at night. Thursday breaks down when he tries to drive you home, tells horror stories about his time in San Francisco.
Thursday doesn’t call you again, Christ,
you can’t even remember his name.

Friday gets you drunk, finds you reeling. You and Friday cut off your hair in a stranger’s bathroom, play battleships with your hearts. You sink her submarine, but she’s already got a hand on your thigh driving you crazy.
Friday only lies to you, leaves during the night to let you wake up alone, but she puts water and an Advil on the bedside table, and that’s all you can ask for after puking red on her best blouse last night.
Friday disappears so kindly from your life.
Friday wears a new face every time.

Saturday is lazy, wears your underwear and won’t wash the dishes. Your friends say that you could do so much better, but you don’t want to. You hide under dirty sheets, fall asleep and wake up ravenous. Nobody knows you as well as Saturday, knows how you nurse the wounds that Tuesday left.
Saturday never shaves, never worries about you leaving because you cling like moss to that monochrome evening of Jack Daniels and ripped Band Aids.
Saturday is a touchstone, even though she isn’t safe.

Sunday was a virgin when you started seeing them. They still wear white and their chastity ring, fold your name up between hymnal sheets and then kiss you in the confessional booth — Sunday likes to think there are times God isn’t looking.
Sunday hefts a casket on one broad shoulder and slips you the freshest lily, meets you in the pews at noon to make fake love, to finger the bruises and say they’ll always be with you.
Sunday leaves an aching hole when they walk out the door.
Sunday hurts the worst of all.

—  For the Seven Lovers Who Left Me | d.a.s

“The Kiss at the Morgue”

Happy Kissing Tuesday and anniversary of our boys’ first meeting at Bart’s.

The drawing is an illustration (and teaser) for chapter 12 of Over Hill and Under Hill. The chapter is currently being written, but given how busy I’m with school and other things at the moment I don’t know when it’s going to be finished.

The drawing’s inspired by Robert Doisneau’s famous photograph. For those interested in seeing a sketch of the drawing before I added colour, it’s here.