I’ve been in a car accident with my grandmother and uncle. The other car did not have their lights on at night and my uncle passed from the impact. I was the driver and my family needs all the prayers we can get right now. I’m in a lot of pain and I can’t imagine what my grandmother is going through. She’s still in the hospital and has some broken ribs. She’s in pain mentally and emotionally. His daughter needs prayers too. His name was Jerome. Just need some positivity. Can’t help but feel broken. I know it’s not my fault but still …
Oneshot, but I could make it a multi-chapter if you’d like!
I’d do anything for you guys :)
There was nothing quite like crafting the beginning of a new novel.
Nothing, the young author had decided, like the continual rushes of inspiration as she typed, her fingers dancing across the keyboard on their own accord. Nothing like the moment when her mind became entirely immersed in a land vastly different from her own. No, there was no feeling in the world exactly like the realization that the blank page waiting in front of her was not really blank—it already belonged to an earth teeming with heated conflict and wild intrigue. She just had to let the world and it’s inhabitants flow from her fingertips and make themselves known on the page.
Her work was what she thrived for. It brought her indescribable joy every day; it made her feel as though she had a genuine purpose in the world. Writing was, simply put, her escape from all of the mundane activities that now overwhelmed her life.
Her first few literary works hadn’t gone over particularly well with publishing companies (which explained why she found herself living in an apartment complex, as opposed to the legitimate house she’d always wanted), but then again, hadn’t rejection also been the reaction of publishers when Charles Dickens had started out? Not that she was in any way equal in talent to the positively classic Charles Dickens, but the comparison made her feel slightly less insecure about her lack of literary success.
Yes, becoming recognized would take time and effort, but she had every confidence that someday her work would resonate with someone.
Her ultimate goal—the very thing that enabled her to suffer through the absolute hell known as the Writing Process—was to make even one of her readers just a bit more conscious of their life decisions than they had previously been. Regardless of whether her stories ended in happiness or tragedy, angst or clear resolution, she’d always wanted to make people think.
This goal had been what she was going for upon that crisp autumn night.
She was in the midst of crafting the first draft of her latest work, (designated to be a contemporary mystery novel by the title of ‘Never’) when a muffled noise stunned her out of her reverie.
She would have resumed her work where she left off—that is, she would have resumed typing if this particular sound had not been the 5th of it’s kind to float down to her unwelcoming ears in the last hour.
And approximately the 78th of it’s kind in the past 2 weeks.
Meryl’s arms landed with a smack at her sides as she practically shoved herself out of her chair, ignoring the distressed shriek produced by the wooden chair legs gnashing against her floorboards.
She knew exactly what was behind all of this. A quick descent to her fire escape brought all the confirmation she needed.
As she stood outside, the night settling around her, the cool air already bearing the foreboding scent of rainfall that was certain to come, she cast an aggravated glance upwards.
Yes, her upstairs neighbor’s window was open once again.
The decidedly feminine cry came once more, a bit louder than the previous call, the shakiness of the stranger’s voice putting more context into what, exactly, was transpiring more than anything she could possibly have moaned out.
Of course, since the young author was now directly below the source of the noises, she was now able to hear the accompanying squeak of bedsprings and masculine-sounding encouragements muttered through (definitely her new upstairs neighbor’s) heavy panting.
Oh, God. This again?
Meryl Davis really hated her apartment complex sometimes.
She let out an indignant huff, climbing back through her window. Meryl snatched the broomstick which had previously been resting against the wall and proceeded to jab the handle against her plastered ceiling repeatedly.
The noise upstairs stopped at once.
Meryl cautiously peaked her head out the window leading into her fire escape, curious to see exactly what had happened; usually it would take them a bit longer to realize the broomstick thundering beneath their floor was not, in fact, the headboard of their—ahem—occupied bed slamming against the wall.
For a few moments, there was only silence.
Then the female voice rang throughout the still night, “Is your house, like, haunted?”
Meryl bit the back of her hand in an attempt to stifle her laughter.
Whoever had been making herself comfortable in her neighbor’s bed this time was a definite keeper. She heard the male upstairs let out a martyred sigh.
“You did not seriously just ask if my apartment is—oh my God. I’m finished here. Please get out,” he sounded weary.
“What? But, baby, I was just—” Sex Partner Number Four spluttered, but her upstairs neighbor’s long-suffering tone cut her off immediately.
“I said ‘get out.’ I refuse to sleep with someone who is ignorant enough to believe my apartment is haunted when hey, surprise, surprise: that incessant banging is only my cockblock downstairs neighbor indirectly telling me to shut the hell up because she’s trying to work on her novel of the week,” he snarked.
Meryl allowed a small smile to come to her face at his rant; it was 100% accurate. She was almost always a fair person but when it came to this (repeated) offense, she felt like she had to say something. She was glad she had been making herself clear.
The woman upstairs continued on, seemingly oblivious to the man’s insistences. “Are you sure it’s not a ghost? I mean, I saw something like this happen in a horror movie once and—”
“Please. This was fun while it lasted but please save the last bit of your dignity while you’ve still got it, collect your clothes, and go.”
A brief pause resulted after his statement but it wasn’t long until quiet shuffling could be heard.
“Call me,” the woman’s voice floated down to Meryl’s ears one last time before the soft click of her neighbor’s front door.
Meryl found herself shaking her head; she truly did feel piteous for the strange woman. The last bit of her dignity had flown out of the metaphorical window with her plea.
Meryl was about to turn and head back inside, still slightly disturbed from the blatant display of desperation, when the distinct pound of feet landing on the upstairs fire escape stopped her in her tracks.
She slowly turned her head towards the sound and, sure enough, there stood her elusive neighbor, staring back down at her in poorly-concealed distress.
“You,” he exhaled in disdain, “Are you serious? ” He leaned forward against the cold metal bars of his fire escape, his face tilted at such an angle where his features were almost eerily-illuminated by the lamplight streaming from her window.
Meryl scoffed indignantly, “It hardly seemed like I was ruining much. ‘Is your house, like, haunted?’” She mocked, her own defensiveness temporarily overshadowing her pity for the woman.
“We were having a great time until you had to come along and be the kholera v dupi you are,” He grumbled into his hands, shaking his head slightly.
“You were the one who kicked her out—did you just call me a pain in the butt in Ukrainian?” Meryl rose her eyebrows, incredulous.
Maks’ shocked silence roared throughout the static night air.
Then, finally: “Of course the literature freak speaks foreign languages.”
“Yeah? I’d rather be a literature freak than a nymphomaniac,” she countered, her anger simmering to a boil.
“I am by no means a nymphomaniac,” he huffed, the hard lines of his mouth creasing into a deep frown.
Meryl had never lost her patience with someone in the midst of their first conversation before, but she supposed there was a first time for everything.
“That was the fourth girl in the past two weeks. Your private life doesn’t mean anything to me unless it directly interferes with my work…which, unfortunately for the both of us, it is. If you want to have sex with several women a week, please, go right ahead. But please, for the love of all things Dickinson, do it in a way where you’re not disturbing the everloving shit out of your neighbors.”
Hold the phone.
Did Meryl Davis honestly just curse? Granted, she was an adult, and thus free to do as she pleased, but she’d tried to limit her swearing. She’d always made it a point to avoid curses as much as possible; they would usually come across as unintelligent ejaculations, meaningless remarks born entirely from anger.
And now here she was, cursing openly at a stranger.
Meryl thought she detected a flicker of emotion cross her neighbor’s face at her scathing words, but the darkness of nightfall, coupled with the almost immediate return of his poker face, prohibited her from identifying exactly what it was.
“Right,” the man enunciated, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to go inside and sleep off the overwhelming ferocity of this conversation. Have a pleasant rest of your night, bookworm.”
Before Meryl could process what was happening, her neighbor had climbed through and shut his window.
Heaving a sigh, she shut her window closed and proceeded off to bed.
The piercing wail of the fire alarm jolted her from her peaceful slumber.
She startled out of bed, speeding towards the front door, neglecting her shoeless-ness and making a mad dash outside. All around her, people rushed towards the building’s entrance, chatter and anxiety overwhelming the air.
While people around her buzzed about the room, Meryl silently milled through the instructions that had been driven into her mind the day she’d moved in. She’d always prided herself in being decent with levelheadedness in times of crises.
By the time she made it outside, the crowd hustling through the door and out into the open air, the icy blasts of wind and bitter rain slammed into her frozen figure from all sides. She shivered profusely, mentally scolding herself for forgetting to wear a sweater or shoes (a decision she was regretting because the sidewalk was absolutely dripping wet and the bottoms of her feet would occasionally scrape against sharp pebbles as she walked.) She’d never forget those things again.
She joined the congregation of apartment tenants on the street corner as they all lined up, crossing her arms and shifting from side to side in a vain attempt to get warm. The torrents of rain didn’t cease, pelting her ceaselessly as she shook from the brutal weather.
“You okay there, bookworm? You, uh, look a little damp,” A gruff, groggy voice from behind snapped her back into reality.
She didn’t bother turning, already bristling at the familiar tone. “Yeah, I’m totally a-ok here. In fact, I’m lovely. I adore getting woken up at 3 in the morning to the sound of a fire alarm, then rushing outside sweaterless and shoeless in an attempt to stay alive,” she quipped.
From her peripheral vision she could just barely see the hooded figure of her upstairs neighbor raising his hands in a sign of defeat. “God, I get it. That was a stupid question. Sorry.”
Meryl, unable to help herself, hazarded a glance over at him. “It’s alright, I guess,” she hesitated, adding “I’m just a little snippy sometimes.”
Her neighbor suddenly smiled at her, his expression a genuine look of pleased surprise. “‘Oh, you’re only a little snippy? You practically took my head off a few hours ago,” he teased.
For some reason, she bothered to continue the conversation. “It’s not my fault your girls are so loud in bed!”
The man’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively, “I mean, you’re right on that one. Their loudness is 100% my fault.”
She rolled her eyes, vaguely appalled at the implication. He simply carried on, choosing to ignore her blatant disgust.
“So, do you think someone rang the fire alarm as a joke? I mean, maybe I just have really bad eyesight, but I don’t see any trucks speeding towards the complex or sky-high mountains of flames engulfing it.”
Meryl frowned. “If it was meant to be a joke, it’s not really a funny one. I’m a morning person, definitely, but not 3 in the morning! I like my sleep when I can get it. If someone interrupted that to force me to stand barefoot outside in the pouring rain? They’re definitely not my favorite person.”
The man at her side chortled an agreement, “Very true. Whoever this kid is, though, I’m sure we’ll all find out soon enough. In the meantime,” he paused, and to Meryl’s ultimate dismay, shrugged off his jacket.
“I’m Maks,” he held out his hands, offering the jacket.
She glared at it as if it were about to explode in his hands.
“Oh, c’mon. You know you’ll get soaked if you don’t get slide it on, and I refuse to put it back on even if you don’t take it from me,” he coaxed.
She hesitated, but all at once another cruel gust of wind came and hit her back full-force.
Meryl begrudgingly sliding the large jacket on. She ducked her head into the oversized hood and stuffed her small hands into the jacket’s deep pockets. She settled into it, a gentle sigh escaping her lips at her new shield from the harsh weather.
“Better?” He grinned, just a tad bit smug.
“I mean… I guess,” she sighed, unable to issue a comeback to the blantant truth. “And for the record, Maks, I’m Meryl.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Madame Meryl. Glad you’re enjoying the sweater I chivalrously gave you,” he smirked.
Meryl rolled her eyes, her hands playfully shoving him although her mind never told them to. “This doesn’t mean you’re getting laid anytime soon! I pride myself in being a class act, Maks.”
A goofy grin lit up his face immediately. “I think it’s about time I go for a class act anyway. Challenge accepted.”
This is my video to Sam Smith’s “Stay With Me.” The idea behind this one was a disconnect with their actions and words. When they used to deny that they were dating ((side note: they’ve stopped doing that!!)), it held a disconnect to their actions. Now, I’m not one to snoop or anything, and what’s private is private and I respect that 110%, but this video was from my own observations. The lyrics, save for the chorus, would be their relationship in full. The chorus would be their public denial (despite continuing vast displays of affection), hence the disconnect between words and actions, and lyrics and videos.
So DWTS? way to mess everything up. Seriously was not expecting random people to be pros and not Sharna 😭 I’m not excited anymore.. But I guess I’m officially Team Val all the way & he better get an amazing partner or else ❤
Season 18 forever, no way in hell will s19 compare.
I saw it coming.. and I’m so happy Maks is choosing to not compete with perfection! Of course I’m sad he’s not going to be a pro after all these seasons, but it will never be the same after this season for him or for any of us. This way Meryl will always be his best partner, and the only one he won with. The one that made him fall in love with DWTS and a certain beauty ;) I’m truly grateful that I got to witness the perfection of our loves live. So special & def not a moment I will ever forget <3 and of course we wouldn’t have this amazing fam if not for this season!
100% team Val now <3 (and Sharna of course!)
and I hope Maks is a judge & everything will be perfect.
“I don’t need you to be better…I just need you to be you”….a lovely group of people that I would happily call friend if we ever meet. Until then, I’m sending an invisible rose to each of you on this special day.
Had a scary situation tonight while walking a short distance at night & not alone either.. A car with I think two guys stopped and when I turned around immediately drove away, drove down the street and then started to turn around. I ran as fast I could and am so thankful they didn’t follow/lost me or idk what could have happened.
This is my video to Sam Smith’s “Leave Your Lover.”
Everyone on this ship knows Sam Smith as the incredibly talented singer of “Latch,” (a.k.a. the song our perfect couple dancer their freestyle routine to), but I feel that not enough people give him credit for his other songs and I wanted to give both him, and Maksyl, proper homage. I fell in love with the song, and not long after, this video followed. All feedback is greatly appreciated! I hope you like the video as much as I loved making it!
For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Daniele. It’s super nice to meet you!
I made this video to show some love to two of the best groups of people on this planet: the hashtag Twizzlers and the Maksyl Fam.
When the people we admire most had first met (M&C + DWTS pros), these two groups of shippers also collided together. Even though we disagree on certain things, or we don’t ship the same thing (which, by the way, is PERFECTLY FINE because ships are all matters of opinion), I consider us one big giant family, and I adore every single one of you.
Our favorites love each other—there’s no reason why we can’t all love each other, too!
The video shows our lovely trio (also featuring Lord Sharna) having fun and enjoying themselves set to “Shake it Off” by Taylor Swift.
So, if you’re ever feeling stressed, sad, or annoyed by passive-aggressive anons who start ship wars, I hope you’ll watch this video and realize that the Twizzlers and the Maksyl Fam are one huge family and that every source of drama is irrelevant.
Forever sending each and every one of you my deepest respect and love<3