Women’s March in NYC #3

Some more, and more to come. WARNING: explicit language is used in some of the signs.

The Lost Children: ONE

I will post the next chapter some time this week, so enjoy! If you want to see more, I have more chapters uploaded on WattPad.

I sat with my knees drawn up to my stomach, leaning against the car window to feel the chill press upon my cheek. I forgot when it had started raining, but it did. Mother nature was rolling in her grave somewhere at the irony of it. In all honesty, I didn’t really mind that we were moving…it wasn’t very far, just from Long Island to Manhattan…but considering that my parents made a big deal about nearly everything, we could have been moving to Mars.

I felt someone kick my legs.

“Yo. Got any gum?”

My eyes rolled. “If I did, I would be sure to offer you some. You need it.”

My older brother kicked me with his shoeless foot again. I chuckled, pushing his leg off of the car seat. Justin was older than me by about a year, and was getting ready to go off to college by this June. He was a genius, and had the appearance of one–the scrawny limbs, pin-straight blond hair, and giant glasses that he wore next to indefinitely. Seriously, he must of had then since the third grade. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was born with them on his long, skeletal face, arms glued to the sides of his head like a plastic growths.

“Hey, mom.” said Justin, leaning forward to stick his head between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s. “Do you have gum?”

Of course he asks her nicely.

She rifled through her Vera Wang bag, past the sealed files and car keys, and pulled out a crumpled pack, placing it in his outstretched hand. He thanked her, with as much sweetness as he had when he asked, then gave me a childish grin.

I kicked him.

“Mother, my sibling is showing signs of sociopathic aggression.” he jolted, inching away from me. “I think it’s contagious.”

“Screw you.”

“When and where?” he paused. “Wait, no. Now that I think about it, don’t do that. Incestual relations really aren’t my thing.”

“Alright, you guys.” said Dad. His brown hair, spotted with streaks of gray, rustled in the wind that entered through his open window. “Don’t kill each other back there. We don’t want to stain the seats.”

Mom’s elbow nudged into Dad’s rib. “Bradley!”

“It’s fine, dear. I was just like this with my brother growing up. They’re fine.”

“You were boys. Ambrosia is a girl. She should act respectable.” Mother turned in her seat, her fair blond hair twisted in a knot behind her head and slicked down with gel. “No offense, sweetie.”

“None taken.” I replied. “You’re forgetting about Justin, though.”

He frowned. “I’m not a girl.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Mother’s warm brown gaze was far too dagger-like to try and test, so I gave in and slunk back into my seat, feeling my tight curls jiggle and tickle my elbows. I had started growing it long about a year ago, and it had grown considerably fast thanks to the biotin supplements my hair stylist suggested. She’d been doing my hair since I was five at this crummy hair salon down the street. I got cuts for ten bucks.

Now things were different. Not too many people were good with my hair…it was curly, and I had a lot of it, but it was incredibly thin. Soft. Tug on it the wrong way, and you could rip out half of my scalp. Like my mother, the color was super light, almost platinum blond. I had her insanely fair skin, too, along with her childish freckles scattered across my cheeks. My eyes, though, were my father’s–big, wide, and a magnificent ocean blue.

Yet if anyone was like my father, it was to be Justin. They even acted the same. Same dorky demeanor, same light humor, same way of pushing their glasses up the bridges of their long, narrow noses.

I looked over to my brother. His earbuds were plugged in his ears, and he had his attentive gaze upon what appeared to be the most recent Times magazine, with an article about the development of paranoia in test monkeys. Of course he would read something like that; he was obsessed with mental disorders. My theory was that he would cure worldwide depression by the next generation. If anyone were to blame, it would be my father. He was a pediatrician, but boy did he love reading books on schizophrenia.

Mother, on the other hand, was a real estate agent. Incredible pairing, right? There was my father, Bradley Quinn, who loved working with kids, and who grew a vegetable garden in our backyard, and then there was my mother, Giselle Quinn, who cringed at the though of dirt and used to bubble wrap us while we were learning to ride bikes. And no, I’m not exaggerating. She literally bubble wrapped us. I still have the mental scars.

Deeply, I breathed in stale air, looking back out the window with my DSLR camera on my lap.

Justin had become distant lately. I knew he was stressed and all, but he still had another eight or so months before he graduated. It was selfish of me to be so, but I was jealous. He was leaving. Seeing the world. And where would I be when this happened? At home, alone with my parents for another year. I was taking animal adoption into heavy consideration. I needed something, anything, to keep my youthful and lonely mind occupied. Probably a cat. I liked cats. 

Enough about Justin. I thought, shaking the thought away and curling up further against the car door. I searched the outside world desperately for a worthy distraction.

The city looked different from inside the car. I had been in the city plenty of times before, walked down fifth avenue and wandered into the Downtown night life, but I had always been part of the city scene. The walking. The subway lines. The packed corners and crammed cafes. When you’re part of New York City, cars seemed to exist in a separate dimension. This was the first time I really noticed it, and it made me increasingly uncomfortable. All I wanted to do was jump out and start walking.

I pulled my legs back up against my chest. Before I slipped my Skullcandy headphones over my ears, I glanced at my reflection. I looked tired. I had a naturally petite figure and a delicate, round face, but recently it had started to hollow out. My collarbones looked sharp enough to slice one’s flesh in two, and the bones in my fingers popped out like broken twigs. I would have to gain some weight this winter if I were to survive the remainder of my high school life.

Back on Long Island, my survival skills weren’t exactly up to par. By the end of my freshman year, I had started to see a therapist for anxiety. Almost anything would make me panic, and sleeping was never really an option. When you’re a hot mess, people tend to step a good distance away from you, so the friends I once had slowly started to disperse until there were next to none left. That was why we were moving…so that the family (meaning me) could get a “fresh start” in a place were things were always changing.

As my thoughts sank deeper, I turned on my music. An Indie Electronica song came on, and my eyes slowly began to feel heavier. I wouldn’t miss Long Island. It was a beautiful place, don’t get me wrong…I was just happy to get away from it all. One couldn’t blend there. Disappear. Yet in the city, there was the chance to escape…the chance to seem invisible.

Invisibility was all a teenage girl could wish for. 

The Lost Children: Intro

​Dear Reader,

I wish I could start this off by saying “once upon a time”, but Yasmin said that, if I did, no one would read it. She usually knows what she’s talking about, so I’m going to take her word for it. Then again, I’m not even sure if I actually want people to read this. I mean if you do, or did, gold star, but I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t, or don’t. Some part of me is suggesting that this, all of this, should be kept under wraps. Another part of me, though, suggests otherwise. It’s the part that sketches in her screwed up, leather-bound sketch book at the break of dawn, or runs out to take some photos to distract herself from reality. It’s the part of me that listens to Kings of Leon and Vampire Weekend until her ears bleed, just to drown out the voices that haunt every hour of every day. It’s the part of me that, whether I like it or not, wants my story heard. I’m going to warn you, though…it’s not very pleasant. Blood, sex, profanity…you name it. It will be in here, no matter how many times this is edited, translated, or whatever else it may be that they do to this “story”. Who knows? Maybe your country will ban it due to its graphic, profound nature. And, if they don’t, maybe they’ll put it in that obscure corner of the young adult fiction area at the public library, the one nobody looks at because nothing there is ever on display. Whatever. It’s none of my concern when, and how, someone reads this. It just matters that they did, that they’re holding this book in their hands right now, awaiting the story, awaiting the action and drama and romance and gore that this book promises.They’re awaiting the climax, the rise and fall, and the finishing touch. Patience, younglings. All in due time. First, an introduction.

Hello.My name is Ambrosia Quinn, and this, ladies and gentlemen, is my story. 

Roll credits.

My Writing

Thoug city photos are still being edited, as is a brand new review video, heres a little look into the novel I’ve been working on! Be sure to share the love, and I’ll keep you all posted as to when new chapters are released. I’m planning to have another chapter out today, so be ready. 

I think you’d like this story: “The Lost Children” by claudejul99 on Wattpad http://my.w.tt/UiNb/NYiROPF3pA

Women’s March in NYC #1

Got plenty of photos when I went protesting on Saturday. These are some of the finished products…more will be coming in the next edition, so stay tuned!

Also check out my article on the protests here:


And my vlog from the Women’s March in NYC here: