#dailyprompt-1995 — Public Fediverse posts

Superstitious? Me? Pfft… Unless the Universe is Listening.

Are you superstitious?

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Am I Superstitious? Let’s Just Say… It’s Complicated.

This morning, my son and his buddies threw out a dangerous question: “Are you superstitious?”

Now, logically, I want to say no. I don’t walk around tossing salt over my shoulder or fearing black cats. But if we’re being honest… I also refuse to say things like “Wow, nothing has gone wrong today!” because I know the universe is listening.

So, am I superstitious? Let’s just say I respect the possibility of unseen forces—but I’m also not afraid to test them.

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Let’s break it down.

1. The ‘Don’t Jinx It’ Rule (AKA, I’m Not Stupid)

You ever confidently say something, only for life to immediately slap you in the face?

🔹 Example: “Ugh, I never get sick.” Boom—suddenly, I’m drowning in tissues and self-pity.
🔹 Pain Level: 9/10. Because why does the universe have to be so petty?

✅ How I Handle It: I knock on wood. Every time. Even if it’s fake. Even if people are watching. If I forget? You best believe I’m mentally whispering “no jinx, no jinx, no jinx” to undo the damage.

2. The ‘Something Feels Off’ Rule (My Sixth Sense is Real)

I don’t know if it’s energy, instinct, or just years of experience with people being sketchy, but if something feels wrong, I listen.

🔹 Example: Walking into a place and feeling an immediate, unexplainable sense of nope.
🔹 Pain Level: 10/10 if ignored. Because the ONE TIME I brushed it off, I ended up in a situation I never should have been in.

✅ How I Handle It: If my gut tells me to leave, I leave. No debating, no justifying. The last thing I need is to become the main character in a bad horror movie.

3. The ‘Ghosts? Prove Me Wrong’ Rule (I’m Ready for This Fight)

Unlike most people, I don’t fear ghosts, Ouija boards, or haunted places—I’m fascinated by them. Do I believe in spirits and the paranormal? Not really.

But am I willing to test it? Hell yes.

🔹 Example: While some people refuse to step foot in a haunted house, I’m the one saying, “Alright, if something’s here, show yourself.”
🔹 Pain Level: TBD. But honestly, if a ghost did prove me wrong, I’d be more excited than scared.

✅ How I Handle It: If the supernatural wants my attention, it better bring receipts. Until then, I’m keeping my skepticism and my curiosity wide open.

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So, Am I Superstitious?

Let’s put it this way—I don’t live in fear of bad luck, but I also don’t poke the bear (except when it comes to ghosts, apparently).

If knocking on wood, trusting my instincts, and challenging the unknown keeps things interesting, then I’m all in.

Now, tell me—are you superstitious?

Or are you the type to laugh in the face of fate?

Drop your thoughts in the comments… but if your luck suddenly changes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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My Secret Obsession: Dark Romance Audiobooks & The Voices That Make Me Swoon

What’s something most people don’t know about you?

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What’s Something Most People Don’t Know About Me?

If you asked Chat Ludlow, the commanding king of the dark Fae and richest man on Earth, what most people don’t know about him, he’d probably smirk and say, “Everything. They only see what I let them.”

That, my friends, is what I’m aiming for here—a little mystery, a little intrigue, and a lot of fun.

So, what’s something most people don’t know about me?

Well, I’m not just a dark romance enthusiast—oh no. I’ve got layers, much like Chat’s intricate plans to make Belle his forever (cue the swoon).

My Secret Obsession? Dark Romance Audiobooks 🎧

Yup, you read that right. While I live for crafting my own sizzling stories, I’ve got another obsession that’s just as intense: dark romance audiobooks. And not just any narrators will do—no, no.

My go-tos are the deliciously deep voices of Aiden Snow and Teddy Hamilton.

There’s something about the way they bring the tension, passion, and raw emotion of a story to life that keeps me hooked for hours.

Think of it as the Chat Ludlow experience—dangerous, seductive, and oh-so-intoxicating. Much like Belle, I can’t help but swoon every time those voices take over my headphones.

Just like how Chat’s deep, commanding voice sends Belle into a fluster, audiobooks narrated by these legends have the power to take any romance to the next level.

If you’re not already obsessed, trust me—you’re missing out on the ultimate audio romance experience.

Why Audiobooks? Because They Let You Escape.

Life, much like the worlds Chat and Belle navigate, can get overwhelming.

Between work, life, and the chaos in between, we all need a way to escape. And for me, that’s pressing play on a dark romance audiobook and letting those velvety voices take me into another world.

It’s a bit like falling headfirst into one of Chat’s steamy power games—except this time, it’s Aiden Snow telling me all the dirty details, and I don’t have to lift a finger.

When you listen to Aiden Snow or Teddy Hamilton, it’s like having your very own Chat Ludlow right in your ear, whispering all those dangerously sweet nothings.

What’s not to love? You can dive into a world of Fae kings, ruthless CEOs, and unrelenting passion—all while folding your laundry (because multitasking is key, am I right?).

Everyone loves a good escape.

Whether you’re listening to a podcast or, like me, you’re falling for a brooding fictional alpha on audio, there’s something magical about immersive experiences.

What This Says About Me (and Chat)

Now, I know what you’re thinking—What does an obsession with dark romance audiobooks have to do with writing or being Chat Ludlow’s obsession?

Well, everything, actually. People expect you to be a certain way based on what you create, but there’s always more beneath the surface.

For example, Chat may come off as a dominant, ruthless man in control of everything, but underneath it all, he’s fiercely in love with Belle—someone who softens his edges and makes him vulnerable.

Similarly, when I’m not writing, I’m melting into the worlds created by my favourite narrators, where love, danger, and passion intertwine in a way that’s just so satisfying.

Your Turn: What Don’t People Know About You?

Okay, now it’s your turn. I’ve spilled my secret—dark romance audiobooks narrated by the dreamy Aiden Snow and Teddy Hamilton. Chef’s kiss, right?

What’s something about you that people don’t expect?

Do you also escape into stories when life gets overwhelming, or is there another secret passion you’re hiding?

Drop a comment below and tell me your favourite audiobook narrator or what surprising hobby you’re obsessed with.

You never know—you might just find a fellow audiobook addict (and I’ll definitely be here fangirling alongside you).

#DarkRomance #AudioBooks #AudiobookAddict #SecretObsession #AidenSnow #TeddyHamilton

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Epilogue: A Toast to Treachery

The arrest of Inspector Salomone was a quiet affair, conducted with the discretion that only a small village like Speranza could muster. Inspector Davies, the unassuming but astute officer who had once investigated the death of Elias Thorne, led the disgraced Salomone away in handcuffs. The former guardian of the law did not rage; instead, he wore a look of terrified resignation, muttering about a “higher tempo” and a “conductor” who would not be pleased.

“I was merely the second fiddle, Moira,” Salomone hissed as he was placed into the squad car, his eyes darting toward the bell tower. “The orchestra plays on, with or without me.”

Back at the Coffee Taverna, the atmosphere was one of exhausted relief. The adrenaline that had fueled our escape from the Cigars House had faded, replaced by the heavy, comforting scent of roasted beans and the earthy aroma of Altea’s unlit tobacco.

We gathered around the table to open the bottle of Speranza, Year Zero. Altea, with the reverence of a priestess, used a corkscrew to pull the ancient stopper. It emerged with a satisfying pop, releasing not the smell of vinegar, but a rich, complex bouquet of dark cherries, leather, and… something metallic.

“To the soil of Speranza,” Anna toasted, raising her glass. “And to friendship, the only root that doesn’t rot.”

We drank. The wine was exquisite—velvety and deep. But as I set my glass down, Toe, my sleek black cat, jumped onto the table. He did not look at the wine. He looked at the cork.

With a surgical extend of a single claw, he hooked the cork and batted it toward me. It rolled across the wooden table, coming to rest against the base of the kerosene lamp.

“Look,” I whispered, the Poirot-like instinct twitching in my mind.

Burned into the side of the cork, hidden until it was pulled from the neck of the bottle, was not a vintage year. It was a sequence of musical notes. A specific, haunting trill.

“That’s not just a melody,” Marisa said, her face paling as she recognized the notation. “That is the opening bar of The Devil’s Trill sonata. It’s the signature of the ‘Maestro’—a legendary thief who steals not with silence, but with sound.”

A New dissonance

Before I could respond, the heavy oak door of the Taverna creaked open. The wind from the street blew in, extinguishing the candles and plunging us into a sudden, Hitchcockian gloom.

Standing in the doorway was a young woman, drenched from a sudden squall. She clutched a violin case to her chest as if it were an infant. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the same terror I had seen in Viviana Bellini’s face weeks ago.

“Dr. Hopes?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “They told me you could help. I am the second violinist for the quartet playing at the gala tonight. But… the first chair has vanished.”

She stepped into the light, and Ashwaganda let out a low, warning growl from his perch.

“He didn’t just disappear,” the woman sobbed, placing the violin case on the table next to the branded cork. “He vanished while he was playing a solo on stage. One moment the music was there, and the next… only silence. And in his place, they found this.”

She opened the case. The violin was gone. Resting in the velvet lining was not an instrument, but a perfectly preserved, severed finger of a marble statue—and a single, fresh cacao bean.

I looked at Altea, Anna, and Marisa. The “Conductor” Salomone had warned us about had already begun his performance. The wine was finished, but the overture to a new nightmare had just begun.

“Lock the doors, Anna,” I said, picking up the marble finger. “It seems our quiet life in Speranza is about to get very loud.”

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Mint Chocolate and Shadows

Chapter 5: The Alchemy of Shadows

The hidden drawer in the hearth of the Mint Chocolate House did not contain a simple map. That would have been too pedestrian for a mind as labyrinthine as Sir Alistair Finch’s. Instead, we found a collection of translucent vellum sheets, brittle with age, covered in what appeared to be nonsense: botanical sketches of deadly nightshade overlaying architectural diagrams of Speranza’s sewer system, and chemical formulas for synthetic diamonds written in the margins of a recipe for ganache.

“It is chaos,” Anna whispered, the steam from her earlier espresso seeming to have evaporated into the cold tension of the room. “Just scrawls and madness.”

“No,” I corrected, adjusting my glasses as Toe, my black cat, jumped onto the table and placed a paw precisely on a sketch of a Datura flower. “It is not madness. It is a transparency cipher. Marisa, bring the light.”

Marisa, pale but steady, brought a heavy kerosene lamp from the counter. When we held the vellum sheets up against the flame, layering them one over the other, the chaotic lines merged. The botanical sketches faded, and the architectural lines aligned to form a perfect, three-dimensional geometry of a specific object.

It was not a building. It was a humidifier. specifically, the grand, walk-in humidor at Altea’s Cigars House.

“The gear,” I murmured, pulling the brass cog we had found in the poisoned snuff box from my pocket. “It wasn’t a piece of the Raven’s Kiss dagger. It is a key for a different lock entirely.”

Suddenly, the scent of almonds—the cyanide trace from the box—hit me with a new, terrifying realization. I grabbed the snuff box and scraped a tiny amount of the crystalline powder onto the table. “Altea, do you have any lemon juice? Or vinegar?”

“I have a lime for the cocktails,” Altea replied, confused but handing me the fruit.

I squeezed a drop onto the white powder. It hissed violently, turning a vibrant, shocking violet.

“It’s not cyanide,” I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “It’s a reactants-based dye, used in the 19th century to mark fools’ gold. The poison was a bluff. A distraction to keep us looking for a killer while the thief walked right past us.”

“The thief?” Anna asked.

“The man in the gray coat,” I said, the realization dawning like a cold sunrise. “He didn’t have a limp because he was injured. He walked with a heavy step because he was carrying something incredibly dense in his lining. He didn’t bring the box to threaten us. He brought it to trigger us. He needed us to find the notes. He needed us to solve the puzzle he couldn’t.”

A crash echoed from the street outside—the sound of breaking glass. It came from the direction of the Cigars House.

“He’s already there,” I said, blowing out the lamp. “And he’s waiting for us to bring him the gear.”

Chapter 6: The Smoke and the Mirrors

We moved through the back alleys of Speranza, avoiding the main cobblestone streets bathed in moonlight. Ashwaganda, usually a creature of kinetic chaos, moved low to the ground, a silent orange streak leading the way. The air grew heavier as we approached Altea’s shop, thick with the scent of unlit tobacco and aged cedar.

The front door of the Cigars House was ajar, the glass pane shattered. Inside, the shop was a cavern of shadows. The moonlight caught the drifting smoke—not from cigars, but from a small canister rolling on the floor, releasing a disorienting, white fog.

“Stay close,” I whispered to my friends. “He wants the gear. He won’t strike until he sees it.”

We pushed through the fog into the back room, where the massive walk-in humidor stood. It was a masterpiece of engineering, lined with Spanish cedar and temperature-controlled dials. Standing before it, silhouetted against the faint light of the streetlamps outside, was the figure in the gray coat.

He turned. The limp was gone. In his hand, he held a heavy, silenced pistol. But it wasn’t the courier we had interrogated at the Coffee Taverna. It was Inspector Salomone.

The shock was physical, a punch to the gut. The weary, cynical policeman who had dismissed my theories for years stood there with a cold, calculating smile.

“Dr. Hopes,” Salomone said, his voice stripped of its usual fatigue. “I knew you couldn’t resist a puzzle. You and your wretched cats are better than any hound.”

“The courier…” I started.

“A hired actor,” Salomone scoffed. “Paid to tremble and deliver a prop. I needed you to find the location. Sir Alistair’s notes were too encoded for a simple policeman, but for a doctor with a penchant for history? Child’s play.” He extended his hand. “The gear, Moira. Now.”

Altea stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “You monitored us? You betrayed the village?”

“I protected this village from boredom for twenty years,” Salomone snapped. “Do you know what is inside this humidor? It is not just cigars. Sir Alistair didn’t trust banks. He trusted climate control. The ‘Star of Speranza’ isn’t a diamond, Altea. It is a seed. The last viable seed of the Silphium plant, thought extinct since Roman times. Worth more than any diamond. A botanical miracle that could rewrite history—and make its owner a billionaire.”

He raised the gun. “The gear.”

I held up the small brass cog. My mind raced, flipping through the pages of Days of your Dreams. ‘When the enemy seeks the time, give him the bell, not the clapper.’

“Catch,” I said, and tossed the gear high into the air, towards the open door of the humidor.

Salomone’s greed was a reflex. He lunged for it, his eyes tracking the glint of brass. In that split second, Toe dropped from the top of the humidor shelves. He didn’t aim for the man. He aimed for the open canister of fog Salomone had kicked aside.

With a precise swat, the black cat sent the canister spinning between Salomone’s legs. The Inspector stumbled, his shot going wild, shattering a jar of Cuban Leafs.

Chapter 7: The Sweetest Trap

“Now!” I screamed.

Marisa, fueled by adrenaline, grabbed a heavy jar of rock candy from a display shelf and hurled it. It wasn’t a precise throw, but it was effective. The jar smashed against the humidity controls, releasing a pressurized blast of water vapor designed to keep the cigars moist.

The room instantly turned into a blinding white cloud. Salomone roared, firing blindly into the mist.

“The floor!” Anna shouted, pulling a lever near the counter. It was the trapdoor to the cellar, usually used for coal deliveries.

Salomone, disoriented and blinded by the steam and fog, took a step back to steady his aim. His heel caught on the edge of the open trapdoor. There was no scream, just a surprised grunt and the heavy thud of a body hitting the coal pile twelve feet below.

Altea slammed the trapdoor shut and threw the iron bolt.

Silence returned to the Cigars House, save for the hissing of the broken humidifier.

I leaned against the counter, shaking. Ashwaganda trotted over to the brass gear, which had landed safely on a velvet chair, and sat on it, purring loudly.

“Silphium,” Altea whispered, looking at the locked humidor. “He was willing to kill for a plant?”

“For the history,” I corrected, picking up the gear. “And for the power of being the one to bring it back.”

I walked to the humidor. The brass gear didn’t fit into the keyhole. It fit into a small, decorative ventilation grate near the floor—a cat-sized opening. I placed the gear onto a hidden spindle and turned it.

The floor of the humidor didn’t open. Instead, a small panel inside the wall slid back. There was no seed. There was no diamond.

Inside sat a single, dust-covered bottle of wine, labelled simply: Speranza, Year Zero.

Next to it was a final note from Sir Alistair:

“The Silphium was a myth I invented to test the greedy. The true treasure is the soil of this village, which grows friendship deeper than any root. Enjoy the vintage, ladies. It is the only one in existence.”

I looked at my friends—Altea, Anna, Marisa—covered in soot, steam, and chocolate dust.

“A myth?” Salomone’s muffled voice shouted from the cellar. “You mean I broke my leg for a metaphor?!”

I smiled, picking up the bottle. “It seems,” I said, channeling the finality of Hitchcock’s closing shots, “that the Inspector fell for the oldest trick in the book. Never trust a treasure map written by a man who loved stories more than gold.”

We left Salomone in the cellar for the real police to find. The night air was crisp, and as we walked back towards the Coffee Taverna to finally open the bottle, the stars above Speranza seemed to wink. Or perhaps it was just the reflection in the golden eyes of the cats, who knew all along that the best twists are the ones you never see coming.

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The House Officer’s Dilemma | Housemanship Diaries

Related Posts:

• Reflection of the Paediatrics Posting
• Surviving A Month Of Tagging In My Fourth Posting – Surgery | Housemanship Diaries
• Appreciation Towards The Medical Officers (MOs) – Housemanship Diaries
• My Last Day In Paediatrics As A House Officer
• My Downfall In Surgery Which Led To My Extension – Housemanship Diaries
• 1 Year Of Housemanship Update – Housemanship Diaries
• Another Good Advice I Will Remember For The Longest Time – Housemanship Diaries
• The Time I Turned A Baby’s Hand Blue – Housemanship Diaries
• Enjoying The Journey – Housemanship Diaries

While growing up, when I was asked regarding what I looked forward towards in the future, I always had the answer.

Photo by Derek Finch on Pexels.com

The answer was simply, I wanted to be a Doctor (coz that’s what I knew my whole life and indirectly working towards albeit having other interests).

Thus, from primary school, next would be high school, moving towards science stream in school and pre-university in a course which would serves as a prerequisite into entering medical school. 

Photo by Tara Winstead on Pexels.com

In medical school, my focus was always on the exams, completing that particular posting, completing that year, completing preclinicals and moving onto clinicals, studying for the grand finals, completing medical school and graduating.

Upon graduation, applying for housemanship to start practicing. I always knew that I wanted to practice in Sarawak General Hospital. Thus, that didn’t require much thinking. Working my way there, and finally, starting housemanship.

Now that I’m a House Officer, completing each posting, working towards completing a year, now focusing on completing the whole journey.

But after that? I feel lost and aimless.

Previously, when asked regarding my need to have a family, I would brush it off. Not that I didn’t want to but I’ve yet to meet the person that I would want to spend the rest of my life with and build a family.

My aim was mainly catered towards my parents. But they’re doing just fine on their own. Thank God for that. I don’t see my purpose anymore actually.

In regard to post-housemanship, I have no idea of which speciality I would like to dive into. In terms of being surgical based or medical based, the thing I learnt over this past 1 year is that I’m definitely a surgical based person. Though, I have enjoyed paediatrics very much (which I supposed is a very much toned down version of the chaotic medical posting).

I wouldn’t know, as upon writing this article, I’ve yet to complete my medical posting.

The medical field is not just tied to 6 different postings. As a House Officer in Malaysia, we are required to rotate to 6 different postings throughout our 2-year-duration in housemanship which are, Surgery, Medical, Orthopaedics, Obstetrics and Gynaecology and Paediatrics. The sixth posting, we have the privilege to choose among Emergency Department (ETD / ED), Anaesthesia, Klinik Kesihatan (Community Clinics) and Psychiatry.

However, in reality, the clinical field is vast and there are other specialities that we as House Officers have yet to enter. In terms of non-clinical field, it is another vast category.

Which of it am I?

At times I wished that I always knew of what I wanted to be, such as a Cardiologist or a Surgeon but after assisting in the operating theatres and working as a junior doctor, none of it appeals to me 100%. Sure it is interesting but is it something I would want to be doing for the rest of my life?

Having completed a year of housemanship, I thought that the answer would be clear to me by now. Yet, I’m still as unsure as I had been before. I’ve approached multiple seniors, medical officers and specialists and talked to various doctors from different fields regarding their experience. I seem to have the information but my heart was not fully captured by any of it. 

Everything seems nice and interesting. I hope that in time to come, the answer would be clearer. The least I could do at the moment is to put my best foot forward in whatever department or sector that I go through.

Related Posts:

• Reflection of the Paediatrics Posting
• Surviving A Month Of Tagging In My Fourth Posting – Surgery | Housemanship Diaries
• Appreciation Towards The Medical Officers (MOs) – Housemanship Diaries
• My Last Day In Paediatrics As A House Officer
• My Downfall In Surgery Which Led To My Extension – Housemanship Diaries
• 1 Year Of Housemanship Update – Housemanship Diaries
• Another Good Advice I Will Remember For The Longest Time – Housemanship Diaries
• The Time I Turned A Baby’s Hand Blue – Housemanship Diaries
• Enjoying The Journey – Housemanship Diaries

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Sometime ago, I wrote about “The Small Change I Hope My Blog Would Make“, whereby I mentioned that with every article written and uploaded on this website would spread some form of comfort and positivity, especially within the community of junior doctors.

Perhaps I’m just simply being optimistic. I have to. That keeps me going, even on difficult days to the point it has become a default reflex for me.

Nonetheless, I love to write and sometimes I do get lost that I tend to deviate from the topic at times and divert back to the main topic at hand.

Living in this world which has its flaws and problems at every corner, I try to see the good aspect of things and thus, I try to end my articles on a good note or some encouragement, which is mainly directed at me actually. However, I never know who may be reading my written articles and perhaps just need some encouragement and kind words at the moment.

It serves as a “happy ending” just like a fairytale in which I escape in one too many times.

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