Browse Category by Prose
Prose, Writing Entries, Writings

Je nais se quoi

She loves the smell of old books, the way it has a power to transport her back in time. She loves running her fingers through its ancient pages, hoping it may whisper to her the forgotten secrets of the universe.

She loves looking at the stars at night, when the sky is clear and the moon is shining full and bright. It makes her believe that magic is within her grasp and miracles are within every shooting star.

She believes in fairies and dragons, and angels most of all. It fascinates her endlessly giving colors and curves to the squares and straight lines of this material world.

Yet not be mistaken. She isn’t all sweetness and pink frosting, for she’s nowhere near.

Every night, she gets nightmares and she ends up waking at the middle with tears-stained pillow, with death in her eyes, and curses of tragedy in her words.

She knows that light and darkness are created hand in hand. That demons exist as much as angels do. She knows darkness tangibility in and out like the lines of her palm, she even kissed it passionately at centuries past, yet this does not stop her to be afraid.

When you see her, she’ll be looking straight in your eye, unwavering and searching. And you will wonder what she is made of. Is it light or darkness? Is it a fairy godmother’s wish or a witch’s curse? A pixie’s dust or a mortal’s ash? An angel’s breath or a demon’s fury?

Every time you think of her, you will wonder. But you will never quite grasp the answer.

But by this, you will know it’s her.

You will know it’s her when you suddenly realize that you’re not looking at her eyes anymore, but you are looking straight through her, and what you see isn’t her but yourself. The best you can possibly be.

She is beautiful, indeed. Otherworldly beautiful.

 

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Inspired by the lovely prompt from #FWF Beautiful People

Prose, Random Thoughts, Writings

Not yet

She poised her pen to the paper, ready to bleed all the words out, as if by so doing she would be able to purge all her memories of him. But as soon as she started to think of the words she would write about him and of their love that gone wrong, and about the realities that turned illusions, she realized she’s not yet ready.

She’s not yet ready to let it all go, to let go of him and of their story, to put an end to it. Not yet.

But she knows that next time she will be able to write it all down—she must—and put a period to this chapter as she would never ever let this be the ending.

Prose, Random Thoughts, Writings

Your love must be empty

The glass used to be half-full, never full. I drank its contents and settled it down, it’s half-empty. When things get rough, I drank some more. And a little bit more, and another more. Until I was so caught up with the taste it leaves on my lips that I forgot.. Nothing lasts forever. I looked at the glass.

The glass must be empty.

Prose, Writing Entries, Writings

I’m counting his music

He sits there as he usually do, strumming music as ancient as his soul might have been.

It is a song I’m not familiar to, or maybe because of years of captivity in this underground nothingness, where every day is night and all colors merge into black, I already forget the songs I once enjoyed listening to, songs of love, of fun, of sadness, and anything that is pop and in hype.

I don’t know what’s happening above now. I don’t even know how I came to be alive until now. I don’t even know why I am here.

But I count.

I count the days since I got here. And that’s what he didn’t know.

And that’s why I know something weird is going on, not just because he kidnapped me in which I could recall just like yesterday, but because I’m stuck here in a rut, in a cold underground bunker, with nothing but him and his heavenly ancient music I anticipate everyday that is now as constant as the steady beating of my heart.

And he’d never given me anything yet I still exist.

No food, no water, no anything. Just the music that wakes me up each day, making me mark another day.

It’s been 55, 482 days now.

And I’m born in 1911.

 

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In response to #FWF Free Write Friday: Time and Place Scenario.

And as requested by A. I. Sajib, here is my promise little fiction for you! Though I’m not entirely sure this would fall as ‘cute’ one. 🙂

On Dreams, Prose, Random Thoughts, Writing Entries, Writings

Take me to the sky

There’s something about rooftops and heights and buildings that makes me want to live, and jump, and die, and laugh, and fall in love, and cry, all at the same time.

I’m in love with heights. I love the scenic view of anything from above. No matter what it is, even if it’s just a view of garbage pile, I don’t really mind as long as I’m on up above, above the world’s care, above the people’s chatter below, above the lines of honking cars that piles up creating the typical Monday traffic.

I guess it’s the peaceful feeling that comes with it. Of being above. The kind of peace that makes all the noises and voices in my head stop. And I crave for that feeling, that feeling of stillness and of calm nothingness.

So it’s not too much to ask I guess
to be on the world’s highest building
on a windy cold midnight
and with the moon shining in the clear sky
then waking up the next day
with nothing but a vague feeling
tugging at my heart
for the rest of my life.

Maybe, I have been already in that place. That place that haunts me on my sleep when I was young, that special place that I haven’t been on yet but am familiar like the back of my hand, a place I don’t even know if it exists.

And sometimes when the vision persists you can’t help but wonder if it happened in some past lives or some dream that you can’t remember anymore.

 

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Inspired by #FWF Free Write Friday: Ponder This…

Prose, Writing Entries, Writings

Auburn hair

I remember the first time I saw an angel. It was night, and I was wishing on a falling star.

Those are the times that my heart still beats the rhythm of myths and dragons, of fairies and fairytales, and of angels and fallen stars. My heart is still so young and naïve then that I would believe I could fly and grow wings out of my back if someone would tell me so.

He kissed my tears away while my eyes are closed as I wished upon a falling star.

“Be brave,” he whispered. His lips grazed lightly on my forehead, and I heard the first stirrings of my innocent heart.

I caught a glimpse of him before he completely vanished into thin air.

He has beautiful auburn hair.

Coal black wings.

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In response to Inspiration Monday: Angel Hair.

Prose, Writing Entries, Writings

Would-be’s

Safe inside, toasty warm, while water pitter-patters on the roof… describe your perfect, rainy afternoon

It’s a cold rainy afternoon, and it’s weekend, and there’s nothing much to do but read a novel, watch TV, or curl up on a bed with him—with First. And in that moment and time, I imagine that he is my husband and it’s already the future that I’d always saw in my visions and long-lost dreams—

He would be in the kitchen making a cup of hot tea for me because my stomach is cramping after eating the lunch that we’d had, while I’m on our bed, on my side with a book, waiting for him to finish whatever tea he is brewing.

Then he would silently open the door, and I would hear his footsteps but I wouldn’t look at him and I would pretend to be so engrossed in the book I’m reading when the fact is that all I want to do is to look at his beautiful face the entire day.

Then I would hear him place the cup on our side table, and then I would hear the bed creak, and I would feel him on my side. He would wrap his arms around me and my stomach and he would kiss my bare shoulders, then he would whisper to my ears, “Still hurts?”

Inside I would smile, but I would turn to him, and making a face I would say, “Yes, a little.”

He would nod in understanding, and I would see love and concern in his eyes. He would bring his face close to mine, almost kissing me, then he would breathe, closing his eyes, and I would inhale too his scent, clean and heavenly, and I would feel instantly safe, and then he would whisper to me that he prepared me my favorite tea.

I would touch his beautiful face, grateful for having this being before me, and I would murmur, “Thanks.”

Then with that, he would open his eyes and would lock his gaze on me.

Then he would smile and I would forget that my stomach is cramping or that the protagonist in the book I was reading is about to get shot and I would forget everything in the world, and why I even chose him, or why I even have a problem in choosing him in the past, for this is my reality now; he is my God-willed and God-given reality. Then, as if knowing that I’m about to be lost forever in his eyes, he would nudge me gently, kiss my forehead, and remind me softly that my tea will get cold any moment if I don’t start sipping it.