Tag Archives: creative fiction

Different Houses

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Building dreams together is one of the perks of being in a relationship. It makes me look forward for the future. But when the relationship gets awry….
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She met a boy who wished for a simple home in a suburban neighborhood. No qualms and chaos. Just there to have peace and quiet. Now, he is gone.

She almost fell in love with a man who wanted a house on top of a century-old tree. He would build his own tree house and put a sun roof so all the light would come in. Now, he is pursuing someone else.

She fell in love with a man who dreamt of a Pi-shaped house with her. A white Pi-shaped house with an Olympic size swimming pool in between the elongated parts of the house. Now, he is with someone else.

The tragedy of it all? They never asked her what she wanted.
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In all fairness, I still don’t know how my ‘dream house’ would look like. o.O
What does your dream house look like?

Peace out!

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Would it?

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I wrote this when I was ‘past the point of no return’ and started noticing that I still liked the things he liked even after we broke up. I know some of my friends hate certain things simply because these remind them so much of their exes. I saw myself not hating these things at all, no matter how much I wanted to, if only to forget him.

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Would it matter if I still love the things you made me love?

I still love the coffee down at the bakery where we used to share a cup. I still love the book you bought me at the thrift bookstore when I didn’t have enough money. I still love the film you made me watch because you said it was amazing. If I still love the things I associate with you, then does that make me still love you?

I found a place that serves better, and I mean way better, coffee than that bakeshop. I bought a book and have actually read it more than a couple of times. I watched a film that made me laugh, cry, and love my life even more when I got out of the cinema. But I still love the things you love, does that make me still love you?

Would it matter if I still love the things you made me love? Maybe. Maybe not.

I’m with good company, if ever you’re wondering. Nope? Oh, my bad.

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Well?
Peace out!

Handkerchief

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I wrote this when I was cleaning my room and I found le ex’s hanky. dun dun dun dun….

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Handkerchief. That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief was all he left her; was all she kept. She threw everything away; those gifts, those letters, those poems, those promises, except for that handkerchief.

To tell you honestly, he didn’t give her the handkerchief. She stole it form him. Or maybe he knew she took it. He just didn’t bother getting it back from her.

That’s what he did. He stole her. He robbed her of her innocence and she gladly gave it away. Was it still stealing?

Memory. At some point, a stimulus will cross her path and activate those neurons in her brain to tap the black box of forbidden and ill-forgotten dreams. Like a movie reel, the past plays before her like an unstoppable force of reckoning.

That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief. She is burning it.
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Have I ever written anything not sad? I dunno. I suck at writing happy things. >_<

But what do you think?
Peace out!

He/ She

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I’ve written this one when I was hanging out in a coffee shop all by myself and I started noticing this guy getting antsy and kept on looking at his watch and phone. I figured, “Hey, he might be waiting for his blind date.” and this is where this flash fiction started.

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He sips his coffee, one shot espresso. He feels the sudden warmth around his tongue. It reminds him of something; someone. It reminds him of her. He wonders. Where could she be?
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She walks along the pavement and gets the last drag out of her cigarette. She holds it; then, blows out the smoke. She enters the café and whips her hair out of her face. She goes to the counter and orders. “Mocha latte over-iced”, she said.
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Headphones blaring in his ears, he drowns the world out.At least, he thinks he did. He looks up. A woman with fair complexion and curly hair enters the coffee shop. Is this her? He musters the courage to stand up and tries to call her name but then…
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She looks for him. Where is he? Is this he who sits alone in a table for two. She approaches the man. “Is this seat taken?” she said.
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She is here.
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He is here.

For The Next Seven Days

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For the next seven days, I’ll be posting my shelved written works, both flash fictions and poems, here in my blog. I’ve written them a couple of years ago when I wasn’t emotionally sober. Now that I’ve edited most of them, I’m feeling kind of confident in showing them to the public. Operative word is ‘feeling’. I’m not entirely sure. But, oh well.

Tell me what you think about them, will you?

Peace out!

Secret

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Another attempt at flash fiction. I hope you guys enjoy.

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She tried her best to hold back her feelings. She just pushed it and pushed it in. It was positive.

 

She whipped her phone out from her pocket. 

 

“Kumusta?” (How are you?), he said.

“Ok ra.” (It’s ok.), she replied. She put the phone back in her pocket.

 

An old woman approached her and handed her a note. She read it and nodded. The old woman left.

 

She walked under the scorching heat. A few blocks away, she turned into a corner. In between two buildings, she entered a scant poorly-made cement road and entered there. Like the walls caving in on her, her heart was beating faster and faster. But she went on. 

 

The old woman was waiting for her. She opened the door and the girl walked in. It was a cozy fully furnished house. You wouldn’t believe the old woman lived there, what with her occupation and all. She offered the girl a seat. 

 

“Buhatun na nato, ‘Nang.” (Let’s just do it, ‘Nang), the girl said.

“Sige.”, said the old woman and pushed a syringe in a small vial and extracted a transparent solution.

“Para asa na?” (What’s that for?), asked the girl.

“Para wala kay mabatian.” (So you wouldn’t feel a thing.), said the old woman.

 

Years later, he is with someone else. 

 

She still hasn’t forgotten.

Milk Tea

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Here is my attempt at flash fiction. I hope you guys enjoy. 🙂

 

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I saw a couple in the tea house earlier; a young couple. Maybe senior college students. They sat in front of each other. The girl was shaking her large honeydew milk tea. The guy followed suit with his chocolate milk tea. The girl wasn’t in her element. The guy noticed that, too. So he tried to do smalltalk with her.

 

Well, it wasn’t working. The guy was asking the wrong kind of questions. The girl had the chance to answer either a yes or a no. And she did. Then, the girl made a great deep sigh.

 

“Where do you think are we going?”, she said.

“I thought you were planning on an out of town trip with your parents?”

“No, this, us.”

 

The guy had nothing to say. He was getting fidgety on his seat. He tried to make eye contact with the girl but all she could do was stare into the marble tiles. The guy tried to tell something. He was mustering the courage to say something. But he didn’t have enough guts to say it out loud. He left. No stomping or theatrical walkouts. He just left, graciously.

 

The girl was left staring at the blankness of the floor.

 

The girl is me.