tasting silence: a 100-word story

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Silence has always tasted sweet since I was a young boy. I find bliss in building a world of my own, alone. Now, with only the whirring of her ventilator, my tongue is filled with bitter gourd juice, swimming through the boulder inside my throat.

Her hands, I’ve held since she was 24, feel cold against my wrinkled touch. Her lungs ceased breathing. Her kidneys rested. Her once soft lips, mummed with tubes.

When it is over, said and done, it was a time, and there was never enough of it.

I would give everything just to hear her laugh again.

08.18.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
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For dVerse Prosery Monday: A Time
Today, the heaven opens for a lovely and quiet soul, my Pishimoni who welcomed me to the family and loved me since day 1. You are loved, Pishimoni. Tomar kotha mone porche.

dawning dreams: a 100-word story

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It starts with the usual scene.

The hibiscus bush void of bloom, filled with sharp twigs like fangs of the past, looking at him from his bedroom window. The door less-an-inch open like a defeated sigh. The bedsheet crumpled, free of human warmth. The duplicate cold key, slouched.

The screech of tires against the gravel road, careful but rushed. The tightening of his chest. The forming of rock inside his throat.

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream. 

He jolted awake, gasping for some needed oxygen. The dawn willing him, but his voice’s too afraid to call her name, again.

05.13.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Douglas Bagg on Unsplash
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Prosery: Maya Angelou

mildewed memory

Mildew and mould hover freely inside the decade-age cabin, eventually welcoming a pair of sneakers, uncertainly wandering. Each step receives a pained, creaking answer. Unhurried climbing continues. One. Two. Three. Four. And more.

Her gloved hand reaches for the rusted knob, still frozen with the last breath of winter. With pounding chest, she opens the familiar room, a bedroom she once called hers.

It is still there.

The crumpled paper her nine-year-old palm crushed on a disappointing Christmas eve.

No one left and no one came on the bare platform.”

They left without her and never came back decades after.

04.14.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Prosery: Edward Thomas

fogged up

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While the roof sings to the tune of the monsoon keys, the leaves outside dance with the storm’s cold breeze, with a warm, fresh cup of coffee, my eyes stare blankly at the road void of wheels and feet— empty— wishing I can say the same with my mind.

The antonym of empty is full yet my thoughts are spilling and brimming a gusty storm of fear, uncertainty.

Today, a rejection letter opened the can of insecurity I thought I have kept locked tightly.

Perhaps, I’ll let the fog sits comfortably on the glass window, and inside my troubled mind.

Word count: 100
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: wildverbs

For FFfAW 182nd by PJ! 😊

Bravest Moment

on the day when her grandchildren will be sitting on her lap asking for the bravest thing she has done, she will be looking back at this moment.

she’s in no danger. no noise. no death-defying acts. but with peaceful tree-whistles, lullaby-like bird-tunes, embrace-like forest air. and her heart and mind who were both dauntless enough to walk out of a life in the concrete jungle and be with the one she prefers, a simpler, slower life.

she will tell them, for only the brave knows living is not owning. living is making each breath counts. with money or without.

Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Pamela Canepa

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) June 06. 2017. 🙂

Not Forgetful

Her eyes on the slow, old tram coming. Her hands inside the bag, checking the cold office keys, the leather notepad, the tattered coin purse, the thin phone, her essentials. Lucky day, no forgotten items today.

Her ride to the office is about to arrive when a familiar face crossed her peripheral view. He has aged, but his bright smiling eyes remained the same. The way he wraps his arms around his woman stayed the same.

Her finger, the throne of their once wedding ring, aches. Sometimes she wishes to be forgetful, but the essential memories are stubborn. They remain.

Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Yinglan

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) May 30, 2017. 🙂

The Picnic

after more than a decade of virtual hugs and late night chats, the four girlfriends have finally met again for a summer picnic.

two married, one engaged, one still single, they’ve bonded because of one common denominator: a guy they played love with. a nerd from college who’s known for his ragged blue jeans and an old-day-smelling shirt.

under the hot sun with the smoky smell of barbecue, there was no sound but their joyful giggles. until a dashing, familiar man appeared. until they heard nothing but bangs after bangs. then the green lawn turned red with fresh blood.

silence.

Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Yarnspinner

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) May 09, 2017. 🙂

BLEEDING LINES

My debut book Between My Bleeding Lines is now available on Amazon and Createspace! Please see the following links:

Thank you! ❤

Missing Heart

An eerie blanket of silence wrapped the courtroom. The accused stood, confidently, without a trace of remorse on his rather innocence eyes.

Without reading the grim report of a young married woman who went missing, then body parts being discovered one by one– legs, arms, head– none can even guess the suspect would be a youthful teenager. Until he confessed and surrendered and then plead not guilty.

“I thought I am guilty of killing her, but I am not. I did not kill her. I just took back what she said is mine before she married that stupid man.”

No one tried to speak.

“Her heart is mine, and will forever be mine. I buried it under the logs beside my home, our could have been home.  I gave her back to the world who never dared to accept us. I only kept her heart. What is wrong with that?”

Word count: 150
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Loreta Notto

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) May 02, 2017. 🙂

 

Our River

the gentle whispers of the trees’ breeze. the tender murmur of river’s flow. the playful tweets of the little birds. these sweet sensual delights are the reasons why we used to visit this river. the river we called ours.

today i clutch unto you, unto your vessel. your vessel made of cold porcelain, a stark contrast to how warm your hands were when you held mine.

slowly opening the lid, feeling what was left of your mortality, i let the salty tears wet my face as i let your ashes be one with the river. the river we called ours.

Note: I wrote this piece with Ed Sheeran’s Supermarket Flowers playing in my ears. Sigh.
Oh, I’m in pieces, it’s tearing me up, but I know
A heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been loved
Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: My dearie Maria of Doodles and Scribbles

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) April 11, 2017. 🙂

The Painting

I asked my mom this morning about the almost burnt painting I saw last week in our attic. Its main subject is a woman dressed in glamor and elegance. She looked like me and my mommy but I am quite sure she is not my granny.

To my surprise, mom turned pale and then sad and then angry. “I thought I was able to throw it. Don’t touch it again,” she said.

I stared and waited for more. Sighing, she continued.

“She’s your granny’s mom. The man and the girl were your granny’s dad and sister. She burned their house and killed all including herself because of jealousy. Your granny and that painting are the only survivors of that fire.”

Word count: 120
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: The Storyteller’s Abode

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) March 28, 2017. 🙂