Last Ride

28-30
This is the last part of my ‘Ride’ short story series. For best the reading experience, please read Ride and Second Ride.❤

I am ashamed of myself while he’s laughing his heart out.

This is always the scenario when our friends, our families and even our little kids recalled that fateful second ride.

The tale of that beautiful woman on his shoulder, apparently a complete stranger to him, has been a laughing matter for him, a shameful scene for me and a hit plot twist for our friends and family.

He never saw me on that day, and even the next Monday and even the next month.

Our second ride has been our last ride together.

As days became weeks and weeks became months, I have lost all hopes for a part three for our bus-inspired-love-story. I erased my fantasies. I made myself believe that he’s no way my soul mate. I tried to forget him and that girl on his shoulder.

It was a bright Saturday morning when fate surprised me in no way I have imagined.

I saw him in front of my house… talking to my Dad! My Dad! Like my scary-looking Dad!

My heart jumped out, my eyes went wide when I realized that he is indeed in front of my house…with a bouquet of flowers.

I have no idea, until now, how he knew my address. He said it’s a beautiful secret he will keep until his last breath.

But his courage to ask my Dad for permission to court me on their first meeting sealed his seat in my heart.

It took him a year for me to said yes.

It took him another three years for me to be his fiancee.

It took us a year to prepare for our wedding.

It took us two kids to give our lives’ new meaning.

And it took us a bumpy yet full-of-love two-decade ride on marriage to somehow prove that our story has no ending.

01.22.2016
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Favim

The Third Room

PHOTO PROMPT © Amy Reese

“Third room on your left.” That’s the nurse’s dialogue whenever she sees me. Maybe I’m too handsome to be forgotten? Or do I look to old to remember anything?

Her brown eyes’re watery. I recognize them— tears of pity. Though I am not sure if those are for you, or for me. They’re for us, maybe.

Weird as it may sound, I am glad we can still share something. Something that still belongs to us. Even if they’re salty tears.

‘Cause our memories are now solely mine. Your complex brain has long abandoned them. Even my name was left forgotten.

Word count: 100 words
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Amy Reese

In response to Friday Fictioneers prompt for 30 September 2016.

Friday Fictioneers is a weekly writing challenge hosted by the generous Fairy Blog-Mother Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction.

P.S. It’s been a long time and I am glad to be back. ❤
Read more great 100-word short stories here:

Used to be Mine: A Song-based Fiction

Stranger. That is what I am.

Sitting people all in black and white, I am estranged to everyone, except one person. She is the only human who knows me here. But she can never say who I am.

She’s imperfect but she tries.

She is good but she lies.

Silence. Murmurs. Quiet sobs. The humans that surround me is as still, as her, as me.

I am somehow a gatecrasher to a wake I was not invited to. But I am here, for her, for a woman who used to be mine.

She is hard on herself.

She is broken and won’t ask for help.

Her mom has spoken, in between loud wails.

Her husband has said a short heartless sentence.

Her little lass, who looked just liked her, sang a song.

Her best friend has stood and hold the microphone, but wasn’t able to utter any word.

She is messy but she’s kind.

She is lonely most of the time.

Now it’s my turn.

“Anyone who want to offer words for…”

I stood, just before the sentence was finished. Everyone looked at me.

I gripped the small piece of paper I’ve been holding for hours. It contains the eulogy I have written…for the only girl that I loved. For the girl who was once mine.

She is all of this mixed up.

And baked in a beautiful pie.

She is gone but she used to be mine.

12.04.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash
Based on She Used to be Mine by Sara Bareilles. Bold and italicized parts are from lyrics of the song.

Forever’s Ending

Today’s the first day of my last day with you. I’m a bit confuse, though, because my heart’s melancholic yet it’s full of joy.

Six decades, six decades and four years to be exact. That’s how long we have been together.

A lot asked how we remained committed for so long, how we kept the fire burning. We have no answer, we just look at each others’ eyes, and smile. Nothing’s too long, and no there’s no fire. It’s simple. Marriage is a choice you made everyday.

Perfect marriage isn’t true. Like any couple, we fight, cursed and almost fell apart. You cheated, twice. It took me too long to forgive, in fact, I almost packed my bags. But we choose to make amends. Why? Because it’s worth it.

No rough roads can equal our simple pleasures. It’s more than sex. It’s more than kisses. It’s your soft whispers every morning that gave me chills until we’re both seniors.

You never say good morning. Instead, you whisper Emily Dickinson’s words to my ears: “Forever is composed of nows.” It has been our marriage’s mantra. It has been the glue that kept us together.

It’s those three single life moments when I saw you cry.

First time’s when I was walking  down the aisle towards you. Second time’s when you first held our eldest. Third time’s during our final morning together. You definitely know you’re dying, because you cried after you whispered “Forever…”

Your skin have aged with years, but your eyes and your smile remained the same. Still expressive, still endearing. That’s why I cried when I saw you inside the casket. Your eyes can never melt me again. Your smile can never warm my heart again.

“Dear,” I said in between sobs, as I look to you for the final time.

My old heart’s aching. The lump in my throat’s unbearable. But I can’t help but be grateful. 64 years, 64 long years, what more can I ask for?

“Good night, dear,” I finally said.

“I’ll wait until you can finally whisper forever again.”

11.06.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash
Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 101 Day 04 Assignment.

Seasons: Epilogue

First three parts were published last Tuesday, Wednesday and yesterday.

Warm wind’s blowing. Loud silence’s piercing. With blank mind and an about-to-burst heart, I remained still as I look at your grave.

Our story ended, more than five years ago. On that fateful autumn day, when I waited for you. But you never waited for me.

I admit I am in denial, for five years. I never visited that bench, I never stepped my feet on that park, not until… I almost died.

And you came to fetch me, or my soul, or whatever I am during that moment.

I almost said yes.

Yes, I want to die right then and there with you. I want to be with you. I want to feel your lips again. I want to badly feel your love again.

With broken ribs, fractured arm, and almost cracked skull, who would know I will not die? It’s a miracle, some said. But for me, my miracle happened six months after I was back to life.

It happened when I cannot move. It happened when I can’t even eat. It happened when I can’t even do anything. It happened when I realized that this is how it feels to die. It happened when I realized that I want to live again even without you.

Live as in live, not live like a breathing zombie that I was for so many years.

I still miss you, my love. I still want to be with you. But I guess… it’s now time… for me… to breathe again.

12.12.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash
This is part of my first-ever flash fiction series. This is the ‘not-planned’ fourth and last (promise) part of my short fiction series “Seasons”. This epilogue is also inspired by ‘Breathe Again’, a song by Sara Bareilles. You can listen to it here.

Endings

I have to see her before the day ends.

I have to do it before the sun sets.

I am shaking inside as I slowly twisted the smooth metal door knob.

The smell of disinfectant welcomed me. My wrinkled skin quickly felt the cold and sterile atmosphere of the room.

I can hear nothing but the continuous ‘beep’ of the machine that I cannot really look at, yet.

I gaze around and took my time in perusing the benign prints painted with uplifting colors. No matter how many minutes I look at them, they remain ineffective.

I stared down at the almost-white and completely dustless floor.

My heart is racing. I don’t know if I am ready to take a few more step.

Inhale. Exhale. Deeply. Again.

As I went near, the smell changed. I know I am now near you because the sweet vanilla scent is now within my nose’s reach.

Oh, you smelled that way since I first saw you, 50 years ago.

I stopped at the edge of your bed.

Your mattress looks comfortable. But I know you still prefer to lay on the bed that we shared until that fateful day when your sick brain nerves snatched you from me.

I finally seat on the stainless stool beside you without looking up, yet.

Inhale. Exhale. Again.

I slowly raise by heavy head and finally see your face. You are not as young as before but your look will always be the loveliest in my eyes.

Age has never worn out your beauty, but those tubes somehow distracts me.

I stare at your face as my old hand search for yours.

I hold your always soft but now cold hand. I squeezed it with all my remaining strength wishing that your eyes will open when you feel my warmth.

I looked at you for a second, a minute, an hour. You never moved. You remained still.

I knew that the fiery red sun is now slowly sinking beneath the horizon as the orange and red streaks of light illuminate your lovely but emotionless face.

I kissed your hand and whispered ‘I love you’, for one last time.

I reached for the machine’s button.

The beeps stopped. The sun sets. My hope ends.

09.24.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash
Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 101 Day 14 Assignment.

Nixie

On her deathbed, my beloved grandma handed me the letter which she has kept since it was returned by the postman three months ago. I can recall that day because that’s the last day I saw her lively.

Old postman, as old as her, apologized for keeping the almost faded tattered letter. According to him, war has prohibited sending one, thus the very long delay, and he is too ashamed to return it to her, causing longer delay.

With tears brimming, grandma told me to look for the man who have been waiting for this letter for decades now.

Her weak hands wrote the time-erased address seconds before she went breathless— which signalled her life’s ending and the beginning of my journey of knowing if love is really enduring.

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash, Tumblr

Word prompt: Melinda Kucsera of In Media Res (Thank you, dearest friend!)

 

Two-Way Journey

Ours is a story
that has never been easy;

of me waiting for you,
of you waiting for me,

of me finding you,
of you finding me,

of me forgiving you,
of you forgiving me.

Yes, it has never been easy,
yet I know ‘us’ is a worthy
love story.

04.05.2016
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash

Word-High July: Pagsamo

9

Pagsamo

We have watched a lot of movies together,
but there’s more to see.
We have traversed roads less travelled,
but there’s more to discover.
We have captured a lot of treasured moments,
but we can still create new ones.
We have done a lot, love,
but there’s more that we can do.
So please, half of my heart,
don’t bid adieu.

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: BuzzFeed, Unsplash


In response to Word-High July: 30 Beautiful Filipino Words: Day 9 – Pagsamo.

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Ethereal

7

Ethereal: An Endecha*

our earth’s ethereal facade
made of seasons’ artistry,
fades out before my two eyes
when it ate your body wholly, including me.

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Unsplash.com

Word Inspiration: Sarah Doughty of Heartstring Eulogies (Thanks, Sarah!)


*Endecha

The Endecha is a ” The Canción triste que encierra un lamento”, (“sad song that locks up a moan”), a 16th century Spanish dirge or song of sorrow.

The Endecha is:

  • stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
  • syllabic, written with 7-7-7-11 syllables per line.
  • rhymed, rhyme scheme xaxa xbxb etc., x being unrhymed. The rhyme is often consonance only but true rhyme may be used.