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

fogged up

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

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

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,

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

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

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

The Forgetful

My searching hands were left bare by the naked bed which bear no one but me. Sighing, I know the drill I get out of our blanket-made hill to find he. Welcoming sunrise kisses my just opened eyes, the noise of the road whispers cluttered sighs, there is he. Hugging his guitar, plucking eloquently, as

Silent Witness

The cracks of the breaking dried twigs and leaves tell me I am in the middle of a lush forest. Blindfolded, I can hear the loud cracking sound echoing with my racing heartbeats filled with excitement and fear. I grip his sweaty hand, harder. He squeezed my hands back to assure me that I am

Unicorn

I don’t really believe in mystic, enchanting creatures. And then you placed that unicorn-sign. So I tried if I can make one mine. — P.S. So happy to be three-lining again!!! 😀 😀 😀 — 03.09.2017 ©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo credit: Fleur Treurniet In response to Sonya of Only 100 Words‘ Three Line Tales Week