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

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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

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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

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

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

• https://www.createspace.com/7023994
• http://www.amazon.com/dp/1544810997
• http://www.amazon.ca/dp/1544810997
• http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1544810997
• http://www.amazon.de/dp/1544810997
• http://www.amazon.es/dp/1544810997
• http://www.amazon.fr/dp/1544810997
• http://www.amazon.it/dp/1544810997

Thank you! ❤

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

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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

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

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 if no one’s around,
just his music and he.
Please look at me.

In scintilla
of a second,
he looks up with
fingers in chords,
He don’t know me.

I force a shy smile,
as my salty droplets fall,
he only knows his music
and forget almost all,
including me.

Tightly, I hug myself
and pray tomorrow will be different.

—

Word count: 115

©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Sunayana MoiPensieve

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For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) March 21, 2017.

and for dVerse‘s OpenLinkNight #192 hosted by Grace.

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 safe. I cling to him until he let my hand go so he can remove my blindfold.

The silk cloth drapes slowly away from my eyes to reveal his surprise– the older yet still familiar Volkswagen Beetle, the silent witness of our 14-year-old first kiss.

—

Word count: 100

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

Photo credit: Tim Livingstone

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For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) March 14, 2017.

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

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In response to Sonya of Only 100 Words‘ Three Line Tales Week 57.

If you want to join, here are the simple rules:

• Write three lines inspired by the photo prompt.

• Link back to this post.

• Tag your post with 3LineTales (so we can find you in the Reader).

• Read and comment on other TLT participants’ lines.

• Have fun.

The Bathroom Pianist

I was three when curiosity was born inside me. I remember the first thing I asked my mom was about the grand piano covered and silenced inside her room’s bathroom.

I grew old asking why it’s hidden. She has offered me nothing but a teary smile, until today. With the same nostalgic yet melancholic look, she said, “Your dad proposed to me with a song he composed inside his house’s bathroom with this piano.”

“Everyday I wait for him to get this back or to play for me again. I placed it here so he knows where to find it.”

—

Note: The tiled wall looks bathroom to me. 😀

—

Word count: 100

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

Photo credit: Mike Vore

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For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) March 07, 2017.  Glad to be back dear PJ! ❤

Right and New

Your mom let me in with a warm smile painted on her lips. “You know the drill, my little man,” she said tapping my back as I come in. I smiled back and nod.

As usual, you are late. For almost two decades I have been waiting for you almost every day. Our parents are best friends so it is a given that we are too. We’ve been in the same school, same school bus, same everything since we are three year-old kiddos. We even used to bathed together. But of course, not anymore.

“Hey, what are you thinking?” you said with your questioning dark brown eyes.

I lifted my face and saw you kneeling just inches away in front of me. Our faces so close. You are wearing your usual plain shirt and faded jeans. Your usual pulled up raven black hair. Your usual no make-up look.

But the feeling coursing through me now is far from usual. The organ enthroned in my chest is swollen. Barely beating. Barely breathing.

This feels new and, goodness, it feels right.

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

Photo credit: Unsplash.com

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In response to Monday Morning Melts #7: The Script – Never Seen Anything “Quite Like You”. This is a prompt I am co-hosting with my dear friend Jade!