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. 🙂

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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

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

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

dverse

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

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

Four Bullets

One. Two. Three. Four.

His seven-decade-old hands hold tight on the rusting rails of his lightless room’s window. His darkened eyes stare at the now fallen tree and then to the triumphant men who successfully defeated the lush pine.

The lush pine planted and reared by his wife. His wife who died last month.

He slowly turns his tear-stained face away from the laughing men and the defeated tree as his old hand unlocked the drawer hiding his pistol. He reaches further for the bullets and slowly loads the gun.

With a dark smile, he whispers…

One. Two. Three. Four.

Word count: 100
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Shivangi Singh

Here’s my dark comeback for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) January 17, 2017. 🙂 Miss you, PJ!

Read more stories here:

 

 

Book Review: Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff

Fates and Furies

“Paradox of marriage: you can never know someone entirely; you do know someone entirely.”

39th – Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff

   Rating: ❤❤ (Not for me, sorry.)

What is it about: Every story has two sides. Every relationship has two perspectives. And sometimes, it turns out, the key to a great marriage is not its truths but its secrets. At the core of this rich, expansive, layered novel, Lauren Groff presents the story of one such marriage over the course of twenty-four years.

At age twenty-two, Lotto and Mathilde are tall, glamorous, madly in love, and destined for greatness. A decade later, their marriage is still the envy of their friends, but with an electric thrill we understand that things are even more complicated and remarkable than they have seemed.

What I Love: This book is filled with beautifully poetic lines. I actually thought this will be as great as All the Light We Cannot See but…

What I Don’t Love Much: As you kept reading, the book somehow losses its glory. The length is too long, the twists are too much. There are parts that are a bit too dramatic.

Wise Words: “Grief is for the strong, who use it as fuel for burning.”

“Struggle forms character. No struggle, no character.”

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo and Story Summary: Goodreads and Unsplash

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:

The Empty Box

4

If his hand is a tiled floor, a lot would accidentally fall.

“Chill, love.” I assured him Dad will be delighted to know her first princess is finally engaged. But his hand, which gripped mine nervously, is so wet with his sweat.

“So what’s the big news?”Dad asked as he take his seat.

“Sir. Uhm, I asked your lovely daughter to marry me —.”

“And I said yes, dad!” I said with delight as I showed him the empty crystal magenta box.

He eyed the box before looking at the diamond ring enthroned proudly in my finger.

“Well, congratulations. Just be cautious you two. Sometimes, the most beautiful packages are actually just empty shells. Grand engagements and weddings are not reliable foundations of marriage. Love is. Trust is. Communication is.”

Word count: 130
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: My dear friend Jade Wong

In response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) September 13, 2016.

Rules:

  • a flash fiction challenge (stories in 100-175 words or less)
  • each story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end
  • no serial (continuation) stories
  • include a pingback to the challenge post

Thank you for hosting this awesome prompt, Priceless Joy! ❤ 

Read more short stories here:

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.

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.