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! ❤

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The Chant

My rubber shoes are soaked with rain. My hungry stomach is now in pain. I was drowned in the sea of noise made of my schoolmates’ giggles and words shared with their friends and parents as well as the sound of the car tires against the water-kissed road.

The sun’s about to be eaten by the night sky but I promised to my once present father that I won’t ever cry.

So with my head bowed down, I repeat the chant my mind’s uttering for almost four hours now: “Mommy said she will come for me. Mommy said she will…”

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

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) January 31, 2017. 🙂 Congratulations for the 100th milestone, dear PJ!

Read more stories here:

 

 

A Mother’s Heart

8

I almost dropped the two full paper bags when I saw the familiar blue car parked in front of our home. So they are back after a month.

Seated in front of my husband, my daughter and her rugged boyfriend sat in full-of-fear silence. I walked in without looking at them. I might not be able to stop myself from hugging my stubborn child who loves to escape with the “love of her life”.

“I’m pregnant,” her shaky voice revealed before she finally broke into tears.

“We’re not surprised,” I said as I gripped my husband’s shoulder.

I looked at my fragile 16-year old girl with an aching mother’s heart. What have I done wrong? I’m afraid I’ll never know.

Word count: 120
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit:Yinglan 🙂

In response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) October 25, 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:

Summer Air

7

The smiling sun and the jovial man-in-blue walking his black dog both fail to break the darkened state I am in after he left me broken and bruised.

So this is what first heartbreak feels like. T’was like a rollercoaster ride which pulls your heart up, up, up until it feels so heavenly and then bam! Dropped. Done. Dead.

I would be willing to take any road to find my way back to him, but then, but then, we’ve never been.

Our story’s like the summer air. You can feel it, but it’s not even there in the first place.

Word count: 100
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Louise of The Storyteller’s Abode

In response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) October 18, 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:

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

Second Ride

28-30

This is the second part of my Ride series. Part 1 was published yesterday.

Wait! Can I get your name?

This is what I wanted him to say, but, he sadly didn’t. I fell asleep along the ride and when I woke up, he’s already gone.

I was honestly hoping to see him again but I didn’t, until it was a Monday morning again.

I was slowly making my way inside the jampacked bus when I saw a familiar hair, black-yet-almost-brown, properly combed, irresistibly neat.

As I saw his wide yet wrinkle-free forehead, his bushy yet so masculine brows, his dark and long eyelashes covering his gorgeous eyes, I was sure, it was him.

My heart beat too fast, excited to know if our story will have its part two.

He was actually sleeping, but he might wake up and see me still, right?

Until… I saw the girl beside him.

Maybe a year younger than me, with curly dark brown hair, pointed nose, long lashes, perfect brows and lovely lips.

She was also asleep… and… her head was on his shoulder.

I stopped in a corner opposite them and looked away.

Disappointed, I was not able to stop asking myself…

“Is this the end of our story?”

01.15.2016
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Favim
Note: This was not supposed to be a series when I first published the Part 1 last year until  four of my lovely friends asked for more and they are Mandi, Christopher, Jacq and of course my ever consistent fiction-fan, Fun! ❤

Ride: Part 1

28-30

This is the first part of a three-part series. 

Buses are not just full, they are jam-packed during Mondays.

I have accepted wholeheartedly that I’ll be standing for almost two hours when I took the bus to get to work. Trying as hard as I can, I eagerly squeezed in myself in the already filled bus.

I heaved a sigh of relief when I finally stood in my little corner.

It was when a man seated in my front left stood. I am too amazed to react because hey, gentlemen are now as rare as a pink diamond!

He touched my arm softly to get my attention.

“Oh,” I quietly said as I look at him. (He’s surely flashing his pearly whites.)

I took his former seat, slowly.

When I looked up, it appears he’s looking at me too.

He smiled.

I smiled back.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

And that’s the start of our story.

01.08.2016
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Favim

Mirror: Fiction with Vignettes

I’m an audience for decades now but no one knows I’m watching.

1945

“Ssshhh,” I whispered to myself.

Hiding behind my wooden closet across my huge mirror, trembling with fear, I am finding it hard to breathe.

“Please, Lord, don’t let them see me, please, oh please.”

2015

“You’re such a beautiful lass,” I giddily tell myself as I stand in front of my antique mirror.

I’m finding it hard to apply my eyeliner. Argh! Why can’t I control my nerves?

Yep. I’m too excited, for him to see me.

1945

Blood. My little toe is surely bleeding now.

I tried to go out quick and get a bandage.

I am almost near across the mirror, when I heard loud footsteps.

They’re coming.

2015

One hour. That’s how long, or maybe how short, our first date was.

I can’t remember the details but it was great! Because I invited him here at my room!

As I sneak a look at his handsome face reflected in my mirror, I know my decision is right.

1945

I tried to be as small as I can be. I tried to stop any noise from me, even my own ragged breathing.

But I can hear the soldiers’ voices, in foreign language, go louder as they come near me.

I want to take a peek at the mirror again. But I stopped myself.

2015

I know it’s too late now to be such a conservative lady.

It’s already 2015, so it’s no big deal. This is love at first sight, indeed.

How did I know? Well, he just wrote ‘I love you’ in my mirror!

1945

I almost jumped when someone grabbed me.

Now he’s dragging me towards my bed as his two comrades cheer him up.

I screamed, to no avail.

I looked at myself in the mirror, as he lay me down on my own bed.

I am seeing myself, for the last time.

2015

I know I almost planned for this but I am still somehow surprised when he started kissing me.

His lips are now invading mine, I like it at first but… I’m feeling a bit uneasy now.

I tried to push him away as he tries to lay me down.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said as I try to stop him.

“No!” he shouted.

My eyes went wide, as through my mirror I see him pull out a pocket knife.

11.25.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Tumblr
Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 101 Day 18 Assignment.
Compose a series of anecdotes
Today, tell a story through a series of anecdotes (also called vignettes): short, episodic scenes or moments that together read as variations on the same theme. They can each be as short or long as you see fit — they don’t have to be the same length — but they need a common feature to tie them together, whether it’s a repeated phrase, a similar setting, a literary device, or the appearance of the same person.

Last Choice

I have lived a well-planned life. My mom used to tell me that I have my own decisions, ever since I’m a toddler. I choose what will I wear. I choose what will I eat. I choose anything and everything. Yep. My parents never win.

My student-self is as picky as my toddler-self. I grew old with a few good friends. I grew old with a few but definitely awesome-in-my-eyes wardrobe. I grew old with the hobbies that I truly enjoy. I grew old with a pre-determined path.

I’ll finish a degree of my choice, I’ll work at my dream company and then I’ll get to write my own love story. I’ll get married. I’ll have three kiddos, the eldest should be a boy then a girl and a boy again.

We’ll leave in a humble yet beautiful home with a grand terrace and a modern kitchen. We’ll have two cars, black for my hubby and white for me. We’ll have picnics. We’ll fight but we’ll reconcile. We’ll have our own happily ever after.

Those are just my wishful thinking. Because now, I am left with no choice.

Just last month, after I finally got my dream job, my plans were shattered, destroyed, wrecked, crushed, into tiny little pieces I can’t even recognize.

I have a big ‘C’. Stage four. Hopeless case. That I know.

No words of encouragement can make me believe that I’ll get better. Sorry, I’m not dumb.

I am left with nothing but this sickness that I have never ever planned to have.

My mind is quick, though. I still have one last option left.

Yes, cancer have destroyed everything that I have planned for. And it is destroying me, too, slowly but surely. But, I won’t let it win.

I’ll choose when will I die.

And that chosen date… is now.

11.04.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: mascontext
Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 101 Day 03 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.