Sunday Photo Fiction – A Reading Writer

I Remember

June 6, 2016June 6, 2016 rosemawrites81 Comments

I remember how the wind comb your long black hair as we climb our favourite hill. I remember how your eyes brighten up as I give you wild flowers— your happy pills.

I remember our favourite tree. It stood firm and proud. While our young love’s too mute to be loud. I remember our spot. I’d lean my back against the wooden bark. You’d lay your head on my soft lap. You’d look up and seek my eyes. I’d stare back and realize— words aren’t needed, our singing eyes are enough.

I remember them all while you forgot them all.

—

Word count: 100

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for June 05, 2016.

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Alastair Forbes where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using around 200 words. The piece doesn’t have to center around exactly what the photo is, it can be just used as a basis for a story.

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The Colours of the Flag

May 24, 2016May 24, 2016 rosemawrites40 Comments

Surrounded by bright almost blinding camera flashes, carpet as red as fresh human blood, bodies in ensemble more expensive than my house, I felt overwhelmed and lost at the same time.

I am an indie actress with a promising film nominated in Cannes Film Festival. This is big. Bigger than my dreams as a kid.

As the world waits for the show to start, my eyes widely surveys the festive scene. Then I saw the blue, the yellow and the red drinks— the colours of my country’s flag.

They took me home. Away from the limelight and shimmering cinematic sight. Near my beloved yet almost hungry-all-the-time children.

If only my eyes can swallow all they see, I will take them all and free my children from the prison called poverty.

—

Word count: 130

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

NOTE: The three wine glasses have the colours of my country’s flag. 🙂

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for May 22, 2016.

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Thirty Seconds

May 17, 2016May 17, 2016 rosemawrites56 Comments

Thirty Seconds

Thirty seconds that’s all he need to take his family away from this park. He told his wife and their little girl not to visit him today. He said his job will just take a few hours, but his hard-headed ladies didn’t listen.

23…22…21…

His mind’s ticking clock is now in panic mode. His sweaty, shaking palm can’t deny the dread he tried to suppress.

15… 14… 13…

“Move. Move. Move.” He said firmly as he pushed his wife and his daughter forward.

06…05…04…

“Dad, wait up, I forgot teddy on the cable car!!!”

Before he was able to grab her daughter’s arm, two loud booms rocked the hanging cabs and his entire being. He’s about to break into a run when his wife’s scream pierced his ears. Following her gaze, his eyes widen.

He regret what he did. He will never forgive himself. Never. Never.

—

Word count: 150

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for May 15, 2016.

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Shattered

May 10, 2016May 10, 2016 rosemawrites45 Comments

I remember the blissful smiling eyes you shared when you picked me. You placed me inside your room. Like a ghost I witnessed the love you shared above, beneath your queen-sized bed.

I remember how the morning starts with your warm kisses, done always in front of me. Sometimes I just want to close my eyes as I blushed in every scene I see.

I remember how you crumble – from a lovely couple to two unacquainted souls. How she cried silently, alone. How he grinned as he sneaked calls she has never known.

Most of all, I remember how hard he pinned her against me. How red her blood was as they fall with my broken shards. How panicked he’d been as he threw her shattered pieces and then me.

—

Word count: 130

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for May 08, 2016.

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Like Father, Like Son

May 3, 2016 rosemawrites50 Comments

The familiar high-pitched screech of tires, the familiar loud cheers of race enthusiasts, welcomed me as if it was just yesterday.

Two decades ago, my heart’s racing as the man who owns it zooms for his dream trophy. Now my old beating ticker’s jittery again, this time for our beloved son.

My love lost both– the race and his life. That’s why I tried with all my might to rid my son of his dad’s roaring racing blood. But like father, like son, I failed.

Now I have none, but the hope that their fate isn’t like father, like son.

—

Word count: 100

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

I missed writing fictions!! 😀 I’m glad to be back, again. ❤

–

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for May 01, 2016.

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Schiophobia

April 4, 2016April 4, 2016 rosemawrites26 Comments

Faceless, dark, blank, a voiceless yet ceaseless follower, it’s always at my back. I can hear its mute footsteps, even it’s screaming silence. I want to get rid of him, or maybe it’s a her, or whatever it is. It is never my friend, nor my foe but it makes my body shiver, it makes my soul quiver.

I turned off all the lights as it won’t exist without something bright. I find peace in my light-less four corners. Blanketed by the dark, there is no one but my afraid self. I tried to call out, no answer came.

I got no one but the black-being that made me insane.

—

Word count: 110

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for April 03, 2016.

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Bus Girl

March 28, 2016 rosemawrites40 Comments

Stealthy as she has always been, I almost jumped when she wrapped her delicate arms around me. Age has made it more difficult to stand in an almost jam-packed bus, but the whiff of her freshly bathe scent distracted me the most.

Oh, how time flies.

***

It was my first day in a new school in a new place caused by a new dad. If only I could sneak some cash I’ll just go away, live on my own. I don’t like my new home, neither my newborn sister, neither this cranky old school bus, neither those dozens of wide judging eyes staring at me as I walked towards the back of the bus.

Throwing myself to the seat as the bus moved, I heard a soft yet hurt ‘ouch’.

Holy cow!

The almost-ghost girl looked up, I was silenced, stunned.

I guess I have something, someone, to like now.

—

Word count: 150

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for March 27, 2016.

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New Girl

March 21, 2016March 21, 2016 rosemawrites38 Comments

She’s the apple-of-the-eye of all the third graders, but not in a well-meant way. She is the newest kid with chubby cheeks and curly ginger hair. She’s deemed mysterious, actually, mischievous.

She lives in an old slaughterhouse found in the almost-abandoned area of our town. She allegedly lives with her grumpy evil-like grandpa. Some say they are witches or murderers– whatever horrible.

I don’t think she’s a witch, though she looks messy most of the time. But yes, their house and their lawn looked unsafe, unfriendly.

So why on earth am I walking towards their creepy boxed home holding three pieces of white daisies from my mom’s garden?

It’s because of her eyes. Oh, her eyes.

My heartbeat races, my knees felt like melting as I inch towards their not-so-well painted door. I just want to play with her. That’s all. That’s all.

I was stoned stunned as the door creaked slowly open even before I knocked.

I saw her smiling wide green-gray eyes behind a vast masculine figure.

“Go-go–good mor–ning, Si–Sir.”

“Calm down boy, I will not eat you.”

—

Word count: 180

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for March 20, 2016.

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Rainbow

March 14, 2016March 14, 2016 rosemawrites54 Comments

Rains, especially downpours with scream-like thunders and sharp-like-knife lightnings, for me, are bad omens. That’s why when I saw the bright cloud shifts from blue to violet to black, my hands started shaking, my heartbeats began racing.

I have no beautiful memory with wet season, I only have the stark opposite.

A catastrophic over-300-kph typhoon killed my entire, whole family.

No one’s left but me.

Some say I am lucky.

I beg to disagree.

It took five long years before my brain recuperated. Even quiet showers used to make me scream for hours. I was wrecked, drowned by the strong storm left inside me.

Now, as I hold her for the first time, mute waters trickle down my face in sync to the sharp flashes and loud kabooms outside.

“Congratulations, Sir. Do you have a name in mind?” the doctor asked.

My tear-stained face painted a shy smile.

“Yes… Rainbow.”

Word count: 150

Photo credit: A Mixed Bag

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for March 13, 2016.

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Two Wives

March 7, 2016March 7, 2016 rosemawrites48 Comments

Five decades after the war, I am now here to do your final request.

It was never your intention to release those bombs. Chief said no one will be killed. But a week after you did your first mission, you read more than a thousand lives were shattered.

It haunted you.

Just five months after you quit, you bombed your own brains.

On your behalf, I ask for forgiveness to the souls you killed. I hope you are now forgiven, dear.

***

It was a normal day when the big black balls came. Kaboom here, kaboom there. Blood here, cadavers there.

It signalled the start of the second world war.

Looking at these canyons responsible for my husband’s death, I searched for anger. Anger for the soldier who launched the bombs.

But after fifty years, I found none.

Whoever soldier killed my love and a thousand more lives, you are forgiven.

—

Word count: 150

Photo credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction for February 28, 2016.