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

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

Unfolded: An Ushnik

Dense, wild forest witnessed the
tale of one unfolded chair,
a tired man with graying hair,
a final note, a gun fired.

Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 10.

Ushnik (God of Wind orignating from the hairs of the body of the almighty Prajāpati) is a stanzaic Vedic meter. The 7th horse pulling the golden chariot of the sun god is named for this meter.

The defining features of the Ushnik are:

  • stanziac, any number of quatrains, 4 padas or lines.
  • syllabic, lines of 7 syllable each.

Too Late

As the darkness of the evil night cloaks buildings and city  lights,
her tired soul drowned in the sea of strong, weakening beer bites.
Unknown he led her into a dark corridor, t’was too late to fight.

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Mike Wilson

In response to Sonya of Only 100 Words‘ Three Line Tales Week Thirty-Six.

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.

Plea to Mourn

Mourn.

For all souls lost.
Either shot or blown apart,
either criminal or civilian,
either innocent or terrorist,
’cause they’re all humans.

Mourn.

For all lives altered by war.
Children who grow old without parents.
Parents who buried their own child.
Fiancee who was not able to say ‘I do’.
Soldiers who were not able to know what’s true.

Mourn.

Because mourning makes you care,
because mourning makes you realize,
that peace is really a must.

Mourn.

Because war is not a problem
solved by guns and bombs.
Because peace can only be achieved,
by no one else, but us.

Please, mourn.

01.28.2016
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit:Unsplash
Inspired by Maria’s fictional story ‘The Vow‘ and Christopher poem ‘Microsmic Murder‘.

Used to be Mine: A Song-based Fiction

Stranger. That is what I am.

Sitting people all in black and white, I am estranged to everyone, except one person. She is the only human who knows me here. But she can never say who I am.

She’s imperfect but she tries.

She is good but she lies.

Silence. Murmurs. Quiet sobs. The humans that surround me is as still, as her, as me.

I am somehow a gatecrasher to a wake I was not invited to. But I am here, for her, for a woman who used to be mine.

She is hard on herself.

She is broken and won’t ask for help.

Her mom has spoken, in between loud wails.

Her husband has said a short heartless sentence.

Her little lass, who looked just liked her, sang a song.

Her best friend has stood and hold the microphone, but wasn’t able to utter any word.

She is messy but she’s kind.

She is lonely most of the time.

Now it’s my turn.

“Anyone who want to offer words for…”

I stood, just before the sentence was finished. Everyone looked at me.

I gripped the small piece of paper I’ve been holding for hours. It contains the eulogy I have written…for the only girl that I loved. For the girl who was once mine.

She is all of this mixed up.

And baked in a beautiful pie.

She is gone but she used to be mine.

12.04.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash
Based on She Used to be Mine by Sara Bareilles. Bold and italicized parts are from lyrics of the song.

Deep, Dark, Dreary

Her heart ripped her apart.
Now it’s my part to take all her wrath.
Sharp-as-a-diamond knife
cuts through me to end her life.

Oh, my pain, is it her gain?
Oh, will this cut, erase her hurt?
Oh, will this wound, do any good?

I froze as her blood flows.
I feel the nerves died as her heart tries to decide.
To beat or not to beat.
To live or not to live.

10.07.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Enkivillage
Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 201 Day 3 Assignment.

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.

Dual Hands

The same rugged, masculine yet gentle hands
which tickled each nerves and gave me sensual goosebumps,
have weaved yarnful of lies that ended my life.

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Philip Estrada

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

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.

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.