Looking Back At My “Fictional” Attempts

Photo source: kidsinthekichen.blogspot.com

Photo source: kidsinthekichen.blogspot.com

I don’t tell you this often enough but I’m really grateful for your taking the time to read my stories. Cheesy but I can’t thank you enough. And it just warms my heart that some of you may be numbers on my blog stats and unknown faces from halfway across the world but I’ve already shared a lot about my inner thoughts and quirks.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Today, I was rereading my old posts and decided I want to re-post some of my favorite fictional stories. If you haven’t read them, here’s your chance. If you have, please tell me what you think about them.

 

The first one is called Purple and Red. It’s about a woman with an intense need for affiliation and a low self-esteem. It also hints physical abuse.

Maybe you locked yourself in your room grieving the silence of the phone. Did he forget your birthday or was it anniversary? You wanted to paint your bedroom red but you are waiting for his approval. So now it’s still the lifeless gray that matches your gloom.

You may read the full story here.

 

The second one is the love of a witch and a prince called Witching Hours.

The prince had a recurring nightmare of riding his horse on the forest and running after a woman in a billowing red skirt. But before he could catch her, he gets thrown off the horse.

For the full story, just click here.

 

The third is about a rainy morning and the memories that pour with the drops on the window pane.

And on rainy mornings, I stay in bed and look out the window and wonder if you still look up at the sky and ask why she’s crying.

The full story is  here.

 

 

Again, thank you so much, everyone.

PS. Enjoy the rest of your day.

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The Girl Who Loved Obituaries

Photo courtesy of 123rf.com

Photo courtesy of 123rf.com

Kim looks at people and imagine what their obituary would read as. When she was a little girl, she had feared death and all things related to it. She was afraid to look at pictures of dead people. She could not look at coffins. When her mom would take her to the cemetery, she would try not to read the names on the tombstones. When she became an adult, she decided to do something about her fear. She started reading obituaries. That’s how she turned into the girl who reaches first to the obituary page of the Sunday paper.

She has written her own obituary, and it’s unlike what you usually read on the newspapers. Kim thinks it’s a pity that your last announcement in this world would just include the name of the funeral house, the date of the interment and the people who have survived you. Instead of a tearful eulogy, she wants to make sure she has a well-written obituary.

Five days a week, she answers email queries about an apparently problematic online payment system. Most of the queries have templates for answers. She oftentimes imagine what the person is like behind the email address. Is he a burly old guy who will have a funny, half-page obituary? Maybe a retired banker who will have a no-nonsense obituary, 3 or 4 lines approximately. Or it could be the old lady everyone is fond of who will have a family member write a heartwarming obituary full of recounting of her character.

On weekends, Kim tries to spend as much time with her boyfriend who works as a college instructor. He hates Kim’s obsession with obituaries because he once read a short story about a girl who reads obituaries in the bathroom when she’s menstruating because she was molested when she was a child. Kim tries to assure him she was not molested but he remains doubtful.

They had been together for almost a year. There’s nothing magical about their relationship. What they have is a comfortable companionship that lacks growth and maturity. Despite the seemingly monotonous context, Kim likes being with him. He has not had any declarations of love and has not talked about marriage plans. Kim sometimes wish he would but most of the time, she’s just content to lay in his arms listening to his deep, evenly spaced breathing.

One Sunday morning while having breakfast, they had a row when he saw Kim reading intently the obituary page.

Will you please not read that while we’re eating? Or in front of me?

Why not?

Of course, she knows quite well why not but she’s tired of defending herself.

Because it’s all about death. I think you’re getting more and more obsessed with death.

No, I’m not. Besides the headlines are full of death. How’s that different from the obituary?

It’s different and you know that. You don’t even know those dead people. Why do you care about them?

He then got up, leaving his unfinished food and went to their bedroom.

They rarely fight and she hates it when they do. She followed him to the bedroom. He was staring out the window.

I was not molested when I was a kid. I had a normal childhood. I was just really afraid of dead people. Why don’t you believe me?

I believe you. It’s just unsettling when you read those things. Why can’t you just have a hobby like normal people do?

So now you’re saying I’m not normal?

He laughed but it didn’t reach his eyes. Kim is starting to feel there was something he was not telling her. She does not like surprises and that’s why she likes him because he is predictable. He likes toast and eggs for breakfast, pizza on Fridays, classical music when he’s checking test papers and white underpants. There is definitely comfort in routine. But right now, Kim is scared that something is about to change. He could see it in his eyes.

Death is about pain and letting go. No matter how much people say it’s beautiful, you can never convince the bereaved family of that.

I’d like to think of obituaries as happy endings.

No matter how happy they are, they’re endings. I don’t want you fixated on endings. We’re still young. We’re barely starting. There’s a lot of things we haven’t done yet.

Are you breaking up with me?

She didn’t mean to say it out loud but she fears it’s what he was trying to say.

No, silly. I want us to get married.

As relief flooded through Kim, she couldn’t stop her tears.

You really shouldn’t cry. It’s not like someone died.

She hugged him hard.

You’re well aware marrying you means I get to write your obituary, right?

He smiled as he slid the ring on her finger.

I guess so.

Photo courtesy of glamour.com

Photo courtesy of glamour.com

A Non-lover’s Love Letter

You’ve always been quiet. Sometimes I wonder what’s going on in that head of yours but most of the time I’m just content with the reassurance of your hands holding mine. You always tease me that maybe I talk too much to compensate for your silence. I would pretend to take offense so you’d kiss me as a way of apology.

I love waking up on Sunday mornings with the scent of your skin and the comfort of your arms around me. I’d gaze outside the window and wonder how many people out there are as lucky as I am to be with the man I love.

Infinity is when the wind plays with my hair as we cruise on deserted roads on your bike as the stars keep score on us. And as I close my eyes, I throw a wish that I could hold you like that forever.

We never had arguments but we had bitter fights that would leave me cold and desolate. Your defeaning silence used to tear me apart. We would go on days hurting each other, caring for our pride before we would succumb to a reconciliation.

When I stare at your eyes, I’m reminded of why I love you. And it’s not because you make fluffy pancakes or that you fix my computer because I keep doing the same stupid thing on it, or that you do not go out on Fridays because I always have to work Friday nights, or that you don’t get mad even if I don’t watch those movies you like so much; it’s because I like myself better when I’m with you. At times, you could make me the happiest person on earth. Other times, you could hurt me like no one else could. But always, I feel like I’m a better version of me when I’m with you. I don’t tell you this because sometimes I feel the shame in admitting that.

I have vague recollections of why we broke up. Did we grow apart? Did you get tired of my immaturity? Did I have enough of your silence? But I remember that day we finally said goodbye. You hugged me and wished me a good life. And I had to hold back my tears and pretended to be brave and wished you happiness.

I didn’t hear from you for so long. I did move on and tried to see other people. And so many things have happened since then. You became a distant memory of a first love that haunts me on lazy Sunday afternoons.

And now you’re back and we’re talking again and it’s like the old times. I talk to you about work and writing again and how Sheldon cracks me up. And you’re still quiet but you smile while you listen to my stories. And I couldn’t tell you how much I missed your smile. When you said you would want us to have dinner at our favorite place because you haven’t been there for a while, I had to remind you I still couldn’t go out on Fridays. I thought my heart would explode when you said it was okay because you still don’t go out on Fridays. I could only manage a weak smile but I wanted to hug you so hard that time and tell you how much I have missed you.

I am so happy that you’re back that it scares me to think of you leaving again. And so I’m writing you this because I want to tell you that I’ve watched those movies you downloaded for me (I still don’t like them though), and that I’ve tried so many recipes to make the pancakes the way you make them and that I miss you holding my hand while we wait for the train.

And so before I go to sleep. I pray that in the morning, I’d wake up next to you, bathed in the scent of your skin, finding bliss in your arms around me.

Photo courtesy of weheartit.com

Photo courtesy of weheartit.com