quiet rain.

bubble, colorful, rainbow

You always leave your vanilla-scented soap on the soap dish filled with water, but I don’t tell you how expensive it is. “Just drain the water,” I say.

“Leave it be. Let the room smell like flowers.”

A few weeks after when I enter the quiet house, holding a plastic bag with 12 boxes of your soap, the only sound I can hear is the shower’s rain. I knock on the door once, but you don’t answer until the blaring sound of the ambulance amputates my heart.

At 73, I should say how time flies too fast. And I don’t forget to place your soap in the soap dish filled with water.


WORD COUNT: 112

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

railways. | friday fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © C.E. Ayr
by C.E. Ayr

I spur my speed and the black smog escapes from my tube and pollutes the air. My wheels send out sparks as it rubs the train’s rails. My rusted engine shifts and I know the clock hits mid-afternoon.

An incoming train signals. “There you are,” I whisper. Our metal bodies almost touch, but the engineers design the railways with too much space to set us apart. At least I see you once a day.

When the night comes, I rest on this parking alone; but it leaves me in a deep sleep to think you have never been inches away.


WORD COUNT: 100

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

collapsed.

Wave of Water on Body of WaterIn the gloom of the dawn, I stood on the edge of the island rock. The winds blew across my hair and face until I could feel: my bent spine, my rattled skin, and my chaffed lips. The waves of the sea came alike with the rocking chair of my grandmother’s promise—it flew and died in a solemn state.

It crept in my head until it choked the sanity I held. The swivel of dead dreams, beyond the ordinary flavors of nightmares, suffocated my already fragile lungs. In its slowest grace, it turned my veins into a breathless life.

As I collapsed into the sea, the once calm waves splashed with anger, I pictured your hand locked against mine—telling me I could still stay with you.


WORD COUNT: 128

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

lifeless.

Body of Water

When my father said I had dramatized the situation, I shut my bedroom door because I knew my mother would agree. I lay on my bed to count the fake glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. The tiny star-shaped plastics mocked me with their weakness of false light; they did not live without the bulb.

When I saw the black flood rushed into my vision, I clutched my gray comforter. My lungs locked and my breaths faltered because why should it not?

I ran to my bathroom, my right knee scraped the floor on the process, and I opened the white box above the sink. I turned the cap and shook the small bottle. I popped my favorite vitamin in my mouth because it made me calm—it could make me breathe in a lifeless state.


WORD COUNT: 135

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

the father figure. | :: sunday photo fiction ::

188-01-january-1st-2017

She turned seven last night. From the pictures Rodney gave me, she grew into a fine-looking girl with gaps between her teeth and hands under her chin as she struck a pose for the camera. Her mother was nowhere to be seen in those photos, but I knew the locked hands around my daughter were hers.

Four years after my imprisonment for murder, I still searched for my daughter’s skin; the way her tiny fingers graze on my stubble or the small sound of her choke. Her promising eyes held my sanity and I had memorized how it glowed to keep myself still during my mad hours.

My private investigator said the new father figure would be out for the New Year’s Eve. I waited until all the lights in the prison went out before I pulled the chaffed brick walls behind my makeshift bed. Rodney would take care of the imprints I left until the only evidence the police could see was dusts.

As I sneaked out of the prison, I stood outside their new house. The clock spoke midnight and all the lights beamed. The fireworks exploded above the dark skies. I grinned—time to return home.


WORD COUNT: 199

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

thirty minutes left. | :: thoughts ::

Sparks of Firecracker
by Suvan Chowdhury

I was able to return to Italy, last May. To say that an addictive excitement rushed into my veins as the plane landed on its airport is an understatement. The lax space and the sunset’s ambiance walked with me to my destination. As I pulled my luggage from the conveyor, I grinned with relief.

I was hoping for the same effect of my prime visit, but I forgot what I learned about ‘hoping for something of the same kind.’ The spring days flew by without sympathy until, slowly, the faces of my fears revealed each of their smile to me. In an expected (because what is not to expect?) turn of events, I found my knees bleeding with sufferings of numbness.

My application for the permit of stay was declined for another time. If Defeat’s gift to me was a welcome kiss with open arms, it won. The officer gave me another date—which, honestly, sounded like another chance to a privilege rather than a right—and it was past my enrollment for the first semester of my junior year. I did not question my faith on my beliefs—on positivism and time—but I spiraled down to a human without acceptance.

I did not enroll for my junior year—the course I loved with all my breaths. I stilled on the ocean that was supposed to move and cause waves. I stood on the edge where the ground was shallow and empty. It was a near-death experience, but I smiled through all of it because I did not need to show it to others. My pride would not take advice or a mellow message of inspiration.

As I went to discover my broken self, the answers mocked me as the hobbies I had grown to love failed me because of my own doing. My writings became dry and filled with cracks as I battled with insecurities, I could only read one book in a month because I felt as if I needed to mourn, and I preferred to rest in my house to count the cracks on the walls. I shaped myself into someone I promised myself not to become—I killed me.

In the break of dawn, I realized I still have time in this fast-paced city. In a gradual rise, I fueled myself with good thoughts and ideas; maybe not alike with before, but better than nothing. I have studied the Italian language as I plan to continue my studies in Italy, I have enrolled in a gym because I want to see an optimum result in my health, I have volunteered to do online writing tasks for a community, I have waited for my permit of stay’s date with success, and I have worn another set of battle gears for the never-ending battle.

My mind does not work the way it used to, but only I can find the solutions to this dilemma. Tomorrow when I wake up (or when I celebrate with it), the year 2017 will hold its gates to me. I will not use the new year as an excuse as to why I did not get better this year, but the reason why I have to stay better. I might have encountered pitfalls, but I will not bring each memory with loneliness and anger; instead, I will grow recognition to have it in me with lightness.

When a friend asked me if I am scared for the looming new year, I answered with a convicted, ‘no.’ I have lived again in the home of fear for several months and it has brought nothing great or new to me. When the dawn rises the next day, I will speak about my failures—the incidents I considered as catastrophes—without tears because, today, I have the strength again.


WORD COUNT: 634

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

peppermint.

bus, people, public transportation

I hop in the bus before the door closes. I cough as I gasp for air and I wipe the sweat on my forehead. I pick the last empty seat, two rows before the last line at the back. I lay my head on the plastic window, watching the urban scenery pass by.

When I saw her again earlier, I couldn’t think of a better way to say, “you forgot your green tea drink on my table,” than to tell her she never left it cold. Her lips puckered as she cast her eyes on the ground. “I prefer mint teas now,” she said. An engine revved beside us. A fine-looking man stepped down from the sports car. “I have to go,” she whispered.

My phone vibrates, but I ignore the text. Since there are still teabags in the box at my apartment, I will drink one every day, at this hour of the time, until I throw away the last packet.


WORD COUNT: 162

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

home.

I light up the cigarette I’ve nipped between my lips. I squint my eyes as I gaze at the afternoon sunset, blowing the white smokes out of my lungs. I let the car’s engine hum behind me, just so I can have a makeshift friend. I lick my dry lower lip.

My eyes want to shut down, but I won’t be able to drive back home if I do that. Home. Such a lovely word for a chaffed house with wrecked morals. Just by the shade of the sun, my parents are surely hitting their sixth pack of the white powder. I’ve just finished my third, so I will sneak another one from them later.

My phone rings, but I decline the slut’s call. Six months earlier, I found out I’d be a father to this slut I was sleeping with. Of course, I’ll ask for a DNA exam after the baby is born, but the news somehow made me mellow. And weak. And excited, I think.

I snatch out my phone and click a photo from my files. Her tousled hair bents along with her head. She grins with her sated lips and sedated eyes—I did that to her. She could have been here beside me, but she flew once she heard the pregnancy news. But I broke down when I heard she married her fixed fiancé.

I kiss my phone’s screen like a maniac without relief. I think of her and my nerves relax a little. I drop it beside me. Maybe this time, she will call.


WORD COUNT: 260

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.