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FICTION & POETRY

Some of the drabbles, flash fiction, short stories, and poetry I’ve written.

His feet tapped on the window sill, finding rest for his tired, wind-whipped body. The mother whispered, “Go away,” but abruptly stopped when her child grasped her arm, weakly shaking her small head. In gratitude, he sang her a beautiful song. She rewarded him with a dazzling smile.

From then on, the window remained open. Day, night, rain, or shine, he came and sang to her, his heart full of love.

Until one day, he found the window closed, its curtains drawn. He understood. In grief, he wept, perched atop a tree. Wings folded, he sang a song for her…still.

* The prompt for this story is NSYNC’s song, “Selfish.”

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He looked at her with intense eyes. Then he asked her the question that he had memorized in his mind for some time now.

“What are we?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I’m tired of this game. Don’t play me for a fool.”

She sighed. Of course, she knew what he means. “I thought you said you’d wait until I’m ready.”

“When will you be ready? Will you EVER be ready?”

She fell silent.

“I have told you countless times that I love you. And I have proven it too, countless times. I even gave you a ring which you don’t want to wear, which I would very much like to slip on your finger. But you still don’t want to commit yourself to me.” He persisted.

“I told you, it’s not that easy.”

“Because you don’t want to be hurt again?”

She slowly nodded.

“So in the meantime, we tease, we flirt, we exchange love letters and sweet nothings. We share food and the company of our families and friends. I care for you, you care for me. When we’re apart, I miss you, you miss me. We kiss, we hug, we touch.”

He hissed. “But I cannot call you mine. I cannot shout to the whole world that you belong to me.” His tone was becoming angry now.

Her eyes lowered, her fingers fiddling with the bracelet he gave her. “You make it sound so. . . inconsiderate and unreasonable.”

He looked at her pointedly. “It is.”

She frowned. “Why are you angry all of a sudden?”

“I’m not angry. I’m frustrated. There’s a big difference. Tell me, what else do I have to do to prove that I’m seriously in love with you? What are we waiting for?”

“Nothing. Just waiting for the right time.”

“Right time?” He asked incredulously. “Damn it! Tell me what’s really in your mind! Don’t hide behind your seemingly cold front of being an introvert!”

The mention of introvert made her cringe. And angry. So angry that she burst out, “Yes! The right time! Time when the magic will wear off! When your feelings for me will fade! Then you will realize that I am not the girl you really wanted, that you don’t really love me, that you are only doing everything you’re doing now because you feel you’re required to do them! Then someone prettier, smarter, sexier will come, and the rest. . . or us. . . is history.”

The silence hung over their heads for a full minute. Then he spoke again, this time, softly, finally comprehending.

“So basically you’ve already given up without even giving us a try. You’re running from something that’s not even there.” It was a conclusion, not a question.

“I’m just being realistic. Let’s just enjoy each other’s company while it lasts, shall we?” She begged him.

“And what if you’re wrong? Haven’t it occurred to you that I actually DO love you, want you, and only you? What if we end up married, with four kids, a big house out of our earnings and live happily ever after?”

She scoffed. “Wishful thinking.” 

“Why don’t we risk thinking wishfully? And then do everything in our power to make it work? Because I’m all up for it. . . if you will. Only with you, I will.”

“What do you want? A label that says, I’m yours? Then do it! Tweet it and I’ll support you like I always do.”

He let out a deep sigh. “I don’t just want a label. I want you. I want it all: a label, a commitment, your love, your trust, your hope and faith in us. All of you.”

“That’s selfish.”

“Maybe. But what we have now is not enough for me.”

“I cannot give those to you. Not now. Not yet.”

“Or not ever. Because whatever I do, you’ve already made up your mind what our outcome will be.”

Again, it was not a question. It was a fact: plain and simple. She couldn’t speak because what he said was true.

Gently, he took her hands to his and spoke in a firm yet longing voice.

“I love you. And I know you love me. I can see it in your eyes. I can tell by the way you care, by the way you respond to my kiss. But you keep holding back, and I keep on pulling you out. You build walls, I knock them down. At the first sign of trouble, you always run back to your shell, and I always draw you out. We can keep doing this forever. . . because I am prepared to do so. . . or you can stop this and take the next step forward.”

He touched her lips with his finger when she was about to speak, and continued:

“Because in the end, it’s all up to you. Only you. . . can convince yourself that everything I do, I do out of genuine love for you, a love that will transcend any magic or doubt. Only you can tell yourself that what we have is real, that it is worth announcing proudly to the whole world– not hidden or denied.”

Tenderly, he caressed her face with his hand.

“You alone hold the key to our happiness. But you choose to keep it to yourself.”

Bringing her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss, he then asked, his eyes never leaving hers:

“Tell me: Who’s selfish now?”

She could see the flickering light at her feet. Her hands tried to reach it, but the rope around her neck pulled her back. Silent screams filled her throat. This was so unfair! For months, they all thought everything was okay. But now, she’s dying, deprived of air and with a broken heart, without feeling their love.

Suddenly, she heard something rip. Blinding light, brisk hands, excited screams followed. She gasped as delicious, precious oxygen filled her lungs.

A pair of eyes, brown like hers, peered down at her.

“Hello there, baby girl. Welcome to the world. I’m your Daddy.”

With every stroke
Black veils of paint
Coat and mask
What’s underneath
The canvas.

Yet no amount
Of ebony hue
Can cover up
The cracks and chinks
Of a broken heart.

Free book alert

Everyone in their community was against Marie, suspicious of her collection of bottles containing horrendous specimens and her secretive nature. But Datu was blindly in love with her, choosing to deny the doubts that kept plaguing him. What was important to him was that she loved him back, and that he, as leader of his people, will do anything to fulfill the duty bestowed upon him by his ancestors.

BLACK LOVE

AN AWARD-WINNING PARANORMAL SHORT STORY