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Short Stories

She reminds you of the wishes

Short Stories, Whimsical Wanderings

It’s not so much that she wants to run away. She just wishes she could feel better — no, she could be better — in a place which isn’t here. Wherever here is. It’s always the wrong place anyway.

She’s afraid of the sky. And when you ask her why, she’d always say
“it just looks so heavy. I’m afraid that one day it will fall down on me and crush me.

You could never figure out what she stared at when she propped her pretty bony elbows on that white windowsill and stayed that way for hours on end (the paint was chipped but she said that only made it more beautiful, more like home, even though she never quite understood what that word meant), ignoring the clock and her surroundings.

It was like she had faded out into a world of her own. And then one day you figured out that she wasn’t looking up at that dreaded sky or down at the ground which was too solid for her tastes. She always had this feeling that it would swallow her whole if she let her guard down, and early on already, you were worried that she would crack under the strain of all her anxieties and restrictions. She wasn’t looking at the gently swaying strong-trunked trees either, no. Nor at the pavement or at the house across the street. If you had asked her, you know she would have told you that there was no house across the street. She either saw too far or not far enough. This is the kind of confusion she lives in, only for her, it make perfect sense.

Some would call her delusional, but to you that is the only thing which makes her real.

You were never one to be superficial, until you met her. She taught you all about skirts and bracelets and never seeing past appearances. More importantly, she taught you that everything was just an appearance. Make-up and souls are exactly the same: perishable. But after you’d spent some time with her, what you really started to notice were her wide, baby-blue eyes. They shine like light bulbs or stars or waves on the sea. Something distant and lovely in an empty, stereotypical kind of way. Like her feelings, probably, or her clothes. But not her thoughts, and definitely not her words. She really has a way with words, either that or they have a way with her. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

Usually because it’s so devastatingly easy.

You used to love her pale, slender wrists. There were strands of her soul in them, you thought. Because they were so perfect, but so very fragile. It took you longer than it should have to realize that they were as far from perfect as it’s possible to get. (“Unless you’re an angel,” she would say. She doesn’t like angels, probably because she had to fall to become one.) It took you longer than it should have to realize that they were much closer to perfect than it was healthy to get. For anyone. Even for her.

And it occurred to you then that she’s just like you. And me. And everyone else. Because we all have our windows which we stare out of, and either we’re focused on the ghostly, tragic reflection of our all-too-familiar face on the glass, or we’re gazing too far out into the distance, into things which aren’t even there. And in either case we’re too captivated by our own thoughts to see what’s right in front of us. It was obvious, you tell yourself over and over again, obvious that she was too thin, that she wasn’t natural, that the slightest breath of wind would suffice to knock her over. But for months you didn’t know. You still blame yourself for it. You feel so powerless because you are so powerless. There is no control when it comes to dust.

And it scares you, it really does. Because you didn’t realize how alive she was until you found out that she’s actually dying.

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Just another “Could have been”

Short Stories

Our love story started out very wrong. Everything was wrong — the setting, the timing, the people involved, the anticipated outcome, the situation — it was a jungle of wrongness. And yet, we went in, holding nothing but each other’s hands. Frail, but we thought was enough.

However, the other side of the story convinced us that maybe, it’s not really wrong. Maybe it has just been tagged “wrong” because majority of the people do not agree with it, or because it’s against the norms of the society. But we couldn’t care less about the people, nor about the norms of the society. Who dictates the right things, anyway? And so we went on. We were never afraid to go on.

Now this is how we were.

The moment we open our eyes from whether a nap or a deep sleep, there is a slight hesitation of whether we’ll go back to sleep and continue our dreams of each other, or we’ll wake up and embrace the sweetest reality of having each other. Choosing the former ends us up wanting each other even more. Picking up the latter ends us up with the same thing. We’re stuck. We both love being stuck with each other like that. And we could have been stuck with each other like that forever.

We were friends. I tell him he’s stupid if he was. He’ll tell me I’m an idiot if I was. When I fail, he cheers me up. I do the same thing with him. We play games. We draw. We make faces. We laugh like there’s no tomorrow. We finish each other’s sentences. We race to the top of the stairs, and when we do that, I always win because he always lets me. But, at the same time, we were lovers. Our love for each other was something no man could ever doubt. We were deeply in love — so deep, Bonnie and Clyde would be jealous. We were both friends and lovers. And we could have been friends and lovers forever.

He’s my angel. Likewise, I am his angel. We were each other’s angels. And we could have been each others angels forever.

But the trigger has been pulled, and one night, we came up with a mutual decision that maybe we should just set our love aside and just focus on each other’s lives — SEPARATELY. It’s tough. But we were in a jungle of uncertainty, right? We can either find each other’s way out and be able to make it out bruised, or we can stay inside and die. I remember he once told me, “Sometimes, you don’t need to have a brain. You just need to have the heart for it.” Well, maybe that’s the reason why even though we’re both smart enough, still, we were unable to come up with a third option — and that is to stay inside the jungle and try our best to survive together.

So that’s the end of our love story. I waved goodbye. And though he has all the powers in the world to stop me from leaving, he never did.


Short Stories

I could have not waved goodbye.

He could have stopped me from leaving.

Then maybe we could have been together, still.

But then again, this is just another “could have been.”

A 5-Minute Forever

Short Stories

A little past ten in the evening, and there we are, walking along the almost depleted foyers of a once mundane place that soon became of utmost importance to me. We were at the south, and we’re heading to the other side of the parking lot, which made me consider that we will be together for at least 5 more minutes. Each step we took brought us closer to the estimated 5-minute time, and for the first time in my life, I prayed that some form of an impairment will strike us instantly, so as to prolong our time together.

We were about half a meter away from each other — a safe distance for friends, I assumed. I brought with me the perfect eyesights for each eye, and so I was able to take a good look at him, a secret one. He was about 5’9″, with a body same as that of the boy next door, and the face of an angel. He had a well-waxed hair, which made me think that if I had it muddled, I would at once be cursed by him. But that, of course seemed impossible — angels don’t curse. His voice need not be questioned. It was as soft as his face, as gentle as his laughter, as warm as his smiles, and as comforting as his stare. His stare. I avoided nothing but his semi-chinked eyes, for I had been told once, that a mere contact of my gaze to another’s can make me fall in love. I took it as a warning.

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There was a girl named Sam

Short Stories

There was a girl named Sam and she was beautiful. She was all the zestfulness of the sun and the mysterious beauty of the rain. Her hair casually flipping over her shoulder, the sound of her gentle muffled laughter. She lived “the” life – carefree, fun, free. She seldom talked about herself and that vagueness added a bit of a thrill to those who seek to know her more. She was mysterious, and beautiful. She had friends and family who all loved her. She got all the things she wanted — after all, she deserved everything.

How she gently pressed her napkin onto her lips, the tinkles of her porcelain cup clinking against the saucer as she set them down, and how she crooked her little finger while sipping her tea. Oh the elegance and the glamour. She exuded purity. She was perfect.

Except that she never really was.

Let me tell you the real story…

There was a girl named Sam and she tried to look beautiful. She was the nasty heat of the sun and the icky wetness of the rain. Her recently made-up hair which she could just have possibly precisely placed over her shoulder, the sound of her evil, loud laughter. She failed at life – always anxious, ever ignorant. She seldom talked about herself and she stayed vague because the last thing she wanted to happen is for people to discover that she was not who she claimed she was. She was vile and manipulative and pretentious and shameless. She had no friends who truly loved her. She got everything she wanted (to show off) — after all, that’s what she lived for.

How she tried to get to the top of the tree, even if all the branches and twigs broke as she climbed. How she claimed all her glory through secrets and lies. Oh the glitz and the pretentiousness. She was fake. She was a mess.

She died miserable.

The end.

That Moonlit Night

Love, Prose, Short Stories

The wind chimes tinkled in the gentle breeze. It was a beautiful moonlit night. She was standing in front of the door, the frigid cold piercing through her cashmere sweater. She had a glimpse of his car’s headlights from afar and let out a sigh of relief, and then a small smile. Kiss on the cheek, and off they went. Away. Away from everything. They roamed long, ceaseless boulevards. All she could remember seeing were the bright street lights, flashing continuously, as if endlessly, through her periphs. The constricting of her chest, almost as if something was clenching it, was saying that a certain feeling has befallen her. And then, she fell asleep.

Noticing the sudden silence in her sleep, she gently opened her eyes. The car was parked. The vague scene in front of her is slowly regressing into something distinct. She stepped out of the car and she was bewildered by the scene: city lights bedazzled the black landscape. The stars were flickering like candlelight against the dark, gloomy night sky. The lights were scintillating. Gleaming, glittering. She could have lived in that moment forever. That fleet, evanescent moment left an impression that never would she erase.

Then it drizzled. The lights turning indistinct through the fine, misty drops of rain. He slowly leaned closer to her as the rain poured harder.

…and with it, he planted a soft kiss on her shivering lip.

She went home drenched. Freezing but warm. Void of all the pain and worries she had. She felt numb, feeling only the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. And now, every time the night sky peers through her window as she lays herself to sleep, she drifts to oblivion. And it all comes back to her…

This is a retrieved post. Reposted: 04 May 2012