Tag Archives: creative writing

The Complete Ode To Solitude

Here is the complete poem of the passage I  featured  in one of my recent posts. This is my goal, my dream, the one thing I would like to achieve before I die…

BY ALEXANDER POPE

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix’d; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

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Sleep

Drip, drip, drip in the reservoir of my mind

Scratch, scratch, scratch on the walls of my consciousness

Now you see it now you don’t playing hide and seek

Within grasp cannot catch, why it’s so elusive?

Run, run, run after it and fast

Maybe still there just around the corner waiting to surprise

Almost have the taste feeling the presence but nowhere in sight

Like the wind teasing the brain better to give up?

Oh, so near yet so far like a distant___ star?

Skip, skip, skip into nothingness resign, resign, resign…

 

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Writers

…fascinate me. They have over active vivid imagination. Look at the Brontë sisters… they could even write about things they never personally experience. But what I’m really curious about are those writers who work for television series, per episode. For example: Mr. Nygma of Gotham. He was just an ordinary dude in the beginning. Okay, granted, perhaps a bit odd but nevertheless one dimension-ally boring and harmless enough.

Then from one day to another they decided to make him more interesting by upgrading the ordinary dude into a full-blown schizophrenic psychopath (or it is sociopath… or maybe both) with multiple personalities, just like that. He is changed beyond belief and oh, so sudden. No prelude. What those writers say to each other during lunch/coffee break : ” Let’s fuck-up Mr. Nygma for fun. What do you think, guys?” Or it was their boss who gave the order (of course it’s the bosses who give orders) but not the ideas, or otherwise they will be writers themselves.

No wonder Lost (the series) gotten lost in transition. It started as promising as a new born love affair. But somehow/somewhere along the way, it lost its potentials. At the end, it was just one hell of a confusion. It goes like that I think if too many people with too many (great/sick) ideas who all trying their best (they think) to wow the audience lost touch of reality and just let go. They literally lost the way. Too much of anything is never good.

I know some actors write scenarios of the series they are involved with. Matthew Gray Gubler of Criminal Minds does it occasionally (but then again, he is really multi-talented and real life genius he even directed 8 episodes of the show so far. Do check him out) Randall Einhorn and Paul Feig are another examples.   So, what that says about them? It takes one to know one? To conjured up pretty sick scenarios take up a lot of imagination. And if one can imagine such things…

That’s why I believe that in any other circumstances, writers are a dangerous bunch. Imagine actions supporting the theories. My, we will have a situation in our hands. But so far…

 

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Legacy

Imagine yourself at the end of your life. What sort of legacy will you leave? Describe the lasting effect you want to have on the world, after you’re gone.

Aside from surprisingly (despite everything that had happened) turned out to be well-balanced, matured, successful in their chosen careers children of mine; I would love to leave my written works to the world. May the whole documented experience: the battles, lessons learned, triumphs and tragedies I have encountered serve as a guide to some to overcome their hurdles and avoid making the mistakes I’ve made. I hope it will give them hope and strength to face their trials and overcome everything life might decide to throw on their way.

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Blurb

We’ve been asked to write the blurb for the book jacket of the book we would write, if only we had the time and inclination. Here is what first came to mind. Forgive the chaos. I’m tired and feeling lost somehow after walking for more than twelve hours two days in a row. Here it is…

“She’s back!” Michael uttered to himself over and over again in disbelief. Who could have guessed that she would be back? No one! Not even him. Although God knows how much he had hold on to that single thread of hope as if his own life depends on it.  No matter how impossible and elusive it may seem, he kept on hanging, believing with all of his heart that one day this moment will come. And there she was__ in flesh and blood, not part of his dream or imagination. How many times he envisioned this meeting? He lost count already. Now she’s finally here standing before him wearing her familiar smile, the one he had fallen hard for five years ago; and the memories came rushing in. In his mind, it was raining again and he was sitting in the porch of a friend’s house attending his sister’s birthday party when suddenly a Honda Dax surged out of nowhere and stopped in front of him, atop the bike was a girl so sexy and gorgeous his world stopped from turning. And it had been like that for five years. Now she’s back and he can start living again…

How’s that? Good enough?

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People

I make a futile attempt to hold Ems hand but she pulls it away. That little subtle rejection pierces my heart. There was a time that it came naturally between us, holding hands. Whenever we were together, our fingers sought each other and automatically entwined. How long ago it was that things between us happened spontaneously ? I can’t remember anymore. I miss those times… those precious moments when we could talk freely without fear of hurting our already fragile emotional state. If only…

I grasp her hand once more, this time I refuse to let go even though she keeps tugging at it, after a while she stops trying.  How people become so self-absorbed with their own personal grief they utterly forget that there is still a world outside their sorrow? I can hardly believe it was happening to me, to Ems, to us. We supposed to lean on one another in the moment like this, instead we are drifting apart and the gap between us keeps growing each day it becomes so huge I’m beginning to realize that not only the distance is becoming impossible to bridge but it is also threatening to swallow us up. I wish we can go back to the past; everything would be easier then…

Turning around the corner of our favorite park where I proposed to her over by the bridge; I notice an old woman sitting on a bench, she’s knitting a small red sweater. All of a sudden I see a small body of a little boy tumbling over by the impact of the car when I hit him,  his broken body lying there on the street wearing his best-loved red sweater, the one his grandma knitted and gave to him for Christmas. My little boy! My precious son is dead and I killed him! For the first time in months, I let go of my emotion and cried…

She didn’t find it a good idea to go for a walk; but he insisted. It’s so typical of him to make up excuses to avoid confrontation. He rather drags her in public to be sure there will never be a fight. He knows she will not dare to make a scene when there are people around. All she wanted is to talk. Really talk, not the beating-around-the-bushes conversation he always seem to prefer. It’s been a year now since the accident, the grieving have to be over, they have to accept their loss and go on with their lives.

There are some facts that they have to face. She knows he blames her for not keeping an eye on their son, for forgetting to close the gate, for talking on the phone for too long not realizing the boy was old enough to be curious and venture outside. On her part, she blames him for the deed itself, taking away her only source of pride and happiness. She had a difficult pregnancy and her son’s birth left her with a torn cervix. Other complications ensured the fact that she will never bear children anymore. That boy was her only chance.

She is willing to talk about it, air their hidden grievances towards each other. Acceptance is the ultimate key in healing process. They cannot pretend nothing happened and move on. If their marriage is to survive, they need to talk, urgently. Now, seeing him crying his heart out in public is too much for her to bear. She turns around and walks away, leaving him behind.

Gertrude sees them coming from a distance, her first thought was: what a beautiful couple. They reminds her of Bill and herself in the beginning of their marriage, before everything turned sour. Now he’s dead and she’s happy, happier than she had ever been in the last years of their relationship.

She notices the man tried to hold the woman’s hand, had witness when she tried to pull it away and thought: “Oh, dear…” maybe she had drawn her conclusion too hastily. What it is with young couple nowadays? They divorce and separate in a blink of an eye mostly for petty reasons. They ought to talk to each other more often and learn to really listen. But who is she to talk about that matter, she is no expert. Her own marriage was not one can call picture-perfect, but they stayed together for 35 years; that must account for something.

She directs her eyes on the small red sweater she’s knitting, Wendy would love this one. Red is her favorite color. Being with her grand-daughter is one thing she always looks forward to. That little girl brings joy to her heart and energized her aging soul; she can’t help but smile every time her memory conjures up her image. Pity, Bill is not here to witness her happiness. Then again, maybe it’s for the better.

They are closer now, the couple. She watches them from under her lids, pretending to be engrossed with her work. She sees two sets of feet stop before her. She hears the man’s outburst of crying. She looks up and catches the woman’s back fleeing, leaving the man crumpled in heap on the wet grass. Slowly, she stretches her old limbs and stands up, putting her knitting back inside her tote bag. She walks to the grieving man on the ground and put her hand on his shoulder saying: “There, there…”

Gertrude stays with the man, holding his rocking, sobbing form against her bosom. After a while, he stops crying and looks at her. She smiles at him and says: “Want to join me on the bench and tell me all about it?”

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To Whom It May Concern

I opened a book I recently purchased from a charity shop.  A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and started reading. It says:

I’ll be back. I don’t know how long it will take but I will. And if our love is strong enough, I will find you there waiting for me. 

I closed the book. I don’t know what to think.

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Serially Yours (Part One)

There was this gorgeous natural pool between two mountains with cute, small waterfall descending from one side and a river with reasonable fast current down on the other side with a picturesque bamboo bridge across.

I like the place because it was kind of private, peaceful and the fauna and flora were simply breath-taking. I was stripped down from the waist up and ready to hit the water when I saw her.

She didn’t see me at first; she was deep in thoughts concentrating on negotiating the narrow, steep path leading down to the pool. She was wearing a blue bikini with green and yellow flower pattern with a matching pareo tied around her hips. She was so beautiful! The sight of her almost took my breath away.

When she was almost at the bottom of the steps, she saw me. A strange mixture of surprise and fear (?) registered on her face. But that was only for a fraction of a second, she quickly pivoted on her heels and run!

But I was quick. I only wanted to stop her and talk, thinking this maybe my only chance to catch her alone, I simply cannot let her go away.

 I caught up with her easily. This is my terrain, my playground; I know this place better than anyone, I grew up here, negotiating treacherous surfaces is a second nature to me. She on the other hand is a city girl, I know. Too bad for her.

When I reached her something I never planned happened. What I did was___ grabbed her, turned her towards me, pulled her closer and kissed her passionately. It happened so fast she didn’t get the chance to react. Why she must tasted so sweet and so soft to hold I right away lost control of myself?

I pulled her even closer against me, she let a moan, she said: “Oh, Michael.” And went limp in my arms.  My knees buckled, my legs turned to Jell-O, my mind went blank, and suddenly the world had stop from turning. I heard thunder and lightning everywhere and I was stiff as a pole.

When I carried and laid her on the grass, she did not resist. It was starting to get dark. When I lay next to her; she closed her eyes and bit her lips. We kissed hungrily for a while, touching, exploring. I was only beginning to discover where everything is. I never realized that a kiss could taste like heaven I didn’t want to stop.

The moment I removed her bikini top, she gave me a look I never seen before anywhere or from anyone in my life. Not even on her. All I know was what the look did to my blood ‒ boil!

When I pulled the rest of the bikini all the way down, she clung to me passionately, we’re like two people drowning; very fast and there was no tomorrow. When I entered her, I thought I was going to pass out from ecstasy. It was good. No, better than good, better than anything I have ever experience so far, it was worth dying twice over.

When I murmured in her ear that I have no idea it would be like this, she said: “You don’t see nothing yet.” And she showed me. Not one, not twice, but six times over!

We laid side by side afterwards looking at the moon.

Then she said: “Now, what?”

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images: 4ever.eu & pinterest

A Room With A View

The house looked like a two storey if you are looking at it from the other side across the street.  But if you go around the front, you will see that it was a semi-bungalow really.  The reason was, the house was built on the very edge of a cliff and whoever was responsible for erecting it was either cut the budget by refusing to fill the deep end with fresh soil or deliberately left it that way to save yet another room space.  The result was quite unique.

When I first saw the house, I thought it was out of place.  It had nothing in common with its neighbors.  It was small but smartly built, using all the available space and had an appearance of something which is more belongs to some fancy subdivision.  While all its neighbors were having high secluded fences, solid big gates complete with dead bolts and padlocks, the place had a cute, low fence which barely coming up to my waist.  The gate and the grills were painted chocolate brown, so were the bars on the windows, the front door and the roof; the rest was in cream color. 

The funny thing was the color of the window panes,  it was green;  as if somebody had added them as an afterthought.  Inside, I saw that the living room-kitchen was in L-form.  It could have been a simple square if the left corner hadn’t been cut off to make a bedroom, which was closed when I came in.  The walls inside were painted pinkish-white, while the border some five inches from the floor was done in mauve color.  A kitchen counter to the right in flamed beige took the most entire length of the L.  Between the counter and the bedroom was a door that leads to the terrace.  Next to it was the bathroom, and next to the bathroom was a spiral staircase leading down to a bedroom.  It was cleverly built.  A room under the terrace. Very private. One has no business being down there unless one wants to be in that space per se.

It was the icing of the whole house and became right away my favorite place.  It was painted white and greens.  Dark green marble floor, sea green walls, and light green ceiling in termites finish.  Somebody brushed white paint lightly over the green finish. The result was pretty amazing _ a green sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.  Terrific!  A green, round ceiling lamp with mirror around it completed the effect.  But the best part I like was the bathroom.  It was tucked under the stairs, and the entrance was built under a slightly raised archway painted in white in contrast to the greenest of the room.

The bathroom itself was done in green tiles all the way up to half of the wall, the other half was in white color, and so were the toilet bowl, the paper and the soap holder.  There was no door, simply because there was no place to put one.  Moss green venetian blinds divided the privacy of the two rooms.  The only window there was in the room was the one facing the other side of the street. It had smoked brown sliding glass on it.  Brown window panes in green bedroom?  And green windows in cream and chocolate brown living room?  Was it a coincidence?  Or somebody deliberately mixed them up together?  If _ why?

The furniture in the room was all in white brass.  The bed; the dresser with three folding mirrors, the matching velvet chair, the standing oval whole body mirror, it was all there, fully intact.  Above the bed, on the wall was a set of hats.  Thirteen in total.  I counted them.  Six on hooks of each side forming a triangle, and a big one in the middle with green sash tied around it.  The smaller ones had multi-colored ribbons on them.  I thought at first that the hats were made of straw or perhaps rattan, but on closer inspection, I discovered that they were made of paper.  Pages from yellow pages telephone books cleverly rolled in tiny pipes and soaked in varnish to resemble a native product.  It was the most cunning pieces of art I have ever seen.  The house itself had an abandoned forgotten feeling hanging in every corner, which is I think very common with empty places.

But the bedroom in contrast seems very much alive.  As if the occupant had just popped out to get some soda and will be back any second.  It was also warmer than the rest of the house which was strange considering it’s location under the ground.  The room had some smell also.  A sweet, fresh lingering fragrant, like how a bathroom smells after somebody just took a bath.  If the house wasn’t for sale, I could almost be sure that somebody was still living there.  At least downstairs.  There were half empty bottles of perfumes on the dresser, combs and powders. There were books everywhere, even on the bed, dolls and stuffed toys too.  Even the bed covers were turned out as if someone just woke up and forgot to make up the bed. I find it strange.

In the end, my parents decided to buy the house on the other side of the street instead opposite of this one.  We needed a bigger place and the house across certainly was.  I counted the steps on my way up, there were thirteen of them.

Another strange thing. I have never been superstitious but I shuddered nonetheless.

 

~ to be continued

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Ah, life!

My neighbours are mostly older people who are way past their early retirement ages. And though they are mostly nice, quiet people; they are also very interested, well- meaning, nosy individuals who got a lot of time to kill in their hands.

When the sun is shining, they will come out and stand at their open doors (sometimes in groups or alone) surveying the neighbourhood waiting for something to happen (or someone to pass by) and be sure they are the first who going to notice anything, anything at all.

When I come home from work, I am (feel) forced to make small talks with them ranging from the weather, their dogs, their illness, down to I’m putting my key the wrong way in the key hole (I wish they tell that to D.) damaging the door paint around the hole area. And they will gladly show me how to do it properly if I allow them.

I do like making small talks once in a while and I appreciate the concern but lately, the moment I approach my block, I’m kind of wishing…they are not there.

And if not, I find myself walking faster and faster, can’t wait to get inside, lock the door, breathe a sigh of relief, have a cup of green tea and listen to online radio from somewhere.

I have nothing against them. I like them enough. They are nice neighbours. But I find that after spending more than 8 hours with them at work; I have a right to have few hours to myself minus well-meaning, nice, very interested seniors who got a lot of time I don’t have.

Ah, life!

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Another find

…from my archive. Don’t know from who it is or if I have written it myself. I just feel that it resonates so much with my feelings and thoughts…

I need somewhere quiet

And it’s so hard to find

With all the buzzing in my head

All the thoughts moving at the speed

Of light

Despite the darkness of my mood

I tried my empty room

But the shadows made it hard to relax

And the air was too still

So I tried outside

And finally managed to sit still

In silence

And sink

Into my thoughts

Without interuption

Or worry

About hiding my feelings

So no one could know

 

I let the wind play with my hair

Let the sun warm my skin

And I floated

Through time and space

Without moving a muscle

Memories washed over me

Like waves on the shores

And I didn’t have to fight them back

For once

Remembering everything

That I’ve so carefully blocked from myself

And just this once

I didn’t even mind

I was happy

And everything was okay

If only in the moments

When I was able to sit and sink

Within myself

 

I didn’t miss the constant pressure

Behind my eyes

That’s been there so long

I barely even notice it any more

Until it was gone

And then again when it returned

Reminding me of all the things

I have to miss and worry about

So much it gives me a headache

Except in those fleeting seconds

When I allow myself to sink

And just stop

Moving

Thinking

Hurting

Feeling

Hiding

Crying

Stop everything

And just be

To finally be still

To sit and sink

Into myself

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image: favin