Tag Archives: stories

Explore

When I was young while my contemporaries were dreaming of fairy tales, I was fantasizing I was a pirate, Sinbad of the seven seas exploring countless horizons having the time of my life. I even stole my mother’s old clothes and transformed them into fitting costumes. I spent too much time on the beach pretending I was in a fight with fellow Buccaneers standing on the bow of one of the boats that was parked behind our house. Never occurred in my mind to play with other kids or my siblings. I was happy in my own little world. I could engineer the whole play without interference from others. I preferred it that way.

A little bit older when I supposed I have to be dreaming of Prince Charming, I was dreaming of being an FBI agent instead, or a military official operating in the most dangerous areas in the country. I even wrote a story about it. I wonder where it is now.

Of course, my fantasies never come true. Worse even, I lead a life nowhere near my dreams and still living it up to this day. Some people, in fact, most people will find it better or ideal but I was and still is a nomad and gypsy by heart and I will always be.

I did try to incorporate my rover ways into my real life some years ago and it did put me in all sorts of predicaments but I did enjoy those adventurous moments and suffer the consequences gladly. Those years will always be the most wonderful times of my life. 

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Imagination

My mother (when she was alive) had always accused me of having an over-active imagination. I don’t agree. I just happened to experience some things that other people find weird but for me ordinary. I didn’t ask for it nor fantasize about it. Who would want to imagine such things anyway? For all of the things I had experienced and seen, people might think that I believe in mystics or such phenomena but the truth is I don’t. I don’t believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, I don’t even believe in heaven or hell but I do believe in the parallel universes. I really think that there are other dimensions out there apart from this one and sometimes they collided with each other that’s why some unexplainable incidents happened. I believe there are portals to other worlds, other planes so different yet similar to ours and I am convinced that every so often its inhabitants somehow find their ways into this world and create havoc because they are scared maybe? Perhaps confused? Just happy to be here? Or simply to our understanding, evil. I don’t know. 

Here are some examples of what I have experienced so far. I let you be the judge if indeed I have an over-active imagination. For the record, it is not all of it, it’s only the icing on the cake.

Have fun reading and I hope I will not alienate you from visiting my space again. Till next time? 

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Images: Witch_IV_by_love_chizue

Conjure

When I was young(er) let’s say older than the normal age of someone who supposed to be doing what I was doing, I used to camp around cemeteries at 2:00 a.m. playing spirit of the glass trying to summon anything that cares to be summoned. I even broke into an abandoned subdivision that had been collapsed and buried most of its inhabitants (alive) and their houses due to multiple engineering failures design flaws and material faults. They say there is a very strong connection to the other side in places where there are humans casualties. I thought I would have better luck there but of course I was wrong. I once forced open a deserted house to perform my conjuring trick inside but again without success. I don’t know what I was thinking those times. Temporary insanity probably. Abandoned dilapidated rundown ruins and graveyards still attract and fascinate me and I still invite myself in from time to time but not to do what I used to do but to take photographs and just walk around and admire what is left. I can’t help it. I find these places beautiful. Even better, interesting. Mysterious. Magical. 

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Brilliant

In my country of birth, we have a folklore that goes like this:

One day God was feeling lonely he decided to create something in his own likeness so he set up a fire and started fashioning humans from clay. Satisfied with what he had made he proceeded to bake them in the fire. While cooking, some urgent matter called his attention back to heaven and he forgot all about them. When he finally remembered it was too late, his first batch of images was burned. He decided to keep them anyway and that’s how the black people were born.

Not giving up easily, God decided to try again. This time out of fear he removed his group of new sculptures from the fire a lot earlier than he supposed to do so he ended up with underdone figures that were barely colored. Again like the first group he keeps them. And that’s how Caucasian people came into being. 

A firm believer of the saying third time’s the charm, God decided to try once more. This time he stayed close to the fire eyeing his creations like a hawk, turning them around ever so often so it baked evenly on all sides. When he was satisfied with his work and thought he could not do more or better, he took them off from the fire. And there it was, a batch of perfectly baked golden brown likeness of him. And that’s how we, Asians came to exist. 

What do you think folks? Isn’t it a brilliant story? Take it with a grain (a bucketful if necessary) of salt. It’s only a folklore. I bet each country has their own version of it. 

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Almost

When it comes to almost, nothing beats the story of you and me and what could have been. You’re a wonderful person. I wish I could share your interest but I’m a weirdo, not a psycho so, there you go. 

For those who are interested to know more, you can read our serial story here, here and here. Yes, I wrote about it three times. I can’t do it all over again. Too complicated to summarize. The ones I wrote are abridged versions already. Maybe someday I will compress them once more into one denser copy. But for now, they will remain as they are. Take a look. 

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My Top 3 Sex Related Problems As A Woman

Let me start this out by making a couple wild generalizations about sex.

First, we’re all having it.

Of course, that’s not actually true; some of us haven’t had it yet, others are going through a drought and some choose not to have it at all. But in general, it’s a widespread phenomenon. Which is good, since it’s what leads to the propagation of the species.

Second, while it’s an extremely common experience, we don’t really talk about it.

We don’t talk about it with each other (as in, the actual people we’re having sex with), and we don’t talk about it with others, even those we’re close to. Again, yes, there are exceptions to this, but generally, not so much.

I humbly submit that this is a major issue. Because it’s easy for things that are kept hidden or secret (whether accidentally or on purpose) to lead to feelings of shame, confusion, and hopelessness. Plus, what we don’t talk about, we can’t get support with. And we need support in this area; sex and sexuality are fundamental to who we are as human beings.

So in the spirit of more openness, I present my top three sex problems, as a heterosexual woman:

1) Men being too rough with their hands.

I’m a pretty experienced sex-er. I’ve had a lot of it, with a wide variety of men. But I can count with just a few fingers the number of men who were good with theirs.

That’s right, I’m talking about fingering.

Even the word sounds kind of… violent. It presupposes that the “goal” or “point” of the activity is penetrative—for you to jam your finger up my hoo-ha, often in a simulated version of intercourse.

Okay! Just a few problems with this. First, most of the time when I play with myself, I don’t get all up in the inside. I don’t use a dildo, I use a baby bullet, which is just a very small vibrator that actually never goes inside me.

I stick with stimulating the clit, which is way above the vulva (the opening of the vagina).

Second, even if a man does get that The Clit Is It, he often applies so much direct pressure to it that it hurts. I feel bruised and notice that my clitoris gets numb; it loses sensitivity because it’s been so overstimulated. Again, when I play with myself, I do so gently, especially at first. The clitoris has 8,000 nerve endings; no wonder it’s so sensitive!

Before I get admonished for not speaking up about the issue at the moment, I want to say that I do say something a lot of the time. If he starts out so rough that it hurts, I often say, “Gentle gentle gentle!” Or even as it’s starting (before the pain), “Listen just so you know, the lighter the touch, the more I feel.” But I find that a lot of the time this only works for a few minutes, and then it’s back to the jabbing.

Part of the reason this is such a problem for me is that I find myself distracted. I’m trying to protect my body while also accommodating the person I’m with (not shaming him about what’s not working). So not only am I not turned on, I’m actually anxious. I feel my stomach twist into knots when a man starts putting his hands down there because my body is so trained to expect pain.

As I write that, I sense just how sad it is. I also find myself curious as to whether other women have a similar experience.

2) Initiating.

Honestly, I prefer for a man to initiate sex with me. And I don’t think that’s necessarily a problem. We all have preferences, and that’s mine.

But I feel like I’m not good at initiating… ever. And that feels like a problem.

What holds me back? In a word, fear.

Fear I’ll be seen as wanting too much.

Fear I’ll be seen as slutty.

Fear of rejection.

And one more that’s a little harder to describe, but perhaps the most true: fear of “making him” feel obligated.

I intellectually grasp that any man I’m with would probably love for me to initiate. But when it comes to actually doing it, I hesitate. I don’t want me initiating to have him feel like he has to have sex with me. I want him to be inspired to do the dirty with me, not do it because he should.

Realistically, this says far more about me than about men. It says that my psyche often interprets someone asking something of me as not requesting, but demanding. So I think my own request for sex will be interpreted as a demand—and I don’t want that. Since I don’t trust that my partner will “be able” to give me an honest no, it feels safer to just wait for him to ask me.

Do I feel obligated when it comes to a man initiating with me? If I’m very, very honest, yeah, I kind of do. I don’t always allow that feeling of obligation to “win”; if I really don’t want to have sex at the moment, I speak up. But most of the time, if my partner wants sex, I’m probably going to say yes, and not always because I’m totally in the mood and really want it.

Again, I’m curious as to whether other women have a similar experience.

3) Finding men who are both cocky and heart-y.

I don’t mean cocky as in arrogant. I mean literally cock-y: men who have a strong relationship with their cock (their sexuality). These are men I feel would be able to truly take me. They’d push me up against a wall and mean it. They’d pull my hair without asking for permission. They’re comfortable with what I call “fuck energy”—the desire to just fuck someone.

Listen, I’m a strong woman. I can get shit done. But while I have a lot of masculine energy (I can do, create, make things happen), when it comes to sex, I want to be in my feminine. For me, that requires a man who can be dominant in the bedroom. I’m not into hardcore BDSM, but I do want to feel like I’m not in charge; instead of having to lead, I get to be ravished.

At the same time, I want to be able to feel a man’s heart and know that he can feel mine. I’m not talking about needing him to be a therapist or something; I just mean feeling connected on both a sexual and emotional level (even if it’s just for one night).

In other words, I don’t want an insensitive bro who’s solely fucking me so he can check another Tinder swipe off his list, and I equally don’t want a sensitive new age guy who can talk about feelings but has disowned his “fuck energy.”

I find I end up attracting either one or the other, and that’s a problem.

The fact is, most of us learn about sex in bits and pieces as we grow up, either in hushed conversations with siblings or friends or from pornography. It’s not the easiest thing to communicate about, so it’s easy to just not. But that’s a disservice to both ourselves and others.

I think having the sex we really want (in or out of committed relationships) starts with getting real about what doesn’t work for us—what we struggle with.

So I’m curious:

What are the top 3 problems you have when it comes to sex? What blocks you from pleasure, keeps you from enjoying your body and/or the body of your partner?

I wonder if more of us share the same problems than we think. I wonder whether men and women share the same problems.

And how much better would the world be if, on a regular basis, we all got to have stimulating, sensual, spirited, soulful, scintillating, satisfying sex?

Author: Melanie Curtin

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Enamored

… with the works of H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, and Stephen King. I can sympathize with and relate to them personally. I might not write in the same genre but in the dark corridors of my head dwell the same horrors, the same twisted thoughts that are more real than reality itself. I adore this trio. I love how their minds work. They are the pyramid of my belief in written words, in the power of writing, in the beauty of story telling. They are the corner stones of my passion for creating tales, my source of inspiration. I will be forever in awe of their talents.

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Roots

“A tree without roots is just a piece of wood.”

I was watching a pre-recorded version of Masterchef Australia early this morning (around 2:00 o’clock insomniac that I am) when suddenly talking to the contestants, encouraging them to  go back to their childhood and use their earliest memories as inspirations for that day challenge Marco Pierre White said: “A tree without roots is just a piece of wood.” Immediately it conjures up in my mind an image of a driftwood on the beach, no anchor to hold it down and the waves carry and toss it around. It goes from place to place from shore to shore completely in the mercy of the ever changing whim of nature and it hurts, it really hits me to the core. Being brought up isolated by tyrannical parents and being part of a dysfunctional family of nomad gypsies who moved a lot, I never find where I belong. My roots had been pulled out before they can even have a chance to settle and get hold. Me and my siblings, we never had a contingency to grow and flourish in a familiar soil. I’ve said these already before, If I could reach for something brilliant that would be the home which been denied to me and the presence of the peace I’ve never known…

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Pieces

We moved to a much smaller house in the suburb two years ago after selling our six bedroom Edwardian property in the country. The place was too big for just the two of us. It was a hell to clean and even more difficult to heat up properly. Period houses are money pits that demand bottomless pockets and tireless enthusiasm from the owners. We found out we lack the dedication and the courage to keep up.

Moving the contents of a bigger space to a smaller one proved to be impossible. We get rid of all the furniture and sold most of the trimmings. The ones that nobody wanted to buy, we donated to charity, but still our new garage is full to the brim it is an ordeal to navigate in there. Day by day we try to sort things out, keep what we need and get rid of the rest. I found out that those that carry emotional values are the ones that hard to say goodbye to, I still have bunch of silk flowers and plants lined up on a top of a big picnic table together with vases, candles and candle holders, figurines, books, albums, videos and cds. Throwing them away is like throwing all your experiences, deleting your past life, erasing your memories. As if you trying to start fresh as someone else.

The other day I opened one of the boxes to sort out and I found this small yellow stone on top of a pile of ledgers from previous courses. It has very fine yellow crystals, probably quartz. They shimmer under a light or in the sun. The stone is beautifully nondescript and unusually singular. I never seen another stone like it.  But what makes it more special is the story behind it and the person who gave it to me.

Arjay was just a boy from the neighborhood. One of those children who accompany me wherever I go whether I like it or not. He was the first to jump in a tricycle if I was about to go somewhere, most of the times without permission from his parents. Only now I did realize the seriousness of the situation. I was the only adult among them. I was solely responsible for their safety and well beings. Those minors who hiked, swim, climbed waterfalls and rooftops, spent overnight in the mountains with me were vulnerable. Anything could happen and what then? But that time, those thoughts were the last things in my mind. To me, I was in vacation, my time was limited, every second counts. I have to make the most of it and I savor every moment without thinking of the consequences and there were few. Nothing serious. More damaging to my reputation than anything else. I gladly took those too. Who cares about what other people think when I know the truth.

Among those youngsters who followed me around was Arjay, a cute enthusiastic kid who was small for his age. I thought he was ten- twelve years old, I was surprised to find out later on that he was two years older than I originally assumed, he was fourteen. One time we were sleeping in the house of one of my Godmother’s boarders in the mountains when in the middle of the night I found Arjay staring at me, his face inches away from mine. His presence was not the reason why I suddenly woke up, it was the noises that the other boarders were making that aroused me from my slumber; they said Arjay was trying to kiss me. I thought it was a joke (what else it could be?) and shrugged it off but when it happened again and again I asked his mother what was the matter with Arjay, she said he had nightmares sometimes. I was so relief to finally get some explanation of what was happening with him. The kid had nightmares. No wonder he was acting strange.

He continued to to be part of my vacation each year since then. If we were at some party and I got tired and wanted to lie down, he will suddenly got a headache and insisted on being in the same room or bed with me. Luckily there was another kid who kept an eye on Arjay (or me) and every time he saw that Arjay was acting strange again he will see to it that he was in the same room with us. If I leave he goes with me, if Arjay goes, he stays. Kids.

I didn’t know the whole story and I didn’t ask for the reason why one day the kid asked Arjay to settle their differences by fighting it out. According to him Arjay was unrespectful and what he was doing was wrong. I don’t understand but I find that it’s not my place to ask and leave it at that. As far as I know, Arjay didn’t accept the challenge which was a relief because they were both good kids. I would hate to be in the middle of adolescents conflict and the last thing I would want to do is to choose sides. Their mothers are both my Godmothers. They were like brothers to me. 

My mother died and I stop going home. I have no reason anymore to comeback so I lost sight of the bunch. I saw their profiles on Facebook, they are grown ups now and some of them are married and have family of their own. Arjay got married just last month. He has become a good looking young man like I thought he is going to be. Still small but presentable. I made a mistake of connecting with them a year ago and regretted in an instance my decision when I was bombarded with personal messages and telephone numbers. I quickly turned off my profile and never returned the messages. Personal contact isn’t my cup of tea and rekindling past relationships doesn’t set good with me. I rather leave the past in the past so it stays that way and I am able to visit whatever it is in my memory whenever I feel the need to do so. I find that tampering with what has been taint the memories somehow, ruining the good part and altering if not erasing the original stories. I rather remember them how they were and keep what we had the way it was than risk changing the impression they left in my recollection of the good old days when all of us were still innocent and young…

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Dear Pretty Young Woman Flirting With My Husband

Thank you.

My husband is hot. It’s one of the many reasons why I married him. I know you think he’s hot too, and I’m cool with that.

He likes the attention. In the store. At the restaurant. You make him feel visible. You make him feel like “he’s still got it,” and that’s a good thing.

And I’m not mad or jealous.

Maybe I envy your gorgeous hair, your lovely, smooth body, and your wrinkle-free eyes, but I’m actually glad I’m not where you are in life right now. You’re still trying to figure things out. You’re looking for something that feels real to you, and fulfilling, and substantial.

You want meaningful.

You’re out there in the world trying to conjure your future, following everything and anything that will manifest your dreams. It’s a bitter-sweet place to be, but time is on your side. I remember it well.

I love that my husband feels good about himself. When you pay attention to him, he feels happy and confident. And, let me tell you, him feeling happy and confident works in my favor.

You see him in his khaki pants, and his sexy buffalo-plaid flannel shirt. You eye his awesome dad bod and his expensive boots, and you just can’t resist. He’s adorable in all the right ways. I get it.

I know he kind of looks like George Clooney. I know he’s aging ridiculously well, like a soap star. His salt and pepper hair, boyish face, and kind brown eyes are a beautiful combination. I know how it feels when he smiles at you and treats you with respect because I feel the same way. That’s who he is. He’s a pretty great guy. He looks at you directly, and he listens. He laughs at your jokes and he’s polite. He’s a fixer. He helped you call your dog back in the park that time, and you almost lost your head for a minute.

I totally get it. He’s the coolest.

But here’s what you don’t see. Sometimes he is just like everyone else.

Sometimes he’s not that nice. Sometimes he hogs the covers and sometimes “forgets” to call me when we need to talk about something important. Sometimes he’s selfish and judgmental. Sometimes he’s moody.

Sometimes he doesn’t clean up after himself. And he can be infuriating when he’s being stubborn.

When he gets sick he lays on the couch and acts like he’s dying.

What you don’t see is how worried he was when we were both much younger and newly married with a tiny baby and we were trying to make all sorts of ends meet.

You don’t see his insecurities. Like, when he lost his job and we had bills to pay and our kids were only four and six.

You don’t see all the times he took odd little jobs to make extra money so that our family would feel loved and cared for.

When you see him in the grocery store, or at the bank, or in the bar, you don’t see the other stuff. The parts that make him stable and honest. And weathered.

 All that stuff was earned.

You don’t see what made him the man he is today, which, if I may say so, is a direct result of building his life with me, his wife.

What you don’t see is our history.

You don’t see how our disagreements and our hardships lead to changes in both of us that created deeper love.

You don’t see how much we went through to become best friends. And it took a long time to become best friends, believe it or not. It was work.

You look at him, and you like what you see, but you don’t see him the way I do.

When I look at him, all I can see is us. Us for miles.

But, I want to thank you. Sincerely.

Your attention makes him feel the way he felt long ago when he was out there in the world without cares or big responsibilities—without a family—an unattached guy still drinking from a keg in someone’s backyard with his whole life ahead of him.

When you throw your head back and show him your neck, you make him feel alive and virile and assured and young.

I can’t make him feel like that, because I know him.

So, again thank you.

Now kindly run along, dear.

~Relephant: Via Kimberly Valzania

Unfaithful Husband

Daily Prompt 

For The Free Spirited Females

This is for the gentle goddesses with watery, empathic hearts, who ooze with oodles of compassion, eager to soothe another’s suffering.

This is for the luscious ladies with restless spirits who can’t stay in one place for long, because our souls are winged, always longing for adventure.

 Yes, this is just for us:

The free-spirited females with fiercely sensitive hearts.

We are a balmy breeze, casually caressing arms lovingly, suddenly here, suddenly there, then suddenly gone.

We are a thousand grains of precious pink sand, slowly slipping through soft fingertips, one by one.

We can never be contained because we aren’t meant to be.

We are born to ride the wild winds of passion, surf the turbulent oceans of despair, and relentlessly explore the great vastness of this crazy world—until our bodies collapse in ecstatic exhaustion.

We understand deeply that life is a heartbreakingly beautiful series of goodbyes, hellos, triumphs and disappointments and we feel most alive in the midst of transformation, courageously shedding our old skin to be birthed again, raw and new.

We are are well-versed in letting go, able to boldly exhale and swiftly set fire to the past, painstakingly gathering the ashen wisdom to build a more abundant future.

We are phoenixes, falcons, eagles and butterflies.

We are light and airy, yet never lacking depth.

We are carefree and sparkly, but our effervescence actually emanates from caring so deeply, from feeling the world’s pain, happiness, love, sadness and struggle wildly pulsate within our chests, day in and day out.

We are spongy emotional barometers, picking up on another’s mood immediately, sensing anxiety, anger, grief, frustration and jealousy. Feeling it so damn intensely that we sometimes suffocate.

We crave alone time, solo adventures, secret places and quiet spaces because the world can seem so scary and overwhelming that we wonder if it could, in fact, swallow us entirely in one single gulp.

We love wholly, compassionately and completely—but never possessively.

We have to fly away sometimes, darting out in the velvety black of night because we know that by setting ourselves free, we can set others free too.

We deeply respect our femininity, listening closely to the whispering wisdom of our intuition, the mystical murmurs of our ancestors and the primal pulse of nature.

We feel most alive outside, wings fully spanned, feeling the firm ground beneath our feet, welcoming the fiercest winds to whirl through our wispy hair.

We are fierce warriors, forces to be reckoned with—precisely because we are so sensitive.

My gentle and free-spirited sisters, I hear your feathery roar.

Let us spread our wings and soar.

Let us fly long and fast and hard.

Let us fly unapologetically.

Into the incredible lives we are meant to live.

Let us vow now.

To never turn our backs on the wise contents.

Of our fabulously free-spirited.

And fantastically sensitive souls.

– Author: Sarah Harvey

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I Did It!

After years of deliberation, self-doubt; hesitation and being a coward; I finally did it. I published my first E-book! No more hiding, no more excuses. It is out there now. There is nothing I can do about it. I would appreciate so much if you check it out and maybe purchase it? Thank you in advance.

Here is the link: The House Across The Street 

There is also an image widget on the top right-hand side of my blog page. You can simply click it and it will take you there.

Synopsis:

What if everything you believe in turns out to be nothing but lies? What if everything you hold dear is nothing but a figment of your own imagination? What if the love that you thought was for keeps doesn’t exist at all? What if you don’t know anymore who you can trust including your own self? What if you begin doubting everyone, everything, even your own sanity? What if your almost perfect world suddenly crumbles around you and there is no one you can turn to?

When R.M. came home one day from school and found out that the house across the street wasn’t anymore for sale he thought: Finally, a new neighbor. He never suspected that the seemingly simple and ordinary occurrence would start a series of events that will change the core of his existence and will have a great impact on his future. For R. M. life was about to change that day and not for the better…

See you there!

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