Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Little Stories I Don’t Think About

I’ve always thought of free-writing as brandishing the scimitar of our subconscious. I love doing it because it brings out some hidden stories I can’t coax out readily. I tend to analyze and think and analyze some more even after a Eureka bulb of a story popped from my head. 

The following are some of the drabbles I’ve come up with without actually thinking about them. They are previous prompts presented at OneWord, the home of awesome prosemeisters. :p

They resumed the dance of blades under the ersatz guidance of the fluorescents, their hearts leaping at the alternating singsong of their foils and the ragged music of their breaths. Fencing is their favorite pas de deux, because in it, he is hers, and she is his–the world doesn’t own them for a few violent minutes. The coldness of their swords’ handles usually seep into their skins, but it goes unnoticed, overlapped by their desires to cleave each other’s shells of apathy. Their masks. Their perpetual facades. By the end of every duel, they leave each other soul-naked.

The way she stood at the ledge of the terrace, with a tiara of leaves seated on her hair, clutching a book in one hand and raising the other, reminded him of the Statue of Liberty. He admired the sight: the ropes of golden sunbeams snaked into her dark disheveled locks, and her eyes were laughing silently at the blue vastness of the firmament. Suddenly, she wasn’t a statue anymore. She was a goddess, and the epiphany made his heart skip a beat.

She is so unlike those stick-thin and posts-tall women that were molded especially for the spotlit catwalks: she is plain, hair is a jungle of ink-black hair, there is a tinge of sadness in her smile that never goes away, and there are little scars that people can and cannot see. But don’t let appearances deceive you: she is a struggling model in her own way. The world is her own runway, the heart on her sleeve is her best outfit, her confident strides across the rocky roads of her decisions are her own lovely struts. There may be no camera flashes or whirlwinds of confetti around her, but the only approval she wants come from herself, and from Him.

It was supposed to be cold inside the trembling, four-walled container. But it wasn’t. A few wisps of his bangs fluttered into the air when he blew at them, when he was trying to think of a way to banish the awkwardness. He stole another glance from the other occupant. Shiny hair, like a raven’s unfurled wing. An upturned nose. Curling eyelashes. How can she be so beautiful? His lips formed the word “hi” when suddenly, the button for the 8th floor blinked. He held in a sigh and walked out the lift. He turned around one last time. His heart almost stopped when she gave him a lipsticked smile before the metal doors slid to shield her from his desperate adoration.

The dots on the pavement—angry-red and night-black—connected with each other as they trace the sweet highway toward a pillow of bread and crystal sugar. In a gigantic, dangerous dome where we live in, noticing the intricacies of small life can sometimes open a new window that will remind us that Tiny Things make the world seem livelier.


  1. I think these are amazing. I should try freewriting sometime, maybe my subconscious is smarter/more creative than my conscious mind! LOL

    1. Thank you! Yes, you should, it's fun! :)

    2. I'm actually thinking now of making my own oneword account. This does sound fun!

    3. PLEASE DO! And tell me if you have one already, I'd be happy to add you. :)