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Doodles and Scribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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Flash Fiction

42 Wallaby Way, Sydney

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It was Sunday afternoon when Kyle gave in to his daughter’s insistent demand. Kristel, his fair-skinned, auburn-haired, ball of cuteness eight years old, had been babbling about a place ever since she watched Finding Nemo.

“P Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney! P Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney! P Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney!” she chanted from the backseat.

“Yes, sweetheart. Almost there.” Kyle smiled through the rear-view mirror.

“Just keep swimming, Daddy!” Her round eyes widened in excitement, her little teeth as white as pearl in full show. She’s a splitting image of his wife, Lyla. If only you were here, my love, he thought.

Minutes later, they pulled up near the harbor. Seagulls hovered in the sky, gliding with the sea breeze. Kyle looked around and found the dentist’s office. “Come on, sweetheart. There’s Mr. Sherman.”

Kristel dashed to the glass door, slid it open without a word. Inside was a stunned Latino who gave her a quick smile. “Hello there little angel! Can I help you?”

“Is Nemo here, Mr. Sherman?” she asked, moving towards the aquarium.

“Oh, the clownfish? I’m afraid he must have escaped through the drainage, angel.”

Instead of frowning Kristel grinned, “YAY! Nemo’s free!”

Word Count: 200


Written for Sunday Photo Fiction’s prompt.

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Alastair Forbes where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using around 200 words. The piece doesn’t have to center around exactly what the photo is, it can be just used as a basis for a story. Thank you, Al!

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Heritage

jhardy

I am Guillermo Fransisco, commanding general of the Philippine Army’s 21st division, a patriot, a family man and a drifter soul— in layman’s term, a ghost.

For seventy-four years, I’ve guarded the forts of Corregidor, watched how the remnants of our battle slowly faded through time. This place, which once served as the battleground for freedom, is now considered a heritage site. Heritage. A term for the riches of the past passed from one generation to the other. I’ve heard all the stories from the tour guides but theirs were mere versions. Nobody lived to tell how the Fall of Bataan felt like.

Or if they lived, nobody dared to remember.


In response to this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. Friday Fictioneers is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields where a photo is used as a prompt for a hundred-word piece of fiction. The photo prompt is a courtesy of J Hardy Carroll. Thank you!

I have always had an affinity to old places and heritage sites. When I saw the photo prompt, it took me instantly to the battles of Bataan and Corregidor. This story is inspired by one of the Philippines’ unforgettable event, The Fall of Bataan. Seventy-four years ago, on April 9, 1942, eighty thousand Filipino and American prisoners of war were forced to walk their Death March.

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Almost There

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The rising sun hung above her head and casted a shadow over the verdant greens.

“Hello, shadow, my old friend.” Bree mused, snapping a photo of her dark reflection on the ground.

It has been nine months since she started a healthy-living life. Bree dropped the junk foods, the oily and sweet treats, and even renounced cheese (the root word of her name and her most favorite thing in the world). Her journey was agonizing and almost unbearable. On some nights, in the comfort of her pillows, she condemns the world for screaming how slim is better. Since when did that define a woman’s worth, anyway?

But Bree knew better. She lived a healthy life not to join the pageantry of vanity or to impress anyone but because she owed this to herself. She worked out, running four miles on weekdays, increasing her mileage each week, not to be better than anybody else but to be a better version of herself.

As she stared at her shadow, she couldn’t help but grin. Nine months ago, she was the size of a whale shark. Her outline was a shame. But now, she has lost over 200 pounds. “Almost there,” Bree mumbled.

 Word Count: 200


Written for Sunday Photo Fiction’s prompt.

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Alastair Forbes where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using around 200 words. The piece doesn’t have to center around exactly what the photo is, it can be just used as a basis for a story. Thank you, Al!

The Neighborhood

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© pixabay

The sun rose beautifully in the southern skies. Surprisingly, this town turned out to be a gorgeous and quite place. The sound of rustling leaves played a lovely symphony to her ears and the flickering sunlight brought warmth to her skin. With eyes closed, she breathed the cool, crisp air.

“Are you new here, child?” a voice called as she walked down the empty street.

Gigi turned to see a silver-haired grandma with an unmistakable beauty despite her age. She motioned to her, smiling, but stopped at the sight of her house.

Astounding doesn’t quite describe it.

No. Grandma’s abode was a little place of heaven on earth. Its brick wall was festooned with the splendor of autumn leaves in burgundy red and vivid tangerines. Its door painted with fresh cyan was a charming contrast to the vibrant façade, too.

“Goodness! Your house is beyond splendid, ma’am!” She exclaimed in awe.

Grandma gave a wide smile, her eyes glistened in delight. “Thank you! Credits go to my husband, dear. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Lora.”

Word Count: 175


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. Thank you PJ for another fun prompt. ❤❤❤

Enjoy more stories here:

Sunrise & Sunsets

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“Stop saying, ‘It’s just the circle of life’, because life has always been more than a mere series of events that ends at the point at which it began.”

Malcolm stared confusedly, his girlfriend’s sermon stirring chaos to his mind. “English, please?”

Dana rolled her eyes, faking frustration, and leaned her head onto his shoulder. “What I’m saying is, life may be a cycle but it does not repeat itself precisely. The sun goes up and down but each day is different.”

“Just as the waves kiss the shores but each kiss is unique.” He added.

She smiled, knowing exactly where this trick would lead. “You’re not getting a kiss if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Malcolm jerked and he’s suddenly one bended knee in front of her. “Not even chance? Not—

“No.” She interfered, enjoying his exaggerated puppy eyes.

—even when I tell you the sun rises and sets knowing how much I love you but each day I love you a little more? He continued, taking out a ring from his pocket.

“Oh no!” She gasped.

“Oh yes…” He held out the gold band engraved with her name. “Dana, will you watch all sunrise and sunset with me forever?

Word Count: 200


Written for Roger Shipp’s flash fiction challenge, Flash Fiction For the Purposeful Practitioner. Photo credit goes to Pixabay.

This week’s prompt is: “Stop saying ‘It’s just the circle of life’…” 

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Nightmares

 

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He woke up breathless, beads of sweat running down his forehead— another nightmare. The very same nightmare whenever he hears a special song, when March comes around, or when he sees a little boy.

Grudgingly, he sat down and gulped last night’s wine. Tears ran down his face and his body rocked with sobs that filled the air. He motioned to the window, sunrays piercing through the blinds of his 53rd floor apartment.

“I’M SORRY!” his scream sounded like a plea.

Twenty-five years ago, he slid open this ill-fated glass and let the four-years old, Conor, plunge to his death.

Word Count: 100 Continue reading “Nightmares”

Art of Expression

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I was once your six-year-old, messy-hair, oversized-shirt, make-believe artist back in Mrs. Grelina’s class.

“Live your dreams.” Our teacher used to say and we’d come to her class dressed as the person we would soon become. One classmate brought with her a toy stethoscope and the other wore polished suit like a business tycoon. Meanwhile, I was the quite boy acting strange and weird because that’s what I thought artists should be like—peculiar.

I remember one day, Mrs. Grelina asked me why I dreamed to be an artist. With a pencil tucked behind my ears, I told her that I wanted to impress everyone. She warmly smiled and said, “That’s a good start. But soon you will realize that art craves to express rather than impress.”

Thirty years later, I stood beside my pride during the Splash of Extraordinary Art competition. A rival artist came and gave a mocking remark. “You’ll never impress the judges with those cows, pal.”

“Maybe. But I bet they’ll never forget these for a long time.” I gladly replied.

Word Count: 175


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. Thank you S for the photo and PJ for another fun prompt. ❤❤❤

I found myself writing another story about Mrs. Grelina and her class. I hope you don’t mind. 🙂 🙂 🙂

Enjoy more stories here:

 

 

Dreams & Nostalgia

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“Twenty-three years…” Liam mumbled

“Can you believe it?” asked Lianne, rejoining her brother in nostalgia as they watched Loboc River from the windowsill. “We used to run the length of its bank until we reach the part where the muddy water and the salty ocean unite.

“Take us! Pleaseeeee!” Liam yelled, imitating a little girl’s voice. “You used to scream at floating restaurants cruising along the river. Hilarious!”

“We thought it’d take us abroad…” She murmured, her back facing the river.

“Hey, when’s your flight to Dublin?” Liam digressed.

“Thursday. You?”

“Got a conference at Ohio in three days.”

She gave a knowing smile and said, “Dreams do come true.”

“They always do.” he acquiesced.

Word Count: 115


In response to this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. Friday Fictioneers is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields where a photo is used as a prompt for a hundred-word piece of fiction. The photo prompt is a courtesy of Rochelle herself. Thank you!

This story is inspired by one of the Philippines’ tourist destinations, Loboc River. P.S. Sorry for the extra fifteen words. I tried to trim it down from 150.
Happy weekends! 🙂

Enjoy more stories here:

Guilt

We were trained to hit, not just shoot. It sounds cruel, but we’re taught to kill seamlessly in a shot without feeling the slightest guilt. Whichever side a soldier is on- America, Russia, China, or Syria- we always believed we’re on the right side. We have to. And by the time we stepped behind our enemy’s line, we’re bound to kill or be killed.

So there we were, moving stealthily along empty houses where our foes, reportedly, hide. It only took one noise before the firing started. It lasted for only thirty-three minutes but it felt like a lifetime. Dead men lay sprawled out and crooked in the mud. Victory was on our side.

Or so we thought.

Amidst the mutilated corpses, stood a howling dog; its cry was haunting. I drew nearer to find it licking a dead woman’s face. There were children in there, too.

I walked as far away from that killing ground. The dog, to my surprise, followed my scent. Filled with guilt, I kneeled to meet its eyes, “Forgive me.”

Word Count: 175


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. I’ve known from the moment I saw the photo prompt from pixabay that it would probably entail a heartbreaking story from most of us. So here I am, joining the band.

Enjoy more stories here:

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