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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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microstory

Psalm 143:6

I dream in fast forward
Of that which never was
My pale, moon-drenched skin
Shiver ‘neath the grieving stars

I wait in quiet desperation
Feeling nothing of the real world
Seeing only that which
I have not yet held

Between midnight breaths — a poem
Reviving my half dead hope
I spread out my hands to you;
I thirst for you like a parched land
.

this time, i found my breath.

It took me sleepless nights and a slit wrist to unlove you. My eyes, once insignias of misery, now glow beneath the cloudless sky. I no longer freeze on a Bublé song. No longer break on the streets where you used to hold my hands. The forget-me-nots have died under my pillow. And on moonlit nights, I dance.

It took me sleepless nights and a slit wrist to love myself.

Now, I wear a tint of blood on my lips
To remind you of what you left
And will never ever get.




The Witch on the Foothills

I wake up to one of those lazy mornings. The leaves have changed and a thick fall foliage probably awaits me outside. People fear me. Footsteps quicken whenever they pass by my house in this part of the jungle.

Yet, a child’s innocence is magical. Most often, they are valiant warriors throwing pebbles at my window, playfully screaming, “THE WITCH ON THE FOOTHILL IS REAL! RUUUUUN!”

Once, two kids braved knocking on my doorstep. A big brother and a little sister. The spunky little girl came up in her yellow dress, demanding, “Are you a witch?”

“Am I?” I asked.

She looked at me with ambigous eyes, calculating and curious. “Our teacher told us the story of the witch on the foothills. She lives with spiders and bats and pumpkins with glowing eyes,” the girl said, comfortably taking a chair, uninvited. “But you live with cats, butterflies and plants that wear crowns.”

“They’re cactus,” I told her.

“Just as I thought,” she dismissed. “You should come out sometimes and see the ocean. Except when there’s a hurricane. Hurricanes are the worst. Jake and I can’t play when there’s one. And it howls like a monster at night.”

I smiled, amused with this small creature that talks endlessly in front of me. Her brother left a while ago to call their parents.

What hasty little children…


This one is my entry for our company’s mini writing challenge. We were asked to pick cards with corresponding words and use these as elements to create a story.

4 CHARACTERS: Parents, Teacher, Children (2)
2 ANIMALS: Cat, Butterfly
3 PLANTS: Cactus (3)
2 LOCATIONS: Jungle, Ocean
2 TIME: Morning, Night
1 SEASON: Fall
3 EVENTS: Hurricane (3)
1 ENDING: Ambigous

It was unclear if they wanted to use the last word literally or end the story as such, so I choose to do both.

Hah! It’s been a while since I have written a short story huh.

Chances Are

Chances are the water’s shallow
Chances are the water’s deep
Youth outgrown yet still a callow
Cowed to silence, afraid to leap
Her heart’s atwitter — a jumbled prose
Wind blows, her mind’s split
Stuck between dabbling her toes
Or simply plunging right into it

Photo via Unsplash


Sharing this very first poem I wrote for this year. It’s a small piece that carries my worries about life and writing. I took long break from both — spent almost half of 2020 floating, waking up to aimless days, switching between concern and indifference about the world. For a while, “seize the day” felt so distant when you have very little to seize. Thankfully, time and time again, I am reminded by something or someone to focus on the little things that truly matter.

Here’s to better days! 😊💛

Click

She asked me to take her photo by the window. The moon hung above her head as I looked through the lens. She tucked a cigarette stick on her mouth; inhaled. Exhaled and laughed at me through the smoke.

We met in a bar two hours ago. A little drunk, she was singing to the tune of “Whiskey in the Jar.” Whack fol the diddle. Oh whack fol the diddle. oh there’s whiskey in the jar. In a crowd of dancing homos, there she was. Singing an old Irish folk song.

“You!” She notices me staring. “Are you in love with me yet? One glass of whiskey for the man in black,” she shouted. On our third glass, she pulled me out of the bar, pointed at an abandoned house across the street. “Meet me there in 5.”

So here I am. With a Lumix G9 in hand. Where she got it from, I did not ask. In fact, I never said a word since. Raising a cigarette, she looked at me from the glowing tip.

Click.
I don’t really smoke.

Click.
I don’t drink.

Click.
I haven’t fa— I was in love.

Click.
Remember this night.

We slept under the faint September moon in silence. There was no need for romance or sex in this kind of intimacy. The dawn breaks and I found myself alone. Something else breaks. Deep inside.

Damn. I didn’t even ask her name.


While going through my drafts, I saw this short story which was dated October 16, 2018. It is again like my previous post Vignette: The forgotten pages of whines — a forgotten piece whose muse got buried in the stacks of random musings and curiosities. I’m sharing it now to dust off the cobwebs of yesterdays.

Vignette: The forgotten pages of whines

The excitement of being lost wears off rather quickly(p.21). As bad luck would have it(p.31), the fantasy was primarily an adventure story(p.33). As I grew older(p.35), I spent half my waking moments repairing(p.50), retaining some degree of dignity(p.65) over the years(p.66). I cannot tell you how long the ensuing battle lasted(p.81) — years(p.104), a few days(p.102), an hour or so(p.114). Why is it so difficult(p.175) to perfect the art of whining(p.186)?


Weekend cleanup led me to discover this piece written on an index card. I cannot remember what particular book I was reading or when did I jot these lines down. I’m curious to know though what’s on my mind that day… What struck a chord in me? Was it the thought of losing our childishness and childish spirit? Was I missing the outdoors? What was I trying to whine? Is this piece even finished?

Photo via Unsplash

The Unfinished Act

wp-1589271896302.jpg

Art transforms, Billy.

He wakes up, beads of sweat trickle down his temples as Valis’ voice scurries to the back of his mind.

It has been three weeks. The freak who sees murder as a work of art has long been dead. But why does he haunt Billy still?

Drink your tea. Tie your shoes. Go to work. Billy thought his mundane routine could stop his mind’s engine from running withershins. But they don’t. He hates the man’s bloodlust but deep in the recesses of his thoughts, he is fascinated with Valis’ ingenuity. On how he staged those gruesome acts. Billy’s grief for that passion are tentacles taking grasp of his sanity.

He stared at the ceiling. Another day, another ordinary life.

The sun sets and the night rolls in. At midnight, his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream — the performance must be done.


Written Neekneraj’s Wordle and dVerse’s Prosery hosted by Bjorn who asks us to write a piece of prose of exactly 144 words inspired by a line from Maya Angelou’s poem, Caged Bird.

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

Today, I finished reading Dean Koontz’s novel, Velocity. This is my twist to the ending of the story.

Head over here to join the prompt!

dverse

Rose Among the Ghosts

restaurant

He stared through the dissipating smoke, fascinated how this woman evolved from a wilted rose to a flower in full bloom. She loves silence now —

though there’s never a quiet time when you’re with ghosts.

“What?” Ariella asks.

“What?” He echoes, smiling.

“That look,” she rolled her eyes. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Why? You asked for peace and we left you for three days,” he shrugs, teasing her with a poker face. “Admit it. You missed us.”

Ariella’s eyes widen but her mouth curved to a smile. “Pretend you don’t see me, Gustav.”

“You’re the one who’s pretending, my rose.”

Word Count: 100


Written for Friday Fictioneers, 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 this week is a courtesy of Dale Rogerson.

Last week’s prompt, I was inspired by Ali and wrote a prequel to his story. This time, I’ve decided to continue being a literary parasite (if the word exist) and take inspiration from another writer. This one is inspired by J.A. Prentice’s flash fiction titled An End to Solitude. I’m normally a scardey cat when it comes to ghosts and not-like-ours but I love how he twisted his story and gave it a lighter angle. 🙂

Head over here to join the prompt!

Beginnings

“Was I?”

I look at him hoping to see mischief in those Houdini eyes. Perhaps ten years have blurred my memory. It wasn’t I who followed a stranger to that bookstore along Rue de la Bûcherie. What was it called? Ah, Shakespeare and Company.

I did not go out of my way pretending to eye those weather-beaten shelves, fingering book spines, thinking of a way to start a conversation.

“James Joyce lies buried in the cellar” was your desperate did-you-know. I can’t believe how I fell for that—

How I fell for you.

Paris is indeed full of exotic swindlers.

Word Count: 100


Written for Friday Fictioneers, 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 this week is a courtesy of C.E. Ayr.

It has been a while since I’ve written for Friday Fictioneers and I am happy to be back this week. This one is inspired by Ali’s micro story titled Endings. As I have said (am I’m sure I’m not the only one), it’s rare to see him write about love and heartbreak. My hopeless romantic muse got thrilled and so here’s a prequel to his tale.. 😉

Head over here to join the prompt!

 

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