Prompt: Abandon

Word count: 224

–

She feared it more than anything.

She was frightened of receiving it. All her safe and sound and sensible lonely life, she built these walls to keep her safe. A few brave souls dared to rattle the cage (after all, she did call to them and let them) but none have breached her boundaries. She wanted her safety. The resulting loneliness? Not so much.

The truth was, what she feared more than anything, what kept her up on sleepless nights of fervent prayer and vigil, was the possibility that it would come from her. Really, such recklessness, such freedom granted by some outside power is disconcerting at best – she knew how to tame it well – but for such abandon to come from her would be devastating.

She knew it would claw her from inside, carve grooves and channels beneath her skin until her soul and body become such a poor fit. Then she would search a new body to inhabit, perhaps a new face or a different name, even if the heart remained the same. And she would be forever torn, the snail unable to let go of its old shell yet dying, desperate to move in its knew home.

And the most frightening part, she decided, was that while she was ruminating all this in her head, it has already begun.

–

Let me know what you think about this foray into new territory.

Author’s Note 1

Finally, a tangible result of my writing resolutions this year! After years of battling with fickle writing muses and misplaced bursts of inspiration, it is time for desperate measures. Namely, the use of writing prompts to make me write. ) 

Also, I swore that I’d try something somewhat outside my comfort zone. So from today, the posts labeled with “Prompt” are a part of loosely-connected drabbles-shortstories-conversations-poems-whatnot about the pangs and joys of falling (and tripping) into love. 

I haven’t named the characters though. Still not ready for that big step. )

Koi no Yokan

And I’m back! Whew, was 2012 the wildest year yet or what? I got my college diploma, passed the board exams, and I’m teaching now in the very same university. I admit, I haven’t had much time to do some blog-hopping and spamming but I’d I’m announcing that 2013 is my blogging year! I’ll try to roll out posts once a week (time to unearth all those little snippets wasting away in the back pages of my notebooks!) and I’ll definitely revisit all those dear bloggers who have been of much support in the past.

Taking story prompts from the weirdest places on the internet. Cheers, we foolish romanticists.

Koi no Yokan (Japanese):

The sense one can have upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love. Differs from “love at first sight” as it does not imply that the feeling of love exists, only the knowledge that a future love is inevitable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He knew the end before it even began.

He searches for the right answers to questions that have not yet been asked. Is it in her hair, her eyes, the gentle slope of her shoulder, the valley of her neck, or her secret smiles that told him of a story in a language he has not yet learned but eventually will? Really, there is nothing special about her that should even warrant his attention. He knows this and sees this and feels this and still, he cannot escape the horizon.

He attempts to decipher the mysteries between the spaces of her fingers, the secret language in the way she tucks her hair behind her ear and kneads others’ hands when she is idle – but he does not find any resolution there. How can she own a part of his future when he himself can scarcely even see it?

He finds no answers. What he has is the knowledge of before and of before that and of after everything and of the present which he takes out and turns over and over and under in his hands until they’re red raw and bleeding dry. All he has is memory.

There was the jolt, the jump, and then there was the quiet resolution, the settling of a heavy weight beneath his breast which he carries willingly – it reminds him of the presence of something he has waited for all of his life. He bears not a white flag that speaks of his defeat but more of a relief that he has found her. Or that she found him. It is a quiet sort of happiness, the kind that he finds in a baby’s laugh, in ice cream and summer nights, in cold mornings with blankets and hot chocolate and in her eyes, in the breaths she take, in her life and her and everything-

There are no fireworks, no fanfare. There is no uncontrolled hurtling into space and cataclysmic collision. Rather, it was a falling into step into an orbit that he knew of even before his time on earth. There is the inevitability, a tugging on his heartstrings that would have brought him to his knees once upon another time, when he was a different man with a different face and a different heart. Now, it keeps him afloat in sleepless, pitiless nights, when all he has is memory to keep his sanity in check.

She asks him about the new knowledge brimming behind his changed eyes and for the barest of moments he considers letting her in on the secret. But he keeps the moment to himself, waiting for the time when the irony will catch up with him and sweep him off his feet. He hopes to fall in with her when it happens.

He wonders when was the exact moment he knew he would eventually come to love her.

Frühlingshaft, Herbstlich

The autumn melancholia. Bow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was sixteen, I fell madly in love. I didn’t know his face, the voice, or the name but I was sure that he was the One, that elusive existence that was often glorified in all types of prose and speech. The first time we meet will be cataclysmic, a collision of worlds and an inevitable fall into each other like how love is always portrayed in those Harlequin novels my mother keeps in her dresser drawer. He would tower over me even when I’m in my 3-inch heels. He would bring me an iris or a sunflower – never the gaudy bouquets I strangely detest – without me telling him that they’re my favorite ones. I’d be necessary to him like how I desperately need him. We’d be two halves of a whole, nary a crooked line or a stray thread in the scarlet strings of fate. We’d fight sometimes, I’d run in the rain to the direction of away, and he’ll chase me to the end of ends, and everything will be perfect again. His bass voice will sneak in the cracks in my walls – charge through the defenses and keep me at his mercy. He’d smell like mine, a scent that will tangle in my heartstrings and tug at all the light and darkness playing in between the cracks of my existence. His touch would be the electric feel. I waited on tenterhooks for the One to sweep me off my feet and take me away on his white steed to happy ever after. It took me awhile to realize that he would only be a memory that will never exist.

When I was twenty, I fell quietly in love. He wasn’t outrageously handsome to attract throngs of would-be lovers nor hideously unattractive like the plague. He was of quiet strength – I could walk beside him without fear of being smothered. He waged no battle with my thoughts; instead, he stayed at the periphery of my consciousness. We talked of the usual mundane topics, his voice a tenor that softly caressed all the little needy voices in my head – the roaring inside my mind was quiet for a while. The first meeting was forgettable, the second with a little more conversation, and the next few ones not different from the usual getting-to-know stage of friendship. The first time he held my hand, it was to keep me from stumbling over my footsteps. I was never a klutz nor gentle nor anything a shy maiden is supposed to embody but I was everything that and more around him. It was an easy relationship, none of that psychosadistic drama of some immaculate man and all his shades of gray which looked suspiciously black to me. I went on with life without resting on his every touch, every word, every instance of connection that would inevitably bring us closer. He was flesh and blood – if I dug my fingernails deep enough to reach his secret places, he’d bleed. He was as fact as the Mondays that come after Sundays and as real as the thumping rhythm of a heart that would soon find what it has lost.

It was one of those beautiful moments when you have a thousand and one reasons to like reality more than any fantasy.

Avaritia

5th of the 7 Deadly Sins series. I’ve written quite a lot before this but I wanted to finish the series before posting anything else. OCD does not approve of like-themed entries so far apart from each other. Haha

Avaritia, Avarice (noun) A state of restlessness of the heart, and it consists mainly of craving for power and possessions. Possessions and power are sought for the fulfillment of desires. (from our favorite Wikipedia)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She walks like the hurricane and he runs to where she is – but she goes into places he cannot follow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He feels it, like an ugly fingernail scritch-scratching at his insides, as if to carve himself inside out. He does what he can to keep the itch at bay but it is not enough. He thinks nothing will ever be enough.

He buys ice cream from his favorite stand and sits on his favorite chair in his favorite spot in the most unfavourable place in the world where his childhood memory and adult existence collide. He asks for double syrup and double sprinkle toppings on his creation – no, add a little more, just a little more, thank you – and winces when he bites and the cloying sweetness hits him right in the head.

He is at the pool with friends and he soaks up the sun for one, two, three hours. His friends tell him get out of there, man, you’re gonna be burnt to a crisp. Don’t ask me to put aloe vera on you later when you’re red and raw and hurting. He ignores them, like he does most of his spare time, and basks in the light until late afternoon, when the yellow has turned crimson and hurts his eyes because they look too much like his blood. He finds that his skin has taken on the same hue and flinches when she taps his face in mild chastisement.

His fingers cradle a cigarette lovingly. A few puffs and he feels the calm settle in his bones and for once, he does not have that nagging urge to cut her open and search all her crevices for the parts of him that she kept for herself. She tells him to quit, that his lungs will turn black and ooze pus when he is old and grey; she does not know that she is too late and it was his heart that was afflicted in the end.

He ruminates on how too much of his favorites has caused him so much aching.

He stands at the edge of the world, his feet searching for a place that could and could not exist. Maybe, if he learns how to fly, he can finally get every single hope he sent into the sky and keep them afloat for as long as he lived. Maybe he could reach God and tell Him all his woes, make Him heal all his wounds and mends. Maybe, if only he could, there might be-

The price of too much wanting is his heartbreak.

At the chasm between the final moment and the end, he wonders if he will ever find all of his lost loves. His feet shifts – hesitates – his eyes take the long, sweeping look of the horizon, and in the filtering light of the dawn, he-

Interlude: The Boy and the Sunflower

Hey, everyone! Yeah, I know, another interlude. When am I ever going to finish the 7 Deadly Sins? Unfortunately, it might take a while. I’m still groping in the dark for inspiration and lookie here, I found one during the strangest of moments. Anyway, I’m on autopilot as always so be kind!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a sense of restlessness hanging in the air, a tension that ebbs and flows with the passage of time. It waxes, wanes, strikes at moments of vulnerability then backs off, as if warded by the thoughts wandering aimlessly in your veins. It stays at the periphery of your consciousness where it is usually stalled by mundane routine yet at the back of your mind, you know it for what it is.

You are waiting.

Once, you wondered what exactly it was that you were waiting for. You were largely driven then by instinct and your now-defunct childhood faith and so you were faithful to the call, passing time by counting shooting stars, pulling petals and crushing them underfoot, all while wishing for a love that the child scarcely understood.

You are older now and everything is the same and different all at once. You no longer have time to blow on dried dead dandelions and send your wishes to heaven where you fancy they can be heard. You have too much to do, too many too think about, too little time, and so you put parts of your life on hold. You could have tried to actively look instead of waiting on the bench for the train to arrive. But there were a thousand miles to traverse, a thousand obstacles to overcome and really, in one lifetime, a thousand was far too great a number. You pretend not to care. Still, you know in your heart of hearts that you are waiting. The difference is that this time, you are waiting for him.

He is the thought that occupies your conscious and subconscious – strange when it is possible that you have not even met him yet. His place lies beneath the ache in your breast, among the hollows you amassed and tried in vain to fill over the years. You feel his absence – all the weight and weightlessness- so acutely at times that it feels that he is actually there. The day that the one who will make your heart tremble arrives is the day you will lose yourself and for once, it will be alright.

He is the boy who will one day own parts of you that can never take back no matter how many times you cut him open and search all his veins and pillage the chambers of his heart. You are not the only one with a secret garden – and his is full of the flowers you have always loved. Even with that in mind, he still manages to draw you close and make you fall for him- hard. And you wouldn’t mind.

He is the sunflower that follows the sun with the devotion that you wish you could have and give one day, never minding the air, aerospace, and the other elements that come in the in-between. In fact, the distance wouldn’t matter at all. It’s you and him and suddenly the space is non-existent because he gives you everything you never thought you’d need in the time your eyes meet his in that crowded hustle towards the door.

It doesn’t matter if he laughs funny, if he snores in the middle of the climax of your favorite chick flick, or if he’s got that pre-shave stubble that leaves annoying marks on your cheeks when he holds you. In fact, you’ll love him for those and for the other thousand and one beautiful things that endear him to you. Not because he’s the love of your life because you’re sure to have other loves down the road as well as the others you have now, but because he’ll be the love that will always matter all the days of your life.

And when he comes, sunny, happy sunflower in hand, you’ll know you’re home.

Tonight, as you keep to the routine in order to maintain some semblance of normality and no matter how long- how many lifetimes of moments it takes- you know that you will wait for him.

Interlude: An Issue of Numbers

Hey guys! I’m back, finally! Board examinations review held me up for the better part of the time after graduation but I can honestly say that I’m back. I’m just exploring my writing capabilities at the moment so the next few posts will probably be a mess. Haha.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He thought it started twenty-one minutes and three seconds past twelve in the morning. In the space between two softly-drawn breaths, he felt a shift in the four chambers of his heart, as if someone had forced their way in and rattled his walls and settled in his hollows.

It took a quarter of a night, three pillows, two hours of crappy television shows, and one blanket to change their world – and the sun rose over new people that day. Time was relative now and though he knew he could measure it all in numbers, he found that some moments were greater than others even when they lasted only a fraction of minute or a lifetime.

It lasted all of twenty-two days before they let the world become the scriptwriter for their story which never really boded well for anyone.

He wanted to take back all his words, all the inflicted wounds and mends, but really, it was eleven eleven and he was a millisecond too late. And he knew he would keep it in his mind forever-knowing that he does not know when forever will end – all thirty-one thousand and six-hundred minutes half-lived and four hundred thousand moments that went by in the flash of regret that lasted for one-tenths of the time it takes to say ‘I love you’.

Thirty thousand and six hundred seconds and fifty-two heartbeats later, four eyes suffer in silence.

Two hearts break.

One story ends.