Perfect StrangersWe met in the bathroom or so I thought.Perfect Strangers4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The moment I saw him in the girls' bathroom, I could tell he had guilt imprinted in every pore of his beautifully textured face.
However, he had not expected me to walk past him without asking why he was there. Instead, I went along doing what I first went to the bathroom to do.
After giving my bladder a break coming out of the stall, he was gone.
I strolled comfortably to the sink. I was about to open the faucet when a faint chemical smell shot up my nostrils.
When I woke up, I was wearing nothing but my baby blue bra and matching panties. My appendages were tied together; hands around my back, legs pulled straight I was unable to feel anything but pain from the rough ropes that kept me stiff. I fainted again.
- - - - -
"Wake up, please, wake up already! There's no time!"
My ears stung as something pulled gently on my hair. I felt like barfing so I opened my eyes.
A familiar face leaned into my sight. Slowly, I lifted my head for a
A Year Later12 months later,A Year Later4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Will I forget
That there was once
A person I adored?
52 weeks later,
Will I remember
What it was like
To be held in your arms?
365 days later,
Will your warmth
Still accompany me
Like those cold nights we've had together?
8,765 hours later,
Will you still
Hold my hands
Until they're the same temperature?
31,556,926 seconds later,
Will there still be "us"?
A year later,
Will I remember
I had once fallen in love?
Will I still be able
To see our shadows
Collapse with each other?
Will I remain faithful,
And love you even after 31,556,926 seconds?
Whether it's 8,765 hours,
Or 365 days, 52 weeks,
Or even just 12 months later --
A year later,
Will it matter to you?
-- Will I matter to you anymore?
Cold HandsHe was holding my hand.Cold Hands5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I could still remember the first time he had done so. That time, I could tell by his trembling fingers that he was nervous. I could tell by his cold, clammy hands -- that he was afraid, and perhaps cautious.
But not anymore.
I could not tell anymore.
As he was holding on to my hand, this minute, this second, I could no longer sense what he was feeling. His hands no longer shook, and was no longer wrapped in a welcoming layer of warm sweat. Or rather, this was not even holding hands at all, unless placing his palm against mine counts.
"Okay, what?" I gave in with a teary voice.
He and I both knew for some reason, that he wanted me to remember this moment as he slipped his fingers between mine, and squeezed my palm. The faint squeeze he gave felt like a heavy stab to my chest. He embraced me, and held me there, fingers still entwined.
It was dark and misty out in the neighborhood as it was night. The streets were quiet and lonesome -- not even the sound of leaves
Teach Me How To Love"It's Christmas today. Can I hear your answer?" I read on Google Talk the moment I opened my Gmail.Teach Me How To Love4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"What about Christmas?" I typed back immediately, slightly agitated. Why can't he let go?
"Most lovers get their answers on Christmas "
I leaned back on my chair and sighed. "I gave you my answer a long time ago."
"Not even a little bit of that feeling remains?"
"No." And there never was that feeling. By then I was annoyed for the fact that I had given him my answer two months ago before he turned into a jerk.
"Fine! Fine, then."
That was the last I heard from him.
Two months ago, he had said he loved me. He had always been cute and I liked him as a friend.
After his confession, I still hung around him. He had always been a close guy-friend. That was my first mistake. I had given him false hope.
"Can I hug you?" he asked me one day.
One thing that hadn't changed about him was that he's straightforward, and probably the most I've met even until now.
Inside My Head.Black.Inside My Head.5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Yes, it's definitely pitch black.
I'm pretty sure most of the time it is.
But then again, there are times when it's not.
Sometimes a spotlight drops and I see... a desk.
Normally the desk is messy. I remember it had glue, uhm, ah, yes, and gum everywhere. What else... there were paper clips stuck on to the desk by the lurid pinkish rotten gum. Oh, and we must not forget all those pretty pens and pencils suffocating in the sea of transparent glue. Oh right! There were CD's, and an earphone as well. Hmm... Oh yea, the desk was wooden -- which made it look even messier. Ah, wait. I remember, there was liquid, shooting out in every direction. They looked oily, in a way, and, I'm pretty sure, they're not transparent -- not water -- lemonade or vegetable juice, maybe, or was it both?
When the light flashed over the dark room with nothing but a dirty desk, it hit me -- the desk, disgusting and messy, must resembled my frustrated, yet endless train of thoughts.
Each time ther