Anonymous asked: Can you write a story about a depressed teenage girl? Just write whatever you feel like writing. Merci
I will try! Thanks for recommending!
silenttalk asked: have read, chicken soup for mother soul . if you dont. read it its good though
I have, ages ago! I know it’s very fascinating!
Anonymous asked: what is your weight and height?
I am not so sure anymore. Haven’t measured both weight and height for over a year or so. But last time i checked, my weight was 48 kg and my height was 162cm. Shorrtyy
“Will you marry me?”
He asked, with a chivalrous gesture and so full of charm, genuflected on his right knee on the polished wooden floor in an expensive suit, and a perfectly well-crafted diamond ring dangled in between his thumb and forefinger—as huge as my thumb that must have had cost him a fortune. Everyone at the high-end restaurant was starring at us from afar with an equal proposition of joy and curiosity – curious if the girl would say yes, if I would say yes. There is no doubt, everything had all seemed brilliantly perfect – but why do I sense as though something was completely missing?
This wasn’t my first proposal. The previous one encompasses nothing similar to the latter – yes, he genuflected on his right knee and yes he was in a suit, which he had to borrow from his dearest friend that was a bit too large for his size. He had a ring clasped with a tiny white diamond on it, a ring his father had given his mother that symbolized fifty-eight years of wonderful and admirable marriage. His father died ten years ago when his antiquated motorcycle had ended up somewhere underneath a moving trailer on their 58th anniversary. I was there, witnessing the poor old lady weeping and mourning in her marital bed for weeks, and there were moments when she would wake up in the morning and call out for her husband’s name and Rick had to break the horrid news again. “Father is gone, mom,” he would say.
We were on the grand pier where we first met, overlooking the ocean during the exquisite sunset. The sunset that I oddly could still paint explicitly at the back of my mind – the sun, like an enormous grandeur orange fireball floating in the horizon was partially mantled by the clouds, with reds and hints of purples and blues scattered all over them like a magnificent painting. Even with my eyes closed, it was all I could see. There were truly no words left for me to explicate the beauty, for, even if I try, I afraid, I might unintentionally understate the wondrous of the truth. “I promise you I’d shower you with eternal love and rapture. I promise you a great deal of happiness, forever.” Rick said, with his lips curved a bit to the right, just the way I like. “ Say yes, if you would want to wake up to this face every morning, say yes, if you would want to face life with me, my arms to comfort you and my heart to love you. So, what is it going to be?” Of course, I’d be damned if I didn’t say yes, in fact, I didn’t have to take a second to think, the word blurted out reflexively – like a knee-jerk reaction.
I’d live eternally in that moment. I could sense the stars and the moon that night, burning with envy as we strolled along the streak of the deep ocean, side by side, hand in hand, without knowing what the future holds. He was all I ever wanted. He was the missing piece to the biggest hole in my heart that fits perfectly; he was my glass shoe of this thing called fairytale. A week before our wedding day, a drunken soul had ripped my heart by taking my sweet Rick’s life away and all I have of him, was this ring on my finger, the glimpse of the sunset and the bloody image of his body in a casket.
“Yes, James. I’d marry you.” A round of applause trembled the space, and even with all of these perfections, it’s the imperfections I surreptitiously, incredibly, yearn for.
Anonymous asked: Hey just stoping by to tell you how wonderful your writing is! And you somehow made me feel like picking up writing again -lots of love by your anon who was born somewhere here in Malaysia :D
thank you kind stranger. I am truly flattered.
*Note this is fiction*
I have always been so fond of the rain – the way thousands of minuscule droplets fall from the sky and onto our antiquated tin roof with a steady beat; the way the gusty wind blows like an out-of-tune flute, and the way the trees, feeling their full weight on their feet, gently waving its arms proudly in the air to keep the ensemble in sync throughout the grand concerto. Sitting on my windowpane, with my breath fogging up the glass, and ‘dance with my father again’ buoying up in the air, I noticed my father’s truck gradually pulling up to the front of our driveway. See, I wasn’t entirely sure if the composition of such scene had all seemed realistic and so I found myself starring in maddening incredulity before rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands and rushing down the stairs and to the porch, with enthusiasm burning like fresh scented candles.
My father was standing in the midst of the torrential rain, starring into the deep space. When I called out for his name, he looked at me half-heartedly, and smiled – that comforting, benign smile that he often wears when I had just wounded my knee, or when I had awful grades. The same smile that he had worn that encompasses mainly sufferings that he often opts to conceal – especially when we had to part ways (I had to go abroad for my studies). I remember the night clearly, as he looked away, with tears in his eyes and I pretended I did not see. My father doesn’t usually cry. He is a taciturn man, and throughout my 21 years of living, I have come to get used to understanding his simple gestures without hearing him speak. I have developed such extensive knowledge about my father’s own expressionism through his light grey eyes.
When I ran into his arms, I impetuously buried my head into his chest, feeling like a little child who had just woken up from an atrocious nightmare. In my dream, I had lost a father, a best friend, a huge chunk of my heart.
“Where have you been, papa?”
“Around, girl.” He said, and even though I wasn’t looking, I knew he was smiling, “I have always been around.”
I had no intention to speak, for I wanted to dwell into such moment for as long as I could. I wanted to squander my every second with him instead of squandering it for other people, I wanted to take him out for dinner and hear him speak, I wanted to laugh at his jokes even though they weren’t that comical, after all. I wanted to listen to his laughter as he joyfully made fun of my mother and I. I wanted to tell him I love him, every single day of my life. I wanted to feel the warmth consolatory kiss he would give me on my forehead. I wanted him to call me on my cell phone when I am out with my friends — just to tell me to come home because I wanted to feel cared again. I wanted to spoil him like how he had spoiled me, with infinite love and sincerity. And, most of all, I want to be able to remember his smile and the warmth of his arms every night before I fall asleep.
“I love you papa.”
I said, without opening my eyes, because, how often do you hear a story where one gets to spend her time with their dead loved one again?
Anonymous asked: Hai Sara.. Just a random and this is not a question at all.. Keep writing a good short storiy because i'm reading them all.. Have fun in Australia..
Thank you so much. Means a lot :)