Mid-air. I am falling, non-stop. Gravity pulling me back to the ground. I hear your voice, familiar and comforting “Take my hand, take it. Do not hesitate.”

I then smell flowers, strong and wistful. Now Im walking towards a river, blue and foamy. I see you sitting by the rock with your feet submerged, you were waving and inviting me to come and take a plunge. I knew it was freezing because you were shivering but you try to hide it. I can see through you though. I will always see. 

I wake up. I realize I’m still alone in bed, sweating. I hear my heartbeat – loud and thumping between my ribs. I can hear your name in every beat; my heart screams for you, pulsating through my veins. My heart was is restless. 


Sweet Scent

That pulsating feeling whenever you walk down and pass right through me; your cologne still dangling in the thin air. That beating becomes faster and faster, louder and menacing to the point beyond that of the contained threshold of demeanor.

I was starstruck, as what I always end up too whenever I see that sweet flashing smile from that angelic face. The world stopping, taking a dive through the waves of time.. slowly and beautifully passing.

“Hey! Still there!? Nate! Hello!” Tamia waving her hands in front of my fulfilled face.

I was immediately pulled back to sanity again, snapped to reality.. the reality of never having her. She walked gracefully in the pool of equally beautiful people, yet she managed to stand out. Not with her brunette curls, perfect curves, nor grey striking eyes, but with the spirit glowing inside her. She never knew me.. I was invisible to her – nonexistent, insignificant, and a speck of dust in her eyes.

Tamia still glaring at me, “It’s her again isn’t it? I know she’s beautiful Nate, but you’ll never have her. No one will – not in a place like this.”

“Can we just go Tam? Do not give me the usual sermon again. I’m sick of it.”

We walked out, her strong cologne still prickling my nose. Why do I always end up in this situation? Never had the courage to introduce myself, the courage to chase what I yearn for? Perhaps Tamia was right? I’ll never have her; I’ll never have what I want.

Go Your Way

I already had my daily dose of melancholic grins and the nastiest expectation which I find it too difficult to pull back again as it swiftly fell along the hills of misery and deception. I had so much of those heart-breaking revelations, the dirty assumptions you hid, and the people unworthy of trusting.. of which, inevitably, also turned you to something undesirable. Where are all the trust and care you once promised?

“What the hell Nathaniel, I borrowed your phone just for a day and a friend of yours is badgering me all day long! Who the hell is Leah?!” she shouted. The vein in my sister’s forehead was so clear even if I sat two meters away from where she was standing.

I was shocked from this sudden outburst from her. “Wait Briony, I don’t understand you.. a friend? What? Can I see my phone please?” She handed it to me.

The revelations were so clear. Everything. Bad words were uttered, shattered trusts. I can accept them all, I sure can. But my family? My mother? You say bad words to her, and I swear, forgiveness will not even matter. We have loved her so much. Oh, and the one who even read the messages first was my sister! I trembled; scared of that fact and shivered with anger.

There’s no need for an explanation you say? Fine. If that’s what you want.

I stood there, blankly staring at the last SMS my sister opened. She was intently looking at me and asked, “Now Nathan, is she familiar? She’s on your phonebook anyway. ”

I don’t know her ‘anymore’. She set me free. She said things which cannot be taken back. She must have hated me. I am nothing to her and to them. The idea bouncing around my mind. Then I boldly answered – NO, I don’t know her.

She Said, He Said

She said. You always give me that look and that bewildering personality. Beautiful smile, a charming wink, waxed hair, a mysterious laugh, a voice that sings it all, that solid muscle, the highlighted bridge, your rough hands, tears I never knew I’d see but long for more, crooked voice when you’re angry, dark brows, the promises you fulfilled, the charismatic eyes, the bracing heat, the slow heartbeat, the ideas and thoughts I never knew you had, and that pleasing effort you always provide. Maybe I’ m really in love with you.
He said. You always give me that look and that soul-lifting personality. That flashy smile, awkward hand gestures, silky hair, a laugh that’s worth a million, that pure voice, the whitest skin, how you properly chose the sweetest words, your soft small hands, that warm tears, the weeps you used to hide, deep dimples, the secrets I intently listened, how childish you become when emotionally stressed, unending thoughts you wanted me to understand, that comforting hug, sweet pulses, and that pleasing effort you always provide. Maybe I’m really in love with you.           

She wrote it down her journal as she always does every night, while he thought of it in his bed late at night unable for him to sleep.

In the early day’s afternoon, there was something out of the blue that took place. They stared eye to eye and realized things they thought they’d never understand – a tinge of kindled hope, and of the universal emotion that come to play in every man’s heart.  They were friends long before they felt that feeling.. but now they’re sure. So sure of it that they need not ask what to be done or for what that strange feeling is..

Daze: Glimmer

     Tick tock. Tick tock.

     “The sound coming from the grandfather’s clock is kinda bloodcurdling at a time like this.” He murmured to himself.

     He was sitting idly in one of those sophisticated black-leathered sofas when he stood up and made his way to the badly lit foyer and continued to make his way outside. The sun was shining brilliantly.

     Those impending grey clouds might cover the sun anytime soon. He thought as he momentarily looked up the mass of gloomy puffs of nimbus clouds that dim out the bending long grasses from the landscape overlooking where he stood.

     As fast as something may look beautiful to the eyes, as fast as it may entirely vanish in another minute.

     He squinted behind those glistening sunshine that might eventually blister his skin if he doesn’t get back inside.

     Before he could turn back, a pink spark flashed in his peripheral view. Something caught his eye. He was taken aback and felt his body freeze, motionless under the afternoon sun. Despite the hotness, he could feel the cold eerie wind enveloping him. A yellow flash sparked this time. Then green, just in front of him followed by a blue flicker just beside the green one.

     Am I dying? I’m too young for this kind of stuff. His heart beating faster and faster, adrenaline taking over him. He alarmingly remembered how his mother died at a young age; of heart attack at the least time expected. Now he’s worrying he may possibly be the one after that.

     The next thing he’d do is to look around, the urge to run, call for help. But his whole body hardened and weighed down to the grounds as if gravity itself snarled his feet to the earth. One by one, the sparks turned into four pretty little ladies with dresses that float in thin air, slowly forming and rotating, twirling their long skirts round and round. He couldn’t believe what he sees; he couldn’t believe what’s happening to him now.

     Wake up. Compellingly informing himself that this is just a dream. A nightmare.

     As their transformation was completed – their tiny translucent wings fluttering in mid-air – they held hands and encircled his head and chanted words he couldn’t fathom. Their voices serene and flowing. It was like a song, chanted beautifully but without any tune. Resembling a melody, but not totally as one would say a wheat for a grain. It was something delightful to the ears – heavenly and will etch in your mind, something you can’t possibly forget all throughout your life.

     Then in the middle of all that unlikely admirable upheaval, their voices echoed through him, and his vision swiftly blurring. Haziness and distortion to his views, pitch black, then nothing. His existence sucked.

Daze: Call of the Springs

He dashed across the grey chiseled concrete pathway from his apartment wearing grey slippers with his black socks on. The color of the fabric contradicted the whitish grey color of his footwear with red detailing. The rubbing of the socks to the slippers is quiet amusing and irritating at the same time.

     He hurried to the vehicle that pulled right in front of the covered lane down the first boulevard. While his friends are waving and shouting to hurry up, he ran and almost fell head over heels.

     This is the perfect time for a swim at the falls. He thought. Eagerness pumping inside him, he can’t really wait.

     They sat there in slobbering daze and hooting feat, matched with a stroke of comical gestures that sent punches of ache to their famished bellies. A dive to the springs is stirring, but a bite of the pastries and sweets stored in the backpack is much stimulating than a leap to the icy waters.

     “I missed breakfast again.” declaring unconsciously, but nobody paid attention, it seems they don’t really care after all.

     To quench the fervor for food, he tried to sleep. But all the commotion inside his empty tummy echoed all over him. When he’s about to circle the drain, he was informed that they were already there.

     One of them blurted, “It’s a long walk from here to the entrance, but twice when we go down. Brace yourselves!” giggling at the end of the exclamation.

     He felt his stomach tighten, and hands tremble. The energy that kept him enthusiastic in the car was all but sapped; lack of food affected him too much now.

     A little longer.

The hissing of the strong current river, thumping and throbbing of the falls’ impact to the spring, and swishing of the waves to the rocks is magical and breathtakingly enchanting. The rustling of the water beads to the leaves and the fluttering of mists seems like tiny ballerinas in air swaying gently to the wind in an orchestrated stage of natural source. For long reasonable minute, he forgot the calls of his starving gut, the beauty overcame him – he fell in love with it.

     The absorption is yet completed, not until he took a lunge to the chilly waters. The sweetness and wintry feel in it reverberated down to the bones, which washed impurities of stress and pessimism.

     Aside from the water’s coldness, he felt something else; something strange yet enchanting.

     He was pulled towards the center of the springs, drawn to its abyss. He can feel them, he was magnetized by them. He swam under water, deeper and deeper. And at that moment, a lady came into sight, swimming towards her from the water’s dark deep void. He wanted to resurface but he couldn’t. He was stunned but was not drowned. The lady came nearer and nearer, touched his face and said something in his awed mind.. something unfathomable, enticing, magical.

     The lady herself is strange, out of this world. He knew he should be frightened, but all of it was as if concealed by a pleasant mantle of beauty and uneasiness.

     Pointed brows lay perfectly above her emerald eyes. Her hair is not by the usual strips; instead it was tangled into a number of large compacted hairs with scales on it. Her appendages are covered by algae-resembling crusts randomly distributed, and her olive-colored skin match exclusively to the murky blue-green backdrop of the deep springs.

     Then her voice echoed through him, vision swiftly blurring. Haziness and distortion to his views, pitch black, then nothing. His existence sucked.

Tears Dry On Their Own

This time, I tried to flex my neurons a bit in creative writing by composing a love story. HAHA. Yes, you got it, love story. This will be my first entry about the genre. Just.. hmm.. enjoy? haha.


Safrollah A. Khalid

               She was the glamorous, famous “It” girl of New York City with curls and blonds like those of Marilyn Monroe, and alluring body that seduced all soldiers of World War II. It was the height of glamour and prominence and industrialization of New York.

                Behind the tinted windows of the black vintage limousine, silver flashes sparkle around the car in adjunct with the clicking and swishing of the camera. She gazed upon the crowd of enthusiasts ready to jump when she gets out of the black engine. But no, someone caught her attention; her eyes were fixed to a red haired guy with grey beret, striped vest, and a worn out tie. She remembered him – he, of all, the one who left her tears dry on their own.

               It was twenty past ten in the evening; buzzing of running cars, bottles crackling, cats purring in the alley; and in the middle of it all, there she was – pacing down the dark corners of the 250 year old street of Manhattan. Three, four men were following her. She sensed it; shadows were at her tail, stalking her. She can’t contain the adrenaline flush deep inside her, she ran with all her heart, but so did the thugs. They played a cat and mouse chase, and ran with all her breath – breaking the heel of her left stiletto. She dashed, she gulped, she was afraid.

               And at an instant, she smacked to a tall, fiery haired guy coming out from the bar. He eyed her and asked, “What’s a young lady doing in the middle of the night in a dark street like this?” She didn’t answer; instead she looked around, sensed if her stalkers were still following her. But no, there was none. But she knew deep inside, someone, somebody did follow her before she met the red gentleman.

               He walked her to her humble abode. The lady, without hesitation thanked him. She slid her hand to the right pocket of her faux coat reaching for the house key and felt the cold tingle of the silver metal. Before she can pull it out, the gent asked him if they could go out sometime – for the benefit of knowing each other, as acquaintances. But she turned him down. Profoundly enough, she knew, she knew that it was him; the hero she’s been waiting for. But still, she hesitated.

               She woke up early this morning; breathing deeply, sweat trickling down from the golden locks of her baby hair, her cheek flushed with redness. She dreamed of the thugs, and of him – the tall, red haired guy from the pub who saved her and walked her to her home, to safety. She got out of the house covered with thick vest for warmth; it was the end of autumn, chill is in the air. Cold damp breeze brushed her thin-skin cheeks. She walked to the library, planning to read some stuff about arts of cooking for she was exemplary and a chef-in-the-making. On her way, she saw a young man lying dead in the back alleys of a building surrounded by scared and curious New Yorkers. She knew right away that the victim should have been her. She didn’t stop any further, she continued walking down the library.

               Piles of books were in the rightmost corner of the lobby, “Those books might be the new arrivals.” she thought. She paced down the recipes and cookbook section, and immediately got the “Of the Arts of Taste” by A. C. McCormac. She must have known what book she needed most, and it was this; a blank cookbook of words and letters a cordon-bleu only recognizes, without any picture, and type-written. She headed to the reading area when out of the blue, she saw him again – slender, hair fixed and combed to the back. He had black gloves and a leathery-like vest with red cravat hanging down his neck.

               She was uncertain if she would call him. But her decision was broken when the chap saw her, and instantly approached her. “What’s a young lady doing in a library?” The gent was shocked of himself of this out-of-the-sense question. The lady immediately understood that the question was just a justification to start a conversation, no matter how awkward it was. But she didn’t tell him, for it was an instant passport for ‘farewell then milady’ tête-à-tête. Instead, she thrilled him. She gave him a meaningful eye glance and a smile, smile that confirmed she’s happy to be there, to finally meet him and talk to him without fear of being followed again.

               He was a playwright, deprived of family affairs. He lost his mother from a fire when he was still twelve years old and his father was alcoholic, abusing both him and his mother. They left him at once and moved from Trenton, New Jersey to the residential locale of Brooklyn, New York and stayed there until his mother died; unfortunately, he was left all alone, fending for himself. He worked as a newspaper deliverer from house to house and only gets ¢79 a day. But he was a good writer; “opportunity always finds you” he affirmed. A school down the lower Manhattan examined one of his articles. He was real good, remarkably skilled. He got the scholarship and studied for three years until he was accepted for their high school. He became the executive editor of their publication and a minor playwright for the theatre club. He dropped out of school and found his first job in a local theater – Masks and Wisdoms. He gained popularity in the neighborhood and to other less known New Yorker playwrights. But time and experience molded him, an emerging threat to other playwrights – they tried to take him down. Tell stories of infamy about him, but none can surpass his talents, no matter what rumors of inept is gossiped about him. The only thing the people recognizes is what they see and what entertains them, not what the playwrights are.

               She was glad she met him. She knew this is the man – hair as red as that of the leaves shedding during autumn, blue eyes that of winter sky, a smile brighter than the summer sun, and a spring flower budding to its full magnificence ready to endow charms to all ladies it comes across.

               But he knew too, that she was a fragile gold not to be messed around with. A beauty envied by the Goddesses of the old, a star fairer than a candle flame, a ripple in an undisturbed lake, and a pink blossom floating through the air – as delicate as a twig and as gentle as a sea of swaying prairie.

               For awhile, silence greeted them, deafening them. It was as if an understood etiquette not to talk. They spoke for five hours now, exchanging words of adoration. The red haired gent broke the long continuing silence with a sigh. “Maybe I should go?” She nodded in return. Then there, they departed once more.

               She hoped they would meet again. And he hoped, they should have stayed longer. That silence was a sign, he thought. They left the soul of their love to the hands of destiny.

               Flashes blinded her. Her driver was talking to her. She came to her senses, she was too far recollecting what the past was. Reality came banging to her head. “Madam, are you going out now? The guards are in place.” He voiced. She came out, in all her glory, in a golden dress covered by a fox fur. She was the Lady of the Sun. Yellow from head to toe. The flashes made her shine in a New York night – gleaming and center of attraction. She was praised, like a Goddess of the old.

               She gazed to the place where he was standing, but he was nowhere to be seen. She lost her strength to walk down the red carpet. It’s as if all her insides were sucked out. But no, he was standing there – near the car. The aficionados must have covered her sight. But their eyes locked, intimate as it was. The urge of love rushed through their veins, the same feeling they felt few years ago. There, stared eye to eye at each other and with the same meaningful smiles, they knew.. they knew that they wouldn’t let go of each other again.