December 20, 2007
Warning: Contain slight sexual hints.
Summary: Just a drabble. What does a writer think in one minute and their sense of humour.
Disclaimer: Characters and events in this story are purely fictional and inspirational. Any characters and/or events that resemble any person, dead or living, are purely coincidence.
Archive: Ask first please.
He had been staring at his computer for the past one hour. He glanced at the clock just located above the screen. No, to be accurate, he had been staring at his computer screen for the past fifty-nine minutes and seven seconds.
Eight seconds.
It was not really his fault that he had no idea what to write for the next installment of “Inner World of Rob”. His editor was getting anxious that he had yet to submit any draft manuscript for the latest installment. Served him right. He sniggered at the random thought of his editor gnawing on his pen and praying by some divine intervention that the next installment would appear on his desk. He was hardly divine, but he WAS the author, after all.
Thirteen seconds.
The truth was that, he had no intention of writing that stupid series. It had been a drabble, a hobby of his misspent youth where he could pretend to be a fictitious character where everything went the way he wanted. He did not even remember what he had written in that notebook. Why he had still carried that notebook around, he had no idea. Habit, he supposed.
Eighteen seconds.
But no, someone had to read it and said to him that he should continue doing it. And later, that someone, guided by some obscure thinking, managed to harangue him into publishing the story. And by some sadistic twist of fate, it became a hit series in two weeks and there were producers talking to him about movie or television adaptation. And that someone became his editor and manager, sitting in an air-conditioned office adding incomprehensible scribbles to his manuscript with that offensive red pen.
Twenty-four seconds.
Well, the thing was, most of his inspiration came at the wrong time. Like when he was taking a shower with his girlfriend. Or talking on the phone with his girlfriend. Or dreaming about his girlfriend. It was, he decided quite some time ago, not his fault that his girlfriend had such a bombastic figure, with contours that defied human imagination and smooth and milky white skin that made his mouth watered. Literally. And the best was when they were in bed, she would be moaning when he…
Twenty-nine seconds.
He shook his head. It was hardly the time to be thinking about his girlfriend. But he had not called her since morning. He stole furtive glances at the phone. Should he? Maybe his muse might mix with her muse and produced baby muses. Just like what they might produce if he keeps her to the bed and continue to…
Thirty-four seconds.
He tapped on his keyboard, watching the “e” appearing. One line, two lines, three lines… The speed of his computer was probably the problem. It was hardly fast enough. It could barely keep up with his speed, unlike his girlfriend…
Thirty-seven seconds.
Maybe he should call his girlfriend. Those naughty thoughts were going to stay with him until he did so. But the next installment was going to due. Maybe just a quick call…
Forty seconds.
He looked at his empty word document again. Then he sighed. The things he had to do. If only his editor had not looked at that stupid notebook, everything would be fine. And he would still be working at the car garage, owning hefty sums, ranging from rent to electrical bills.
Forty-four seconds.
Ok, maybe not that fine. But he was enjoying his life then. And he would never meet his girlfriend. And he would have never done those unsavory things with her at all. Oh, right. Maybe that was a good turn of events after all.
Forty-seven seconds.
He was really asking himself. What were the chances of you meeting your girlfriend right after bumping into the guy who persuaded you published your story?
Forty-nine seconds.
And landed you in the mess of writing book after book for a series that never seemed to end?
Fifty seconds.
He wondered why he ever ventured into such business again.
Fifty-one seconds.
Right, for the money.
Fifty-two seconds.
And the girl as well.
Fifty-three seconds.
Damn.
Fifty-four seconds.
He double-clicked on another document on his computer.
Fifty-five seconds.
He opened his email, attached the document, typed a rather offensive message and sent it.
Two o’clock at the publishing house.
“Freaking bastard! He had that story in his computer all along! I’m going kill him when he comes in tomorrow!”
Seven seconds after two at the publishing house.
“Actually, I can’t. Guess I have to wait until the whole series is over.”
One minute before four at the publishing house.
“Damn, he sure can write a story.”
Two seconds before four.
He smiled as he received an acknowledgement email that his story went into print.
His clock chimed four times.
He smiled and sipped his tea, still staring at his two hundred and forty seven pages of word document on his computer. He could not finish it after all. The first draft of the next installment of his series was only halfway through.
Well, guess the story had to wait. After all, he still had a call to make. An important one, in fact. Briefly, he wondered if he should try this stunt for his next installment. Chuckling, he dialed a number he had memorized by hard.
June 4, 2007
Rating: PG
Summary: She is always late. He is always waiting. What happens when the role is reversed?
Disclaimer: Characters and events in this story are purely fictional and inspirational. Any characters and/or events that resemble any person, dead or living, are purely coincidence.
Archive: Ask first please.
The first time
She ran. And she finally reached.
“Hey, did you wait for a long time?” she asked as she bent over, her hands on her hips and her long hair cascading over her shoulders. She was gasping and trying to get her breath back. “I was caught in the jam. You wouldn’t believe how packed it was. I mean, with everyone trying to get home and to top it off, there was an accident along the expressway,” she rattled on.
There was no reply, no reaction. She looked up. He only raised his eyebrow and looked at her, with that disgusting lopsided grin on his face. He was standing in a relaxed manner, arms folded and towering over her bent body. She immediately straightened up, bringing herself eye to eye with him. Almost.
“Hey, I mean, it’s not just that. The train was so crowded that I have to wait for the next coming train,” she continued.
Then she realized her mistake. It was too late. The other eyebrow rose to join the first one, forming a perfect arc on his face. There was a full bloom grin on his face by then. Alright, she made a mistake, but it was still annoying to see him laughing openly at her!
“Fine,” she snapped. “I was working on a project and I forgot we have a date, satisfied?”
He only gave that rich sonorous laughter of his and held out his hand, grinning all the time and ignoring the death glare she directed at him. She was annoyed, but she sniffed disdainfully, adjusted her handbag and took the offered hand. After all, she was the one who was late, and made him waited for two hours.
But it was not entirely her fault anyway. He did not have to be so patient to wait for one hour plus before sending a message to her to find out what was happening. It made her wonder how important she actually was in his heart. After all, she could only go on for so long without attention. For most parts, she had tolerated his inattention, but there were times where she was really exasperated with him.
She shook her head lightly to rouse herself from her thoughts. Then, hand in hand swinging back and forth between them, they simply walked along the streets in the crowded night, the movie tickets tucked away in his pocket, forgotten.
The second time
He waited. And he leaned forward against the railing.
He was looking out at the scenery before him. It was nothing spectacular or breathtaking, but it gave him something to see. Many people suspected that he was secretly romantic, but the single deciding reason why their dates were at such places was because of the scenery. When there was nothing to do, at least he was able to enjoy the view. If left to his own devices, he would probably be hanging out at pubs or basketball courts.
Of course, it also gave him the chance to practice his grins and smirks. And the smart remarks. Nothing annoyed her more than him delivering those smart remarks in an understanding manner. He knew how much it antagonized her but he did it all the same. After all, she made him waited, so she should at least be entitled to some form of punishment.
His ears suddenly pricked. He heard those familiar clicking of high heeled shoes and the jingling of accessories. It was not long before she showed up, panting and wheezing again. It never ceased to amaze him how fast this girl could run. But then again, she must not be able to run fast, because she was late. Again.
“Of course, you don’t have to apologize. I’m sure you have already notice how late you are,” he said, waving his hand magnanimously to dismiss her excuses. She heaved a sigh of relief.
“After all, you have only been late for one hour. I’m sure you gave up a lot of things in the process. Are you sure it would be alright?” he continued relentlessly.
She gave him one of those death glares which he was so familiar with, but he just grinned impudently at her. He had to admit, she looked kind of cute when she was angry. Then she pouted and stuck her tongue out at him. Quick as she was, he was even faster. She squealed when he caught her tongue in between his index and thumb, pinching it slightly.
“I thought we agreed that you are not going to do that anymore?” he drawled as he pulled her into an embrace with another arm around her back. “Maybe we should work on your promises.”
She simply shook her head to free her tongue. Then, sliding her arm around his back too, they walked along the streets, the movie tickets tucked away in his pocket once again, forgotten.
The last time
She sighed. And she unfolded her arms again to look at her watch.
For the first time since they had started dating, she was on time for once. No, in fact, she was early for their date. But she had arrived only to find no one there. Of course she waited. After all, he waited for her all those times. She was not particularly unreasonable to begin with. But her patience was wearing thin after waiting for half an hour.
She folded her arms again and started tapping her feet. It was unruly, but she was sort of angry. She frowned. She was not really angry, more of upset. And strange that she was waiting for him instead. And maybe a pinch of exasperation as well. She was so looking forward to making him pay when he arrived.
She reached for her hand-phone again to send another message to him. It was also highly unusual for him not to reply any messages. His replies were usually prompt, no matter but busy he was. He had a strong sense of responsibility and anything that was not completed nagged his mind and distracted him from his work at hand. But she had not received anything from him at all, since she playfully sent a message to tease him about finally being late for once.
She frowned again when she saw her hand-phone screen. She had forgotten that she was in meeting earlier and had put her hand-phone on silent mode. She had seven missed calls. Two from his mother’s house and the other five from his mother’s mobile. She blinked a few times. She had met his mother a few times, but they were not really close.
She did not call his mother but call him directly instead. There was no answer. She was starting to get worried. She decided to try his mother’s mobile. There was a ringing tone. Thirty seconds later, his father instead, answered her call.
The phone dropped to the ground, looking dazed for a moment. She was trying to deny what she heard was true. But the distraught and distress could not escape her. She refused to believe the conversation that had transpired. His father’s broken voice, the incoherent message, the pleas. But finally, somewhere in her mind, it finally registered. Then she started running.
He…met with an accident…In hospital…Hurry!
She kept running. A taxi stopped. A passenger alighted. There!
They are trying their best…Police said it was hit and run…
“Hurry! Hurry! Step on it, damn it!”
Hurry! He…he’s…not going to…
“Miss, I’ll hurry once you figure out how to get the traffic going…”
Wait…he wa…he wants…to talk to you…
“I don’t care! Just get it moving!”
…
The cab finally reached the destination. She ran. She ran like she never ran before, her high heels clicking against the cold floor of the hospital, her long hair in a mess. She finally saw his mother, leaning against his father, crying. She stopped in her tracks, her breaths coming out in loud huffs, her heart hammering.
But she did not see his parents. His mother’s wailing. His father’s silent tears. She kept her gaze on the man who had waited for her all those times. Her vision started to blur. She kept her gaze on the man who was lying on the bed. She felt something warm rolling down her cheeks.
The truth finally hit home. She crumbled to the ground, sitting there, dazed. An anguish scream pierced the air, joining the crying of a mother in denial. The movie tickets remained tucked away in his pockets as the hospital staff covered him with the bloodied white sheets. She would always remember his last words.
I…I’m…so…sorry, I’m…late…
October 16, 2005
Rating: PG
Summary: A son writes a letter to his mother, a father nurses his heartache.
Disclaimer: Characters and events in this story are purely fictional and inspirational. Any characters and/or events that resemble any person, dead or living, are purely coincidence.
Archive: Ask first please.
“Papa, I still miss Mama…” the young boy whimpered as he tugged his father’s trousers.
His father only looked down sadly at his seven year old son. Many things had happened three months ago. And many things were still happening. Wordlessly, he gathered his son into his arms and started to rock him, like he did when his son was still a mere babe. He pondered deeply and frowned, carefully trying to phrase his answer to reply his son’s simple and unspoken question.
“Sweetie, why don’t you write a letter?” he said as he looked down at his son’s innocent face.
“Letter?” the child echoed uncertainly as he looked at his father.
“Yes, a letter. Come, I’ll teach you how to write one. It might help to maintain your relationship with your mother,” the man, with one hand carrying his child, stood up and began to set about finding a piece of lined paper and pencil.
He juggled in his hands, a few pieces of paper, a pencil, eraser and his son. Feeling quite proud of himself despite the situation they were in, he began the careful instruction of teaching his son how to write a letter.
Within minutes or so, his son was a competent writer. He smiled, looking proudly at his own son. There was no doubt that his son was smart. Letter writing was not as simple as many had thought but his son had amazingly picked up the gist of it. Our son is talented, dear. You should see him now, the man sent a silent message to his wife as he continued to look at his son.
His son was concentrating very hard as he wrote, scrunching up his cute little face every now and then as he carefully remembered his father’s instructions and trying to determine what to put down in his letter. For that, his father would watch him. For that alone, his father would watch and protect him to the end of the days.
“Dear Mama,
Mama, this is a letter for you. Papa thought it would be best if I write a letter to you. He says this would ‘help to maintain your relationship’. I don’t know what he means but Papa is right. He always is and you say so too. So here I am, writing a letter to you. Papa says I should keep it ‘short and neat’. Just what I feel, because he says you are probably very busy with your work. He says you are an angel and you are not just taking care of us, but also many other people too, and he also say that now that I’m a big boy, I should learn to share. So I will keep my letter short.
Mama, I miss you. It has been three months since you are gone, since that big explosion. I’m still a little afraid of that explosion. I wish you are here, but Papa says that as an angel, you are probably at a faraway place, trying to help other people, because that explosion would mean a lot of people need your help. I know I must learn to share, but I miss you. I miss your sweet scent and your warm hands against my forehead with I’m sick. I miss your voice at night during bed time. I tried very hard not to laugh every time Papa reads me a bed time story, but I think you are better than him. Let’s not tell him that. It’s a secret between us, ok?
Papa is a bit funny these days. He says he is not being “weird”, whatever that is, but I still think he is being a bit funny. He would look at your picture when he thinks I’m not around. And I always have to call him a few times before he replies. He always looks as if he is somewhere else. Maybe he wants to be with you, helping other people too. I wish Papa and I can go wherever you went too. Then, we would be altogether again. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Anyway, Papa is looking at my letter, trying to read. He says he is not “peeking” but I don’t know if it is true or not. So I’ll end my letter here. I don’t want him to “peek” or there will not be any secrets between us. I’m a big boy now, so I don’t want Papa to think I’m still a little baby that needs attention. Bye bye, Mama.
Your love,
Son
11/12/2001
PS: Am I doing this right? I hope you receive my letter. But Papa says you might be so busy that you cannot reply my letter. But I know you love me, no matter where you are. And I love you too, Mama.
The man wept silently as he read his only son’s big and awkward handwritten letter. Heavens above wept together with him, coating his hair and coat with snow. He had no idea if the Heavens above pitied him and his son or it was just snow, customary in December as it was in previous years. He only wished what his son had said was true. That they could go wherever his wife was.
His son had always viewed the coming of snow with anticipation each morning, especially during December, as Christmas would mean a lot of presents and a loving family time. Even the prospect of going to school did not bother his son. But that year would be different. It had been different the moment that dreadful incident happened. He looked down at the grave in right of him.
“Our son has something to say to you, my dear,” he choked over his words as he carefully placed the opened letter with childish big handwriting on the grave. He had denied this truth for a long time, but now, it stared right back in his face. There was no running.
He broke down and cried again. This time, Heavens did not weep with him. Perhaps it was his imagination. Perhaps it happened. A gentle breeze caressed his slender form, as if pleading him to be strong. The clouds above broke apart and showered him with the gentle sunlight of the winter. Yes, he would be strong. He must be strong. Not just for himself, but also for his son. He would take over the caring of his son from his deceased wife.
But for now, he would grief over the loss of his wife. He would grief.
October 15, 2005
Title: In That Minute
Summary: Just a drabble. What does a writer think in one minute and their sense of humour.
Warning: Contain slight sexual hints.
Published Date: 20 Dec’ 07
Title: Late
Summary: She is always late. He is always waiting. What happens when the role is reversed?
Rating: PG 13
Published Date: 04 Jun’ 07
Title: A Letter For Mother
Summary: A son writes a letter to his mother, a father nurses his heartache.
Rating: PG 13
Published Date: 13 Oct’ 05
