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[ 01. ] GUIDELINES.
━━━━━━━━ prose
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[ ✘ ] HIS CONFIDANT.

"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy."
"Who said that?"
"I don't know. Fate, probably."

          WE WERE CHILDREN when he first wanted to change the world. Innocence and eagerness for life was still visible in his doe eyes then. We were playing by a tree near our homes when he told me his dream for the first time. I watched him swing from a branch as he said, "When I grow up, I'll help make the world a better place."

          HE IS SIXTEEN when he finds himself helping the world in the most unexpected way possible. Citizens on the streets cheer him on while a breathless woman holds on to him for dear life. When he had brought her down to safety, he found himself saying, "All I did was save her. Who wouldn't do the same?"

I didn't have the heart to tell him, "A lot."

          I AM TWENTY when I start to see his name flashing across the TV screens. He has since ventured far from our home, travelling from city to city where people needed him most. I can only imagine how tiring it must be, the life of a hero. "What about those he couldn't save?" I found myself asking, one day.

          AT THIRTY YEARS OLD, he has survived a lot of missions, a lot of fights. A day never goes by that he doesn't cross my mind. From the outside, his walls are strong. But through the TV, I can already see that the light is fading from his eyes. "I do it because I want to make the world a better place for us all," he says to a reporter.

          TWO YEARS LATER, the ugliness of the world had finally gotten to him. He is alive, but deep inside, there is already a grave for the person he used to be. Only two people mourned: me and the person he is now. "The light inside has gone out, hasn't it?" I ask him through the phone, one day. He doesn't give me an answer.

I can only listen to the quiet as I think, Silence means yes.

          WE ARE FORTY when he finally comes home, the weight of the world heavy on his shoulders. He is resigned and carries battle wounds when he knocks on my door. It is only now, after all those years, that he finally realizes it, while I stitch up his torn seams.

"I don't understand. I did all that I could and yet, the world's still no better than it was. It's just as ugly as before."

I reply, "The world can never be a beautiful place, but it will always be worth fighting for. And that's what matters, how brave you were when you fought for it, all those years."

And it was in that moment that I swore I saw the faintest gleam of light return to his eyes.

[ ✘ ] FIVE SOUVENIRS.

item one: a ballpoint pen

On the very first day of school, I came late into class. With nothing but a small bag, a notebook, a bottle of water, and a fazed mind, I took the nearest empty seat. God knew how fast my heart raced when I realized I forgot my pen and the teacher had asked the class to write something down, but I feared my heart would leap out from my chest when I felt a tap on my shoulder. From there, I glanced at the person seated behind me, and that was when I first saw your face. A smile curved your lips, your outstretched arm was reaching out a ballpoint pen to me. "May I?" I asked, taking it from your hand. "It's yours," you answered me.

item two: a withered leaf

Autumn came fast, as fast as you came into my life. We were strolling down the road where the winds blew hardest, our voices blending with the autumn breeze. I could not forget the sweet melody it created when you threw your head back in laughter as nature whistled along to make a harmonious melody. A dry, red leaf had gotten tangled up with my hair and I hadn't noticed. It was only after you recovered that you removed it and gave it to me. "Keep it, red looks good on you." I listened and have kept it ever since.

item three: a receipt

You knew how much I loved words written with ink, the smell of paper and the feel of it beneath my fingertips. I lacked the artistry to compose my own lines so I relied on the works of others instead. There was a book I once longed for desperately, and you caught me one day staring in longing at the book store as we passed it by. I hadn't known of the job you took for three months to earn the money I needed but didn't have. But one afternoon, you presented me with the book wrapped in parcel. I was furious before I was thankful. "Because I hate seeing you sad," you explained to me when I asked you why you had done it. You told me I owed you nothing but I owed the world to you. I asked for the receipt that day to remind me so every single day.

item four: a secret

We reached the point where we didn't stop our little talks even after midnight had passed. Be it about homework, our mundane lives, gossip and rumors, nonsense our tired brains spewed, I didn't mind and you didn't seem to either. Until one night, you asked me to tell you a secret. A secret for a secret. I was reluctant at first but who wouldn't be? But I knew you and I trusted you, so I told you. I unrolled the sleeves of my sweater and brought to sight the scars of lines scratched across my wrists. I showed you where I used to bleed at torn seams. Then it was your turn. "I think I love you," you told me that night. But I didn't want that to be a secret.

item five: a love letter

A letter to confess my love for you. A letter to tell you of the times I adored you the most. A letter that will never reach you now that you've left my side. This is it. I had never found the right words during the right times and that must be my greatest regret. These words that I have poured onto paper will now never be read by your eyes, or anyone else's for that matter. These words that have been sealed away by my cowardice all those years will now never reach your ears. All that's left to do now is to keep all of these in a box to, hopefully, soon forget. Because that's all we are, a box of memories and mementos fated to be kept in the dark for all time. I have a lot of regrets but at the same time, I don't. I'm happy I forgot my pen on the first day of school. I'm happy I walked with you during a cold, autumn day. I'm happy I felt sad for a period of time only to be cheered up by you. I'm happy I showed you the person used to be. I'm happy that I knew you, that I loved you. Because I'd rather had loved you for a day than not having known you for an eternity. My only wish now is for you to be happy, wherever you are. For in due time, I know I will be, too. Just not now, not today.

[ ✘ ] ANTE MERIDIEM.

[ 12 a.m. ]

"Good night." "I'll see you tomorrow." "Sweet dreams." All that was needed to be said has been said, or perhaps not. When the clock strikes twelve, it's when the conversations end; no more questions about how your day went. But for the ones who still go on, whose words endure, they have opened a void from which there can be no return from. This is when untold words begin to spill, words of which only the night will remember. For when the morning comes, you'll claim that no secrets were ever exchanged.

[ 1 a.m. ]

This won't be the last hour of the day that you'll be staying up late, wide awake. That second cup of coffee won't be your last either. So maybe you'll be able to hold on until you've read every line of that textbook. Or maybe it won't be long till your tears start to spill. But whatever you do, know that you're never alone. For these hours you spend studying in the darkness, under the low lamplight, can only lead you to that bright future you've always been reaching out to with your fingers since you were a child.

[ 2 a.m. ]

Whether the words spill from a lucid mind or a clouded one, it doesn't matter to a poet. They'll awake once an idea intrudes their mind, reaching for the nearest pen to scribble down the words on their skin. This hour was made for the writers with their quixotic minds that refuse to rest. So they stay up late writing until their pens run out of ink and there's no space to write on. Be it about the tragedy or miracle of love, tales of heroes and how Icarus fell, the joy and pain and everything in between, the night provides all the fuel a poet needs.

[ 3 a.m. ]

They say the body is at its weakest at 3 a.m. Maybe so are our minds. And when people start to scream or sit up from their bed on the verge of tears, you'll know it's from a nightmare. Faces fading around them, monsters chasing them in circles, the world ending with a whimper. Maybe they'll get over it fast, settling back to sleep in less than a minute. Maybe they'll choose to stay up instead, unable to trust the demons in their head. Awake, they're in a battle. Asleep, the fight doesn't end. Only, it's not with the people surrounding you. The battle's between you and your head.

[ 4 a.m. ]

Tossing and turning below the sheets. Eyes stirring beneath closed lids. You wish for Morpheus to finally pay you a visit but he doesn't come until the early hour. Until then, you're left alone with your thoughts and a longing for the old nights when you used to receive a heavy dose of lethargy once you hit the mattress; a drug so powerful your eyes close the moment it hits you. But those nights are long gone, so you stay up late against your will with no choice but to leave your bed once the sun rises.

[ 5 a.m. ]

These artists, they go to sleep without even washing the stains of paint from their skin. They were it proudly while walking the streets up until they crawl under the sheets. And when they wake up, it's straight to their paints and brushes they go again. They wait until the sun begins it ascent to capture the exact shades and hues that make the sky their canvas. The silence is their music, early in the morning when no one else can be awake to disturb the pictures they paint in their minds before they can transfer it onto the canvas.

[ 6 a.m. ]

This is when it all ends. The words, the dreams, the conversations, the pain. This hour was made for everyone; for people to finally awaken back to same reality they faced yesterday. This hour calls for you to be brave, my dear. To once again go through another day with pretend smiles, to once again face the monotonous side of life. But if it gets too hard for you, here's something to get you through the day: the night eagerly awaits you with promises of the unspoken. Whether dark, strange, or beautiful, those things are those only the stars would whisper about. And the night eagerly awaits for you to retake your place among them.

[ ✘ ] CONFLICT RESOLUTION.

The glass almost fell from her grasp as Mara coughed into the sleeve of her jacket, the bitter liquid burning down her throat as the acrid scent assaulted her sense of smell. She hacked once more, then again, while the strange girl's words continued to loop around her head with a painful urgency. And yet, Mara just couldn't bring herself to believe the girl's prediction - how could she believe something so utterly ridiculous?

"Come again?" Mara asked with her brows shooting up, tone coated with doubt, when the numbness in her mouth had subsided.

The girl sitting on the stool next to her spoke as if she were merely talking about the sun's revolution. "Your parents are going to die tonight."

A beat passed before loud, brazen laughter escaped Mara but the obnoxious sound was lost in the cacophony of the bar, among the loud chatter of customers and the electronic music bouncing off the speakers. Her fingers tightened around the shot glass in her hand as she bent over in amusement while the girl beside her merely watched, failing to see the humor in the situation. As Mara continued to guffaw, the girl simply had her eyes glued on her, her face a mask that was mostly vacant of any expression save for a cold, indiscernible glint in her eyes. For several moments, Mara just laughed, until her sides began to ache and she realized that the girl's eyes were still on her. Oh, she was very much serious, Mara then realized as she met the girl's stare and saw her eyes devoid of any amusement.

"You're joking," Mara accused the girl lightly with a grin on her face.

"I'm not." The girl gave a shrug. "And you'll also find that I'm sober, much like you since I doubt that two shots are enough to inebriate you."

Mara glanced at the glass in her hand and blinked, realizing that it was indeed just her second shot for the night. But how did the girl know that? She'd seen her enter the bar just after the bartender had poured Mara her second glass. She decided not to mull over it too much - heck, she came here in the first place to relax - and shook her head, her fingers releasing their hold from the shot glass as she placed it down on the polished counter.

"Please don't tell me you walked in here and purposely sat next to me just to tell me my fortune," Mara retorted, waving over the bartender for a refill of gin.

"You obviously don't believe me," the girl replied, one corner of her lips quirking. "What can I do to change that?"

CONTINUE READING. [ ✘ ]

[ ✘ ] REQUIEM.

Everyone knew what the witch’s favorite flowers were. But only Ramsey bothered to bring them to the witch’s doorstep every time a new moon reigned in the sky.

White lilies, red peonies, and blue delphiniums. They were not the easiest flowers to find in the woods but Ramsey’s father had taught her from the very beginning that all the trouble would be worth it in the end. This was what Ramsey kept repeating to herself as she crossed over the threshold from her village to the forest beyond, careful to handle all three flowers as if they were figurines made of glass.

The walk to the witch’s dwelling was not too far and the way had long been burned into the back of her mind. It was the same path that she had always trekked ever since her father decided that it was time she continue the family practice of bringing the witch her favorite flowers every month. The first time was when she was seven years of age, and her father had held her hand as he guided her through the dark, winding woods of the vast forest that circled their village. However, once they reached the witch’s abode, her father let go of her hand just as they stood ten feet away from the doorstep to the witch’s home. These last few feet, her father said, Ramsey would have to walk on her own. And with every visit, the number of feet that Ramsey had to walk alone increased. Soon, her father no longer left their home to accompany her. Soon, her father was no longer there to hold her hand.

But for the countless number of times that she’d gone to visit the witch, never had Ramsey stepped a foot inside her dwelling to ask for a wish. After all, that was what witches were for, weren’t they? To grant wishes at a certain price, for a certain cost. And the witch that resided not far from Ramsey’s village was no different. But never, not once, had Ramsey asked for a wish, not even in exchange for the flowers she tirelessly brought to the witch’s door every month. She always came only to do what her father taught her since she reached the age of seven. Go to the witch’s home and leave her favorite flowers on her doorstep. Nothing more and nothing less; she was to simply leave the second she had accomplished her deed.

As soon as she slipped out from a grove of trees, a clearing appeared within Ramsey’s line of sight - a glade that was enveloped by shorter trees and bushes of different varieties. There, the grass was taller and the scent of the musk of wildflowers was stronger, and in the dead center of the clear stretch of land was a hut that stood crookedly, immediately discerning itself as something unnatural against the backdrop of nature. An abnormality within which something more perverse resided within its burnished, russet walls.

Below the curtain of night, Ramsey ignored the stutter in her chest as she neared the witch’s home. Above her, the stars bore witness as she tried but failed to get rid of the way her fingers were trembling with every step she took, as what always happened with her every visit. Within Ramsey’s gentle grasp were all three of the witch’s favorite flowers, their combined saccharine scents cloying her sense of smell. She sucked in a steadying breath once she was a mere foot away from the witch’s dwelling before she laid down, with utter caution, the flowers before the witch’s door.

Then she took five steps back before turning on her heel and returning the way she came, trying hard not to give in to the urge to run.

CONTINUE READING. [ ✘ ]

( Note. ) If you liked this story, please support me by liking or reblogging the Tumblr post. Commenting on the post or replying is optional but it would be deeply appreciated! I wrote this story for ten hours straight, from midnight to morning, with nothing but coffee to keep me awake. It would greatly help me with my grades in school. Thank you so much!