⎾ hello!⏌

so, welcome to black ink & white lies (excuse me for bad title because i have no idea right now), the house of fleur’s rants and minds, and imagination. there are some points you need to know, to make your journey here simpler.

  • simply call me Fleur. not my real name, but it’s like my second now.
  • something about me, you can find it here. some basic informations about myself, my purpose, they’re all in there. i’ll add more—later.
  • about my personal daily challenge, seven fifty-six pm—because i need something interesting to bind myself with aviate.

anyway, thank you for visiting. i appreciate it, a lot.

– f (insert random awesome symbol).

two and three times

It was his eighth birthday that was celebrated for the first time.

(Like, in forever. As in eight years of living.)

This stranger—Harry had heard accidentaly about “people you didn’t know and one thousand and one reasons why you shouldn’t follow them” speech delivered by Aunt Petunia to her Dudley—had not seem really suspicious. In fact she was so nice. She had bought three cups of ice cream, just for him, when he told her he hadn’t tasted the dessert.

Her expression was horrid, mouth agape and her cerulean eyes nearly bulged out. Hence she dragged him to the nearest ice cream parlor.

Time moved so fast he didn’t realise it was evening now. She dropped him at the Dursley’s house and managed to lecture him all about manners and stuff. It was boring, but at the same time, lovely.

“Harry,” she said, eyes bright and sparkling, and he didn’t say anything. “Happy birthday, dear.”

At the end of the day, he learnt her name was Fleur.

For a prompt. Very late, I know.

the coffee is growing cold


At the young age of ten, he decided silence was his best friend. It was always there when no one else was, pervading his loneliness and providing gentle, comfort words when the screams from first floor worsened.

It caressed him as if he were its child, like a mother would do to her son.

Like his mother should’ve done to him.

Thirty yeas living in this world managed to teach him one thing: if there was a hello, surely there was a goodbye.

And so there was.

He tried to find solace within the sea and the huge castle he dubbed as home.

There were times where he missed the caress and the soft murmurs from his first friend, times where he despised the loud bang of the wave smacking the rocks, and when the ancient building became too quiet it was unnerving.

There were times where he sat alone on the stiff chair, nursing a mug of coffee and thinking olden days while staring at spaces.

The coffee was left growing cold.

Uh. Hi. I’m sorry for absent really long. Not my fault that I was banned from using internet. I posted this via my phone, and typed it also from here. And my English is a bit rusty as I rarely used it in past approximately two weeks.

The title’s from Dear Catastrophe Waitress. Anyway the words are 173. For FFFAW. I managed to stay within the limit! ♪

Of Sleeping and Prophecy

Let me tell you something important: being a son of Apollo doesn’t mean you’re absolutely hot. Apollo is God of sun, music, prophecy, and blah-blah-blah. No.

Being a son of Apollo means you’ve signed your death contract and now – it’s waiting for the right time to go BANG. Like cool explosion that is always seen in action movies. However, its cool goes down to negative one hundred and fifty when you imagine the one who go bang is you. Yeah, you.

Yes, yes, I agree with your opinion about one of not-so-many and can-be-counted-by-fingers perks being Apollo’s proof of existence: you can indirectly cheat. Yes, flashes of future about the answers of your exams. It’s awesome, I unwillingly admit. It can save your pitiful ass from being the dead last in class.

But man, I don’t think the price should be that expensive. Really. In a week, I can barely sleep in five-six hours. Nightmare, that becomes my first word every day. It varies from this scary-looking monsters, to earthquakes, and dead. People lying dead, wars every where and believe me, you’d go insane in no more than a week.

Praise the Gods, really. It’s me who get such a unfortunate fate to be the God of Prophecy’s son. As I’m not mad.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Advantage of Foresight.”


the image belongs to the rightful owner. thank you!

It had been three weeks since my boss called me and said sentences full of high words, which I had simplified as Carla, you are transferred.

The one I liked the most in here was its central park.

“Young lady, you have to be careful.”

At my fourth visit, an elder approached me. As all benches were occupied and I was a greedy person who claimed a whole bench for herself, it only meant one thing. I shuffled aside and offered him to sit. He gratefully accepted it.

“There is a tale passed from generation to generation.”

Long story short, I regretted my oh-so-good intention. As the reciprocation, he narrated me a good yet full of bullshit tale.

“Don’t go to the south area of this park – no matter what happens.”

I remembered saying thank you, sir while inwardly snorting.

One time, when I stayed in the park too late for me to trail back by the usual route, I decided to take a shortcut.

My mother warned me not to underestimate something and now I understood why.

Uh, I don’t know what I’ve done. Really. Words are 178 because I can’t cut it any longer arghhh I’m soooo sorry. Anyway, this is for flash fiction for aspiring writers. Thank you!


We all live hiding a secret.

(Or, secrets?)

No one knows. But everyone tries to figure them all out.

(Some claims it’s their privacy, some says you’re sticking your nose too far.)

But darling, what’s the meaning of life without secret?

Even you, even the world hides a secret.

(Or, secrets?)

“Seriously. This is the creepiest writing you’ve ever written.”

“Shut up. It is full of meaning, try to look it out.” He puts his index finger in front of his lips mysteriously.


the first sign is tachycardia, the doctor said.
(your heart pounds like there is no tomorrow.
no, no, no, you are strong, you are able to do this—)

then the dyspnea happens.
(the oxygen will not vanish, dear.
remember, inhale slowly, exhale, inhale—)

“after that, you’ll have hypocapnia.”
(give up.)

as soon as someone raps the door frantically, your body loses its balance.
(the feet says good bye and the head says hello to the ground.)

[1] tachycardia: an increased heart rate (a heart rate that exceeds the normal resting rate)
[2] dyspnea: shortness of breath (breathlessness)
[3] hypocapnia: the result of dyspnea, known as hyperventilation.
[4] the signs of panic attack.

( for poetry 101 rehab. i didn’t participate last week challenge. shame, it was a good prompt. )

clean—sounds of the past

“Cleaning tradition!” Mai Sheridan glances around and sees people around her are cutting wild grass, sweeping the ground, doing whatever’s typical to be worked in such activity.

The last time she was here and followed this is…

“Dear young lady!” Her mother cried, duster held firmly at her left hand. “Stop gawking there and help us clean! Chop, chop!”

“Time passes so quick.” This time, her companion snorts elegantly. How does she do that, Mai will ask later.

“Thank you for stating the obvious. Off you go. Want to remember the past, right?”

Mai smiles painfully. ‘Yes, yes, I do.”

another story related to this: gloves—faction of power. i might write the complete story for nanowrimo, but it seems like my hands are really, really full right now, so maybe later.

magic (name in the river)

You might never notice this, but there was always a spark flying in the air when you said i love you. It was evolving—the first time, it was love, a simple innocent child-like love; your typical puppy love. It grew to a full-grown one, the i-am-happy-if-you-are-even-though-actually-i-am-not kind of love. The one in which one could do so much for their beloved one.

It didn’t stop. Actually it evolved into the love in which it meant nothing but lies.

somehow it explains about aviate—you know, the type of love where one’s sent flying. your typical teenage love, if i may add. 

share your world (captain of secrets)

What’s your favorite charitable cause and why?
unsurprisingly, i don’t know the answer of this question. contrary of what people know about me, i have heart, thank you very much. i may appear uncaring and nonchalant, but i still have feeling. maybe, for AIDS and cancer patient, and for people who are suffering from a disease which has no cure until now. for people, who really want to feel the joy of living in this world. for people in need. maybe.

What color do you feel most comfortable wearing?
i enjoy gray and white. but i’m more comfortable with the former because the latter… well, you see. there’s a tendency of white clothes—it is often transparent. recently i bought a long-sleeve gray shirt and guess people around me will have to bear with me wearing it a lot.

If you had your own talk show, who would your first three guests be?
first of all, i doubt myself will have a talk show because i’m not a talkactive type, you see. but, let’s go with what-if. my first guest would be mr. aoyama gosho because i have a lot to be discussed with him. for example, it’s been 700 chapters or more of detective conan, and let’s face it: our lovely main character doesn’t appear to grow and i’d like to question him about that. and also, how can he think one thousand ways to murder someone with fishing rod? hm, suspicious, suspicious. the second one would be mr. enrico fermi. his logic was the best, because a man shouldn’t be able to count the energy of the nuclear by pieces of paper. really. the third one, would be mrs. jk rowling. i need to know why, after seven times her script of harry potter being rejected, she still had faith and here we are now, jk rowling’s the richest woman in britain. if it were me, i’d be so depressed. huh. guess i have to learn from her, a lot.

What are at least five places you’ve enjoyed visiting?
Pantai Bira, Sulawesi Selatan, Indonesia. (because how can people say no to tropical beach, and white-sand above else?)
Pantai Kuta, Bali. (same thing as above)
Tanah Lot, Bali, Indonesia. (the sunset’s really good at there)
Garuda Wisnu Kencana.
the fifth slot, will come at the right time.

Bira, Indonesia. —the photo’s not mine, it belongs to the rightful owner.

What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
i’m grateful for keeping alive. for being able to breathe normally. for being me. for all the things God has given me, either good or bad, for His plans, and for the bright future He has promised. i can write many things, but this one practically saves me from wasting so much words: for everything. as for what i’m looking forward, maybe, a good place to spend my holiday. i’m stuck at home.

i found this challenge and was quite enthusiastic about it. so here’s my answer!

muse (element of the void)

“Goddammit, Rachel, stop imagining things!”

Rachel grimaced slightly, then closed her eyes tightly. She tried to imagine something else, beside fire-breathing evil dragon which somehow bore a striking resemblance with the one she saw in the movie of Doraemon—

Gerald’s cry of Rachel, stop! and the temperature in the room increased dramatically made the girl bite her lips and she forced herself to imagine a brand new Ferrari and a bag full of dollars in it.

She opened her eyes as Gerald cried in joy, and muttered boy under her breath.