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.

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.

Yet.


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

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. 

blackboard: antics sleeps in my bed

My body decided, unilateral, that the need of rest was far more important than my duty as a student. Thus, it messed with my schedule and everything went downhill from there.

At ten past seven, when I was still on bus, I grumpily accepted my fate that I was late and the consequence was not being able to follow the first and second hour, which was unfortunately, physics.

At half past nine, as I stared at the blackboard, I cursed my luck because in a week from now, there would be an exam about this lesson and I missed it.


for daily prompt – fifteen credits. the title’s purely from title generator, for i have no idea right now.

gloves

In Sheridan’s house, when everything was shaped and changed – they had missed something. Well, not really. On the window sill, there lied a pair of gloves, once as white as the snow. Now, they barely were dirty white, dust-covered, and there was a stain of ink on the left pair.

They held a lot of story, and right now – it’d be delivered.

Everything began when Mai Sheridan found them.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Choose Your Adventure.”

Schön Rosmarin

The day I met you—it was the beginning of the spring. In the playground, on a lonely igloo along with three children who looked you in wonder and awe as you played the melodica. I remembered so much that it hurt to see your headstone, your favorite canelé, the violin, the photo, the memories.

I wasn’t strong. There was time where I just wished these had been a nightmare. I would wake up and then see you every morning, in the school. Laughing and joking.

As the time went, now I realised why, beside the Liebesfreud, Kreisler made Liebesleid. Because you couldn’t feel love until you had experienced both the joy and the sorrow.


your lie in april isn’t mine, sadly. i really failed to show some angst, didn’t i?


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Turn, Turn, Turn.”

possibility

There’s this time where Lily wishes she could erase her memories. Or the time where she really wants to live in Harry Potter universe. A obliviate! and everything’s back into normal again. Noooo. Fate is kind of cruel – probably crueler than the antagonist character in soap opera she always watches in 8 pm, none should know this – but can it have some mercy on her?

Perhaps it is laughing so hard now at her foolishness. Oh right. Of all the things in the world, she just imagines a human-form of fate laughs so hard till it falls from its chair.

… right. Maybe it’s not a good time to think that. Focus, Lily. Focus.

Some things are better left unknown, someone said once. Although Lily knows that it should be left unsaid but the former phrase works really well than the latter. Ah well.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Hear No Evil.”

the rock she stands on

source – tumblr.

She never realises that the sun can shine so bright, or the clouds dance merrily, or the birds chirp joyously, or even the children laughing so hard that they seem not understand the real meaning of life (it’s disastrous and hurt and painful).

Looking back at the time where she was at that age – dark, moist room, the scent of vodka so strong that she actually puked, the tremor she felt as heavy steps owned by the old man echoing in the house, the injures that haven’t healed fully, and the screaming in the heart please go away please then shut up you ungrateful brat followed by a loud slap plak! – and the… condition, she can’t imagine how she can hold up so strong until this point.

Lying on the back in a field comfortably, on the grass – dancing with the wind and the clouds, merrily, joyously, happily – she smiles to the sky. So big until her cheeks hurt and her dimples showing, her heart still giggling. At the point where the sun finally sets in the west, she gets up, throwing last smile towards the sun – a thank you is left unspoken – and accompanied by the wind itself, she trails back home.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Am a Rock.”

fairy tale

In every tale he read, the end was always the same – and they lived happily ever afterHe wondered, if it was real. If it was true.

Sometimes, he traced Christmas Carol words, printed on his hardcopy book, while thinking – are fairies real– or when his sister forced him to watch along Barbie series – do main characters get their happy-ending, like it’s always? 

In other times, he found it impossible. Every person was the main character of their own stories. And he watched some of them didn’t get their happy-ending, living like hell in this world. When he watched a homeless man wandering aimlessly on the street of the busy New York City, whose stomach rumbled in hunger, who had lost his hope and dream and belief of happy-ending, he really doubted it.

Is happy-ending real?

But, when he saw a family of paupers smiling gratefully when they found something to eat, an old man – who he considered as the father – said something. He read his lips, Thank you, God, and grazed a smile on his wrinkled face, then shared with the rest of them. It was not much, but the smiles on their face were so beautiful that he thought,

Maybe yes.

one, two, three (it’s the time)

“If I were a flower,” Karen said to her once, “I would be a sunflower.” Her little sister tilted her head when she heard her saying that.

“Why?” She asked, her voice still held a childish tone. “Isn’t it nice to be a human? Also, sunflower stinks.”

“Does not!” was the first thing Karen said. Then she ruffled her sister’s hair, clearly annoyed. “It’s not what I meant, silly.” She responded. “But if I were a flower…”

“Yet, you’re a human, Sis,” Daisy persistently protested and Karen just rubbed her head, wondering why on earth she had gotten such an unimaginative – was this even a word? – sister like Daisy.

Karen sighed out, really loud. “Never mind, dear Sister,” she muttered. “Never mind.”

She missed Daisy’s victory smirk.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Smell You Later.”