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.
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! ♪
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!
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.”
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.)
 tachycardia: an increased heart rate (a heart rate that exceeds the normal resting rate)
 dyspnea: shortness of breath (breathlessness)
 hypocapnia: the result of dyspnea, known as hyperventilation.
 the signs of panic attack.
( for poetry 101 rehab. i didn’t participate last week challenge. shame, it was a good prompt. )
“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.
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.
“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.
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.
the picture belongs to the rightful owner, which is not me.
This will be the sixth, I muse tiredly while eyeing at the old gramps, who’s discussing something with my man right now. This is our first meeting and believe me, I don’t hold any grunges towards him—but, damn it, his white hair reflects the sun.
My hand itches to tear it. I lift it up, a mere centimeter left between my hand and that damned hair before my man cries.
“Sheila! Cut it out!”
I huff in exasperation. I am a boy, man! I want to say, but instead, a whine—ehm, manly protest comes out. My man glares daggers at me, and if looks could kill, he would be dead right now and then because of my stare. Or I would because his glare is really scary.
“He’s a boy.” A high-pitched voice pipes up. I look at the boy beside the old gramps, whom I notice just now.
Hear that boy, man! I want to say, but it comes out as a neigh and the boy gawks at me.
“Grandpa, he understands me!” He cries joyously. “Could we buy him?”
for this week’s flash fiction for aspiring writers. thank you.