A Shot at Fiction

In the Beginning: Are you ready to spin a good origin tale? This week, we ask you to invent (or reinvent) a creation myth.

It still makes me wonder what the gods were thinking when they created this being, a being which is of this world but is in no way mundane nor humdrum. I wonder how long it took the gods to finish too.

The gods looked for the brightest star in the heavens and used its sparkle as the entity’s eyes. They definitely took their time fashioning its flawless dark auburn hair, which gracefully plays with the wind and effortlessly catches rays of the sun. Then, they searched the great depths of the oceans to find lustrous pearls, imbued with the warmth of sunshine, and with it sculpted the being’s smile. Next, they meticulously molded a goddess’s personality together with a cheerful angel’s soul. Lastly, they perfected this being with imperfections.

The gods had no idea of the power this being was destined for, the power to uplift, inspire, and motivate others.

And when they had realized that which they had created, it was you. ❤

 

 

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Salute, Mi Familia

Familial Feasts: Yesterday was Father’s Day in many countries. If you could dedicate a holiday to a more distant relative, who would it be — and why?

Whenever you’re on vacation with relatives, who do you hangout with the most? It’s your cousins, it’s often not your uncles and aunties, unless you have those rare ones that are somehow pseudo members of your generation–you know, the ones that are too young to be your parents’ sibling but is. Cousins, to me, is almost ubiquitous in family good times. They’re sort of conveniently placed a step below siblings and a step above friends. So here’s to my cousins, distant or otherwise, salute.

When I Break My Silence

Antique Antics: What’s the oldest thing you own? (Toys, clothing, twinkies, Grecian urns: anything’s fair game.) Recount its history — from the object’s point of view.

I can still remember the first day we met, it was a Sunday, you had your church clothes on. You, together with your family, were casually strolling when you passed by where I was in the mall. We instantly shared a strong and deep connection–sparks flew. I knew then and there that nothing else in this world could ever compare to your eyes looking deep into mine.

Days passed by like minutes when we were together. We would spend a whole day just curled up in a corner, with you listening to the story I’m telling. There would even be days when you would rather listen to me instead of doing your homework.

But those days are long gone. When I no longer had a story to tell, when the story I was telling you has reached its end, you left me, alone and unwanted anymore. I have been sitting in this shelf ever since, collecting dust, and comforting others who end up in your library. I see you with a new one every now and then, but I know better; that your new one is always just an addition to your collection, nothing more and so much less.

How We Never Happened

Fair warning. This is not a story with a happy ending, definitely not a feel-good read either.

Still reading? You were warned.

This is the story of how we never happened.

The clock says it’s already six in the morning as the alarm goes off. Classes has just resumed from semester break, it’s a new semester, time for another day in the university. I’m barely going through the motions as I absentmindedly take a shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and drag my feet to class–a student’s basic routine. After an hour and a half of lecture delicately intertwined with doodling, dozing off, and playing a game or two on my phone, the class was over. I quickly race to the faculty office to check if I had been given a slot, under the instructor’s prerogative, in this particular subject that not everybody particularly wants to have but needs to have.

“There’s no more slots left in my class, hijo, you’re gonna have to wait and see if anyone cancels”, said the instructors I went to. With a heavy albeit optimist heart, I slowly leave the office, found a place to sit, and just marinated in my thoughts. “The silence of this solitude is just too deafening”, I told myself. No amount of booze nor drunk storytelling could even begin to fill the void she left me with. It’s been months since but I still feel nothing, and that’s what’s bothering me, of how I am bereft of a grand purpose, how I seem to be wandering aimlessly.

Then you walked by, words could not even begin to grasp how perfect you were that day, with your flowing dark auburn hair and your cheerful smile, it was just what the doctor ordered. You moved me, unknowingly. I would check with the instructors more often just because of the small probability of running into you again, of seeing you again, even though I didn’t know your name.

At the end of the first week of class, as I sat in my last class for the week, waiting for the instructor, I noticed a familiar face in the front, yours.

Sadly, that’s just it. That’s all this, whatever the hell this is, will ever be.

And this, this is the story of how we never happened.

The Death of Romance

A Lost Art: This week, tell us about a lost art: one that you know, one that you miss, or one that should be lost for good.

Here’s the thing, I’m a hopeless romantic. I knew that since the day I realized how different my perspective on love was compared to my friends. To me, love, in its entirety, is an art form, it is an expression of one’s emotion, similar to dancing, and yet so much more profound. But even with all this grandeur of love, it saddens me beyond compare how love has become the way it is now.

You know how it is — or how it used to be, boy meets girl, girl takes boy’s breath away, then boy arduously tries to court girl and sweep her off her feet until he finally does — and that moment would have been a moment of moments.

But now? Look at what we have done to love. Look at how diminished the word has become, how it has been flayed and mutilated, how something so sincere has been mindlessly labeled as ‘creepy’ and ‘stalker-ish’. They say that the love I describe only happens in fairy tales and movies, but they fail to understand that that love, the romance I have yearned for, used to exist and was once well renowned, it was just somewhere along the lines of a generation’s rite of passage that that romance got lost in translation. And it pains me.

JakeCrystal of Mars

Longing for Gravity: You are on a mission to Mars. Because of the length of of the journey, you will never be able to return to Earth. What about our blue planet will you miss the most?

Not a thing, not a single thing, just the persons, the people who I have come across, the people whose lives I have touched and has left an indelible mark on my life as well. Those are the things I will miss the most.

Admit it, it’s seldom that its the things about a place that we miss whenever we move, most of the time, it’s the people, the faces, the names that we would miss the most. And more to the point, humans, well, homo sapiens–if you subscribe to the idea of life on mars, are the most exclusive component of our blue planet–which ain’t so blue anymore, sadly.