Categories
Creative Writing Horror

The Faithful Gardener

The memory played in Alain’s mind. Over and over again. First like a silent movie. Then it took on sepia tones — I want to do something for you, he murmured with a glint of lust in his honey-hued eyes. But she blushed, and he knew that she knew what he really wanted to do was something to her.

What ensued was a pleasant afternoon of lovemaking, yellow and golden in its luxury just like the bourbon that the China teacup spilled into his mouth now. But that ended quite quickly, didn’t it? Wonderful that, he thought, as a salty tear took its time to plot a route down the end of his eye and towards his strong chin that was decorated with golden grizzle. It dropped into his teacup of bourbon liquid.

So he spent his days walking in his estate. He loved the green of his garden. Quite like absinthe. He called out a few words of love to his meadow flowers; parma violets; pink and white geraniums; purple Pyrenean lilies; and juniper bushes. He caressed the bark of the fir and holm oak. He adored the Mediterranean chestnut and beech. Closer to his little cottage, he grew pink hibiscus, bougainvillea, syringas, lavender, and an assortment of poppies.

And now he went to bed. Just a wee sip of rosemary-flavored tea, and he hoped that the bedbugs wouldn’t bite. No one but the bedbugs for company, he whispered bitterly into his pillow and drifted far away where worries were just unknown and alien.

As the crickets chirped, and the crescent moon hid behind a gossamer cloud, Bernard bumbled over a hedge and onto the absinthe grass. Whipping his tongue over his nicotine-stained teeth, and liver-colored lips, he walked stealthily towards the cottage that house a lone flickering candle on the dining table.

But he didn’t get far. His ears prickled as he heard a rustling behind him; the skin on his arms popped up with goosebumps; and his tongue lost its capacity to whimper. Instinct told him something was up, and indeed, something was — the pink bougainvillea flowers fell like rain as the thorn-riddled branches grabbed Bernard by the ankles and hauled him up.

What did he get himself into this time, thought poor Bernard. As the bougainvillea tree pierced his eyes, nose, lips and tongue, the lilies, poppies, geraniums and hibiscus turned their faces towards the dangling corpse. They lapped up the rivulets of blood with greed and thanks.

It was only when the sun shone brightly the next morning did Alain venture outside to yawn luxuriously. As he went about his business watering his beloved plants, he just simply failed to see how the pink bougainvillea flowers have now turned a beautiful yet insidious red.

Categories
Creative Writing Love

Plans

I made plans for both of us.

We were so excited.

Then I realised that it was only I who was excited.

And those plans were just mine (and made for me).

You just stood by looking coy, but that was just nonchalance.

I wish I knew that you only meant to come along for the ride.

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

So Alike

This little story features a bottle of red wine with a forgettable name, my wife, our mutual best friend of 18 years — Chris, and my two sons — Cameron and Brad.

Thank the good Lord for great friends, I slurred happily, and we all agreed and gulped down more wine. I look at my wife giggling at one of our best friend’s jokes; and then at Chris and his hazel eyes, dimples, and how he effortlessly raises his right eyebrow in a tease.

With the wine warming my belly, my eyes are forced to stare at Brad — and his eyes, which are a beautiful hazel, and deeply ridged dimples — as if they’ve forgotten what he really looks like.

It’s only when Brad turns to me and smiles, and raises his right eyebrow in an ironic arch do I realize that the joke has been on me for the last 18 years.

Categories
Creative Writing Love

Chocolate Cake With Rainbow Sprinkles

Is yours a sad love story like mine?

Mine took place on a Tuesday.

You see, he never came back.

It wasn’t someone else’s hand he left mine for.

I wish it was.

His birthday was in September.

I still bake a cake every year.

But he’ll never get to eat chocolate cake again.

I’ll never be able to lick his lips with a tongue freckled with sprinkles.

That day was his birthday.

That day he walked away for good.

That day 20 years ago.

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

Something Memorable

I wonder what she’s like, I thought. And just like that she came over to my desk, smiled, and plopped herself down unceremoniously on the frumpy chair in front of me.

We spoke.

We spoke about her requirement for 4G, and how she’s unhappy with the current list of data plans, and why her iPhone, which she bought from us, takes so long to charge.

I’ve always been fascinated with Customer Service. I get to see all types of people walk in and walk out. Inevitably they always walk out just a little bit unhappier. As a company we try our best to please, but it isn’t always so easy.

She rattled on, and with one ironic flip of my tongue, I managed to draw out a chortle from her. She has a pretty face with almost perfect features, I thought. She looked happy underneath it all especially when I managed to get her lips to eke out a sunny smile.

Our work was done, and it was time for the customary handshake. As our hands touched, I searched her consciousness. It’s something I’ve perfected for years, and through an ‘almost-osmosis’ sort of way, I visited her and sipped on her happy memories.

I chose two.

One was when she celebrated her 17th birthday with her mother; it was a memory that was made more precious and happier since her mother died a week later thanks to lung cancer.

The second was when she gave birth two years ago, and she named her little girl — Maria. What a beautiful girl. So strong and happy was this memory. After all, she did give her daughter her mother’s name.

As I completed the transference of those two happy memories into my own consciousness and owned it, I watched her smile fade along with the light in her eyes; no doubt her heart was feeling the void left by those two central happy memories.

Stealing memories is like a drug, you see. It’s so addictive. As she turned and trudged back towards the entrance — with her voice, eyes, gaze, and walk emanating a sense of real sadness — I felt something akin to a clot of remorse albeit quite tiny.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stolen her mother and her daughter from her, but that wisp of remorse left as another customer sat on the same sad chair in front of me as he smiled and started a harangue about his 4G connection.

All I could think of was how happy he seemed; I was looking forward to the moment when our business was done so we could shake hands.

Categories
Creative Writing Love

Loneliness

The truth came out when he didn’t answer the phone.

The gaps between rings stretched out just like the distance between us.

It started out as a love story and ended with the grin of horror.

Now I’m left with a cup of coffee and a blanket of loneliness.

A loneliness that he used to uncover whenever he came home.