Creative Writing Love

A Secret In The Closet

I wish I could tell you a story of a happier time, but that time has taken on the sheen of vagueness.

The problem with being on this earth is that all that we do is a delusion. And all the delusions die when the money runs out. So does the privilege. I wish I wanted what I had instead of wanting what I didn’t have.

I’ve seen too many tears spilled in funerals by loved ones. It was never because of the loss but the sadness and regret of not treating the newly departed with the love and kindness that they deserved when they were alive.

I knew that prayers come true as do wishes. But only sometimes. I now understand why angels fear to tread on earth. It’s because they make the mistake of falling in love, and losing everything.

I say the names of those who died so I won’t forget. I won’t forget that this is my destiny too. Some people reside in the hurts between 3am and 6am. The Lord knows this. And, he listens. Not anymore.

I am now forever stuck. Afraid to face my fears. 30 years ago, I had five minutes to shape the rest of my life. And, I did. Now I live in regret.

He opened the closet and ruffled through coats and shirts, and he heard the tingling of silver feathers that had gathered earthly dust. He shook his wings and caressed them longingly. Like most things in life, the opportunity to leave had passed.

Creative Writing Love

A Long Good Bye

I wish there was a period at the end of our sentence.

It would mean closure.

But you placed a comma mid sentence which means this story continues.

A semi-colon when you talk is a pause too long.

A colon starts a run of complaints, excuses, broken promises and threats.

Our tale simmers towards the end with a question mark.

I guess uncertainty is what our future holds.

Grieving for a person while they are alive.

Time will erase you first, and then I.

This is the way it is.

This is the way it should never have been.

Creative Writing Love


Dignity never lived here.

Dignity never got a chance.

He weaponized a question.

He was polite enough to ask: Shall I kill your hopes and dreams?

What was I to do except smile and say – As you wish.

Creative Writing Horror


He always looked out for her whenever the catcalls started. She always tended to his wounds after football practice. Brother and sister: that’s what they were. They were meant to look out for each other, and that protective nature was something they gleaned from the great family life that they had.

The parents were devoted to each other, and they did their best whenever they could. So it was a hideous shock when her mother found out that her daughter’s bedsheets were bright with blood. Periods, maybe? Can’t be. A mother’s instinct says so. A family discussion was out of the question; and being so conservative she needed to know when this happened and whether her daughter used protection.

The ‘talk’ took place in the kitchen between mother and daughter, woman and girl. She used protection; she didn’t want to be on the ‘Virgin Cruise’ as her girlfriends dismissively called those who wanted to preserve their chastity; no, the condom didn’t break; it was a boy from school; it happened when no one was at home; please chill out now, it’s no biggie, times have changed.

How do you spot a liar? Maybe it’s when they look at their feet as they talk to you, or when they stammer so bad it sounds like rap, or when the beads of sweat form and a heady miasma of fear emanates from them, or when their story doesn’t check out. It’s all or none of these things. It’s none of these things.

How do you spot a liar? It’s when brother kisses sister on the lips in a way that’s beyond platonic, and when sister holds her brother’s hand and looks into his eyes with a sense of hope and longing, and when they both look at mother as if she’s the problem. But mostly because a mother’s instinct says so.

When she grabbed her daughter, forced an icy smile to play on her lips as she whispered a threat to call the authorities one summer morning did her daughter open her mouth to speak. From the corner of her eye, the mother saw her son nervously watching them both. What piqued her curiosity was when she sensed her husband looking uncannily nervous too.

Her daughter’s hot breath played on her ear as what she said reverberated and echoed in her head as if it were hollow: It was Daddy, he told me not to tell.

Creative Writing Horror

1000 True Fans

I honestly don’t know what came over me. Shit; in fact, I don’t know what came over all of us. It was madness for sure. How else can one explain the stampede and the buffet of gore that shocked us all after the adrenalin and the confusion of common sense wore out that glaze of bloodlust from our eyes.

She truly was a celebrity unlike any other; maybe she was an artistic odalisque in reality. Her grace and her inimitability is was unparalleled. Music is an art form that changed throughout the years. She was one of those few artists that could sing loud and with class. That voice was her superpower. She could throw it with a silky caress that left everyone spellbound.

I remember that day well as I spend my days seated in this rotten jail cell rotting away. I wonder whether it was her karma that she ended up the way she did with her body parts ripped up and dints on that perfect skull of hers. The 808 drums that introduced her hit — Take Me As I Am — made the crowd go berserk. As they all chanted her name like sex freaks and zombies, she made that one mistake of reaching out to touch the hand of a crazy fan.

It was at that precise and inopportune moment that her eyes took on a quality that could be described as being fey. Everything happened at once. As one fan grabbed her hand and hauled her onto the mad mass of human adulation there was that moment everyone screamed out in ecstasy.

They had their idol in their hands. And that’s when everything went wrong; so bloody wrong.

Creative Writing Horror

A Sudden Unexplained Nocturnal Death

Chen stared at his reflection and gently dabbed his cheeks with rouge. He colored his lips a bright crimson, and inexpertly used eyeliner to finish his bedtime ritual. He tuned out the sniggers and whispered insults that he heard, and walked to his bunk.

Roy thrice asked Chen why he dresses like a queer before he goes to bed at night. Chen always avoided the question, except that one time when he uttered — phi am. Roy just assimilated that answer by flipping a finger Chen’s way presuming that it was a slur in Taiwanese.

Chen knew no fear. Except for the darkness that seeped in when the lights went out. On his second year of incarceration he knew of 10 nocturnal deaths. The prison authorities put it down to a phenomenon known as Sudden Unexplained Nocturnal Death (SUND).

Tonight as he pursed his crimson lips and looked at Roy, he prayed that Death would roll the dice and choose some other poor soul. Before the lights were switched off, Roy sarcastically blew a kiss his way. As the darkness enveloped their cell, Chen saw an outline form near the foot of his bed, and that’s when he closed his eyes shut.

Roy’s face was a rictus of horror illuminated by the sunrise. His passing seemed to have been a torturous affair. Everyone wondered whether it could’ve been Chen. Was it a jealous rage that caused this death? But Chen’s explanation of what took Roy’s life fell on deaf ears.

It defied science and logic, the prison authorities said. They threw Chen into isolation despite his explanations about it being the phi am. They researched the phi am, and laughed. They found out that the Japanese call it pok-kuri. Filipinos call it batibat. In Vietnam, it is the tsob tsuang.

They sent Chen for a psych evaluation, convinced that he was suffering from homicidal proclivities when he was violently insistent that it was a widow ghost, which preys on the soul of young men, that took Roy away. As they threw him back into isolation, he begged not for food or water or freedom, but just one thing — Can they please keep the lights on?!

They refused, and as the seconds morphed into minutes and then hours, Chen’s consciousness drew him back to that fateful night when the phi am trailed it’s nails with surprising and sympathetic gentleness along his naked thighs, and finally, confused by his feminized features, floated towards Roy and laid on his chest, trapping his breath and suffocating him slowly.

He still could see with clarity the way Roy reached out his hand pleading and begging for his help; and, how by morning that same comatose hand with its fingers pointed defiantly at Chen looked like an accusation that would forever be imprinted in his mind.

Creative Writing Love


Where do you think our conversations go?

You know, the ones we have over wine and whiskey.

I think the adjectives like to disappear into the sky, and are
snuffed out like a star past its prime.

The verbs, however, stay between us.

Let’s kiss now (although you might not like the plans my hands have for you tonight).

Creative Writing Horror

Home Invader

Craving warmth like never before, he crawled purposely towards the house that was illuminated in an inviting glow of light.

So peaceful and welcoming, he thought. With a smile, and a whisper of gratitude he surreptitiously went in.

He won’t make a sound, he promised himself. But just as the warmth of the house enveloped him, and the brightness of the yellow light burned his eyes with luxury, he froze.

Precisely two seconds passed, and all hell broke loose as the woman in front of him launched into a chorus of deadly screams.

This gifted him a wad of fear that sent his eight legs dashing with alacrity towards the nearest crevice, which was shrouded in darkness and safety.

Creative Writing Love


I never meant you to have L P Hartley.

I only meant for you to borrow him.

I meant it as an excuse.

An excuse that you could use.

An excuse for you to come back again.

A chance to see me again.