Creative Writing Love

A Curveball

Who’d have thought my eyes would see something this fine at a grocery store?

Those dimples, and that dick print so shy.

It was when you looked at me and wink did I imagine our future before us.

Making you breakfast after a night of sweaty and passionate love making; giving you a kiss with smeared lipstick — a taste that we both love.

Top down and cruising in an Alfa Romeo down the highway, my hand between your thighs, and playing a concerto with my lips on yours.

We could do this forever, can’t we?

But here we are: fuck life and its curveballs.

It was when she placed her lips on yours did it hit me that you were never meant to be mine.

Creative Writing Love

Sometime Summer

At least there’s a hand to hold.

That’s what I thought.

Holding his hand was comfort enough.

Imagine hitting 100 and having no hand to hold when you breathed your last.

The sad part is that this is the 3rd hand I’m holding.

The third pair of lips I’ve kissed.

But my Sometime Summer is no more.

Every season draws to a close.

And now it’s my turn to have endless chats under the sycamore tree by myself until I breathe no more.

Creative Writing Horror

Mojitos And Rage

I look at you and smile. That smile was actually a wink.

If only you can read the thoughts in my mind.

If you did, you’d stop what happens next.

It’s true: alcohol brings out the worst in people.

We are on a beach, there’s this mongrel dog yapping away at me.

The rum hits me, and the rage which was just an observer becomes a protagonist.

I get up. Grab the dog by its balls. Swing it around, deaf to its yelps of agony.

I slam it against a wooden chair. ‘I’m sorry’, it says. ‘I didn’t know I caught you at a bad time. I was just looking for some love. You see, violence is all I know. My wife only spreads her paws for me, when I bark and get aggressive.’

So you stare at me, because I nearly killed this dog, and now I’m offering it a mojito.

The dog tells me: ‘Please don’t make me drunk. I know how much you humans fight when you can’t bring money home since you waste it on cigarettes and drink.’

He understood how we function.

You still hate me. You hate me for almost killing a dog.

But what you don’t realize is that we have more in common than you. You who is staring at me in disgust.

Creative Writing Horror

It Made Sense Towards The End

Things have a strange way of connecting at the end. Of course, it made sense at the end.

A kiss planted on his cheek brightened his eyes, drew his lips into a smile, but still left his heart empty.

A question as to why he never grew taller as the years progressed led him to have a series of blackouts. Subsequently, he did grow taller.

He saw the wires and the mechanical contraptions that were scattered around the place. They seemed familiar. Almost like they were a language that didn’t have syllables or sounds.

As time went on, he wondered why there was no sadness or happiness in his life, only facial expressions that illuminated his face, which elicited a response from the people around him.

When it was time to die, he understood somewhere in his consciousness that green, blue and red was a sequence.

When the red wire was cut, and his CPU fizzled away with sympathy, he realized finally with an ironic thought that — He was, in fact, a robot.

Creative Writing Love

A Tender-Hearted Moment

Come sit between my legs.

Lay your head on my shoulder.

We have now, and that’s all we got.

The future is bleak and dark.

But today is enough.

Here’s some hummus for your lips to remind you of home.

You’ve escaped to Sweden where we’ve made this moment a reality, but your heart’s still back in the Middle East.

Your new home is here with me.

Just the two of us. Now. Together.

Enjoying this moment. Hoping that it’ll be forever.

Creative Writing Horror

My Superpower Was Helping Doug Onto The Other Side

I knew what happened when I saw the scene:

Doug caressed the revolver and whispered to it. And it whispered back. The bullet entered Doug’s head, and it ruptured his eyeball.

That hateful machinery of death:

1. continued across the orbital wall and through his ethmoid sinuses, which are those hollow areas around the nose, and
2. it fractured his frontal sinus, causing the leakage of cerebrospinal fluid;
3. the bullet missed the major arteries of the sinuses — this ensured that there won’t be any more bleeding.

Finally, that 7.82-mm intention of death whistled past his left orbital floor and out above his left cheekbone.

I held Doug’s hand, staunched the gushing of blood from his eye, and told him a lie: Everything will be alright.

But it was a safe lie, a good lie. Doug died with me plugging his eye socket with a towel. It’s better that he calls it a night instead of living a miserable existence in this life.

I felt his heart flutter, and he gave one final wink with his good eye. I sighed with relief, because we were in agreement.

Creative Writing Horror

The Empath And The Narcissist

It started with the love bombing.

He saw me in ways I never saw myself.

He introduced me to adjectives that I liked.

He did the usual tricks — the hoovering, the gaslighting, and the use of flying monkeys.

But I feel sorry for him.

He needs a new supply.

As I kiss his lips fervently, I promise him: Relax. I’m working on it.

This is why I smile in the dark. So no one can see.

No one can see how much I enjoy his suffering.

But he knows as much as I do that no one will put up with his tantrums.

I know the tricks people play and the things that they say.

He always used to drive fast.

It’s always as if he was running away from something.

I think it is from me.

Creative Writing Love

How This Love Ended

They both died holding each other.

One died with bitterness. The other with longing.

She thought: They were meant to be.

He was bitter because he felt this life was wasted with her.

She was still longing for him even in death. Even in nothingness.

Their families carried both their bodies on a cart on a long and dusty road.

If was on the 50th bump on the road that both bodies fell to the ground.

This is where they were buried.

As with all things in nature, transformation happened.

Both he and she changed: he into a scorpion and she into a butterfly.

One was destined to a new life of dealing death propelled by rage.

The other a life of longing for the sweetness of nectar.

The scorpion looked at the butterfly and thought he knew her.

She looked at him and wondered why she felt an attraction to something evil and deadly.

That thought lasted just a second.

They went on their way: one, to deal death, and the other to give life.

And this is how their one-time love ended in separation.

Creative Writing Love

Stockholm Syndrome And This Thing Called Love

How can I expect someone broken to fix me?

Maybe because there’s no choice.

Maybe because he’s just good with words.

The real reason is that he hurts me the way I want.

Bruised lips, black eyes, fractured wrists, and a whole recipe of pain. This is what I know as love.

He promises to change, and lay kisses softly like gossamer on the places he has bruised and broken.

And that’s when I know that everything will be okay. That he still loves me.

Yet nothing much has changed, because I know, and that is why I still sleep with the light on.