Uma Bhat

United States of America

High School sophomore with a passion for journalism, content creation, politics, and all things Sherlock.

Message from Writer

Stalk me at www.landublog.wordpress.com (group) or https://unbelievablyuma.blogspot.com/ (personal) ;).
I am also an amateur journalist looking for any opportunity to ~write~.
Insta: @_umabhat

Published Work

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

Paddle to Freedom

There's something strange about the color blue.  

It envelops the space all around us. There's clear blue skies, aqua-tinted blue water, my own green-blue shawl, frosty-blue on Aseel's frostbitten fingertips as he guides the inflatable boat, a berry blue color. For miles to see, there is blue.  

But I don't know if blue is a good thing. I have regrets that paint my being as bright as the cobalt that now streaks the sky -- leaving home will be testing. We’ve been drifting for so long that it seems like time doesn’t exist.

I feel blue right now.
 

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2019

Dreamer


Be careful not to get beat   
There's tumult on the noisy street
Don't walk towards the rowdy neighbors   
Your place is with the rest of the laborers   
 
While pandemonium surrounds the towering houses  
Make sure to protect the brand new blouses  
Hand them in without a stain  
Or the snobby daughters will complain   
 
When you turn in your keys and lock the door  
Don't make a sound while they snore  
Otherwise, you face the consequence   
No more money, no more rent   
 
Don't get caught with your hands in your pockets  
Or else the authorities will start submitting dockets   
On your way back from work, during the rest of the long trek back  
Make sure you're with someone, there's always a possibility of being sacked   
 
If they catch you with your eyes down 
Arms up, there's no room for dirty browns 
Don't stand when you're together, stay five feet apart 
They don't like that, the fighting will...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2019

Dreamer


Be careful not to be beat   
There's tumult on the noisy street
Don't walk towards the rowdy neighbors   
Your place is with the rest of the laborers   
 
While pandemonium surrounds the houses  
Make sure to protect the satin blouses  
Hand them in without a stain  
Or the snobby daughters will complain   
 
When you turn in your keys and lock the door  
Don't make a sound while they snore  
Otherwise, you face the consequence   
No more money, no more rent   
 
Don't get caught with your hands in your pockets  
Or else the authorities will start submitting dockets   
On your way back from work, during the rest of the long trek back  
Make sure you're with someone, there's always a possibility of being sacked   
 
If they catch you with your eyes down 
Arms up, there's no room for dirty browns 
Don't stand together, stay five feet apart 
They don't like that, the lashes will start 
 
Free time?...

Weak

There's tumult on the street
Be careful not to be beat 
By the rowdy neighbors 
Your place is with the rest of the laborers 

While vehement pandemoniums surround the houses
Make sure to protect the satin blouses
Hand them in without a stain
Or the snobby daughters will complain 

When you turn in your keys and lock the door
Don't make a sound while they snore
Otherwise, you face the consequence 
No more money, no more rent 

Don't get caught with your hands in your pockets
Or else the authorities will start submitting dockets 
On your way back from work, on the rest of the long trek back
Make sure you're with friends, there's always a possibility of being sacked 

Friends worn by time welcome you home
The rest of your family are no more
But it's all okay, close your eyes to sleep 
Only the weak have time to weep 

Weak

There's tumult on the street
Be careful not to be beat 
By the rowdy neighbors 
Your home is with the rest of the laborers 

While vehement pandemoniums surround the houses
Make sure to protect the satin blouses
Hand them in without a stain
Or the snobby daughters will complain 

Friends worn by time welcome you home
The rest of your family are no more
But it's all okay, close your eyes to sleep 
Only the weak have time to weep 

Weak

There's tumult on the street
Be careful not to be beat 
By the rowdy neighbors 
Your home is with the rest of the laborers 

While vehement pandemoniums surround the houses
Make sure to protect the satin blouses
Hand them in without a speck 
Or the snobby daughters will lament 

Altruistic friends welcome you home
The rest of your family are no more
But it's all okay, close your eyes to sleep 
Only the weak have time to weep 

Normal

Norma was a quiet girl.
If you added an “l”, her name would reflect her exterior appearance; bland, ordinary, draped in white that made her look like a petite ghost.
Her arms were always covered with flowing cloth, and her eyes were always dazed, as if she was viewing her own life from afar.
Her lips were always slightly cracked and dry, slightly opened but never moving.
Her hair was long and straight, but it never bounced or glowed in the sun.
Her face was fair, untouched by the sun or the cruelty of nature.
    But behind her veil was a length of cascading red tentacles, wrapping around her waist and constricting her.
    Norma was a quiet girl.

Open Prompt

E U P H O R I A

    Suddenly it was like the world had come to an end, crashing and crumbling while the only noise other than the maelstrom was my own violent screams as I fell into never-ending darkness — and then, it had suddenly revived itself to become the doorway to a sliver of coziness: a wooden room that allowed the sunlight to glaze inhabitants with warmth.
    A pale hand then made it’s way into my peripheral vision. Without a word, it clutched my hand and pulled me up to face its owner: a mysterious face, eerily familiar yet blurred and hazy in my memory. Long, cold fingertips brushed away locks of my cascading hair, and sunlight that had once been filtered hit my visage with full force.
    The room was silent except for the perpetual whirring of a rotating fan and the creak of the floors caused by any slight movement.
    “It seems like you had a nice break.” The voice penetrated the silence,...

Open Prompt

E U P H O R I A

Suddenly it was like the world had come to an end, crashing and crumbling while the only noise other than the maelstrom was my own violent screams as I fell into never-ending darkness — and then, it had suddenly revived itself to become the doorway to a sliver of coziness: a wooden room that allowed the sunlight to glaze inhabitants with warmth.

A pale hand then made it’s way into my peripheral vision. Without a word, it clutched my hand and pulled me up to face its owner: a mysterious face, eerily familiar yet blurred and hazy in my memory. Long, cold fingertips brushed away locks of my cascading hair, and sunlight that had once been filtered hit my visage with full force.

The room was silent except for the perpetual whirring of a rotating fan and the creak of the floors caused by any slight movement.

“It seems like you had a nice break.” The voice penetrated the silence,...

Science Fiction Competition 2018

You Vs. Me

January 17th, 2905
Day 1 of The End Of The World
If history books last beyond 2910, I’m giving them legal rights to this shitty notebook that I got from Dollar Tree for two bucks. I know it’s “illegal” to record your thoughts when you work for the government, but I think documenting an attack on humanity itself would qualify for an exemption. Hopefully this won’t become an object of controversy after the planet goes ka-boom.
Yesterday was a hell of a day. I bought a cup of coffee. I mulled over the news while chewing on a cruddy excuse for a bagel. I walked to work. I watched NASA drown in utter chaos over a little message from what are presumably aliens (with a dead astronaut for good measure). Not everyone gets to experience that.
NASA has a pretty large computer sector; there’s essentially ten or twenty rooms on campus dedicated to the things. Sure, we all may...

Exported

    It had been four hours since the navy blue seal of a suburban North Carolinian suburb had faded from her sight, but her calloused hands were already pressed against the chilled windows of an one-way flight to Mexico, longing to return to their natural habitat. It was ironic that she and her family had been given American Airlines tickets considering that they had just been deported; it seemed like fate had decided to rub salt in their wide-open wounds. But more than angry, Jo - no, Juana - was disillusioned. And maybe hungry for something other than boxed enchiladas reheated in a microwave.

End Of The Line

    I never knew that an arm could break in so many painful ways. Both of them, actually. Apparently it’s not a good idea to climb a tree with chains on your shoes because you are guaranteed to fall flat on your head unless you block it with your arms - which are in turn busted.
    At least it’s better than having severe brain damage.
    “How did you do this to yourself?” The attending doctor asks. I’m propped up on a blue mattress that reeks of a sterilized cleaning agent. 
    I point to my shoes. “I fell from a tree because my shoes got caught. Face first. These things-“ I raise my thickly bandaged arms. “saved the ER an on operation on my brain.” 
    “Well your brain is already busted.” Samantha grumbles from her spot on the waiting chair across the room. She’s supposed to be a kind older sister helping out a poor, broken-armed kid,...

Ashes

Paper, after paper, after paper, cavorting as they float to the ground. I stand in the center of their pile, mesmerized by their text; I soak it in and breathe it out, inundate my brain with their information, ingraining it and remembering it for a lifetime. Eyes, after eyes, after eyes, staring at me and searching into the depths of my soul, striving to uncover a built-up façade. I look into them with confidence and attempt to uncover the secrets of others; I feel sonder as I find some stories that I would have never known about, yet want to desperately read more into them. Match, after match, after match, thrown onto the papers and eyes and whatever other small artifacts make up my life, igniting them with a sad yet hopeful flame of renewal, like a phoenix. Their ashes slowly blow away in the wind, lost in an endless stream of blue. 

Random Poetry

Warm water was traded in for ruthless, crashing waves;
The liveliness was reduced to a mere group of sailors, their vests and rainscoats fluttering in the wind.
Rain pelted down onto the streets, slamming them angrily as it screamed and screeched,
Desiring to claim back what was once its counterpart.
The brisk, mid-morning air, once cool and crisp,
Now swept the streets, in search of prey,
Whipping and lashing angrily.
The hum of life in the city, once forming a perfect orchestra,
Was now dismantled,
Producing only some random strokes here and there -
But largely silent.
Yet, a bead of light slipped through my window,
A sliver of it illuminating the hard oak floors,
And I knew there was hope to go on.

Existence (Based off a Prompt in my Creative Writing class)

A feeling of euphoria settles over me as I stand atop a hill, breeze washing over me as I admire delicate orchids blooming across vast stretches of grassy green fields. Suddenly it’s like the weight of the world has been lifted off of my shoulders: I feel light enough to drift away with the wind, strong enough to lift the snow-covered mountains that pop up in my peripheral vision, free enough to run and dance without caring.
There are hazy memories that meander around my mind, but they lurk in corners and crevices that I can’t reach into far enough. Somehow I want to leave them there and frolic in this vacant space, doing whatever I want, feeling whatever I want, being whoever I want.
But I wasn’t completely unencumbered; from those little crevices came voices, holding me down, tying me into the ground like stakes holding a tent. “This isn’t real.”
Reality is a gift that I’d rather not...

Existence (Based off a Prompt in my Creative Writing class)

A feeling of euphoria settles over me as I stand atop a hill, breeze washing over me as I admired delicate orchids blooming across vast stretches of grassy green fields. Suddenly it’s like the weight of the world has been lifted off of my shoulders: I feel light enough to drift away with the wind, strong enough to lift the snow-covered mountains that pop up in my peripheral vision, free enough to run and dance without caring.
There are hazy memories that meander around my mind, but they lurk in corners and crevices that I can’t reach into far enough. Somehow I want to leave them there and frolic in this vacant space, doing whatever I want, feeling whatever I want, being whoever I want.
But I wasn’t completely unencumbered; from those little crevices came voices, holding me down, tying me into the ground like stakes holding a tent. “This isn’t real.”
Reality is a gift that I’d rather not...

You Vs. Me

January 17th, 2905
Day 1 of The End Of The World
If history books last beyond 2910, I’m giving them legal rights to this shitty notebook that I got from Dollar Tree for two bucks. I know it’s “illegal” to record your thoughts when you work for the government, but I think documenting an attack on humanity itself would qualify for an exemption. Hopefully this won’t become an object of controversy after the planet goes ka-boom.
Yesterday was a hell of a day. I bought a cup of coffee. I mulled over the news while chewing on a cruddy excuse for a bagel. I walked to work. I watched NASA drown in utter chaos over a little message from what are presumably aliens (with a dead astronaut for good measure). Not everyone gets to experience that.
NASA has a pretty large computer sector; there’s essentially ten or twenty rooms on campus dedicated to the things. Sure, we all may...

Turning The Page

With trembling fingers, I reach down towards the paper - once blank, now it’s filled in, words running off edges, random doodles scattered about, some random ink-seeped spots. What was once a crisp clean page is now worn and aged, but with little marks that define it; the large cutout of a star bookmarking the climax, small polaroids taped on unevenly, as if the stickiness has left residue on the authors fingers. Many older folds are left as only faded lines under the weight of the many pages - blemishes reduced, but scar still left. Words run left and right, running in my head out of focus, but the only thing I can read is: "What comes next?”


I turn the page. 

People Change

It had been a year since I had last seen him.

His wispy brown locks were parted to the right instead of the left, and there were indents on his cheeks as his chapped lips curved into what looked like a crooked smile. His jacket looked new - it was long and beige, a color he had sworn to hate on his life. And his hands, his hands, the ones that had always been warm and friendly, were shoved into the coat’s pockets.

People change.

Novel Writing Competition 2017

Love Me, Love Me Not: Prologue

When Ezra Jones moved to our small, Southern suburban neighborhood, he was a splash of paint on our blank white canvas. He had smooth, black skin covered in scabs that he often liked to pick and squeeze, and even my family thought of him as a blood-obsessed eccentric - he liked nature, he liked the color white, and the only thing anybody knew about him besides what we had observed on our own was the information announced on his first day of class at Lumpkin Middle --

“Please welcome Ezra Jones.” Mrs. O’Nelly had said. “He’s a refugee from Syria. Can anyone tell me what is going on in Syria right now?”  

Some of our class labeled him as an emotionally distressed orphan, but our small society of Democrats (one that rebelled against the conservative social norms in town - we had decided on forming the group after sneaking To Kill A Mockingbird from the public library) was convinced...

Novel Writing Competition 2017

Love Me, Love Me Not: Prologue

When Ezra Jones moved to our small, Southern suburban neighborhood, he was a splash of paint on our blank white canvas. He had smooth, black skin covered in scabs that he often liked to pick and squeeze, and even my family thought of him as a blood-obsessed eccentric - he liked nature, he liked the color white, and the only thing anybody knew about him besides what we had observed on our own was the information announced on his first day of class at Lumpkin Middle --

“Please welcome Ezra Jones.” Mrs. O’Nelly had said. “He’s a refugee from Syria. Can anyone tell me what is going on in Syria right now?”  

Some of our class labeled him as an emotionally distressed orphan, but our small society of Democrats was convinced of the fact that he was secretly a war-struck peace activist adopted by the Jones’ to prove a point: our white as frick neighborhood needed to learn that...

A Reawakening

    Julius Caesar. 
    Michael finished hammering the final pieces of the smooth, white marble into place. He brushed off invisible dust from the rounder nose time. It was perfect. 
    Though in the honor of Julius Caesar's death, nevertheless, it was his greatest masterpiece. Etched onto the bottom of the marble marvel was a simple epitaph, a line from one of Caesar's journals. 
Michael slid his hand over the stone. It was cold to the touch, and his fingertips tingled from the sensation. He sighed, dissatisfied. 
    Tomorrow, they would take away the Masonry's most prized sculpture; the funeral attendees would most likely only give a cursory glance at the statue. Micheal believed that it was worthy of more attention. It had taken almost two weeks to complete the final product, a perfectly carved statue that one could slide his fingers over and nearly feel the essence of Caesar within. 
    His gaze flickered towards the long, wooden rectangular box in which the body of Caesar was...

Wish Upon A Coin

The last signs of winter had slowly begun to fade, yet the air was still cool and crisp as Kairos biked through groups of tourists and students towards Puffe, a small cafe that sold the best cappuccinos in downtown London. Puffe was a small shop; its interior was mostly comprised of oak and little antiques like old moose antlers and signed pictures of frequents.
A small fan whirred as she placed her order, and the man who waited at the register eyed her as she slid a few crinkled bills towards him.
“Ma’am.” He said gruffly, holding up the bills and shaking his hand.
    Kai lifted her gaze towards the man, piercing eyes the color of nutmeg. The man looked old, perhaps in his seventies or eighties, and had wisps of white hair popping from his chin and around his bushy eyebrows. As he spoke, she noticed his abnormally yellowed teeth.
    “Yes sir?” She took an earbud out...

Flight 93-F to the Death

    All of us sat in the corner of the large hangar, solemnly staring at one another and knowing that this moment could be our last one of peace. Our mouths were pressed in deep lines, breaths heavy and with purpose. Not us. Not us. Not us. 
    The captain made his way in through the thin hangar opening, bringing word. 
    We're ready. We're ready. We're ready.
    Four seatbelts clicked into place as we shot along the runway and towards whatever fate lay ahead of us. My heart pounded in my chest, and butterflies swarmed in my stomach as we lifted off the ground. We're flying. We're flying. We're flying. 
    Fifteen minutes out, and our place jolt and shakes violently. Captains brings words of bad news.
    Engine shot. Engine shot. Engine shot. 
    Some try to jump out, but their cries of terror ring in my ears and I try to block the sounds out....

Flight 93-F to the Death

    All of us sat in the corner of the large hangar, solemnly staring at one another and knowing that this moment could be our last moment of peace. Our mouths were pressed in deep lines, breaths heavy and with purpose. Not us. Not us. Not us. 
    The captain made his way in through the thin hangar opening, bringing word. 
    We're ready. We're ready. We're ready.
    Four seatbelts clicked into place as we shot along the runway and towards whatever fate lay ahead of us. My heart pounded in my chest, and butterflies swarmed in my stomach as we lifted off the ground. We're flying. We're flying. We're flying. 
    Fifteen minutes out, and our place jolt and shakes violently. Captains brings words of bad news.
    Engine shot. Engine shot. Engine shot. 
    Some try to jump out, but their cries of terror ring in my ears and I try to block the sounds out....

Theatrics

The stage is set.
Floors have been mopped, trash is thrown away, tables arranged, cutlery laid out, and space made. The curtain trembles as it slowly opens to reveal the actors: one man, one woman, and two girls.
They sit, and smile, and eat their dinner while making small talk, nodding and smiling in sync. The lines have been drilled into their heads: please pass me the potatoes, oh yes, here you are, thank you. 
As the curtains close for a brief intermission, the audience does not notice the trouble behind them. The actors try their best to fit into their perfect roles, but it's hard, and they stumble a bit. The girl forgets her lines and says something else instead. The woman gets stressed with her role. The male's voice is too loud - he can be heard from outside of the theater. The little girl is too quiet when she says her lines. But the audience does not...

Theatrics

The stage is set.
Floors have been mopped, trash is thrown away, tables arranged, cutlery laid out, and space made. The curtain trembles as it slowly opens to reveal the actors: one man, one woman, and two girls.
They sit, and smile, and eat their dinner while making small talk, nodding and smiling in sync. The lines have been drilled into their heads: please pass me the potatoes, oh yes, here you are, thank you. 
As the curtains close for a brief intermission, the audience does not notice the trouble behind them. The actors try their best to fit into their perfect roles, but it's hard, and they stumble a bit. The girl forgets her lines and says something else instead. The woman gets stressed with her role. The male, in tension, drinks a bit too much from the wine sitting on the table. The little girl is too quiet and avoids everyone. But the audience does not notice. 
The...

Returning

Baltimore Blues

As the bus turns in towards the bustling city's gateway - two glass skyscrapers and a couple of towering lampposts - I wonder if my memories have failed me. The girl next to me nudges my arm to offer a cookie, but I shake my head and ignore her, instead choosing to remain focused as we roll into the Harborside; this is where everything starts and ends, where the ocean meets the sun, where boats meet water, where food meets the seaside, where old meets new. Outside, there are various groups of people smoking cigars, or carrying shopping bags as they roam around the chaotic streets. The old capital is placed in the center of outdoor shopping malls and business corporations with buildings that are sky-high. When the doors open, I'm the first to step out and admire the hustle of the city; there it is, the same glass aquarium in the photos where I was no older than four years...

In Your Dreams

There's only one place where all your hearts desires lie; a place so vast, one in which you are the king or queen. This is a land that is full of unexpected treasures, lying in chests and waiting to be opened. It is a city of chaotic fun, messy roads, and corners of mystery - there are always new sights to be seen, new people to be met. If you'd like, they'd worship you without hesitation. Or if you wouldn't like, they'd pester you. Here, people surround you, no matter if they're friend, foe, family. Everything is unlimited; they come in quantities that cannot be held in a simple box. Ask for any wish and it will be granted. 
Your happiness lies here. This is your pleasure, leisure, your escape. Here, there will always be fun and adventure awaiting you. 
Perhaps one day this Utopia will become our reality. 

Returning

Baltimore Blues

As the bus turns in towards the bustling city's gateway - two glass skyscrapers and a couple of towering lampposts - I wonder if my memories have failed me. The girl next to me nudges my arm to offer a cookie, but I shake my head and ignore her, instead choosing to remain focused as we roll into the Harborside; this is where everything starts and ends, where the ocean meets the sun, where America meets International, where boats meet water, where food meets the seaside, where old meets new. Outside, there are various groups of people smoking cigars, or carrying shopping bags as they roam around the chaotic streets. The old capital is placed in the center of outdoor shopping malls and business corporations with buildings that are sky-high. When the doors open, I'm the first to step out and admire the hustle of the city; there it is, the same glass aquarium in the photos where I was no...

A Reawakening

    Julius Caesar. 
    Michael finished hammering the final pieces of the smooth, white marble into place. He brushed off invisible dust from the rounder nose time. It was perfect. 
    Though in the honor of Julius Caesar's death, nevertheless, it was his greatest masterpiece. Etched onto the bottom of the marble marvel was a simple epitaph, a line from one of Caesar's journals. 
Michael slid his hand over the stone. It was cold to the touch, and his fingertips tingled from the sensation. He sighed, dissatisfied. 
    Tomorrow, they would take away the Masonry's most prized sculpture; the funeral attendees would most likely only give a cursory glance at the statue. Micheal believed that it was worthy of more attention. It had taken almost two weeks to complete the final product, a perfectly carved statue that one could slide his fingers over and nearly feel the essence of Caesar within. 
    His gaze flickered towards the long, wooden rectangular box in which the body of Caesar...

Mirror, Mirror

Mirrors are the world's worst enemy.
They strip away the outside and show us all our hidden secrets; each insecurity, each flaw, each red-spotted blemish, each patch of skin that somehow seems darker than the others.
Mirrors consume us; the gobble up our exterior and spit out the raw, ugly inside: you're ugly. you're not good enough. you'll never look as good as her. 
We may be perfect in our heads, but when it's time to look in the mirror, we can see how much weight we've gained, how horrible our nose shapes are, how chubby our cheeks are. The mirror will always be lurking, waiting to taunt us and mock all the hard work we've done to prove it wrong. 
But the mirror only gets into our heads if we let it.
 

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Ephemeral

She takes a step onto the side of the large, red mass of stone. Ahead is crystal blue water, and behind is regret. 

She gingerly lifts her sun-kissed foot, raising it towards the ocean. It's a calculated risk; she won't die, she will get in trouble, and she'll have remorse in her conscience if she can't fulfill her desire to rush towards the angry waters and jump, to have the wind whip as she drops towards the unknown depths, to have her stomach fall along with her petite body into the crashing waves. 

It's much easier in her head.

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Ephemeral

She takes a step onto the side of the large, red mass of stone. Ahead is crystal blue water, and behind is regret. 

She gingerly lifts her sun-kissed foot, raising it towards the ocean. It's a calculated risk; she won't die, she will get in trouble, and she'll have remorse in her conscience if she can't fulfill her desire to rush towards the angry waters and jump, to have the wind whip as she drops towards the unknown depths, to have her stomach fall along with her small body into the crashing waves. 

It's much easier in her head.

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Ephemeral

She takes a step onto the side of the large, red mass of stone. Ahead is crystal blue water, and behind is regret. 

She gingerly lifts her sun-kissed foot, raising it towards the ocean. It's a calculated risk; she won't die, she will get in trouble, and she'll have remorse in her conscience if she can't fulfill her desire to rush towards the angry waters and jump, to have the wind whip as she drops towards the unknown depths, to have her stomach fall along with her petite body into the crashing waves. 

It's much easier in her head.

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Ephemeral

She takes a step onto the side of the large, red mass of stone. Ahead is crystal blue water, and behind is regret. 

She gingerly lifts her sun-kissed foot, raising it towards the ocean. It's a calculated risk; she won't die, she will get in trouble, and she'll have remorse in her conscience if she can't fulfill her desire to rush towards the angry waters and jump, to have the wind whip as she drops towards the unknown depths, to have her stomach fall along with her tanned body into the crashing waves. 

It's much easier in her head.

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Ephemeral

She takes a step onto the side of the large, red mass of stone. Ahead is crystal blue water, and behind is regret. 

She gingerly lifts her sun-kissed foot, raising it towards the ocean. It's a calculated risk; she won't die, she will get in trouble, and she'll have remorse in her conscience if she can't fulfill her desire to rush towards the angry waters and jump, to have her skirt flutter as she drops towards the unknown depths, to have her stomach fall along with her tanned body into the crashing waves. 

It's much easier in her head.

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Ephemeral

She takes a step onto the side of the large, red mass of stone. Ahead is crystal blue water, and behind is regret. 

She gingerly lifts her sun-kissed foot, raising it towards the ocean. It's a calculated risk; she won't die, she will get in trouble, and she'll have remorse in her conscience if she can't fulfill her desire to rush towards the calm water and jump, to have her skirt flutter as she drops towards the unknown depths, to have her stomach fall along with her tanned body into the crashing waves. 

It's much easier in her head.

A Dead Man's Prayer

It's sad to see how little people value each other's lives.
It is all too easy for one man of a different view to kill another of an opposing. It is all too easy for another woman to shout slurs at a woman who has never met her but is of a different skin color. It is all too easy for an adult to raise a child and instill hatred within them. It is all too easy for a person to kill those who will not stand beside them. 
Is this what I died for? 
Is this what people do with their gift from Above?
Is this what we stand for, is this what we united for?
Is this what a leader's vision is?
Is this what our world will become?
I pray for a better future for them all. 
 

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Ephemeral

She takes a step onto the side of the large, red mass of stone. Ahead is crystal blue water, and behind is regret. 

She gingerly lifts her sun-kissed foot, raising it towards the ocean. It's a calculated risk; she won't die, she will get in trouble, and she'll have remorse in her conscience if she can't fulfill her desire to rush towards the calm water and jump, to have her skirt flutter as she drops towards the unknown, to have her stomach fall along with her tanned, petite body. 

It's much easier in her head.

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Ephemeral

She takes a step onto the side of the large, red mass of stone. Ahead is crystal blue water, and behind is regret. 

She gingerly lifts her sun-kissed foot, raising it towards the water. It's a calculated risk; she won't die, she will get in trouble, and she'll have remorse in her conscience if she can't fulfill her desire to rush towards the calm water and jump, to have her skirt flutter as she drops towards the unknown, to have her stomach fall along with her tanned, petite body. 

It's much easier in her head.

Divided Valley

    In a place where snowy-mountains dot the skyline, where delicate pink-petaled tulips bloom across vast stretches of grassy green fields, where three different cultures join as one to do the laundry in crystal blue lakes, is a divided valley. This is no ordinary place; it is where there is a melting pot of religions. Each person is different in features and beliefs, but the same at heart. 

    But nobody acknowledges this sameness. 

    They fight. They stain the beautiful colors of the once-peaceful valley with blood. They attack one another, they torture each other, they kill each other in the most brutal ways mankind has ever heard of.

    Though they both believe they are fighting in the name of peace, they won't stop to look at their sameness. The land is both of theirs; each rose-tinted wooden home, each intricately carved wooden boat stained with the colors of nature, every mountain and valley and tulip. 
...

Divided Valley

    In a place where snowy-mountains dot the skyline, where delicate pink-petaled tulips bloom across vast stretches of grassy green fields, where three different cultures join as one to do the laundry in crystal blue lakes, is a divided valley. This is no ordinary place; it is where there is a melting pot of religions. Each person is different in features and beliefs, but the same at heart. 

    But nobody acknowledges this sameness. 

    They fight. They stain the beautiful colors of the once-peaceful valley with blood. They attack one another, they torture each other, they kill each other in the most brutal ways mankind has ever heard of.

    Though they both believe they are fighting in the name peace, they won't stop to look at their sameness. The land is both of theirs; each rose-tinted wooden home, each intricately carved wooden boat stained with the colors of nature, every mountain and valley and tulip. 

 ...

Subaah

The scent of turmeric drifts through the house, lingering in each nook and cranny. A small pot rests on a stove within the kitchen, holding water mixed with cardamom, ginger, tea, and spice; it bubbles and boils as an aged, honey tone hand stirs it gently, and strains it into a cup of ​dooth. 

The hand has a light touch -- it sets the cup away, and begins rolling out a mound of dough into the perfect circle, heating it on a flat, black pan that has been charred by multiple years of culture and tradition.

Once more, a musky smell settles into each room. 

On a patterned sofa, a man's face is covered by the newspaper. He flips through it, eyeing the second floor of the house as if something is about to be stolen. He clicks on a nearby fan to cool his wife and himself off; it is another blistering day, but so is Mother Nature. 

Golden...

Subaah

The scent of turmeric drifts through the house, lingering in each nook and cranny. A small pot rests on a stove within the kitchen, holding a pot filled with cardamom, ginger, tea, and spice; it bubbles and boils as an aged, honey tone hand stirs it gently, and strains it into a cup of ​dooth. 

The hand has a light touch -- it sets the cup away, and begins rolling out a mound of dough into the perfect circle, heating it on a flat, black pan that has been charred by multiple years of culture and tradition.

Once more, a musky smell settles into each room. 

On a patterned sofa, a man's face is covered by the newspaper. He flips through it, eyeing the second floor of the house as if something is about to be stolen. He clicks on a nearby fan to cool his wife and himself off; it is another blistering day, but so is Mother Nature. 
...

Empty

Emptiness is a writer's best friend. 

It is only when something is empty that a writer can fill the blank space. On a blank piece of paper, on a screen with no content, anywhere that is nothingness, is a writer's home made. 

When something is empty, only a writer can create the magic of new worlds, new people, new minds, a new outlook, a new leaf. Only a writer can create the small nook that minds can delve into and savor. Only a writer can unleash power with his pencil. Only a writer can open new portals and mindsets. 

What starts as a thought can flourish into something magical. 

Living in Music

Klanga

If most writers on this website will take a look at my profile, they'll see a line that involves both my disapproval and enthusiasm for politics. And if some of the writers get to know me, they'll know I'm an EDM enthusiast as well. Naturally, my favorite song is a mix of both.

Klanga, by Gostan, is a EDM song with lyrics that mix late President Kennedy's speech during the Cold War. The main lyrics state, "2000 years ago, the proudest boast was ​civis romanus sum. Today, in a world of freedom, the proudest boast is ​Ich Bin Ein Berliner", meaning that (during the 1950s) the proudest boast a man could make was that he was a Berliner. 

However, it's not the lyrics that appeal to me; rather, it is the modern sense. EDM is a modern music, and mixing contemporary with the old can clash. In contrast to this notion, Klanga successfully blends these two styles seamlessly, and...

Living in Music

Klanga

If most writers on this website will take a look at my profile, they'll see a line that involves both my disapproval and enthusiasm for politics. And if some of the writers get to know me, they'll know I'm an EDM enthusiast as well. Naturally, my favorite song is a mix of both.

Klanga, by Gostan, is a EDM song with lyrics that mix late President Kennedy's speech during the Cold War. The main lyrics state, "2000 years ago, the proudest boast was ​civis romanus sum. Today, in a world of freedom, the proudest boast is ​Ich Bin Ein Berliner", meaning that (during the 1950s), the proudest boast a man could make was that he was a Berliner. 

However, it's not the lyrics that appeal to me; rather, it is the modern sense. EDM is a modern music, and mixing contemporary with the old can clash. In contrast to this notion, Klanga successfully blends these two styles seamlessly, and...

Bucket List

Prologue: 

I have no idea when I’m going to die, but I have a pretty good prediction that it’s going to be sometime soon.
    Do I mind? No. Everybody dies at some point, and my time is just a little bit sooner than all of theirs. The only thing I do mind is the bleakness of the same, white, antiseptic-smelling hospital room that I’ve been confined to for the past two years. Maybe mom thinks that just being in the hospital will preserve my life somehow.
    But it’s not. Because I overheard.
    Mom is still sitting still in the slightly torn vinyl chair right outside of my room. I think she’s feeling torn right now.
Maybe I'm supposed to be feeling the same way, but for some reason, I just can’t bring myself to. There was nothing I had to look forward to, besides this room, the cake mom gave me after bland hospital dinners, and a...

Bucket List

Prologue: 

I have no idea when I’m going to die, but I have a pretty good prediction that it’s going to be sometime soon.
    Do I mind? No. Everybody dies at some point, and my time is just a little bit sooner than all of theirs. The only thing I do mind is the bleakness of the same, white, antiseptic-smelling hospital room that I’ve been confined to for the past two years. Maybe mom thinks that just being in the hospital will preserve my life somehow.
    But it’s not. Because I overheard.
    Mom is still sitting still in the slightly torn vinyl chair right outside of my room. I think she’s feeling torn right now.
Maybe I'm supposed to be feeling the same way, but for some reason, I just can’t bring myself to. There was nothing I had to look forward to, besides this room, the cake mom gave me after bland hospital dinners, and a...

Bucket List

Prologue: 

I have no idea when I’m going to die, but I have a pretty good prediction that it’s going to be sometime soon.
    Do I mind? No. Everybody dies at some point, and my time is just a little bit sooner than all of theirs. The only thing I do mind is the bleakness of the same, white, antiseptic-smelling hospital room that I’ve been confined to for the past two years. Maybe mom thinks that just being in the hospital will preserve my life for maybe a few more years.
    But it’s not. Because I overheard.
    Mom is still sitting still in the slightly torn vinyl chair right outside of my room. I think she’s feeling torn right now.
Maybe I'm supposed to be feeling the same way, but for some reason, I just can’t bring myself to. There was nothing I had to look forward to, besides this room, the cake mom gave me after...