Through the doorframe, I could see him sitting on the bathroom floor. Curled up against the wall, hugging his knees.
I approached him and noticed the burnt up cigarettes on the floor. He had smoked at least a package and the smell still lingered, even with the window open.
I sat down next to him and he looked up. His bloodshot eyes met mine and they filled with tears, slowly running down the trail that had been left from previous crying. I didn’t know what to say, or even if I should say something.
Red lipstick and a perfume bottle still lay on the sink, a pink robe smelling of lavender still hung on one of the hooks. Her diary still remains on the bedside table in their bedroom and her dirty clothes still lay in their laundry basket. She had been there that morning, but suddenly she wasn’t anymore.
I noticed that he clenched something in his fists and...
Flash Fiction Competition 2019
There had never been a brown boy on their streets before.
So when he ran past the million-dollar villas and the expensive sports cars along with their white teenage neighbor, they were bound to look.
As their clapping flip flops hit the asphalt, the curtains opened.
As they crossed the football field, the wives had joined their husbands.
As they took off their shirts, the whole family looked through the windows.
And as he slipped on the wooden jetty, and she cried out for help, they looked away.
There still hadn't been a brown boy on their streets.
It was a cold October day that Emilie realized that she and Rami didn't work anymore. She sat in her office, editing next month's edition, that she understood. They'd been fighting a lot, and for a long time. It just didn't work anymore; both of them had been thoroughly hurt, all the way into the darkest parts of their hearts. He had thrown wine bottles after her and she had smashed plates in his direction.
Now, it wasn't that they didn't love each other, because they did, they loved each other more than anything else. But their love was an infected wound, and they didn't have the means to care for it.
When Rami came home that night he knew what would happen the moment he stepped through the door. Emelie didn't have to say a word, he saw it on her. The sunken shoulders, the messy let down hair and the...
I will never forget the sound of a gunshot. The silent click of a trigger, and then a piercing yet deafening sound. It was over before I had the chance to react. One second he was standing next to me, the next his body is shielding mine, and the third he's lifeless in my arms.
Time moved so strangely that night. We were walking through a dark passage. Hand in hand we were laughing and it felt as though the night would never end, and I didn't want it to.
We never even noticed that we’d walked straight into a staredown between two groups of people. They started yelling and pulled out weapons. Their words went in slow motion, and as if someone pushed a 'fast forward' button, morning was there and I was alone.
If I could go back in time, If I could relive a minute of my life, I would go back to this moment: an...
Time moves too slow for me, my future is too far away and I can’t wait for what’s to come. When I finish school,
When I get my dream job,
when I fall in love,
when I’m awoken by gentle cheek kisses,
when I sink into my husbands arms after a long day at work.
But amongst all this dreaming I find myself loosing moments, It’s no longer my 16th summer,
I’m no longer tanned and freckled,
I’m no longer with my best friend in Amsterdam, wondering which museum we should go to today,
I’m no longer reading the book I wanted to finish,
I’m no longer laying next to him, slowly running my nails over his skin.
He’s no longer next to me. My chance is no longer mine,
As I lay here, the frozen grass hugging my almost naked body, I gaze into the dark night.
I stretch out my hand towards the sky, my pale fingers almost touching the stars.
The birds sing in harmony with the leafs’s whistling and the waves die soundly as they hit the shoreline.
Fireflies are glowing under the trees and the moon lights up my face, shining it’s grace over my blue lips and red eyes.
I am out of place here. My smudged lipstick and black eyeliner does not belong among these natural organisms.
But somehow it blends in like nothing else. The contrast between my bleak skin and vibrant makeup, the distinct difference in the firey bugs and the cold beach rocks.
A tear roll down my face and I am at peace.
Should this be what dying is like, I’m okay with that.
I’m not a n g r y that she drinks.
I’m not even d i s a p p o i n t e d . Or s u r p r i s e d .
In fact, I don’t care if she drinks.
Almost every seventeen year old drinks.
And she’s responsible and capable of defending herself.
So I’m not s c a r e d that she’ll get hurt.
We’ve known each other for four years. And she never told me. It never struck her mind, and it never came up.
But she told other people.
People I introduced her to.
Biking without hands - a short story
As I'm riding my bike through the endless countryside fields in the middle of the rain, I reminisce.
My best friend would always let go of the handle when she rode her bike, but I never understood why people do that. What if there was a pebble in the middle of the road? You wouldn't even be able to touch the handlebar before you lay face down in the ditch. But she would always let go and stretch out her arms, her fingertips as far from each other as possible. It was like they were wings on a bird.
Perhaps she wished that she was a bird, so she could fly far away. Perhaps she hoped that she would lift from the ground and take off to new places, somewhere where everything was good.
Grace and I would always bike into town together, I lived closer so we'd meet at mine for breakfast.
They did it again,
They verbally hit me,
They said bad things about me,
I know exactly how to break them,
I know exactly the words that pain them,
I know exactly where to poke for it to
Hurt the most.
Still, I let other people hurt me,
Still, I don’t use them,
Still, I wonder why.
Why don’t I protect myself?
Why don’t I hit back?
Why don’t I give them what they deserve?
My Monday night
I hit my head,
some days ago
when I fell,
from my toes.
all over me,
on the floor,
to my knees.
In horror she called,
and my neighbour came,
on her lap,
is where I lay.
Call an ambulace,
are words I heard,
when my breaths were short,
and sight blurred.
Go by yourselves,
it will go quicker,
to the ER,
no time to bicker.
I lay down,
a towel to my head,
in the car,
is where I bled.
I can't stand,
she's way too pale,
give me her hand.
A red ribbon,
around my wrist,
not enough nurses,
and a long list.
Mother and father,
when it's my turn,
Seven long hours,
for fifteen minutes stitching,
a very nice lady,
and my bitching.
A hopeless night,
ends in peace,
finally at home,
Statistics of my life
Times born: 1
Times I died: 0
Times I thought I'd die: 147
Times I was actually close to dying: 4
Age (physical): 16
Age (Mental): 3 or 86 (depending on the day)
Age of my selfhatred: 4
Age of my selflove: 1
Number of biological siblings: 2
Number of non-biological siblings: 1
Number of parents: 2 1/2
Number of grandparents: 6
Friends I have: 39
Friends I've lost: 33
Friends I'm close to: 5
Friends I tell almost everything: 2
Friends I tell everything: 0
Boys I liked: 15
Boys that liked me: 7
Boys that I saw on the street and briefly fell in love with: 234
Secrets I have: 15
Secrets my closest friends know: 7
Secrets my parents know: 13
Secrets only I know: 2
Number of classes I've had: 5 999
Number of classes skipped: 1
Number of teachers I've had: 57
Number of teachers I've liked: 56
Moments I've had:...
Flash Fiction Competition 2017
my hand trail the place next to me, eager to touch the warm body that always lay next to mine.
I find only the ghost of a man and the vague smell of someone that had slept there.
Like a bolt of lightning,
it struck me, I was alone.
Images flash before me,
he's waiting in the kitchen when I come home.
Packed bags on the floor, my coats hanging lonely in the hallway.
I sit in front of him,
he stands up.
I reach for his hand,
he kisses my forehead.