soymilk-scribbler

[soymilk-scribbler]

but you see her on instagram and it was never really said that you guys aren’t friends but one day she stopped answering and you stopped texting and it’s not like the wound is a cavern but it is a diagram of what if in red letters. you want to tell her nice lipstick that’s a good color but the last time you spoke it was stilted and awkward 

how do you say goodbye, you know? it’s not an unfriend and block kind of situation. but you watch the people you once loved go on and have a life and you’re outside of it. and it’s bittersweet because of course it’s okay that you’re both thriving. but she used to be who you’d call if you needed to cry. she used to be who’d you’d be binge watching the new series with. you used to be hers, in a way, even if that way wasn’t permanent. and now she’s someone else and so are you and your friendship is clicking heart shapes next to pictures where she smiles next to people you’ve never met. you know where her birthmark is. she knows where you’ve buried your dead.

the poets and the singers and the authors write about romantic love when it ends. but nobody tells you how to get over a friend.

[soymilk-scribbler]

cloudy colours

A memoir about cultural acceptance.

          The deafening crescendo of the firecrackers desperately masked the noises of off-beat clapping to a song playing over the speakers. Red and yellow banners reading Chúc Mừng Năm Mới  1 and 新年快乐 2 covered the walls of the newly built gymnasium, the bright colours practically screaming in your face. Silks of pinks and whites brushed past my arm as the fan and umbrella dancers hurried out of the girls’ bustling changeroom towards the stage. Áo dàis of every colour on the rainbow were scattered; some at their tables mingling and the others at the buffet line. These dresses were the epitome of grace, class, and beauty. I looked down at what I was wearing: constricting acid-washed jeans that were too tight to move in, and a trendy, overpriced tee from Aeropostale. Ironically, the casual attire made me stand out more than the bright banners displaying cute goat faces. I didn’t belong here. Sure, I was surrounded by Vietnamese people—people who were like me, but I wasn’t like them. I didn’t want to be like them. But I didn’t belong at school either, where kids told me I wasn’t a “real Asian” or the immigrant kids who told me I wasn’t Asian enough.

          The first time I refused to wear an áo dài was my first year of high school in a new city. My mom wasn’t angry at all. No, the pained wrinkles creasing by her brows and eyes and the lips pursed together tightly as though it had something to say—it wasn’t signifying anger. It signified hurt.  Not hurt that I had refused, but hurt because she knew our identity was what embarrassed me. But I valued a meaningless reputation more than my own culture.

          Teachers and students were eager to celebrate Multicultural Day that week, but it all seemed so strange to me. It seemed strange to wear a dress that I spent countless hours crying in because the kids at school stepped all over it in an attempt to trip me. It seemed strange to be proud of something that brought so much shame, guilt, and resentment to my life. 

          When I opened the doors of the school that day during lunch break, I was bombarded with excited chatter. Tempting aromas from the kitchen danced around the hallways, luring hungry students and their wallets towards the line. Pans sizzled, plates clanged, and coins jingled, the volume increasing as I stepped closer and closer. The kitchen staff served each person with the biggest smile on their faces, grateful to have the chance to share a part of themselves. I caught myself being swept up in the atmosphere and quickly rushed towards the gymnasium doors for the assembly before that sense of pride could overtake me. 

          I stood in front of the intimidating red doors for only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. My heart pulsated irregularly, and I felt my stomach drop to the floor as though I was on an intense roller coaster. The ride made its excruciatingly slow incline upwards as I pushed open the door, and at first, I was afraid for the steep drop. But as the roller coaster fell, it revealed new skies I’d never seen before. 

          I’d always seen the sky; it’d always been there. This coaster, though, showed me more than just my sky— it showed me everyone else’s too. It showed me the light dusty pinks, peaches, and periwinkles, blended into the deep azures, ceruleans, and royal blues—to say it was beautiful would be the greatest understatement. 

          I believed my entire life that everybody’s skies were blue, and hated mine simply because it wasn’t. That turned out to be untrue. The sky is comprised of each and every individual’s unique colours. There are days where some colours are muted by the clouds, but on the rare occasion, like Multicultural Day, every colour is on a vibrant display. Whether or not I choose to take pride in my colours, they will always be present—even on cloudy days.

          The clouds dissipated as I passed through in a trance, the sky no longer a foggy haze. Before I knew it, I was sitting at the bleachers with all my friends. The familiar sound of off-beat clapping resonated throughout the gym, but this time it was comforting. Fabrics of every kind on the stage twirled, each movement in harmony with the music.

          I spent too many years running away to find a place to fit in to, when in reality, the very thing I nearly escaped from is exactly where I was supposed to be. It was only a matter of acceptance. This, I thought, as the Portuguese dancers bowed to the audience, this is what it means to belong.

1 Happy New Year, Vietnamese

2  Happy New Year (xīn nián kuài lè), Chinese

#vietnamese #cultural acceptance #culture #diversity #ao dai #ao dai vietnam #vietnam #da nang #traditional #pho #traditional dress #memoir #bibliophile #writer #writing prompts

[soymilk-scribbler]

“irony”

I feel that walking has become another chore. I don’t think I can go on walking anymore. Forgive me for those words, I know they’re cliche to you but life is tiring. My feet are feeling sore.

I wish I could have a bit of time to heal the ache that is growing stronger all the time. But I know time stops for nobody, let alone me, so I go, inevitably. Whenever things are going rather happily, it turns out life is playing a trick on me. It’s slightly shameful to admit the truth—I end up in tears, and so returns the same old melancholy.

I miss when life was just simplicity, and misery wasn’t always chasing after me. It’s pretty obvious now, I should’ve left my regrets, but I held on to it so foolishly.

Maybe I overreact a bit—it hasn’t destroyed me yet, has it? But everything I desire is just too far to get. Honestly, it’s just me, brainlessly, so silly, always hoping for good to be. If that’s the case then just hear my plea: pick me up and drop me into unfaltering sleep.

You say to look hard for a solution, but wouldn’t that depend on the person? So I can never know—I could never believe a word anyone says. I know that everyone has their hardships; it’s fairly clear to me that I’m not alone. But how is it that they can just leave them? I just don’t know at all.

Often, I’m told I need to clean up my act, although maturity is something I lack. And so, when some simple little problems arise, I overthink them over and over again. It seems the world is just a troublesome place, so sometimes I think I should just end the pain.

“You’re sick, aren’t you dear?”

“I’m sick of the tears.”

Why can’t everything end simply? Everything I aspired to be is nothing that will become of me. If my expectations are too far-fetched, then just what am I to do? Give a sign—give a reason not to die. Give me a chance to prove my worth. I constantly search for places to cry. Why won’t these tears just stop pouring from my eyes?

It’s hard to constantly think of the same things. It’s just unnecessary to think too much. You always told me stars would guide me back home, but they only show at night. You always showed me so much kindness. I don’t deserve it—I have failed you too much. I think my tiny heart is going to split, just leave it be for now.

Step back from me. Please leave me be. This so-deceitful road I stumble on is never going to end. It’s getting difficult to maneuver, and it’s just worthless to try and run away. So I’ll just hold my hands over my ears and block out all this noise. How can I live not knowing what life is? Sometimes my dreams seem to be more realistic.

Obviously, I can’t be called happy. Then what am I, after all?

- leelee

[soymilk-scribbler]

Best Classics for all Readers

Best Classics for “Yea I’ve never even looked at a classic before” Readers:

Pride and Prejudice

The Great Gatsby

Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

The Hobbit

Animal Farm

Best Classics for “I remember doing one in school and it was alright” Readers:

Wuthering Heights

Frankenstein

Grapes of Wraith

Jane Eyre

Catcher in the Rye

Best Classics for “I’ve read a few before and like the challenge” Readers

1984

Lolita

The Outsiders

Moby Dick

Lord of the Flies

Best Classics for “I’m a seasoned vetern when it comes to classics” Readers

Les Miserables

The Count of Monte Cristo

A Tale of Two Cities

Anna Karena

Don Quixote

Best Classics for “I hate life and want a book to represent that” Readers

Ulysseus

Crime and Punishment

The Phantom of the Opera

The Art of War

War and Peace

>>>How to Read Classical Novels!

[soymilk-scribbler]

An Apple a Day

Bright eyes peer out from a small gap in the molding oak. Wooden planks securely board up every possible entrance in the run-down cabin. The trees surrounding the cabin cast shadows as the sun sets, enveloping everything in an orange-tinted darkness. Streams of dim sunlight desperately crawl through where termites have eaten away at the wood. What once used to be a flourishing, bustling campground is now an abandoned site.

It’s been a month since they’ve taken over. They took everything—my wife, my friends, and my livelihood. All quarantined in that wretched institution where they promised to care for us—to give us what we needed to live a healthy life. In reality, they used their authority to torture us with all their experimental equpiment. The propaganda they spread brainwashed the unlucky half of the city, and the  others, well, only a few are left still fighting for their freedom. Including me.

At first we thought we were safe in the city, but people pillaged everything from supermarkets to homes in desperate search of the Antidote, unafraid of hurting each other. This chaos was what they wanted; it gave their institution money and power. My family and I planned to lock ourselves inside our homes, but it wasn’t a sustainable idea. Eventually, we began to run low on the Antidote, and so we were forced to venture into the woods where people said it would be easier to gather more. I thought it would be safer there but the isolation ended up working against us.

We still had two hours left when my wife was quarantined. I was only gone for a few minutes to scout the area, but upon returning I saw them come out of nowhere and take her away right in front of my eyes. God gave me no time to mourn. The hand tightly gripping my pistol shook as I pointed it towards them. One of them hoisted her limp body over their shoulder and ran off, zig-zagging between the thick grove trunks to avoid my bullets.

It was the first time I saw one in person. They were as chilling as the others had described—all uniformly dressed in white from head to toe, with some kind of technologically advanced helmet covering their heads and a mask covering the rest of their existing facial features. The only things visible were their unwavering eyes targeting my back as I bolted away. I ran for at least a few kilometers before I stumbled upon the decaying cabin I’m currently in.

It’s almost been a full twenty-four hours since I last took the Antidote; I have half an hour left until my immunity wears off. I’d thought that of all places, the forests’ inhabitants would have an abundant supply of the Antidote, or what they—the common folk—call them: apples. That’s right. Apples. When it was discovered that these fruits were the only protection against their control, all the Granny Smiths, Ambrosias, Fujis—all of them were looted as soon as the news broke out. Unfortunately, an apple could only grant us a resistance to those rogue bastards for one day, so we would have to constantly replenish ourselves.

The M14 rifle I picked up on the run here teeters back and forth as it rests on an imbalanced windowsill. I take ahold of the gun and cautiously glance outside. Before I can fully scan the perimeter, the hunger pains hit me again and I double over, accidentally letting go of the gun’s trigger. It drops out the window, but I decide to retrieve it later. Big mistake.

I can hear them. The sirens blare—the ones I hear people say can deafen you from miles away. The ear-splitting noise increases in volume as they near the camp. The rumbling of the ground signifies that there’s more than one vehicle heading this way.

Panic engulfs me. The air becomes heavier, weighing my body down as if I was drowning in anxiety. The nervous, throbbing lump in my throat is growing so fast it could explode and blow me to bits. Some kind of intangible force clamps my airways shut like my body was trying to kill me before they could. Even that would be better than resigning my life to these vile creatures.

The wooden planks by my feet threatens to collapse with its noisy creaking as I pace back and forth. An immediate plan needs to be devised, but I’m battling against time—a cruel thing. God, the list of things I would do to get an apple right now is endless.

Just as I debate pulling the boarded planks apart and jumping out the back window, I hear the sound of dull metal slamming against itself in a disordered sequence. Scheming chatter resounds nearby. Too nearby.

“We’re here to help you!” several voices call out simultaneously. A shiver crawls up my spine and goosebumps prickle my skin at their robot-like behaviour.

Fear and disgust were my initial reactions when I discovered their existence, but at the same time I pitied them for falling victim to the higher-ups’ manipulation. People say that the higher-ups spend years, possibly decades, training their recruits to abide by their rules and practices. They were once like me, like us, but the system morphs them into villains who believe they’re truly helping by stealing other people’s livelihoods.

The front door downstairs crashes open and slams onto the floor. The walls shake, causing a framed photo of a group of kids labeled Junior Science Camp for Medicine to fall behind my back. The antique-looking frame cracks and the glass shatters into millions of pieces, the noise revealing my location.

“He’s upstairs!” a hoarse voice calls out from below. 

At best, my immunity will only last another ten to fifteen minutes. There’s no other choice. If I’m taken, my life will be over. I’d spend the rest of my days lying in an empty, white cell, hooked up to their machinery. To make matters worse, they’d confiscate all my savings that I spent years working for as a normal, contributing citizen. I’d be paying for them to torture me.

I look at the half-boarded window that I’d debated escaping out of earlier. It’s the least guarded area in the entire cabin, but it’s situated next to the stairs that would lead them directly to me. Not only that, it’s three storeys high.

I imagine the way I’d land. The sound my legs would make as the bones cracked, the sickening way it would look all twisted and turned in directions it wasn’t supposed to, and the adrenaline not being enough to mask the agony I’d experience.

Then, I imagine the blur of white suits storming upstairs, violently tackling me to the ground as they’d inject their drugs into my body. Finally, they’d imprison me in their jail where they’d monitor me twenty-four hours a day and strip me of all my freedom and privilege. Either way, I’m a goner.

The stomping gets louder as they make their way up to the third floor. My vision goes hazy as the blur of whites I envisioned becomes a reality.

This is it. I’m not going to make it. They’re here.

The Doctors.

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[soymilk-scribbler]

Hitchhiker

The repeating thwack, thwack, thwack, of the windshield wipers was hypnotic. The constant coating of water droplets on the glass reminded him to ease up on the accelerator; he had to stay on the side of caution on stormy nights like these. The mixture of hail and rain was falling heavily, aimlessly being thrown left and right by the dominating winds. It almost felt like driving through a thick curtain of water as the precipitation pattered down on the roof of the car. Despite the animosity the weather was exhibiting, the driver thought the rain to simply be white noise.

The car continued to move along the roads for some minutes before slowing down. The driver attempted to squint through the yellowish glow of the headlights penetrating through the fog. There was a hazy silhouette on the sidewalk; the figure gradually increased in clarity as the driver steadily pulled over. It was a tall man in a large, army green parka, standing stiffly with one hand in his pocket and the other with his thumb jerked out towards the road. A hitchhiker so late at night seemed rather odd to him. Wouldn't one just wait it out somewhere until the next morning? He must be in a rush to get somewhere, the driver thought.

In spite of his skepticism, a clicking noise sounded in the car and the man in the parka opened the passenger door. The chilly wind brushed across the driver's face briefly as the man climbed inside in a rush, relieved to be out of the icy wraths of winter showers. The hitcher pulled off his hood and sighed, blowing warm air into his palms. His cheeks were flushed red, drops of water trickling down his face. The man appeared to be someone in his late twenties. His outer appearance was clearly unkempt and disheveled.

The hitchhiker exhaled, his breath visible due to the cold. "Terrible weather tonight, huh?"

The driver was reluctant to reply. "Yeah. Sure is." He paused before revving up the car again to pull out. The hitcher glanced over his shoulder into the dark nothingness behind them.

"You all right?" the driver questioned. He only nodded.

The two continued to drive through the storm for some time, with nothing to fill the absence of conversation except for the voice of the talk show host on the radio. They either listened to the show or were occupied with their own thoughts.

"Where are you headed?" the driver asked.

The hitcher pointed. "Down south." Silence prevailed once again. The atmosphere felt unpleasant.

"You out here to visit family and friends?" The driver attempted to start small talk.

"Hm," was all that came from the hitcher. The driver was unsure if that was a yes or no, but decided that his passenger was content with the quietness. He nervously adjusted his red tie, feeling the suffocating tension pushing against the cramped walls of the vehicle. The hitcher noticed and stared fixedly at the man's fitted and polished attire; his navy blue suit contrasting perfectly with the vibrant colour of his tie. In comparison, the hitcher seemed scruffy with his green parka and an unflattering baggy Nirvana tee.

"You work around here?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah. Boss had me stay late night. You know how it is."

The hitcher paused. "Not really," he said curtly before turning away.

The hailing from earlier on had ceased, but the rainfall was now plummeting even more violently against the window, distorting the reflection of the hitcher's face.

The silence was really beginning to bother the driver, so he reached over to crank the volume up.

"Don't you have any music?" the hitcher asked.

"I do. I'm just more of a talk show type o' guy. Not really into music."

The hitchhiker's eyes glazed over for a split second. Then he spoke up. "I like listening to music. It helps me calm down." The driver didn't say anything. The hitcher kept his eyes on his chauffeur for a bit before shifting to watch the traffic lights ahead.

Several kilometres down the seemingly endless roads, a news segment came on the radio. The reporter tried to remain professional as she was reading the announcement.

"There has been a report of a man who escaped from a psychiatric institute just a few hours ago. We ask that our listeners secure their homes as this man is said to have a history of displaying violent, psychopathic behaviour as well as being involved in several murders. "

Out of the blue, the hitcher jabbed his finger onto a button on the radio panel. A soft, sultry jazz song slipped through the speakers. The driver raised his eyebrows, his unspoken question lingering in the air.

"I really hate listening to the news. It's always so depressing. Doesn't that bring you down?" the hitcher asked. The driver didn't answer. His knees were bouncing rapidly, shoes tapping audibly against the gas pedals. The steady ticking sounds of the car blinker comforted him more than the voice of his company.

"Relax. I'm not the killer," said the hitcher as he fidgeted with pockets of his coat.

"Yeah? I mean, yeah, of course you're not."

They drove on listening to the sounds of trumpet and saxophone solos that were unfitting for the atmosphere. The rain pounded on the car as if it was begging to be let inside.

The driver once again attempted to divert the topic to something else. "What do you do for work?"

The hitcher was quiet for a bit. Then he grinned. "I'm a writer."

"Oh, really? How interesting. Has any of your work been published?" The driver was glad that they were finally having a normal conversation. Even this small talk would suffice; he was tired of having to endure the feeling of nervousness from earlier.

"No, not yet. I'm still pretty obscure in the industry."

"I'm sure you'll make it soon. What are you working on at the moment?"

"Right now? I'm writing a novel," the hitcher answered, enthusiasm evident in his voice.

"Oh, neat. What's it on?" The driver signalled to make a left turn.

"It's about a serial killer."

The driver did not speak. Instead, he decided to flick the talk-show radio station back on. A woman was rambling about a grocer who dropped her carton of eggs by accident and was allegedly being rude about it.

"Where can I drop you off?" asked the driver. Nothing came from the hitcher. Confused, the driver glanced over to find that the man had his eyes shut. He was either asleep or feigning it.

An hour had passed. The storm outside was still growling and raging. The hitcher simply looked out the window while the driver steered in silence. Then, the talk-show was once again interrupted for another news segment.

"We have just received an update on the escaped patient from earlier. The killer's name is Vincent Donald Gaskins and he escaped from the Forensic Psychiatric Hospital in Coquitlam earlier this evening," read the reporter. "Gaskins made his escape by changing from his hospital uniform into a suit, pretending to be one of the medical staff. He was last seen on the security cameras stealing a car and driving off."

The hitcher turned to the driver. "Sorry. . . what did you say your name was again?" His voice was shaky as he spoke, heart pounding against his chest so violently that he felt his entire body was about to burst.

"Vincent," he answered.

The hitchhiker could only stare in utter shock and fear as the bright headlights of a passing car glinted off the blade of a knife in Vincent's hand.

#creative writing #writers on tumblr #writing #writing prompt #short story #suspense #bibliophile #writers #monday motivation #writing tips #am writing #writers of tumblr #fiction #thriller #horror #writeblr