Most of the time my father is a tight lipped man but since this summer all of his kids were together again under his roof out comes pouring his jovial nature. He has been telling my husband and I that in the recent years flashbacks of his younger mischievous days plague him constantly. Some he regrets, some he revels upon.
My husband shares my enthusiasm in listening to old people’s tales. Their stories are goldmines for those who want to write novels with a magic realism genre since sometimes the sequence of events does not make sense at all as memories blur over time. What they remembered might not be what actually happened giving the tale a fantastical flavor. Plus the stories are likely to have happened around a historically significant period. Like one particular anecdote he told us which easily became our favorite. The incident happened during World War II when the Japanese army occupied the country (he was just a very young boy then but he has lots of colorful stories about that period.) Continue reading
Telling stories has always been a way of expressing my self, my beliefs and my feelings. I found that it can a drive a point more effectively than a long rhetoric. Stories have won me many friends when I was a kid. Especially horror stories. Kids like to scare themselves silly. I can have them cowering under the covers after I am finished. And since I love to read at a young age I never run out of tales to tell. And now that I am grown up I am happy to share stories I wrote myself. Though I remember having written a short novel when I was in highschool in one of my notebooks. My classmates read it and passed it around. I knew then that I wanted to be a writer. So thank you for sparing a minute or two from your busy lives and stopping by at my page to read some tales I’ve written. You bring a smile to my face. 🙂
My dream is to become a master story teller. From whom words will flow smoothly like water from an eternal spring. And everyday of my life I am working on that.
Where she goes nobody knows. Where she lived nobody dares go. Her backyard was the forest. A secret maze of tall ominous looking trees hide her cottage from the rest. And whenever young Marie would see a dark red diaphanous long dress or a red velvet coat she wears. Her eyes towards the horizon. Her gait confident, oblivious of everyone around her.
“ I want to wear a dress in that color.” Marie told her mother one day when she saw the woman in the town. She looked suspiciously at the woman. “ Men never marry a woman in red. They want women in pastels.” Marie frowned. “But men do sure like women in red.” She remarked. Her mother snorted. Marie can see men ogling the woman in red. The woman would occasionally look at the men sideways and the men would have an expression Marie thought indecent.
“She doesn’t have any friends in the town,” Lilian said while drawing circles in the sand with her fingers. Marie copied her and drew a heart and wrote the name John in it.
“Mother seems to hate her. But father always have a dreamy look every time they would talk about her.” Continue reading