Patiently, Silently, Innocently


I could not get enough of the new cheesy custard buns at Pappa Rich’s. They changed my life forever.

I was innocently walking home from work and passed by Pappa Rich’s, where the most unsuspicious banner caught my eye.


Being a huge fan of both cheese and sales, I could not say no. Thus, I walked into Pappa Rich’s and was greeted by knocked off my feet by the scent of freshly baked bread.

How could anyone say no to this!? Credits:
How could anyone say no to this!? Credits:

My eyes darted frantically right to left and right again in search of my quarry, the cheesy custard buns, and I found them. They sat seductively in a glass shelf beside the cashier, tantalizing my taste buds which were already began to water. But then I noticed her. She was dressed oddly. Faded tee, oversized handbag, shoes that were out of place with the rest of her outfit, complete with a pair of jeans with patchwork squares of other materials sewn onto it. She was fidgety, trying unsuccessfully to remain inconspicuous in a corner of the shop.

Her eyes were those of trapped prey, and she behaved as one as well. This was when my survival instincts kicked in. I immediately knew she was up to no good. I halted my mission and told myself that custard buns can wait. I had to stop this minor menace first.

So, I took up a tray and tongs and began to browse through the bakery slowly. I scanned each tray with an agonizingly slow pace, all the while keeping an eye on the suspect through the corner of my eye. She still has not moved. And I was beginning to come to the conclusion that she was waiting for the bakery to become emptier before she robs it.

Gotta let you know that my eye is on you!
Gotta let you know that I’ve got my eye on you!

I suddenly had a thought. What if she had a gun! I froze in my tracks as I contemplated what I would do in face of the unexpected. I glanced at her once more. That oversized handbag… She definitely had a gun! Suddenly, my knees grew weak and my courage faded as quickly as it came. I had never come face to face with a gun before. And if I do, it may be my last…

As I grew more and more into a nervous wreck due to my paranoid soliloquy, an employee of the bakery walked out of the kitchen. A young beautiful girl, and she was approaching the suspect. Her eyes were on the floor, she looked tired and her body hunched from the fatigue of working all day. She was about to walk into arm’s range of the suspect, and that was when the suspect suddenly moved.

It all happened simultaneously, the bakery’s grandfather clock chimed ten times, and the suspect’s sudden movement, and the employee walked between me and the suspect and blocked the suspect from my line of vision. I reacted immediately, I straightened, and grabbed my tongs and tray as if they were weapons and circled around the bakery shelves that separated me and the suspect to get nearer to her. The suspect was now opposite me and I could finally see her face clearly.

She had brown, worn eyes that hinted traces of a lifetime of hardship, and her many wrinkles on her face folded over each other as if trying to knit a pattern. I realized how old she could have been probably past her forties. She was now inspecting a tray of bread and I was contemplating my next move. Shall I talk to her? Be cool like one of those agents you see on Hollywood films and say, “I know what you’re up to.” Would she freeze once she realized she was discovered? Or would she react back? And if she did, would she react violently? But before I could do anything, the employee spoke to her first.

She said, “Hi there aunty! Same time everyday, huh?” A regular? She must have been scouting out this place for a long time! I thought. Then the aunty replied, “Yes, dear! I could not possibly afford anything here unless they were half price. I’ve been waiting for you to put up the sign since just now!” I then realized something crucial and how very wrong I had been. I bought my cheesy custard buns for half price then promptly left the store. The cashier did not understand why my face was flushed red.

So embarassing!
So embarassing!
Patiently, Silently, Innocently

Wonderful Williams the Weather Wizard

(C) Barbara W. Beacham. Sunday Photo Fiction, May 10, 2015. This photo brings you to the challenge page, hosted by Barbara W. Beacham
(C) Alastair Forbes. Sunday Photo Fiction, May 10, 2015. This photo brings you to the challenge page, hosted by Alastair Forbes.

There was a magician on the sidewalk. He called himself ‘Wonderful Williams The Weather Wizard.’

He was astonishing. He wowed the crowds with illusions and magic tricks that the world has never witnessed before. He summoned miniature tornadoes and air sprites. He made soft fluffy clouds form around himself and then he vanished, only to then materialize from thin air afterwards. The crowd were enthralled and thoroughly entertained. They were calling him a genius for inventing such tricks.

But of course, I knew they were not just merely tricks. They were real.

I was watching him from opposite the road, disguised as a gardener watering the plants. If anyone looked closely, they would notice the water emerging from my fingertips, not the hose.

He was one of us, I’m certain of it.

I raised my head to the sky and focused, making the rainbow appear. Soon, they will be here to collect him.

Word count: 153

Wonderful Williams the Weather Wizard

A Man in a Mustache

The plane landing was a bumpy one.

Rookie pilot? he wondered. Then he quelled that thought and silently thanked the pilot for the undeniable fact that the pilot has fulfilled his duty – the plane was guided to the ground safely and a bumpy landing should be the least of anyone’s worries.

Involuntarily, the question of one’s mortality crept into Eric’s mind. It seems like I’m always entrusting my life into strangers’ hands. The pilot could’ve killed me. Or my waiter could’ve poisoned me. And now I’m about to enter a taxi whose driver could kill me just as easily too.

Eric was a thinker. It’s a habit of his that springs up whenever he commutes. It’s also another habit of his that his mind jumps topics as quickly as they do. Now he was wondering about home and designing scenarios that might occur when he finally opens the door.

The door swings open, they are there with balloons and a cake. Little Cyrus blows the streamer and emits a ‘phuuu!’ sound. I laugh. Then we all fall into a warm family hug.

Or…. Cyrus is a cheeky fellow. Maybe he’ll prank me. The cake. Yes, I suspect he will smash the cake in my face. *chuckles* How will I prepare for that? The most I could do is remove my tie, I guess. *removes tie* I’ll have to spend a great deal of time getting that cake smell out of my new mustache. Is it the first time they seen it? Yes, I think so… I wonder if they’ll like it.

Cyrus did not. He did not like it at all. When he heard the front door opened by a man in a mustache which he had never seen before, he clutched his mother’s shirt and asked, “Mom, who is that?”

Eric did not see that one coming.

This tale was prompted by this post: May 2nd – Other People’s Memories

A Man in a Mustache

A Horse’s Flesh

(c) Alastair Forbes. Sunday Photo Fiction April 26, 2015. This photo brings you to the challenge page, hosted by Alastair Forbes.
(c) Alastair Forbes. Sunday Photo Fiction April 26, 2015. This photo brings you to the challenge page, hosted by Alastair Forbes.

“How do you like your meat?” Jeff asked.

“I like them raw and juicy.” Harry licked his lips.

“Can we not do this, guys?” Hazel begged.

Jeff and Harry gave each other a look that said As if.

Hazel stamped angrily, which made her pony-tail swing from side to side.

“You guys never listen to me!” Hazel huffed in agitation.

For a moment, Jeff and Harry may actually have felt guilt. A look of uncertainty flashed across their faces, but only for a fleeting moment.

“But we’re fleas and you’re the only livestock around here and we must feed.” Jeff and Harry sank their teeth into Hazel’s delicious flesh.

Word count: 109

A Horse’s Flesh

Introducing Annabelle White – FFFAW

(c) Dawn M. Miller
(c) Dawn M. Miller.  Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers (FFFAW) April 29, 2015. The picture takes you to the Challenge page, hosted by Priceless Joy.

Night fell and claimed the land with its shadows. She was free to roam once more.

Burgers, she thought, I have an appetite for burgers today.

She left her hair wet and dripping, just how she liked it, and proceeded to don her favorite white gown. She loved the reactions it elicited from passers-by, especially the males.

No, not wolf-whistles and seductive looks. That’s not what she’s about. She’s all about the jumps-of-terror, the petrified looks and the effeminate squeals.

Oh, I love the squeals. I hope I hear one tonight. She smiled wide as she relished in her imagination.

She slipped into the empty passenger seat beside a charming young driver as he collected his take-away set meal.

“Is that a Swiss Mushroom Whopper? My favorite!” She let the scent of warm mushrooms invade her nostrils, which made her mouth salivate and stomach rumble ravenously.

The set meal was now hers, and she retreated to her lake, her home.

Meanwhile, Timmy rushed home, his stomach unsatisfied, his eyes wide with fear, and with a story to tell, but without proof apart from his memory. Oh, and the drenched passenger seat in his car. Annabelle was real sloppy, wasn’t she?

Word count: 200 😦

Introducing Annabelle White – FFFAW

#Writing101 Yusof, Elayne and Granny

Today’s Prompt: A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.


I was talking to Elayne in the park.

“I don’t think my therapy helped. I need a new therapist. And her customers are just whacked. I was waiting for my appointment when this mad gypsy woman came out of her office, grabbed my hand, and started spouting nonsense!” I whined, while unconsciously waving my hands wildly in the air in audacious exaggerated movements, my face resembling one of Jack Sparrow’s finer scowls.

Elayne gently held my hand and lowered them. “Why? What did she say?”

“She was crazy, I tell you, craaaaaazy! She talked about doom and Armageddon coming. She saw the devil… death approaching… *shrugs* All that psycho stuff! She probably just wants to sell some fancy ass voodoo protection charm to me.”

“Did she?”

“Did she what?”

“Sell anything to you?”

“Of course not! I won’t buy any of that crap anyway! She’s crazy and needs help.”


Yusof was one of my worst patients. I have tried everything. Nothing worked. Recently, I concluded that he has finally lost his sanity.

He barged into my office an hour ago and sat down, catching me by surprise as he was not due for another two days. Then he began telling his tale, accompanying it with his signature erratic hand gestures. He looks like he is trying to draw an enormous cow in the air. I decided to take him outside. Fresh air might help, they said.

I wholly regret my decision. Public is not where I want to be seen with a madman. Now, he was yapping on about his delusions, claiming some gypsy woman had tried to predict his future.

“Heh, I can tell his future too. Easy. A lifetime in the asylum,” I thought.

Finally, he finished his tale and stopped under a tree, next to an occupied bench.

“Same time next week, Yusof?” I still had to ensure a guaranteed inflow of customers in order to pay the bills.

Yusof was not paying attention. His eyes were round as saucers and looking at something else. Following his gaze, I saw an elderly woman knitting on the bench.

Yusof began to shudder. I was terrified. “Yusof! Wh- what- are you okay!?”

His convulsions were getting violent. He fell on his knees and elbows. He began whimpering.

Apart from feeling panic rushing up my throat, I was also feeling a tad embarrassed. I frequent this park and knew the regulars. I must not be seen like this!

“Yusof, come on get up!!!!

“That r- r- red sweater,” he stuttered while his mind recalled the gypsy’s warning. “I’m going to dieeeee!”

Great. I am certain the whole park heard him wailing. I looked around at the watchful passers-by and grinned sheepishly. I had myself a small audience. Brilliant. I could only imagine how weird this would seem to them. A grown man crying on the ground on this wonderful afternoon. Oh, somebody help me!


I hate myself. Screw that. I abhor my very being. I never seem to get anything right! My own grandchildren hate me. I make them cry, my son said.

It’s my face! It has a natural scowl and there’s nothing I can do about it. 

That morning, I made an impulse decision. I’ll knit something for my grandchildren. A peace offering, of sorts. As noon rolled by, the weather became unbearable in the house, and so I left for the nearby park with my knitting kit and my trusty cane.

I knitted, and purled, and weaved, and tried hard to let the knitting take my mind off my unhappiness.

No bad thoughts! I deserve happiness! I’m in my golden happy years!

That was when I felt a man’s gaze upon me. Looking up, I saw Yusof, and Yusof saw me. I was afraid. Staring contests were never my best game. And strangers should not be staring at me. But primarily it was the fear of the prospect of a staring contest. I was about to look away but not before he broke down into tears while he watched me.

And just like that, my will was broken.

Forget it. The whole darn world hates me and my scowl.

Morals of the story:

Don’t call others crazy. You may be crazier.

What happens in the office, stays in the office.

Don’t please everyone. Someone will still find reason to hate your guts, or scowl, in this case.



#Writing101 Yusof, Elayne and Granny

Being Occupied and Being Involved

He pushed the door open by a crack, careful not to make a noise, and peered into the crevice. The room within was illuminated with a dim, eerie glow that came from a computer screen. A figure was hunched over the computer, her beady eyes darting from left to right to left again. The light from the computer emphasized her features, highlighting the fatigue in her eyebags and the forlornness in the way her mouth drooped downwards. Rabu felt his heart ache when he saw the shell that his mother has become.

Rabu pushed open the door and nervously walked into the room. His mother barely noticed him; she was overcome with lethargy, and focused what was left of her energy on staying awake to finish her assignment by tomorrow’s deadline.

“Mom…” Rabu began.

Rabu’s mother started. “Rabu?”

“Mom, I need two hundred dollars. It’s for school.”

“It’s in my wallet inside my handbag.”

Obediently, Rabu took two hundred dollars from her purse and left the room.


The phone rang loudly, making Rabu’s mother jump for the second time that morning. Mechanically, Rabu’s mother picked up the receiver and held it to her ear.

“M’am, I need you to come down to the station. It’s your son.”

She fumbled around for words, but her enervation disabled her of speech before the line went cold.


Walking into the station was like reliving the nightmare she fought so hard not to remember. She used to visit him frequently during his work hours, despite his repeated requests for her not to disturb him at work. Nevertheless, he entertained her and his colleagues were both jealous and full of admiration of his happy marriage.

Coincidentally, it was the same officer that reported her husband’s death, who came to her that day. Rabu was following behind him, and Rabu was in handcuffs.

“Rabu!” cried his mother.

“M’am, Rabu has been found guilty of possession. I’m terribly sorry.”

The same words, she thought. ” M’am, your husband has been killed in battle. I’m terribly sorry.” The exact same words. 

The thoughts were fueling her anger and she was on the brink of lashing out when Rabu spoke.

“Mom, I’m sorry.”


It was never in Rabu’s intention to hurt his mother the way he did. Ever since his father’s death, his mom buried herself in her four jobs, leaving Rabu all to himself. So Rabu got involved. While his mother occupied herself with work, Rabu occupied himself by being in a constant drug-induced haze.

His last pickup went awry, to say the least. The cops must have been staking out the pickup point for some time now. He should’ve known. He was smarter than this. Now it was all too late.


His words turned her fury into anguish. Tears blurred her vision, and her knees buckled. The police officer caught her before she fell.

“M’am? You alright, M’am?”

Being Occupied and Being Involved