Accept me for who I am

A panicked scream filled the air as Yvon tripped over her own skates for the umpteenth time that afternoon. But the scream was soon replaced with laughter by a boy as he skated to a halt beside Yvon who was tending to the newest addition to her collection of bruises.

“Hey, here.” He offered to help her get back on her feet but she refused.

“I don’t wanna do this anymore.” Yvon was sulking.

Rick sat down beside her. “So what do you wanna do instead?”

“Let’s just sit here and enjoy the view.” She grabbed his arm and pointed at the sunset. “Look how pretty the sunset is when it goes into the ocean.”

“Not as pretty as my sunset when it goes into your ocean.” Rick realized it right after he said it. That was not something appropriate to say on a first date.

The perfect first date should be skating followed by some ice cream then, if he’s lucky, maybe a kiss. But Rick had just given up all hope of that last item on his itinerary.

“What did you just say?”

Rick winced. He was hoping that she may not have heard it. No such luck.

“Yvon, I- I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said pervy stuff like that. Uh, I didn’t mean it. I’m really sorry…”

He fumbled around for the words to make this awkward situation less awkward. Again, no such luck.

“Rick, if you’re gonna yap away like that, you’re not even gonna get a shot at seeing your sunset entering my ocean.”

“I- what?”

“I like pervy stuff.” Yvon was admiring the sunset with a flawless smile on her face, looking every bit like the perfect girl- except for what she just said.

“You do?”

Yvon nodded and looked at Rick in the eye. “I’m actually glad and relieved that you brought that topic up on our first date. I would never know how to break it to you otherwise. It’s a part of me and I know it’s a part of you too. And I accept you for who you are. I don’t find you weird or anything.”

Rick was grinning from ear to ear. He really struck the jackpot this time. This girl is a keeper.

Accept me for who I am

When Death Walked In

The door swings open. It’s a bald, gleaming, shiny head. The bald, gleaming, shiny head. The stench in the air is palpable. It is the stench of fear, and it was an all-you-can-eat-buffet for the nose which belonged to the bald head.
“What are you idiots waiting for? Go greet the food auditor!” The supervisor reprimanded his staff in a hushed whisper.
The staff proceeded to welcome the Grim Reaper wearing a bald-man-suit as a practised choir. Grim Reaper paid no attention, instead stalked straight for the kitchen.

The supervisor trodded behind him, not unlike a freshly nagged kid. Then Death spoke, “If I can taste a trace of food on whatever that used to contain, I’m suspending your license.” He stared pointedly at a container.

The unorthodox test caused the supervisor to take a moment to process what Death uttered. When at last he understood, he began to word his confused disbelief, “You can’t be serious…” But the container was already cradled by Death’s spiny spiderweb-y fingers, and it appeared to corrupt at his very touch. Death opened his mouth, and a tendril slithered out. The air stilled in that room, and a morgue may arguably be a more lively place than that kitchen at that precise moment.

Death’s tendril traced a slimy path on the container’s inner wall and withdrew.

“I can taste it…”

The supervisor and his staff visibly stiffened. Teeth were gritted, veins throbbed, breaths were held and five pairs of eyes widened.

“I can taste your license renewal.”

And nobody imagined that even Death was capable of a warm smile.

When Death Walked In

#Writing101 My Awkwardest Post Yet

The best conversations happen late at night. And no, I’m not talking about the cheesy stuff that become the money maker shots for mainstream rom-coms. I’m talking about all other conversations where we speak in English but all meaning is lost because we are so exhausted that we just speak nonsense and somehow keep the conversation going.

Today’s Prompt: Write a post inspired by a real-world conversation.

Ralph: Cyrus do you know what’s a potato?

Cyrus: Yeah, it’s the thing that ate your mom. (Sorry if this seems rude, my friends and I have warped senses of humor.)

Ralph: Noooo potatoes are our friends. They’re actually food of the gods.

Cyrus: Really? Then what’s ambrosia?

Ralph: Ambrosia is-

Cyrus: Oh wait, ambrosia is a drink, so that means ambrosia is the drink of the gods.

Ralph: Yeah….

Cyrus: But wait, then what’s nectar?

Ralph: Isn’t nectar the bee juice thingy?

Cyrus: Really? I thought it was something of the gods too. Medicine or something.

(If you’ve read Percy Jackson, you might get it. Just might)

Ralph: *mocking Cyrus* Yeah, it’s medicine or something of the gods or something. 

Cyrus: Very funny.

Ralph: No.

Cyrus: What?

Ralph: It’s not funny.

Cyrus: Yeah.

Ralph: It’s hilarious! *burst out laughing*

Cyrus: …..

Ralph: *still laughing*

Cyrus: Screw you.

Ralph: *still laughing*

Cyrus: *takes out cell phone and turns on the LED light at Ralph*

(recall this conversation took place at night right before they were about to sleep.)





Ralph: *throws pillow across the room* GO AWAY!

Cyrus: *shuts off light, still chuckling*

Ralph: Mmm…. I’m hungry.

Cyrus: Want to eat more light?

Ralph: NO!!!!!!!!!!

Cyrus: But you said you were hungry!!!

Ralph: Nobody gets full from eating light!


Ralph: NO!!!!!!!!!

Cyrus and Ralph then proceeded to the kitchen to get some proper food and did not fall asleep for another two hours. They failed to wake up to Cyrus’s alarm clock the following day and were both late for school. They skipped classes instead and went to eat a hearty meal of baked potato. The End.

Midnight hunger pangs are the worst, aren’t they?

#Writing101 My Awkwardest Post Yet

#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

Am I Spanish Enough For You?
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham. Mondays Finish the Story April 13, 2015. This picture takes you to the Challenge page, hosted by Barbara W. Beacham

The neighbors were not happy about my choice of yard art. 

But who are they to dictate what I put in my yard!?

I have my mind made up to tell them the tallest tale that will convince them of my taste in art when they come around, if they come around.

Will they come around?

Who am I kidding? Of course they would!

It’s just a matter of time.

Sure, anytime now.

They will barge into my home and demand the removal of dear Hephaestus and Rufus.

But I will never oblige. Never!!!!!

I’ll tell them the tallest tale they’ve ever heard. This will be the tale to set the bar for all my other tales!!!

I’ll tell them the tale of how Rufus descended from the first King of Spain’s royal matador’s private collection.

I’ll tell them how Hephaestus took a liking to him and turned him to stone, then fell even more in love with Rufus in stone form such that he sacrificed his magic and whatnot and became stone himself!

I’ll tell them that I inherited them both because I’m part Spanish and the royal family owes my ancestors a favor because we used to sew sombrero hats and make nachos with doritos for them!!!!!!!!

And if that doesn’t work, I’ll convince them with my fluent Spanish!

They’ll cower on their knees after I tell them this fantastic Spanish poem!

Espanol, Muchacho!

Rufus and Hephaestus no go!


I am certain my fluent Spanish would convince them.

Were you convinced? *laughs*

Word count: 240

PS: I do not intend to insult the Spanish or their wonderful cultures and cuisines in any way.

Am I Spanish Enough For You?

My Imagination Getting the Best of Me

A beautiful, bright and sunny morning… No, why should I lie to myself- The morning was atrocious. The sunlight was blinding and I could feel the sweat plastering my hair to my forehead and neck. I was also fairly certain convinced that I had chosen the wrong shirt to wear, and everyone could see the butterfly outline on my back that my sweat had imprinted on me. Did I also mention the morning was hot? Well, I want to emphasize it again. With this sweltering heat, hell would seem like Antarctica in comparison.

Worst part of it all, was that all the sweating was done in a car, with the air conditioning at full blast. Hell, I told you, hell would seem like Antarctica in comparison. I hope the sweat on the car seat would not create an odor. Come to think of it.. odor is caused by germs, which are killed by heat; the germs would never survive the hot sun. Guess there is an upside to living in hell after all, eh?


Moments later, I was in Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, ordering a LARGE BLACK FOREST ICE-BLEND. I don’t even know what it is. I just wanted something LARGE and ICED.

After I placed my order, I sat alone on an overstuffed piece of upholstery, praising the wonderful air-conditioning of the shop. I felt at ease, but mentally, my mind was stressed.

cue: long chain of uninterrupted thoughts

I definitely had to get someone to service my car’s air-conditioning. I wonder if they could clean the seats too. And while at that, must they clean every seat or could they clean just the driver seat? I hardly have passengers anyway… Oh, wait I do. I picked-up my sweaty basketball mates once.

Gosh, the back seat must be crawling with germs!!! Funny how I didn’t smell anything.

Is the sun still hot? *glances out the window* Yep, it’s still hot.

Shiiiit, I parked under the shade. That means the sun would not kill the germs at all. The germs are laughing at me now.

*malicious giggling* Frederick! *more malicious laughter* Frederick! It sounds so real! I’m losing my mind!!


Oh wait, it’s just the barista telling me that my ice-blend is ready.

There weren’t any adverbs, were there?

My Imagination Getting the Best of Me

#Writing101 Ernie & Malcolm

Today’s Prompt: Write a post based on the contrast between two things — whether people, objects, emotions, places, or something else.


Optimist vs Pessimist?

Ernie: Hey, do you think you’ll ever become a writer?

Malcolm: Nah, writing is just my hobby. It’ll never become a career.

Ernie: But you’re a really good writer, I like the stories you write. I thought Red’s Revenge was cool!

Malcolm: Red’s Revenge? It’s not even an original story. I just made it up after thinking about Red Riding Hood for a bit.

Ernie: Yeah, but still it’s kinda cool.

Malcolm: *shakes head* Nah, I probably unconsciously copied it off some CSI Miami episode that I watched ages ago.

Ernie: You’re such a pessimist, man.

Malcolm: No, it’s truth. I don’t want to become a writer anyway. Too much risk and no guarantee. You write books after books, not sure which one will become a bestseller. And when something you write finally sells, you’re probably too old to enjoy the money and fame anyway. I’d rather be an accountant.

Ernie: But you’ve got great talent…

Malcolm: Yeah, maybe I’ll use that talent to write down my tales as an accountant

Ernie: What do you mean?

Malcolm: Err… I don’t know what I’m talking about either.

Ernie: *awkward silence*

Malcolm: *awkward silence*

#Writing101 Ernie & Malcolm