Iridescent

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He saw her look once more. He looked away. He stood, put his earphones on, slung his backpack, then he risked another glance – she was doing the same thing. I’ve got to walk out of here fast, he thought. He fought his way through the crowd and made it to the door when something pink and shampoo-smelling whipped his face.

“I’m sorry!” a timid voice said. He helped her stand, but when he looked into her eyes…

He fell.

Everyone at the café was staring at them. He took her hand and walked them out.

“Are you alright?” he said when they got out, “I’m sorry.” But she was already walking away.

Maybe this time, he thought. He caught up to her and apologized once more.

“Really,” she said, “it’s alright. Thanks.” She walked faster.

“H-hey,” he hesitated, “at least let me walk you home.” She didn’t reply.

Walking through the neighborhood, they were the only pink heads in the monochrome afternoon sea of dark blue, gray, and maroon.

Then she stopped at a house with a green garden. “This is it,” she squeaked, then opened their gate.

“Wait!” he called. He pulled out a card and handed it to her. “Call me,” he might have made it sound like a command. Please, he added in his head.

He watched her walk inside, and his hair returned to dull gray.

***

Jake, the calling card said. She has been keeping it in her wallet for days, unsure of what to do.

“You’ve got to give him a chance, you know,” her mom told her one day, when she couldn’t hide the pink of her hair. Her mom was beautiful, but her hair hardly changed from indigo, since her father had left them.

This afternoon her pink hair was streaked with yellow.

Without thinking, she dialed the number. She’s been doing this every afternoon, but she couldn’t bring herself to press the call button. She’s been playing, placing her thumb near the call button…

But this time her thumb had touched it.

She had pressed it.

Her yellows went red-orange.

“Oh no,” she panicked, “Oh no, no, no!” she pressed her face on her pillow as the phone rang. Don’t answer it, please, she thought.

“Hello?” the same cool baritone that had uttered at least five sentences to her said.

Pink. Bright pink.

“Um, hello?” she responded.

And they talked all night that night, and the night after that, and the whole week after that.

***

Before Harmony started calling every night, his hair was usually faded blue. But now, as he dressed for their first date, upon hearing her cool alto voice over the phone, it was the brightest of pink. He picked out a navy blue shirt, which he figured would bring out the pink hair best. He wanted to show her how much he’s in love.

Nothing could possibly go wrong this time, he thought, his hair changing slightly from pink to red-orange to pink again, as he walked down the few blocks to her house.

Then he caught sight of her. Her hair, the brightest pink he had ever seen, was so clearly standing out against the blue of her dress and the bronze of her skin. Apparently, they had the same idea to show off their love by wearing a color that would bring their hair out.

They greeted each other. Then they went to a near restaurant, where they had a most magical night.

***

Since the first date, her hair had never changed color. She started attracting attention at work because of her hair, but even the stare of a hundred people couldn’t match Jake’s melting gaze.

They went to restaurants, walked around the park, they even drove out of town; and in those moments her hair and his didn’t change colors.

They still talked on the phone every night and dated every weekend.

Sure, they might have missed a few weekends, but they’re consistent, nonetheless.

Consistent.

Like a routine one is obliged to do.

Sometimes his hair was a slightly paler pink.

“I’m so in love with you, Harmony.”

Sometimes with streaks of dark blue.

“It’s nothing. I’m just pretty exhausted, that’s all.”

Sometimes with streaks of gray.

“Don’t you want to do something… different?”

Her hair hasn’t changed color, though.

***

He thought this time would be different.

He was wrong.

He decided not to dye his hair anymore.

He’s gonna say it tonight.

***

One night he came with his hair completely black.

And that’s when she realized. She didn’t want to admit it, but she understood.

No sentences exchanged.

The platter of plates.

The classical music.

The aroma of the dishes.

A deafening silence.

“I’m really sorry,” he said.

“It’s alright,” she said.

Indigo.

What Goes Inside The Mind Of A Struggling Writer

I’ve got to write something. I’ve got to write about anything. Being a writer means that you have to write every day. Being a writer means that you have to practice every day because writing is a craft; and you have to master it. But what will I write about? What creative idea can I get from my mind? Will I be able to come up with a creative idea every day? Is my mind even capable of producing creative ideas? How do you write? How do you write? I don’t even know the basics of writing. How will I be able to write a prose as beautiful as – okay, I couldn’t even think of a good metaphor! How will I impress the audience? How? When do I start? Will I let procrastination get in the way of writing again? I need to find a place conducive for writing, where? Oh, there’s a piano. Maybe I can play some tunes before making stories. Maybe if I play the piano first, a creative thought will jump at me. No. Creativity cannot just enter your mind. You have to chase it. Why am I writing this incoherent paragraph? Why am I even writing all of these down? Because I read that you should just write everyday. I read from a blog* that when writing, leave grammar, leave spelling, leave everything at the door. Write your heart out. The backspace is your enemy.  And that’s what I’m doing now. Oh, please. Will readers even read this? Don’t think that way, Edmar. Don’t write for the readers. Write for yourself. Jeff Goins said it. I’m getting tired of punching keys now. Maybe it’s time to stop. No! Don’t stop. It hasn’t even took up 10 minutes yet. Don’t try to stop. Don’t even think of it. That’s where failure comes. Yes. No. I’m going crazy. Is it like this everyday when you’re a writer? Probably. I’m going crazy. Hahahaha. I’m crazy. I love it.

Did I just write that piece of crap? Wow.

And now, to edit.


* ageofthediary.wordpress.com

I Still Believe

(Writing Prompt: Take a quote from your favorite movie. Now, write!)

I still believe in fairytales
The ones we used
To tell each other
While lying under the tree

After all this time?

Always

I still believe in happy endings
Like the one we got when
I was beast and you the beauty
In our 3rd grade play

After all this time?

Always

I still believe in forever
That there’s something beyond infinity
Just like what Buzz said
When we watched, huddled in a blanket

After all this time?

Always

I still believe I could fly
Because I felt that I can
When you gave me
The sweetest “yes”

After all this time?

Always

I still believe in magic
Because that’s what I felt
When your lips
Touched mine

After all this time?

Always

I still believe in second chances
Because we had it
When we had a
“Misunderstanding”

After all this time?

Always

I still believe in wedding rings
Because they sparkled brightly
When I put it on your finger

After all this time?

Always

I still believe that you’d be back
Because you said it
Before the plane left

After all this time?

Always

I still believe in you and me
Because I saw it
Deep in the baby’s eyes

After all this time?

Always

I still believe I’d find another
Because you said it
When you let me sign
Our divorce papers

After all this time?

Always

I still believe in crying
Because it relieved me
Of the pain
Of seeing you newly wed

After all this time?

Always

I still believe you’d wake up
When I visited you
And all of them wore
Black

After all this time?

Always

I still believe in Hades
That I could get you out of there
If only I was brave enough

After all this time?

Always