Counting Minutes

“Is that your favourite thing to do now?”

He smiled, his eyes closed in the dark of his room, listening to her talk. Her voice was musical, a sultry tone that drew colourful images in his mind when she whispered nothings to him. A long while had passed since they’ve been talking, the sun having set hours ago but never banking their fires. She toyed with his words, making him stutter and double-back, only to hear her giggle at his frustration. She was random, changing topics like a curtain dancing in the wind, making him run miles in his mind to keep up. He ran all day, never tiring.

“Do what?” he asked, knowing the answer already. He could almost feel her smile through the phone call, the way he knew she’d be running her fingers through her hair as she answered, “Counting the minutes. Is that your only job now?” He hummed an affirmative, but she pressed on, “But why though, what made me worth all your time?” Her question cut through the thin lacy sheets of subtle flirtation and clear intentions, cutting to the core of it all, but he kept his answer hidden. 

“Would you like to video call?” he ventured, fingers crossed. She said yes, why not? making him catch his breath in his throat. He had seen her on still images, and having been smitten already, he already had high expectations. Propping up onto his elbows, he got his laptop out and placed it on his legs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, brushing his hair with his fingers. When he was ready, he pressed the button on the screen.

Later that night, he couldn’t sleep. A chance encounter on a virtual realm, a few conversations over text and call, and now he didn’t know where he was headed. He turned over for the sixth time in ten minutes, his breath short and his minutes long. Images kept flashing in his mind unbidden, accompanied by her laughter every time he said anything even remotely funny. He couldn’t believe what the universe around him had conspired to do, to get him into a dialogue with one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen. Images of her cheeky smile, the way she’d look right through his soul, how she brushed her hair back, the sharp angles of her face… He couldn’t stop them. 

He didn’t want to either.

Thoughts spiralled in his mind as he checked the clock on his phone every few seconds, calculating the moments left until her name would like up the screen again. She promised she’d call when she woke up in the morning, and as much as he trusted her to keep her word, he couldn’t help but hate the sun for taking its damn time.

Time; the great trickster that twisted his existence into being measured in years rather than in accomplishments. Every year, he knew, things would repeat themselves and find him wanting a break in the routine. Time; the great planner of all things coincidental, weaving together threads of lives miles apart and pulling them together in patterns undecipherable by a sleepless night’s thoughts alone. Every person he met, he knew, would play a substantial part in his life, shaping him to be someone new whenever his 6 am alarm went off. Time; that faithful hound that would fetch bone in mouth but take its own sweet comfort in bringing the promise to him. Every second that passed he knew, he’d spend the rest of his life counting, sometimes in years, sometimes in months, sometimes in days, sometimes in hours, sometimes in—

“Still counting minutes?”

The message lit up his face as he unlocked the phone to reply. “Yeah, why do you ask?” he typed in response, smiling ruefully as insecurities tried to drown out what little joy he found in his day. There was always a chance that all this may amount to nought, a short trip on a cable car as he gazed over the world he craved to be part of. Seconds ticked away as he sleepily put down the phone, trying hard to stay alert for a reply he knew was coming. Seconds threatened to turn into a minute before the tone sounded again.

“Why me?”

As he talked to her about the next day, what he planned to do and what he planned to achieve, she let the distraction pass. They both knew one day soon, a lot of questions would be answered, reshaping the landscape upon they went adventuring. Was it fear, that sensation in his stomach that made it knot and squirm whenever he thought about where this was going? For now, he didn’t care. There was something young, fulfilling and honest about where he found himself, a sort of innocent wonder he had shed years ago reforming again. For now, he smiled.

Until the sun heralded a new day, he continued on, counting minutes.  

Blue Funk - 6

She slid onto his lap smoothly, lowering herself slowly to ease him in.

They were one. There were words that tried in vain to describe such a union in its full glory but they always fell short of the truth. Skin on skin they melded together, only feeling apart when their lungs pushed them away. They danced now, the way the birds waltzed with the wind, tantalisingly close to the ground yet just a hair’s breadth from the sky. Colours exploded in the corners of his mind as she led him deeper into her mystery, her hand gripping the back of his neck with the caress of the wind swaying the trees. She was his goddess now, and he was her salvation.


She wasn’t right, she wasn’t wrong either. Her existence was a question, a realm of realities dividing what she was to the human she loved. Her skin was softer than those of his kind yet the horns on her head lied to the world about an evil rumoured about. She knew that not all men were demons, but all demons were men, and she was neither, her visage and the hue of her body misleading. She breathed him in as they moved, together and against each other, her mind painting vivid pictures as her eyes stayed closed. He filled her within, pulsating and invigorating, insinuating the honesty of how she really felt for him. Her freckles did nothing to hide the blue blood that darkened her cheeks, a soft sigh escaping her parted lips before she could stop it.


He never thought the day would come. When he found her between the mirror and the image beyond, the only thing he felt was a need. Now, feeling engulfed by her spirit, he felt so alive. She bit down on his lip, making him gasp, biting back in turn. The colours in his mind ran from red to blue, to green to yellow, back again, brush strokes making images with every stroke between them. He saw worlds apart, stars dotting the journey as his ecstasy took him to the sun and back again. His hands reached up behind her, tangling his fingers in the drops of Jupiter in her hair, slowly pulling her head back so he could place his lips on her neck.


The air escaped her lungs in such a rush she took in another deep breath just feel it again. There it was again, the pair of lips marking his territory on the skin she wanted him to explore so much. She swam in deep waters, calm, all-encompassing, suffocating. She needed to breathe but at the same time, she didn’t want to stop this feeling. She moved faster now, catching a rhythm that matched their heart beat, only opening her eyes slightly just to see him again. She watched his chiselled face, the short stubble that made her skin tingle whenever they kissed, his eyes shut tight against the ecstasy. She smiled as she ran her claws softly down his back, just enough to sting, watching him bite his lips. 


They were drenched in sweat now, the coolness of the room doing nothing to the heat between them. He whispered sweet nothings into her ears, making her sigh and mumble back. His hands knew her like a fond memory thrice remembered, never the same when he came back again. He talked to her, the way the sun spoke to the oceans, the way the moon would lead the water back and forth in a constant dance. He talked to her, the way songs spoke to the listener, the way colours spoke to the artist. She was not of the same world as he, yet here they were, abstract and irrevocably true, the sheets on his bed wrapped around their legs like they were part of their dance. They were real, and they reached heaven together, her voice pealing out in the silence between them.

When his eyes opened to the harsh sunlight, he was alone. 


She never let him see her leave because she could never stand the pain in his eyes. She would be back again that night, he knew. He knew it as certainly as her soft skin was blue to match the horns on her temples. He knew it as certain as the reflection staring back him from the mirror, his mind floating in thoughts and a blue funk. 

Blue Funk - 5

She sat across him, brows furrowed in concentration. 

Long hair bounced on her shoulders whenever she would look down at the book she was reading, or look up when someone walked in. She did tell him she wasn't enjoying the textbook at all so he could excuse her easy distractions, yet here he was, only being able to concentrate on his ultimate distraction. He wasn't going to be one to judge now, would he? 

She caught his eye and smiled, "What's wrong?"

“Just wondering how your hair looks perfect after everything that happened this morning.” It made her smile coyly at him, shaking her head. “Now then, you don’t have to get me all hot and bothered like that so early in the day.” He gave her a smug look, knowing full well what was going through her mind, knowing it was the same for him. She was gorgeous, the way her chin was sharp, her face was cut into soft angles that hinted at a feisty demeanour within. A feistiness he came to appreciate over last night.

They were supposed to be working on an assignment together, a mundane responsibility that paled against what they ended up doing after formalities concluded. The night before she spent the early evening at his apartment, along with the rest of the group members. When all was said and done, some stayed back for a few drinks, but he and she both kept ominously sober, the tension between them so palpable he was sure someone mentioned it. He didn’t care then; he knew he was caught in her net, and she was his, hook, line and sinker. 

"It was fun though, I have to admit," she broke the silence. He recovered from his reverie with another wide smile, "I'm glad you had fun too. I haven't done this in a while, not something as casual as this at least.” A sudden, welcome, memory flashed through his mind. 

They were on the couch, her on top of him, his fingers gripping her hair behind her head. She moaned into his mouth as they kissed, his free hand exploring her as if she was a land of wonders and him a map maker. As the memory slowly faded, he noticed she was looking at him intently, a hint of a smile on her lips. He shook his head, chuckling softly as she kept watching him, studying the way his jaw was shaped because of his beard, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked, putting away her book, propping her elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her hands. There was a certain glow to her eyes, he noticed, making him catch his breath slightly. “I was just remembering how it all started, I guess. It’s not easy to concentrate on all this boring stuff right now, especially with the knowledge that this isn’t due for another two weeks…” he let the sentence hang in the silence. The silence brought another memory.

They were against the wall now, her shirt on the floor on top of his own, her skirt being the only thing between her and his exploring hands. Not for long though, as he lost all his senses when she bit his neck, that rush of blood to the heart making him shiver slightly. He swam back to reality, staring at his hands in disbelief as she continued to watch him, there, at that café, where they were alone in a crowded room. He took in a deep breath as she spoke.

“You are right, you know. We do have a lot of time to spare, and I really don’t think I can do so much work anymore, at least for now.” She was never up front when it came to this, he found out, so he took it as the closest she’s come to saying it out loud. He began packing up, called for the bill, stood up, brushed the bread crumbs off his lap. She was already by the door when he was done paying, and the both of them, with their breath short and hearts beating fast, made their way to a stairwell. 

She was on his face before the emergency door closed and they both knew they had mere minutes before someone chanced by them. He never knew how much he craved her until she breathed into him, a new-found passion overtaking all sanity and restraint. She was equally ravenous for him, losing themselves into each other’s skin as they became one from two. His lips began to swell and bruise with all her biting, and when she finally unglued herself, his mind resumed.

“My place, let’s go.”

She sat across him, brows furrowed in concentration. 

Long hair bounced on her shoulders whenever she would look out the window, the rain coming in torrents, and then back at him. He sat on the opposite end of the single bed, eyes closed and face set in a picture of revelry. It made her smile. He made her smile.

“You know,” he broke the silence, “this isn’t exactly going according to plan if we find something more than sex in what we’re doing.” His eyes remained closed, but the smile faded. She pursed her lips before replying, “Who said anything about having a plan in the first place?”

Before he could look at her, she was on his lap again, staring intently into his eyes, searching, digging and swimming in the dark brown irises for a sign of something different. He wanted nothing more than to be honest, as he said “I don’t think I’m ready for anything more than… this.” She frowned, caught between reality and a confession kept sealed, “I get that, neither am I,” she lied, and then more honestly, “I want to do this as much as I can until I get bored of you. Is that fair?” He smiled back, relieved, nodding his head and reaching in to kiss her, his arms wrapped around her. She smiled into the kiss, her arms finding their refuge on his face. They might never be what could be, but with what it is, she was happy.

Besides, the assignment was due in two weeks. They had time. 

Say hello!

Hey dear readers!

Thank you so much for all your support, it means the world to me! I just wanted to ask you to do me a liiiittle favor, would that be okay?

Can you all leave me a comment on this post saying hello or introducing yourselves because I wanted to check how many of the views I'm getting are from automatic servers such as security checks and etc, and how many natural views I'm getting.

And besides, only by hearing your thoughts, your stories, can I write better than I do now! So let's be friends!


Horizon Blue

There was something truly magical about the horizon blue.

The breeze kissed his lips and left him wanting more. The water softly slapped the hull as the boat cleaved through open ocean, sails furled and the engine running. The course was true, the waves were gentle and the wind was light, leaving him with little to do but wait for the craft to take them where they needed to go. The wood was old and tested, having crossed atolls day and night for a few years shy of two decades, his father once the helmsman. He knew every nook and cranny, every barnacle-free plank and splintered board his dear friend and companion. The thought of splintered boards made him cringe slightly, not at the cost of the refurbishing, but the loss of a dear friend. Even though be it with new repairs or old parts, they were still going forward, forever traveling yet that horizon never seemed to get closer.

There was something truly daunting about the ocean dark.

The helmsman stood at the stern, his foot holding the tiller in place, his arms placed loosely on the aft mast upon which lay the sail jib, his eyes gazing lazily ahead. He didn’t seem like he had a worry in the world, just a need to keep the rudder true until they reached home. The captain of the small boat exchanged a tired smile with him, both of them knowing full well they enjoyed the silence deafened by the sounds of the mighty dark blue as it raced by them. The ocean was once described as being a ‘dark, wine color’ in the times when the word blue was not invented, and the man at the bow could see why. The darkness below him felt so pregnant with life yet so devoid of movement that he felt so truly alone, so alone.

There was something truly menacing about the clouds gray.

A sudden breeze made him look towards the port side and beyond, where once there was the wide, expansive blue of the sky now existed a patch of darkness. It was a storm, just above the horizon, coming their way without heed of who was in its way. He admired the tenacity of the weather, how it threw the sun and sky into the mix with storm clouds and lightning, the unplanned contrasts of it all. The breeze grew slightly stronger, the harbinger of heavenly devastation, but the captain was not new to this, and neither was the helmsman. They were veterans of storms, within and beyond the atolls they called home, but only a man with a death wish would underestimate a storm rumbling towards them in the middle of the ocean. They had nowhere to take shelter.

There was something truly liberating about the lightning white.

When the rain hit, they were ready. They had judged the direction of the waves and shifted their course slightly to both prevent the boat from rolling over as well as not to be blown off course. Not much being spoken between them, the helmsman stayed at his post while the captain stood at the bow, holding tight. They had a little signaling system between them, using his arms the man at the bow would advise against the waves, so as to maintain stability, whenever they hit a crest and before they dropped into a trough. With tried and tested nerves they braved the storm, the winds whipping their clothes against their toughened, tanned bodies, the rain hitting them horizontally, stinging their eyes but they didn’t pay heed. His right arm, and then his left, helped the captain signal his partner, and they hit each wave with determination. Colossal walls of water were nigh invisible in the darkness of the storm, the lightning streaking and flashing the ocean in an angry blue. The lightning brought with it the drums of thunder, a heavenly drum-line beating their journey forward. Yet they paid no heed. They braved the storm through to the end.

There was something truly wonderful about the people brave.

The storm left them drenched only for a while; the returning sun took out the moisture from their clothes and rewarded them with the warmth of a lover. Both men traded smiles as they returned to the state of mind they were at before the storm came by, a relaxed sense of purpose, a timeless moment of serenity on the open ocean. They were voyagers, travelers like any other, and the sea was their terrain, their realm. Countless people had made this journey before, countless storms braved and a multitude of worlds discovered over ages of humanity. Both of them upheld the courage of the best of them, regardless of the intention of the destination, the sacredness of the journey an age-old custom. Before long, they saw land in the distance, a mere disruption in the smooth horizontal line that circled them. They had made yet another successful trip so far, with more to follow, so this was an achievement, albeit a small one. An achievement, all the same. As they cut the waters with the polished, barnacle-free hull of their trusty craft, both of them stared into the distance, a sense of wonderment in their eyes.

There was something truly magical about the horizon blue.


Before she came along, he wondered why he was writing in the first place.

It started off as an experiment. He wanted to be a novelist. He wanted to build worlds of fantasy using the expansive set of tools he had at his disposal, having read libraries of books, but never enough. When he put those words onto paper, they twisted and turned, gnawing at the structure he thought they deserved, they rebelled and he let it fester. When the fight was done and the dust settled, he didn't write much, but he had said so much.

Before she came along, he wondered where his writing would take him.

Lines were uncaring of the rules he thought they had to follow, and he loved it. Every story seemed to breathe a new version of the truth, because that was what it was, a perspective of truth. His writing slowly started to unravel his inner demons, and slowly but surely they started to lay bare his ideas of love, his ideas of pain, his ideas of giving up yet wanting to start again. His heart slowly dusted off its wings and prepared to take flight while during his time away from writing the same heart yearned to beat for someone else.

Before she came along, he wondered who he could write for.

Yet the wings, dusted and feathered, stayed closed. It wasn't the right time just yet. He still wrote, now writing stories about people he loved and cared about, and he felt like this was all as a testament to those people. This didn't necessarily drive him like the passion he'd hoped it'd be; he felt a certain laziness in it, a sort of laid-back approach that he knew was not going help him finish the stretch. Did he want to finish this in the first place? Did he want to write a book?

Before she came along, he wondered where he was going.

The answer came that one night a friend in lands distant told him how a single story saved his life. A single story he wrote about someone else in his life, with the intention of just immortalising a sense of purpose in his life, stopped someone else from pulling the noose over their heads and around their neck. That night, the writer couldn't sleep, couldn't bring him to accept the weight of the responsibility he felt on his shoulders. If one story could save a life of a single person, he might have tapped deep enough into his passion to find the fire. He found something beautiful in his art he had not noticed before, and this gave him the drive he needed. He was going to finish that book.

Before she came along, he wondered if he was good enough.

That was when he started seeing everyone else who seemed to be writing too. Some seemed to garner fame much faster than he thought possible, some work seemingly mundane ad half hearted seemed to be the best thing for people around him. This halted his progress; what if people didn’t like his writing? What if his books didn’t sell? What if the reviewers were so harsh on his work that publishers decided to stay away from him? Reality hit him like a train derailing, the tracks to his future goals seemed further and further off course. Nights were hard to get by, days were harder to write during. That was when she walked in.

Before she came along, he wondered how long his fires would burn.

She fanned his flames again, breathing new life into his soul with words of encouragement, lifting his chin when all he wanted to do was give up and stop even before he started. He finally looked her in the eye and found a spark, a flash of lightning that hit him right at the core, at once firing up a string of stories he wanted to write about her. Anything to make her smile, he began again, putting pen to paper, fingers on his keyboard, making his words paint the pictures their love created, still frames of his favourite movie starring the both of them. He found a blissful need to keep making his art.

After she came along, he found answers for questions that were never asked before.

The morning after she left, he felt numb. Words seemed to come easy, he managed to say what he wanted to say but passion’s flame turned blue. He felt cold, alone and stranded, yet he knew his goals, he knew how to get there. She taught him so much about himself he never knew, about the world he never saw even though he was busy living in it, about his writing he never managed to read between the lines. it was never the same again, a long winding road that seemed to blend with the bushes that lined it. Here he got lost. When solitude finally crawled over him, it brought with it an answer. He knew his writing, his poetry and his need to express in words were akin to prayers, a need to be heard and remembered and a wishing for a happier tomorrow.

After she left him, he knew this book was going to be for her.

It started off as an experiment. He wanted to be famous but that quickly faded. He wanted to write about people he loved and cared for but that became a characteristic of his writing, not a goal. He wanted to save lives, and even that became a part of his writing, not a goal. No, now he knew the book was going to be not just a compilation, not just an expression, not just a contemplation of life and it’s various truths. This was going to be a dedication.

Maybe she would love him again.

Fast Lane

She looked at her phone. He was late. 

She wasn’t worried about him per se; she just missed him. He promised her they’d have dinner together, so maybe she was a little hungry as well. Okay, maybe it was the hunger that was making her feeling irksome. 

Her room was small, but without him, it seemed too spacious for her comfort. It wasn’t that she hated large open spaces; she just couldn’t stand the void of loneliness that crept back into her life when he wasn’t there. That void seemed to encompass her so fully she felt like she would lose touch with this beautiful reality she’s found herself in ever since he walked in.

She wasn’t disappointed in him per se; she was just a tad blue. He told her he was going to be half an hour late, but that turned into an hour because of the traffic, so maybe he wasn’t all to blame. Okay, maybe she blamed him a little for not avoiding the traffic.

Her life wasn’t all butterflies and rainbows after he happened; to be frank, he didn’t do that much to change things up from her usual climate anyway. It mainly had a lot to do with how there seemed to be less dark days than usual. She hated how he was like a tattoo on her, under her skin and a part of the way the world saw her. It wasn’t because she wasn’t happy about this; quite the contrary, she found joy in the smiles he gave to her. She hated it because the only way she could let him go was to rip him out of her.

She looked at her phone. He was late.


He looked at his phone. He was late.

He wasn’t worried about himself per se; he’s lived safe yet borderline dangerously for quite a while. The pedal wouldn’t go further into the floor of the car. The speedometer teetered over the edge of the 220 kph mark, a little higher than his usual indulgence. Okay, maybe he was a little more reckless than usual.

His car was a beautiful modified sedan, sports spec attachments, and improvements that both tore a hole in his pocket and gave him satisfaction by the mile, but that didn’t match up to the joy she brought. He smiled as the image of her walking up to him that cute way she swaggered made him miss her more. He promised her they’d have dinner together, and he knew how she’d feel if she was left hungry for too long. 

He wasn’t indifferent about disappointing her as his face seemingly showed; quite the contrary, underneath his calm mask of concentration, he was disappointed in himself for letting her down. This wasn’t the first time, and he kicked himself mentally for knowing that this won’t be the last either. She gave him so much more to live for than the cheap thrills he was used to, more than the speed on the road and so much more than the sting of alcohol that lined the walls of his mouth and throat. A glass or two of sweet heavenly red had passed by his lips, lips that would have to explain to his lover why he was late, why an indulgence in spirits was of good motive before leaving his friends. 

He looked at his phone. He was late. 


She looked at her phone. It was late.

She had sat on the freshly upturned dirt, her eyes sore and dry. It ached now, that need to cry now long gone and replaced by that need to stop. The sun was low on the horizon now, and the messy patch of ground that housed someone she once knew seemed more welcoming than the prospect of home and a warm bed. She ached for the night he never came home, the morning she went to the morgue to see the result of the incident the night before, and the afternoon spent in a group of friends who felt only snippets of her grief. They had lives to live, and so they left on their ways to live them. She knew she had to go too, she knew she could do nothing now to change what is to what could have been.

She painfully lifted her gaze from the ground to the inscribed stone that marked the resting place of someone that once made her life seem liveable.

Loving friend, who left us too early.