Tag: storytelling

The Love of My Life

It’s my wife’s birthday party tonight. I took a day off to get ready, well, not me getting ready, it’s getting her and the party ready.

I dropped her off at the spa first thing in the morning, then went to pick up the party decorations, then went to the venue and set everything up. It took me four hours to get all that done. The timing was perfect though, just in time to pick her up from the spa. I told her that she looked a million dollars with a facial treatment, manicure and pedicure. Not that I could tell, but she told me enough that I learned to compliment her, one of the secrets of a happy marriage, I guess.

We were hungry so we decided to drive to the sailing club to have lunch since it’s a glorious day. I drove like a mad man in the traffic because there was no other way when you had a hangry wife in the passenger seat.

When we were about twenty metres to the T junction, I spotted a car moving out of the parking spot right in front of the club on the esplanade. I slammed on the accelerator and dashed to take the spot; I was so fixated on the parking spot, my safe driving sense became retarded.


Boom! I went through a red light, and a delivery driver on his bicycle couldn’t break in time and ran into the passenger side of the car. I slammed on the break twice as hard as I slammed on the accelerator.
The seat belt tightly restrained me from going towards the dashboard.
In great panic, I looked through the rear window. The delivery driver got up from the ground, food parcels were all over the pedestrian crossing, his bicycle was bent by the impact. Thank God he looked unharmed.


Then I turned to look at my wife to see if she was ok. She looked at me with scrunched up eyebrows, twitching nose, lips smacked close, then she raised the back of her hands to my nose, and yell,” Look at what you’ve done to my nails!”


I couldn’t help but let out an uncontrollable laugh at her serious and pissed off look. That’s her, the love of my life. She cared about the most ridiculous things, even when facing life or death.

A Way to Keep Living

Writers have
this insatiable need
to be recognised
understood
and heard

I wonder
if this is sprung
from the wisdom
beyond the years
of their peers
and the inconceivable
rich inner world

Or perhaps
they are just
too tired of
not being
listened to
or allowed to
express freely

The fighting spirit inside
rises up
to take charge
So they live
through the characters
of the story
they so eagerly tell

Blog Reading

I want to tell a story
that touches you
without giving away
the intimate part
of my soul.

But,
without a piece of my soul,
how would I reach you?

Would a story worth reading
if it is told
in a soulless way?

I guess,
without sieving through
all the dirt,
I would’t come across
gold.