FICTION posted by Rica
She was standing in the middle of that stupid overcrowded mall, her left hand on her waist, her right hand fumbling in her pocket for her cell phone. Has he called yet, she heard the lady at the information booth ask. He hasn’t, but I doubt he’d bother to. No, but he will in a few minutes, she heard the guard stationed at the booth answer the woman.
Even that phantom vibration of her phone wasn’t there. She would know if he had called or had sent a message saying he’d be late again. But since it had been three hours since she started waiting for him, she was sure by now he had stood her up again. Not again, she told herself. Always falling for the same trap.
Her friend had once told her she was foolish. Stupid would be a better term, she joked, but they both knew she meant it. She was stupid, so stupid she always ended up waiting for hours for a person who she knew would never come anyway.
She would’ve liked to tell him, or her friend, or anyone really, that she was tired. It’s not as if waiting’s an exciting game, she mumbled to herself. more…
FICTION posted by Rica
The image I have of you in my mind is that of an angel – an angel with red wings.
You were never the type to settle things calmly, always resorting to violence. And if you could, you’d definitely annihilate anyone who was in your way. You were never the type to write either. You know, even if you only knew how to write about rage and anger and killing, I would still read them all, your letters. Because I know that’s the only thing I can do for you. That’s the only thing you would’ve let me do for you. If you only wrote, you know I’d have read them.
After you left for your war, I always imagined you returning with a big uncharacteristic smile on your face. You’d knock on the door, and when I tell you to come in, you’d wipe your soles clean first on my Welcome Home mat. And then you’d say, “I’m back”, or something more out of character like, “I’m home.” And I’d tell you, “Finally.” more…
FICTION posted by Rica
She gets in her car, or waves at a cab. She drives herself to work, or lets the cab driver drop her in front of her office. She doesn’t take a lift but feels the elevator doors close. She waits five minutes to make sure gravity won’t pull her down again. She gets out and faces another day in her box. Boxed office. Box office. She feels a tightness in her chest; she feels she’s being watched again. Box office. Boxed office.
Just a third of my day, she tells herself. And she feels old again.
She smells her coffee. She wakes up but closes her eyes again. She’s dreaming the day away. She’s starting her day right. She takes a sip and opens her eyes. She sees what’s on her desk, not what’s in front of her. She switches her life on, but the monitor won’t open. She adjusts the cables at the back. more…
Posted by Rica
I am the Egyptian goddess Mout.
I am the voice inside my own head.
I am the prank caller you want to kill.
I am luuurve.
I am the smoke that floats above your lips.
I am the eyes that will ogle you when you feel alone.
I am the one you need.
I will be the person to despise you.
I am the woman sitting on your left shoulder.
I am bored.
I just want to get this over with.
Hate me.
Because I am.
