Day to Day Writing, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction

#7 Revision

Guilt kept our apartments clean.

It was the monster that pushed me into back-breaking labour; the frenzy that possessed me to keep scrubbing until our little cave reeked of bleach and disinfectant. Our cat yowled scathingly, perched on top of my bookshelf, watching me from afar.

It never calmed my guilt – the routine just buried it. My guilt was insurmountable – a Goliath I could never keep quiet. It walked with me every step I took, and sat on my shoulders until the burden kept me from ever being able to look anybody else in the eye, because I was no longer upright. I forgot how to detach myself from it; it is always inside me, at the forefront, right smack in the middle, centre stage, hidden by layers and layers of masks I’ve learned to put on through the years, until  I’ve forgotten where polyester ends, and my skin begins.

I can pinpoint exact moments in the life we once shared together where we made wrong decisions. We wasted so much of our youth. An entire decade of missteps and dead ends.

That one sunny afternoon when I was curled up beside the dormitory phone, legs tucked underneath me, you said, “This is what you wanted, right? It’s better this way, right?” Your yearning for my approval came through more clearly than your voice fighting static over the phone.

Kneeling over you in the hallway of your mother’s house, while you tied your shoes, and you looked up at me and whispered so your family won’t   hear, “You don’t think I feel bad about this? Don’t you realize how bad this makes me feel?”

Waiting for you in a coffee shop in the frozen tundra that was Mississauga, sipping on on watery, tasteless coffee I spent our last $2 on, and everything we ever owned packed inside a single suitcase I kept beside me, everything depending on this one job interview, and you came into the cafe, with a grin on your face, sat down in front of me and said, “Got it,” and I immediately burst into grateful tears.

Lying down in an empty apartment I was so proud of, dazed and confused, looking at my laptop with ever widening eyes and mumbling, “It was today.” “WHAT,” you jumped in from the kitchen, your pupils as wide as the sun – “It was today,” I repeated, sinking, “I missed it. I fucking missed it.”

Rolling a joint while the television blared, and I looked at you and said accusingly, “You haven’t gone home in days.” And you smiled back and said, “That’s because I live here now.” – “About fucking time you admit it.” – “This is what you wanted, right? It’s better this way, right?” “Yes,” I said, my heart in the palm of your hands, “Much better.”

Clutching each other on a single bed, trapped inside a room for days, and half-teasingly, half-threateningly joking about the landlord that was waiting for us outside the apartment for not having paid rent.

“Don’t be like that,” she said, her hand extended, about to reel me in for an embrace, “I’m your neighbour now. You HAVE to say hi. You can’t avoid me forever you know.”

“Where were you?” I hissed from our room. “Upstairs,” you said, avoiding my deathly glare. “It’s our FUCKING anniversary.” – “I know, I know, but you know how they get – it’s hard to get away”. I threw a pillow your way. You dodged it as smoothly as you held my hand on so many of our lazy afternoons – “If you fucking cared enough, you would have come home!”

Leading me through the frozen lake, our skates ripping on ice, stars never shone as bright as they ever did for us in Port Credit, and you said, “We got it all figured out, you know. This kind of thing doesn’t just happen twice.”

You opened your eyes to my worried face towering over you, shaking, our vicious argument forgotten, and you reached out and held on to my shoulder, like a frightened child and said, your voice trembling, “what happened? Oh god, what happened?”

Sitting across from me in the hospital, cradling hands, smiling awkwardly at each other, and you said, “Things are going to work out. It’s going to change. Things will get better. Promise you won’t give up yet.” – “Okay. I promise.”

Standing by the front door, your hand gripping the doorknob, half-facing me, half-turned away, and  you said, “This is all because of you. Because of a stupid decision you made that changed our lives. We had it good, you know, it wasn’t perfect but it was good! Why couldn’t you have just been happy?” – “You said things would change. You’ve been saying the same shit for 10 years! 10 years! I’m not waiting another 10 years just hoping things would change.”

“Well, I would’ve,” you said, opening the door for the last time, “I would’ve waited forever.”

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Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing

#66

I met her again, a creature I once lost, re-united in the early hours of the morning, stretching on a blue bed with the sunlight kissing her cheeks, optimistic about living her afternoon, her world now divided between the present and the future, no longer existing just for today — there isn’t a single tale from her past you could ask her to retell or recount for your sake, she is only capable of desire, so uncontrollable that it is barely legible, and today I captured it, even for just a moment, I caught her at a standstill, so completely different from her continuous fluidity and ever-changing identity – today I knew what she meant – having shaken off the dust and grit of ten dry years, obliterating the fog that consumed my mental capacities and shouldered my anxiety, today and always, however she speaks to me, in half truths, single stories, contemporary jargon, in microscopic signals on her eyes, lips, or hands, however inexpressible her thought, however deep into the crevices of her mind she hides in, straight from the surface to the depths – today I knew, even standing on the extreme verge of self-love, destruction and sobriety, I knew what she meant.

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Day to Day Writing

Day to Day Writing # 44

A/N: Apologies for the lack of writing folks, I am currently obsessed with Saint’s Row IV and Andy Weir’s The Martianand my writing is suffering because of it. But worry not, because I got a lot of things done today such as, cleaned up my apartment, finally put up curtains in my bedroom so people can’t watch me sleep from outside, and sketched a bit.

On the meantime, here’s an old short story I wrote for one of my classes eons ago.

Enjoy!

Calculating Literature

By: Ellise Ramos

Loving Myra was a decision I set heavily in stone, with as much vehemence and relentlessness as an infatuated 10-year-old could. From the moment Mr. Rodney sat us together in class, she already looked me up and down with those judging eyes and offered no “hello” or nod – just a penetrating glare that I felt solidify in my skin, into my nerves.

“Hi, my name is Ellise,” I said, smiling.

She rolled her eyes in reply.

I craned my neck to see what she was working on and saw her full name written on the top-left corner of her notebook. “Hey, your name is Ellise too!”

“My name’s Myra. My second name’s Elysse. And it’s spelled differently from yours, so no, we don’t have the same name.
That didn’t matter. I was already in love.

Read the full story in .pdf here:

or keep scrolling below to read it in its entirety on my blog.

Continue reading

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #43

Talking to you is as easy as breathing,
a drink of fresh water on a hot summer day,
the undeniable comfort of Zeppelin and Blind Melon floating in our ear drums
translated through our keyboards
magnified across our screens
talking to each other through microphones
across Toronto
sitting in separate prisons,
in isolated dark rooms.

We travel hand in hand through Wraeclast,
the land of the damned,
defeating Hillock and The Deep Dweller across the Flooded Depths,
to the Fetid pool –
while talking about how males always look gorgeous in tuxedos,
and females end up looking comical.

I led zombie hordes away from your door, my dear,
sacrificed lives upon lives to keep you safe,
and you gave me corn in return.
“Hungry? Here, eat,” you’d say,
while I laughed and replied, “So sweet. My hero.”

That cozy afternoon we walked down small alleyways
and passed joints,
and fumbled back through 401 games
eating chocolate and giggling
at nothing in particular.

The night you walked me to Osgoode station,
wrapped in your over-sized sweater,
and I put my head in your shoulder
and wept.

The nightly conversations
that keeps us both awake until 3 am,
the truths you bring out in me,
truths I find so horrid,
truths you pick apart and dissect until
it becomes beautiful –
even to me,
and the way you pause automatically
every time I start to say something,
those greenish-blue eyes that light up
when turned towards my way –

There’s no secret I can’t tell you,
no fear nor anxiety while with you.
It’s so easy to love you, my dear,
you make everything so easy.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #39

I can feel the toxic woman rising,
from the back of my throat.
She grips me with her icy, cold fingers
and dips me in liquid laced with poison,
where there is no antidote
for the viciousness and relentless words
she spouts a mile a minute.

I let her take over me –
eyes squinting,
watching the faces of my friends
widen in surprise
at how venomous I can actually be –
I have no control over the words exploding out of me
like scythes ripping through the air
and cutting them in half –
all the acid I’ve contained inside
starts spilling,
burning and desecrating everything in its path

and I can only tremble and watch from the corner of my eye
the damage I’ve caused –
the loss of control I’ve allowed to happen –

I love you, I love you
I tried to be good,
I swear I tried to be good –
but the demon inside me has fought her way out of my heart
and taken my misery and insecurities with her –
to reveal the Mother Cunt
growing, in fury,
inside.

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