Category: 10-min fiction

Dear 2007

RalphLeave a comment

You don’t know who I am, but I know who you are. I know your thoughts, secrets, and fears you hid from everyone. I know what you have done.

Don’t go running away just yet. I am here to talk, not to scold you. I just wanted to let you know it’s not your fault, the way others treated you, the way things fell apart, and the results you received.

If I recall correctly, in your classroom of about fifty students, a girl was sitting next to you. You liked her quite a lot. She had naturally dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders, unlike most of her black-haired peers. She was chubby and had a sharp end to her eyes. She wore gym clothes, a pink and black nylon jacket, all the time, and hid an earphone connected to an iPod beneath her long hair. She was only slightly shorter than you were, which was quite tall for most girls in your school. She had a lot of boys who knew her, did things in her own way, and did not feel sorry for herself, regardless of what others told her. She was quiet and melodic in person, but loud and bold in writing. She was slow to move, but her world within her mind moved at magnificent speed.

During the time you sat next to her, you had the time to get to know her well. Your interest in her grew as she shared with you her fascination with everything that has to do with English, the US hardcore rock music, and the fad anti-cultural movement. A few things I remember about her: a note in English shared among you, her, and two other boys, forming a group of music connoisseurs, rebelling against the society that you didn’t even know about; her printing out pages of helpful information in English about a dark religion from the internet asking you and the other two boys to join her; her scribbling the word “suicide” on her left inner forearm with a cutter knife. Life and death were at play in forming this relationship.

I will be honest. I think you were obsessed with her. I am sorry to be curt, but at this moment, I believe it’s better to state things as they are. The reason I say this is because you felt physically hurt to see an empty text message inbox after sending her a text hours ago. You gifted her a melted chocolate via another person on Valentine’s Day, which happened to coincide with your graduation date. Even she knew about it and asked if you had asked to deliver that chocolate to you. I remember you staring at the moon and asking for your soul to be released from the grasp of her alluring smile. The reason I am stating this outright, even as I cringe at how sentimental it sounds, is that I want you to feel okay.

I would say it is okay to acknowledge that you feel attracted to her. Human beings are naturally attracted to each other based on the biological and psychological characteristics of each other. Accepting that this is a natural phenomenon, much like hunger when you don’t eat or the urge to urinate after drinking a lot of water, might help you understand this mechanism. Yes, it can be unfortunate when only one person likes the other, but you can still be friends even when you feel an attraction to that person. If the other person is mature enough, you could let them know you are attracted to them, and still ask to maintain the friendship. If the other person takes advantage of that fact, it is unfortunate. In which case, you can move on. Letting another person know that you liked them might be helpful for you, as it allows you to be honest with yourself. Hiding it and suffering alone appears not to be the solution, from my experience so far.

I think you’ve been feeling quite alone because you haven’t had good friends at school for a while. You wanted to be around people who were like you. You wanted to be liked and accepted among your peers. You liked pleasure and wanted to cling to the intoxicating feeling of being respected and marveled by your peers. You wanted to be accepted unconditionally. She was good at pointing out your strengths and made you feel valued. But when it started to fade away because you didn’t focus on your coursework, you began to feel rejected by your peers. You could see that they were already organized, knew what they were after, and constructively created their path towards their future. Additional coursework they took, extracurricular activities they participated in, and study materials from specialized tutors reeked of classism. You grew jealous and resentful of the elites, even though you were one of them. You lamented and vowed to fight against the iron sky, above which the gifted danced and laughed. But I must ask you, isn’t your anger misplaced?

I can imagine an alternative scenario laid out for you. I can imagine you focusing on lifting weights, reading philosophy and fiction books that really interested you, and writing religiously could have built a fountain of joy within you. I can imagine that building your own world from yourself would have created enough space for others to join you in your journey. Instead of chasing after them and criticizing them for not measuring up to your expectations, you could build the kind of world that you wanted to live in. Instead of resisting what is already at play, you can find new opportunities and be creative. Focus your sight on the light, less on the dark abyss.

I understand how she could have been so alluring to you. She shared with you her story about her family secrets at the West sea, the philosophy training in the mountain, and her mother. You felt like she valued you when she shared her existential questions about the meaning of life on Earth, her taste in heavy metal music, and the chaotic yet beautiful world within her mind. She might have shown an interest in you because you had just returned from another world, and you, too, were seeing the world in your own unique way, which not many people were viewing at the time. And she might be right. I also think that you had a unique perspective that many people didn’t understand at the time.

Having lived this far, meeting people of various walks of life, and having thought a little bit, here’s my take: thank her. Thank her for her kindness and her understanding. Thank her also for the suffering she inflicted on your soul because you were magnetically attracted to her beauty. The suffering I endured then helped me mature and build stamina to be there when someone (i.e., one of my ex-girlfriends) needed me. It helped me have a compassionate heart and see the other person who is suffering. I was able to control myself better (well, at least not worse) when I met another person like her. Thank her for making your life more fragrant, colorful, and exciting. The girl you met has since married another person (I’m sorry to say), but she gave you a chance when you were dating someone else. She has become a different person, at least the last time I met her. I suspect that the part of her you used to know is still there. Thank her for the moment she shared with you.

I know I have been just talking from my side. You might say: “Old man, don’t tell me what to do. I know what I am doing, I hate your gut, and I am going to change my future so that I don’t become someone like you.” I get it. And I encourage you to go on your way doing what you feel is the right thing to do. Keep reading, keep expanding your mind, and keep the hope that one day things will be alright. What I am proud of myself for so far is that I held on and kept working.

I want to thank you, too, for holding on. I know the feelings you’re experiencing right now are intense. I know you are confused and don’t understand how you are supposed to live your life. I know the misery is at easy dispense, while anything clear or bright feels far from reach. I can tell you this: you will soon find yourself on a journey that you had not imagined in your wildest dreams. The hint is in one of the books you are reading now. You will meet people that you had not dreamt you would ever meet, and you will join fun journeys together. I’ve been wanting to tell you that you are okay. You are loved by your parents, your friends (a few that you have), and people who are yet to come. You have a strong heart. Keep it up. And thanks a lot.

6.6.2025

Chicken Feet

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She had bushy permed black hair like an average middle-aged woman. Occasionally she would chew gum as our heads stared at my math textbook where I scribbled solutions to each question. Like her dog, she was observant. She would quietly hug me from behind for a few seconds, release me softly, and mumble, “It is sort of an emotion-deprived syndrome, you know.” Her son would enter her tiny apartment during our session, slip into a bathroom across a thin wall next to where we sat, and take his hot shower. She would spread a large towel arms-wide to cover her son as he slipped out of the steamy bathroom into his room; he was too tall for the apartment. In the kitchen, she pulled out a white cubic styrofoam box. She called my attention, opened it like a Pandora’s box, and stared at my face, challenging me. Black, wrinkled, and bare-bone chicken feet sat in the box hopelessly. She pulled two out, one to me, another to her mouth. She sucked it with her jaw and then spewed out little white pills of bones. I followed, feigning courage, but my stomach was already ready to repel what was to come. Cold, rigid, and salty, I wanted to destroy it as soon as possible. When it dissipated into my stomach, I was grateful. She smiled. I felt the warmth coming back. I had grown up a little then.

11.11.2023

Teacher – (10 min)

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prompt: a mentor or a teacher during a tumultuous adolescent years

I stared him straight in the eye and asked him: how do you get by when you have so much challenge? He didn’t say anything for a while. And then he said: “just ask for help.”

Mr. T was my homeroom teacher when I was in high school. Having moved from a different country, I was still unfamiliar with how the American school worked. I pretended to fit in, but probably most kids already knew that I did not fit in.

At that time, I think I was tormented by some thoughts. In retrospect, I suspect it was loneliness. It is not surprising that loneliness had such a strong grip on me at the time. I was isolated at home from the world outside that seemed too different from me. The language they spoke, the way they looked, and their culture were all different from what I was used to. The difference hurt. Just being exposed in the air at sight was a threat. A few seconds in exposure, and then you are followed with curious eyes catching every little move that you make. At an age where relationships with fellow students matter the most, it was a challenging place to be.

Besides a few things, I mostly stayed indoors, often watching tv shows or movies. I wasn’t the friendliest person to hang out with at school. I often felt inappropriate, awkward, and ashamed. I recall many instances of awkward interactions with my peers. I agonized over what others had said, worried about what others might think of me while trying to control myself, which seemed to be overstimulated by the internal chemical influx.

So it is surprising to remember this vivid interaction I had with Mr. T. It was an earnest question: “what do you do when you are in such a tragic situation?” I don’t remember what drove me to ask Mr. T such a question. I remember standing in the middle of the vast green grass of the soccer field (“football,” as Mr. C called it) that leads to the parking lot on the opposite side of the school. I remember tears welling up in my eyes as I asked the question. I remember feeling that somehow the world has done an injustice to a person, who has done nothing wrong, but there is nothing much to do. Although I recall being told by my mom that he was a Vietnam veteran and that he had to leave school for a cancer treatment that won’t be covered by his insurance because he had taken a pause for a bit, I don’t know if that had to do with my question then. It might have been something else.

I remember the calm in his voice and in his expression as he replied to me, who, at the time, was emotionally disturbed. I remember his peaceful facial expression as he simply listened to my question. He paused a little and said: “just ask: ‘help.'”

He silently stared at me with a thin smile, patted my shoulder, and started to walk across a wide, empty green field toward the garage. I believe it was the last time I saw him. To this day, I remember his calm, stoic, and peaceful blue sky on that day.

Cigarettes – (10 min)

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Prompt: two brothers on the last day in the country before flying abroad back home.

As teenagers, the most rebellious thing they could do in the country was to venture away from the securely fenced boundaries of home and school towards the beach. Two brothers, one year apart, walked towards an ice cream shop next to a beach. It was a night out.

Living in a foreign country, both spoke a very limited native language. Still, the oldest one managed to order two ice creams. He got a lemon sherbet, his brother, and mint chocolate.

They were on a roll. They had taken a yellow taxi to the beach by giving directions for each turn to the taxi driver with a broken French. Somehow, they managed to make it to the beach. Luck was on their side. Before sunset, they found the ice cream shop and decided to get some.

While the older one was adventurous and the younger one less so, both were feeling an adrenaline rush. It was their last night in the country before they moved away for good. The agonizing pain of isolation within home or school had been too much to bear for teenagers, who are beginning to learn about the world, and in turn, themselves. Books, internet videos, and photos did not offer a remedy but further stoked the pain of loneliness.

Now that all was over, they did not care whether it was dangerous to be outside among local natives who looked different from them. They were an easy target for any residents in the low-income neighborhood; people came to beg, to feed curiosity, or to steal.

Regardless, the brothers laughed out loud as hard as they could. Each with an ice cream in their hands, they walked in big strides towards the beach. The wind blew gently. It was May, and the air was warm, moist, and breezy. Staring at the sunset, it felt like good riddance.

The brothers continued to walk along the sand dune by the beach as the sunset, the sky, and the world started to cool into dusk.

As the older brother lit a cigarette, it brightened a little, and his face emerged from the dark shadow. Then the lighter fire went out, only leaving behind the red ember light of the cigarette butt. The younger one joined in, and they laughed and took a drag. So long! Goodbye! It’s over!

It was the last cigarette they puffed before heading back home. Their father and mother were busy making sure all the adult stuff was done before leaving the house. It was finally over. The long wait. The isolation. The boredom. They were finally over. Only freedom waited ahead.

Airport – (10 min)

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Prompt: an airport is a place of physical transportation but also memories

Tall palm trees were the first thing that could be seen through a wide rectangular window in the international airport in Hawaii. Seeing the palm tree makes you realize you are on a tropical island. Suddenly, you feel as though you can smell the sweetness of the dates in the palm trees, the saltiness of the ocean beach, and the gentle breeze sweeping over a green pasture.

The sensation was triggered by a memory of 15 years ago when the man left the island as a teenage boy. As if time had not passed, the man in his late 20s felt he had traveled back to his childhood. With it, a sense of loneliness leaked in.

Holding it back, the man gripped his two large travel carriages, dragging them along with him to a bus station. The bus refused to carry his large luggage. Flabbergasted, he called an Uber. A younger Filipino Uber driver explained to him rather depressingly that Hawaii had recently been plagued with homelessness and drug additions. He was attending a college, studying criminology. The man asked him what he wanted to become. The driver replied it was hard to get a job on this island.

Getting off the Uber, he arrived in front of a university building where he was about to stay for the next two days. It looked much smaller than he had remembered. The humidity, the breeze, and the blazing sun reminded him that this was where he had spent his childhood.

Yet, the people he had lived it with were not there anymore. His friends, his mother, and his brother were not there. He was alone, a stranger to a place he once called home, a place he had dreamed of returning to. To the locals there, he was just another tourist from the mainland with a head filled with inflated utopian fantasy. They were used to people like this. They treated these people like chewed gums; they had tried them before and had seen what came out of them.

The man checked into the building and nervously walked through the hallways. It was much more cramped than he remembered. Everything was much older and worn than he had remembered. Not even basic amenities were there; no soap, toilet paper, or drinking water.

The man left the building, leaving his luggage behind, searching for water and soap. The street he had walked was still there. He wondered if the concrete were the same as he had walked on as a child. Fifteen years have passed. He doubted they remained the same.

Loneliness crept in further and further. The more he found childhood remnants, the more he remembered the warmth that he had felt then, and the more distinctly, he realized how alone he was now. He wanted to talk to the ghosts of his memories, but there was no response. No one spoke to him. It was only him and the road.

He continued to walk. He arrived at a beach. The sun was setting in a pink-purple hue. Occasional waves were gently crashing onto the shore. The man sat on the sand dune and stared at the sky. Tiny airplanes were making their way in and out of the island.

It’s those tiny airplanes that transported him magically to this place dwelling in his memory. Fifteen years have passed. Sweet things had happened, bitter things had happened, and nonetheless, the memory had remained the same.

Leaving the airport, he felt a closure. Witnessing what he remembered was still there gave him the courage to get out there again. Perhaps he could return to this place after another 15 years. He wondered what it would feel like then. Would it be happiness and gratitude instead of loneliness and bitterness he felt this time? He turned away from the window and walked through the gates.

“Runner” – (10 min)

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prompt: finding a deeper meaning to running than simply running

*there was nothing but the road at the plan until the edge of the horizon. A man in his 20s is running on that road. A few runners in jerseys, shorts, and a running band around their sweat-soaked hair were ahead of him. The rest had already gone far ahead.

“All that the man possessed were his camera and a water bottle. The thing that he thought would be the must-have in this epic journey turned out to be the ones that were weighing him down. He felt tempted to throw them away by the dead tree next to the running path, but he decided against it. He was willing to carry the burden in the present for a better-rewarded future.

None of the runners spoke to him. They were also in a miserable state. A few decided to walk instead. The man could not bring himself to walk. Even though no one was looking at him, he wanted to finish this race, running.

Under the blazing sun, he could feel the moisture rapidly drying up from his soft body. He felt threads of muscles under his chin strained. His throat was burning, and his lungs were drying quickly. He felt soreness in his thighs and his shoulders. His feet and calves had gone numb a while ago, and he had been mechanically moving them one after another. The road seemed to not end, regardless of how far he ran.

He emptied the last sliver of water into his mouth. He started to see a village with a bit of pasture around it. He let his head fall after drinking the last bit of the water. Just staring at his feet, he focused on moving them one after another. What was the purpose of this? It would be far too easier to walk. If comfort is what the body craves, what does it mean to go against it and keep running? Is there something more than just living?

Then he heard a shout: Yala, Yala! A middle-aged man with a hearty lump of belly watering his garden was shouting at him. Although he did not understand what he was shouting, he knew what the man was saying: “don’t give up! Keep your head up and keep running!”

Something in him surged over to his legs and his arms. Recklessly, yet courageously, the man started to run. He ran as hard as he could. The world began to brighten. Everything seemed to be turning white.

Then there was an arch of the gate. As he walked through it, he entered an empty farmhouse garden where a few other men were panting and drinking water. He had made it. It was the finish line. He let his body fall to the ground and rested there, panting. It was worth a while. It was a worthwhile run. And he was grateful for having made it all the way, running.”

10-min fiction 1-1-2023

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10-min fiction is a new project. Each post is a fiction written in about 10 minutes.

Prompt: middle school students who are yearning to become fiction writers

It started as jealousy. she was a better writer than he was; she claimed she had attended an academy for philosophy. He thought that was why she had an air of amorphous aura around her.

As the wind blew through the window, the afternoon sunset glimmered corner of the classroom as the large window curtain flapped melodiously. It was an early fall, and the air had a pleasant sweetness.

The classroom was empty. Students were outside at the school field, playing games in groups of four to five. Only he and the girl were sitting next to each other by their desks. They were sitting next to each other because that was their assigned seats. But he was more curious about her than just a coincidence.

She recalled a trip to the west ocean side with her mom when she was little. She told him a story about how her original name was “west ocean.” He forgot the story but remembered it was with a hint of melancholy that she told this story to him.

Such a hint of trauma intrigued him further. At this point, it wasn’t clear if it was a mysterious appeal of hers or jealousy that led him to say “yes” when he was asked if he would like to revise her manuscript.

Her manuscript described two characters in the middle of the plain in autumn. They were swordsmen, one male and the other female, talking of fate. The female swordsman stabbed the other swordsman in the chest, and the blood spilled on dry yellow grass. The female swordsman shed a tear and spoke to the wounded swordsman.

There the manuscript ended. It was incomplete, but it embodied an inevitable sadness that must come between the woman and the men. It was clearly well-written, with wisely chosen words to carry the feelings of the story.

Yet, out of jealousy, he said this manuscript was rubbish. The girl replied, “oh, that’s unfortunate,” and threw the manuscript into the trash can.

Perhaps it was a pang of guilt he had then that pushed him to decide to write fiction one day.