Category Archives: Creative Writings


She sat on a soft-cushioned chair in front of the dresser and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The morning light seeped through the gray mesh curtains and lit up the room. The yellow rays warmed her skin and defined the lines on her forehead and the outer corners of her eyes. She looked on into the mirror and saw in it a reflection she no longer recognized. 

She was aware that the woman in the mirror looking right back at her was herself, but she also knew how mirrors work, how they really work. They show you who you are when you are inverted, or what you pretend to be with all the layers of makeup caking up on the surface of your skin, concealing what is beneath, concealing you. Worst of all, they make you believe you are someone you are not, so that if your replica passes by on an empty street, you will walk on without faltering. 

When you look into a mirror, you are never really looking at yourself. It’s because your eyes dart from the slightly smudged eyeliner at the tip of the wings you drew, to the red stain that leaked onto your teeth, and to the small strand of hair rebelliously sticking out at the side of your head. It’s because when you look into a mirror, your eyes never meet your eyes. 

She gathered all her courage amid her veins crippled in fear and met her gaze on the silvery reflective surface, overlooking for the first time the things that did not matter, ready to confront the stranger she has become. 



He left
and this world
and made his way into oblivion
as he slowly dissipated
from the memories
of everyone he once held dear
But she is reminded
of his absence
despite the dementia
as the deafening silence
roars from the empty rooms
and echoes off the walls
of the empty house

She soothes her broken heart
with the thought of him
living inside her
as she breathes in the air
he breathed in and out
She soon forgets
all the pain; the misery
and drifts into blissful unconsciousness
only to be woken again
to the memory of his presence
before searching the deserted house
for a soul that would never return

The scab falls once more
and her wound breaks open
The pain gushes out
together with the tears
He died once
but she dies inside
a thousand times over


Somewhere in the skies far, far away, a sea of snowy clouds floated across the vast blue; their cotton-like puffs dispersed like dandelion seeds then disappeared like melting snow. And on these gaseous clouds sat a young boy, making his way to a place he had in mind.

Somewhere in the same skies stood a man on another cluster of clouds, cloaked in a white robe. He noticed the young boy in the distance and followed him to a massive oval-shaped translucence rippling at the edges. It was a portal connecting different places and different worlds. The man called out to the boy just in time.

“Papa,” cried the boy in delight. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“Cheeky little fella. I saw you rushing here,” said the man as he leapt onto his son’s cloud. “Come!” he offered his hand.

“Where are we going Papa?” the boy questioned innocently.

“I’d like for you to see something, son.”

“What is it Papa?”

“It’s a surprise. Now let’s go before we are too late.”

He led the excited boy through the portal and they teleported to a place far away; a place of infinite dark space, with no beginning and no end. The boy noticed shimmering lights in the distance on all sides and asked his father why the candle lights aren’t illuminating the sky.

“Those are not candles, son,” the man laughed. “Those are stars of different galaxies. And we are not among the skies.”

They drifted swiftly through the darkness. The boy watched wide-eyed as giant grey rocks with circular dents slowly passed by, and he marveled at the sight of the distant stars shooting in random trajectories. But what he found most amusing was the darkness that made the universe look like it had come to a standstill.

“We’re here,” the man announced as they came to a halt.

He waved his hand at the void and without hesitation, the darkness shifted itself and slowly unveiled a glowing ball. It was a perfectly spherical ball of deep blue with sharp hints of green.

“It’s yours.”

“What is this Papa?”

“It’s a world. A world on its own. It’s barren now but you, young man, are going to fill it with life,” the man placed his hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder and looked into his innocent blue eyes.

“How?” the boy questioned, unaware of the greatness of the gift.

“Think! Let your imagination go wild, son! Think of something, anything, and say the word ‘Be’ and it will be. It will come to life. You can make it come to life.”

“Anything?” the boys eyes gleamed.


So the boy spent the next few days crafting miniature species that would soon swim the waters of the new world, roam its barren lands, and soar high in its light blue skies. He brought them all to life with a monosyllabic whisper. And as his final touch, the boy created man, a creature in his own image and in his likeness, but much smaller in size, and placed him among beasts on the lands.

The boy watched over his creatures every day and every night and often played with them. He liked placing sea creatures on land to see how long they can go without breathing. He enraged monsters of different sizes and forms and had them duel. But he enjoyed playing with man the most. He would flood their lands, and when they swam through the catastrophe, he would shake the earth and watch it crumble and engulf everything in sight. He struck them with bolts of lightning when they were unsuspecting, and set whirlwinds after them that eventually swallowed them whole. But despite these little pranks, the boy gave mankind everything they desired. And out of love, he gave them more than what they deserved. And sometimes, when he grew too fond of certain men, he took them from their homes as others mourned.

“If only they knew better,” the boy would think to himself.

One day, the boy brought his father with him when he went to play with his creatures and showed him what he had made of the round blue world. He enthusiastically introduced his old man to the ants, ferns, cacti, vultures, leopards, oxen, whales, and almost everything he had created.

“And what is that?” the father asked when the boy forgot to mention the tarantulas.

“That is a type of spider. It has eight legs and spins web. Almost all my spiders do,” said the boy.

The man was impressed with his son’s work, and a little jealous that he hadn’t thought of as much creatures himself to fill his world, the one his father had given him.

“I’m proud of you, son,” the man gleamed with pride. “I really am. You gave each of your creatures a name. But what are they going to call you?”

“I don’t know,” the boy was taken aback by the question. It hadn’t occurred to him that he too would need a name. “What do you think they should call me, Papa?”



(This piece was inspired by the quote/poem: “For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen; a gaseous nebula must collapse. So collapse. Crumble. This is not your destruction. This is your birth.“)

I saw in you a light

A star
encompassed and concealed
beneath your corrugating skin
Its luminosity radiating
through your blue-green veins
to seep through your pores
not to drain you out
but to unleash and fill
space’s infinite darkness
every void and abyss
with your awe-stricken aura
the world does not yet know
it needs to see

I still see in you the light


“May I know what you’re doing Sir?”

“Painting pictures.”

“But you aren’t using any brushes.”


“So you don’t paint?”

“Aye, I do paint. I can paint the skies, the earth, and everything in between. I can paint a portrait of a fine young damsel and recapture a starry night on a plain white canvas. And I paint all these not with a brush, but with a quill every commoner possesses but never fully utilizes. To tell you the truth, I can do far greater things with a quill than when wielding a brush; I can bring to life any color I choose using just one; I can make rain pour down whenever I please on a perfectly fine day with just a few extra strokes of ink. And my paintings are more than just two-dimensional visuals confined to the corners of a canvas; they are words engraved on paper that transcend time and space and become etched on hearts and minds; they are words whose essences animate and dance like the flames of burning wood and flow like the waters of a stream. And my paintings cannot be perceived solely through the human eyes, but require the combined powers of all the senses and the mighty mind. So aye, I paint pictures, but with words.”