A Walk by the Sea

The Daily Post publishes a one-word daily prompt for everyone to write about. The word for today is Branch. Some scenes may not be suitable for very young readers. Mention of any real person or event is not intentional and is purely by coincidence.

I remember that Saturday afternoon when I packed my bags and promised never to return home. Here I am, back at that seaside town.


I hate the sea. I don’t understand its appeal. However, I like the setting sun. I like how light scatters across the sky, especially during cloudy afternoons like now.

Here I am though, by the sea. No matter how much I hate it.

It beckons me to come closer. Closer. And closer still.


Tired and Emotional

The Daily Post publishes a one-word daily prompt for everyone to write about. The word for today is Bumble. Some scenes may not be suitable for very young readers. Mention of any real person or event is not intentional and is purely by coincidence.

I found myself lost in Belfast and meeting Alison. I began sweating bullets when she grabbed my arm and dragged me to the local pub, threw me on a seat, and sat in front of me.

“You never called.”


“–you never called, you never…”

Alison began a long list of things she did after we met two months ago through a dating app. Honestly, I thought it could work. We met up in a good place, had a drink or two, and then woke up in her apartment. I have no memories of what had happened during the night. When I went out to drink some water, she told me we’re getting married. I was like ‘what’ and told her ‘no’. Then she began crying, talking about how everything is prepared and how all of our friends and relatives got their invitation already. I said my goodbye and told myself not to use the app again and meet up with Alison. Yet, here we are.

Ah, the humming of bees. It seems people have gathered, wanting to see what was going on.

“… and all this time, I thought it’s because I’m not young anymore. You had a wife, goddammit. Was it because of her?”

Wait, what? Who had a wife?

“What are you talking about?”

Alison began crying. “You cheating bastard. I’m right. It’s that woman.”

She began throwing some tacos my way.

“What are you talking about? We’re not even married. We’ve only met two months ago.”

Alison dropped the mug that she’s about to throw.

“Two months ago? Do you even know how ridiculous you sound?”

“Two months ago, we had a date. Then, I woke up in your apartment and you told me we’re getting married. What’s more ridiculous than that?”

Alison’s eyes grew wide. She seems to have sensed something. It was then that she told me–

“–follow me somewhere. There’s too many people here.”

We stood up, said our apologies to the owner, and went outside…

…to a hospital bed.

An old woman that looks like Alison held my hand near her right cheek. It felt hard to breathe. Three people walked from behind her and looked at me. The humming of hospital equipment filled the air. I can’t feel my legs and hands look old. I realized what was going on.

The only thing I can do was to look at the warmest set of eyes I’ve seen.

“What were you going to tell me?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter now.”


The Daily Post publishes a one-word prompt every day for everyone to write about. Today, the word is Jangle.

The sound of a ringing telephone is discordant. It unnerves you with its metallic vibe. It is devoid of emotion, of humanity. It only cares about its master, efficiency. It unnerves you because it pulls you out of the trance that a peaceful life brings. It send you back to a reality that you need to work for that peace. That you, a tiny cog moving the whole machine, must do your part. So you scamper, eager to stop the ringing, eager to finally get back to your trance; but you would not question it, because you have grown to love the peace and at the back of your mind, you know it would not last. You answer the phone.

I remember seeing jangles back when I was still attending at UMC. About halfway through the church service, the congregation will sing popular praise-and-worship songs, something I have never seen or fully understood when I was five. Six women holding their jangles spin and bump those maddening things around, as if on a frenzy, and the people would go out of their seats and shake hands or hug their fellow congregants. It was harrowing for me because I feel uncomfortable shaking hands with people I don’t know. Things about germs and stuff. What I really wanted to say in this part is that I only see jangles whenever i go to churches. Jangles are hideous.

A Day in the Life of a Man Living in a Box

Robert* woke up from a nightmare about himself being transported back into the past, changing most of his decisions back in high school like finally having friends rather than snubbing half of the campus or being active physically instead of staying at home lying down on the sofa for God knows how long. At 10 am, he woke up to a studio-type flat–the one he shares with his mother after the divorce. His mother left him a pot of drained fettuccine and meat sauce–separated, not mixed. No cheese. Robert doesn’t like cheese. He stood up, made a sandwich of pillows with his sleeping foam, and went to the kitchen to grab a bowl of pasta. He booted up his laptop, checked whether a new light novel translation is available, and finally went back to bed. Or foam. He woke up two hours later, checked his Facebook account and watched a bootlegged copy of a certain murder mystery show until 4 PM. He washed the dishes and refilled the water dispenser. His mother has just got home thirty minutes later when Robert got scolded for one thing or another. He forgot to take out the trash.

For the rest of the day, Robert would sit in front of his laptop, surfing the net, looking for cheap flats nearby and some jobs he could do without having to work with a team. He has been doing this for five years. He’s now 24 and is suffering from a heart condition.

*not his real name.


The Daily Post publishes a one-word prompt every day for everyone to write about. Today, the word is Sail.

Hear of a story about a man named Hugh.
He wanted to go Scotland in search of Irn-Bru.
He bought a plane ticket as he wanted to see it through
but he cannot fly, said the attendant, because he got the flu.

He died of cholera while sailing.

Public Pool

Public pools are dirty. It’s a nasty cesspool of bodily fluids and dead skin cells. Apparently, some people mistake it for the latrine. I don’t get why people want to share a bath tub with strangers from God knows where.

Public pools could help the transfer of waterborne diseases since there are no background checks going on. It’s impractical. Imagine having to go through a medical examination every time you go in and out of the pool area. It’s border security all over again.

But Joel, you may ask; why can’t you just have your own private pool? I’m glad you asked, you git. Do you know how much it costs to pump an unnecessary amount of processed water just to fill a hole in your hollow self? It’s just pompous. Plus, it’s also a would be haven for insects that lay eggs in water. It’s a farking health hazard.

I’m sure there are other ways of cooling down one’s body.


The Daily Post publishes a one-word prompt every day for everyone to write about. Today, the word is Dash.

My mental image of a dash comes in many forms. There’s the dash found in typography, there’s running in long strides, and a unit of measurement that’s approximately two pinches. Dash is also a staple name for characters with remarkable agility.

My favorite dash to make when typing is the ’em’ dash. It’s longer that a minus, which is longer than a hyphen. When used in a sentence, the dash brings forth brutal clarity when explaining an idea.