Out of this world


Some people ask if I believe in

the world of wizardry and witchcraft,

or the existence of races such as the elves, dwarves and tiny little people with big feet,

or the possibility of souls passing on into another universe, dimension and timeline,

or gods dying to die like the mortals who are trying to live forever,

or kingdoms where dragons reign alongside humans.

They ask because these are the stories that I love to read.

These are the stories that pique my interests all the time.

My answer is simply this:

that I believe only in what I am living through.

I live and love what I’m living through.

But then again, that does not mean that

the writer in me does not believe in fantasy.

In fact, the writer in me lives in a world of fantasy

where there is an infinite possibility of

multifarious realms beyond our imagination.

The writer in me lives in a different world altogether.

It was just a bad dream… or a writing prompt

Early this morning, my little girl came into my room and squeezed into bed with me. She was sobbing away as she told me about a bad dream she just had. It was pretty scary for a nine-year-old girl as she witnessed her siblings getting eaten up by snakes at the beach before an unknown man killed her. 

In my sleepy state, I cuddled her, and told her it was just a dream and that everyone was alright. 

A moment later, I was storming through the double doors of a huge mansion where a man in white button-up shirt and blue jeans was sitting cross-legged on the couch, reading the newspapers. 

“How could you put her through all that?” I seemed to have roared at him. 

The man casually folded the newspapers and straightened his sitting position to place the papers on the coffee table in front of him. He then took the cup of tea I hadn’t noticed was there and drank from it before placing it back on the table next to the papers. His actions were all very relaxed without a tiny bit of care in the world. 

I continued to glare at him and waited impatiently for him to explain himself. 

He had a brow raised when he finally stood up, towering over me by a good head-and-a-half. 

“It’s not like it had never happened before,” he said, his expression stoic. “We all need the reminder.”

“She’s only nine!” I practically screamed. I could feel my nails digging into my palms as I clenched my fists. 

He looked at me as nonchalantly as before. “It’s better for her to see it for herself before she hears about it from someone else.”

“She doesn’t even have to know about it! It’s got nothing to do with her life right now,” I countered. 

“Sometimes we need to face our past fears,” he shrugged. “Being my sister doesn’t mean you’ll be spared from nightmares of your past life. And neither will your children.”

I woke up wondering how I had become Phobetor’s reincarnated sister.  


The eccentric writer (11) – What you read is not always what you write

I love gore. I love war and well-written fight scenes. I love how some people can transfer their visions of combat into words and dedicate more than two chapters of their book to just that one battle. I love action.

I also love Mage, wizardry, witchcraft, spell-binding and the world of the afterlife. Not those child’s play spooks, though. Not those about ghosts coming back to dwell in homes and haunt living beings. But ‘real’ enchanting stories of communication between realms and beautiful out-of-this-world races where the characters leap off the pages and the events pull you into each paragraph.

Sometimes, you can’t get enough of it: you just shut your eyes and imagine yourself present in the scenes, be it as an onlooker or a character actively involved.

I love to read about them. I love to get myself enticed, entranced, encaptured and enraptured by these stories. So much so, that when I’ve finally reached the end of it, it takes me a few days to recover and return to the real world. And then, I would start over again with another similar story.

However, as much as I love them, I cannot seem to write them. All of my stories somehow swerve towards the direction of the real life. Towards relationships and petty conflicts that we all experience in our daily life. It’s boring to me but I know, from reviews that there are people (and quite the majority of readers, in fact) who actually just enjoy plain, ordinary life stories and I find myself trying to appease the demands of this particular group of readers.

Maybe someday, I will be able to write some hardcore action stories or enchanting otherworldly fantasies that will assuage my interest. Who knows?