Storygram: Victory

I am the master of my soul.

But how cruel it is to serve the self. Iron makes not my manacles, nor steel my fetters; but self-worship becomes that which enslaves me. I do not chafe against the chains – I do not even try. Alas, who can save me from the blackness that binds?

He can. The chains that were wound around my wrists became the wounds that mar his hands. The blackness that binds was swallowed up by the light that gives life. As he was raised on the cross, he triumphed; and as he was raised from the dead, he was victorious.

He is the master of my soul. 

Storygram: Rainbow

I’m starting this project where I write a piece of short fiction as caption for a photo I’ve taken! J I'm calling this project "Storygram"; hopefully I would be able to come out with a short story each week haha. 

---

Rainbows look nothing like they do in children’s books or cartoons.

She used to hate it. She hated the grey skies that inevitably accompanied the arch of colours, she hated the dappled clouds, the dull patches that blurred the edges of the rainbow. She hated the bleakness that marred its beauty.

But now it’s different.

She knows now it wasn’t just the sky that was grey. But it was what was inside her. She saw grey because she was grey. She didn’t understand the rainbow. She didn’t want to. In the light of the darkness, it is easy to miss sight of the rainbow, the promises it yields and the hope it provides.

So now it’s different.

When she sees the rainbow, she still sees the grey. She still sees the imperfections that she can’t rub out. But she no longer sees just the grey. She sees the rainbow – pristine and perfect, formed in the certainty that the Sun will come back again. 

Short Story: Alternate Frequencies

There are many differences between him and her: skin colour, bank balance, number of years they have carried on their shoulders. They travel in alternate frequencies, destined not to meet.

Everyday at 3.15pm, however, he would wait outside her school door, the hot sun pressing down upon him. The beads of sweat slide agonizingly on his forehead like the condensation of his sugar cane drink.

There she is. Her designer schoolbag on her back, her latest iPhone, the heavy textbooks she carries with one hand – all reminders of the dissonance between him and her. Her eyes cut across the after-school din to meet his.

She approaches him, and gets inside the backseat of the car (not his). He revs up his engine and drives.

And finally silence settles.

All the other drivers told him he was lucky, he was paid so well. All her classmates told her it was good she was driven around. But no one saw the tragedy of the silence.

They travel in alternate frequencies. They cannot, do not, make conversation.