January Writing Prompts: ‘Hangover’

There were three big reasons why he avoided drinking. First, the damn hangover. He could never get used to the sharp banging pain in his head that lasts for a whole day—he never wanted to. Second, he didn’t remember a single thing after the first gulp. As soon as consciousness hit him, he felt anxious as fuck for whatever was coming for the last night drunk act—whether he killed a random stray cat or declared war to neighbor country. And third, had to hear an earful nagging while having the hangover, which was worst of all. He barely woke up a few seconds ago, but the hammering sensation in his head already hoarded him like a pack of wolves. He whined—which he regretted in no time as any kind of sound including his own voice worsening the pain—and peeked through his half-opened eyes to find out who the hell opened the damn curtain. A figure of thin petite girl in an oversized sweater loomed over him. She crossed her arms and stared down with the usual even countenance. Thank God it was her, versus, oh no it was her.Read More »


The Young Lady in The Train, The Young Man on The Platform

The heavy feelings from earlier are still there, floating around the two of them. The young lady in the train, the young man on the platform. The young man awaits with puzzled look as the girl turns to him. Just a few seconds before the door slams shut.

“Aren’t you going to get a girlfriend like him?” she asks.

Taken aback from the question, his eyes wide awake. A short silence fills in as he thinks deep into her eyes in solemn stare.

“I don’t fall in love that easily,” he answers eventually, smiling in a way as if he’s laughing at none other but himself.

She nods to his answer and the door slams shut. They both stare at each other until the train starts to move, separating them yet again one possibility away.


I’m quoting this because it’s taken from my current work. I personally love this scene so I tried to translate it into English. Sounds meh, but why not?

Beautiful photo by Ferran Fusalba Roselló. (cropped by me)


The routine is killing him.

Realization hits him as he soaring through the sidewalk packed with other lifeless beings. He, along with them, drag their feet with certain destinations in mind, yet they have no power on disobeying nor altering. He blames the system outside. The stigmas. The rules. Something unseen created by human themselves, limiting their own freedom. It moves their bodies, tainting from their life and death to day-to-day decisions.Read More »


Today afternoon is quiet and nice, despite the storm and all.
Yesterday afternoon was quiet and nice, despite the emptiness and all.
Last week afternoon was quiet and nice, despite the uneasiness and all.
Last month afternoon was quiet and nice, despite the fear and all.
Last year afternoon was gleeful and fun, despite the exhaustion and all.
Read More »