Ficlets

I'm touched.

Two of my mother's friends penned ficlets for me. They're writers, both of them and the ficlets that they wrote are simply beautiful.

1.Statistics by llyria_novia.

Doctors, they love numbers. People, too, seem to put much stock by numbers, as though unquantified, reality becomes fugitive, ephemeral. So it was how many times your little heart beats per minute, the fluctuation of my blood pressure, how much fluid trickled down the IV line into my veins, the dilation of the cervix, numbers, numbers, numbers. And when you were finally born, daddy picked up his mobile and with a voice quivering with tears called your grandparents and told them of your arrival, citing your weight, your length. And I look at you as you lie in my arms, and I wonder why he said nothing about how your lips are the reason poets likened lovely mouths to rose petals, except that no rose petal can do yours justice. Or at least about how fleecy and luxuriant your hair is, how the creases on your palms and soles fascinate me, how utterly tiny and wrinkle-free your fingers and toes are, how your body is a perfect bundle of soft curves that fit so well in my hand, how your eyes fasten to me, blinking, as I croon your name, how I am falling in love with you again and how the feel of your head nestling against me breast, your warm, fragile weight cradled in my arms fill me with an emotion so vast I fear that I will burst from it, and it's a feeling I cannot readily name, or measure, or even describe beyond incoherent jumble of "Hello! You're here at last! You're beautiful, and I love you."So I resort to the safety and blandness of statistics, trying to define your charm and beauty in the colorless units of grams and centimeters, and leave the others, your flocking admirers, to ponder on the immeasureables.

~fin~


2. Untitled by Shinta Harini

“It’s a boy!”I am sure the doctor has just shouted but to me it was more like a muffled whisper for I am still under the medication. But – a boy? So it’s not an Eliza then.I feel myself fumble about and a pair of tiny hands grasps mine and kisses it.“I have a brother, mommy. A handsome little brother.”Zach. God, I miss him.“He’s a perfect wee lad, Debbie.” Warren. Ah, I miss him, too. But I am so tired. I think I can use some sleep. Yet, how about my newborn son? I want to see him. My mind is whirling with the thought that I have not really had any names for him.“Go on,” Warren coaxes gently. “Get some sleep now, you.”I am not sure when I switch universes or if I merely walk out of my room into the garden. For I am in a garden now, though I do not know if it is the one on our front or back yard, or the one surrounding the hospital. The grass is too green and too lush. The trees are reaching high into the sky, and the sun shines brightly but softly at the same time. I look around and my eyes catch a boy who is sitting cross-legged on the ground and seems to be absorbed in his doings. I kneel before him and touch his bare shoulder gently.“Hi. What are you doing here?”The boy does not respond; he merely tilts his head up and gazes at me. I gasp at the brilliance of his wide blue eyes.“What’s your name?” I ask.He smiles a sweetest and kindest smile I have ever seen, and says,“My name is Elijah, and I am your son.”