“You’re doing me good, America”

“You’re doing me good, America, and I think I can do you even better,” she whispered as she placed her cigarette on the ashtray before she burned her right hand.

The red Channel nail polish on her tiny fingers and the red lipstick on her lips made her fair skin glow as her long blond hair reflected the lazy afternoon sunlight that entered from the tiny half-open window of the one-bedroom condo.

“I bet you can,” he said, gently stroking her cheek, and continued, “I really think you can.”

The echoing siren of some police car outside didn’t seem to bother her at all. Neither some random shouting man, standing a block away, meant anything to her. She was honestly too good for that. She was stronger than any of that. As she slowly stood up, grabbing the keys from the glass table, she picked her black purse up from the floor and walked out of the door.

© 2018 Kiara Belle

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I Can’t Write.

Here I confess: I can’t write.
For a long time, I do suffer.
Two mugs of coffee later, still a blank page on my iPad screen.
In my head, dead boring words.
Frustration growing- this ain’t me.
Work and responsibilities- emotions blocked by rationality.
Me- 31 years old.
Innocence reduced- so darn stable.
The background song: Ellie Goulding
Intuition, here I follow.
Still I confess: I can’t write.

The Modern Tokyo Version of the Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen

It was a summer day in August where the concrete of the road reflected the heat of the dazzling sunlight. It was a busy day in Tokyo, where the mass amount of people constantly walked with hasty steps and disappeared into and appeared from buildings.

On a such day in a such place, this girl, who was almost sixteen, had to sacrifice herself to survive. As her mother could not affort to send her to high school, this was the unbearable nightmare when the normal girls of her age enjoyed shopping and summer vacations.

Her job had to be simple, for the work that kids without education could do were limited in this advanced country, but she was against commiting any crimes.

What she had to do was to distribute the packets of the pocket-sized Kleenex, whose covers were the printed ads of the notorious loan shark company, to those walking people.

Who to blame was her father who had disappeared five years ago, leaving the crazy amount of debt. Who to protect was her mother who was currently hospitalized due to her chronic heart disease, incapable of working. Poverty was the pronoun of hers and her fate was cruel.

For hours and hours, she kept on distributing the packets to all of the people she could reach to. Her fake smile brutally hid her exhaustion and the sunburn made her skin uglier. Some received the packets and some did not. It was the job with no thank-you. The sweat running on her skin inside the pink tank top and her wet long hair gradually absorbed her energy. Those people were so unfriendly and her fate was indeed cruel.

As the sun rose over her head, her exhaustion reached its peak. The world was demanding too much of her. She could not stand this. 

She crept away from the central road to the dark alleyway and started to wipe her body with the Kleenex. The more she wasted the tissue papers, the more she thought and worried of her sickened mother. But, the more she used the tissue papers, the more she could be free. Her mind was filled with the happy moments from the past when her fate was still gentle. 

The Disney Land she went with her parents on her 8th birthday, the delicious miso soup her mother used to always make for her breakfast, the piano contest she participated every year till she turned 10, the boy from junior high school who once said he liked her. The memories came and went like a cool sea breeze.

When she finished the last packet of the tissue papers, she took a deepest breath and silently collapsed to the ground.

  • “Tissue-pack marketing is a type of guerrilla marketing that is a phenomenon in Japan. Companies use small, portable tissue packages to move advertising copy directly into consumers’ hands.” by Wikipedia

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

Dear Our Beloved Golden Retriever

When the yellow-whitish-haired angels were about to sleep on the warm blue carpet, the outside world was already surrounded by the cold darkness. It was the snow-colored February, their birthday, their a-day old. Sniffing the smell of the brand new world mixed with bitterness and sweetness, their curious brown noses searched for the milky scent of their mother. It was the perfect family structure of the beautiful golden retrievers: a mother, two sons and three daughters, perhaps their happiest moment together when the love was the only thing they knew of.

Sorry that we broke it. Sorry that we changed your destiny. When your half- opened light brown eyes shone like marbles, we thought you were the most outstanding beauty among your siblings. When your lively moving small legs kicked your sister, trying hard not to sleep, you were actually the healthiest, so tomboyish. That was how we fell in love with you. And you eventually became the princess of our family with your girlish looks and boyish attitudes though you had to be far away from your mother.

Your wild white teeth broke your wooden toys whenever you got a new one. You stupidly got hit against the big gray walls and the tall telegraph poles many times, making loud noises like bicycle accidents. And, you became as gigantic as a human child, making your hair grow gold. Even though you were such a big blunderer, you really had no flaws. And you know what? You were so loved by us and everybody else. You lived for six years like that, such a short and tiny life. Were you ever happy? What are you doing above the clouds now?

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

The Teacher Roy

The attraction to the novels by Soseki Natsume led him to the fate to work as an English teacher of the language school in Matsuyama, the left upper side of the western island of Japan. With the gray hair, the blue eyes, the fair skin, the black jacket and the big blue marker in his left hand, he stood in front of the whiteboard of the room 303 every Thursday. That was Roy. After all, he was just an English man. The question of his age was the silent taboo of the class, just like the fact that Soseki meant nothing more than the previous man on the 1000 yen bill to this girl who only lived for 10 years. His tall figure and foreignness to Japanese culture were often seen as coldness to the eyes of hers, but he always enthusiastically hand wrote earthworm-like words on her report cards, which nobody but he could decode. On Saturdays, passing right in front of her house, he joyously rode his bicycle down the road, always heading for Dogo, where Soseki lived and loved. For her, all of these were the charms of his.

In 10 years, Roy was, of course, still an English man, but he retired from work and eventually returned to England. With the white hair, the red sweater, the outstanding stomach and his favorite novel, Kokoro, in his arm, he slowly sat down on the old brown wooden chair on the night when the snow decorated the view from the window of his apartment. In the early morning, when the snow was still there, he opened up his old-fashioned black leather notebook and wrote down his memory of Matsuyama with the earthworm-like words, which nobody but he had to decode. When the sun boldly painted the gray sky of London, he took Bakerloo line from Paddington to Waterloo to see his wife’s smile in the hospital, thinking how Piccadilly Circus changed since the time he dated her. As always, as soon as he arrived to her room, he sat on her bed with his black leather notebook and spoke of his memory to her, which she loved more than anything.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

The Perfume Bottle

In the transparent tiny glass bottle, the little amount of golden liquid silently lurked. It was supposedly the perfume of Chanel. The label on the bottle was overly faded, as though it strongly resisted to be read further. The bottle was probably concealed from time for decades like the life of a heartbroken widow. And it was probably the original form of every extreme emotion like love and pain. And, it did witness the tears and passion of the owner, or I hoped it did. Even through the brief glance of the bottle, there were the indefinable dignity and luxuriance which I never ever belonged to.

When the bottle was opened, the subtle yet strong smell of the perfume immediately filled the air of the room. It was so easy to guess that the thickness of the smell was merely the consequence of evaporation through time. Even so, a part of me still wished that there should be something more than that to the smell. The golden liquid was too mysterious, too lonely and never deserved to be concluded by one simple scientific reason like evaporation. What if the owner were the refined female? The bottle had to have a story, hopefully a drama, a big one that could eventually make me cry.

So, again, what if the owner were the refined female? The smell fascinated, poisoned, and betrayed various gentlemen, for love was feeding the woman and she was only lived by love. Or, the smell was the tool of her own and she was using it to earn money by making men attracted to her, for she was a courtesan. Whichever the story was true, the bottle survived until today, apart from the reality, by keeping the secret of the owner, and I was still blocked from the secret. The golden liquid was indeed too mysterious and too lonely like that, for it was simply beautiful and it was what it made it even guilty.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!