Simi Sunny

In this tale is a clown 

Dressed in bright pastels and painted masks. 

Beloved by one and all 

With his humor and kindness. 

Dressed in bright pastels and painted masks, 

The masked clown wipes away any sadness 

With his humor and kindness, 

And carry on to spread it around. 

The masked clown wipes away any sadness 

From young to old 

And carry on to spread it around 

As he thinks, “There is nothing I can’t handle.” 

From young to old 

The masked clown continues his deed, 

As he thinks, “There is nothing I can’t handle,” 

Until his magic inside diminishes

. 

The masked clown continues his deed, 

Bringing smiles to one and all 

Until his magic inside diminishes. 

His zest for life cannot be attained. 

Bringing smiles to one and all, 

They walk away without a "thank you." 

His zest for life cannot be attained

Because he is laughed off and forgotten. 

They walk away without a "thank you" 

As if he does not exist anymore. 

Because he is laughed off and forgotten, 

He cannot take the pain blooming in him. 

As if he does not exist anymore, 

The masked clown has no choice but to do so. 

He cannot take the pain blooming in him 

Hello, everyone!

I have not been motivated to write anything for so long. And it's not only because of work, but also because a priest who was so close to me and my family had passed almost 3 weeks ago. It was so hard on us, considering how much he was so close to us. My priest even helped out when my dad was fighting alcoholism. So we're all going to miss him so much, and I know my priest's family will do, too. My condolences to them through this hard time.

But I know my priest is in a better place, considering he was not himself before he passed. I know he had been through so much, especially when people would either take adavantage of him or spat at him. There was one particular story when the priest tried to help somebody, the person took all of his money away. And despite how much he was in despair, he had a kind heart.

So I dedicate this sonnet to him, as a way to say thank you and to let him rest now. Hope you all enjoy it. It was my first time writing a sonnet, and I figured it fits. Hope you all have a great weekend! 🖤🖤🖤

There is so much weight around her arms as it is her skirt. Her head and neck feels stiff from all the adornments she’s wearing. And her lungs are constricted, and she wonders if it’s the blouse or last-minute jitters like any person who’s getting married. Zoya should be happy about this. She keeps having this mantra that it’s going to be ok. 

But… something feels wrong. 

Glancing down from her bedroom window, the festivities are going on without her. Music is blasting from the speakers, while the decorations and food are laid out. Everyone is chatting and laughing, while the kids are running around playing whatever games they came up with. Everyone wears colorful kurtas, saris, or lehengas, and to them, it feels lightweight. 

But the red and gold lehenga Zoya wears feels heavy. 

She shakes her head and glances at the mirror. Her stylist and her friends helped her with her hair and makeup. The elegant bun, the red lipstick, and the pink blush. Zoya looks like a princess, but she doesn’t want to be one. Looking in the mirror is not her. All she sees is a doll. 

Are her thoughts normal, or could she be imagining things? 

She flinches from the knock on the door. Zoya doesn’t have time to answer when the door opens. 

To her relief, a woman dressed in a suit and tie comes in, grinning. Her black hair with blue highlights are swept to the side. “I hope you’re in the mood for some drinks before the big moment,” her friend, Sara, jokes, as she extends the tray with two empty glasses and a pitcher. The smell of hard cider wafts into her nose. 

Zoya rolls her eyes playfully but takes the glass off the tray and pours the cider. “You know me best.” She then chugs down the crisp golden liquid down and slams the glass on the desk drawer; her vision shifting for a moment, however the panicky feeling dissipates—-replaced by a burning sensation. 

“No need to be that aggressive, Zoya.” Sara chuckles and sits on the edge of the bed, her legs crossed. Her face lightens into a smile as she looks at her friend. “You look amazing.” 

“I don’t look like myself, right?” she asks as she looks back at the mirror before staring at Sara. 

She shrugs. “Well, at least I know it’s you.” 

Zoya plumps down on the bed next to her friend and holds her knees. “I’m just nervous is all.” 

“And I can’t blame you. It’s usual for newlyweds to be nervous.” Then Sara’s expression slightly turns somber, concern written on her face. “You know, you don’t have to go through this, Zoya.” 

She only laughs. “And what choice do I have?” 

“You have options,” Sara exclaims loudly before clearing her throat and speaks softly this time. “And going through this marriage isn’t one of them.” 

Zoya shrugs while hugging herself as she looks away. “If I don’t go through with this, my parents…” 

She feels a hand on her shoulder, and Zoya turns to see Sara giving her an empathetic smile. “Hate to break this to you; they think they know best, but they don’t. And you shouldn’t need your parents' approval such as this.” Sara rests her forehead against Zoya’s as she cups her cheek. Without any hesitation, Sara leans her face close, pressing her lips against Zoya. Her eyes widen before she closes them, taking in the kiss and the embrace she is receiving from Sara. The tension ebbs away before Sara’s lips peel from Zoya’s, but not too far. Zoya notices Sara’s black lipstick is smeared, so she fixes it up with her thumb.

“This must be hurting you,” Zoya manages to say since her throat feels tight. She doesn’t mean to hurt Sara when she has to go through marriage proposals one after another. What is she supposed to do when she loves her parents without breaking their hearts? They were upset when they found her and Sara kissing during one of their study sessions (and she is still ashamed of thinking about that moment). They were blasting heavy metal music and singing their hearts until the heat of the moment got to both Sara and Zoya. And right after the mishap, her parents would forget about it since they believe it is a phase as soon as she gets married. 

And Zoya has to keep up the ruse. 

But she doesn’t want to keep it up anymore. 

“It doesn’t matter, Zoya,” Sara says after a moment of silence. “I know you love your family, dearly. But I just don't want you to lose who you are. Because, honestly, I love you for who you really are. Don’t take all of that away from you.” 

As a tear slips down Zoya’s eye, Sara catches it and rubs it away with her thumb. “If this is gonna persuade me to not go through with this, then it’s damn working.” Zoya laughs softly and releases a deep breath. “But really, I don’t think I will ever be comfortable, what with that guy and his family looking down at my every move. So what am I going to do now?

“Well…” Sara's voice trails playfully before speaking. “We can always run away and drive off into the sunset and live happily ever after without your parents involved.” 

“Ugh, Sara.” Zoya laughs and shakes her head. “I still don’t know if it can be as realistic as those cringeworthy movies.” 

“Or.” Sara holds her index finger up. “We can march down the aisle, arm in arm, and make it the most memorable wedding nobody will ever forget.” 

Instantly, Zoya’s mouth drops. “I-is this a proposal?” 

She shrugs. “There’s no one I’d rather be with. But do you have a better idea?” 

It is insane, getting proposed on the same day Zoya is getting married. But then again, if she wants to escape, it will be troublesome when her skirts are big and heavy to go out through the window. Either way, she is going to disappoint her parents. But in the end, Zoya has sacrificed so much to make her parents happy that it is time to change it, whether her parents like it or not. The choice she will make, Zoya hopes her parents will change. 

Sara kisses Zoya’s forehead and extends her elbow toward her. “So, shall we go out in a bang or what?” 

CW: Blood, violence

Laura steps out of the car, taking in the warm, crisp summer air. 

The driver compliments her sparkling white, sleeveless dress when he takes her by the hand to help her up. That gives her a boost of empowerment and confidence when she hears that. And when the driver leaves her, she ambles gracefully toward the building where the party is being held.

She steps inside, classical music playing. Everyone she knows—-from doctor to nurses—-are dressed elegantly, for tonight is a charity gala. Tonight, they are raising money for treatment for poor countries that need it. But tonight, this is all about having fun and the glam so it seems. There is a promise of drinks and dancing, which attracts people. 

It even attracted Laura as well. 

When she steps into the light, everyone catches an eye on her, who sparkles like no other. Few people exchange murmurs and gasps upon seeing the way she looks and dresses. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy yet elegant bun, her diamond necklace that shapes around her neck shimmers as her dress does, and her makeup accentuated her cheekbones, lips, and eyes. 

“Laura, darling,” a woman who is much older than her gives her a kiss on both cheeks playfully, as Laura does the same. She is the host of the gala and is also the chairperson of a committee (she forgot the details exactly. She paid little attention to it). “Thank you for coming to the gala.” 

“It is my pleasure,” she says. “I would never miss it for the world. I love attending these charity events.”

“My, you are looking exquisite as always. What is your secret?” 

She laughs softly while covering her lips with her hand. “Well, if I tell you, it wouldn’t be a secret.” 

The chairperson chuckles sweetly. “Why, of course. Silly me.” The woman sighs happily while marveling at the atmosphere. “Oh, Laura. I’m so glad you could come. It would never be fun without you.” 

She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, stop. You’re making me blush.” 

“But I’m serious. And I’m sure everyone in the gala wants to mingle with you since they are expecting you.” 

“I will, as soon as I grab some hors d’oeuvres.” 

So Laura glides gracefully to a table, where the entrees are laid out. And there are so many options, she thinks while observing the food. She plucks one or two things off the table before popping one of the hors d’oeuvres into her mouth. Then, one of her colleagues calls to her before they rush over to her side. A few people are surrounding her, complimenting her beauty and the dress. She can never grow tired of the attention because she has grown used to it. And she loves it. 

“Oh, Laura,” one of her colleagues asks. “Is something wrong with your face?” 

“Huh? My…” She feels her cheek that her colleague's point out, and she pulls out a pocket mirror to see the blemish on her face—- as if part of her skin is flaking out. She laughs heartily while holding her cheek. “Ah, I must have missed a spot when I was wiping off the crumbs. I need to be excused.” 

Laura hurries out of the center of the gala, not waiting for a reply from her colleagues, and rushes inside the bathroom. Now more of her skin is flaking off, and she rummages through her bag to find a concealer. Only to find there is little of it when she opens it. She curses and tries to find a solution. She has a secret ingredient that can help maintain her beauty; however, it is difficult to get a hold of it. Laura has been working on it while she’s on break from working in the labs. 

She curses under her breath and slams her palm against the sink’s counter, ignoring the pain radiating throughout her arm. Her beauty cannot fade out like this. And how foolish of her for not bringing a spare concealer for an emergency like this. She doesn’t know what to do. If she can hurry back to her home inconspicuously and touch up her face, she might pull it off. Or maybe hurry to the lab since it’s close to the gala. 

Her thoughts dissipate when she hears the toilet flushing, and from the bathroom mirror, a young woman in a midnight blue dress with spaghetti straps opens the door. She then halts at her step and notices Laura, eyes grow in shock. Is it in disgust or shock? Laura cannot tell. 

“Laura Glockner?” the woman asks. 

“Yes, that is me.” She makes an awkward laugh as she quickly pulls out her fan to cover half the face and waves it a little. She hopes the girl won’t notice.

“It’s so nice to meet you.” She shakes her head. “I mean, I would walk past you here and there, but I never get to talk to you. But now, here I am.” Now she looks awkward when she laughs lightly. 

Now Laura’s memory is jogging. “Oh, yes. Nadia Korkosky, right? I’ve seen you in the department. I’m sure you’re impressed with my work.” 

“More so,” she confesses. “But also your beauty; everyone talks about how pretty you look, and I get so jealous.” 

“Do you, now?” 

Nadia nods and then arches her eyebrow, her smile faltering to more of a concerned look. “Miss Glockner, are you alright?” 

And to think she will notice nothing off about her. She waves her hand dismissively. “Peachy. I’m alright. There is nothing to worry about.” 

Laura has to think of something or Nadia won’t leave her alone, and she doesn’t want to grab anyone’s attention. But then, looking at the young girl’s face gives her an idea of how she can solve her dilemma. A vicious grin is itching to sprout. “So Nadia, you admire my beauty?” 

“Oh, absolutely. I wish I could be as beautiful as you.” 

“I have some tricks on how to be beautiful.” 

Nadia’s eyes grow in fascination as she beams. “Can you teach me?” 

“Of course.” Laura approaches the girl and drapes her arm around her, grinning lovingly. “I can make it all come true if you do me a favor.” 

“Anything,” she says, sounding excited. 

Now her grin becomes mischievous at the girl’s reply. “You’re very young and beautiful, and I envy you. I could use some of that for a witch like myself.” 

Nadia looks confused, as she doesn’t have time to process when Laura’s arm snakes around her throat, squeezing it tight. There is some struggle on Nadia’s end, but gradually, her body slackens against Laura’s hold, so she gently puts her on the floor. Nadia’s motionless. Good, she thinks as she scrambles for her bag. 

She pulls out a syringe, needle, and tourniquet before setting them up. She didn’t think she could use it, but she brings them in case something happens like this. Laura carefully ties the tourniquet around the girl’s upper arm and then finds the vein before inserting the needle into her arm. She smirks when she pulls the plunger, filling the syringe with blood. Once it’s enough, Laura takes off the tourniquet and blots the blood with a cotton ball and band aid. 

Warning: Contains subjects like toxic relationship, abuse, trauma. Please do not read it if you don't feel comfortable.

You blow off steam when you get angry

To the point you get cracked.

I can see the angry lines

Of your porcelain face.

I try to mend with my adhesive love—-

So it would mend back gradually.

But you won’t calm down,

For you will steam more.

Your rage burns my body and face

To the point I have to pull away,

Leaving you alone to cool

And me to recover.

You would eventually calm down

But I know you would be unsafe,

Knowing it happens a lot

For no reason.

You try to make it better with steamy words

Coming out of your spout to lull me,

Which I eventually embrace you

With hugs and kisses.

Despite the burns I have endured from you

I would come back to you for promises—-

Empty and sweet you pour out

Which I should’ve known.

You’re more of a stove, my love

For you light under me to burn

And never cease to hurt me

For you to enjoy it.

I thought you would change for the better—

Told me you wouldn’t hurt me no more

But I was a fool for falling for them,

For you have done this many times.

I could no longer adhere to you,

Not even mend your anger,

For this love is broken

And I am too.

He needed to get it done before his deadline. 

That’s what Dawson’s boss had said two days ago when the big project rolled in. There was not enough time for him to finish—-given the short time frame. And there is no such thing as being meticulous when you have a boss who would give you a short amount of time. But Dawson didn’t argue. 

As he typed away, he felt a tug from his pant leg. Dawson made a sidelong glance before his eyes reverted to his computer screen. “Maddie, what’s up?” 

“I want to play with you,” she said, tugging at his pant leg more. “I’m bored.” 

“I’m sure Wuggles wants to play,” he suggested, trying to keep the agitation from his tone. Now was not the time to play with his daughter, since there was a big deadline he had to meet. It would hurt him, but it’s what needs to be done. “You can dress him up and have a little tea party with him and his friends.” 

“I did that a couple of times.” She sighed. 

“You practice piano. I’m sure you need to brush up on that.”

 “Daddy, can’t you please play with me?” 

Letting out a sigh of frustration, Dawson stopped and rested his hands on both his knees while facing his daughter. “Sweetie, daddy is busy right now. I’ll play with you once I’m done.” 

“But daddy—-” 

“Maddie, please.” He looks at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. He needs to meet his deadline by eight, and he’s halfway done. Then he thought of an idea. “Hey, why don’t you go and eat up. There’s some food in the fridge. You can just heat it up.” 

She opened her mouth to rebuttal, but then she closed it as she marched over to the kitchen. 

Perfect, he thought, while taking his attention back to his computer. As much as it hurts him not to play with his daughter, Dawson wanted to get this project done right away. How else would he be able to maintain his job while trying to put food on the table for both of them? 

As he kept typing away, he groaned from the sounds of the kitchen. Probably Maddie was up to something, he thought, but didn’t mind about it. “Daddy,” she whined, which he had to stifle another groan. “Could you please help me with dinner?” 

“Put on for one minute,” Dawson said. 

“Daddy, I don’t know how to work the microwave.” 

“Maddie, I—-” 

The lights flickered on and off before it was completely off, leaving the father and daughter in the dark. Dawson cursed under his breath, making sure his six-year-old daughter wouldn’t hear it. He muttered “this could not be happening” over and over, trying to get his computer back on. But sadly, it was happening as he went over to the balcony, surveying that the city was in total darkness. 

He could feel his heart pounding from frustration and anxiety, now that he won’t be able to work on the project. Maybe if he could explain to his boss the situation by then, maybe it wouldn’t be a huge issue? 

If his boss will understand. 

In an instant, his thoughts vanished by the sound of whimpering. “Daddy?” Maddie called in the dark. “I’m scared, daddy. Where are you?” 

He had to put those thoughts aside and find his phone, where he fished it out of his pocket, turned it on, and put it in flash to locate his daughter. He spotted her, huddled by the wall, as tears were fighting to be released. Dawson pursed his lips and crouched below to comfort his daughter. “It’s ok, sweetie. I’m here.” 

Maddie went over to him, wrapped her tiny arms around him, and buried her face against his chest. He rubbed her little head as his daughter let out a small whimper. “Were you hurt?” 

She gave a muffled “Nah-uh” and looked at Dawson, still teary-eyed. “I’m just scared of the dark.” 

“I understand, sweetie.” He gathered her in his arm, letting Maddie’s head rest against his shoulder as he carried her to the couch while setting his phone down on the table. “But I’m here, and I’m going to make sure the dark isn’t as scary as it seems. I’ll be right back, ok?” 

When she nodded, she appeared uncertain. So Dawson moved his phone closer to Maddie so she would feel safe. He could navigate in the dark without using a flashlight. He knew where he kept all the candles, anyway. And after a few bump-ins, Dawson found the candles in the cabinet along with the lighter. He heard Maddie’s soft whimpering, so he hurried towards her as best as he could. 

The whimpering stopped when he came back and laid some candles on the table. As he lit each candle, only part of the room was dim, but it was enough. “See, Maddie,” he said. “Not so bad, right?” 

She didn’t say a word. Rather, she only nodded. 

“Hopefully, this blackout won’t take too long. All we can do is wait it out.” 

Her expression appeared sullen in the dim room. Again, she didn’t say a word. 

“Maddie, what’s wrong?” 

It was low and soft, but Dawson could make out the words she was saying. “I wish mommy was here.”  

It hurt him when his daughter mentioned her, but he had to hide the pain as much as he could as he asked. “Why do you say that?” 

“Because she would make it all better, and I wouldn’t have to bother you.” 

Dawson shook his head in disbelief. “Maddie, you’re not bothering me.” 

“I feel like I did when you were busy on the computer.” When his face fell into a crestfallen expression, she continued, “And it’s not just that time.” 

He arched his eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“The other times I wanted to play or needed help, you looked irritated. I feel like if mom were here, everything would be better again.”

Again, it hurted Dawson. Talking about his wife brought back the pain he had to bury. He didn’t want to feel the pain no more, so he had work to keep himself occupied. But it made Dawson even more guilty since Maddie confessed. He didn’t realize she felt this way until now. 

“M-Maddie,” he stuttered. Then Dawson had to clear his voice to keep the quavering and the stuttering from his voice. He didn’t want his daughter to see this, not when he’s trying to confront those feelings. “I’m so very sorry that you felt this way. I didn’t mean to keep you away, and I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re a bother. It’s just that I want to make sure we have a home to live and food to eat. But I’ve been so busy with work that I didn’t have time for you, and it wasn’t my intention.” 

When his daughter didn’t say a word, he continued. “I know things haven’t been the same since mommy is gone. And I know it’s been hard on us, especially myself. I’m going to make sure that everything will be ok. Please don’t think you are a bother to me.” 

Still, there was silence from Maddie. 

Dawson had to make it up to her. She already lost her mom, and it would be hard for her to bear to lose another parent if he kept himself out of Maddie’s life. 

“I want to make up for it,” Dawson added. “I want to be with you as much as I can if you let me. And I’m going to do that right now if it means having my daughter again. Please, Maddie.” 

She was hesitant. Dawson was bracing himself if his daughter wouldn’t forgive him, and he’d understand. There was so much anger and sadness in the room, making it harder for him to breathe. Maybe even Maddie. If she was mad at him for a day, it was something to live with. But forever, he wouldn’t bear. 

The silence that was killing Dawson dissolved slowly when Maddie hugged him. He rubbed his daughter’s head lightly before planting a kiss. “Daddy, I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too.” 

As Maddie pulled away, she glanced around. “What are we going to do now?” 

Dawson rubbed his chin, pondering at the situation. There was nothing they could do inside, but what about outside? So he gestured his daughter toward the balcony while guiding her, which Maddie followed suit. He also brought in the candles outside and placed them on the table. 

“Look at all the stars, Maddie,” he said while pointing at each one. “Do you see the big dipper?” 

Maddie was squinting at them. “The what?” 

He chuckled. “I’ll show you. This star connects to the other and…” 

As he showed what the big dipper looks like, the lights turned on, and the electronics came to life. It surprised him that the blackout didn’t last long as he’d thought. It would mean Dawson could finish the project. 

Sleep was my friend—- 

To take away my problems 

And forget them. 

I’d submerge in a dream, 

Where I’d be far away 

With an unknown stranger 

Or a fantasy creature 

That’d treat me with kindness. 

But instead of those, 

I’d dream of familiar faces 

That would taunt me, 

Creatures dying at my feet, 

And losing every tooth 

Whenever I speak. 

My screams were no use, 

So they would turn to wails. 

I’d remember the times, 

Where sleep was my comfort. 

As the dreams were pleasant, 

I’d feel refreshed and pure, 

Never wanted to leave my bed. 

I’d want to take in 

Those good feelings,

 Never letting them go. 

But those days are gone, 

For sleep has turned against me. 

It took me long to escape

Whenever nightmares occur. 

I’d be drenched with panic and fear, 

Never wanting me to go back. 

So I’d leave my bed, 

Even though I yearned for rest. 

Sleep, you were good to me. 

But that was then, 

And this was now. 

I’ve lost respect for you, 

For you don’t comfort me. 

No more of those sweet slumbers

When I asked for one.

Hey, everyone!  I would like to thank everyone who was patient with me. I’ve been so busy with work and personal issues that I could not publish my next book in the Souls of Elkwood County as soon as I thought. On the other hand, I want to make sure that I give you the best story and take my time with it. And now, I’m so excited to do a cover/synopsis reveal of my second book: The Fate in Our Blood! 

In this novel, there will be a few new characters introduced, more mysteries to solve than in the first book. And of course, there’ll be a dash of magic and drama. I hope you guys will enjoy it. I had so much fun working on this book. 

Also, I want to give a huge thank you to Les from Germancreative. She’s the artist from Fiverr who did an absolute job on working on the cover of my book. Whatever I want for the cover, Les listened and followed through while making some improvises. I can never get enough with it! I mean, look at it? Don’t you guys love it (I will provide the link of her business if you want to see more of her work)??? Now, I’m hoping along the line that I will redesign my cover for the first book when the time comes. For now, I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s drinking this all in.

Now here is the synopsis: 

All have come to normal for Gwendolyn Hill. Business is running smoothly for the funeral home, and there’s peace between the living and the dead. No more flirty demon and pestering competitors. Of course, spirits come for her need, but still, nothing would disturb the peace. 

Or so she thought. 

And then there’s Mickie McCarron, whom she has teamed up after seeking aid. She is an indie reporter who is living the life. Nothing better than scouting for news while solving mysteries and speaking to the dead. That’s Mickie’s calling. And her trusted grandfather—-a veteran detective—-is there when she needs it. But she needs more help than she can get when it comes to spirits, for she can’t do it alone. 

In the second book of Souls of Elkwood County, two girls will get spirits to cross over, while they find the truth behind every case. Or so they will think, when new darkness arises for spirits alike. It will take more than a scale and a feather and detective skills to combat what lies ahead for them. 

And if you guys want to check out the first book before the second comes out, I will provide the links down below. Until then, have a great day! Stay tune for more updates either here or on Twitter and Instagram. 

Les from Germancreative: https://www.fiverr.com/germancreative?source=order_page_user_message_link 

The Weight of Our Souls:

Amazon: (print and ebook): https://www.amazon.com/Weight-Souls-Elkwood-County-Book-ebook/dp/B07XVFPNL3

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-weight-of-our-souls-simi-sunny/1137059576;jsessionid=909E39B7223A9EA164868181F6AEB4A5.prodny_store02-atgap18?ean=2940164512392

Hello, everyone! 

Today, I want to do something a little different for this blog post. If there is anything new to share---anything important, I will post it in here. Of course, I will still post short stories and poems, but I like to keep you guys updated on what’s going on. But first thing’s first, I want to introduce myself (which I should’ve done when I first joined Tumblr). 

The name’s Simi, and I’m just a literary geek, living a decent life like you guys. My passion is to write and share my voice with all of you through that. Not only am I a writer, but I’m also an author and, currently, I have written three books so far. 

Few things you need to know about me: 

I mostly write fantasy and mystery stories, but I love to experiment with different genres. 

I love reading books (mostly fantasy and historical fiction) 

I write scripts for my sister’s ASMR channel, KasumiVAASMR (link: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPPLF54VB6MSY3Jv6nMiv4g) 

I geek about anime shows I watch (I’m still trying to catch up) 

Normally, I don’t show my face often, but for those who are curious, this is what I look like in real life.

If you have questions for me, please comment and I’ll do my best to answer them. I want to connect with readers like you because I want to. It doesn’t have to be here. It can also be on Twitter or on Instagram, which I will post links down below. 

Now that you know little about me, I would like to share all of you with a little update. It explains why I have posted little content on Tumblr than I would like. Well, mostly from writer’s block and my busy schedule, but these are not only the cases. 

So what I have been up to lately is that I’ve been working on my next novel for the series. So far, I’m in the editing process of my book and, hopefully, I would get ARC reviewers to review my work before I could even publish it. It has already been a year since I’ve published my last book, so I’m a bit antsy on getting it out, but at the same time, I need to make sure everything is good. So I’d appreciate it if you guys be patient, but other than that, thank you so much for understanding.

A little thing about my book is that it is the second book to my series called All Souls of Elkwood County. The first book is already published called The Weight of Our Souls; it’s about a woman running the funeral home while guiding spirits to where they need to go using a scale and a feather. I will provide the link if you guys are interested; it is available on both ebook and print, so I will provide the links. 

I will do my post to post any update. I’ll see if I can do a cover reveal while putting an excerpt of my book. In the meantime, I hope you guys will enjoy what I have in store with you, whether if it’s that or posting poems/short stories. Have a great weekend, everyone! 

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/simisunny18/ 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/SimiSunnyWriter 

The Weight of Our Souls: 

Amazon: (print and ebook): https://www.amazon.com/Weight-Souls-Elkwood-County-Book-ebook/dp/B07XVFPNL3 

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-weight-of-our-souls-simi-sunny/1137059576;jsessionid=909E39B7223A9EA164868181F6AEB4A5.prodny_store02-atgap18?ean=2940164512392 

How many drinks can you take

To ease the pain; 

To wipe away the painful memories,

So you can move on. 

How many happy poisons can you take, 

To rid your problems; 

To make them go away, 

So you don’t have to deal with them. 

How long will it take– 

For you to get rid of your problems? 

Like anxiety and stress 

So you wouldn’t face it.

How long will it to take– 

For you to fill the empty space in your heart 

And the time you have 

So you wouldn’t face people? 

Are you willing 

To drink a million happy poisons 

So you can be happy? 

Those are the questions you have to ask yourself. 

“Urk…” The detective’s vision becomes blurry by the time he wakes up, as his voice becomes hoarse when he talks. “Where am I?” 

Where is he, indeed. He’s lying on a bed, but not the lumpy, hard one that he got from a thrift store. As his vision clears, the detective sits up and sees the room more carefully. Unlike his place, this one has wallpaper containing yellow flowers, along with paintings that seem—-how can he put it more delicately? Chic. Yes, that’s what one of his coworkers put it when she talked about her new apartment (and even showed pictures of what it looks like). 

“This isn’t my room,” the detective announces in alarm. “I need to get out of here.” 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” the detective hears a familiar female voice from the hall. And it doesn’t take too long before she comes into the room, holding a tray full of food and drink. Detective Peterson’s eyes widen before Agatha’s cheery disposition. “Hope you don’t mind me making some breakfast for you.” 

“A-Agatha?” He groans, rubbing his face before eyeing on the woman. “I-I’m in your home? But how?” 

“You don’t remember?” When the detective shakes his head, Agatha’s expression doesn’t falter. “You passed out in the bar. I don’t know where you live, so I took you to my home so you can rest. I’m so glad you’re okay, though.” 

Too glad, the detective notes before he can speak up, making it light in his tone. “Well, I’m flattered that you’ve taken care of me. Though, I think it is time for me to go—-”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Agatha waved her hand dismissively. “I called your workplace, saying that you’re unable to work. Now you can have a couple of days off to yourself.” 

“Y-you did what?” The detective’s eyes widen more. How could this woman—-whom he just met—-would know which police department he’s working? So he then clears his throat and manages to smile. “You know, I really don’t mind working, now that I’m ready and determined. All I need is my—-Urk!” 

“Oh, my!” Agatha rushes over to his side, her hand rubbing the back of his head. “Are you okay, sweetie?” 

Now Detective Peterson appears startled when this woman called him “sweetie.” She can’t possibly be embarrassed when she called him that, could she? All he can do is let it slide and not let Agatha be concerned. “I’m okay, miss. It looks like my legs are asleep or something. Maybe I need to walk around so my legs would be awake.” 

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I’m a nurse, and I don’t think it sounds good.” 

So many surprises, Detective Peterson thinks sarcastically. He’s tired of surprises since this morning. But to make his tone light, he responds, “You know what? Since you’re a nice lady, I won’t say ‘no’ to your cooking. Fair enough?” 

Now the middle-aged woman has an eager expression, pleased by Detective Peterson’s decision. “I’m so glad. You will enjoy a home-cooked meal.” Patting the detective’s shoulder, she continues, “I’ll be back in a bit, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Okay, sweetie?” 

With that, she walks away, humming. 

Here she goes again, calling him “sweetie.” Peterson is not used to being called that. Maybe Agatha didn’t mean it out-of-intention. Or maybe—-in Detective Peterson’s theory—-, she’s lonely since there’s no one here except for him and Agatha. Poor woman. 

Looking down at his bowl and glass, the detective appears to be uncertain; the woman gave him too much food since there was oatmeal, bacon, and eggs. And the container is nothing more than a sippy cup, which, to the detective, was ludicrous. 

But he shouldn’t complain, and the detective must finish it. So taking a bite of the oatmeal, the taste of brown sugar is oh-so-sweet, yet somehow, he wants more of it. And the bacon and eggs are cooked to perfection, even though there is a hint of grease. Peterson had nothing wholesome or home-cooked since—-well, ever. The only food he tried tasted like ash or plain. So he takes some more until he can finish them all, along with the orange juice. It’s as if Agatha has a motherly touch for cooking, and it was good. 

Too good.  

“Ah, I see you have finished your food.” The woman comes in with a soft grin. Before, her white and brown hair was down, but it looks like she put it up in a bun. And a white apron is draped around her waist, covering much of her light green sweater and brown khakis. “Did you like it?” 

“Very,” Detective Peterson confesses after taking his last sip of orange juice. “I never had a home-cooked meal that’s ever good.” 

She chuckles—-in between a light and hysterical one. “Oh, I’m sure your parents were wonderful cooks.” 

Slowly, Peterson’s cheerful demeanor chips away, replacing it with a grim expression. “Actually, I only have a dad, and he was never a good cook.” 

“O-oh, my.” The middle-aged woman presses her hand over her chest, crestfallen by the detective’s revelation. “I’m sorry about your loss—-”

“She’s not dead,” he cuts in. “That’s what my father told me, but I presumed she is since my mom never bothers to come around. But I don’t bother with me not having a mom.” 

“Has your father ever been hard on you?” 

The detective nodded, stunned by the woman’s question. 

“You’re not the only one who can figure things out so quickly like you, Allan,” Agatha says, trying to sound light-hearted, but there is a hint of sadness in her tone. “But I’m sorry that you had a hard life. Why, if I raised you, your life would be nothing but sunshine and rainbows.” 

When Agatha puts it that way, it makes the detective cringe. Maybe his life was bittersweet, but he doesn’t complain. He tells himself that he’s okay, and things could’ve been worse if he wished for something different in his life. 

“Look,” the detective says after clearing his throat. “It’s nice of you to give me so much since last night, but I really should go. I’ve overstayed my visit, and I don’t want to bother.” 

“Aww, you can’t be leaving so soon.” Agatha pouts playfully. 

“But I must leave. Besides, I have so much work to do, cases to finish.” 

Agatha shakes her head. “Come on. You need to lighten up. And don’t you remember? I called the station, stating that you’re unable to work due to an illness. I’m sure there are police officers who can cover and do their work for you.” 

Whatever the woman is trying to do, it’s making Detective Peterson peeved. So with a stern tone, he exclaims, “Thanks for your help, but I’m okay. I don’t need anyone looking out for me. So if you can tell me where my phone is, I’ll be happy to call them and say that I’m ready to go back to work.” 

“Oh, I must’ve forgotten to mention your phone.” Slowly, Agatha crosses her arms, her face turning into a grim expression. “It’s broken.” 

“What do you mean ‘broken?’” 

“Well…” The middle-aged woman looks at her nails as she answers, “Somehow, there was a mishap with it. Let’s say there was an accident with it.” She said the word “accident” with a hint of menace, but the detective needs to keep his expression neutral. 

“Fine, then. May I use your phone?” 

“My pleasure, if you can.” 

Peterson lets out a derisive snort. “Let me guess? Did it have an accident, too?” As he tries to sit up, the detective blanches when he can’t feel his legs. “M-my legs. W-what happened to my legs? I can’t move!” 

“Oh, sweetie. I told you you needed rest, but you didn’t listen to me.” 

Peterson’s brow creases when he narrows his eyes. “What did you do to me?” 

“Whatever do you mean,” she gasps, which the detective notes that it’s a facade. 

“Stop pretending and tell me what you did to me. I never met you before, yet you’re treating me like a son. Then, for some reason, I woke up to notice that I can’t move my legs. So you better have an explanation, so help me—-” 

“Don’t you dare raise your tone on me, young man!” Agatha interjects, raising her tone in return. “I’m your mother.” 

Once more, he makes a derisive snort while shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am. You’re not my mother because she is long gone before I was born. And ma’am, if you don’t explain to me what’s really going on, I will take you down to the police station with a gun on your head.” Detective Peterson feels through his back to find the gun, but his mouth feels dry when the weapon is no longer there. “Damn it. My gun!” 

“Oh, about that—-” The middle-aged woman approaches the detective, cocking her head to the side while smirking. “There will be no guns in my house. Now please, be a good boy for me, or you will not get any privileges like watching TV. Is that clear?” 

Inside, the detective wants to rebel against the woman who is taking away his dignity. But when he says, “Okay, mom,” the detective covers his mouth. This is uncanny for him to act so vulnerable. 

Agatha’s smirk spreads. Victory goes to her. “And what do you have to say to yourself when you raise that tone on me?” 

“I-I’m sorry, mom.” Again, it’s tearing Peterson apart to behave like this. 

“Good, boy.” When she pats his cheek, she turns to the door, but not before stating, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, honey. I need to grab a couple of things before I can start making lunch for you. Be good for me while I’m gone.” 

“Okay.” 

As he heard the door close from the front, it’s his cue to leave. Although he feels immobile—-what with his legs feeling like lead—-Detective Peterson needs to push past the pain, gather his things, and go home. Though each step he takes sends an electric shock, so he has to stifle his groans. But as he searches for his things in the room, it’s nowhere to be found. So Peterson limps out of the room, looking left and right before going to the next room. 

But the first room he enters, the detective’s gasps in horror. 

There are photographs of children he recognizes, and when he enters to look inside the drawer, there are different clothes from young boys and girls. It’s as if this woman had a collection, but something morbid. 

This is the detective’s big break, and he needs to inform the police. 

Luckily, there’s a phone nearby, so Peterson hobbles toward it and punches in the numbers quickly. After letting the phone ring for a few seconds, he hears a police officer’s voice. “Hello?” 

“Yes, hello! Detective Peterson, here. I need a couple of men to get down here, right away.” 

“Why? What’s the matter?” 

“I’m kidnapped by the woman who’s responsible for abducting children from the past few years. I found crucial evidence that she’s behind this. You need to hurry, or—-”

“Or what, sweetie?” 

Now the detective’s wide eyes are on the middle-aged woman, whose hair is messy and is in front of her face. How did this woman become lovely turned gruesome that shortly? 

“I-I thought you were doing some errands,” he speaks up after a moment of silence. 

“I was until I realized that I left my purse.” Agatha eyes on Peterson with playful sadness. “You disappoint me, my child, just like the others I have raised in the past.” 

His throat becomes constricted. So it was the woman responsible for the kidnappings—-all the pain she put upon to not only the parents but also the detective himself. “They were not your children,” he growls. “You had no right to strip them away from their parents.” 

Agatha lets out a bitter laugh, which the detective arches his eyebrow in confusion. “You know, I said the same thing when my child was taken away from me. I was not allowed to see him because I’m ‘unstable.’” Tears are streaming down her face, but she keeps on laughing. “I still wanted to see my child so badly. So I tried to find every child and strip them away from their families to make them my own. But no matter how much they disobey, they go like this…” To Peterson’s horror, Agatha makes an irregular sound at the back of her throat while making a killing gesture. 

“Just because you lost your child, it doesn’t mean you should do the same to other people’s children! You’re not making it sound easy, Agatha.” 

“Don’t you dare call me by my first name,” the middle-aged woman barks. “I’m your mother!” 

“You are not, and you will never be!” 

“Now, stop denying it, sweetie, or you’re going to make things worse for your mother.” 

Pulling one of the drawers is a gun—-the same rifle that Detective Peterson possessed. He curses under his breath. How foolish he is not to search his belongings first and then call the police. 

It will be his fault if the detective is fallen and not able to stop this madwoman. 

To his relief, there is some shouting in the hall, and the backup Peterson called for has arrived. Three officers are pointing the guns from her behind, ordering Agatha to drop her weapon. After a few seconds of hesitation, she drops the detective’s weapon in defeat, and kneels on the floor before one officer handcuffs Agatha. 

“Are you okay?” asks one officer who approached Detective Peterson. 

“I’m alright, thanks to you guys.” 

“We’ll need to get a statement from you, though.” 

Peterson nods in affirmation, knowing that it’s part of the process for arresting someone and all. 

Suddenly, there’s shouting among the men, and the detective’s heart is pounding when he sees Agatha holding the gun again. How in the world did this woman get her hands on the rifle when he saw her getting handcuffed? “Oh, son,” the woman exclaims in disgust. “How you hurt me so much.” 

And the last thing he witnesses is the crazed woman firing her shot at him. 

                                                ——————  

Peterson jolts up from his seat, his breath running shallow as he tries to compose himself. It was all a dream, he thinks when he rubs his eyes while groaning. And it was too real. 

Taking in his surroundings, Peterson is back in his apartment, sitting at his desk where he just slept. He deduces that he passed out after scanning his reports and evidence for too long. Then the detective eyes on the photo that a witness gave him, where a figure is wearing a familiar brown coat, but the big sunglasses and the blue and yellow shawl is obscuring the identity. Slowly, the detective’s eyes adjusts on the next photo that his father gave him, and his heart shatters when he gazes upon the same figure with him when he was a baby. 

Peterson knows that this cannot go on much longer. 

So quickly, Peterson grabs his phone from the corner of his desk and punches in the numbers, letting the ringing go on before he hears a click. 

“Hi, can you get a hold of the chief for me? It’s important.” 

A few seconds of waiting, he hears the chief’s voice. 

“Hi, chief. I think I found some crucial evidence on who’s behind the missing children’s case.” 

“Oh? Do tell.” 

Another day, another dead end. 

Detective Peterson lets out a sigh of misery as the clock strikes ten, telling him it’s time for him to give it a rest until the next day. There is no use for the detective to stress himself out by working extra hours, searching for anything that would satisfy him. There's always tomorrow, Peterson thinks somberly. 

     Though he knows there might be no chance at some point. 

     "Damn it!" The detective says under his breath as he straightens every crime scene photo and statements on his desk.  He shouldn't take it too hard, but it’s his responsibility when it comes to cases. And every case Detective Peterson works on, he would get the culprit from fingerprints to inconsistencies with testimonies. 

     But the case he's working on, there is no way the detective could pinpoint the murderer. 

     Dressed in a blue and white striped pajama shirt and a white t-shirt, he slumps into bed before covering himself in a wooly blanket, shielding himself from the winter air. The heater he bought for his apartment wouldn't warm up his room much. And the detective couldn't bother the landlord by turning up the heat, because she claims that "it costs too much money."  

     Come on, Allan, he tells himself. Just sleep. Don't even think about the cold or the case. You need to sleep. 

    But as thirty minutes passed, he opened his eyes, growling in frustration. There's no way he can sleep. 

     There is another option that Detective Peterson can try, though. So he gets out of bed and puts his black overcoat and shoes on. But before he could head out, Peterson eyes the gun lying on top of the drawer. He can't go unprotected without it, so he takes it, puts on the safety lock, and slides it halfway inside his pants, where the handle is pressing against his back. Satisfied, Peterson takes off. And it doesn't take too long for the cold air to blast onto his face, causing his eyes to water. Yep, that did the trick.  

     As he turns to the corner of the street, he notices a flyer of a missing child. It is a smiling seven-year-old boy with a blue and yellow striped t-shirt. This is aching for the detective so much, and this is the latest victim the suspect had his hands on. One child after another, the suspect gets away with it, leaving Detective Peterson to trace the bastard as he keeps promising families he was on it. Peterson was so determined since the first missing case. But as it multiplied, it horrified him. Even the picture that's taped onto a pole is making him sick. 

     "Why do you torture me so much?" he asks as if he will get an answer. Then, the detective groans. "Get it together, Allan. A quick drink should suffice." 

     It doesn't take too long for Detective Peterson to find the bar that he and his co-workers would go to whenever a celebration is called. Usually, he never drinks unless there's a special occasion. But because he could not quiet his mind, this will be the first and last time to do it. 

     As he enters, there are so many people in attendance. Though the detective finds an empty seat—right where the bartender is serving drinks behind the desk. "What can I get you, sir?" the bartender asks. 

     "Blue Moon should do. It's strong enough to forget, right?" 

     The bartender blinks in bewilderment. "Um...sure, I guess? Why do you ask?" 

    "Just something that I need. Don't worry about it." 

    Without saying a word, he pours the detective a drink and hands it to him; the amber liquid is filled to the top, which the frothy part is around the rim. He takes a sip, which the liquid burns down his throat when he swallows. Though, it's what the detective needs. 

     "I see you're enjoying yourself," an unfamiliar voice says. 

     Detective Peterson glances at the woman, who's smiling at him as she takes a seat beside him. The woman looks older than Peterson, but not a lot. A few gray hairs around her hair and small wrinkles on her cheekbones, but her heart-shaped face and brown eyes look warm like a mother's touch. Though she wears a brown overcoat and jeans. 

     She looks familiar, yet Peterson doesn't know where.

     "I guess you can say that," the detective answers before taking a couple more sips of his drink. "What's a woman like you doing here? Unless you have some friends to hang around." 

     She chuckles. "Nah. I'm only here to live life to the fullest while I make some new friends. Don't let appearances fool you, dearie." The woman winks and extends her hand toward Detective Peterson. "The name's Agatha. What's yours?" 

     "Allan, ma'am." He takes her hand to shake it. 

     "Please, call me Agatha. What's with this 'ma'am' stuff? I may be old, but I like to feel young." 

     "As you wish, ma—-I mean, Agatha." Detective Peterson rubs his face before laughing. "Sorry. I'm used to giving people formalities when I come across people on the job." 

     "Aww, you just gotta let loose for once. So what are you, if you don't mind me asking?" 

     "Detective," he replies. 

     A sad smile blooms on Agatha's friendly face, as if she's seeing through the detective. "Must be a tough job, I see. You look tense if you don't mind me assuming." 

     "Not at all. It's been rough lately, but I'll be okay." He chugs down on the remaining beer, not bothered by a burning sensation in his throat. And when he's done. The detective lets out a sigh of relief. 

     "Woah, slow down there." Agatha chuckles. "You better not be planning on killing your liver. Now that's a crime." 

     Then, it's Detective Peterson's turn to laugh once more. "That's funny. First time I heard that before." 

     "But in a serious matter, you need to take it easy. Wouldn't want you harming yourself, now do we?" 

     The detective arches his eyebrow while resting his cheek against his palm, while his elbow is resting on the glossy, wooden table. "You sound as if you're my mother. I thought you're supposed to be fun." 

     The woman shrugs and straightens her posture as she orders two drinks—-which she claims as her favorite—-before she turns her attention to Peterson. "I am fun, but we all know that we have our limits. We can still take risks, but we must also understand what we're not capable of." 

     "Well, that sounds gloomy, in my opinion." 

     Agatha playfully sighs as she swings her legs around. "Tell you what? One more drink for you, and we'll call it a night." The bartender returns with two drinks at hand, and then Agatha slides one of them to the detective. "How about it, Allan?" 

     He can't help but grin playfully and nodded. 

     "Ah, ah, ah!" The woman raises a finger when Detective Peterson is about to take a sip. "There's just one thing that's missing." Pulling out of her purse is a small lemon, and she cuts it in half with a knife which was also in her bag. 

     "You keep a lemon and a knife around?" the detective asks in an incredulous tone. 

     "Garden fresh. I'd rather eat my fresh fruits than what they serve in restaurants, don't you agree?" Sliding the sliced lemons on each of the glasses' rims, Agatha hands the drink back to the detective. "Have at it! I made sure that the concoction has a delicious taste." 

     For one moment, he is hesitant about what Agatha has done to their drinks. Detective Peterson's intuition as—-well, a detective, is telling him he cannot take it. Though Agatha is sweet to him tonight, and the detective cannot decline the offer. This is his night, and he should let loose after everything he's been through lately. 

     As he takes the offered drink one last time, Agatha raises her glass as she beams at him. "To new friends, and a night we cannot forget." 

     "Cheers." The detective nods in agreement. 

     With their glasses clinked together, he finally gets to taste the beer. And as the concoction reaches his palate, Detective Peterson moans in delight as he takes a couple more gulps of his drink. "You're right," he admits as he finishes his drink. "A tinge of your lemon is perfect." 

     Agatha winks at him. "It's all in the magic touch I have." 

     "Magic touch, huh?" The detective chuckles at the thought before adding, "You can probably put a spell on me." 

     A sly smile appears on her lips. "Now that's something I never heard." 

     For some reason, Detective Peterson is feeling sweaty and a little dizzy. It's typical for drinking two beers, right? 

     "Are you feeling okay, Allan?" Agatha asks, concern written on her face. 

     "I... something's... wrong…" 

The girl walks in the rain, Heading from work to home. Sadly, she is in vain While weak to the bone.

As the rain pours down, She spots a black cat In a dark, busy town That’s where it sat.

Worried, the girl rushes To the creature lying about. But it dashes into the bushes Which she follows out of the crowd.

Out of the streets, The girl found the purring creature. As her mind finds her peace, Fate wouldn’t give her a breather.

Wind and rain pummels her away, Her umbrella out of her grasp. Her mood going gray Ready to snap.

Consoling the girl, The cat goes over to her. As it purrs away her nerves, A rosy smile appear.

As the cat is forgiven, Her mind is at ease. It’s like the cat was on a mission Since the cat is pleased.

Her loneliness and gloom at bay, So she dances in the rain To keep positive feelings stay—- No longer in pain.

With her trusty cat They dance all night Because they want to combat The emotional blight.

It didn’t matter if rain drenched them As the world is cold. For it is no problem For they have each other to hold. 

Art made by Gemi: https://twitter.com/gemi333 

My father, 

Humorous and loving, 

Tends to blame the victim 

When he knows it’s his faults 

But he doesn’t like to admit them.  

Though, 

He tends to 

Make things better 

By talking things out 

Until peace is restored. 

That is my father 

Who is also like me. 

My mother, 

Sensitive and nurturing, 

Tends to worry all the time—-

Even little things in the world 

When she knows it’s not healthy. 

Though, 

She manages 

To be strong for people 

Who love and needs her most, 

Despite how she struggles so much. 

That is my mother 

Who is also like me. 

My sister, 

Creative and strong, 

Tends to be hard on herself 

While being scared of the world 

Despite how powerful she appears. 

Though, 

She’s quick,

When it comes to tasks 

While making things perfect 

For which she desires the most.

That is my sister 

Who is also like me. 

For years, 

I know who I am 

From watching my family 

And learned how to connect, 

Despite how I hate the flaws in me. 

Though, 

My family 

Do not dictate me

Because I make it my own 

While I keep exploring myself. 

This is who I am—- 

Your eyes enrapture me 

With kindness I've never seen. 

It strips away my defenses 

Along with my vulnerability. 

You leave me all bear, 

But I don't care. 

Your mouth enchants me, 

Making sweet melody 

To keep me protected 

As I forget my sorrows. 

You could be a siren, 

 But I wouldn't care. 

Your touch soothes me, 

Forgetting the pain I endure 

And the demons I carry. 

A simple stroke 

Can make me yearn for you, 

But I don't mind. 

Explain to me, stranger. 

Do you posses some spell 

To charm me so easily? 

Or are you just a gentleman 

Who can be chivalrous?