Nonfiction by | February 28, 2016

Slowly, the knob turned followed by the click of the lock. On the fifth of November, a familiar voice shouted, “happy monthsary”, but in front of me was nothing but a wall. When I took a peek at who was on the other side, the first thing I saw was your red leather shoelace, and my reality dawned: my phone never rang and the fifth was never ours to celebrate.

It all started when we swapped messages while I was on a weekend trip with my friends. Nothing was ever completely realized until we went on a date a week later to validate what we felt for each other. After two days, we became a couple. It was the tenth of August.

Fast forward to a month after a slew of cloud nine’s: you affirmed your love to me with the admission of falling for someone else. It happened on your birthday, but the surprise was on me. Anything unexpected catches your attention and just like a boy given a present on Christmas day, I believed great things would still unfold. Truly great it was because immeasurable pain after another plagued the relationship.

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A Case of You

Nonfiction by | March 16, 2014

It was the sight of a pitcher held up that woke my senses. The plummet shattered all of the plastic, and when silence broke lose, panic spoke, “Ano’ng problema? Pag-usapan natin.”

The question was thrown back to me as if it were a mistake to wake up. I answered, “Wala,” until he referred to you and I. It was a question I wanted to ask myself, too. Did we have a problem? He questioned my silence; our silence when he would come home. He said he knew everything.

“Wala kaming problema,” you said.

“Are you sure you want to talk about it? I know you’re drunk and I don’t want you to regret anything you want to say right now.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he boldly said.

“Okay. If you want to talk to me, I would expect you to wear something.” He was in his underwear, drunk and late when he got home from work.

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Demanding A Universe

Nonfiction by | September 19, 2010

Truth-seekers, they call them, but it is a moot description for men like journalists. I say so because there are many who are in the field just guarding their politics; that is, protecting their own interests. And I say so because of the fact that no article written is ever unbiased under any byline. Simple: objective journalism is a myth, and the same can be said for truth. Or maybe not?

Always, the journalist hunts down stories and sometimes we are led to believe that these are true. I doubt that they ever find a convincing end though, so they unearth and ask more to get that finale that satisfies their selfishness. But I doubt that they ever reach that as well because if they did, they would stop.

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Tricked by the Trade

Nonfiction by | January 24, 2010

Unlike others who preferred creating nonsensical doodles, I fancied writing my thoughts on paper using my left hand, but due to my awesome talent to do continuous cartwheels, I broke it when I was six.

I was excited to show off; my arms were extended as if reaching for a tree branch, and my feet were giddy to come off the ground. My friends were aghast as I did one cartwheel after another. When I was about to finish my third, a female with huge hips and bouncy ass passed by and unconsciously bumped me, so I fell. I never felt anything until my friend who had been awed at first was horror-stricken, and he shouted, “Hala Sergei! Ang kamay mo!”

I looked at it, and saw that my left arm had formed an “L” shape.

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