Tag Archives: short story

Different Houses

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Building dreams together is one of the perks of being in a relationship. It makes me look forward for the future. But when the relationship gets awry….
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She met a boy who wished for a simple home in a suburban neighborhood. No qualms and chaos. Just there to have peace and quiet. Now, he is gone.

She almost fell in love with a man who wanted a house on top of a century-old tree. He would build his own tree house and put a sun roof so all the light would come in. Now, he is pursuing someone else.

She fell in love with a man who dreamt of a Pi-shaped house with her. A white Pi-shaped house with an Olympic size swimming pool in between the elongated parts of the house. Now, he is with someone else.

The tragedy of it all? They never asked her what she wanted.
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In all fairness, I still don’t know how my ‘dream house’ would look like. o.O
What does your dream house look like?

Peace out!

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Would it?

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I wrote this when I was ‘past the point of no return’ and started noticing that I still liked the things he liked even after we broke up. I know some of my friends hate certain things simply because these remind them so much of their exes. I saw myself not hating these things at all, no matter how much I wanted to, if only to forget him.

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Would it matter if I still love the things you made me love?

I still love the coffee down at the bakery where we used to share a cup. I still love the book you bought me at the thrift bookstore when I didn’t have enough money. I still love the film you made me watch because you said it was amazing. If I still love the things I associate with you, then does that make me still love you?

I found a place that serves better, and I mean way better, coffee than that bakeshop. I bought a book and have actually read it more than a couple of times. I watched a film that made me laugh, cry, and love my life even more when I got out of the cinema. But I still love the things you love, does that make me still love you?

Would it matter if I still love the things you made me love? Maybe. Maybe not.

I’m with good company, if ever you’re wondering. Nope? Oh, my bad.

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Well?
Peace out!

Handkerchief

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I wrote this when I was cleaning my room and I found le ex’s hanky. dun dun dun dun….

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Handkerchief. That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief was all he left her; was all she kept. She threw everything away; those gifts, those letters, those poems, those promises, except for that handkerchief.

To tell you honestly, he didn’t give her the handkerchief. She stole it form him. Or maybe he knew she took it. He just didn’t bother getting it back from her.

That’s what he did. He stole her. He robbed her of her innocence and she gladly gave it away. Was it still stealing?

Memory. At some point, a stimulus will cross her path and activate those neurons in her brain to tap the black box of forbidden and ill-forgotten dreams. Like a movie reel, the past plays before her like an unstoppable force of reckoning.

That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief. She is burning it.
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Have I ever written anything not sad? I dunno. I suck at writing happy things. >_<

But what do you think?
Peace out!

He/ She

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I’ve written this one when I was hanging out in a coffee shop all by myself and I started noticing this guy getting antsy and kept on looking at his watch and phone. I figured, “Hey, he might be waiting for his blind date.” and this is where this flash fiction started.

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He sips his coffee, one shot espresso. He feels the sudden warmth around his tongue. It reminds him of something; someone. It reminds him of her. He wonders. Where could she be?
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She walks along the pavement and gets the last drag out of her cigarette. She holds it; then, blows out the smoke. She enters the café and whips her hair out of her face. She goes to the counter and orders. “Mocha latte over-iced”, she said.
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Headphones blaring in his ears, he drowns the world out.At least, he thinks he did. He looks up. A woman with fair complexion and curly hair enters the coffee shop. Is this her? He musters the courage to stand up and tries to call her name but then…
****
She looks for him. Where is he? Is this he who sits alone in a table for two. She approaches the man. “Is this seat taken?” she said.
****
She is here.
****
He is here.

For The Next Seven Days

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For the next seven days, I’ll be posting my shelved written works, both flash fictions and poems, here in my blog. I’ve written them a couple of years ago when I wasn’t emotionally sober. Now that I’ve edited most of them, I’m feeling kind of confident in showing them to the public. Operative word is ‘feeling’. I’m not entirely sure. But, oh well.

Tell me what you think about them, will you?

Peace out!

Ships

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This isn’t one of my flash fictions but it’s one of my loved pieces. I wrote it when I was on the ship for Cebu.

 

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            “Siguraduhin mong may susundo sa’yo dun.”

                        Make sure someone fetches you there.

            “Opo. Naa naman koy nakasabut, Dad.”

                        Yes. Already contacted someone, Dad.

 

            I lied. Who would? The HR Rep? Nope. That snooty Napoleonic bastard was too proud to even shake my hand when he interviewed me. The plan was; I would go off the ship, get out of the port, hail a cab, and go straight to the hotel where the company already booked me.

 

            My dad was always a worrywart when it came to promptness. So at, I kid you not, seventeen hundred hours, I was already in the boarding area of the pier with my things fully scanned and my body done being molested by the lady who sure was a lesbian. Departure was at twenty hundred hours.

 

            18:00 hours.

            One trolley, one dufffel bag, one handbag, and a box full of seafood canned goods and a mini rice cooker; that was all I carried with me. I hired a porter to carry all of it. That costed at least a hundred pesos. I tipped the guy with a twenty.

 

            19:43 hours.

            A thick-browed tall moreno guy carrying a mountaineer’s back-pack occupied the bottom bunk  adjacent mine. He had this huge pastel-colored shoulder bag. Something whimpered in it. He looked at me. I looked at him back. Then, he looked at his shoulder bag.

 

            “Be quiet, Fifi.”, he said in a hushed tone.

            “How original.”, I said in a hushed tone.

 

            He tried to retort but Fifi barked and squirmed inside the bag. He unzipped the bag and lo and behold; Fifi was a  pekingese. He fed the bitch with dried goodies but she was still agitated.

 

            I left and bought a bottle of water at the snack bar.  I didn’t want to go back immediately so I took a few swigs at it at the top deck.

 

            I couldn’t play any intrument at all. I sing. I’m a classically trained opera singer but I never took advantage of it. Started singing when I was in fifth grade. Manang Celly, an old woman in our neighborhood, took pity on me and taught me. She said I remind her of herself when she was young. She was alone; wasn’t married or had any children. She is dead. 

 

            The air was too chilly so I went back. That bitch still annoyed me.  

 

            “Maybe she’s thirsty.” I offered my half-empty water bottle to Fifi. She refused.

 

            The guy said nothing. He squished himself inside the bunk and sighed; a form of surrender. I left him with his thoughts.

 

            20:16 hours.

           

            1 New Message

            Alex

            I’m sorry.

 

            Asshole. We were together for four months but said asshole was too stubborn to admit the last month just wasn’t working. He even blamed himself for me leaving. How pathetic.

 

            Pakikipagsapalaran. Mom’s favorite word. The waves were invading my thoughts. Apparently, musings do have ambient  music. Mom always told me it meant challenging fate. Was this me challenging fate?

 

            I went back to my bunk and slept.

 

            00:53 hours.

 

            That whining little bitch was at it again. I turned over to silence that damned abomination but I was wrong. Fifi wasn’t whimpering. Her owner was. Binangungot. I woke him up and offered him my half empty water bottle. This time, he took it.

 

            “Good thing she’s still asleep.”, he said.

            “Yeah, or I would’ve killed that Satanic incarnation.”, I said.

            He was about to lie down when I said, “Why the fuck would you put that poor dog in there?”

            “I don’t want to pay for that stupid bitch anymore.”, he said.

 

            I couldn’t get back to sleep.

 

            01:26 hours.

 

            I have a band. Well right now, it’s more appropriate to say I had a band. It was a long time ago. At first, it was great. Every night was another adventure; another opportunity to explore the city. Thoughts became lyrics that turn into songs. Hums became melodies, rhythms, and beats. Each of us was into different genres. I was the one into jazz.

 

            Why did I leave them?

 

            Mom was about to be promoted for a deanship in a prestigious school in the city. But, the proverbial institutional politics happened. She moved to Manila and returned to UP for her Doctorate. Dad is retired; living out his pension.

 

            Why did I leave them?

 

            I got offered a job in one of Cebu’s topnotch recording labels. Not as a recording artist, though. I’ll be the one-scouting-for-fresh-talents and dipping-my-hands-into-dirty-old-monkey-business for them. As what that Napoleonic bastard told me, I have a knack for fishing good talents. Talents. That narcissistic dimwit can’t even say artists.

 

            05:30 hours.

 

            Good morning, thank you for….. passengers…. We are currently…. pleased to inform you…docking the ports of Cebu…. In behalf of all the staff… this ship, I welcome you all to the Queen City of the South.

 

            Attention all tourist passengers…… claim ID’s and return beddings at the counter. Thank you…. Enjoy your… Thank you.

 

            “Let me guess, you crossed the sea just so you could give that little mutt to her owner. Please tell me I’m wrong.”

            “How the hell did you know?”

            “ You should just get rid of it.”

 

            06:47 hours.

 

            He was everywhere. Alfred. Alfi. Fifi. My Fifi. He was my Fifi. He still haunts me.

 

            On the corner just outside the pier gates, I was trying to hail a cab when every one of them was already filled. Then, this one cab stopped and popped open the door in front of me. My pepper spray was ready. I peered in and saw him. He already made space for me.

 

            “Good for you.”, I said and sat beside him. He smiled.

            “Radisson….”, I told the cabdriver.

            “Blu. Radisson Blu.”, he said.

 

                                                                                      Fin

Oh, Dear

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My favorite playwright reminds me of you. You practically introduced him to me. My favorite play reminds me of you. We practically played out the same story.

 

I’ve written an alternate story out of it. It’s not some sort of literature where you’d get to unlock the private events of my life. It’s my way of overwriting your mark in his work of art. 

 

My muse inspired me to write this. Up until now, he probably doesn’t know he’s my inspiration. Or, he’s that good acting oblivious.

 

I’ve possessed my muse before. It was you. Look where we are.  I’ve learned my lesson. I cannot possess him.