As soon as the traffic lights signaled red, Eric sat comfortably on his seat, adjusted the rearview mirror so that he saw the car behind them, and rested his hand on the secretary’s pale, gentle hand beside the gear.
“Sir!” exclaimed the secretary as she caught her breath, alarmed by the sudden touch of his hand, and quickly moved hers away from him. She looked at Eric.
He only laughed coolly, and his lips showed a small flash of his teeth. (more…)
The paddle resting
Beside the little old boat
Rocked by the sea waves
Hung helplessly on its side-
Nanay whispered love no more.
-Aaron Jalalon-
When I was sixteen at the old house, I used to sit on our wooden chair behind her and watch how she built fire with kerosene, wood, and pieces of folded paper. She would bend low enough, reaching for the fireplace, and I could see her spine arching downwards like a bamboo on a windy day, while behind her white head where I could not see much what happened, a light-blue smoke rose up to the sooted roof along with some ashes flying for escape through the slits on our wall. (more…)
Just like what I used to do every ordinary night, here I am again — taking slow paces towards my final destination… the 49th house on Buttercup Street. No matter how tedious my day at the university had been or how many barbecues and lemon squares I had eaten during all those foodie sessions with my boyfriend, the story always has the same ending: me going to the direction illuminated by an orange light post — and tonight is not an exception. Other people would normally love the idea of finally going home after such a long day but I often wish that the sun would not give way to the moon. I never want to go home…
I finally arrived at this particular house on Buttercup Street and as always, closing the red gate was such a difficult task. It meant that I am now in my dreaded place, away from the world that I never wanted to leave. As always, the sight was totally unwelcoming… Like every ordinary night, all the lights are turned off and if not for the flickering light from the television, any stranger would easily mistake the place as desolate. “Home again,” I sighed. (more…)
scattered puzzle bits
used to being side by side;
withered bunch of blooms
forgotten by you, by me;
how do we say our goodbyes?
-Maryanne Lobaton-
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