Hear Me

My voice, my tone, my words,
May be harsh, may be hush,
For whatever reason,
I would like
To apologize, to thank you,
For hearing everything, for reading everything
To bridge our gap, to connect our souls
No matter wherever, no matter whoever.
Closing distances, capturing moments,
Delivering my messages, Sending my love,
Whenever, wherever, to whoever.

Literate for a Day


Giving Up

I never intended to join last week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge but I suddenly thought of these words and I think it fits the topic so I’m linking it at the last minute.

The last green leaves have wilted. No, it cannot wait even for the morning dew to quench part of its drying vigor.  And she thought he would stay. Suddenly, it’s October in March.

For the last line, excuse me for explaining but I think it helps if you know that here in the Philippines, there are 2 seasons: around the –ber months are the rainy days while it is dry mostly by March (our summer).

She Says, He Says

I wrote this about 2 years ago and never published it seeing it as one of those random articles I do out of anything. And I never thought of having a blog by then. I have almost forgotten it until this prompt from the daily post. Well, this may be one of my cheesy stuffs but I thought to share it anyway.

The girl’s perspective was written by my friend (fivefeetpretty.wordpress.com) and upon reading it, I just want to give a voice to the guy in her story.

She Says

I used to believe that romantic love isn’t my thing. I met men who thought I was fool enough to fall for their dorky antics only to realize that they can never make me. I’m not sure where or when it started but I know something has changed the past few days.

I’d like to keep him unnamed for certain reasons and the main reason for keeping him in the shadows, I will write at the end of this entry.

When I feel like talking nonstop, he listens. Whether it is a childish story or a fabricated tale, he believes it. At the end of the day, I had to tell him what parts of my stories were true because he made feel guilty without intending to. He’ll give me a smile, an annoyingly cute smile that says, “I know.”

He knows I’m not the sporty type but he still wants me to kick the ball, do a lay-up and swing a racket. He saw me gave a girly kick, a stupid lay-up and a clumsy swing so I guess he’s given up his dream of playing any game with me. He wants me to be there though, to watch him in his every game, to give him a hug if he wins and still give him one even if doesn’t.

He reads me stories even though he hates reading and he has to wear his reading glasses. When I ask him to reread some parts, he gives me a disbelieving look and I give him a long pout. He rereads the parts I ask him to and I give him the sweetest smile I can manage.

He always gives me his hanky so that I can wipe my chocolate-stained fingers after eating pretzels. When he forgets his hanky, he uses his hands to wipe mine clean. It disgusts me every time he does that and he loves seeing me disgusted at that.

Little one, if only these things were true.

Tis me.

He Says

I used to believe that romantic love isn’t my thing. I had met women who love to be swoon by men who are jerks enough to fall into their every whim. Women cast some spell that can change things in men and I’m afraid I caught one.

She is a timid girl and everyone who is close to her can testify to that. But sometimes, when I am alone with her, it is as if she has been keeping too many stories inside her that she suddenly chokes out every word she can think of. The more she talks, the more I want to hear her voice and I find it hard to listen to everything she is saying. I would give out a few nods and ahs once in a while just so she’d know I am with her. Days. Weeks have passed and I can remember the things she blabbed about—especially those about herself.

She tells me how she would never understand the excitement in sports. But I know she watches football, basketball and lawn tennis at the least because she slips it into her stories at times. It makes me wonder if she also comes to my games whenever I casually ask her to. I know she’s always tired from work and her girl friends and her bed take most of the after-work time. All I can manage is when she would ask me to do her grocery, bring it over to her place, have a snack with her, and wait for her to ask me again after a week or two.

She loves reading and romantic tales always make her cry. Often would she associate herself with princesses and fairies and girls who are waiting for some knight to bring her her happy ending. Childish. But cute. And weird it is for me to have thoughts of being that knight who would sweep her off her feet. Right away, I would brush off the idea and scold myself for having thought of it in the first place.

She, most often, tries to secretly scout my backpack for the pretzels my little sis gives me from her baon. Only, I am smart enough to hide it somewhere before she starts looking. Then, once she realize I kept it, she would give me that one-eyebrow-raise and say “now give it to me, you pretzel monster!” and chuckle despite herself.

If only she can see what she’s doing to me, then maybe she can also see me.

We blog for a million different reasons, but in the end we’re all storytellers. Writing Challenges help you push your writing boundaries and explore new ideas, subjects, and styles. This post is in response to the weekly writing challenge – Weekly Writing Challenge: Leave Your Shoes at the Door

First Time

This supposedly is my first entry for 2014 written in response for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge but I did not make it to their time limit. Rule is to use 38 words with 1 syllable each. 5 words are already provided – the first time I saw

The first time I saw two faint lines on that stick, joy and fear raced my heart. I am not sure how this works: how to be a mom. She was in no way a mom to me.


To them, I’m always this bastard–a brand of shame I came to know by the spiteful words whispered on every corner of the street. That’s all they see. Maybe tonight, they’ll learn.


This post was made in response to Trifecta Writing Challenge where writers are challenged to use a given word in an entry. This week’s word is BRAND (noun) which could mean any of the following (at least for the purpose of this challenge):

a (1) : a mark made by burning with a hot iron to attest manufacture or quality or to designate ownership
(2) : a printed mark made for similar purposes : trademark
b (1) : a mark put on criminals with a hot iron
(2) : a mark of disgrace : stigma

It’s Just the Crickets

In the foggy scene of darkness and red, she couldn’t grasp what and why was she waking up blood-soaked. She heard shallow breathing, slowly fading, until the crickets chirped alone in the silence.


This is my first post in response to Trifecta Writing Challenge where writers are challenged to use a given word in an entry. This week’s word is Grasp (verb) which particularly means to lay hold of with the mind: Comprehend.

Rainy Mornings

This is one of those days when I woke up by the sound of the rain playing on the rooftops. The cold was creeping in my skin and before long, I was reaching for the blanket, half of which was hanging by my bedside. I pulled up the sheet and I couldn’t help but feel the softness of the cloth brush against my smooth legs. Somehow, it tickled me and I like to wish that the blanket would never end. But the cold was getting to me so I hid under the covers and curled myself just to fight the loss of warmth. Then, I realized that the unusual cold was brought about by the joint forces of the damp weather and the electric fan blowing. But I did not turn off the fan. It was fighting and surrendering at the same time. And it felt good.