Most of what I do here is greatly suggested by the title. Read on if you are bored enough, and if not, go on and continue being awesome! Have a great day, people. :)


“I think I was sixteen when I last cried myself to sleep cause of a movie. It’s been three years and the only thing that had me walking fast down the dark alley is my own imagination.”


Short Story

It was not the fall that she feared. Living itself is falling, the only difference between that and now is that she was moving fast moving vertically at an extremely far distance, which, as if to make amends, was quickly escalating down by the second.

The ground, the hit, and her body prone to death once it slams against the imminent with such force.

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Petyr had always been a lonely kid. 

“Come, Varys,” he said, as he ran back into the yard. He was clumsy, and it was a muddy day, so it was not a new thing for me to see him down in the mud within a split-second glance. 

“Petyr, get up,” I called out to him. 

“I can’t, Catelyn. I think I’m stuck.”

I dragged myself over to him, not minding my pretty shoes turning dirtier by the trudge. I got his arm and helped him out. He grinned at me wildly, and turned towards his back. “How can anyone be stuck in mud…” I muttered to myself.

“Varys,” he whispered. He quickly stood up and started looking around. “Varys?”

“Petyr, what are you doing?” I asked him. He seemed to be starting to throw a fit. “Petyr?”

“Cat, Varys, Varys is not here!” He shook me, before turning his back on me and started on grappling everywhere.

“P-petyr… Mom! Cecille! Mom!” I shouted as I ran back into the house. I tried finding my mother, she always knew what to do with Petyr. She went out, forgetting to mind my ruined dress, and attended to Petyr. The next thing I knew, he was in his room, on his bed, mumbling his imaginary friend’s name over and over again. “Varys…” he chanted. That night, I dreamt of his whispers.

Petyr is my mom’s friend’s son. His father was a pilot, and his mom was a model. They broke up, thus breaking Petyr in the process. Petyr is still whole, Cecille would tell me, but I can see that he’s not. Mom’s a child psychiatrist, so I might be right. But at times like this, I keep hoping that Cecille be right. Sometimes, I get tired out of the things I think about. 

The following day, we went to the park. There were lots of kids, but it was awfully boring. Petyr was quiet the whole morning, just sulking at a bench.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Waiting,” he answered.

“For what?”


“You do know Varys is imaginary, right?” I said. It wasn’t about bursting his bubble, but it is about bursting his bubble. His psychological bubble.

“What’s imaginary?”

This is going to be hard. “Imaginary is what you call those beautiful things that happen so unrealistically but aren’t actually real.”

“Is that something like Mom?” he asked. 


“Are you telling me Mom’s not real?”

I thought about it. “I guess so. Can kiss your mom right now?”


“How about Varys, can you kiss him right now?”

He chuckled. “You’re silly. Why would I kiss Varys? He’s a bear.” Well, that’s that. He smiled. But then, his face turned sour. “But I hold Varys’s paw. Also Mom’s hand. Now, I can’t hold them.” He started crying. The noodlehead.

I reached out and held his hand. “Come with me.” I pulled him to his feet, and we ran. We ran. Past trees, past kids, past adults, we ran. It seemed like a long run, and I felt my legs giving up. They were almost jelly when we got there. 

The zoo was brimming with people, but we made our way through. Monkeys, rabbits, snakes, the zoo had almost everything my books tell me of. They should have a bear, right? We zigzagged through everywhere. At last, we found it.

A brown, furry ball was curled up in a corner. I was sure it was a bear because it had a picture on the label. Only the picture wasn’t sleeping and the bear was. We sat by the glass, staring at the furry ball. 

“I know that Varys isn’t real,” said Petyr. I didn’t say anything. “But it would be fun if he was, wouldn’t it?” He turned towards me and smiled. I smiled back and kissed his nose, and we just sat there, waiting for the bear to wake up. 

It didn’t. Or at least we didn’t get to see it. A few hours later, some guys came and took us, and Mom was crying and hugging us and scolding us and the next thing I knew, I was in bed. I laid there awake, listening to a man came and go, knowing that it was Petyr going away with his Dad. I close my eyes, and dream, a vivid dream, unrealistically real-er than that afternoon. It was a dream where a boy meets a bear, fully awake, and grinning the same grin the boy grinned. In the dream, the boy was whole, and everything beautiful was real.

Mud and Bear

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Writing Prompt: Write the First Page

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I threw the ball as far as I  could. My brother and Dad started running towards it. “Go, go, go!” I said. A few strides and they were out of sight. I trudged the way back to the picnic table, and started observing people, knowing that those two were going to beat each other up until one’s got the ball. Whatever happened to parenting these days, one will never know.

Suddenly, I heard a large fuss behind me. Alex dumped his ass next to me and reached for a sandwich. He was obviously fuming, so I didn’t talk to him. Dad was playing with an unknown dog now, something that I’m not really that surprised with. He’s always been like that, playing with dogs at a park on nice spring days.

“Fag,” Alex suddenly said. I turned to him.

“You’re eleven, why do you even know that word,” I said to him.

“Because Mr. Collins  is a fag, that’s why,” he said, and continued to eat his sandwich. I saw that he had been watching our neighbor, Mr. Collins. He’s a lot metrosexual, but he wasn’t, uhm, gay. “Mr. Collins may be metrosexual, but you can’t just brand him a fag.”

“But he is a fag,” Alex said, a bit irritated. ‘Guess he was trying to piss someone just ‘cause he was pissed off. Well, achievement unlocked, little bro.

“He’s not gay. I would know if he is.”

“Why, why would you know? Did you sleep with him, Amanda?”

“No. I-“ I would  know. I threw a glance at Dad. No, Alex shouldn’t know.

“Why are you looking at Dad?”

I ignored him. This’ll piss him off. And maybe, after this, he’ll get a clue about Dad. Or, more appropriately, about Mom.

Short Story

Higit Pa

Parte na ng pagtingin ko sa mundo ang pagkabulag. Paanong hindi eh, tila sinampal na ng Diyos sa akin ‘to.

Sabi nila, kapag bulag ka, mas malakas ang tunog ng pag-inog ng daigdig, mas malamig ang samyo ng hangin, mas maalat ang amoy ng dagat. Pero minsan, naiisip ko, paano ba ang pakiramdam ng mas mahinang hampas ng alon sa dagat? Paano ba ang pakiramdam ng hangin na humahaplos sa pikit mong mga mata, na sa pagmulat mo ay sigurado kang may makikita? Minsan, naiinis ako sa mga taong niroromansa ang kalagayan ko.

Tanda ko pa noong unang beses kong malaman na hindi pala madilim ang mundo.

“Jusep, Jusep,” tawag sa’kin ni Karissa, anak ni Aling Isang na kapitbahay naming.

“Jow-sef,” pagtama ko sa pagkakasabi n’ya. Hindi ko malaman sa babaeng ‘to kung bakit saliwa ang dila.

“Jwo-sep, bakit lagi kang tulala?” tanong n’ya.

“Ano ‘yung tulala?”

“Tulala. Pag naka-tanga ka.”

“Hindi ako bobo,” sagot ko. Makulit talaga ‘tong si Karissa. Mana kay Aling Isang, na sabi ni Nanay ay laging unang-una sa balita, mapasa-kabilang bario pa ‘yang tsismis o kung saan man.

“Hindi! Tulala! ‘Yung pag nakatingin ka lang sa malayo!”

“Naka-ano sa malayo?”

Dalawang taong gulang pa lang ako noon. Hindi ko rin malaman kung paanong natandaan ko ‘yun. ‘Di ko rin sigurado kung tama ba ang pagkakatanda ko. Pero ang sigurado ko, noong gabing ‘yon ang unang beses na nanaginip ako.

Hindi ako nanaginip ng bahag-hari o bulaklak o kung ano pa man. Nanaginip ako, alam kong may nangyari, alam kong nanaginip ako. Noong araw na ‘yon, maski nalaman ko na iba ako kompara sa karamihan ng mundo, nanaginip ako nang masaya. Maski hindi ko matandaan ang panaginip ko. Ang alam ko lang, hindi talaga puro dilim ang mundo. Ang mundo ay hindi lang kung paano ko nakikita, o hindi nakikita, ito.

 Walang romansa sa pagkabulag, ngunit ang malaman na hindi blangko ang mundo, na mayroon pang higit pa sa nakakaya ng aking mga mata, tila ba- 

Short Story

Nostalgia: Silver

The cup of coffee sat in his rightful place, getting rightfully cold by the minute.

The Owner did nothing to save the warmth of the coffee. He was too busy owning stuff. Today, a young lady went into the Shop and tried doing the same thing, which, irrevocably, got him busy.

“This is mine,” she imploded, grabbing a silver box from the shelves. 

“It was,” the Owner said, as he calmly and swiftly picked the silver box from her hands, raising it overhead and putting it completely out of her reach. “Everything in this shop is other people’s-“

“Give that back-” the girl said, jumping on her feet.

“-But now, everything is not-” said the Owner, jumping in sync to the young woman’s feet.

The woman sighed exasperatedly, almost aggressively, and faced the Owner with such an angry expression. “I want it back. It’s my gramma’s.”

The Owner looked at her confusedly. “Well, your grandmother must’ve given birth to your mom 40 years into conception, then.”

“Oho, tryin’ to be silly, are we?” The Owner noticed that the girl had light gray, shaky eyes, as if giving away the girl’s tangled nerves and quick temper. Noticing this caught the Owner off guard, slightly benting his arm, giving the girl the chance to get the silver box. “Gotcha!” she shouted, and ran outside the Shop.

“Hey, you-” The Owner massaged his temple and, too tired to follow the girl, resigned into his Owner’s desk. “Little thiefy brat.”

“I heard you.” Suddenly, the girl was there again, pressing onto his desk, her face inches away. “Old man, I do have ears, so could you pick some manners somewhere?”

Old man, the Owner thought. How old could he possibly be? He’s just thirty-two, for chrissakes! This girl needed a lesson. 

He stroked the girl’s left ear, and whispered into it. “I see, you have pretty quaint ears, little girl. You hear fine with them, then?” The girl’s face turned red.

“Yes, yes I do,” the girl replied in a quick manner, perhaps trying to mask her blush. “And I heard what you said. I’m not a brat, nor am I a thief.”

“Well then, you could pay for that,” the Owner seductively suggested. How so, I will never know.

It was a split-second, but a split-second was severely noticeable in such proximity, that the Owner knew everything this girl had in mind. She was, apparently, falling for the seduction. This is not a very moral-abiding story. “How?”

A curve of the side of the lips, and the girl would not take her eyes away from them. She was nineteen, a young girl still in comparison to the majority of the town, and yet, she can’t stop looking at this much older man’s lips. At last, he spoke, “Well, how do you think? That’s a hundred and two, thank you very much.” The Owner leaned back into his seat, his hand turned palm up, ready to receive the girl’s hundred and two.

She glared at him, before reaching into her pocket. She threw the money onto the desk and muttered, just loud enough for him to hear and ignore, “Poor old bastard.”

The Owner counted his money, not looking towards the girl’s way, and warmly shouted, “Thank you for buying, please do come again!” The door went with a loud bam, and then nothing. The Owner reached for his cup of coffee, still smiling at the thought of the girl. “I wonder if there are anything else here that’s hers,” he said to himself, taking a sip of his coffee. Which is an act he immediately regretted, for the coffee was too damn cold, thus making more floorwork for the Owner.

All that girl’s fault, he thought.