Happy Anniversary

Today I swore I'd forge a path anew

because it's our anniversary,

and anniversaries are meant to celebrate

momentous occasions.

It started out as a decision to build my life with you

which due to life's enigmatic twists and turns

truly happened and truly didn't.

We dreamed of different things,

I see it more clearly now.

You, of having a family and

I, of going against the grain.

But here we are,

me, beat up by the odds

and you, well,

probably still dreaming of a family

you'll have one day

that will now be possible

because of the steps you've taken

these past months.

Because it's our anniversary,

I walked when I should have taken the bus.

I dwelt with the cold when I should have taken refuge in warmth.

I had my hair chopped off, for I was looking for a change.

I raise my glass and drink to our good health,

and our futures that grow further apart from each other

with each passing day.

Happy anniversary darling,

here's hoping a couple more shots

will finally help me forget about you.

When all this is over
I look forward to starting my life anew
When all this is over
I already know what I’d want to do

I’d start with a job, perhaps
And log in long hours.
I’d work day and night if I have to.
But maybe I should start with driver’s ed
And work on the long laborious process
Of getting an actual license
Then get a car, no matter how rundown
As long as the engine is good and it runs
I can live with that.

I’d probably start looking for a place to live too.
Somewhere quiet, where I can
spend my evenings in peace,
take leisurely walks around the district
when the mood strikes me so,
where I can lay out in the open
and stare aimlessly at the clear night skies
for hours on end.

But all that’s a fantasy of course.
As long as I’m in this,
None of that would be possible.
So long as I’m in this,
I’m just going to have to keep on dreaming.
Otherwise, I’d run the risk
Of sinking further, deeper,
In this quagmire of illusions.

If you think about me sometimes, say it.

If you dream of me in your sleep, say it.

If you want to be with me, say it.

If you miss me when we're apart, say it.

If you’re confused like I am, say it.

If you feel good when we’re together, say it.

If you think you love me, say it.

If you care for me like I do for you, say it.

If you feel that I’m such a nag, say it.

If you want to get rid of me, say it.

If you feel that I’m a little too much, say it.

If you want me to walk away, say it.

If you don’t love me, say it.

Everything that’s in your mind

and heart and body and soul, say it.

No matter how terrible or painful it may seem, say it.

As long as it’s the truth, just say it.

Otherwise, don’t say anything at all.

Maria glanced about the dimly-lit room. Almost every person in attendance was too occupied with themselves to actually appreciate what was going on around them. Careful not to meet anyone’s gaze in particular, she noticed that most patrons were either engaged in light-hearted conversation, eyeing the room for potential dance partners (or if you will, unwilling preys) or simply guzzling their preferred libations. She, however, had come out tonight with the sole purpose of watching.

She had never really felt as compelled to come out and watch people dance as she did before. To be honest, there was a certain amount of sinfulness that pervaded her being whenever she came out to watch people dance the salsa. Not that it really was sinful, just the idea of a simple indulgence that brought her some sort of inexplicable pleasure. It was not so much the beauty of salseros and salseras in attendance, nor was it the generally delightful flavor of people in clubs like this. She almost felt guilty, watching people move about the dance floor, executing steps that don’t seem rehearsed or routine but rather flow quite naturally from wherever it is that it comes from. It didn’t matter that she did not speak nor understand a word of Spanish, though sometimes it may have proven helpful whenever the DJ would say things in between songs. The songs were in Spanish, too. But that only made some songs seem more romantic than they probably were. After coming in for almost six months, she already had her favorite salsa songs. But that wasn’t it either. Perhaps it was how everything came into play, the dimly-lit room, the beautiful Spanish songs, the rhythmic beating of the clave and the graceful and awe-inspiring movement of people, that made watching all the more satisfying.

Though sometimes, it seems difficult to get a moment’s peace since someone would walk up from time to time and ask her to dance. When she wasn’t in the mood, she would turn them down. But most of the time, she would dance a song or two with them. She counted herself as a beginner but by now knew which songs were great to dance along with and which ones she had to avoid. She had also come to know by a person’s movements if he was a good lead or not. It always came down to the element of control. It was, for the most part, the man’s job to do the leading in these dances. A dance was considered good if the man could do a decent job of leading his partner through the series of routines and steps he had in his head, and then some. For sometimes, the ladies would be feisty little things and had a secret or two up their sleeves as well. It was how well the gents managed to work that into their little routines that determined to Maria’s eyes, if they were worthy enough to be watched or not.

Nothing made her heart race faster than finding a suitable couple to watch. She could tell from the easy movement of their limbs and the seemingly uncontrolled liquid movements that never went too far or came too short, the easy flow of steps from one point to another, the look of sheer enjoyment on their faces, and perhaps even the glimmer of happiness that glowed warmly within her as she watched. Only watched, nothing more.

And tonight was no different from other nights. Not realizing that she had been holding her breath, she sighed deeply and settled further into her seat as the night wore on.

Dedicated to a porn star on hiatus :)

Someone is screaming under my window
but not for me. You are
on the other side of the world,
Breaking down. Losing your skin,
Scarring on the inside, fading
on the outside, blogging yourself
hoarse. Yes, I understand.

You used to be porcelain. You used to be
Marble cool to touch. You were their
Sweet sexy goddess. You were my
Silent night, a stretch of road unbroken.
Your one bedroom is an endless el nino
And you are parched. Yes, I understand.

But do not run down with the sweat
Pooling at your feet, yet.
Do not cry yourself into monochrome, yet.
The concrete has cracked under the heat
But do not fall in just yet. Dance,
Play the courtesan to the Devil,
Hold on to his horns until they bend
And his blood cools on your face.

Be my silent night. Be my winding road.
Be porcelain, be marble, be glass.
Be scarred. Be scorched. Be graceful.
Be a voice that screams for pleasure
Against all the rage out there.
Be sweet, be sexy, be divine,
Be flesh, be bone. Recreate,Phoenix,
be the ashes and the flames,
I think you understand.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

There is a debris field ahead
Two light years away
Two seconds away
Two lifetimes
Two minds
Mental debris ahead.

In my viewport looms a galaxy
Of courses not travelled
Of marks not hit
Of species unexplored
Of systems
Stars going supernova.

Set a course for home
Mark nine warp seven
Stardate six
Point five four three
Two minds
One ship.

Going
Nowhere
At the speed of light.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

old stuff

*something i dug up

my thoughts are consumed by the entity that is you

you who warmed my bed not too long ago

your scent still lingers on the surface of my skin

your weight still borne by the rusty bed frame

your sweat permeats the air, masking the emptiness that remains

your eyes enquire if this is real

and my body obligingly responds

a shiver runs up my spine

my lungs expand to take in a breath

and all too soon, the moment passes

and we are back where we had begun

you wondering what all this entails

and me, imagining the sensations of our bodies entwined.

A Wanderer's Thoughts

**did you guys ever read the Host? mas maka relate kayo if you have. hehe. But read this all the same. I hope I've done the character justice somehow.

This is all I can offer,

take it away,

this grieving heart,

and rend it to pieces

while you’re at it

for if you can bear to suffer through

this then surely, you’ll understand.

Is this what it means to be human?

To experience the depth and breadth

of what being flesh and bones entails?

No wonder you aren’t so civilized.

Unlike us sentient beings, who

persist in your consciousness

because of your stubborn resistance

(or is it reluctance, I wonder?)

to changes that are instituted for your own good,

so your species may thrive for another

thirty, or even a hundred more years.

Yours is a world much younger than

most others, I fear.

Would you know how to nurture

and care for it, long after we have gone?

And yet

And yet there is this

abstract idea called love.

I’ve yet to understand how it works.

It gives you strength when you are weak,

pushes you on when you’ve lost all else,

drives you to go beyond what you are capable of.

Such a beautiful, altruistic potential,

yet gruesomely ugly at times

for it can push you to hurt numbers

even when you are protecting others,

it can even drive you towards violence

if it would mean salvation for a precious few

for it is all that matters, it seems,

and that is all that matters now.

So here I am, a sentient being

trapped in this human shell

that loves not one, but many others.

Will they see the love I have for them

in my sacrificing myself tonight?

I have no idea, no qualms whatsoever.

For if it will be for their survival, their happiness

then that will be all that matters.

I wonder what it is that you see

every time you look at me.

My eyes, my smile, my smooth skin,

my small thin body and my long hair

make up this specter that you behold.

Do you see the sadness that lingers

as my eyes look carefully into yours,

drinking in all that it can?

Do you sense the gentle flip-flop in my heart

as my fingers slide across your features;

Your crooked nose, your soft wispy hair,

the subtle beauty in your eyes,

asking you yet again to tell stories

about you and your past?

Do you sense the ghost of a being

that I once was

in spite of my bright lackluster eyes

or seemingly guileless smiles?

I am but a ghost,

a measly being who does not exist

if not for you, for this.

This semblance of an existence

I have succeeded in putting together,

for the charade of life, of living,

falls into pieces now--

made brittle by the essence of your elixir.

If not anything else,

then what else would I have become?

In my solitude, I await

for the darkness to reclaim

this specter that I am

as I fade into nothingness

yet again.

A strange one from 2003.

8/16/03
Smoke comes out of your nose
Fire-breathed dragon
half-human, half-fey
sleepy eyes do not drop
while your handlers peddle.
speak gibberish why don't you?
in faux leopard skin
gobble down chicken's head,
feet, rabbit entrails, blood.

you're advertised a monster
de-monstrating the wild man
remonstrating the wild child
suckled by wolves
weaned on regurgitate
your mother's child.
your mother a fox.
your father long dead in the war.

the carnies take you into the tent
make you one, make you whole.
dragon, ostrich, lady, beast.
siamese twin to a simian
strong man to a goat
dwarf to the devil.
you are man and woman
strangely in fusion
smoking your cigar
powdering your whiskered nose.

I could take you away if you wanted
if you knew beyond the tarp
if you saw beyond the twisted limbs
unwanted pounds, extra height.
your home with the geeks
the freaks. the humans being.
to me. i don't want you human.
i don't want a museum piece that moans
i want a private audience
prophet.

More old poems. Coz I'm frickin' tired and un-creative lately :P 2005 din ata ito.

Old Lovers

My hands are old women,
without the aged's sensibility.
You touch them to your lips
and they don't know any better.
They imagine they are limber
and bend over backwards
only to break under your too-careful kiss.
My hands are eager like dowagers
to capture youth in its sensual forms.
They'd like to dance, to dip,
to cavort, to exclaim,
to be like sprites in the rolling valley
between your breasts.
They'd like to swim in your
underground spring.
But they break again,
under your knowing kiss.
My hands are not senile in the ways
of celebrating your landscape
but they are blind, deaf,
insensitive now, aren't they?
Their wild fingers weighed down
by the breakdown
of your lingering kiss.

Another recycled poem. Don't remember when I wrote this. Circa 2003-2005 malamang. Dedicated to my mother :D

My memories of you are of calloused palms,
lifelines sunk deep like knife wounds,
and the whorls, arches - rising sharp,
defying an erosion of use and age,
palms branding into my own,
leaving your prints, imprinting me
with cautions, admonitions, warnings.
"Don't slouch in your seat,"
"Smile more. Nobody likes a grouch."
"If you throw one more spitball out the car,
I'll show you!"
You did. Against my eyes the reel rolls,
of shopping trips, of being handed over
to others who could provide what you couldn't.
I held your hand in the lobby
of countless doctors' and dentists' clinics.
I held your palms in the market,
on the way to school,
to sleep.
I remember. My fascination with hands
began with yours. How your fingers
tapered like mine, shaped like mine.
Our hands are the same color at the back.
we have the same blue bulb of a vein
crossing the broad V behind the knuckes,
like a desert caravan. The backs of our hands
were always dry, susceptible to a nail's
scratched down white blossoming.
But our palms are different. Yours
are my grandmother's, washing your brother's
dirty clothes up until her last breath.
Mine are smooth but for a single corn
near the nail of the middle finger.
Yours are pale in their starkness,
a martyr's beatific face.
Mine are flushed with life and youth,
a stag leaping into the woods.
Yours steadied my thoughts with a tug;
mine constantly worried, fidgeted,
sweaty and cold, tried to break free.
In my mind's eye,
I align them side by side,
judge yours the better. Or rather,
the memory of yours.
the real things have long since retreated
into the coming of my adulthood.
I no longer hold on to you
except in remembering your palm,
hot and solid against mine, a bulwark.

A recycled poem I wrote in 2005. When I was a prickly pear :D

“I want to tell you that I am afraid,”
her mouth confessed. Her eyes denied all knowledge
except for a thigh splayed in the dark, a white highway
she had traveled many times. Her fingers sketched
a drawing on the table top: A head, two limbs,
a fish tail, skewered in a trident as an afterthought.
I could feel hair prickling on my arms,
Electricity that is blue, pale skin,
As her arm bent and flaunted smooth strong
something slippery and razor-sharp.
A flick of the wrist sends hair crashing into her nape.
I think of pebbles polished by waves
washing up onto shore. Her eyes are dark like that.
I think of salt mixed into bleached desert sand
carried up by wind. Her mouth stings like salt
rubbed into the hollows of sweat-wet pores.
“Do not tell me,” I finally answered after her interest
turned into boredom. I see her homecoming
in the glint of pebbles in the sun, in sand kicked up
as she walked home alone.
And I stayed.

Isn't that what you wanted
to fall through the cracks-
to die like a distant star-
to live under a rock?

And when mud covers your face
and you become a black hole
and your insides crumble to dust
shouldn't you tremble with joy?

may kanya kanyang hinahanap

ang bawat isa sa ating mga nilalang

na malayang gumagala

sa mundong ito

mayroong naghahanap ng kayamanan

na magbibigay kaligayahan

sa pamamagitan ng pagkalap

ng mga kaariang

magsisilbing amo

dahil sa pangangalaga

na kakamtin ng mga bagay na ito

mayroong naghahanap ng pag-ibig

na syang magpupuno

sa puwang na nararamdaman

sa kakulangang nadarama ng bawat isa

ngunit kadalasan, sa ganitong sitwasyon

ang pumupuno ay ang sya ring

nagpapalawak at nagpapalalim

ng puwang na nararamdaman

mayroon ring naghahanap ng saysay

sa mundong pawang puno ng

talinghaga at kaguluhan

ngunit sa kakahanap sa mailap na

kabuluhan sa buhay na ito

kadalasa'y nalalampasan rin lang

ang mga simpleng bagay

na nagbibigay saysay

sa karamihan

ano nga ba ang dapat na hanapin?

bakit iba iba tayo ng hinahanap?

may saysay pa nga ba ang paghahanap na ito?

o nagsisilbi lamang itong pampalipas ng oras

habang nabubuhay sa kapanahunang ito?

Supplication - Persecutor, Suppliant, a Power in Authority

Amber sat pensively in the wooden chair. Outside, she could hear the sudden rush of air as cars drove by in the street below. Although no concrete thoughts took hold of her consciousness, she was vaguely aware of a strange feeling spreading slowly within her. Somehow, she seemed to dread something, a something that she also apparently feared. She lifted her hands in front of her face and saw them tremble ever so slightly. It was, to say the least, quite unsettling.

Her eyes looked around to take in her surroundings. A couple picture frames, a musical instrument here and there, clothes randomly discarded on the floor, and on the bed, the sleeping figure of her lover.

She shouldn’t have said it. At least not yet. The silence that had ensued after those bittersweet three words had been enough to indicate that she was in over her head. Although truth be told, she had gone into this relationship intending to keep things light. She had, after all, chosen to take on a lover on a whim. It had seemed like a good idea in the beginning, something to distract her from taking her life seriously or even just a means to attaining physical pleasure at best. She had chosen it, therefore she called the shots and that made her feel good.

Theirs had been an easy, instantaneous relationship. Often talking for hours about topics that ranged from the most inane to intellectually challenging discussions, they never seemed to tire of each other’s company. Of course, the sex was great too. But then, that part she had expected since the primary premise for the relationship had been that to begin with.

Yet she found that the more she got to know him, the more she liked what she knew about him and his company. Slowly, she began giving up her sense of control, granting tiny concessions here and there.

There would be times when they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other and other times when the idea of each other did not seem to exist. The former she thoroughly enjoyed and often came home sufficiently satiated, but the latter often left her in the most miserable of spells, pining away in her self-doubt—at least, that is, until they got in touch with each other again and the cycle would repeat itself. That was how she came to realize that she, the master of her destiny, had finally given in to the force that had been gnawing at the protective barrier that had once been carefully crafted around her heart.

Should someone who was walking by in the street below happen to look up and see her now, they would think her merely contemplating the surrounding neighborhood. What they didn’t know was that underneath, thoughts, fears and emotions, churned chaotically as she struggled to regain some sense of something out of everything. The tables, it seemed, had turned against her favor.

She had not felt this vulnerable in a very long time.

As things go, the best option now would be to walk away, to simply leave things as they were. Whoever came up with the idea of “Fight or flight”, the age old way of handling situations like this, probably had been through one too many situations similar to the one she was in now. She knew she ought to pack up and leave, break things off before they got any more serious. But she knew that if she did that now, she would always end up wondering what would have happened if she had waited.

Sighing deeply, she stood to collect her things by the bed. If she left now, there would be less complications, less resistance. She gazed longingly at the slow rise and fall of her lover’s chest as he slept, willing him to wake so he could tell her to stay.

Revenge - Avenger, Criminal

The growl startled him, as he had thought he was alone. Apparently, he had locked himself in the room with an animal of some sort. A feral one, judging from the sounds that swelled and vibrated against the four walls.

Harold lifted an arm to his face, instinct telling him to protect his head. His other arm hung at his side, useless. A lucky shot from one of the boss' henchmen had shattered the long bone above his elbow. He was detached from the pain. Aside from wrapping it tightly with his ruined jacket, he had paid the wound no heed. After all, it was the head that needed protection.

When he had found this room at the end of the alley, he thought he was finally safe. His ear pressed against the solid metal door heard the footsteps of the boss' goons rise and fall into the distance. He also heard shouts and curses, but those slid right off. He had long ago cursed himself to a fate worse than this. A ruined arm and a torn jacket almost felt like a reprieve.

A growl louder than anything he'd ever heard reminded him of his present predicament. He spun around, waving the gun he held in an arc. His left hand. The one he couldn't really aim with. If it weren't his only hope, he would have giggled at the irony of it. Everything.

He heard the scuffling sound of an animal drawing in its haunches. There must only be one shot. He was sure he wasn't strong enough for more than one.

The pounce was silent. Harold saw a shadow accelerate towards his direction. He aimed as well as he could, opened his eyes as wide as he could, and fired.

*****

The flash must have blinded him. For a minute, Harold wondered if his gun was one of those gag ones that shot blanks. He blinked and blinked again. He could see nothing but white. If it weren't for the gnawing pain in his right arm, he would have surmised that he was dead.

"Not blind, just dark."

Those words, spoken from somewhere to his right, startled him enough to make him drop the gun.

"God damn."

His first words bled into the light. He searched for the origin of the voice.

A determined blink coaxed his vision back. Black edged in from the corners. Another blink and the dark swallowed the light, save for a series of pin lights right at the center of his corneas. He felt along the floor with his foot. The gun mustn't have fallen far.

"Always dark, here."

The owner of the voice was also the owner of the growl. Harold was sure. Or as sure as he could be bleeding and nearly-blinded, with one foot extended and tiptoe-ing in an ever-growing circle around him. Where was the goddamn gun?

TBC :D


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

2. Deliverance - Unfortunates, Threatener, Rescuer

I hadn't wanted any lunch.

She tempted me with lumpia and fried tokwa.

So we sat across from each other, wonderingly staring at the two plastic cups of soda. One for her, one for me.

"So."

I sliced into the lumpia crosswise, severing the large lettuce leaf base and spilling the togue innards.

"Hm."

I speared a block of tokwa and drowned it in soy sauce.

"Well."

I bit down into the food with relish, savoring each crunch of breaking down.

She was silent. She hadn't even touched her bowl of lomi.

Instead she traced with a fingernail a bead of sweat tracking down her Coke.

She was silent, waiting.

I demolished my meal and washed down the evidence in an eddy of Mountain Dew.

"I'm sorry," her words held the finality I had been trying for with my own disjointed ones.

She must have seen the sign she was waiting for. Or she must simply have decided to go with her gut. She held out a cellophane-wrapped brownie. I smiled and nodded.

I exhaled without a sound, disarmed.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

American Honey

They say, all things are better in America.

The food is better, the water cleaner,

and opportunities abound with no end.

It's the land of milk and honey,

but things aren't really what they seem.

Those Hollywood shows and movies

weren't kidding when they painted

what living in America is truly like.

The water isn't really any cleaner,

and the food is only made better

by shenanigans popularized by people

who know nothing better than

to fill your mind with absolute nonsense.

Opportunities abound,

but only to a select few.

All others are either unemployed

or a humble employee

who must juggle two, three jobs

if only to make ends meet

and to have some semblance of a life

that they can proudly stake a claim to.

Honey, after all, can only be made sweeter

not by infusing it with any number of

complex carbon-based saccharides,

but by the decision that it is indeed

as good as it can get.

I've always wondered how life worked

for its twists and turns

are often, if not always,

unwelcome and unexpected.

Some fortunate, givng cause to rejoice.

and then also, unfortunate

causing the most banal grief.

Yet we, us all, survive in all of this,

making the best out of whatever circumstances

we find ourselves in,

unearthing the best

and even the worst in all of us.

NOTE: I'm typing this on a qwerty phone keyboard on a tiny phone screen. if the formatting is off, I apologize. :)

"Not blind, just dark."

Those words, spoken from somewhere to his right, startled him enough to make him drop the gun.

**author's note: this is, I dare say, an experimental poem. I was struggling to write what I wanted to write and had to revert from one language to another to come out with what I wanted to put into writing. Let's just say that some lines sound better in the language they had been set. But then, it did come out pretty decently, I think. thoughts anyone? please? :P

Iba- iba ang kwento ng pag-ibig.

Merong masaya at nakakatuwa,

meron ring malungkot at nakakaulila.

It enables you in ways you can never imagine.

With it, one leaps over tall mountains in a single bound,

or swims through oceans in a single breath

yet it leaves you breathless in the moments you least expect.

May taglay na kalabuan rin kasi

itong palaisipang pag-ibig na ito.

Walang natatanging formula na maaaring sundin

upang makamit ang inaasam ng nakararami

No idea is more romanticized than love itself.

None more unfathomable, incomprehensible

or even seemingly unattainable

Ngunit sa dami ng nagnanais

na itong mapagbirung tadhana’y makamit

tunay na katakataka

na walang alituntuning nailapat o

naibahagi man lang ang kahit sinong ninuno

na nagbigay malay sa kaganapang ito.

The steps have yet to be set in stone

There is no wrong or right way

to get to where you want to go.

It’s just a matter of knowing

if it’s the right thing

at the right time

with the right person

Sapagkat kadalasan, hindi man sadya

nasa tamang timing lang ng pagkakataon.

Finding the right person under the right circumstances

and that is all that matters.

Each day my heart grows fonder

of you, of love, of this.

There used to be a void

where this feeling now exists;

filling up the emptiness,

seeping through the miniscule fissures

that pepper the otherwise unknown

confines of this hardy chamber.

It has survived catastrophes, you see.

Each more catastrophic than the last.

Yet here I am again

at the cusp of what is and what can be--

a possibility I yearn to explore

yet cringe in fear for at the same time.

I know not whether to retreat

to the confines of what is now familiar

and unbearably anesthetizing

or to proceed toward the unknown

and contemplate on things now forgotten

by the vacant chamber

that once resembled my heart.

A hum filled the air with an industrial flavor. I didn't care for the metal tang in my ear. But the boss said stay in the corridor, so in the corridor I must stay. He didn't specify where or how exactly I should stay, so I stayed slouched against the wall, my feet braced wide apart. The floor was wet-steel slippery. I didn't feel like introducing my ass to the floor just yet.

Not just yet, I reflected grimly. So the boss had heard about "the incident". Figures. Who hasn't? Even my old lady neighbor, Mrs. Trinidad, thought she should tell me that I should apologize to them. To them? To whom? I wanted to question the geezer. But in the end, her rheumatic hand spasms softened my heart and I let her pass with just one threatening poke of my butterfly knife against her soft old lady belly.

Waiting was never one of my favorite things to do. While I held up the wall, there were so many other things I could have been doing. There were plots to hatch, crimes to mastermind. Waiting made my brain stupefy. Stupefy. You like that? It's my word of the day. The boss always told me that I should have something to fall back on once the plan fell through. Yeah, he kinda always knew that the plan would never work out in the long run. So he encouraged me to learn stuff. New things like words of the day and nice poetry.

Superheroes bantered with arch-villains before hauling them off to jail. The boss was a visionary. He believed that even henchmen deserved to utter a nice turn of phrase once in a while too.

But that had all been before "the incident".

"The incident" where one henchman got too smart for his own good.

So now I had to stew in a metallic miasma of fear and the hum of cutting machines. Waiting.

Forgiveness is a prima donna, a coy virgin, a broken heart.

The sound of a doorknob turning was as sudden as a gong. I straightened up my posture and brushed some dirt off my shoulders. Nerves were suddenly too exposed. My stomach was a hornet's nest.

It was time to woo the cook.

Since, my friends, it seems like we've run out of story ideas, I found this interesting list in an RPG page. These are story plots we can use. I'm thinking, maybe one number per week? Starting from no. 1 "Supplication"? Watcha think?

The Basic Plots

Each short plot description starts with the title of the plot pattern. After a hyphen the main characters to be found in the plot are given, separated by commas.

1. Supplication - Persecutor, Suppliant, a Power in Authority
2. Deliverance - Unfortunates, Threatener, Rescuer
3. Revenge - Avenger, Criminal
4. Vengeance by Family upon Family - Avenging Kinsman, Guilty Kinsman, Relative
5. Pursuit - Fugitive from Punishment, Pursuer
6. Victim of Cruelty or Misfortune - Unfortunates, Master or Unlucky Person
7. Disaster - Vanquished Power, Victorious Power or Messenger
8. Revolt - Tyrant, Conspirator(s)
9. Daring Enterprise - Bold Leader, Goal, Adversary
10. Abduction - Abductor, Abducted, Guardian
11. Enigma - Interrogator, Seeker, Problem
12. Obtaining - Two or more Opposing Parties, Object, maybe an Arbitrator
13. Familial Hatred - Two Family Members who hate each other
14. Familial Rivalry - Preferred Kinsman, Rejected Kinsman, Object
15. Murderous Adultery - Two Adulterers, the Betrayed
16. Madness - Madman, Victim
17. Fatal Imprudence - Imprudent person, Victim or lost object
18. Involuntary Crimes of Love - Lover, Beloved, Revealer
19. Kinsman Kills Unrecognised Kinsman - Killer, Unrecognised Victim, Revealer
20. Self Sacrifice for an Ideal - Hero, Ideal, Person or Thing Sacrificed
21. Self Sacrifice for Kindred - Hero, Kinsman, Person or Thing Sacrificed
22. All Sacrificed for Passion - Lover, Object of Passion, Person or Thing Sacrificed
23. Sacrifice of Loved Ones - Hero, Beloved Victim, Need for Sacrifice
24. Rivalry Between Superior and Inferior - Superior, Inferior, Object
25. Adultery - Deceived Spouse, Two Adulterers
26. Crimes of Love - Lover, Beloved, theme of Dissolution
27. Discovery of Dishonor of a Loved One - Discoverer, Guilty One
28. Obstacles to Love - Two Lovers, Obstacle
29. An Enemy Loved - Beloved Enemy, Lover, Hater
30. Ambition - An Ambitious Person, Coveted Thing, Adversary
31. Conflict with a God - Mortal, Immortal
32. Mistaken Jealousy - Jealous One, Object of Jealousy, Supposed Accomplice, Author of Mistake
33. Faulty Judgment - Mistaken One, Victim of Mistake, Author of Mistake, Guilty Person
34. Remorse - Culprit, Victim, Interrogator
35. Recovery of a Lost One - Seeker, One Found
36. Loss of Loved Ones - Kinsman Slain, Kinsman Witness, Executioner

from: http://www.rpglibrary.org/articles/storytelling/36plots.php

Sleepless

There is a drip drip dripping in the night. It echoes against the walls, through the halls, through windows and open doors, into bedrooms and against the eardrums of the sleep deprived. Louder in the silence. Louder than the multitude of the night's population, chirping, croaking, creaking, calling in the darkness, making their unseen presence felt.

He lies in bed, longing for sleep. Sleep is slow to come tonight, as any other. In a bed not his own, with borrowed pillows and linens, under a roof generously provided, graciously accepted, but with no sense of belonging to him, he wills drowsiness to come to him. But slumber is slave to no will, and chooses not be found.

A baby wakes in the night. Waking in hunger perhaps, in discomfort, for this afternoon's meal has finally worked its way through. She cries for her mother, for her father, for anyone to give her succor, rescue from this immediate discomfort. Her wails weaving their way through windows, against walls and under doors, waking parents, ignoring others, but assaulting he who has yet to succumb to sleep.

He stares at the ceiling. He has memorized the pattern of the shadow that the light throws through the window. Unwavering in the fluorescent glow, its stillness punctuated by the flutter of wings, now and again, seeking warmth and wonder, until a quick flick of a tongue, and mini-mashing of a toothless maw returns stillness to the shadow. He lies still, flirting with the edge of sleep, but unable to go all the way.

The howl of mighty engines rule the streets tonight. Along the empty mountain road, racing in the dark, past houses, homes, and their resident guardians, who join in with staccato barking, yelping and growling. Frustrated with their fate, envious of the freedom the men in their machines are so keen to take advantage of. They yap, yip, bark and howl in discontentment. He hears them, yet he hears them not.

He has found in himself the stillness that has eluded him. He listens to each of the nights sounds, songs in turn. He is giving himself up to this nights concerto, listening for the lullaby that he knows will lead him to the land of dream and fitful sleep.

The air-conditioner hums this lullaby. It breathes in the warmth and exhales the cold, humming, humming, humming all the while. A steady drone, still movement, comforting constant cacophony, carefully carrying the weary beyond the walls of wakefulness and into sleep and dreaming beyond.

He sleeps tonight. And will wake to a new day, but not until the morning, only hours away.

Whisper of sand against parched eyelids,
I am dry-eyed. There is no oasis,
No mirror on the ground, just the sun
Crying heat. Bleeding heat on naked skin
Turning flesh to weeping wounds.
Tell me where the camels water.

I must follow however far the horizon
Calls with a vow of succor and
A cupped palm full of rest.
Turn me from the illusions that vow
But never coalesce. Turn me from d
owned bodies and bleached bones
That reanimate when the sun is high
And as full as an eye brimming.

This desert cannot be where this body
Rises from a shallow grave.
No way will these bones turn as white
As the full moon.

Tell me where the camels water
Or tell me there is an oasis, after all.
Buried under sand and salt
And wind and broken mirrors
And a sun that never forgives nor forgets.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

The holes in the ceiling told Rovin that termites have gotten in after all.

The house was nearly finished. A new coat of paint for the walls and the installation of new doors would have been the last few touches needed to complete the renovations. But now, with termites eating the ceiling, he would have to put off moving it in.

Mentally tallying the cost of what's been done so far, Rovin scratched his head. Re-fumigation and a new ceiling would set him back some more, perhaps force him to dip into the money his father had left him. He had already spent all of his personal savings. He almost hated that this project was costing so much money.

But this had to be done. It cannot wait another month. God forbid, another two months.

Rovin stared at the ceiling and noticed a pattern in the placement of the termite holes.

It almost looked like a flower. Or a mouth.

Termites only eat wood.

Rovin decided that a minor termite infestation would not interfere with his plan. He would move it in by the end of the month.

A distant ringing started from somewhere to his left. He swiped at his ear, though he knew that a mosquito would not ring.

Rovin woke up when the back of his hand hit the near wall. Outside his room, he could hear the breakfast bell ringing. He got up to join the rest of the residents for breakfast. After that, group.

One more month, Rovin reminded himself as he shuffled after the schizo from the next room. One more month and he would finally put it away. And he could finally get on with his life.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

Dreaming of Dreaming

Tonight I dream of nothing but you,

your arms encase mine

as we wrestle in the sheets

of things that had passed

and things that might have been.

Yet strangely, we have no cares,

no concept of time passing

except for this moment

of touching, caressing

reaffirming

that this dream

is real

and not just a dream.

Defying reason

we plunge into the unknown

foraging together

a path that was once familiar

and yet here we are

waking once again

in that moment when

we realize we are dreaming

and struggle to recall steps

to find where we had been

only to realize

that we are once again

in that moment

of realizing

that we are indeed dreaming.

Tonight my dream is yours to have
As I cannot sleep; cannot slip into yours.
My gut is tossing and turning.
My head is heavy on the pillow.
My heart is a million miles away.
Is there no greater cliche than you
And I sharing a dream while awake
And leaving off the midnight wandering
To those who have nowhere to go.
Tonight I have no spark, no juice, no mojo
Only yours, only yours.
And still, I cannot sleep.
You sleep for me.
You dream for me.
Someday you live for me
And I'll sleep.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

The Sound of One Heart Breaking

**I had previously published this at a different venue. But given the nature of the posts that have been going up lately, I thought it would only be appropriate to share it here. :) Oddly enough, I wrote this after watching Moulin Rouge for the nth time, empathizing with Christian, the idealistic bohemian poet whose heart had been broken.**1/18/08**

The sound of one heart breaking

is enough to drown out

the loud cheers of jubilation,

or that of an airborne aircraft

zipping into oblivion.

It’s enough to keep you sane

yet at the same moment,

succeed in convincing you that

the world has turned topsy turvy

and everyone else has gone astray

It can be likened to the feeling

of falling into nothingness

when you slip from the Great Climb

That bone-chilling dread

of fear and failure

sneaking into your body

from the excesses of your limbs

as you spiral into the depths below.

It's a combination

of muted whispers and anguished tears

of spine-chilling memories that wake you

in the dead of the night

screaming, wailing, pleading for no more

and yet

even the darkness is not enough

to fill the void of what had been lost

nor savour what once had been.

Her eyelids were heavy but she knew that if she were to fall asleep, she would not wake up. It was almost too cold to breathe. Icicles formed on rim of her nostrils and she had long since stopped feeling anything on her skin. She knew that she was sitting, although her legs and butt were numb. She tried to extend her calf muscles and felt the pressure of solid ground underneath it. Her eyes were still open but they had ceased making out more than shadows and shapes all around. It was all brilliantly white.

HHWD

They sit together in front while the rest of the world falls asleep on the drive home. He drives, chats inanities, letting his hand creep, slowly, closer to hers, as if to catch it unawares, but fails.

She retorts, replies and laughs at the appropriate pauses, touching the crook of his arm at times, letting her fingers find their way down to his.

Pairs of watching eyes only observe talking heads from the back seat, not fully aware but assumptive of the interlocked fingers up front and out of sight.

Butterflies dance in their stomachs tonight. It has been a mere week since their last meeting, and possibly another until their next. These few stolen moments, albeit in not wholely unwelcomed company, are golden.

His eyes leave the road periodically to make sure that his hand isn't asleep and dreaming. His heart is telling his mind to tell his hand not to let go of the smaller other locked in his.

Light and tight squeezes; morse code under their banter. "I miss you" conveyed through pleasant palm-pressure. "I miss you too" in soft reply.

She laughs, looks in his direction, flashes a rare smile, sweeps her hair from her face with her free hand, only to unfree it in a secondary enveloping embrace around his, around hers.

Assurance. "I'm here." Long tight squeeze: "I'm real."

Immobilized is a word
I would never use
to describe the feet that pound
on stone and kick at water.
But you, concrete,
you immobilize me.

There seems to be no end
to train tracks winding
through green countrysides and
sodden urban sprawls.
But you, red and green,
halt the locomotion.

In me a steam rises to feed
and fade, to heat and precipitate.
In me, toes must grip ground
and soles must crack on super-
heated asphalt streets
because there is no rest.

For the wicked whips the good
and frenzied to walk
walk and walk and roll
over hills, mountains, marshes
bogs, down tunnels
and caves of limestone.

I must feel the rain
that is your hand in mine
and see the stop sign
that is your smile.
Please, I've traveled
all this way.


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng

Salsa Dancing

Quick, quick, slow

Quick, quick slow

That’s the pace

You need to match

Should you fancy

This delectable dance.

One, two, three

Five, six, seven

An eight count measure

Ruled by these six numbers,

The four’s and eight’s

Signal an unspoken rest.

It’s there but not quite

Followed carefully by the rhythm.

The ladies’ dance

That’s what some call it

For it is about the ladies at all times.

Mistakes are regarded as the gentlemen’s folly.

When you have a moment

Of dancing with a free hand

Styling takes precedence

Where bodies are swayed and framed

By arms that extend and twist and turn

Unleashing the diva that lies within.

Don't look down

To fancy your own footwork.

Maintain eye contact

With the man you are with

For he who leads

with a strong arm and a sure foot

encases a passion reserved for you

and only you as you dance in his arms.

Back with the right,

Front with the left

That’s all there is to remember

To keep from losing your step

In the resonant beating

Of the congo and your heart.

a study in alliteration

Examine this enigmatic, entropic entry:
An asinine attempt at alliteration.
This fantastic failure of fickle fiction
shall slowly suck succulent seconds
from lives of the little learned.

When I was told that time would stop that afternoon, right in the middle of rush hour, I could not help believe it. After all, it was told to me by a young girl who had been institutionalized since she was 4 years old because she would not speak. Alicia was her name and I had never heard her utter any sound, not even a groan nor a sniffle when she cried.

The hospital had been gripped with what the doctors called "mass hysteria" since noon the day before. In-patients had been restless for weeks before then. Out-patients would refuse to step into the observation rooms and would just demand that their prescriptions be filled out at the receiving area. The doctors and the nurses had no clue about what was going on; they attributed the pandemonium to the approaching full moon.

I knew what was happening. Or at least I thought I knew. I tried to tell them, but I was an in-patient. Yes, so, no one really cared what I thought I knew.

When Alicia told me all about it, I didn't know for sure whether she was really speaking or if it were another one of the Voices. I had to put my hand to her mouth to make sure the sounds really were coming out of it. I had to whisper to her, "Don't scream," when I did coz I didn't need to get into any more trouble. But she sought me out, and was quiet.

I had a little trouble listening at first. I had to concentrate on her mouth. There were so many other sounds, other words, that I had to read Alicia's lips to understand what she was saying. What only she was saying.

Finally I understood. So time would stop. Soon. I tried to tell someone, like they say you should.

Alicia laughed when a nurse forced me to take a Pill. Silently, of course, she laughed. "Art, not another one of your stories," the nurse had said.

Before I fell asleep, I vowed I would wake up just before time stopped. I had always wanted to be a witness to something. The Voices promised to wake me. They wanted to see too.

Alicia lay with her head on my shoulder and started to cry without a sound.

She was my sister, did I tell you that? She never spoke because she had never heard. Me? I hear too much.

there's a certain kind of restlessness

that's been stewing deep within.

perhaps it is a sense of urgency,

or even a sense of dread, no

one knows where it came from

all i know is

the chaos is maddening.

Di ito kasama: Remember, kids, poems are made to be spoken :D So read this with feelings :) Just a little fun thing. On with the show!



You can't script
hardcore porn it just comes
naturally naturally
just like sex

no use yelling
more tongue! more action!
left-right-harder-faster!
they'll do what comes
naturally naturally
just like sex.

Naturally they "Fuck!"
Naturally they "Oh, God!"
Naturally they "Jesus!"
Christ naturally
naturally
just like sex

Fuck, they'll put it in,
Oh God, they'll turn over
by themselves they'll,
Jesus, use three fingers,
and push harder than what's
in the script.

Oh yes, they'll do it
and love to get paid
but naturally
It's just like sex
only you
only get
to only
watch.

Alone and wide awake he sits, with nothing but the ticking of his watch to accompany him. He keeps time, bides time, watches time go by, waiting in the shadow of the tree, on the front steps of the apartment building.


It's 11 PM. She should have been home by now.


But he saw neither hide nor hair, nor shadow of his quarry.

Armed with his weapon of choice, tightly gripped in his right hand, he waits.


Has she abandoned me?


A cab rounds the corner, stops at her block. Butterflies beat its heavy wings in his stomach, and settle at the sight of a woman too elderly to be her. He watches as she ambles in through the front door, which she closes gingerly behind her. Again, he is alone.


No lights in the window yet. She couldn't have slipped past me, could she?


Tonight, failure is not an option he dares to explore. It has to be done tonight, or there will be no tomorrow.

Walking on the far end of the street, he spots her. Taking long steps with her equally long legs, with purse hung at her side, she walks with her head held down, lost in thought. She takes no notice of him.

He stands up, keeps still in the shadows until the last possible moment.

She looks up, realizing too late that her arrival was too long anticipated.

He lunges at her and locks her in such an embrace that she loses her breath.

And they kiss.

In one deft motion, he releases her, takes her hand, goes down on one knee, slips on the ring, and asks her to be his and only his, in the shadow of the tree, by the front steps of the apartment building...

The Wooden Cabinet

The wooden cabinet looked strange in her sparsely furnished bedroom. It was too big, for one thing, and it was yet another addition to the motley bunch of mismatched furnishings that could be found in it.

The room was a shade of pink with hints of white and rose. The frames and doors had been painted white by the original builders. The bed was also primarily white, with smatterings of subtle color here and there. She had found a small bedside table at a local garage sale when she first moved in and it had been just the right size for her bed. It was cherry brown, with cast iron details. She had made it a point to bring into her room a spare lamp she had found around the house. The lamp and bedside table completed the look of her bed, even if there weren’t any other furnishings to speak of.

When she had started studying at the university a few months back, she had thought it prudent to invest in a desk. It was as she had hoped meant to help make her work and studies more efficient. But in recent months, it had functioned more as a place for her trinkets and books whenever she came in or left the room. She hadn’t cared that her desk was a dark brown hue, either. After all, it looked black in the dark so it could still go with the cast iron detail of the bedside table.

This piece of work, on the other hand, was in so many ways an antique. It was beautifully crafted hardwood with matching bronze fittings and a rich brown varnished finish. It had been pretty to look at when she first set eyes on it at an acquaintance’s house. Since that person was moving away and getting rid of excess furnishings, she had jumped at the opportunity of finally having a dresser.

But that had been when it was elsewhere. That was probably because her room was much smaller than the room it had been in. She had failed to consider the hulking size of the thing. Now that it sat ominously against the once bare wall of her room, it looked strange. It had sat there, wrapped in protective plastic coverings, for several days after the movers had brought it in. She had merely stared at it, regarding it a strange intrusion into her now familiar space. After a few days of staring at it, she took out a pair of scissors and cut through the plastic wrap. She tried to ball it up into a huge wad as she regarded the dresser for scratches or any kind of damage that the movers may have made in bringing it up to her room.

The next day, she opened the cabinet doors and was pleasantly surprised to find drawers inside. But its insides smelled of smoke and a hint of mothballs—not exactly the kind of smell one normally expected of a wooden cabinet. But then again, this cabinet had probably lived through as much cigarette smoke as she had so that gave them something in common to start with. She had to leave it open for a few hours to air out the smell, aside from spraying the drawers with a Lysol Odor-neutralizing spray .

When the smell of smoke had faded away, she took a cleaning cloth and some lightly scented all-purpose cleaner to task. Spraying all the surfaces and wiping it clean, purposefully discarding whatever remnants of the past the cabinet may have held. In the nooks and corners, some sentimental dust had accumulated. Underneath the drawers, she found a faint cobweb and an old prayer card—some offering of grace signed by a presumably old priest. A randomly misplaced nut and bolt, probably set aside by the previous owner for a purpose too soon forgotten and discarded.

Just when she was almost done, she noticed a tiny inscription on the bottom of the cabinet door’s inner side.

Love is never enough

It had been written in an unassuming manner. Whoever wrote it probably didn’t intend for it to be found by a stranger’s eyes. Pity. Such a beautiful piece of work ruined by some presumably pained individual who needed a testament to what it was that he had gone through.

She stood to put away her cleaning things and when she set them on her desk, a Sharpie pen caught her eye. Today was, after all, a day of cleansing. She picked up the Sharpie and twirled it thoughtfully in her hand. She uncapped it and bent towards the inscription.

Love is never enough 6.8.10

It was the beginning of an end.

she updates her status quite sparingly. and though i know i shouldn't care, i still can't avoid being updated.

it was decided that, in an effort not to weird the world out and to make things low key, that no unfriending would occur.

the change of status, however, affected more of my friends than it did myself.

"... is single" generated more comments than any of the ridiculous posts that either of us used to make (with the exception of the scandalous ones of friends i'm sure). i would've spent an entire afternoon replying to "what?"s and "what happened"s and "oh no! are you ok"s had i not the presence of mind to just ignore it all.



when you ignore it, it doesn't happen. close your eyes. the world stops turning. if you manage to forget it at all, you get to start anew.

but the quiet throb of the battered and broken heart, yet unstilled, continues on.



each new lone entry, each update, spoke to me: titles of songs (silent digs at my failings), words of exasperation (surely aimed at me). and then ...

"... is in a relationship."

and then nothing. a long string of nothing. not even a mafia wars update.




unfriended.



close your eyes. parang kagat lang ng langgam yan.

The two men were speaking in a language no one else in the room could understand. Otherwise, it was a silent room. Laughter in an indecipherable language competed with the hum of the airconditioner. From the computer, she spoke to me. In txtspk. From her new Sony Ericsson Satio. And I wish I were on the other side of the world.

*****

The pop-up seemed completely random - a virus-generated anomaly at the lower right hand corner of my screen. Bold black letters (font size 10, Arial Narrow) on white background (#FFFFFF). I wondered if the text was part of a conversation between two chatting people that got misfired to me. But there was no username. No profile picture. Nothing. Just a 5-line grouping of words that somehow made better sense from a stranger than from a buddy.

I minimized my open windows and double-clicked my antivirus icon. No sense risking any more malware attacks.

*****

She got a part on a series for a cable channel. They're going to be shooting in Romania. I'll miss her.

*****

The pop-up disappeared but was quickly replaced by another one. This message seemed to be a continuation of the previous one. I debated whether I should click it. Was it a missent message? Or was it a virus that would hijack my computer and make it a drone? My hand on the mouse wavered. The hand icon on screen hovered over the text box.

*****

I told myself, you know you want to. Why not just pack everything up and follow her? Why not just throw some clothes in a suitcase and follow her? Well, I follow her, but not in real life.

*****

The third message appeared with an alacrity that stilled my hand. I paused to read it, then frowned.

*****

I know she doesn't really speak to me. Not to me, directly. At least not so that I could answer her, directly.

*****

The fourth message had me scowling in confusion. It wasn't exactly "All your base belong to us!" but it was inscrutable just the same. The antivirus scan pinged and announced that my system was clear. Hm. Really.

*****

Well, it was nice chatting with you. Talk to you again soon.

*****

I shut down and got up. I'll never spend my break in the computer rental place again. Too many freaks and weirdos.

Failing this, she rallied
and imagined rows of children
beating sticks against earth.

the black robed man sat in silence, as the desert wind whipped around him. he watched as the young girl, first still and silent, surveyed her surroundings. then, startled, she struggled in the prison of her own making, unaware of this other, and that this shell of hers might very well keep her alive if she let it. 


a storm was coming, and the wall of sand and wind would be upon them by sunset. but he was unafraid. after all, he knew how to turn himself into the wind.


but on she scrambled, cursed the skies, pounded her fists and let her frozen feelings, thaw, and finally flow. slowly, she broke through the barrier around her simultaneously breaking down that which surrounded her very heart. 


the stranger watched, impassively. she had not noticed him. and he made no effort to be noticed either. but he nodded to acknowledge the presence of the man in white. he too watched intently, but with an invested interest the other cared nothing for, and the girl had all but forgotten. 


the man in white stood up as the girl broke through her shell, now sobbing, failing to satiate the always thirsty sand. she was weak when he reached her, and she seemed to know him not. but that mattered little to the man as he bent low, picked her up, and whispered in her ear.


"the ice was in your eyes and around your heart. but all the sharp edges were pointing inwards."


but she was already asleep. 


the black robed man, witness to this spectacle, looked on. she would be safe now, and he would not be needed. he watched as the two walked into the red setting sun, slowly drowning in the darkening sky, as the wall of sand and wind quickly descended upon them. the man in white would turn them both into the wind, the other knew for certain, for he had taught him well. 


then, he stood, faced into the storm, and vanished.

I stood on the precipice of what appeared to be a sand dune. Everywhere I looked, there was nothing but sand and the red setting sun. The wind was blowing, surrounding me with its turbulent presence. Oddly enough, the bright orange sand would blow all around but not against me. It was as though I were in a transparent bubble that prevented me from feeling what was happening all around me. I wanted out. I wanted it so badly that I started beating at the walls of my invisible chamber.

But every time I struck it, it is as though my fists were made of putty and managed to create the most insignificant of vibrations around my transparent dome. I’m not certain if it was the fear or panic that had started bubbling up inside of me or the sheer desperation of my situation that drove me to scream at the roaring wind and the barren landscape that was all around me.

“Damn you! Damn you for causing all of this! Damn you for everything!” I screamed as hot, angry tears drizzled towards my chin. “Why did things have to happen this way? Why couldn’t you just have let things be? I hate you! Why didn’t you just kill me?” I sobbed as I beat helplessly at the air. “Why doesn’t it make sense? Why? I don’t understand. Why me? Why now? I don’t want to understand anymore.”

A few moments passed before I noticed an alien sensation on my skin. Tiny pockets of air seemed to brush against the little hairs on my arm. I sniffled and wiped away my tears with one hand as I grimaced at that particular area of my arm. Just as I was reaching with my other hand to touch it, I notice a similar sensation on my now damp fingers and on my face. Only then did I realize that my invisible chamber had vanished. I collapse with the slightest relief on my knees but still continued to weep bitterly.

When dusk had almost come upon me, a stranger, clad in a white robe of course linen approached. He had materialized out of nowhere but I was too tired and preoccupied with my grief to bother with him. It was then that I felt his arms enveloping me in an embrace that was both comforting and terrifying. I could not help but continue to sob quietly in the little cocoon that I was ensconced in. He stroked my hair and rocked me silently, to comfort me perhaps or to will me to sleep. No words were exchanged, just one wandering soul giving comfort to another. And just like that, my grief abated. Slowly, steadily retreating away into the darkness and nothingness that pervaded the area. I look up to notice the moon is full tonight as he half-carried, half led me towards the darkness, each step seeming to find a stronger foothold than the last.

i've distanced myself from you lately

doubtless, you feel nothing

caught up in your present

complacent in my absence

it was so easy for you to reach for me

when you and i were so in need

and when we were so convenient

but such was not to last

the wind blows now in your favor

and i no longer hold any interest,

useless and unnecessary
cast away from the limelight of your attentions

yet now and again i wonder about you

and if this happiness becomes you

or if this you is a happiness borrowed

like the you that you were, then content, in my arms

"I'm on SMS" Three words:
a contraction, a preposition, an acronym.
A tome of how I cannot reach you.

Words to halt mine, not even your own,
conveying the promise of contact
between my hoping and your eternal
terminal distance.

I'm on SMS.
I'm here but not.
I can hear you
if only you would brave
an SMS.

It is only 10 pesos,
and my heart,
and my pride,
after all.

once long ago he had wanted to cradle her in his arms, keep her safe from harm and keep her as his for as long as they both shall live. but as always, as unrequited love goes, it was a one way street. so he resigned himself to an all encompassing and fully accepting friendship. never to judge, never to turn away, always welcoming, always warm, always open. what else was he to do?

overlooking a valley of lights, in the shadow of some god forsaken school building, quietly contemplating the night's song as the wind blows through the trees, carrying the cricket's serenade further, they sit, sharing thoughts, resting on each others shoulders.

   he'd offered to teach her to smoke then. careful to leave the decision completely up to her. because he wished to stay blameless, and because he didn't want her to learn at all.

"the pack's just there ok? if he stresses you out enough, smoke one. but it's up to you."

" thanks... i know you're right. about him. about these feelings... but you know it's so hard... seeing him everyday..."

Puff. Ponder. React.

"... hmmmm. basta, whatever you decide. you know i'm here for you right?"

"i know... i'm glad i have a friend like you."

years have gone by, and life has happened for each of them. several flirts, flings and failed relationships later, they come back to sit quietly at a favorite spot for mutually shared solitude.

a shoulder finds its familiar pair, back to back in the summer evening's air, staring into the distant lights in the valley. each now burdened with and enlightened by their individual experiences, but relaxing with the confidence and comfort in the friendship forged years ago, over a pack of cigarettes, one broken heart, and a hopeless one. 

nearly nothing's changed. but it's not the quite the same. 

"remember when we were hear together last?"

"how can i forget" she said "you were teaching me to smoke."

"excuse me. i was merely presenting the opportunity. it was entirely your choice whether or not to go through with it". 

"tomeyto, tomahto."

"... you know, way back when, i had this ginormous crush on you. did you know that?"

"i think i did... i'm not sure anymore. but... why'd you bring it up now?"

"oh i dunno. i decided back then, that i would love you anyway. you know? even if you felt so much for someone else who couldn't and didn't return those feelings."

"..."

"what? you get weirded out NOW?" 

"well, it depends how you define 'love' and where you stand with that, and with us."

Smile. 

"you know i love you right?"

"as a friend?"

"as whatever i am to you that you choose for me to be, but yes, primarily as your friend."

"haha. ok. as long as we're both cool with that."

"always! i love you dear friend."


"and i love you! hahahah!"

"great! now that we've got all that settled, how's about a smoke?"

"didn't you quit?"