Writer's Space

Weddings

2014-10-21T18:31:00.001+08:00

How do you feel about weddings?

I attended two weddings this month and I realized that weddings in the Philippines are always big celebrations. Everyone looks forward to the most anticipated bridal march, to the heartfelt vows of the couple, to the merry making during the reception. People are naturally happy. There’s a lot of hype about the entourage, the pretty bridesmaids’ dresses, the couple’s pre-nuptial photo shoots and the beautiful flowers that adorn practically every door, table and chair in the church and the reception area.

Yes, most weddings share these same elements. But it’s interesting how all these are so different from what marriage is really all about.

Photo credit: www.cnn.com

First, wedding guests are usually curious as to who is included in the couple’s entourage. These are the people who helped shape the lives of the bride and groom and ensure that the different aspects of the wedding go smoothly. In the marriage however, while friends and family remain, it is the couple who shape their life together by the choices they make each day; whether it’s as simple as overlooking the fact that he didn’t put the cap back on the toothpaste or consciously deciding to smile more often because this small act makes him happy.

Next, the pretty bridesmaids’ dresses create a sweet and lively ambience to the whole affair. Bridesmaids are like the modern-day ladies-in-waiting who attend to every whim and fancy of the bride. But these really are for fairy tales only. Marriage doesn’t work at a single wave of a magic wand. Marriage isn’t always sweet, lively and happy. Marriage is for real and it works with a lot of hard work and a thousand small kind acts.

Then, wedding guests are usually eager to watch the couple’s pre-nuptial photo shoots. Who wouldn’t be? I know I am each time I attend a wedding. Photo shoots are beautiful, manicured, polished to perfection. Marriage however is anything but that. As couples live through their married life, there is no camera that deletes and shoots again the words and actions they say and do to each other. Husbands inevitably realize that words left unsaid can be just as hurtful as the words uttered without much thought. Wives, on the other hand, learn to fully grasp that a man’s need for respect may be more important than his need for love.

Finally, the wide variety of flowers that adorn the wedding area transforms it into a wonderland of sorts. In marriage though, things are not always as appealing. I remember someone telling me that the thrifty nature of her husband which attracted her in the beginning became insufferably cheap for her after years of marriage. Yes, flowers are pretty. But in time, they wilt, droop and dry. Who said people are different?

I attended two weddings this month and on both occasions, the sense of curious wonder and excited anticipation for a life of togetherness was very much in the air. Though these may eventually subside or be lost after some time, I think a wedding is always a promise of something new.

Maybe this is why I love weddings. I love the idea of pursuing a dream, of starting on a clean slate, of beginning a new journey.

What about you? How do you feel about weddings?

Oh, and by the way, a short story I wrote some months back was recently published on Short Fiction Break. Like weddings, it's also a step towards pursuing a dream. Hope you can stop by here and give it a read.

Good Days and Bad Days

2014-10-12T22:20:00.000+08:00

She got on the bus and looked around for an empty seat. She spotted one with an elderly lady sitting by the window. Keeping her handbag and two shopping bags on her left and right shoulder secure, she made her way through the aisle and plopped down on the empty seat. She was young, pretty, probably in her early twenties. A couple of blocks later, the elderly lady stood up for her stop and asked the pretty young woman to let her pass. The woman looked up from her iPhone, annoyed at the intrusion and didn’t bother to move her shopping bags out of the way. Without much choice, the lady squeezed her way out, knocked off one of the woman’s shopping bags, spilling out half of its contents. “Damn!” the young woman screamed to which the lady could only offer a hushed apology.

One late Friday afternoon, traffic was at a standstill. The rain lashed out on commuters and private car owners alike. Nature’s a great equalizer; no one is excused from its wrath. It doesn’t really care on whom it shines or pours. Amidst a sea of cars that crawled the highway as if trailing a funeral march, the engine of an SUV coughed, then let out a loud tapping noise, and seconds after, knocked out the engine dead with a low rumble. The driver stepped out and manoeuvred the wheel to push the car to one side of the road. The rain didn’t let up and the SUV hardly moved despite the driver’s desperate attempt to turn the wheel and push the car at the same time. One car after another moved along though driver and passengers alike ogled for a second or two at the poor man, drenched as he was in the pouring rain. And just when loud thunderstorms crashed out of the darkened sky, a couple of university students came to help and push the car. The Armani watch on one boy’s wrist and a Diesel on the other gleamed in the rain, as they stuck out their arms to push the dead SUV out of everyone’s way. Was it their designer watches and signature shirts or their kind and neighbourly act that caught people’s attention?

Instances like these have made my daily trips to work far more interesting than I would have thought possible. Again and again, they showed me how attitude drives our day.

That young woman happily listened to music on her iPhone but decided it was a bad day because someone knocked over her shopping bags. For the SUV driver, on the other hand, the bad weather gave him a wonderful opportunity to realize how people, even those who appear snobbish, elitist or snooty, can make our day into a good one.

So what am I driving at? There really aren’t good days or bad days.

Every day, we have 24 hours to live it the way we want. And what drives the day is our attitude towards the events that come our way.

Regardless of the clothes we have, the gadgets we use, the car we drive or even the house we live in, the kind of person we are shines through by the attitude we wear each day.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve been blind-sided on a number of occasions and behaved quite badly. Even so, I continue to struggle each day hoping that my attitude looks better than any of the stuff I wear or keep in my purse.

What about you? What do you wear each day?

Beautiful Old Goat

2014-09-24T07:00:00.000+08:00

For this week, I'm back to short story writing. I'm taking the WEP Challenge of Denise over at Write...Edit...Publish. This month's topic is Changing Faces. Hope you enjoy it.

The alarm clock shrieked and a gray-haired woman tumbled out of bed like a soldier answering the bugle call. The moonlight still glistened from the window and already, she moved with precise crisp movements. Like a soldier at camp, she pulled the bed sheets, fluffed the pillows, and covered the bed with a light blue duvet that mirrored the color of her eyes. Her movements, with staccato alertness, amused the man on the other side of the room. Dressed in his favourite blue suit, he watched her, his wife for twenty five years, and smiled at how looking at her still took his breath away. Her dark brown hair, now filled with what she called gray highlights, outlined her face the way a frame hugs its subject into a close and deep intimacy.

“Good morning” Helen said, as she went over to sit on his lap and hugged him close.

She looked at him. He looked just as good as the day she first met him. She noticed that his arms were buff as she eased their weight on her shoulders. He leaned over and briefly touched her lips with a wisp of a kiss.

“It’s a busy day today. I have to leave early,” he said.

She wrinkled her nose as he stood up and set her down on a chair like a child. The soft cushion of the chair somehow felt more welcoming than her husband’s lap.

“Stupid old goat!” Helen thought. “What did you think he’d do this early in the morning? Would you look at yourself?”

Photo credit: www.tripadvisor.com

Her eyes darted to the mirror by the dressing table and a strange woman looked back at her. There were wrinkles under her eyes and shots of grey hair stuck out from her head. As she brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes, she caught a glance of the woman’s feather-like hand, all wrinkled with veins as long as her dark brown hair, screaming out of her skin. Then the woman in the mirror shifted to the right, just like she did. The dressing gown she wore looked vaguely familiar though the color was faded and its soft woollen material was thin and looked tattered with age.

“Oh no!” Helen said. Her hand clasped her mouth, “that’s not me, is it?”

“Honey, a little help down here,” a booming voice called.

Helen stood up and called out, “Be right down, dear!”

Again, she glanced at the mirror. Yes, there was no way she could deny it. The old and gray-haired woman was no one else but herself.

“When did I grow so old?” she asked.

In the kitchen, the coffee machine made gurgling sounds as it spat out drops of coffee on the counter. As Helen stretched out her hand for the towel that hung by the window sill, the warm glow of the morning sun touched her soft sagging cheeks.

“Oh look, my daffodils have bloomed!” she said.

“Do you remember the time when we first got the house?” she asked. “The garden outside was the first thing you checked out. You said you wanted many golden daffodils to smile up at me every time I worked in the kitchen.”

“You still remember that? That was ages ago!” her husband replied.

Helen looked back at him. He was smiling. It was the same smile that made her knees weak and her cheeks glow into a blushing pink when they started to go out together. She turned away embarrassed.

“You were good with your hands. Remember how I teased you and said you’d be a farmer when you’re old and gray?”

“You did, didn’t you?” he said, “Maybe I will... someday.”

Helen turned and looked at her husband. He was busy reading the morning papers and the sun cascaded a light shadow on one side of his face. One eyebrow was slightly raised and his eyes were slanted at an angle. Helen knew this look. He did this every time he found something interesting.

Unlike her, he hardly changed, she thought. He was still good looking despite his age. His running regimen every day after work kept him fit. She’s been told that women half her age would find him very attractive.

Helen clutched her robe and remembered the gray-haired woman that looked back at her in the mirror upstairs. With a worried look, she glanced at her husband again. Why would he still want me, she wondered.

“Do you remember when the kids were growing up and you built that bird house on that tree up there? You painted it blue because you said it matched the color of my eyes even if Lucy wanted it pink.”

“I remember,” he said. He stood up and on impulse, put his hands around her waist, “Are you all right? What’s up with the sudden recollections?”

“I’m fine! I just remembered how things were before, you know, back in the days when we were both young and free and...”

“Well, you seem to be remembering a lot of things except that... I really need to go to work now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! Stupid me, I haven’t even made breakfast yet.”

“That’s alright. I can get something at the office.” He gathered his things and planted a light kiss on her mouth.

“Don’t let the mirror fool you, my sweet. You are beautiful... old, gray, or whatever else comes in the years to come.”

As she closed the door behind him, she passed the mirror in the hall and the same old woman stared back at her. For a long time, Helen just looked at herself. She held out her hand and touched the lines that left puddles under her eyes, beside her mouth, and around her neck.

“You know he’s right,” she said to the woman who looked back at her. “You’re not a stupid old goat! You’re a beautiful old goat!”

And she walked back into the kitchen, her tattered robe falling loosely behind her jaunty trot.

It's storm season once again

2014-09-14T17:22:00.000+08:00

“I don’t like the weather in the Philippines,” a foreign student of mine blurted out one day. When I asked why, she replied, “It’s scorching hot in the morning, becomes windy at noon, and rains like mad in the afternoon.”

I could only nod in reply. We only have two seasons in the Philippines, dry and wet, and yet, we’ve had too much of both in recent years.

Weather reports of floods in some parts of India last week reminded me of the many times we also experienced the wrath of nature. Most recent was typhoon Yolanda (International name Haiyan) last year which ravaged many parts of the country. The damage to both life and property were so bad it made it to CNN news.

Photo credit: newsinfo.inquirer.net

Today, we are bracing for another storm. Though it doesn’t look as bad as Yolanda last year, I’ve already seen some facebook posts reminding everyone to stay safe and pray that the storm path changes so that we may be spared of its angry fury.

I have no qualms with prayer. But to pray for the storm path to change does not seem right to me. What happens if our prayers are heeded, where will the storm go then - to another town, another city, another country? Is it right to pray for one’s safety at the cost of another’s?

As I watch the rain pour endlessly from my window, I am grateful that I have a roof over my head, that the place where I live has never been flooded despite the many strong typhoons our country has faced, and that I have never lacked food or warm shelter during these moments of great unpredictability. Does that have anything to do with my position on praying for a miracle in times like these? Perhaps, but I also think that the more we try to avoid something, the harder it becomes for us to resolve it.

I remember the many conversations I had with a student before who complained about everything that happened to her. On one of our last conversations before she graduated, I asked her, “Don’t you see a pattern in everything that’s happening to you?” Surprised, she looked at me and said, “That’s exactly what I thought! I feel like a mouse trapped in a maze and I can’t seem to find the way out.” It didn’t take very long after that for her to realize that skirting her issues was the actual problem, and that by avoiding these issues, she never learned the lesson that would help her resolve them.

Things happen, sometimes, for a reason; other times, for no reason at all. But whatever the case, they happen to tell us something.

Storms are no different, I feel, whether they are the forces of nature that ruin our homes or the unfortunate events we experience in life. In both cases, I don’t think it is right to pray for the events to change. That only helps us avoid it. What happens when the next storm comes? Do we pray again that it changes course? And do we keep doing the same thing for the next storm and the storm after that?

I pray because I have faith. But this faith does not fool me into thinking that I can control what happens to me, or that I can get rid of that cancer that ails my sister, or that I can prevent the death of a friend, or that I can stop the storm from putting so many lives in danger.

No. My prayer rather is that I may have the strength to endure what happens and the courage to live it through.

A priest friend of my husband says it well...“The Spirit doesn’t change life or make everything in it a source of happiness. Rather, the Spirit enables us to see beyond the present sorrow or pain or disturbance and to anticipate the peace and the joy that await us beyond.”

Rainbows, people say, come after the rain. Surely there’s one that awaits us after this...

Family Reunions

2014-09-07T19:01:00.000+08:00

I was in a family reunion of sorts this weekend and an old aunt whom my siblings and I haven't seen in ages was there. We went down memory lane as she recounted story after story after story of how things were before, how she lived in the Ivory Coast for two years to take care of her grandchildren, how despite her humble beginnings, she managed to give her children a decent education and a more promising future, her recollections of my aunts and uncles and their peculiar characters and lots of other stories that kept us laughing in stitches till the end.

As we said our goodbyes, I couldn't help but look at her with much admiration. While some people age counting their many regrets in life and a few others grumble all the way to their grave, this old aunt of mine was a picture of peace and contentment. I whispered a prayer that I age just as gracefully, perhaps with regrets, but grateful for the life I've lived and happy at the little offering my life has been.

Family reunions like these remind me that though life is short, each of us is given a chance to fill it with our own special mark. It doesn't matter how much we have in possession or how far reaching our impact is or even if we are someone to the world. Today, I learned just how much more important it is to be the world to someone. And in a way, that is what really matters.

And to Malou, a friend of mine who is now struggling with her own battle, we can be a part of her world by doing whatever way we can to help.

Please help me spread the word.

https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/malou-s-battle-let-s-help-her-win-it

Picture Perfect

2014-08-31T17:26:00.000+08:00

My husband gifted me with an oven on our last anniversary. Unlike some women, I never took cooking or baking lessons when I was younger. So getting an oven for a gift was either a gentle request to cook something new or a light reminder of one of my New Years’ resolutions.

For some weeks now, I’ve been trying various kinds of recipes; pizza, brownies, baked salmon, cream dory in white sauce... Most times, it’s a hit or miss but that’s okay, my husband says, nobody gets it perfect at the first try anyway.

Today, I thought I’d prepare lasagne for lunch with some fresh vegetable salad on the side. I’m not exactly an expert in the kitchen but I try.

After two hours of mixing, stirring, boiling, baking; but mostly watching through the glass door of the oven at my handiwork, I pulled out the dish that just about held my attention the whole morning...

Well, it looked like lasagne. But more importantly, it tasted like lasagne!

I snapped a photo of the dish before we dived in to a hearty lunch. Not exactly picture perfect, I thought.

Then again, nothing in life is picture perfect. We just do our best, the best way we can and hopefully, there’s time to try again.

I know I’ll be trying...

I'm Back!

2014-08-25T01:08:00.000+08:00

Surprise, surprise! I'm back!

It's been ten months since I last posted here. There were times when I asked myself whether I should take down my blog since I wasn't posting anything anyway. But somehow, I knew in my heart that I'd want to go back to it at some point. I just didn't know exactly when. The bigger and perhaps more important reason, however, was that it was just too painful to take it down. The blog contained reflections, short stories and poems I'd written during a quiet yet tumultuous period in my life. Had I taken it down, I would have felt stripped of something important, almost like stealing candy from a child.

Many things happened since October last year (that was when I last posted) that took me away from here - work, responsibilities, relationships, and so on. Like some people say, life happened. But mostly because, I felt there wasn't anything worthy to write about. To put it simply, I lost the passion to write.

What changed now?

Me.

I changed.

I'll talk about that some other time. For now, it's nice to be home. I'm happy to be back and be able to write again.

I apologize for my absence, dear readers. Hope you'll give me another chance.

Are you still all on board?

Not just another history lesson

2013-10-04T10:45:00.000+08:00

A visit to the 9/11 museum three years ago aroused my professional curiosity. While I empathized with those who lost loved ones on that fateful day, my feelings were divorced from any human anguish. This is not to say I didn’t feel for people’s loss. It just means that no matter how hard I try, there is no way I could imagine or even fully understand their pain.

I went around the museum three years ago, browsing through the varied memorabilia like I read World War 2 accounts in history books. To me, it was all part of history and as a history teacher, I felt it was my responsibility to use these materials to give life to my lessons. I needed to make these people real to my students - as real as they were to those who loved them.

Fast forward to 2013, I had another chance to visit New York City. Needless to say, a visit to the One World Trade Center (also known as Freedom Tower) was at the top of my list. Again, I had to feed the same curiosity I had three years ago.

Getting off the subway at Chambers Street, the building made of glass, steel, and stone loomed in the distance. The sun shone brightly that day illuminating the majestic height of the tower even more.

Entering the memorial, the mood was sombre. There was a hushed silence despite the number of people that crowded both north and south pools. Set in the footprints of the original Twin Towers; the pools, from where a thirty-foot waterfall cascaded into a center void, had a low protective wall or railing where the names of the victims were inscribed.

As I clicked away at my camera, I couldn’t help but notice lone figures here and there with their bowed heads in quiet reflection, or a couple or two with their hands stretched out on the bronze stone, as if softly caressing the person whose name was etched on it for all eternity. Many times, in between clicks of my camera, I whispered a prayer, and asked for peace for those whose lives were indiscriminately cut off and comfort for those who still mourned for them.

Three years ago, my visit to the 9/11 museum was greatly motivated by my desire to make my history lessons as inspiring as I could. This time, I hated to admit even to myself, that I simply wanted to earn some bragging rights for getting to visit a place that held much significance. Shortly after though, the realization left a bad taste in my mouth. I felt I desperately needed something to save me from such selfish motives.

And someone did. From underneath the cascading waters that flowed into the void of nothingness, he came to my rescue.

He was Ronald L. Gamboa. Born on April 30, 1968 in the Philippines, he had since lived in Los Angeles, California. He was a passenger of Flight 175. Like many others, he too died on that fateful day.

I never knew or ever met Mr. Gamboa. But he was from the Philippines as I am. We spoke the same language, lived and breathe the same culture, probably even shopped or visited the same places in Manila at one point or another. Looking at his smiling face on the Name Finder that was made available for visitors at the memorial, I suddenly knew my visit wasn't just another history lesson. It certainly did not earn me bragging rights.

9/11, twelve years later and three years since my first visit, was not just real. It had become painful too.

Follow Fest

2013-09-25T00:40:00.000+08:00

Welcome to Melissa's Follow Fest Day 3, a platform building opportunity for writers of all kinds.

Name:

Anne Organista

Fiction or nonfiction?

Fiction

What genres do you write?

I write mostly romance, women's fiction, literary fiction, and poetry.

Are you published?

Some of my articles have been published in magazines, both online and print. Last May, a short story (flash fiction actually) I wrote was included in an ebook entitled Flash 500 compiled by Nicole Pyles and Carrie Sorensen.

Do you do anything in addition to writing?

I teach part-time and am a freelance writer. I am also an educational consultant and part of that means facilitating seminar-workshops on teacher training.

Where can people connect with you?

My blog would be a good place to start: http://anne-writersspace.blogspot.com/

Due to some hacking problems, I don't use twitter or facebook too much but you can find me over at:

Google+

Is there anything else you'd like us to know?

You may want to check out Flash 500 where two of my stories are included.

If you're interested in reading some stuff on education, you can also find some of my articles here.
I also participate in Denise Covey's Write...Edit...Publish Blog Hop every month.

Thanks for visiting!

Moving on

2013-09-20T13:42:00.002+08:00

There was a time when Erin met Jack and he held her hand that made Erin feel warm and fuzzy all over. Her heart skipped a beat as she shyly held her hand out to him. It fitted right in like a hand to a glove, or maybe she thought that because it was the only way to think.

“I’ve never met anyone like you. I’m feeling something kind of different.”

“I think I am too. Do you know what this is?”

There was a time when Erin thought she loved Jack and couldn’t live without him. Then, she thought his presence completed her life; and that everything was just right.

“I love you with all my heart. My dear Erin, will you marry me?”

“Of course I’ll marry you! I cannot imagine a life without you.”

There was time when she thought the days were better because of him. Then, she thought that sharing the fun and the tears was all that mattered to make their love strong. Deep in her heart, she wanted so much to believe that nothing could ever come between them.

“I promise to love you from this day forward; until death do us part.”

“I love you Jack. I am yours forever.”

Living with Jack however was not what Erin imagined it would be. Still, she loved him and remembered the promise she made to be his forever. Each day, across the green meadows and yellow lilies, she patiently waited for him. The cool night breeze whispered in her ear to lay her head and rest. No, she said, waiting like this only brought him closer to me.

“Forget it, Erin, he’s not coming. He’s been gone for days!”

“A few hours more... I want to be ready for him when he comes.”

Things went downhill as fast as they came. Funny, she thought, the days seemed brighter when Jack stayed away. She enjoyed working and reading; and working some more. Equally so, there was a peaceful calm on the nights he didn’t stay.

“Look at yourself! Isn’t this fun?”

“Yes, it is. But wouldn’t it be more fun if he was here?”

Erin started to count the days when Jack didn’t come home. They outnumbered now the days when he did. Like a warrior before a fight, she tried to be strong. But the pain tugged at her heart and threw her like a wrecking ball. It was just no use. She knew she couldn’t hide it anymore.

“How did this happen? Where did I go wrong?”

“Oh honey, don’t punish yourself. None of this is your fault.”

Happiness does not last forever, Erin realized. Some women find the men of their dreams; others don’t. It’s as simple as that. But letting go isn’t as simple when it meant coming to terms with reality, admitting her mistake, shedding off what used to be a part of herself.

“When you love someone, it’s never really over.”

“But Jack has sailed off in another ship. Doesn’t that mean you should also sail off in yours?”

Erin packed her bags, took one last look at the house she once called home, and went away. There were many memories there, she cried, though she knew this was the right thing to do. Lots of things can be fixed. But relationships can’t be fixed, not when one doesn’t see the need for it. She knew that now.

“Try not to look back, Erin. Put the past behind you and start over.”

“Letting go is hard, but it still is one small step. Starting over is what I’m scared of.”

For months, Erin mourned. She mourned so much she didn’t even know if she grieved for Jack or for the life she thought she had with him. Then, she imagined herself waiting for him one day. Maybe if she waited long enough, he’d come and take her away. But he never did; and through her tears, she suddenly knew she grieved for the woman she had become.

“Life moves on, Erin, so should we.”

“But I don’t know how...”

The air is crisp and dry now; the leaves have turned a bright orange. Erin blew a smoke as she gathered the ends of her coat closer together. It’s strange, she smiled. There was a time when she thought she couldn’t live without Jack. Apparently, she realized now that she could.

Going a step further

2013-09-12T18:10:00.000+08:00

I've often heard that writers are born, not made. It's either you have what it takes to be a writer or you don't. Well, I don't know which one is true except that if one wants to be something, a doctor, lawyer, teacher, engineer, or whatever it is people wish to be; I think one needs some sort of preparation.

I haven't exactly practiced what I just said. I want to be a writer; well I am, in some sort of way. I've written some stuff for magazines, both online and print, but I haven't found the time to take any formal course on writing. Despite that, I still dream of writing a book that people would like to curl up with and read. After all, why write if nobody read your book, right?

As some of you already know, I've made my blog the stage for some of my written works, both poetry and short stories. I wanted to test the waters and see how people would react. But I do know that at some point, I need to take it a step further.

This is why I got pretty excited when I heard about Story Cartel's offer of five scholarships to the Story Cartel Course. It was pretty exciting for five reasons:

Photo credit: www.morguefile.com

1. Maybe if I get lucky with this, I can make "that step further" I was talking about earlier.

2. Maybe the course can help me get over the humps I've experienced before.

3. I'd be pretty lucky to get this because I can never afford the course without it.

4. I'm in dire need of a mentor.

5. I'd like to be part of a community of writers with the same dreams, hopes, and interests as I do. It would be a bonus if that same community can give me some encouragement and critique as I forge my way into this exciting but intimidating world of writing.

Some of you may also be interested in the course. Hop on to this link (deadline is on September 17). Who knows, you might get one of those scholarships. And if you do, you heard it from me.

When push comes to shove

2013-08-26T11:56:00.000+08:00

I’d like to take a break from my usual reflections/doodles here on my blog to talk about something else. Today is August 26, a holiday here in the Philippines due to the celebration of National Heroes’ Day. But citizens are taking this day to a higher level by staging what is now called the “Million People March” in protest of how our supposedly national servants have used public funds for their own private gain.

Photo from: www.inquirer.net

Corruption in this country is nothing new. And while I love my country, I couldn’t say the same for those Filipinos who drag the rest of us into the quagmire of their dishonest pursuits and dirty dealing. Many times in the past, political analysts, reporters, and writers have said that the root of all evil in the Philippines is corruption. It keeps the rich forever enjoying their sweet life and the poor eternally impoverished by the lack of opportunities and severe blows brought on them by the hand of those that are supposed to serve them.

But I think there is a much serious problem than corruption that ails our land. Why would someone steal from another? Why would one usurp the right of another for a good life? Why would people ignore the law and do their own thing?

I think, and I’m being bold here when I say that, Filipinos do not really understand the real meaning of love. Yes, we love. We love our families. We love our friends, our colleagues, even perhaps the street vendor who we meet every day on our way to work. But when push comes to shove, we love our families, our friends, our colleagues first before we can even think of proving that love for our country.

Without that love, I guess it is easy to steal from another. It won’t even cost me not to respect the right of another if doing “it” would improve my life. Some people might call it the law of seizing opportunities regardless of who gets hit in the process. If I didn’t love my country, why would I subject myself to its rules; whether they are the mundane rules of traffic or the more essential ones that uphold life and liberty?

I may be wrong. I could be wrong. But I do believe that if love is real, then it should go beyond the self and one’s next of kin.

This is perhaps why the pork barrel scam that has angered the nation these past few days has taken us to a whole new level. It challenges us not only to speak for ourselves or our loved ones, but for the million others whose rights have not been respected and those whose life’s opportunities have been stolen from them.

Corruption is real. And it is very wrong. But love is just as real. And it is real love for our country that we need to strengthen all the more.

Photo from: www. adobomagazine.com

Incidentally, the photo above (a visual pun of a thumbs down and a pig’s silhouette) is the “abolish pork barrel” logo my nephew designed to reflect the sentiments of people about the issue.

This post also reminds me of something I wrote last year on a few little things we can do for a better world. That time, I said that youth is not an excuse not to do anything. Well, being alive, no matter how old, is no excuse not to do anything. These little things I wrote about then couldn’t hurt us to build a better country now. Hope you have time to read it here.

The Magic of Batanes

2013-08-19T14:05:00.000+08:00

Modern contemporary living has its own appeal to most people. However, a rest from its noise, pollution, and crowded cities is always a welcome rest for the jaded soul. One sure place to give this respite is Batanes, an island province in the northernmost part of the Philippines.

Unlike any other place in the country, my fascination with Batanes lay in its raw and pristine beauty. Compared by some to the Scottish Highlands, Batanes is rugged and provincial. With no posh hotels, elegant malls and classy restaurants, its charm lies in its rustic setting amidst a backdrop of magnificent scenery only heaven could match.

Touring the island, I was completely in awe at the majestic mountains of Racuh a Payaman. The endless rolling hills, known to some as Marlboro Country because of its wide grasslands, is home to cattle and horses that roam around it freely. We reached the top of the mountain just as the sun set across the horizon. The shades of yellow, orange and red were bright and beautiful. It was so beautiful in fact I had to remind myself that this was actually real and that I was not looking at a heady mix of colors splashed on a painter’s palette. This, and the cool mountain wind, provided a tranquil spirit for the nature lover that I was.

As we sat down to rest from the hike up the hill and marvel at this wondrous piece of creation, a group of kids played tag. Clearly, they had mastered every inch of the hills as they went up and down its gentle slopes and wide turns effortlessly. Clicking my camera to catch their impish giggles, I sighed at the irony of it all. While we build national parks and put tons of money into kid-safe equipment in the city, these kids had these majestic mountains for their playground every single day of their lives.

Perched on the hills’ highest point, we saw the entire Batan island, the coastline of Diura fishing village, and the towering Mt. Iraya in one sweeping glance. The view of mountain cliffs, pebbled shorelines, and green pasture were breathtaking. The lighthouses that dotted the islands gave me a sense of peace I had never experienced before. Looking toward a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean and rugged mountains cliffs that faced the South China Sea, I felt like I was held in a warm embrace, kept safe in the bosom of this rugged land.

If the mountains provided a reflection of the island’s rugged and natural beauty, the traditional Ivatan village was a charming site of both culture and history. The entire village is lined with traditional stone houses. Built and designed to withstand typhoons, earthquakes and other natural calamities, they are built with thick walls of stone and lime covered with roofs made of several layers of cogon.

One of the oldest house in the village and which is still used today is the House of Dakay. Built in the 18^th century, it is owned by Florestida Estrella who welcomes everyone who visits her house. Stopping to take a picture, we learned that this old, quaint stone house is the most photographed house and Lola Florestida, the most photographed woman in Batanes.

Walking and cycling around the village, I felt for a moment back in Ireland where the grassland, mountain and sea seemed to forever stretch out before me. The grandeur took my breath away that I felt compelled to stop my bike and for a moment, hold every detail of the land in my mind where I could perhaps glance at it again when my visit was over.

Just as the Ivatan stone houses are remnants of a culture and history we only read about, its people continue to live and breathe this culture. Devoid of all material possessions most of us city folk couldn’t live without, I found the Ivatans with a freshness and positive energy that was almost too contagious. Stories of Ivatan virtues such as gallantry and honesty were true after all.

A visit to the well-known Honesty Coffee Shop, where merchandise is unmanned, is sufficient proof. Here, the honor system is practiced in paying for any goods taken from the store. Though curious at first, there was a greater need to enter the store to wet our parched throats and rest our wearied feet. After putting the payment for the drinks we took in an old wooden box, we noticed the traditional Ivatan headgear that hung in one corner of the store. Called “vakul”, the headgear is produced by the local women’s cooperative and is made out of Philippine date palm or Voyavoy leaves. It is used to protect the Ivatans from rain, wind and sun. Like foolish children, we took pictures trying it on and laughing at how we looked, unmindful of its true use to the people of the islands.

Tucked quietly below where the first Ivatans lived is Rakuh-A-Idi Spring, better known as the Spring of Youth. The spring is full of locals and tourists alike. Whether one goes in search of the fountain of youth, or to offer prayers at the Our Lady of Lourdes grotto located near the spring water’s main source, is not important. Taking a refreshing dip in the pool below could definitely be its greater appeal.

A truly remarkable spot where one gets a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean is the Valugan Boulder Beach, so-called because its shoreline is literally filled with big and small stones spewed by nearby Mount Iraya.

Another picturesque area is Nakabuang Beach, famous for its rock arch formation. While it does not offer the white sands of Boracay or the underground river of Palawan, it is an ideal site for picnic, camping, and snorkelling.

Recently, an equally stunning landmark was added to make one’s Batanes’ experience truly magical. Located on top of a cliff with a 270 degree view of the sea, mountain and sky is Fundacion Pacita, boasted to be one of the best boutique hotels in the country.

Fundacion Pacita used to be the home-cum-studio of international artist Pacita Abad. Abad is best known for her colourful murals, the latest of which is a modern pedestrian bridge in Singapore called The Alkaff Bridge. Today, more than a boutique hotel, Fundacion Pacita supports the art works of young Ivatans and other conservation projects, a true reflection of the artist who began it all.

Many people who visit Batanes fall in love with its ragged mountains, breathtaking scenery, cultural heritage, delicious cuisine, and a whole lot more. I don’t know if it’s any one of these or a combination of all that makes Batanes a magical experience.

What I am sure of is that Batanes offers something I do not see or experience every day; that fresh and unspoiled beauty of the human spirit.

Against all odds

2013-07-02T14:48:00.000+08:00

I wake up every night, cold and afraid

Beads of sweat mix with my tears

Dreams mirror the reality that stares at me

My heart cries out

Will I ever have my chance?

A gust of wind topples me down

Blows my resolve, weakness overcomes

Too tired to find my bearing, it sweeps over me

And tears me down

I couldn’t take the chance.

Photo credit: www.hdwallpapersplus.com

Walls fall, windows break

Hurriedly, I break into a run

Surprised to find my feet still on the ground

A sigh of relief takes over me

Perhaps this is my chance.

I catch the raindrops in my hand

Eyes closed, darkness engulfs

But a tinge of light glows in the shadows

My heart sings, could it possibly be
That now is my chance.

Morning comes, the mist clears

I awaken
I push myself up

Against all odds.

Letters of Life

2013-05-25T00:22:00.000+08:00

I haven't written in a while but couldn't pass up the chance to join the writing challenge of Romantic Friday Writers.

This month's theme is LETTERS and what's a love story without them?

----------------------------------------------------

There was a pungent smell in the room. The shades were drawn and except for a soft glow from a lamp by her bedside, David hardly saw a thing. Slowly, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark and he now saw the white sheets that covered her frail body. A thin bony hand extended towards him. His heart raced as he felt the sweat at the back of his neck drip slowly down his spine. With great trepidation, he drew closer.

“Do it for me David, please.”

“I can’t do it, Sam. She needs to know the truth,” David begged as he turned towards Samantha. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. I can’t lie to a dying woman.”

“But don’t you see? David, the letters have kept her happy,” Sam insisted.

“The letters were real, Sam. I’m not! I’m not the man who she thinks I am. I can’t speak for a dead man anymore!”

“You don’t need to say anything. Just hold her hand like you did before and read the letters Tommy gave you. She wouldn’t even know.”

Sam was adamant. David understood how she felt. He felt it too when he promised to deliver the letters. But that was all he said he would do. How in the world did he get himself embroiled in this charade?

Tommy was the youngest among them but he made friends with everyone right away. There was an innocent honesty in his smile and a gentleness in every word he uttered. After only a week, everyone had labelled him as David’s best buddy.

It was his second night at camp when David teased him about the letters.

“What’s all that junk, man?” he asked. Everyone at camp had noticed the letters Tommy kept in an old metal box under his bed.

“This isn’t junk,” Tommy said, flashing his big smile. Despite the precariousness of their situation, Tommy was always cheerful. David couldn’t understand that.

“These are love letters,” Tommy said as he fished out one letter from the old metal box.

“Love letters? You still do that?” David stared unbelievingly.

“Why not? I told Louise I’d write every day. I want her to know that I think of her every single day,” Tommy’s voice almost croaked. Tears welled up in his eyes but he immediately brushed them aside.

“Isn’t there anyone waiting for you back home, David?” he asked.

“No. I grew up in a foster home. There’s nothing for me outside this hole.”

“Of course there is. For me, it’s Louise, the love of my life. We grew up together, learned most things together too,” he smiled at the recollection.

“I’ve never known that kind of love.” David shrugged. “You’re a lucky man.”

“Yes, I am.” Tommy whispered, as he continued his letter to the love of his life.

“Things are not easy here. We lost two soldiers today. One was younger than I am. What heartache their loved ones must feel not knowing how they felt or what their last thoughts were. That will never be your case, my dear. As long as you read my letters, you will always know how much I love you. Every single day the sun rises in this God-forsaken place is a blessing because it’s another day to tell you how I feel. I love you my darling... Tommy.”

David sat up in bed and for a moment, wondered where he was. The smell of freshly brewed coffee told him he was back home. Home... Tommy gave him that and the love he had not known before.

“I have a new pal here. He’s cool but he finds it hard to believe that the love we have exists. But that’s all right. He hasn’t met yet the woman who will make his heart soar the way your love does for me. His heart has not yet been tamed by the gentle touch and strong will of a woman in love. That’s what you did for me, my love, and I am now a better person because of you. As always, I remain in your love... Tommy.”

Even in death, Tommy had given him a life he thought was not possible. He knew it the moment he arrived at Samantha’s doorstep to deliver Tommy’s letters.

“Just a few more days, my dear, and I will be back in your arms. You must do what the doctor says. I can only imagine the pain this cancer has caused you. But just as your love helped me through these days in hell, my love will do the same for you. Soon my darling and forever is ours... Tommy.”

David knew what he had to do. He got up and found Sam in the kitchen, her eyes swollen from the sleepless night they both shared.

“I think it’s time David,” Sam’s voice trembled. “She’s almost gone. My sister... she didn’t even recognize me...”

The room was dark and it smelled like death. David walked towards her extended hand. There was no color left in her. Her mouth was dry as was the rest of her skin.

“Tommy...” she whispered in between short gasps of breath. Her eyes remained closed and David knew it was time. He took out the letter Tommy wrote that fateful night.

“There’s a full moon tonight, my dear. I think it heralds the new day that is almost upon us. There, I hold you in my arms where you are always safe. Can you hear the beat of my heart? It beats for you my love. Can you tell the excitement and sheer madness it feels as our moment together has finally come? You are with me now, my darling, where you truly belong...”

David stopped. The letter he was reading fell as the hand that held his eased its grip. He looked up and saw a smile on her face.

Tommy was right. True love exists. And she was now with him, where she truly belonged.

Word Count 993: FCA

The icing on my cake

2013-05-13T13:03:00.000+08:00

The recent announcement I made here about Flash 500, where two of my short stories are featured, definitely put me back on high gear. And an award from a fellow blogger that came at just about the same time was the sweet icing on the cake.

Deanie from Thoughts and ideas nominated me for the Liebster Blog Award.

The rules of the award are:
1. Tell 11 random things about yourself.
2. Nominate 11 bloggers.
5. Inform the 11 bloggers you nominated for the award.

Here goes... 11 random things about me.
1. I loved Literature in school.
When I was still in school, I read the prescribed Literature book from cover to cover even before the school year started.

2. I hate Math until now.
I’m so bad with numbers my mind literally snaps shut at the mention of any numerical operation that needs to be done, no matter how simple it may be.

3. I took driving classes three times and still don’t drive to this day.
I went as far as driving on the freeway but with nerves and lack of practice, the driving seat is the least likely place you’d find me.

4. I get a headache if I don’t get a cup of coffee in the morning.
Maybe it’s all in the mind but I think I’ve fooled myself into thinking that there’s no way I could function without getting my coffee first.

5. I’m not great with my hands.
I cook because I need to. I sew in emergency cases. But I don’t cook or sew well. I can’t bake, can’t make plants grow, can’t draw or paint, can’t play any instrument. No wonder I feel lucky I have a laptop. Otherwise, I may not even get the courage to write.

6. I don’t get tired of watching The Sound of Music and Mama Mia.
There are movies and plays that you see once and that’s enough. These two however can go on forever and I’ll still be singing along with them.

7. I can’t get enough of Paolo Coelho books.
Coelho’s writing is enigmatic. It is full of insights that constantly hold me in awe. Later though, I realize that these same insights have been staring at me in the face all along.

8. I don’t like waiting.
Waiting drives me nuts. Now that I’m older though, I’m trying to be more patient especially with myself. I’ve learned that there are things that are worth the wait. Having said that...

9. I don’t have much respect for people who make others wait.
For meetings or appointments, some people can make me wait once, twice, even thrice perhaps. But when it is habitual and becomes pretty clear that they don’t respect my time, I’m almost certain they’re not worth my time either.

10. Poor, hungry, sick and abused children cut my heart to pieces.
People and governments may have all the excuses for the problems we have in the world right now. But when it affects children, there is no excuse.

11. I get really annoyed with people who don’t care for the environment.
I like to have things in order and keep things clean. Outside my home, I believe the same rule applies. I think people ought to realize that the world outside is part of their home too and caring for it is a shared responsibility.

And now, it’s time to pass this award to the following:

Andy @ http://thoughtsofbeautyinthestillnessofdawn.blogspot.com/
Bee @ http://www.livingoffscript.com/
Carrie @ http://chasingrevery.blogspot.com/
Hazel @ http://hazel-moon-blog.blogspot.com/
Heather @ http://readingwritingeverything-heather.blogspot.com/
Hope @ http://www.defininghopes.com/
Madeleine Sara @ http://scribbleandedit.blogspot.com/
Melissa @ http://unpublishedworksofme.blogspot.com/
Sally @ http://sallys-scribbles.blogspot.com/
Talya @ http://www.gracegritsgarden.com/
Tena @ https://jottingsandwritings.wordpress.com/

To Deanie, thank you very much!

A step closer...

2013-05-09T15:10:00.001+08:00

I mentioned in a previous post that something’s coming up later this week. The good news came a month ago but I’m only talking about it now because I’m sure it’s really happening. I had a series of disappointments before when I told people about certain things I expected to happen only to be embarrassed later when plans fell through. This didn’t happen to me just once. It happened many times that I started thinking I probably jinxed my own plans. Since then, I stopped myself from saying anything unless I had a hundred percent guarantee that everything was in place.

And with this latest news, everything is in place.

Ever since I was a child, I always wanted to write a book and have it published someday. No, wait just a minute.... I haven’t even gone beyond 5000 words in my WIP. So no, not that, not yet anyway.

But yes, I’m a step (or maybe a few steps) closer to my dream. Those of you who frequent my blog have probably read some of the short stories I’ve written. (If you haven’t, I’m inviting you to check them out over at Creative Doodles.) Some of these stories are products of writing challenges and blog hops I’ve joined to help me improve my writing.

And that’s where the good news came from.

Carrie and Nicole, hosts of Writer Wednesday Blog Hop (WWBH), put together an anthology featuring stories collected from the hop's first year. This collection, now an ebook entitled Flash 500, is coming out tomorrow May 10, 2013 on Amazon.

And the best part is.... you got it! They've included two of my stories. It’s the closest I’ve been so far to getting my work published in a book. And I’m so giddy with excitement!

So be sure to get your Kindles and your Kindle reader apps ready. Go to Amazon, download your free copy of the ebook, and enjoy!

I feel blessed and it feels great to be in the company of these other writers:

Carrie K Sorensen - chasingrevery.blogspot.com (WWBH co-host, co-editor)
Cindy Cagel - thewoodenrollercoaster.blogspot.com
Emily Jean Roche - emilyjeanroche.blogspot.com
George Beckingham - whyhowwhatif.blogspot.ca
Heather Musk - readingwritingeverything-heather.blogspot.com
Krystal Wade - kyrstalwade.blogspot.com
Leanne Sype - leannesype.wordpress.com (WWBH co-host)
L.T. Dalin - chessnysilth.blogspot.no
Melissa Gardiner - unpublishedworksofme.blogspot.co.uk
Randy Lindsay - randylindsay.blogspot.com
Scott Taylor - scottywattydoodlealltheday.blogspot.com
Roman Taylor - mistorytime.blogspot.com
Sydney Aaliyah - sydneyaaliyah.wordpress.com
Tena Carr - jottingsandwritings.wordpress.com (WWBH co-host)
Tony Roberts - writingforfoodinindy.wordpress.com
Yolanda Tong - whereslanda.wordpress.com

To Carrie and Nicole who worked on this project tirelessly, thank you! You brought me a step closer to my dream.

Of books and fighter planes

2013-05-06T18:04:00.000+08:00

I've joined the Writer Wednesday Blog Hop for a number of times now and it has always been a thrill. The picture prompts don't always create the spark for me but when they do, I just have to tell the story.

I'm especially excited because this particular blog hop is bringing me a step closer to my dream. But I'll talk about that later this week. For now, it's books and fighter planes that has me smiling from ear to ear...

-------------------------------------------------------

“Your mom won’t be finished for another hour. Want to browse around first?” a grey-haired lady asked, craning her neck to see him on the other side of the counter.

“Sure, whatever...” his voice trailed off as he wandered towards the shelves that lined every wall.

His mother worked in the library and had arranged for Simon to be brought there after swimming practice. It seemed like a good idea at first, Simon thought, until he realized he had to stay there and wait for her for an hour.

There was the concert tonight, anyway, he consoled himself. He had been so bored on the first day that his mother promised they’d watch the show of his favorite band. Still, the promise didn’t do much for his drooping spirits.

Earlier in the week, he had checked out some video games on the computer but his mother stood her ground.

“No computer games on weekdays, remember?”

“Mom, it’s summer. I’m on vacation!” Simon pleaded.

“Same rules apply, sweetheart. Those games are poison to the mind.” Simon sulked. “Look around you,” she continued, waving her hand around, “you’re surrounded by books. Surely, there’s something here you’d find interesting.”

Simon now wished he had gone to camp like the other boys in his class. But he wanted to swim. He needed to train if he was going to make it to the junior swimming team next year.

“New books on the counter!” one of the library staff shouted. In his haste to finish an errand, a book fell, its open page showing the most beautiful sight Simon had ever seen.

The book was big and heavy. It was hard bound and had a glossy white cover. The pages were thicker and there were more pictures than there were words.

Simon turned a page and a man with a small dark mole on his left cheek stared back at him. But it wasn’t the man that held Simon’s attention. It was the fighter plane, the North American P51 Mustang his grandfather had told him about many times.

Suddenly, Simon heard nothing except the sound of planes over his head.

He positioned his bird behind the enemy. The war cry of plane engines pierced the sky. His P-51 mustang singled out a 109, shredding the enemy fighter before it had a chance to react. He latched on to the tail of another, expertly balancing his stick and throttle. Simon poised his finger over the trigger. Targeting the enemy's tail, he knocked him out cold. He dove back, veered to the left and rolled over. Simon quickly dispatched another plane, his second kill in a span of seconds.

“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Simon’s mother broke in, silencing the piercing cry of the fighter jets in Simon’s head.

“You look happy...” his mother said, confused. “Excited for the concert?” she asked, wiping off the sweat in his face with a napkin.

Simon beamed, “I can’t wait to come here again tomorrow.”

Linked up with Writer Wednesday Blog Hop

Book Review: The Survivor by DiAnn Mills

2013-04-30T17:45:00.000+08:00

Crime novelist Kariss Walker is asked by Dr Amy Garrett to write her story about a brutal childhood assault with the secret intention of catching her assailant in an entrapment operation.

The book is an engrossing read, with two plot lines that don’t seem to add up at first, but are later connected and resolved in the end.

Mills cleverly adds romance through the on and off relationship of the two protagonists, suspense in the almost hopeless search for the culprit, and faith-filled testimonies of characters whose every action is led by their strong belief in Someone bigger than themselves.

Despite this heartening suspense novel, I thought more research could have been done on Dr Amy Garrett’s character. Sure, psychiatrists can have problems too but her incapacity to deal with people seemed unrealistic.

Some chapters were especially riveting but just when it gets you hooked; it ends with an abruptness that leaves readers with more questions than answers. The ending I also felt, was a bit artificial, almost as if issues had to be manufactured just to put a nice finish to the novel.

Overall, I enjoyed reading this book. It keeps you guessing till the very end.

Note: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.

Maybe next year

2013-04-03T10:44:00.000+08:00

The sun was setting when she finally arrived home.

Emily scanned her surroundings. There was no wind, not even a leaf or a bird drifted in the sky. She quietly got out of her car and walked the short distance to the small courtyard.

There it was. The house she once knew. It was deserted now but there was a time when it was witness to the summer vacations she always looked forward to with much anticipation.

“Rise and shine, kids!” her father used to barge in on their room at the crack of dawn.

“Is it time already?” Emily would ask, a big smile forming at the sides of her mouth.

“It is time, princess. Get dressed and come down. Mom’s making some pancakes,” her dad answered as he nudged Kate off her bed.

“Okay Dad, I heard you the first time” Kate murmured in her audible but sleepy voice.

Those were the days when life was happy, simple, and real. Now, there was nothing to give; nothing to take away.

Emily’s hand trembled. Slowly, she folded her fingers into a fist, trying hard not to break down. It’s been twenty years. Does anyone ever outgrow such memories?

She took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. It would soon be dark. She braced herself and went around the house. She stifled a cry at the sight of the garden. Despite the pangs of anguish that burned inside her heart, Emily smiled at the recollection.

The garden was once beautiful. Mom loved to spend most of her time here while she, Kate and Dad went down to the river for a swim. They’d come back dripping wet, ready to devour Mom’s delicious chicken casserole and apple pie for dessert. After dinner, they’d play charades. Other times, she and Kate would crawl into Mom’s arms to read while Dad reviewed community events with a day-old newspaper.

Those were the memories she wanted to keep. Not this rotten garden. Not the old house whose walls now stood only to remind her of that fateful day. And certainly not that old crappy red van...

Emily stood transfixed. There it was, under the old maple tree, exactly where they had left it, after the ambulance came and took her family away.

They were on their way back to the city. She was pleading her Dad to let her go to camp next summer. He wouldn’t hear of it, said she wasn’t old enough.

Then it happened. A deer came out of nowhere, ran past the van, and swept it into a mad turn towards the woods. Emily felt the van being tossed and turned. Seconds later, things turned quiet except for the slow hum of an engine, willing itself to live.

That brief moment took away her family. Once a happy little girl, one singular incident transformed Emily into an angry and bitter orphan.

Coming home was not a good idea after all.

Maybe next year...

This is my first time linking up with yeah write speakeasy. We had to start with the sentence “The sun was setting when she finally arrived home” and refer to the photo prompt in some way. Come and join the fun!

What is draining you?

2013-04-02T15:49:00.000+08:00

They wrapped their links around me

Scraped my skin, hurt my hands and feet

The weight was much too heavy

Would I ever be free from this?

Each link seemed like a hundred pounds weight

As it cut the fine threads of my clothes

There wasn’t much room to move

Each link was tighter than the first, like no other grip can be.

Then by a stroke of chance, I glanced

My other hand lay motionless at my side

No metal chains held it prisoner

Just felt like a dead weight to my near drooping spirit.

Slowly, I willed my hand to move

To take out the chains, unravel the links that bound me

But surprised myself a moment later

The chains that held me, bound me nowhere but to myself.

There are times when we feel drained of all our energies. We make ourselves believe that our hands are tied and there’s nothing much we can do. We wait for someone to come and help us; and cry foul when nobody does.

Then just when things look so bad, we summon enough courage to look around. We try to see if we missed something; take a chance that something might still save us.

That’s when we realize what a fool we have been. There were no chains that bound us prisoner except for the fears we kept hidden so well.

Strength comes not in the absence of challenges but in the will to fight

Peace comes not in the abundance of resources but in learning to live without them.

For the purpose of life is not to have everything easy

Life’s meaning is unveiled when we truly learn

to forget, to forgive, and to give.

Linked up with Just Write, Mondays Musings, Doing You Well and Inspire Me Monday

When life invites

2013-03-20T17:41:00.000+08:00

It happened on my third year of teaching. Morning classes had just started and I still felt groggy after spending half the night checking papers.

Students seemed to have suffered a similar fate as the class was unusually quiet when I entered. A couple of girls went back to their seats when they saw me come in. Others woke up those whose heads lay peacefully on their desks, stealing a few minutes of shut-eye before classes began. One student carelessly closed the book she was reading and looked at me with a blank stare. There were hushed voices at the back of the room, laughing momentarily at some shared joke.

With resignation, I greeted the class and began my lesson. Despite my lackluster discussion, a few students raised their hands and answered my questions. Thank God for them, I remember thinking. I would’ve slept on me, if tables were turned. The lesson was boring, the activity didn’t interest my students as I thought it would, and I couldn’t help the fact that my head was swimming in a sea of thoughts totally unrelated to what I was teaching.

Many times I looked at the clock at the back of the room but that too seemed to be having a slow day. So I plodded on. I continued the lesson as I walked up and down the room, between the chairs where my students sat. Despite my lack of energy and the emptiness I felt, I remember asking myself if there was something I could do to avoid making this class a complete waste of my students’ time.

Let it go, just wait for the bell... a voice in my head said nonchalantly.

You’re tired, give yourself a break. It will be better tomorrow... another voice whispered.

Don’t try to be a hero, there’s no way you can save the day... a third added.

But I didn’t have time to choose.

Up to this day, I don’t know what I would have done. All I know is that life sometimes has a way of dealing with the situation in front of us. We are not given the freedom to choose. All we have is an invitation to learn.

Photo credit: www.squidoo.com

But I digress. What happened as I walked that classroom? Two arms hugged me from behind and a tear-stained face hid itself in the folds of my skirt.

I don’t remember much else after that except for the silence in the room and the pair of eyes that looked at me with so much sadness, I felt I almost died.

Call it a cry for help or a sign of concern. Some teachers told me it was just a child looking for attention. While others said it was best to let the school counselor handle it.

They were right. It could have been anything.

But that singular incident taught me something. It showed me what teaching was all about.

And I’d been invited to make it my life.

Linked up with Yeah write

Home at last

2013-03-11T10:13:00.000+08:00

She crouched under the gallows, careful not to make a sound. Tiny drops of sweat rolled down her blood-stained face. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks burned, her arms and legs felt limp and she wondered if she could even move them. But she was afraid that if she moved, she’d make a sound. And she couldn’t. Not if she was going to come out of this alive.

She heard noises again. Someone was calling her name. Heavy footsteps went past, stopped just a few yards from where she hid. She saw shadows of movement on the wall. A voice called out. She listened intently. A few seconds later, there was only a deafening silence amidst the hushed voices of men running after her.

Are they gone? She wondered. Is it safe to come out now?

Prompt Words: gallows, section, mat, staple, tide

It was dark except for the light that shone from a street lamp. Slowly, she crawled out of her hiding place, an empty section between the dirty garbage bins that had been left along the side of the street. She looked at the bruises on her wrist. They were black and blue, traces of what they had done to her. They were going to pay, she vowed. But first, she had to find a way out. She was never going back to the hellhole, not even if she had to die for it.

She pulled a jacket that hung from a window somewhere and put it on; covering the blue overalls she wore. It was a man’s jacket, about two sizes bigger than her frail body. It fell on her shoulders like a mat; hard and dirty. It didn’t matter. She was running for her life.

She continued to walk slowly, head bowed, her eyes peeled for the men haunting her. A diner stood on the other side of the road. She was starving. The smell of greasy burgers and fries seemed like a welcome feast compared to the watery soup and stale bread that had been her staple in that hellhole.

Then she heard it. Angry, fuming voices; louder, more frightening this time. Stop, please stop, she pleaded. But there was nowhere to go. Darkness fell.

There was an eerie silence in the air. She opened her mouth to say something but no one seemed to hear. They didn't look her way even as they hovered about her. She tried to lift her hand but even that didn’t budge.

She felt nothing. She was trapped. She couldn’t move.

"Poor thing,” the nurse whispered to another as they wheeled a young woman to the morgue, “She didn’t stand a chance.”

“Where did they find her?” the doctor asked.

“In a back street not far from here,” the nurse replied.

“They found her behind the garbage bins, hallucinating, saying she was going home,” a second nurse added.

The doctor studied the young woman’s face. And to her who saw what others did not, he said, “The tide has turned. Now, you are home.”

Linked up with Snapshot Prompt

Snow Day

2013-02-27T12:59:00.001+08:00

It's been a while since I wrote some fiction but when I saw the prompt from Write on Edge, snow and secret revealed just made the right fit for me. So here's what I did with it and hope I did it well.

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David looked outside the window. The street was blanketed with snow. There was news on the radio that some roads had been blocked. Classes were called off and while work continued, he was pretty sure things would be slow today.

Getting his jacket, cap, scarf, gloves and ear muffs on was toilsome. But it was freezing outside and he’d been reminded to always keep warm.

The sun, hidden behind the gray clouds, created an eerie silence. David looked up and down the street. No one was in sight. It was just him and the snow-covered tree house his father had built ages ago.


Photo credit: www.morguefile.com

David started his trek. It was not far, he knew, but the soft white mantle that covered his path made everything seem much longer, wider, bigger. The sharp pointed rocks that lined the garden had become round and smooth. The bins piled high at the back of the house transformed into a shrine as the early afternoon sunlight glistened over the pearly white snow.

David glanced up at the sky. There were no birds in the air. Soft, fluffy flakes of snow hovered in mid-air then glided softly down on his face.

Finally, he reached his place. David wondered what surprise the tree house would bring today. There had always been one and today shouldn’t be different. He scolded himself for thinking the worst yet his heart screamed if things were not as they should be.

He fished out his dad’s flashlight and flicked it on. The light shone inside. Over and over, David looked. Over and over, he stifled a cry. His place was empty. No surprise awaited him.

David sulked. He looked outside and the world seemed such a beautiful place. The trees, adorned with snow crystals, shone magnificently under the sunlight. But now he knew. Not all that glistens is beautiful. Not all that shines is good.

David stepped out of his place. Trudging slowly in the snow, he wondered if there were dangerous traps under this shining lustre of snow. He wondered if such was the mark of growing old.

Reaching the house, he wondered where everyone was. The excuses came back... there was no time, work’s been hectic, business is slow. He brushed the snow off his jacket and carefully took off his boots.

This place is freezing, David wondered if dad had forgotten to switch on the heater. Hastily, he turned towards the living room. Before his hand had reached the knob, the door opened. A gust of air warmed him all over as flashes of light shone on his face.

“Happy Birthday David!” they shouted. Mom and dad, grandma and grandpa, Uncle Peter and Aunt Kate, his sister Kelly, his cousins, friends from school... there they were... smiling, laughing, planting lipstick kisses on his now swollen cheeks.

David looked outside the window. The trees, adorned with snow crystals, shone magnificently under the sunlight. This time, David knew. Some things that glisten, stay.

Linked up with Write at the Merge, week 9 and Doing You Well Wednesday 6

I Love because

2013-02-15T12:46:00.000+08:00

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day and while I’ve always thought it’s highly commercialized, the day is a good reminder of why we love.

I had a classmate in high school who prepared her Valentine’s gift for her boyfriend weeks in advance. Talk about being an honest-to-goodness lover’s fool, I thought. But I remember her saying that a home-made gift spoke tons more than a Hallmark greeting card ever could.

A friend in college, on the other hand, couldn’t care less if it was Valentine’s Day, Good Friday or another day of the week. She did have a boyfriend at the time who once sent her roses while we were studying in the library. While we all thought, as most girls likely do, it was sweet, she nonchalantly read the card, set the flowers down on the chair next to her and buried her head back to the book in front of her.

Then there’s this other friend who loved and feared the V-Day at the same time. She loved the idea of roses, chocolates and date night but absolutely feared the possibility of not having anyone to give it all to her. When she was lucky enough to get the first, we were held prisoners to her oft-repeated romantic escapade of wine and dine, music and dance. If it was the latter, we were prisoners all the same. This time though, it was to her long suffering lament of misery and doom.

And how could I forget the colleague from work who every year on this red-letter day received an elegant bouquet of tulips (her favorite) and an expensive box of sweets? I remember the rest of us swooning over this remarkably sweet but pretty much absent guy (we never saw him visit her or pick her up from work) for days, wondering if we’d ever get our turn.

Is this what Valentine’s Day is about? Is it a reminder to honor, to love and appreciate the important people in our life? Or does it make hapless women grovel at the sand under their feet just to let their significant other know what they feel? Or perhaps this day magically turns love struck maidens to Cinderella, either to give them the time of their life at the ball or to let them bawl out crying over such cruel misfortune..

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I went around doing what I usually did (that means work) and spent most part of the day with my husband. No, the day didn’t even come close to wine and roses (though I still got my roses) or teddy bears and date night.

But the day reminded me why I love, Valentine’s Day or not.
I love because it’s the best thing to do for those I love.