I write because I read. I read because I write.
Four houses inside a red gate - dwarfed by the acacia tree beside it. Murmurs upon murmur, they wait like masked bees waiting for the sting of the queen. "So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm."Not in the 21st century when a hollowed neck meant for a lover's head can be… Continue reading murmurs: a 100-word story
Silence has always tasted sweet since I was a young boy. I find bliss in building a world of my own, alone. Now, with only the whirring of her ventilator, my tongue is filled with bitter gourd juice, swimming through the boulder inside my throat. Her hands, I've held since she was 24, feel cold… Continue reading tasting silence: a 100-word story
on the day when her grandchildren will be sitting on her lap asking for the bravest thing she has done, she will be looking back at this moment. she's in no danger. no noise. no death-defying acts. but with peaceful tree-whistles, lullaby-like bird-tunes, embrace-like forest air. and her heart and mind who were both dauntless enough to walk out of a life in… Continue reading Bravest Moment
after more than a decade of virtual hugs and late night chats, the four girlfriends have finally met again for a summer picnic. two married, one engaged, one still single, they've bonded because of one common denominator: a guy they played love with. a nerd from college who's known for his ragged blue jeans and an old-day-smelling shirt. under the hot sun with… Continue reading The Picnic
An eerie blanket of silence wrapped the courtroom. The accused stood, confidently, without a trace of remorse on his rather innocence eyes. Without reading the grim report of a young married woman who went missing, then body parts being discovered one by one-- legs, arms, head-- none can even guess the suspect would be a youthful… Continue reading Missing Heart
the gentle whispers of the trees' breeze. the tender murmur of river's flow. the playful tweets of the little birds. these sweet sensual delights are the reasons why we used to visit this river. the river we called ours. today i clutch unto you, unto your vessel. your vessel made of cold porcelain, a stark contrast… Continue reading Our River
I asked my mom this morning about the almost burnt painting I saw last week in our attic. Its main subject is a woman dressed in glamor and elegance. She looked like me and my mommy but I am quite sure she is not my granny. To my surprise, mom turned pale and then sad… Continue reading The Painting
My searching hands were left bare by the naked bed which bear no one but me. Sighing, I know the drill I get out of our blanket-made hill to find he. Welcoming sunrise kisses my just opened eyes, the noise of the road whispers cluttered sighs, there is he. Hugging his guitar, plucking eloquently, as… Continue reading The Forgetful
The cracks of the breaking dried twigs and leaves tell me I am in the middle of a lush forest. Blindfolded, I can hear the loud cracking sound echoing with my racing heartbeats filled with excitement and fear. I grip his sweaty hand, harder. He squeezed my hands back to assure me that I am… Continue reading Silent Witness
I was three when curiosity was born inside me. I remember the first thing I asked my mom was about the grand piano covered and silenced inside her room’s bathroom. I grew old asking why it’s hidden. She has offered me nothing but a teary smile, until today. With the same nostalgic yet melancholic look,… Continue reading The Bathroom Pianist
A Reading Writer 