We were on the beach that evening. Each had a horror story to share. I told mine, or my sister’s I should say. I had nothing to share but a monstrosity of feelings which was also the reason why I sought a time out of the city, and I am not sharing it in any way.

I lied down in the midst of their stories. Their words were diminished into unclear and incomprehensible murmurs. The bottle of beer slipped out of my hand, it reached and burrowed in the sand. I looked at the sky. It was clear and beautiful. The stars looked like the moment sugar is thrown into a mug of dark coffee.

This was not what we were supposed to be. We wanted to be together. But things changed. I no longer take warmth from your hands cupping mine. Comfort was no longer the blanket you put on my back while reviewing in the wee hours of the morning. Company was not as delightful as we walk from our house to school.

On my Graduation, the only sad thought pinching through the joyful celebration was the promise of us together marching from the school grounds to the commencement hall. It was too late to be possible. You remained in school for two more semesters from the day I graduated. I can no longer remember the time we felt victorious together. That could have been the chance.

I grabbed the bottle of beer, sat, and looked around. They were already done with their horror stories. I got myself up and got into our pick-up truck. Alcohol was not enough to cover their fear. They were scared out of wits on the way home. I was not, well I was, actually. I was afraid I’d be back to the city tomorrow morning. I was afraid of the odds of seeing you again.

On Summer’s End

I took the last bus ride home from the beach. I usually liked taking the night trip as I find it more relaxed and comfortable. I used to like passing through dim-lighted streets, making the stars even brighter. I used to like looking through the window where the featured sceneries that were once brimming with life has gone to sleep, dark and peaceful. I used to like the feeling of being above the earth, as if I was cradled in a hammock, with lullaby inducing sleep. However tonight, everything feels far different.

I feel uneasy. There’s something that keeps me awake, aback. My hair still smelt of seawater, making it dry and sticky at the same time. My skin was still warm and moist and dewy. My fingers moved not to the rhythm of the songs in my ipod, but paddled to the waves instead. My feet are a little dry and scaly with the tiniest of sand and dust in between my toes.

I no longer see the stars midst the dim streetlights, nor the streets gone dark and peaceful. All the windows exhibited was the playful sun, the balmy weather, the cheerful waves, and me running to the shore to greet the water. All i know is that, all that has been flashing through me is but the most recent and the swiftest memory. And the more the bus treads on its path, the farther I get from it, inch by little inch.

I wonder what is happening? I wonder how it has gone this way this time.

But all seasons are supposed to be short and temporary, does this mean this will be the end and/of the last?

Drunk and Dazed

I haven’t been going out for a while now. I don’t mean the partying dance and booze type. I believe I’ve outgrown such phase some years ago. I guess I just miss hanging out – sitting at the gutters, cold beer in one hand, a lighted cigarette on the other, music coming from the other lane, stare at the moon, think, talk and laugh a little, then walk home.

I was pretending to be sane and sober when alcohol has actually gotten the best of me. I mean, who wouldn’t when you’ve had gazillion alcohol mixes the past few hours, when you’ve been dancing with souls you don’t even know, when you’ve been inhaling smoke since you’ve stepped foot on this place. But that place was heaven – some place you never took me to nor accompanied me to.

I tried to believe I still had a portion of sanity then. I tried to speak like I was pensive, like I was some poet under extreme inspiration. But really, I was Sappho overwhelmed with wine. We conversed in verses – like there was an actual, truthful philosophy between the moon and its existence that night, like there was a correlation between it and us and gravity and reverie. We ended up disagreeing. We had opposing theories. We were on different sides of the chessboard.

That was our first disagreement. That wasn’t a lovers’ argument though, because we no longer were.

These memories, guess I better not drink and speak again.

Late Lunch

I turned my camera on before I sipped my lemonade. I would have wanted to take a photo of your rib-eye steak for my blog but you have already started to devour it by throwing a portion to your mouth. I grinned at you then looked at the round wall clock at the restaurant’s counter. This is a pretty late lunch at two o’clock in the afternoon and I can’t blame you for finishing your food in a wink of an eye.

You must have taken notice of my sheepish smile that you stopped and looked at me as I was halfway through twisting the linguine with my fork. You inquired how my research has been doing. I smirked and could have muttered “agonizing” without thinking, but I said “fine” along with a shrug. You didn’t take it as a good answer. You even bashed me with more queries until the real word came to you. I had no choice but to confess how I can hardly keep my spirit up the past few days. I needed to tell you it’s more than just the blinking cursor syndrome. I needed to tell you it’s more than the need for that spark of creativity.

You gave a small laugh and said “Finish your food now and I’ll get you a hug.”

I looked down at my greasy plate. The buttered chicken breast is still untouched and the pesto, just half its serving. I caught you sharing the sight when your eyes darted back to me as if initiating a challenge.

“No thanks.” I uttered in a tone lower than my usual voice. You just chuckled and came over to the opposite side of the table to give me a big fat hug.


Fiction doesn’t necessarily imply imagination. It may come from history, something you knew before but have already forgotten – its remembrance brings forth something novel.  It may be a reconstruction, a memory that has toppled down, but is conserved and preserved through a better thought. It may be something yet to exist, an enactment of wishes and dreams and fantasies.

Or maybe, it will just be another category in this blog.

*Definition of fiction’s mine. As per Roland Barthes, words and definitions are subjective. These are relative to one’s religion, beliefs, culture, and experience.

So there goes a disclaimer, don’t bash me then. 😛