Pacing the ground purposefully, my bare feet are restless on the asphalt, toes twitching, itching, as though determined to close our distance, whether of a few inches or a hundred miles.
- The sheets are cold with your absence as I crawl out from underneath them. The clock ticks 1:48AM. Sleep eludes me tonight.Advertisements
Do you remember that night in your house? Please don’t say no. I know you’ve had your share of girls, but this is me we’re talking about, and you shouldn’t just forget about me.Advertisements
Darkness envelops me in its impenetrability.
I light a candle and watch its light flicker,
tantalizing me with its slow, seductive dance.
I gaze intently into the bright yellow tongue of flame, searching
for an answer that may or may not show itself.Advertisements
I dodge cars and trucks speeding by carelessly. I reach the other side of the road. Crossing the street without you holding my hand feels like tempting Death.
Standing on this street corner, I think of you. (I always think of you, of course, but tonight particularly.) I’m waiting for a bus to take me away from here and I suddenly remember how much I miss going home with you.Advertisements
You’re a shy girl of sixteen. You keep your head down when you walk through the hallways, wear a shirt-and-jeans combo every day, keep to your circle of friends. In high school, when everyone’s obsessed with labels –jock, geek, loser, prom queen – you feel invisible, like glass on water,aimlessly floating adrift along the current.Advertisements
Her eyes were in the back of her head.
Shame, people said, she could have been really pretty. Soft jet-black hair, rosy lips, porcelain skin. Shame, they whispered, staring at her with their eyes placed just above their noses, in the front of their bodies, the way it’s supposed to be.
How could they not stare? Her delicate, perfectly shaped features—chin, lips, nose, ears—were completely eclipsed by the bizarre absence of eyes. The space above her nose was a stretch of smooth, blank skin. Her hair was long in front but very short in the back so she could see. She liked to call this a reverse mullet, but no one laughed at this. Maybe you had to have your eyes in the back of your head to see the humor.Advertisements
The YC Buddies are big fans of Artistang Artlets, the official theater guild of the UST Faculty of Arts and Letters. We make it a point to always watch their plays, even when we’re not required by our professors.
Imba, written by Jem Ferrer, directed by Jihad Mambuay, and (ohnoes, how do you translate “sa pamamahala ni”??) Karla Angela Tajon, was shown at the Rizal Conference Hall in our building.
It was sort of a Valentine’s play, since the theme was love (of course). To be completely honest, even though the past AA plays I watched have been great, I wasn’t expecting much from this other than the usual clichés you see in movies. I mean, seriously. It was Valentine’s Day! I thought AA would show a frilly, fluffy love story about unrequited love and all that overused Hollywood rom-com bullcrap. Thank god I was wrong.Advertisements
by dirty cotton bandages
into an unyielding wooden spineboard
I lie vulnerable,
exposed for all the world to see
in this game we play,
bound to the idea
of you and me.
Inspired months ago, during my NSTP make-up session.Advertisements
- 1:24 on a Thursday afternoon. With your hand in mine, determinedly walking ’round in circles, we found ourselves lost somewhere between Taft and Quiapo. The sun scorched us from overhead, and I could practically smell my hair burning. Crowds of unfriendly people jostled us back and forth. The scent of ihaw-ihaw wafted to our nostrils from the small stall we passed just a second ago.“Where are we going?” you asked, fed up.Advertisements