Earlier that morning, as Wren sat on the bench by the bus stop, an old man approached her, asking for coins. It was all he wanted, he said. So Wren gave him, and he thanked her, and he walked away. Wren looked at the old man with a heavy heart, and a heavy wallet. The moment the old man stopped (he sat by the bushes), she stood up and gave him a few bucks more. 

“That’s really nice of you, young lady. Thank you.”

Wren only smiled. 

Just then, a bus came. It was too crowded, even though others have already alighted. Wren decided to remain, under the heat and in the company of the deceiving asphalt. The old man got up, gave Wren a nod, then went his way. Wren waited.



Just a moment ago, a dove flew by. The strange thing about it is it’s nighttime. Why a dove would appear at night baffles me. I’ve never seen one when the moon hovered, nor when the stars punctured the widespread darkness. It was an oddity, an oddity that only I witnessed. Or not, because doves do fly across and beyond. So, perhaps, I am not the sole witness, but it is really late at night; I take comfort in the thought that everybody’s on their beds or wherever it is that they’d fallen asleep on. But tonight, my head will comfortably be on my pillow — not because of the pillow, but because of what I saw.


I’m a few storeys high, and yes, I’m going to do it.

March 5, 2013

Mom: Francine, get your brother’s jacket. You’re going to be late.

Me: Mom, he’s old enough to get it himself.

Mom: He’s busy right now, reading today’s paper.

Me: Why does he have to be so pampered? He just reads the paper…

Mom: Dear, if only you read the paper, then we’ll treat you and your brother equally.

March 10, 2013

Brother: Hey! Don’t use your laptop. I’m downloading movies.

Me: But I have to finish–

Mom (comes in my room unexpectedly): Francine, it’s important. Your brother has to watch these movies so he can get influenced and do really well on his project.

Me: We have a stack of DVDs downstairs.

Brother: It’s more comfortable inside my room. I’d rather watch in there.

March 15, 2013

Me: Mom, can you please pick me up already? I have a ton of workload to–

Mom: Can’t! Busy watching your brother’s recital. He’s really good with the guitar.

Me: But mom…

Mom: Walk home! It’s good for you.

March 15, 2013

I’m going to do it. Good-bye.

The Candle Snuffer

Somewhere deep within the woods, deep within a dark room, on a table, was a candle. It was lit, and its glow upset the dark. The candle was solitary and was enjoying solitude. It stayed that way for a few hours; the flame died, for the candle had to rest. The dark was pleased.

The candle never lighted itself again. It tried, once or twice, but it couldn’t, and it did not know why. One day, as the candle was weeping, it seemed — wax beads on pause — the room, from complete blackness, was filled with the morning light. The candle thought it miraculous to have light again, but then again, it did not come from it.

“Dear font of such great light, where do you come from?” it said.

Nothing answered it, of course, for the source was miles and miles away. But the candle waited for an answer until it finally gave in to the assumption that the source believed the little thing, believed the candle, to be terribly insignificant. The candle did not mind, but it did apologize. And once it did, the candle felt something had suddenly been placed over it.

“Whmmmmmmm…” It could no longer speak. It stayed this way forever.


Constance is a woman who deserves to be chained. She uses a chainsaw for her loaf, a butcher knife for her butter, and lard as her butter. She gets her butter herself. Constance, she must die. But who knows why? She does not bother anyone, but she could. She does not murder — oh, but would she? Yet, anyone could or would, or might. Constance is Johnny and Jane. But not everyone believes this is the truth. But there’s only one truth, they say. Only one truth that exists and remains: Constance must be chained.

The Diorama of an Old Woman (1)

View is the panning of pane of glass, plain and dull, with scratches and slashes. View is already going back, blur is gone, focus now on. View was dull and dead as skulls — as skulls to ash — yet more life in them. View: with elements, with content, with scene; eyes unfold, faces seen. And view is now a gradual clash of red and yellow and blue and black. View begins to make sense.