Category Archives: my fiction

Dear John

I thought I would never write about you again.

I am lost of metaphorical titles and figurative lines. Those things I never wanted to lose had gone with the blow from my cigarette’s smoke. They afloat and mislay their core in the air. Words come flashing through my mind with indistinct gist. These fingers cannot comprehend comprehension. And I fear I am not writing a note but a poetry cocooned in a prose.

I thought I would never write about you.

I thought I am lost of words and memories and pains.

I am not.

And there you are sitting beside me. Laughing. You’re telling the stories again. And I feel your breath. There you sit right beside me. For all I know, only in my reverie.

Only in those can I hear you speaking to me again unaltered. Without awkwardness. Just like before. Only in thoughts will I see you smiling for me again, showing your imperfect teeth that I love more than the thousands’ perfect grins. Only in those figments will I be able to feel the roughness of your palm, and fingers that once had played my favorite symphony.

They are called memories because they already are done. They would not happen again. They would never happen once again.

It hurt. It hurts. It will hurt.

But it is through all these pains and heartbreaks and tears that I know that I had loved. Truly.

Even if it was not said. Even if it was kept. I had loved.

And I would write…

Perhaps not all about you. Not about us for there is no us. Not about the things I am already done writing. Not about poets with unfinished poems. Not about singers with broken tones. Not about my fingers that are finally letting go. Not about my heart. Not about you and your you. Not about unstoppable pains and heartbeats.

It will not be all about the same things again. For there is no sense of repeating, not until you would learn to write about me.

But before that happens, I know I will be writing again…

Not for you. But for someone else. 



The man sat at the bench. Smoking.

I could see how his heart was pounding. He was thinking deeply, oblivious of the passing people, their noises and their stares. The sole of his shoe totally killed the dying light of the cigar. He lit another.

I would always remind him to quit with his vice. I know I had only a little of a convincing power. He got away with it. Not until now.

He sat there. Legs crossed. His views remained focused to nowhere. I was there; a few feet away from him. A handkerchief in the right hand. I squeezed it hard. And I almost cried.

He sat at the bench. And I sat beside him.

“The air’s freezing you should have worn a jacket.” My voice hung in the coldness of the night and of the park showered by colorful lights. My voice hung in the air. Unheard.

We sat there for a couple of minutes. Talking about nothing. No, not even talking at all. The silence was unusual. He continued smoking while I covered my nose with the hanky. The only thing I’d be keeping from him.

Sorry, he finally said. He’d thrown the stick and turned to me.

Sorry, he repeated.

I smiled and looked away. I thought the skies were crying. But I was wrong. I was the one crying.

I have always expected this thing to happen. We both were. We both knew there could always be an end.

Before we decided to see each other that night, I have already prepared myself to anything that might happen. I have heard of the talks day before. But I never heard a word from him. The questions I had were asked in silence. And that night, he also answered them in silence.

He hugged me and I could feel the warmth I have always yearned to feel.

I could feel his tears falling. That made my sob audible.

I stood up and handed him a letter. I had written the things I could never personally tell him. He stared. His tears continued to fall. I wiped mine and smiled.

Best wishes, I said without looking at him.

He reached for me and said, “I love you Miguel.

But I walked away. Saying nothing. The tears fell like it wouldn’t stop. My heart bled. It was squeezed. I ran like a child with the audible sobs.

I wanted to shout how much I love him too.

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He sat there trembling. He held a pen. And his hands were shaking.

He stared at the blank piece of paper. He couldn’t start a word. He remained clueless for a minute. Then the words abruptly sank through his mind. He was then certain what was happening – the start of an end.

He wrote without pausing. Emotions.Thoughts.Pains.

He wrote the last letter of his life.

He wrote for her – the girl he had secretly loved for years now. The primordial source of his every depression, she broke his heart without her knowing.

He wrote for them – the folks who had brought him up to this messy world. They love him but he feels strangled. He loves them and this he had long struggled to prove.

He wrote for himself – the weary ego who couldn’t seem to understand things too clear. The questions are still hanging. So he wished he is.

He folded the paper and left it to the desk, leaving things unclear and unanswered.

The gallows are waiting, he thought. He climbed up the stool. He stood still. The rope hung.

He placed his head inside the knot. He cried.

He thought of her. Her smiles were in a sudden flashback. He cried with phantasmagoria of her.

He thought of them. Their dreams of a better son shall remain a dream. I want to breathe, he uttered. I want freedom. I want to leave.

He thought of the laughter. He thought how his best friends would cry. He grinned while tears ran down his cheeks. He thought of the memories.

They love you, a voice within him argued.

I know. They’ll understandd. He answered.

He stood still on the stool. And prayed, forgive me.
He cried. He sobbed.

And in that last second of his life, he kicked the stool.

The questions hung. Also he.

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