Yellow – #The100DayProject, 3/100

July 5, 2015 § Leave a comment

It’s Sunday and I’m trying to catch up and write all the stories I need to write for now. Sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, keyboard ready. Get ready for short (maybe) and messy (definitely) writing. Here goes. 


The girl took one look at the contents of the box and her eyes grew wide. It was more than she’d ever seen her whole life and all she’d ever wanted. The card said nothing. She didn’t care. All she wanted to do was use every single color and draw worlds. And so she did.

The girl ran outside the house and picked the cleanest spot on the pavement. She smeared the paint all over the ground then took the pencils and drew rainbows. And flowers and duckies and sheep. And cats that went “Baaaa!” instead of “Meow.” She drew a sky around the sky and painted the sky yellow and painted blue over it then yellow again. She spent the whole afternoon painting and doodling there, on the cement, turning cold unfeeling gray into warmth and pure joy.

Finally, she felt that she had done all she could. There was nothing else she could add. The paints and brushes and crayons and markers and pencils were scattered all over the place. She started going around and picking them up, gingerly putting them all back into the box. She was proud of herself.

The girl had just kept the last of the tools when a voice from inside the house interrupted her thoughts. “Time to go home, darling!”
“Alright, I’m coming!” she yelled and ran back in to return the box and get her things.

For My Father – #The100DayProject, 2/100

June 21, 2015 § 2 Comments

Cue the Andy McKee guitar solo. Hey, it’s a great piece and it’s one of my favorites. So anyway, here’s my second story. I want to experiment with writing a bit. So mehehe. Here. Happy Father’s Day to all dads out there. And to my daddy, I love you sooo much. I’m afraid you and mom might be the only ones who’ll get this piece. But still… that seems appropriate. Love you, dad. You’re my infuriatingly stubborn rock. Well, you and mom both that is. ;)11426467_10153234404384724_1427670727_n

My daddy is awesome. He fixes things and made me a thingy to hang my necklaces on and the other things that mommy gives me to wear when she doesn’t – huh? I didn’t hear yooou, what did you say daddy?

That’s him, he’s saying tell me your name well my name is Ellie and –

No, wait!

Okay, okay. Four. Fooouuur. Th – four.


Yes, milk. And pancakes! Pancakes!

Please. Yes! Please. Okay, please.

Sorry. Please. Pancakes and milk please.

Daddy’s bossy, but I love him. Mommy’s bossier though, and I love her too. Daddy lets me play more, and he always laughs and then the video, he –

Can I see myself now? I wanna see myself! No! Noooo! I wanna see myself, now! I –



I’m sorry. Milk?


This is my red umbrella and my red – red rain – raincoat. Boots. Red boots. Tralalalala.

Okay, stooop!

Daddy’s videotape – recordi – videotaping this here – me. Daddy’s funny, he’s making his eyes big.

Mommy, mommy, should I –

Is it time? Now? Can I now?

Yayyy, give it to me, I’ll tell him now?

Daddy, daddy, surpriiiise! This is for –

This is for you and this will make you – make you happy and you just blow the candle and tell me your wish and I’ll give it to you – no, a fairy! Yes. After – After, blow the candle first! Alright, gift. One, two, threeee – pillowwww! Fluffy, it’s soft, see? Mommy said your back hurts lots so we got – no. Yes. You’re welcome. Love you daddy.

Noooo, daddy, nooo hahahaha daddyyyyyy! Too high, too high! I’m gonna faaaaalll! There, better. Daddy’s what’s that?

And that?

What about that?

Where’s mommy? Oh there! Daddy, she – laughing, mommy’s laughing! Daddy you look funny, hahaha. Umbrella? Umbrella.

And there, what’s that?

I can see eeevveerythiiiing!

Daddy, I’m on top of the woooorld! Whoooooo! Tarzaaaaaan! Awhooooo!


Don’t want it, daddy. I want you. You and mommy, always.

Love you.


Happy – what was it, mommy?

Father’s – father’s day! Happy father’s day daddy!

Happy Father’s Day, daddy.

Hmm. That felt refreshing, again. And that was completely different from everything else here. I guess it was a combination of the need to write, the rush, lethargy, and enthusiasm. Sheer happiness, of course, most of all. When I tell Mial this story, I imagine I’ll be the silliest I’ve ever been. But then for her smile, anything. :)

Dad… thank you. I love you.

Cloud Gatherer, Part One (?) – #The100DayProject, 1/100

June 21, 2015 § Leave a comment

11120962_10153233063054724_1831110000_n First piece for #The100DayProject is here. It’s only my first day and I’m already struggling not to procrastinate – help! What was my mantra again? I want to do this. I want to do this. I want to do this. Okay. So this story now. And later, because it’s Father’s Day today – and a happy dad’s day to all the fathers out there :) – it’ll be a Father’s Day story. Yesh. My brain might melt under the strain of actually meeting deadlines for once. But I’m ecstatic. PS. I’m not aiming for perfection here. I might edit the story later, but this is the raw.


Once upon a time –

Because this is my very first story for you, sweetheart, and starting it classically seems to be the most appropriate for an introduction – once upon a time, there was a little girl. That’s right. A tiny little gem of a girl, just like you. She had eyes that were always glued to the heavens, and her mama never scolded her for it. In fact, whenever the girl went into her reveries, her mother watched her, full of love for her daughter, as she remembered the dreamer she had also been – and still was.

One day, the girl was out on a grassy field, gazing, as always, at the sky she loved so much. She kept her eyes on the blue, the gray, the ever-changing patterns of white fluff. The clouds lazily drifted across the blue expanse, and she stared, already used to picking out all sorts of shapes and patterns and faces in the white formations. She saw a cat with a fluffy tail, and a wolf with an elephant’s body. There was an apple next to a giraffe, and a monkey with two heads.

And then there was something else. The girl saw a tiny speck – a silver something that was moving through the sky at the same pace as the clouds. Or maybe it was just a bit faster?

The girl squinted hard and strained her eyes to see the speck better – or rather, her mind was put under considerable strain to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. For doubtlessly, she saw a boy. A boy who was pulling the clouds.

All of a sudden, the unimaginable happened.

There, on that bright and beautiful morning, a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. The girl jumped, blinking. Lightning? She waited seconds, minutes, moments, for the roar of the thunder to follow. It never came. Instead, the small silver dot seemed to grow bigger and bigger and bigger as it, no, he – the girl saw that indeed, it was a boy – came hurtling down in her direction. With wide eyes, she followed the falling boy’s image even as he fell with a deafening crash (ah, there’s the lightning, the girl thought, dazed) into a patch of grass not that far away from her. Without hesitation, she scampered over to the site and first saw the enormous, steaming hole in the ground. And when she saw the boy in its center, the first thought that entered her mind was that this was ridiculously similar to some movies she’d watched with her mama before. The second thought, which came at almost the exact same moment as the first one, was a question of whether there was a child who came crashing into the earth for every strike of lightning that happened.

She came closer and saw that the boy was sitting down, muttering to himself and grumbling and dusting off his white shirt and shorts. He was sliver indeed, with silver hair that seemed to glow. He was barefoot, the girl noted as he stood up. And shorter than her. He looked to be about five years younger, maybe five or six years old – in human years, she thought, and then well yes, he obviously isn’t human. Still muttering, he lifted his head and looked at her for the first time, and she saw that his eyes were silver too.

“Well,” the little boy said grumpily, in a voice the girl thought sounded like ringing bells, “you need to help me get back home.”

Okay. That was faaar from good. It wasn’t good, actually. But just writing my ideas without thought felt amazingly refreshing. I also realized that this story – which I’ve had in my head for a few months now – is a lot bigger than I thought it would be. There’s so much of it to be told. I’ll cut this first draft off here first and continue (and revise and edit and revise again) soon. I have a feeling that by the end of these 100 days, I’ll have a mountain of unfinished stories. :D

So I’m doing this thing…

June 20, 2015 § Leave a comment


And I’m two months late. But I’m really interested in this whole project and I want to go about this at my own pace. The project I’m talking about is #The100DayProject, jump-started by Elle Luna and The Great Discontent, and it’s basically something where people all over the globe participate in making/doing something for 100 consecutive days, then posting and sharing their works on Instagram.


I just learned about this today, even though the whole thing started last April 6th – two months late, yayy! How fitting for a procrastinator of my caliber. Ha. But anyway, I particularly want to do this because I feel it’ll be a good start to getting my thing back. My writing thing. Keeping a schedule hasn’t really been one of my good points lately, and I need to learn to discipline myself if I want to accomplish anything at all (woah for me – harsh, but true). So yes. Here. This also signals my return to blogging, as I want to become even more productive and post an extended version of all my Instagram posts on my blog everyday. Idealistic, I am, yes. But…. yeah. I want to do this. I want to do this. I want to do this. Now I just have to remember to repeat this mantra every single day, especially when I feel like not doing anything at all. Ha.


The project requires my own personal hashtag, so I’ve decided on #100DaysofStoriesforMial. Yayy. And yes. That’s my subject for this whole project. I’m going to make stories every day for my daughter. :) That’s actually part of why I’m so excited. I’m brimming with ideas right now, and most of all, I’m also doing this for her. My Alessa Micael. Yayyy!

So to anyone who’s still keeping tabs on my blog, thank you so much for the support. Like, thank you. Thank you. Thank you soooo darn much. And keep posted. Heh. I feel alive right now and extremely happy, for some reason. Productivity at last! And motherhood at the same time! I really am happy. :)

Okay, so I guess that’s it for the weird, rushed announcement. For anyone who’s interested in the project, I encourage it. It’s never too late to start. Let’s start together, shall we?


PS. I’ll post my first story tonight.
PPS. Another perk of this: I’m discovering that I actually like Instagram. I never thought I’d say that. Wow.

A Glimpse Into Her Soul (Part One: Triste in E Minor)

October 5, 2014 § 3 Comments

Writing is a form of escape. Or for others, it could be a push into reality. Whatever it is, writing’s a solace. It’s… a freedom.

This is an outburst, a cry, a need to express. This is her story. Her words. Her feelings. A peek into what no one could see, what she didn’t want others to see, but what had to be let out. 

This is messy. It’s emotional. I read it again and wish I could edit it more and write it better. But no. Let’s keep it like this, shall we? Raw. For her.


break free by mathiole


She could never tell anyone. She would keep it to herself, take it to her grave, not let anyone know.

No one noticed. She acted perfectly normal. She laughed when she was supposed to, smiled when she needed to. Days were easy. She was used to pretending. Her whole life seemed pretend, so what was one more foray into her many facades? She could blend in, she was good at that. Be the girl everyone was used to seeing.

Meet up with friends, laugh, make jokes. Go to church, sing, pray. Feel immensely, unbearably guilty. Feel tainted. Feel dirty. Smile at aunts and uncles. Greet everyone. Coo and make faces and make babies smile (or try to, at least). Eat lunch. Have a normal lunchtime discussion with parents and cousin. Weekdays, weekends– everything was the same as before. Kind of.

The nights were the worst. When she was left alone with herself with no one to see her. Cooped up in her bedroom, she could re-enter her reality. The reality she had no desire to go back to. When she did sleep, she had nightmares.

Hands. Pushing. Pulling. Tearing apart. Darkness.

She woke up gasping, crying, reaching for the glass of water she kept by her bedside table. Tried to text a friend. No reply. Cried herself to sleep.

The next day when she woke up again, she’d go back to normal. Greet her parents, argue with them, go to school, laugh with friends. Shut in the turmoil. Release it in her laughter. Go home, get scolded, banter lightly, make jokes, eat dinner. Retreat to her room.

Same process. Same fears. Same dreams. Over and over. Nothing could disrupt her cycle.

Or so she thought.

She always marked her calendar, had a neurotic need for keeping tabs on her… monthlies. Red, she’d mark on her calendar when it started. Red end, she’d put a few days after when there was no more blood. Simple enough. It was something she needed to do to satisfy some weird obsessive need of hers (along with smelling the dishes she washed right before she put them back on the rack, holding a book to her chest when she felt nervous, eating every single grain of rice on her plate, etc.)

And then it didn’t come.

Nothing. No blood. Not a single spot on her underwear. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

And all she could think of was please no, not that. Please no, not because of that. Please God, no, don’t let it be that. Please, please, please, please, this is not right.

And so she prayed. Hoped it was a delay. Just a delay. A postponement, if you will. Her hormones and body parts on a busy schedule and planning at some internal board meeting to move the red to a later date.

Then the next month came.

And the red did not.

So the panic came. No. No. No. No. Please. No.



No. She vowed to herself she’d never tell. But now she had to. She couldn’t bring herself to kill, could never do that. The routine was broken. The hiding was over.

And in return for her move to let her soul out, she got exactly what she feared. Negativity. Disbelief. Denial. Anger. Confusion. Pain. So much pain. The nights got worse than before. The crying came more often. Along with the fear that the stress she was going through would harm the life growing inside her.

The pretending got harder. She’d be irritable, sad, depressed, not her normal self. She lashed out on people, said things she didn’t mean, said things she meant but never would have said otherwise. And when she did show her happy, unfazed, self, she got doubt in return. Why aren’t you depressed, they’d say. Why aren’t you scared, they’d say. You’re lying, they’d say. Tell us the truth, they’d say. Why are you laughing, they’d say.

And she wanted to scream back, and shout and argue and cry, and tell them everything she was thinking, all that she was feeling.

You were not there. You don’t see me all the time. You don’t know what I dream of at night. You don’t know what I remember every time I try to tell you what happened. You don’t understand what I’m feeling right now. You can’t see into my soul.

And she willed them to look. Willed them to stare into her eyes and see past the surface, read between the lines, see what was inside.

Willed them to see how she felt.


That night, the night of the incident. The days that followed after. The unwillingness to bare her soul. The feelings she went through all the time.

Dirty. Despicable. Unclean. The moment she got home that night, she pretended everything was normal. Took the anger, acted like the rebellious teenager she was supposed to be. Went to her room. Shut the door. Stripped. Washed. Rubbed herself clean. Rubbed her skin till it was sore. Cried while washing. Didn’t feel the freezing water. Felt used. Felt pathetic. Felt wrong.

She never wondered why. She never questioned why it happened to her. No. She blamed herself. In her mind, she deserved it. In her mind, the fault was hers. For sleeping. For disobeying. For being stubborn. In her mind, she was being punished. For everything she’d done in the past, all the times she sinned and repeated and lied and lost control. Mea culpa, she’d think again. In her mind, she was to blame.

Prayed. She kept praying, asking for wisdom, asking for help. This wasn’t the only problem she had. Every day, moment plus moment plus moment made her heart break slowly. Everything seemed to be making things worse.

Nothing was sane.


She didn’t want them to see and yet wanted them to see. She didn’t want to tell them and yet wanted to tell them. Everything was mixed. Everything was confusing. Everything was a paradox.

It was hard to sort things out.

She couldn’t put a proper ending.

She couldn’t fix things the way they needed to be fixed.

Nothing was going as planned.


Even now, she couldn’t tie things up properly.

So part one ends here.

Messy. Unfixed. Unsorted. Disorganized.

An outburst of emotions.


A letting go of what had to be let go.


A glimpse into her soul.





May 25, 2014 § 1 Comment

In my humble opinion, there are two types of books in the world– those that make you glow and those that make you… ignite. I can’t really explain any further. I’ll let the poem do the talking. :3

Oh, and… hi. I’m back– again. :D

Turn the Page by DpressedSoul


Take me to a place I barely
Somewhere I
Don’t see–
Even in my dreams.
Give me something new
To ponder on,
To think about.
Make the wheels turn.
Make the rest just
Slip away,
Until nothing is left
But a flyleaf.
A closed book.
And a
Making way for
A memory.

Be that
For me.


You can be
The other kind.
The kind
That doesn’t just leave
A slow,
And a thrill
That I lose
And forget
A week after.
Be the one
That lights a fire.

Tearing up my soul,
Pushing me to



Leaving me
Trembling from the
To scream,
To rage,
To claw at my chest and
Let the teeming
And change
The world.

Gnaw at my soul,
Invade my
What I need.
And shove me
Off the edge.
Drive me
To start
Exactly what
I need
To do,
And start
Who I need
To be.

Which are you?

The only way I’ll really know
Is if I

Read on.


March 12, 2014 § 1 Comment

So yesterday was the 1st death anniversary of one of my best friends, who died of pulmonary fibrosis. This is for her. :)


She was a little awkward,
A little too carefree.
She chewed with her mouth open
And told us jokes
At the same time,
And talked
About everything and nothing
With the rice and noodles
Making their way onto the table.
And we were laughing back
And telling her to
Chew her food properly
And swallow before talking
But she’d just grin
And laugh again.

Her laugh.

I could only describe it as
A snicker.
It was a cross between the laughs of
Scooby Doo and
Mr. Bean
With extra breaths in between.
Something like:
With the double and triple h’s
Sounding like the spitting sound
From the
Back of your mouth;
The “ch” in the German “achtung”
Or “ich liebe dich”.
Her laughter
Was contagious.
When she laughed,
We all started to as well.

There was this time
We were standing together,
Just the two of us.
Waiting for our other friends
After our high school yearbook photo shoot
In the Bell House
At John Hay,
And it was about 4 in the afternoon.
I was in my gold dress,
Wearing my elephant ring,
And she was holding a book,
Wearing a colorful
Floral dress,
Hair undone,
(Again, as always–
She was so cheerful).
And there was this moment,
This one second
When the sunlight was perfectly golden,
And it hit her
At just the right angle
In just the right place
At just the right time
And I saw her in a way
I never really had before.
And I paused
And stared,
And smiled and said,
“You’re beautiful”
And she just looked at me
Like I was crazy,
But she was still grinning,

And she was beautiful.
She really was.

She faced everything
Even death.

She was full of laughter,
So full of love,
And she never gave up
On anything.

The words on her headstone
Are painted in her favorite color,
And somehow
They’re the perfect words
For her:


And she did.
She really did.

To the very end.



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