Young Underpaid Professionals

FICTION posted by Rica

I live with The Omen. So far she hasn’t done anything that would eventually become a catalyst toward world destruction. She’s one lazy devil. A literal one. But, you have to understand, even if The Omen hasn’t moved her ass off that huge creepy red throne of hers, I’m pretty sure we’ll all be headed to her queendome soon enough.

Dibs on Apartment A.

It’s not a privilege, by the way. It just so happens I’m her sister, so this is a favor. And it’s a huge curse, I tell you. Imagine… hell. Bonfires are at the bottom level. The big kind of bonfires that you’d only typically use during the burning of a witch. Imagine the fire’s taller than you if you stand beside it, and the you’ll feel as if the fire’s seeping under your skin and burning your insides first.

That kind of bonfire.
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FICTION posted by Rio S.

She woke up and readied herself for work.
She went into the office with a smile on her face.
She worked.
She logged out on the office attendance sheet.
She hailed a cab.
She greeted the doorman and went straight to her flat.
She was happy, she could almost hear them say.
She laughed.

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FICTION posted by Rio S.

Dear Sam,

It sure has been a while. Thanks for sending your coffee blend, by the way; Fran says thanks too. We’re still wondering whatever it is you put in there. Honestly, I can safely say we’re quite addicted to Samantha’s Personal Coffee Blend.

How have you been honey? I’ve been busy with work and family stuff the past couple of months and I’m sorry for not writing as often. I know I haven’t called that many times either but I know you’d understand. Fran and I got your package yesterday. I tried to call you, but all I got was that automated voice. In German. Course, I had no idea what it was saying; I just assumed you’d forgotten to charge your phone again. I tried calling many times and still that voice answered, so here I am writing you an email instead.

Mom says to thank you. The curtains you sent to the house were “just darling,” she said. She’s been nagging me to write you more often, but I was really busy you see. Read the rest of this entry »

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FICTION posted by Rica

She was standing in the middle of that stupid overcrowded mall, her left hand on her waist, her right hand fumbling in her pocket for her cell phone. Has he called yet, she heard the lady at the information booth ask. He hasn’t, but I doubt he’d bother to. No, but he will in a few minutes, she heard the guard stationed at the booth answer the woman.

Even that phantom vibration of her phone wasn’t there. She would know if he had called or had sent a message saying he’d be late again. But since it had been three hours since she started waiting for him, she was sure by now he had stood her up again. Not again, she told herself. Always falling for the same trap.

Her friend had once told her she was foolish. Stupid would be a better term, she joked, but they both knew she meant it. She was stupid, so stupid she always ended up waiting for hours for a person who she knew would never come anyway.

She would’ve liked to tell him, or her friend, or anyone really, that she was tired. It’s not as if waiting’s an exciting game, she mumbled to herself. Read the rest of this entry »

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FICTION posted by Rica

The image I have of you in my mind is that of an angel – an angel with red wings.

You were never the type to settle things calmly, always resorting to violence. And if you could, you’d definitely annihilate anyone who was in your way. You were never the type to write either. You know, even if you only knew how to write about rage and anger and killing, I would still read them all, your letters. Because I know that’s the only thing I can do for you. That’s the only thing you would’ve let me do for you. If you only wrote, you know I’d have read them.

After you left for your war, I always imagined you returning with a big uncharacteristic smile on your face. You’d knock on the door, and when I tell you to come in, you’d wipe your soles clean first on my Welcome Home mat. And then you’d say, “I’m back”, or something more out of character like, “I’m home.” And I’d tell you, “Finally.” Read the rest of this entry »

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FICTION posted by Rica

She gets in her car, or waves at a cab. She drives herself to work, or lets the cab driver drop her in front of her office. She doesn’t take a lift but feels the elevator doors close. She waits five minutes to make sure gravity won’t pull her down again. She gets out and faces another day in her box. Boxed office. Box office. She feels a tightness in her chest; she feels she’s being watched again. Box office. Boxed office.

Just a third of my day, she tells herself. And she feels old again.

She smells her coffee. She wakes up but closes her eyes again. She’s dreaming the day away. She’s starting her day right. She takes a sip and opens her eyes. She sees what’s on her desk, not what’s in front of her. She switches her life on, but the monitor won’t open. She adjusts the cables at the back. Read the rest of this entry »

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FICTION posted by Rio S.

Sometimes, it’s hard to pretend to be strong all the time.
You’re strong, sure, but not always.
Everybody has limits, a breaking point.
Sometimes, things just keep piling up.
Every little thing goes wrong.
You’re keeping the blasted dike together.
And sometimes, you wish you can just let it fall apart.
Sometimes, it gets tiring.
Fighting alone. A losing battle.
Sometimes, you ask why you’re even there in the first place.
When you could’ve chosen to be somewhere else.
Somewhere peaceful, somewhere safe.
Then you remember what you’re fighting for.
You pick yourself up and go up against your monsters.
But sometimes… You don’t.

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FICTION Posted by Rica



Seeing Taal makes her remember Romy Diaz in his contrabida roles, wearing a robe, so early in the goddang morning.
Puffing. Smoke.
Everything’s hazy again.
Must be fog.
She’s sure it’s not smog. She doesn’t want to go back to the city.
For now.
She sees lines – or waves. Or wavy lines. Or…
She’s not thinking straight.
Again.
And again.
Her eyes feel heavy so early in the morning.
No, she’s not tired.
Not yet.
It’s just dawn, and she’s looking at the lake.
“Oh”, she says, as she wipes her tears away.
Again. And again.

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FICTION posted by Mai

“Mind yourself now,” his wife called out when he slowly pulled out the car from the garage. “And take care of yourself!”

“Yeah, I will,” he answered through the rolled-down car window. As soon as the car was properly positioned by the road outside, he beckoned to his wife for a good-bye kiss. “Take care, too. And thanks for the present. I’ll use it. My word.”

“And control yourself, beloved,” she whispered against his ear.

“Yeah. I promise.” He drove off happily, and in slightly good sprits. The present in question, an unopened pot of peppermint-scented potpourri taped to the leather dashboard, waiting to be given proper acknowledgement. The man turned on the radio and listened to his MP3 player, whose playlist was altered by his wife, who deemed the song selection as too ‘provocative’. His lip slightly curled in distaste when he found out that his wife had inserted a couple of Simon and Garfunkle songs, which he promptly skipped with a deft flick of his finger.

“Goddamn b…graah,” he groaned and gritted his teeth in a great effort to stop himself from cursing loudly. He promised his wife. I promised. “Emo of the sixties, they are,” he grudgingly blurted out, frustrated and at the same time relieved that he was able to voice out his aversion without breaking his word. Read the rest of this entry »

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FICTION posted by Rem

“In the face of true love, you don’t just give up even if the object of your affection is begging you to…”

I forgot where I heard this quip…it could be from Chuck Bass or from Lucas Scott, heck maybe even from Dawson Leery. Perhaps this naive and somewhat valiant way of looking at true love occupied my mind as I traversed the long and pothole-ridden roads of the north that led me to the disaster that is you, my dear Alex.

I’ve heard rumors and talks about how you felt about me, about the possibility of an “us”. At the same time, I also heard discouragement from very concerned friends who said that I’m basically committing emotional suicide; that by going to where you are I’m actually entering the deepest, innermost circle of hell. Though I heard them all, I chose to listen to the rumors and talks – the rest I treated as white noise – you hear it, but it is nothing but minute and insignificant. Read the rest of this entry »

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FICTION posted by Karl

Do you remember? I do. I remember the good times we had together. I remember you telling me you wouldn’t ever leave. I remember words like “forever” and “eternity”. I remember kisses. I remember heat. I remember catching you making out with him behind the gym.

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FICTION posted by Rica

Her hands didn’t feel like her own; she had been staring at them since this morning. She couldn’t help but be amazed at how her hands had cooked a wonderful breakfast for her and her lover, how they had washed the dishes afterwards, and how they had done even the most trivial of chores around the house. She had never enjoyed doing those before with her own hands.

Those hands, she thought they were wonderful!

It could’ve lasted all day, her amusement; but slowly she realized that the hands were not like the ones she had been keeping clean. These hands were different. They were bruised, the nails were bitten short, both pinkies looked like they were sewn back on the hands, and they looked really worn.

This isn’t a Stephen King novel, she kept telling herself when she realized the hands were not hers. Read the rest of this entry »

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