It has become a habit for me and Rio to jot down random thoughts that show either how cool our thought processes can be or just how lame we really are underneath our well-guarded facades (Usually, it’s the latter.). The Overlord has permitted joined us in this week’s compilation of random thoughts and weird conversations with the self and more preferably, with another person. So, here goes…
For those who haven’t seen scanlations of chapter 63 of La Corda D’oro (Kiniro no Corda), you shouldn’t read this post. This is my spoiler alert. You have been warned.
There’s nothing like drinking eggnog – or ice-cold beer, whichever you prefer – and eating food that will probably add more lbs and elevate your cholesterol level and blood pressure as you stare at your well-lit tree on a chilly Christmas night.
Cheers for the holidays, ladies and gents!
We went to Alay ng Puso and I didn’t pick up a single toddler and treated him like he was my pamangkin or cousin. Or as someone who’d infallibly affect my life in some way.
FICTION by Rica
Book signing. Queue. Bookworms with my work in hand.
One smiling face approached me.
“You always sign with a red marker.”
“It’s my lucky charm.” I wink.
Besides, it’s easier to refill with red “ink”.
“Oh, it dries out easily.”
I take a snapshot of him beaming; he smiles even wider.
I smile back, take out my pad, and jot down notes.
Another bestseller on the way.
FICTION by Rica
That’s what you get for mocking me.
He insulted me with a genuine smile at my book signing.
But nobody’s smiled after reading me, ever.
Slit throat, gunshot, fall from an 8th floor balcony.
Only deepest hatred appears in my work.
But Nero smiled.
Now I smile genuinely, ogling police in and out of 23 New York, Cubao.
FICTION posted by Rica
She sits down, grabs pen and paper, reviews notes, pics about her plot.
Nero.
Wide smile.
Lips sewn together with red marker.
23 New York, Cubao.
Red gate.
Noose?
Hit-and-run.
Hm.
Asphyxiation.
Yes.
Gouged eyes.
Perfect.
She wipes the pen, starts writing another suspense novel as she throws away a blood-stained rag.
FICTION posted by Rica
How does he do it?
When I look him in the eyes, he glances right through me and walks past me, suddenly disappearing in the crowd. And when I chance upon him in the train heading home, he’s taking in all of me, and I see his lips curl at both ends upward, a sign of amusement or bewilderment flashing across his homely face.
And when I get off the bus I see him in the corner of my eye, hiding behind another passenger. When I finally turn around to see if my mind’s playing tricks on me again, his amused face is nowhere to be seen.
I think I should get my eyes checked this time.
They talk about him through the walls of my tiny office, too. Cubicles housing drones seem to be talking nonstop all nine hours of my workday, and I can’t avoid my ears from catching bits and pieces of phrases and gossip jumping from one square compartment to another. more…
FICTION posted by Rica
The lift was empty when I got in it on the ground floor. There was a lift man, but he never asked me what floor I’d be getting off.
Up, up, up. Stop.
A girl with pigtails got on when we reached the fifth floor. she turned and smiled at me, and I smiled back. She wasn’t any taller than I was but it seemed that she’d been riding the lift far longer that I’d been.
Another woman stepped inside when we got to the seventh floor. She had a small bun on top of her head, and had glasses, and wore high-heeled leather shoes. She only looked at either of us girls once when she stepped in, and never bothered to nod the lift man’s way. more…
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