Category Archives: prompt

Describing the color red without using the word itself : a tiny writing exercise for myself I guess


It’s the first color that greeted me when I walked into that room.

It’s the fire I felt spreading across my face when I remembered I hadn’t worn the prescribed dress code for Fridays.


It’s the raging inferno that constricted my lungs when I saw you for the first time.


You, who wore that garish shade and made it seem as if the intensity was crafted just to compliment your alabaster skin.


It’s the subtle glow in your cheeks when you talk, completely oblivious to the fact that you have me enthralled with every flick of your hair. (For what seemed like an eternity, I am captivated. I can’t look away.)

When finally (regrettably), the class ends; I’m still swimming in that shade of your lips that held my attention throughout the whole day. (Even if I never really did get a chance to hear what they had to say.)

It’s the sudden jolt of panic in my chest when we accidentally exchange glances from across the room (don’t ever turn) -and I immediately look away.

(No, I didn’t mean it- I need to see your eyes again.)


It’s the heady mixture of giddiness and paranoia in my head when you change seats by chance -in front of me- (so fucking near, so fucking far away) on the last day of the semester.

It’s the streak of ink that marked my paper, when I finish the test earlier than intended and run away.


It’s the figurative flames I use to burn the few pointless memories I have of you in my head.

It’s the persistent flicker of embers that refuse to die each time I try.

It’s the vibrant hue of the little trinkets scattered all over campus on valentines when I regret not catching even a glimpse of your lean, wispy frame.

It’s the the color that would then annoy me for days.

It’s the frantic pulsing in my ears every time I see you walking at least five steps ahead.

It’s the silly shame that drowns me when I think that, between the two of us, I’m probably the only one who cares.

It’s the warmth of the sinking sun the last time I cross paths with you on my way home.

It’s the sensation I felt leaving me when I realize this might be the last day I’ll see your face.

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That sounds insanely stupid. Of course I’m in. (LVBMM Chronicles)

I love my best friends.



Oh god, I am so sorry, I’m not good at this sentimental thing.

Anyway, why am I writing this? Just to be clear, I’m not trying to suck up to you guys (by guys, I mean those two, if they happen to read this) ’cause I did something horrible that you have yet to find out or anything with ulterior motives in mind. You know me, completely affectionate and innocent creature that I am.

I’m doing this prompt where I talk about something ‘traditional’ or ‘ritualistic’, and I thought, hey, why not get my best friends involved because what kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t write a blog post and advertise their faces on a public website without their consent? (A kind one, that’s what. This is why we are friends if anyone is wondering.)

Look, we’re already pretty much a cult with what we do so I guess that counts as ritualistic, right?

I say yes, we qualify indeed.


Now, to describe our constant LVB Movie Marathons… where do I start?

LVB y’see is short of ‘LaVelBia’, which is short for ‘Lance, Vel, Bianca’ which is short for ‘yes, we so totally named our group like a bunch of animu high school cliche misfits on a manga fight us about it’.

We have movie marathons. It’s a sporadic event that we do when we have time, considering the fact that we are now in different colleges and for some weird cosmic reason we just couldn’t stand not seeing each other’s faces for long.

On a specific night- or morning, or afternoon (whichever time we’re all comfortable with) (okay, to be completely honest when we’ve finally gotten off our lazy bums and decided to function like human beings) we plan a movie marathon at Lancelot’s house. Dude’s got a huge TV, a nice source of food, and a convenient area we can crash on when we feel the pull of slumber. On some nights we get hungry or bored, we trek outside and go over this Ministop branch five or ten minutes away on foot. We buy nice stuff to snack on and talk about anything and everything along the way.

This tradition of ours- if something so impulsive can be called tradition- was actually first recognized as a ‘sleepover’. We’ve ceased to refer to it as such when we realized that, “guys, um, I don’t think we’ve been doing the sleeping part at all.”

Anyway, one blog post can’t really encompass all that happens during those nights. Or those days. Or mornings. (Ugh, christ, I need to stop getting technical.) This would be littered with annoying side notes and confusing parentheses if I had to explain every single detail.

But I had to write it. Something that means so much to me has to be written down in my confusing, drunken narrative.

It’s tradition because those haphazard movie marathons have somehow turned into a piece of something perfect, something familiar and nostalgic from way back, taken and preserved in a jar. Something that I can plunge into when reality seems too much. Something permanent that I’d like to stay that way. Life would totally suck without these dudes. *gags* I mean, awww. ❤

Okay. So what I’m actually trying to say here, I think, is this:

I love those four to five AMs spent with my best friends. I love the domestic ease when we cook our instant meals in the kitchen in the dead of the night. I love the subtle hum of a long-forgotten movie on the screen as we eat and comfortably mumble or excitedly gush out anything that comes to mind. I love how we crack up every single minute, how everything seems hilarious, whatever the hell we might say in our feverish midnight haze of adrenaline. I love how we pierce the silence with manic laughter at the simplest issues that we’ve twisted into the most bizarre scenarios. I love how we can be weird and comfortable and fucked-up and simply not care when we’re with each other. I love experiencing the proverbial comfortable silences instead of the common awkward ones I feel with other people.

I love the fact that no matter how far, how busy, how vastly different we are, we always seem to find our way towards each other.

We’re also planning a little bit of world domination on the side so we are kinda working on that.

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Of High School and Curtain Calls: When reality far exceeded the drama on stage

It’s funny how high school makes you treasure the simplest things that probably don’t count much out in the proverbial “real world”.

Remember that time we went for weeks without sleeping just to finish up this booth for some project and it ended up not being used at all? Or that time this classmate sawed half his thumb trying to construct a haphazard wooden bed for Sleeping Beauty’s school parade and you suddenly decided he’s probably your ideal guy?

Out of all these nuggets of sentimentality, I vividly recall one school play during my first year. Our class was divided into two groups and each group was given free reign on what topic to choose. So we elected a leader and zeroed in on which plays to use.

Weeks went by without anything special happening. The other group was avidly rehearsing pieces and conducting a lot of methodical acting. (From what I heard that time, they even had this panel of people who forcefully made one single person ‘absorb’ his or her character’s emotions and express them on demand.) Their play was heavy drama. Ours? I can’t really recall our first choice now.

So they had grueling rehearsals and we… well, we waited for an announcement and after every class, it’s always a nonchalant, “We don’t have practice today.”

Hey, it’s not as if we were complaining. Truth be told, we cheered and felt relief that our assigned head was laid-back, foot loose and fancy free. It seemed as if we had all the time in world. A little jealousy and unease maybe that the other group showed intense dedication and were making evident progress. (But who cares, sleep right?)

And then there he goes. Our leader. He up and announces that he switched to the other group.

Good bye, good luck suckers.

Anger, betrayal. It was such a TV cliche turn of events that it was easy to fall into the role of hurt and bewildered subordinates. Then came the panic. The other group- progress. Intensity. Method acting, for fucksake. Fuckfuckfuck- everyone felt it. We were in deep shit.

And here’s the part where I sometimes hate myself: we needed a new leader. (Even a new play. The one we chose proved to be… inadequate.) Groan. I’m not the most responsible person out there. I’m not a leader, not really. I’m a huge control freak and I just love having everything make sense for me. That’s the problem. I’m not a leader and I’m so used to working alone, to having everything in perfect order in my head. So what do I do? Stupid little me assigns all the tasks to myself. They assign two of us as unofficial leaders and we’re already crushed enough that neither of us thought to refuse.

I use this magnificent indie play I heard by word of mouth. I stay up all night, ignoring my assignments to make a script with the scene, the sound, the entrances, the exists, the cast, the setting, the costumes, the stage all specified. I worry over the fact that I might have difficulty illustrating this wonderful play I’ve created in my head to the audience- even to my group members. I add in details. More details. I disseminate the script. I play director. Scream, scream. Cry here. No, laugh. Like this, like this- no! Like this. Don’t recite it, you’re not a fucking robot, say it like you would in any other conversation. Court her. Anger her. Appease her. Slap him. More screams. Go over there and study your script. Wait, what the fuck do you mean you have to go home, we haven’t even finished yet and we’re running out of time, and god, can everybody shut up for a second-!

We rehearse till midnight for the last remaining days.

We argue, bicker, fight. Cuss. Fuck you, fuck this. What the fuck are we going to do. Time time time. Shit.

Despite that, I wouldn’t trade that experience for the world.

We laughed. We had breaks and ate together. We discussed the play itself. We had delirious and jittery fun. There was this instance where, to make the order of the story clear- in my desperation to make them feel, make them see, because why can’t they imagine the soft yellow glow of a lamp casting shadows on the hero’s face and his lover’s tears?- I told the whole story in a narrative form. My voice grew scratchy an hour later. I was afraid they’d get bored. But they didn’t, and even though it didn’t miraculously enhance the acting of some stiff cast members, they listened, and they got it- and that means more to me than anything.

It was stressful, and draining, and fun, and exhilarating- it just made me feel alive.

A sort of pre-presentation event happened in class where we show our progress just to ensure that we’re actually getting somewhere before the actual performance.

I know all my group members would agree with me on this: we performed like crap.

We were half-baked and totally unprepared. Cues, what cues? Script? Positions? What?

We messed up.

Needless to say, the other group performed spectacularly  which further buried us in shame. Our ex-leader, the git, was actually a good actor in his own right and it’s like a fucking stab to see him perform so well and amplify the other group’s performance while we writhe in incompetence.

I felt horrible for my group members.

I felt horrible myself.

Troubles just started to pile up from there. The props. The sequence. The time. The members actually having to attend practice, hello.


Fear not, fear not. This is a prompt about triumph against the odds, is it not?

Now imagine this on the day of the performance:

There were three sections with two groups each, so six performances all in all, and whoopdeefuckingdoo, we get the last slot where the panel of judging-youuu teachers are probably sick of all the kids doing their plays and most of the invited students are eager to go home.

I paced and bit my nails. This is it. THIS IS FUCKING IT, GUYS.

God bless one of my group member’s mom, we borrow these glaring stage lights (the warm, archaic yellow I’ve always wanted).

We get curtains (not the splendid ones, but hey, it’s still something compared to the other group’s patchworks.).

The performances drift one by one. There’s a concurrent theme of the TV drama violence, the comical sitcoms- even dancing cats. (Idk man.) They were good. Like, really-prepared-for-this-thing good.

Did I mention that our play, unlike all the others, was a complex faux romance play that actually symbolizes patriotism and sacrifice for our motherland, with a lot of deception and plot twists and screaming and conflict and shit?

Our turn. Ohgodohgodohgod was the general chant.

And then for some insane, magical reason, all that practice paid off and everyone acts like fucking pros on stage with everything they’ve got.

The symbolic intro was a fucking blast that gave everyone chills. All cues followed, all comedic relief scenes go well with the audience, all shouting matches charged with tension… dear god. The intense yellow lights cast just the perfect shadow for a 90’s circa film.

And it’s really fucking great that we were pretty much crap at the pre-play performance because they so totally did not expect this, oh boy. Significance and talent all in one ball.

Every single time I recall how everyone performed out there, I get the shivers and an intense pride for everyone involved.

Then we bowed and smiled, the kind of tired and electric smile you get when you know you’ve done your best and you don’t even fucking care if anyone liked it or whatever they thought about it- you did your best and you loved every moment, that’s all that mattered right then.


Bonus: when the grades came out, guess who got the highest.

Aw yeah, *vague wave in our general direction*.

I can almost cry. (Specially when they all dwelled on the fact that hey, yo, ex-leader could have had the same grade but… oh well.)


(On a side note, like I said, high school has that way of making the most trivial things seem like your life revolved around it. This particular defacto leader of ours is still a great friend at present. Irregardless of the high school drama, he’s a nice dude.)


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“So. Uh. Nice weather today, huh?” Groan.

I don’t like meeting new people, but it seems to have molded itself into my daily cycle.

Sheer agony.

Make no mistake, I don’t dislike the idea. I dislike the process itself. Everything about the getting-to-know-you stage makes me uncomfortable. It makes me jittery. I tend to make really intricate friendships with a lot of hidden context piled in over the years. Without that solid ground, I’m lost. I don’t know what to say. Will he get this joke if I say it? Will this topic sound off if I suddenly mention it in relation to their conversation? Will I sound stupid, or arrogant, or just plain out weird?

What are these ‘social norms’ you speak of? More importantly can I lather that in cheese?

It doesn’t help that now that I’m out of high school, I realize the media’s depiction of college isn’t that far off from reality- well, in my college at least. Though not that confined to stereotypes, I’ve been finding it harder and harder to work out just how the hell I’d start off conversations and keep them going. I’m in the worst stages of the getting-to-know-you-phase and even more awful still is the fact that most of them are already clustered in groups with their own stream of banter.

And- get this, plot twist- I don’t think I actually want to know new people that much. It’s just that I don’t like pity, and some think that my constant wanderings and solitary walks around campus is something that I didn’t choose for myself. So I’m occasionally strung along parties and lunch periods with people I barely know, making polite and dead conversation that drains all my energy and soaks me up in anxiety.

Meeting new people has its ups and downs, I get that.
And I’m so frustrated hearing everyone say that you’re missing a lot by not ‘putting yourself out there’.
What exactly am I missing? I wouldn’t have met my best friends if I hadn’t gone through the getting-to-know-you stage, but they wouldn’t mean that much to me either if I didn’t dread said stage so much.

I guess this is all just going too fast for me and people already jumping ahead to conclusions about what I need, or who I need feels invasive.

I’m tired of meeting new people in this environment, but I seem to find myself going through the intro routine ever day.


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