But I mean, ah, I watch the fight you know. And you know, Pacquiao have difficulty boxing Cotto, butCotto find it, I mean, he think, you know, he think it’s harder to fight Manny. Manny lose in the first round, you know, I mean, ahh, it was hard to, uhm, I mean, measure Cotto, you know. But I mean, in the next, ahm, rounds, you know, it easy for Manny already.
Meet Manuel. He’s six years of age, although if you look at his tiny, lanky frame, you’d swear he was four. He, his four siblings, and his mother live in a cardboard house on a sidewalk in Metro Manila. None of his siblings (who are eight, nine, and twelve years old) go to school; instead, everyday they ply the streets, barefoot and with grimy faces, looking for plastic to sell to Manong Pete’s junk shop, asking for alms from passersby as they search.
Manuel is not a real person. He is the embodiment of countless of homeless children stuck…
[Editor's note: This post was first published on April 3, 2008 in QWERTY Confessions by me. Enjoy.]
I live in a small city in Southern Mindanao, Philippines. Small is the operative word there, rather than city. We have a small, sub-par mall. Small communities. Narrow roads. Only one or two social watering holes.
And, a small airport.
Maybe you’re wondering why I placed that last sentence in a paragraph by itself. Since my childhood, I’ve always been thrilled by airplanes and flying. (Never mind the fact that my first time aboard a…
[Editor's note: this was first published in Thoughts from Dean on April 25, 2008.]
High school, they say, is the most enjoyable part of the education process. Well, if acne, armpit odor, newfound pubic hair, and insecurity appeal to you. Of course, we’ve all encountered this precarious stage. For me to be able to blog about it as I’m actually going through the process is exhilarating (as weird as that may sound).
High school is also where most people meet their first love. Many will argue that they met…
[Editor's note: this write-up was originally published in QWERTY Confessions on April 5, 2008. It is a work of fiction, written by me.]
Gunshots.
I heard them in the distance. The consistent rattling of machine guns and explosion of cannons filled my heart with trepidation, but I knew I had no other choice. I took the earthen jar in the kitchen and started on my way, knowing that this day could be my last.
[Editor's note: this was first published in one of my Wordpress-hosted blogs, "QWERTY Confessions", on April 4, 2008. I am republishing it here because school is taking up too much of my time 
I will try to write a new post every once in a while (hopefully, multiple times a week).]
In the darkness, the girl stands sobbing. Her immaculate face is drenched in her own tears. She looks haggard, like she hasn’t gotten rest in days. On her nightstand, three or four handkerchiefs lay…
