Memoirs of a Washout Writer

Squinting his eyes to better see in the light of a pale gibbous moon, he hurriedly takes out the short pencil hidden in his shirt pocket, and proceeds to write on the little scraps of paper he was able to salvage from the trash. Everything that he writes, and all of his thoughts and emotions, will be carefully placed inside a little time capsule.

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At The Corner Of 5th And Welson

I once met myself, at the corner of 5th and Welson. It sounds hard to believe, but I did. I was on my way to work when I saw him running towards me. You could imagine my surprise; I knew it was impossible. But there he was.. or is it there I was? Anyway, this someone who looked exactly like me was there across the street from me, and he was wearing the same clothes that I had on. He was in a hurry, I think, because I could see that he was gradually sprinting towards me. And he was angry, I think, judging by that scowl he had on his face.

It was the last thing I saw before his fist hit me squarely on the jaw.

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Some Days

He was walking along a narrow and dimly lit corridor, when he happened upon a piece of parchment lying on the floor. To his knowledge, he was alone, and so it came as a surprise to him that he was holding in his hands a tattered letter. Straining his eyes against the hazy, yellow light of an old street lamp, he blew away the dust from the letter, and started reading:

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A Ship Without A Shepherd

There was a great commotion at sea; everyone was feeling restless. Their Captain had just made an announcement that none of them had expected to hear. Well, some of them were already beginning to feel anxious. It probably had something to do with an earlier announcement that they were going to have ‘one last party‘. I don’t know about you, but there is always something ominous whenever you prefix any gesture or event with the words ‘one last‘. One last meal. One last conversation. One last group hug. One last party. One member of the crew wondered if he had just misheard the news about the party. But then came the Captain’s speech, and somehow everything seemed… connected.

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Death and Decay

When I left the house this morning, I was all smiles; my heart was filled with sunshine, and my spirit was beaming with anticipation, looking forward to a brand new day. “Today is going to be beautiful,” I said to myself. It is not always easy to develop a cheerful disposition towards life; it is something that you hone with consistent repetition.

Outside our red gate, I began the long walk that would take me to a main street where I could ride a jeepney. Wearing earphones, I was listening to the music playing from my mobile phone. Looking back, I don’t remember what was playing then at that time. But I do remember that after a few steps on that asphalted road, I glanced towards my right, and saw something that made me stop in my tracks a few steps later.

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The Sunshine Incident

It was almost midnight, but to Mr. Alan Rickby, the temperature was less than forthcoming. He was only wearing his shorts that night; the shirt he had removed a few minutes earlier was already dripping with sweat.  Were summer nights always this warm? Lying down on the couch he considered his own bed, Alan raised his hands to catch the breeze coming from the electric fan a few meters away from him. None. Not even a slight whisper of wind.

“Stupid cheap machine,” said Mr. Rickby with a prolonged sigh of disgust, “I’m getting out of here.”

Wiping away the sweat from his face, Alan Rickby slowly rose out of bed, his feet fumbling around the floor looking for his slippers. Where did I put my glasses? he wondered. Ah, here they are. Putting on his glasses and a new t-shirt, he made his way to the door.

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