angliterario

Clack , clack, clack His keyboard keeps typing the words. He is unaware of what he is writing, he feels awake, yet his fingers seem to move on their own accord. The computer keeps spewing words. Words Words Words He doesn’t understand what they mean. His eyes kept following the words. Words Words Words A hand suddenly shoots out of the pages. The words were not without meaning, his brains just cannot process what they were. Some ancient language perhaps. Or an unknown incantation. Whatever it is, something is happening. And it is not something good. Not for him at least. He tries to move his fingers. Stop the clacking. He can’t. He couldn’t. Help! His mind screams, but no sound comes out of his mouth. The hand is turning into an arm. Then an elbow. Someone, something is coming out of the words. Words Words Words He tries to wiggle his typing fingers again. No response. It’s as if they weren’t his. Whose is it? I’m here, am I? He asks. No one really. There’s nobody to ask, nobody who c

 I did not mean to stop writing. I thought I loved writing. I thought it was my oxygen.  But then small people came into my life, who suddenly took over everything and became the most precious beings in my universe.  I no longer needed to write. I was finally complete. 

In a forest far, far away there was a pond, with water as clear as the sunny sky. On its edge lived a teeny-tiny frog whose name was Wallace.  Wallace loved to jump, and jump, and jump at the edge of the pond, but he never once jumped into the pond.  The other frogs on the pond would tease him, Wallace, Wallace come into the water and dance Else we'll come over and chase you with a pan! Wallace, Wallace come into the water and prance Else we'll come over and chase you till you run! Wallace would just look at the other little green frogs swimming on the pond. And then he'll shrug his little green shoulder and jump and jump and jump on the edge of the pond until he grows tired and can't jump any more. You see, Wallace had a little secret, he didn't know how to swim. But he was afraid to ask someone to teach him how. And he was more afraid that someone would find out that he can't swim. So instead, he just ignored the other little green f

source: canva.com   It's been a while since I've let out my inner voice.  To just write.  Write.  Irregardless of readership, of SEO.  What do I need SEO for, anyway? I am not a business.  I started this blog, never as a business. I started it to write. To have a plot  of virtual real estate for my poems, stories and essays that I'm too proud to share with the people closest to me. Because somehow, it is harder for me to show the entirety of who I am to the most important people in my life.  As to the why, I have no answer. Perhaps it's self-preservation. Perhaps it's to protect them. There can be a lot of dark corners in my mind. Questions that might not sit well with the common beliefs each one of them clings to.  Reality is not the same for everyone.  Think of a child born in the comforts of a western home, and then think about a child born to the deafening noise of war somewhere in the middle east. Think of a child born in the tropics, where flooding is a yearly

A small step to conquer my fear of commitment, a giant leap for my writer spirit. Photo by  Kaboompics  at  Pexels I want to write a blog, no I don´t want to take the risk.  That has been my motto for pretty much everything in my life. Too chicken to dive into the water, always dipping my toe just a tad to see how things will go.  Do you sometimes feel the same way too?  That moment when you are faced with crossroads that could possibly change your life, and you fail to act because you are simply petrified about making any decision?  Welcome to my world. I have had moments when I did jump, but it was never without much thought first. I always need to weigh the pros and cons, see a projected future in my mind, like a movie playing the possible scenarios of my possible future.  Much of the decisions I made, I think turned out well.  Which is why, it´s a mystery why it has taken me this long to finally jump into taking my blogging seriously. The Free Way is Not Always the Best Way

This is not fiction. I aim to write about my real life experience with a hounding word. What is a hounding word anyway? In plain speak it is a word that haunts you for the rest of your life after the first moment of your encounter. You could meet the hounding word anywhere. From that new novel you've been planning to read, a poem you saw at a Hallmark greeting card, maybe even from everyday objects as common as a cereal box. I met my hounding word when I was a child. It was a period in my life when most of my free time was spent perusing the cases in the Nancy Drew files and reading about gossips in Sweet Valley High. Ironically, it wasn't Nancy Drew or Sweet Valley that gave me my hounding word. It was a magazine article, the title of which I can barely remember now. Oxymoron. That was my word. And it kept hounding me from then on in almost every reading material I ever had the privilege to lay my eyes on. Like the vocabulary buff I was, I immediately looke

Yesterday I thought I was being innovative.  I was thinking, what if I write a science fiction themed poem? I love science fiction and I love writing poems so why not combine the two? I bet nobody has thought of that yet. One click on google and my dreams of starting an SF poetry movement was crushed. There is an SF poets movement.  In fact, it has been in existence way before I was even born. 1978 to be exact.  Maybe even older, the Science Fiction Poetry Association or SFDA was founded in 1978. That leads one to think that the movement has been moving way before that, as most movements usually does.  Confused? Suffice it to say that SF poetry is way older than I am. What is Science Fiction Poetry? We all know what Science Fiction is.  And I'm sure you have had occasion to read a poem or two way before you ever picked up a twilight book. What comes to mind when you see these two together in one sentence?  Personally I think it could be the future of poetry. It has been a