Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul



The treasures we lost and found

Last night we talked about childhood
Walked down memory lane to recall past antics
You painted a picture of your early years:
Smart kid, chubby cheeks—
Probably a little too plump
coz you were constantly teased,
But you used your wit to you your advantage—
Traveled far and wide
Winning contests.
Here’s a boy who likes solving puzzles,
reading newspapers,
raising hands

You got a treasure trove of bests
And I wish I could say the same.

You see, I have very few memories of childhood
I have images lacking backstory
And voices with no picture in mind
At a young age, I was torn
Between two languages—
Tagalog and Bisaya, clashing,
twisting my tongue which is probably why
I came to love silence—
And English
Here’s a girl who likes Edward Lear,
book reading reports,
hour hands

I’m a hunter of the treasures of my past
And I wish you stick with me ’til I find them at last.

We make the floorboards creak at night…


We make the floorboards creak at night…

We make the floorboards creak at night
You and I— tiptoeing, barefoot
Your whispers tickling my ears,
Hands slithering my back
The crickets chirp teasingly
As we dash to the grassy field
Ah, how can the world sleep
Without watching the moon and stars?

Art illustration by Anders Røkkum

In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #43: Creak hosted by Grace.

I remember when I was a child, I used to sneak outside just to watch the night. I would climb the rooftop — careful not to make a noise but the roof always manage to betray me. There, in the open, I would lie to watch the moon and stars with my mom shouting at me to get back down.  “Five more minutes” , I used to ask.

Here’s to the lovers of the moon and stars.

Head over here to join the fun!


Swing Thine Broken Dreams


Swing Thine Broken Dreams

Sweet giggles filled the grimy air
Etched on a ravaged wall was a funfair
A glimpse of paradise and utter bliss
Amid the havoc and total mess
“Where do broken hearts go?”
The old song goes
Where do broken dreams go?”
Alas! Nobody knows.

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

In response to dVerse’s Quadrille: Giggle hosted by De.

My friends here in blogosphere know how much I adore the works of Banksy. The man knows how to speak the truth that most of us turn a blind eye on. The image above is one of his four stirring graffiti stencils in Gaza that was released together with a short film. Today’s quadrille reminds me of this.

Head over here to join the fun:


Share Your World – Week 4

Here’s for  Cee’s Share Your World Challenge –  Week 4

Do you prefer juice or fruit?

Fruits. Specially freshly picked. 🙂

Did you grow up in a small or big town? Did you like it?

I came from a village tucked in the far-most corner of a small town and I couldn’t ask for more. “Away from civilization”, that’s what we jokingly call it. BUT we’re never away from each other. Home is where love and smile is the warmest.

If you were to paint a picture of your childhood, what colors would you use?

Green for the trees, blue for the sky, brown for the dusty road. It was a time of laughter, sun-kissed skin and sweat. Need I say more?

Ways to Relax List: Make a list of what relaxes you and helps you feel calm

• Stargazing and moon-gazing
• Watching animated films
• Doodling and sketching
• Listening to music
• Lazy afternoons
• Reading books
• Long walks
• Silence

Continue reading “Share Your World – Week 4”

Magical Innocence


Magical Innocence
Childrens Fiction

People fear me. Footsteps quickened whenever trekkers pass by.

Yet, a child’s innocence is magical. Most often, they’re valiant warriors throwing pebbles at my window, playfully screaming, “THE WITCH ON THE FOOTHILL IS REAL! RUUUUUN!”

Once, a little girl braved knocking on my doorstep. She came up in her yellow dress, demanding, “Are you a witch?”

“Am I?” I asked.

She looked at me with watchful eyes, traced the stonewalls with her little fingers then said, “No. You’re not… Witches live in huts, you live in stones. I think you’re a caveman. A cavewoman!”

And that just made my day.

Word Count: 100

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

In response to this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt.

Friday Fictioneers is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields where a photo is used as a prompt for a hundred-word piece of fiction. The photo prompt this week is a courtesy of Piya Singh. Thank you!

Enjoy more stories here:



A Classical Haiku

Furious dimmed skies roar
Rain’s hammering the cold earth—
Mama, please be home

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Photo Credit: Ana Rosa via Pinterest

In response to Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

This week I love to challenge you to create a classical haiku following the classical rules:

  1. 5-7-5 syllables
  2. you have to use a seasonword (or kigo)
  3. you have to use a cutting word (or kireji) (like (:), (,) or (-) just punctuation
  4. your haiku has to describe a moment as short as the sound of a pebble thrown into water
  5. try to catch a deeper meaning in it
  6. and last but not least, try to create a haiku in which it is possible to interchange the first and third line

The theme is “prayer”.  

Head over here to join the fun!

42 Wallaby Way, Sydney


It was Sunday afternoon when Kyle gave in to his daughter’s insistent demand. Kristel, his fair-skinned, auburn-haired, ball of cuteness eight years old, had been babbling about a place ever since she watched Finding Nemo.

“P Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney! P Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney! P Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney!” she chanted from the backseat.

“Yes, sweetheart. Almost there.” Kyle smiled through the rear-view mirror.

“Just keep swimming, Daddy!” Her round eyes widened in excitement, her little teeth as white as pearl in full show. She’s a splitting image of his wife, Lyla. If only you were here, my love, he thought.

Minutes later, they pulled up near the harbor. Seagulls hovered in the sky, gliding with the sea breeze. Kyle looked around and found the dentist’s office. “Come on, sweetheart. There’s Mr. Sherman.”

Kristel dashed to the glass door, slid it open without a word. Inside was a stunned Latino who gave her a quick smile. “Hello there little angel! Can I help you?”

“Is Nemo here, Mr. Sherman?” she asked, moving towards the aquarium.

“Oh, the clownfish? I’m afraid he must have escaped through the drainage, angel.”

Instead of frowning Kristel grinned, “YAY! Nemo’s free!”

Word Count: 200

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction’s prompt.

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Alastair Forbes where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using around 200 words. The piece doesn’t have to center around exactly what the photo is, it can be just used as a basis for a story. Thank you, Al!

Read more stories here:


Mrs. Grelina: A Eulogy


I remember Mrs. Grelina when we were five. She was a large woman, the size of a teddy bear. Each morning, she would clap her hands and yell, “Kids! Round them up!” Then our little arms would push and drag the tables and chairs, in between squeals and laughter, to form a huge circle. It was always my favorite part.

She never needed a strict class to make us learn. While most teachers make seating arrangement, we were seated facing each other; while most teachers carry a stick, Mrs. Grelina carried a colorful wand. She would call it The Talking Wand. We would then raise our hands to recite or ask a question—just to get a hold of her wand. She taught us to share and to listen. In that round circle, we were make believe artists, musicians, architects, presidents and she would talk to us like we were such.

Now, the boy with a messy hair holds an art exhibit. The loudest kid in class sold a concert. The one in big glasses designed Shangrila, and the girl that always sleeps, the one who loves to dream, is now a poet standing in front of you.

Thank you, Mrs. Grelina.

Word Count: 202

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction’s prompt. I don’t remember much from my prep school but I remember crayons, shared laughter, and children seated in round tables. I believe it was fun. 😍

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Alastair Forbes where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using around 200 words. The piece doesn’t have to center around exactly what the photo is, it can be just used as a basis for a story.

Enjoy more awesome stories here:

Costume Play


At eight
She loved to watch
Fairytales and play Barbie dolls
She dreamed to
Wear some fancy dress; look so pretty
In her long blond hair
At twelve
Her feelings grew, she
Wanted to be and evil witch, too
To wind her hands and
Say a chant; turn a mouse
Into a saucer
At sixteen
In her sweetest year
Her world revolved in friends
And crushes; but never
Did she forgot her reveries of
Unicorns and horses
At eighteen
Priorities changed
School and papers are all that
Matter, her mind wandered from
Strange outfits, weapons
And vibrant characters
At twenty-two
She felt less true, before
Her computer and coffee mug
How she wished that she should’ve
Tried to pick a dress and
Act a character
At twenty-three
Yes, that’s me, yearning
For a second chance at life
To seize the day, take off this mask
Of conformity; for once
Play a costume right

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: Lazy Learners.

“Is there something you’ve always wanted to learn but haven’t gotten around to? What is it and what’s stopping you from mastering the skill?”

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