POEM (SECTION I)

clamors of a wayward soul

by: dane ross quintano

they’re closing in.

ocean palms that drown; earthquake feet

in discordance; overridden senses,

who are we?

they’re closing in.

war-torn walls, dark cavernous halls that seem

to echo the deafening clamors of a wayward soul,

where are we?

they’re closing in.

is this door out forbearance – like what they spout?

is this distressing spasm – a mere dramatic vignette? a burlesque?

why are we?

they’re closing in

in languor and yet the mind

running as rapidly as the heart

gravity pulling us away

from the ground like a tide up until we

thought about

Mother.

breathe, we are me.

SHORT STORY #1 (SECTION II)

The Window Sill Sunflower

by: dane ross quintano

Since I sprouted from the soil, humanity have always been a great enigma to me. What
does it feel like having the liberty to move—or sleep—or talk? What is it like being free? Ah,
freedom, capability—humanity’s greatest blessings. I couldn’t even fathom a life where one gets
to choose which sun they want to look at! As much as I wanted to jump out of this miserable pot
and skedaddle out of this godforsaken room, it won’t change the fact that my existence and
purpose was pre-determined. In the end, I’m just the window sill sunflower. And of course, no
human could ever empathize or at least live the same way as me.
Or so I thought.
It just so happens that the owner of this window sill—my owner—was going to become
my lifelong friend.
Since our fateful encounter, we were inseparable. Perhaps it’s because I was the only one
who was always there when he needed someone to talk to. Someone who would at least try to
understand and listen to him—something that he couldn’t find from those actually present
around him.
When he was struggling with academic pressure, bullying, identity crises—I served as his
outlet. It was freeing for him of course, but he had no knowledge of how precious that was, too,
for someone like me. He gave me a new purpose, a new existence, a new life. I might not have
the ability to talk to him, but he made me understand that I possessed a much greater power
within—the ability to listen.
Until the ugly truth hit me.
The more he liberated his only true friend.
The more he felt trapped and powerless against the world around him.
As time grew, the extent of my so-called “great” listening power was gradually getting
clearer. He talked to me less and less. The bluish bruises he brought from school appeared more
and more. The amount of caffeine in his bloodstream were skyrocketing. I have never been to
school, but even I felt the weight of the academic responsibilities that he was carrying. Despair,
it’s written all over his face. It’d be a surprise if he still believed that a pathetic little flower like
me could put him out of his misery.
But hearing his muffled cries and panic attacks during the wee hours felt like I was
drowning in pesticide. I wanted to help him—no, I needed to help him. I tried to reach out my
nonexistent hands, but nothing happens. I tried to scream, but nothing comes out. The only thing
a woebegone flower like me could truly do was to listen. A “great” ability turned torture device.
It’s achingly ironic. For someone who had just been “liberated”, I have never felt so
confined, tethered, and alone. I couldn’t even have the opportunity of at least asking for his
name.
I could’ve stopped him.
I could’ve saved him.
Yet I couldn’t.
I’m just the window sill sunflower.