LAST WORDS A Prose Poem (Monosyllabic) By Jing Villamil There are true-to-life tales one can not just let go. These, too, are seeds from which think-thoughts grow. She had said: “I will wait for you till the end of time”. Her voice and her pink, full lips as she said…

Why the nom de plume? By Jing Villamil MANY had asked why this writer used a nom de plume almost all her writing years, and kept unknown the most wonderful sound to one’s ears – one’s most wonderful name! Those who asked found the writer’s answer somehow evasive, unacceptable. She…

Truth that blinds! By Jing Villamil TO some, when it finally got to reveal itself – TRUTH must had been as startlingly clear as the brightness of the sun. But the sudden dark – when one closes one’s eyes to the bright – may be even clearer, more of the…

There got to be a law! By Jing Villamil AN hour before the “reunionists” arrive for lunch, the house is smelling clean and fresh, thanks to the wide-open but screened windows, pine-scented freshener and days of vigorous, hand-numbing scouring, scrubbing, sweeping, washing, airing, arranging, re-arranging. It smells cloyingly yummy, too….

Christmas past! By Jing Villamil ONCE upon a not-so-distant time, our Christmas trees were tall and truly pine! The Cordilleras had not yet been shorned naked and DENR was not yet defensively protective of our natural resources. The tree was up by the first week of December, and down by…

Their Story By Jing Villamil THIS story is oft-told, so many times occurring. A constant replay. Surely, there is such a story in your neighborhood. There may even be such a story in your family. The population in their barrio was not so big, that everybody was familiar with almost…

Restless in the dust! (Conclusion) By Jing Villamil AS was written before and ten years hence and now, he who had challenged the gods must have felt the stirring of the wind as it began to keen a warning, forbidding sign. He had enough time. He could have gone himself…

Restless in the dust! By Jing Villamil TEN years and thirteen days ago, 58 men and women, 32 of whom were journalists and stringers, were massacred in Sitio Masalay, in Ampatuan, Maguindanao. Their mangled bullet-drilled bodies were buried in wide shallow graves beside their cars equally mangled. The journalists were…

The One By Jing Villamil AS regular as clockwork, at six on weekday mornings, she would be quietly tiptoeing down the stairs in her flannel pajamas and bare feet. Then she would be running to her secret place, hopping on cold, wet flagstones and even colder dew-wet grass. She would…