new storyMinutes to Midnightnew story by ~noriboriman
Benigno Santos, 48, whispered an apology, before squeezing the trigger. He uttered a silent prayer, as he watched the explosions from afar. People panicked around him, and the DC Metro Police and Fire Squad came too late. The symbol of the American government that has stood for hundreds of years was now reduced to ashes.
Less than thirty-six hours earlier, the phone in the bedroom of the Philippine Ambassador to the United States of America rang. Juan Victor Estrella, looked at the clock on the nightstand, it was three in the morning. He sighed.
"Mister Estrella? Commence Operation Kampilan," a female voice said, before hanging up.
Estrella stared at dead phone in his hand. He stood up, and took out his work phone from inside a drawer in his cabinet. He sent out a text message, disassembled the mobile phone, and went in the bathroom to take a shower. An hour later, he was on his way to the airport.
The Secretary for Defense, Maria Maliksi, put down her phon
poems...Keyspoems... by ~noriboriman
here, as the memory
of keys linger,
a man's heart inevitably
pulls the trigger.
beckons a child
dreaming of becoming
something more, and
bringing happiness to all.
jingling keys echo
of shut doors
a man's nightmare
but here, in this simple
place, the clacking of
keys serve as both
blessing and curse,
a person's quest
to forget one's memory.
Running the Mill
It usually starts in the afternoons.
A flock of birds sat by my window, their voices
like nails on a blackboard, or forks
to porcelain plates, irritating
the ears and grating the nerves. They watch
other creatures, their mouths never wavering to stop.
Even after dark, these birds kept talking.
Their shrill voices all loud and out of sync,
mingling and coalescing into the night. Birds
of different kind would come and join
and mingle and coalesce, and the cold night wind
howl its sullen voice in echo of the birds. Piercing