Bibliophile

Author: Margareth Dane Febrero /


My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into constellations
And of the lives I’m not living
Are etched in my brain
I have lived a thousand journeys
Through storms, deserts, and to the end of the world
They are all in me,
Mixed
Mashed
With my consciousness
And I wonder
What is fictional in me
And what is real?

First Letter

Author: Margareth Dane Febrero /


Dear Stranger,
I’ve always wanted to write a letter to someone. The old-fashioned kind. I will find scented paper, make a scratch paper before I write it down, lick the stamp. And mail it. Far far away. Or maybe put it inside a bottle. Let it be washed to the shores of Australia, Hawaii, or the Arctic.
I want to build a connection. A relationship.
We live in the age where people are always in a hurry. Texts and emails are the thing. You send three words and that’s it. Everything becomes impersonal. We barely have time for others doing what we foolishly believe to matter.
You may wonder where this is going. You may have already stopped reading. The truth is, I’m writing this for two reasons. The first one is selfish: for myself. I want to talk to someone who does not know me, and who I do not know. You don’t know my name, my age, my work, my weight, or how I look like. As I do not know yours. But you will know my story. I do not want to be judged, but I want to say things with no walls, no barriers. For once, I don’t want to worry about the consequences. I just want to write.
Sometimes, our identity: our looks, our achievements, our origins; they become obstacles for you to be who you really want to be. Things are expected of you, things that sometimes you want to fulfill with a passion, but other times you detest with a vengeance. I want a relationship with none of those expectations. I want freedom, in other words.
I am not extraordinary. No rough childhoods, no abuse, no magical powers, no scars, no vampire boyfriend, no anything. Sometimes I think I do not have enough sorrow or experience to have what it takes to be a writer. But I want to say that even the most ordinary people have stories to tell, stories worth listening to (this is my second reason). 
To those who’ve read The Perks of being a Wallflower, I do realize the technique is somewhat similar. But I had a professor in Creative Writing once, that told us that writers absorb the techniques of writers they admire, add a personal touch, and make it their own. So this is what I am doing.
Before I end, I want to say thank you for finding the time to read this. I appreciate it, for I am not that good, but you have managed to finish this with patience and the understanding that I am just a person who wants to write and be heard.
Your Writer and Friend,
Marga

Fire and Ice

Author: Margareth Dane Febrero /


I love summer.
            The sunlight was warm, pleasant on my skin. The wind caressed my hair and a smile crept into my face. The sand beneath my feet was hard like hundreds of tiny pebbles that dug into the soles of my feet, and it tickled me badly. I ran to the safety of the water and was surprised at its iciness that sent shivers up and down my spine, but it was refreshing to feel every part of me get wet, like being washed inside out. I almost slipped on the mossy rocks and I stabbed my feet into some jagged rocks, but the cold water dulled the pain. As a wave came crashing in, I decided to let go and float to nothingness; to feel the sun and the sky above me and the endless expanse of water around me.
            There’s nothing like the beach.

In The Middle of Don Quixote

Author: Margareth Dane Febrero /


”I don’t think this is a good idea, Mr. Persky.” A girl shouted from inside an old Chinese cabinet. She did not know why she agreed to such an absurd and crazy idea. People always told her to be a bit less trusting.
            “The Great Persky, Miss. Now, what novel was that again?”
            “Is this a joke Mr. Persky?”
            “Some joke. Now, here's the point. If I throw any novel into this cabinet with you, shut the doors, and tap it three times, you will find yourself projected into that book." Margareth, the said girl, grimaced with disbelief.
            “Alright,” she sighed, “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Yule Ball.”
            “Sorry. No books published after 1900.”
            She figured she’d just say any novel, none of this was true anyway, and because she just came from her English 12 class, she said, “Don Quixote.”.
            “Strange choice.” said Persky as he tossed in a paperback copy of Cervantes’ novel.
            And he tapped three times. When he opened the cabinet, it was empty.
            The Great Persky forgot to tell her how to get out.
            In the same moment, the girl appeared inside the inn, where Don Quixote, Sancho, the priest, the barber, Dorothea, and Cardenio arrived at Chapter XXXII (though the girl was not aware of this). She could not believe what was happening, maybe she’s gone crazy from hell week, she thought. She ran and hid inside a closet. She did not know what to do; she could not speak Spanish, she was wearing a t-shirt and jeans while people there wore gowns with petticoat; it was impossible to get by unnoticed. Just then the landlady opened the closet, and they both froze. The landlady looked at her from head to toe, took a deep breath, and let out a most deafening scream. Frightened, Margareth screamed too, and bolted.
            Don Quixote heard the commotion and ran after her, convinced she was a witch trying to kidnap the princesses. He caught her but didn’t hurt her because she was a woman, but Margareth was still freaked out by being bound and tied up. Desperate to be free, she said to Don Quixote, “I’m your daughter!”
            Don Quixote looked skeptical, but not angry, which she took as a good sign. She continued, “My mother is Dulcinea del Toboso. She sent me so that I could finally meet my father.”
            Much to her surprise, Don Quixote hugged her and said, “I’ve always wanted to have a daughter!” Well, that went well, she thought. They even speak English.      
            “What’s your name?” asked Don Quixote, teary-eyed. “Uhhhh”, she replied, “Margarita.”
            She was then introduced to the other characters at the inn. She heard the love story of Anselmo from the priest with Don Quixote. She saw and heard the story of the captive and Zoraida. And Don Quixote gave his speech about the superiority of knights over scholars. They were enchanting to her, almost magical. This isn’t so bad, she thought. All the while, Don Quixote was smiling and humming, Even Sancho Panza was smiling at her. She couldn’t help but smile back.
            Then Don Quixote kneels in front of Dorothea, and in a most solemn and regretful manner, says “I am most ashamed by my next words, Princess Micomicona, but I cannot assist you anymore in the recovery of your beloved kingdom. I am a father first and foremost, before I am a knight.”
            Everyone was indeed delighted, except Margareth. She was horrified. If Don Quixote’s not going to be a knight anymore, she thought, then basically he’s not Don Quixote. This is the best book of all time and she’s going to ruin it!
            “Father,” she said “you don’t have to give up being a knight-errant. Continue promoting the lost values of chivalry. It’s what you are.” She saw Persky at the window, beckoning her to go outside and hurry. She hugged Don Quixote, kissed him on the cheek, and ran to Persky.
            It was then that she truly appreciated Don Quixote. She realized she wouldn’t want to change a thing. If she did, then the book would have lost its sense and value.
Later she would read that Don Quixote always waited for his daughter to come back, though he still pursued being a knight-errant.

Follow the Devil

Author: Margareth Dane Febrero /


We were in a dark crowded alley holding hands, with people rushing back and forth around us. He smiled at me, and as always, I smiled back; he kissed my forehead, my nose, my lips. The words ‘I love you too’ hang suspended in my tongue and in the air – I wish I’ve said it- for someone groped me; I turned around sharply and saw it was a guy in his early twenties, with eyes as dark as a moonless night and a poisonous smile on his lips. Michael stepped forward- always my knight and savior- I knew he would make him pay, and dread came over me, for at what price? The guy ran and Michael chased after him, me shortly after them, but I found my legs were getting heavier, and when I reached a seemingly endless flight of stairs, I was stone. When I finally reached the end, I saw Michael follow the devil inside a fenced room with twenty or more armed guys with the same malicious smiles. He turned around and looked at me one last time, before someone hit him with a bat from behind; punched him, kicked him, stabbed him. He was my angel, vomiting blood, oozing blood, blood everywhere; and all I could do was cry for help that never came.

The Tallest Person in My Life

Author: Margareth Dane Febrero /


She is, in many ways, a giant. I’ve looked up at her my whole life.

We would walk hand in hand on the street, and our neighbors would stare at us. They, too, look up at her. She would walk back straight, eyes looking forward, with a strut models would kill for.

My dad looked up too, though I believe he had no choice. When they fight, he had to look up to her face in rage, and he knew who has the upper hand. We both know who’s the boss.

Even now that we are almost on the same eye level, I still look up at her.

Some things never change.

Moonlit Lovers

Author: Margareth Dane Febrero /


It was a full moon. The night smelled of dew and of tuberoses. He climbed through the vines outside her window; agile, swift. He stepped foot into the room effortlessly. Not a sound could be heard, not even his breath. The moonlight accentuated his curly hair, his deep set eyes, his pointed nose, his muscular body, his horns, and his tail. He saw his love underneath the covers. He was shining, almost glittering; the shadows could not reach him. You could almost touch the magic and romance dripping in the air. He knelt beside her bed. He held his breath in anticipation, and then delicately removed the covers on his beloved. And there she was, in all her naked glory, sleeping peacefully before his eyes. And for this faun, there would never be a more enchanting moment such as this. And I thought, nor for me. Numerous wonderful paintings have been made in the history of man, but Picasso’s Faun Uncovering a Woman unfolds a tale that never fails to speak to the heart.



           

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