07ENvY

Trolled Penpen: What do you mean by foul play? And why point your finger on an average guy? Renzo would never do such a thing. I've been his friend since fourth grade. I know how gentle he is, how frail, how sensitive—if I weren't his best friend I would've been calling him names like a weakling, a weenie, a girl. I'm more masculine than Renzo and believe me, he's not your guy, not because I'm defending his ass but because you've got it all wrong. Yeah, sure, certainly he has the strongest motive to do the deed but—what? What do you mean he's the only suspect? Are you guys for real? Are you really from the Bureau? You have a witne

Fluctuation by John Eric Santos Day 1: Monday Summer—I woke up from a small ray beaming on my left eye. Holding my head, (hangover pain it was) I searched for my shorts. As usual, my room was a mess. Mom said I was like a rat, living in a filthy hole. Well, I can't blame her. I am a natural sloth and it can't be helped. I welcome ants and other critters in my room. So as I was saying, I saw my red puruntong and grabbed it right away because every Monday morning I always wake up half naked. Next, I searched for my N70. I know my cell phone talks of obsolence but heck, it's a Symbian phone—it's useful than any other touchscreen shi

Who am I trying to convince? Grid will never comeback—not now, not ever. He is not him, he's just a shadow of the man I once knew and loved. He's a ghost. No, far worse—a ghoul—no, he is a… 1                The sun had a funny way of meddling—again spoiling my REM. It was the same dream three days in a row—a crow devouring hawks and eagles in a golden nest above a dying willow. The crow had strange eyes: the left one was green and the other, hazy. As it chewed the mangled remains of its prey (yes chewed) those eyes were fixed—staring at me below. Trees were gray like cigarette ashes—no, like graphite

I took your adjectives for granted. There was something about the way you skipped over your 's'es and gleaned over your 'i's and 'e's, that never really made me want to kiss you. You'd sit there with your languid fingers clutching a book that was half finished, and read me words that were completely mispronounced. It would prickle me under my skin and I would grit my teeth, wondering when you would stop. I would never understand the english language you thought you spoke, and your confidence in your own words annoyed me. It was comical when you spoke in front of our friends. Your mistaken pronunciation of the word 'pronunciation' in particul