Without A Name

The Child



Fears flicker through the night as I closed my eyes.

I was trying to forget the world around me when I felt something alive. I was aware of a small heart beat somewhere closer to my chest.

Underneath all of me was a human being. I was bundled under pain, depression and more pain. My all everything perched into the deep darkness lost in time and space. My poor little life. God help her. I wonder where she is now. Probably wasting her time trying to get out of this deep darkness.

I forgot my identity and I’m sure I once had a name. There was this old man down the street who taught me two things: “mind your own business” and “forget everything.” The man was old he could be a g’g’g‘g ‘great grand father.

That old man never indulged himself in phony thoughts or talk. He never had a skewed logic. This old man was homeless but honest.

He is willing to talk to other human beings even if he had been rebuffed.  

He used to try to help me figure out what troubled me---things that make humans cry and make them to suicide: depression.

He used to sit down, looking sad. Nobody looked down at him but nobody cared. If only people ever had real emotions. Why can’t people try doing arithmetic?

“Thoughts,” he told me. “Thoughts…are billions, armed and bold…with bombs and weapons. Thoughts could be a nuisance—but how long can you take it before your head explode?”

Thoughts make me think about my future saying to me. “Stay where you are. You have no future. Don’t move, Keep it quiet. Cry your heart out, heart empty and broken into pieces front of you.”

The world alone cries for its people. Its attitudes are traced by conciliatory remark—“look, people of the world, don’t kill one another. In unnecessary retaliation why can’t people be at peace with each other?

Anger, worry, sadness: they all have their hold on this old homeless man.  I ache from watching his sad wrinkled face.

Nothing in his old man’s background rings bells, he was nobody. He has led a life full of a heart breaking stories. How much can one man suffer?

He’s nobody now, yes, but he used to be somebody. One evening we sat together in the corner of the street.  He pulled himself together and he looked down at me.

 “my deeds are not done, but yet my youth is gone, and now I only live in this cruel world...and one thing I have learned from my unhappy life it is that…when everyone you cared about are gone, no one else cares for you. “ He told me.

He reminded me of a character in some book I read. My favorite scene was when that main character stood at the strain of his sheep, staring back at Dangoom. Removing his hoodie, he leaned against the stern rail and turned his gaze upon the west. The breeze was cool upon his emotionless face as he stood staring west of the open water. In a sound of heart beat the oars of the Vessel slid into the night-dark water. His wife stood beside him as tears formed her vision misted.

This character face was blank from any emotions just like the old Man’s face.

In the rain we saw two people walking hands clasped together. We seem them –too far to make out much detail about them, but seem like they’re in love.

Across the street there was this young gentleman who lived in this old apartment.  He likes using Latin expressions such as “de Jure” and “In Toto”. 

He also likes to say, “Bona Fide” meaning good faith. He works at this book store two blocks from where he lives and spends his time reading fantasy novels.

Once he read me a book called Theod.


His next door neighbor was a young woman in her early twenties. She is quiet but really pretty also. He really likes her.


 One rainy morning I sat in the Café and looked out the window. Thinking about the mother I don’t remember.

I still believe in my heart that maybe my mother loved me. Just the thought of that sustained me. It kept me alive all of these years.


 A mother love that is a ladle of honey, which I never tested and knew. Sometimes I dream of her but I couldn’t make up her face that I don’t recall.

 Left to my self, I climb the lonely trees to dream. In my own perch, I study the cruel world, the gloomy sky, and the habits of emotionless humans.


The woman who works at the cafe was good, the way water is good, the way a helping hand is good. She was in her early thirties with one teenager son. She regretted having a baby at such a young age. “I was an idiot,” she said.

She blamed herself for her miseries and faults. She had a baby when she was unripe, having not yet finished high school.

Sometimes I sit, silently watching the sky, until dawn. In the week days there were three sisters around the same age. They always cross the same street to get to school. They tell each other stories that made them laugh, surprise and wonder. Many Stories that become their link to the strange world.

I wish I had a sister and a loving mother.

My future and life its presence is so bleak, I’m in depth of sorrow and lost in my own despair. There is nothing that could raise me from my sadness. I wish of a sister whom I could revel every corner of my heart.

I wish I knew my mother so then I could learn the great mother-mystery or the mystery of sex. I dream upon the moon shining behind the gloomy sky at nights. I dream of a family sitting together around the big dining table, but when I wake up from the dream, I see the people in my dreams are not my family. My shoulder sags and smile fads.

One after noon I saw a young woman. She treated her baby like a king. Her hands were there to embrace him, to cuddly him, and to hold him. She loved the child like she had long to give a baby from her own womb.

What mad every other mother happy except my own?


The Father

My wife beauty that was rare and eerie was striking.  Her eyes were full of life. Many guys used to argue over taking her out on a date, a fight, I, too, had fought. She smelled like the sweet breeze.

When her eyes meet my own, she warmed me instantly. With her beauty that was mind controlling. I knew her since I was a kid and I’ve always loved her.

It took me plenty of fights with the other guys and papers full of poem before I won her heart.

The fire time we made love was when we were in our first year in college. I took her clothes off and she was naked, and then in a moment, so was I. Slowly I kissed her everywhere still smitten by her unnatural beauty. It was her first time but I buried myself inside her war thighs before entering her. She cried but I kissed her again and again and whispered how much I loved her.

Even though it was her first time she responded to my kiss and touches. She parted her legs in a way that delighted me. When I finally cried out in pleasure, I learned and faced the power of a woman on her beautiful face.

Since then we made love every night. Our relationship was growing more powerful stronger. We were tied in a wave of love that was too strong for young lovers.

We swam in  the pool of lovers.

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Novel / Novella
writing Fergie
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