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Showing posts from October, 2020

Ms. Terror – A Tale Of A Wound That Never Heals

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Gawr Gura fanart by me. Sad Shork Still a QT By Cynia Mirasol with assistance from lordcloudx Whether we like it or not, we all have our own particular weaknesses – parts of ourselves which we try to hide from others for fear that we may be negatively judged. This week, I am baring one such particular weakness – a different part of me that many of you are probably unaware of. While admittedly, I may pale by a lot in comparison to my husband when it comes to academic achievements, I have never been insecure about my own intellect – especially in a battle of wits. Indeed, while outwardly, I am always quick to point out how brilliant my two kids are and how they really take after their father, at the back of my mind, I’ve always secretly thought that: “It takes two to tango.” With that aside, if there is one subject that I really look upon with great disdain, it would be mathematics. I know, I know, some of you may be thinking: “but math is fun.” I’ll give you this much: while I may

Driven – A Tale Of Chasing Dreams

*Note: Name has been changed to protect the subject’s identity. It all started with a little girl who began to chase a dream. My name “*Candy,” is a bit of an irony. Oftentimes in life, fate had been quite bitter to me more times than it was sweet. You see, my family was many things but rich was never one of them. I was the middle child in a family of five – that is, “five eventually” when my youngest brother was born much later. As you might have already surmised, we were – to put it bluntly, poor – very poor. This is no mere exaggeration. To illustrate: One time, we were forced to eat nothing but rice and one big piece of botong-botong (a long cylindrical piece of candy) for lunch. Mother was slicing it into separate pieces for all of us, but just as she had cut it in half, the other piece fell off the table and through the floor. You read that right. It fell through the floor because our flooring consisted of thin-cut pieces of bamboo elevated off the soil by a wooden platform. With

Victim? – A Story of Injustice

by Cynia Mirasol with assistance from lordcloudx I am sorry to tell you this, but your assumptions about me are incorrect. Yes, it is true that I was often a victim of circumstances during my younger days, but allow me to tell you that in many cases, I was not a helpless damsel in distress. In fact, I have never once pictured myself as the miserable tragic heroine in my own life story – because, as you are about to find out, I wasn’t exactly a little angel and I was often the one doing the victimizing rather than the other way around. In the family, we were each known for our own unique personality quirks – every one of us at least, except for me, Cynia. I was simply the one with the most horrible personality. Our “Papa” (Grandfather) called me a “Katsila” (Spaniard.) This was actually meant as a derogatory term for someone who is headstrong and cruel. Well, I wouldn’t let this slide at all. Papa lived in a house not too far from ours. He had several fruit-bearing trees and vegetable

RABID – A Tale of Unrestrained Violence

By Cynia Mirasol with assistance from lordcloudx Growing up, I was not exactly brimming over with self-esteem. If anything, you could probably consider my outer façade of bravado as nothing more than a simple psychological defense mechanism. Certainly, I am not the most pragmatic of individuals – being an ENFP who is driven more by emotions and social links rather than cold, unfeeling logic. Still, I was never oblivious to the fact that I had very little to actually be confident about. After all, who was Cynia? – An absolute nobody who happened to be the 2 nd youngest child of a destitute family consisting of six children (at least the ones who survived infancy). I was smart – but nowhere near valedictorian level, and any of the skills that I had honed through the years (declamation, dance, oration) paled in comparison to my overachieving elder sister, Cynthia. The irony of my half-baked existence is viscerally obvious even in how my name was hewn from my sister’s.   I was Cynia