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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.
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Bibliography
The Great Little Hunter
Pinspired Philippines, 2022
The Boy The Girl
The Rat The Rabbit
and the Last Magic Days
Chapbook, 2018
Republic of Carnage:
Three Horror Stories
For the Way We Live Now
Chapbook, 2018
Bamboo Girls:
Stories and Poems
From a Forgotten Life
Ateneo de Naga University Press, 2018
Don't Tell Anyone:
Literary Smut
With Shakira Andrea Sison
Pride Press / Anvil Publishing, 2017
Cupful of Anger,
Bottle Full of Smoke:
The Stories of
Jose V. Montebon Jr.
Silliman Writers Series, 2017
First Sight of Snow
and Other Stories
Encounters Chapbook Series
Et Al Books, 2014
Celebration: An Anthology to Commemorate the 50th Anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop
Sands and Coral, 2011-2013
Silliman University, 2013
Handulantaw: Celebrating 50 Years of Culture and the Arts in Silliman
Tao Foundation and Silliman University Cultural Affairs Committee, 2013
Inday Goes About Her Day
Locsin Books, 2012
Beautiful Accidents: Stories
University of the Philippines Press, 2011
Heartbreak & Magic: Stories of Fantasy and Horror
Anvil, 2011
Old Movies and Other Stories
National Commission for Culture
and the Arts, 2006
FutureShock Prose: An Anthology of Young Writers and New Literatures
Sands and Coral, 2003
Nominated for Best Anthology
2004 National Book Awards
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Recent Crumbs
Blogs I Read
© 2002-2021
IAN ROSALES CASOCOT
Monday, March 02, 2009
2:52 PM |
Fictitious Monologue
[excerpt from a story in progress...]
That night, a long time ago, I looked across the divide, that few feet between us and the dining table, and saw how utterly
small you've become. You didn't know, but between bites of the succulent fish and the sips of the crisp red wine, I was peering at you from behind my knife and fork and my goblet, and I was thinking:
where was all that old beauty, all my remembered glints of your brilliance and sweetness? I saw only how tired you looked. How fat. How unkempt, as if the world was no longer worth the slightest bit of care. How sadly your shoulders sagged. And how you talked. All I saw and heard were pockmarks of resentment that must come from somewhere, some dark past, some deep reservoir of pain you have never really acknowledged to anybody, not even to me ... not when we were still friends. The subtlety of the venom that made you spew on and on about how you hate
everything, or how everybody seemed geared to disappoint you, was still unabated -- surprising even to me -- by this something you call a new love. Sometimes -- and only sometimes -- I wonder how I used to spend many nights building monuments in dreams to the sweet memory of your name. Sometimes I don't even know who you are anymore. It makes me sad, but only
just so: in the end, I cannot bring myself to care anymore. That night, the wine and the fish were good, the night mercifully quick. I think I said goodbye. I must have. I remember most the welcome freshness of the night air outside, and it was that which led me home, to my fitful sleep, where you don't exist anymore.
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