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Monday Morning

photo by MARIANNE LORRAINE M. SAMILING

ROUSED BY a tremor accompanied by a deafening ringing, right below where her head lay rest which disrupted her slumber like raindrops causing ripples on a steady lake, she awakened to the droning of a fan.

Almost mechanically if not for its lack of precision, her hand reached underneath her pillow. In one lazy swoop, she fished her phone out from the barely-existing space between the surface of her cushion and bed.

“12:10 p.m.,” the time on her phone read. Her class was at 1 p.m..

Adrenaline slammed against every inch of her body like waves of the ocean hitting the coast on a windy day. She bolted out of bed, tossing her phone to the side as if it were some pebble by the seaside.

Dashing out of the room, she found herself greeted by the sea’s cool breath, staring at its graceful figure as it played tinikling with the shore—the tail of its deep blue baro’t saya swaying to its own current, most of the time with the melody of the wind.

For a moment, she was in daze until she heard her mother’s voice from the side.

“Good morning, ate,” her smile shifted into a small frown, “are you okay?”

The question was succeeded by a burst of laughter from the other side of the room.

“Kuya? Nako, kuya! Did you mess with ate’s phone?”

The playfulness in the remark that followed was confirmation enough.

“Merry Christmas, ate!”

Someone was asking to be buried in the sand alive. MARIA ANTOINETTE A. MALICSE

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