We Are Proud to Feature the Work of

Lor Ila D. Macariola

Scribble

The act of a pen gliding across paper

may as well be framed,

for spoken words turn into vapor

and literature has yet to be tamed.

There is beauty in creating a plethora of lies

as they are concealed by promises and pleasure;

turning pages and staring at lines,

we pawn after a fantasy we can only find in treasure.

A pile of books can tell a million different stories,

but somehow, they will always be connected,

for all writers want to share their glories

to prove their crumpled-up paper was never neglected.

So, we scribble the ink to compose a tale, 

and we write until our skin goes pale.

A Remarkable Woman

            Blue.

            His eyes are blue. 

            I physically feel my smile drop as my face goes pale. I think of every ancestor I could have that would make my baby boy have blue eyes. Everyone in Abel’s family. My thoughts are rushing to find one person. Just one. Yet not a single soul that shared our blood matched these bright, shining eyes staring directly at me. 

            It doesn’t help that we both come from strictly Asian descent. 

            This isn’t good. Not one bit. 

            “He’s so beautiful,” I manage to croak out, making sure my boy is only looking at me. I don’t want to make a scene. Not in a hospital, of all places. 

            I force myself to look up at Abel, who is staring at the back of my boy’s head with pride. He wanted a boy so bad.

            His gaze reaches mine and I see that his eyes are rimmed with tears. He walks over to me, his hands shaking. I instinctively pull my boy closer, hiding his face.

            Abel laughs and places a kiss on my forehead. “The most remarkable woman in the world,” he whispers, his words only for us to hear. 

            I smile up at him, remorse eating up my heart as he turns to look at my boy. Then, I watch his gleaming, brown eyes turn black as he comes to the conclusion I did just moments before. 

            I expect him to yell. To storm out. I clutch my boy a little closer, almost afraid that Abel will make a move he’ll regret tomorrow. 

            But he doesn’t. 

            Instead, he smiles at me. “What are we going to name him, Mira?” 

            I blink at him. I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off. 

            “How about Kenneth?” he turns to look at the nurses. “Doesn’t he look like a Kenneth?” 

            They all agree that he does, in fact, look like a Kenneth.

            I’m smiling, but I swear my boy can feel my thudding heart. Careful not to show any signs of guilt, I politely shake my head. 

            “How about the names we talked about, sweetheart? Like Atlas?” I’m begging Abel with my eyes to just agree with me. 

            He nods. “Whatever you say. Hey, I think Kenneth could be a nice middle name, though, don’t you think? Atlas Kenneth Santos? Wordy, but it’s pretty unique.” Now he’s begging me. 

            I hesitantly agree. God, this is so messed up. 

            Abel is acting completely normal. The car ride home is filled with my favorite music and the conversation is like the ones we’ve had before. I’m almost completely relaxed by the time we reach our front door. 

            “Welcome home, Atlas,” I smile down at him as we walk in. I’ve only spent a day with Atlas, and he’s surprised me with how little he cries. I take us to his room, and he watches me with his eyes half closed. 

            After laying him down, I walk over to Abel, who has put all of our baby supplies on the dining room table. He’s sitting on our couch, his hands covering his face. 

            “How long?” he doesn’t even look at me. How could he?

            “What do you mean?” I say, tilting my head to the side.

            “Do not try to play games with me right now. How. Long.” His voice is stern.

            I don’t even try to come up with a lie. “A year,” I whisper. My heart is going to fall out of my chest.

            He laughs. He…laughs? “You’ve been sleeping with my boss for a year,” he finally looks up at me. “The same year we got married? The same year we moved into this house and worked on the room for our baby?” His voice is getting louder. “Our baby, Mira. He was supposed to be ours and now I can barely look at him because guess what? He. Isn’t. Mine.” 

He’s crying. I don’t know what to do. I want to comfort him. Hug him. But where’s my right to?

            “I-I’m sorry.” I stammer.

            “God, his eyes,” he shakes his head. “They match his so well. Even if I was stupid, I would know that baby’s his.”

            “Abel, I don’t know how to express how sorry I a-” I start.

            “Why, Mira? Tell me what the hell I did to deserve this. After all I’ve done for you,” he cuts me off.

            It’s my turn to raise my voice. “After all you’ve done for me? Do you remember who got you that job? Do you remember who was providing for you when you were living off scraps? Remember when you got promoted?” I’m breathing harder than ever.

            Abel stands up. “Now I know that I got that promotion because my wife got handsy with my boss! God, what a boost of confidence for me, Mira. You really did such a good job,” he was seething. “You love to degrade me. I have done nothing but thank you for helping me, but you’re shoving it in my face like I forced you to. I thought you did it out of love, but maybe you were just embarrassed that your boyfriend wasn’t driving you around in a goddamn Porsche,” he laughs. “Oh wait! Kenneth drives a Porsche!”

            I want to scream at him. Louder than I ever have. But I refrain because of Atlas. “You didn’t take care of me enough, Abel. Where were you when my mother died? Australia!” I threw my hands up in the air. “And guess who didn’t book the first flight back home because this vacation with your ‘boys’ was apparently more important than your wife who was going through the worst pain in her life.”

            Silence. 

            I keep going. “Oh! But who was there, Abel? Kenneth! He was there when you weren’t because he cared for my mother and me. We’ve been friends for years.” My feet are glued to the floor. I hate this. 

            “Oh, so while you were done crying about your mom for the day, he took you to bed? What an amazing guy!” His hands were pulling at his hair.

            My gaze turns cold. I’ve never heard him speak like this to me. 

            “Get. Out.” 

            He scoffs. “You really are such a remarkable woman, Mira. I wasn’t lying. It’s just going to be more evident when you take care of that baby all alone.”

            He slams the door when he leaves, and Atlas finally starts to cry.

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