Category: writing

(short stories! prose! poetry! editorials!) narratives and abstract retellings of things for imaginations to count ✍️

IF: Gay girl prays for a gun

Gay girl prays for a gun is an interactive fiction piece mainly about religion and sexuality. I like to think about it as a collection of poems and anecdotes. Play game (direct link)Play on itch.io This has been a work in progress for a while, but we’re at a few thousand words and at a state of branching that I think is interesting. Try it out. For more interactive fiction pieces, I’m storing most public works on my Github: https://github.com/chiaski/if

A State, Some Motorcycles, and a Startup

Despite promises to improve the worsening chaos of Manila’s traffic, the Philippine government continues to war with Angkas, showing its true colors. “What do they mean by transportation crisis?” says Presidential Spokesman Salvador Panelo after the breakdown of the LRT-2, a transport line serving 200,000 passengers across Metro Manila. It was eventual that the country would want to slip and weave past the ever-worsening traffic, and with it, the government’s unfulfilled processes. So came motorcycles, a mess, and a discovery of what a startup is. This is a developing story. The most updated version will be on my Medium: https://medium.com/@chiaski/a-state-some-motorcycles-and-a-startup-7d1dd0a92b82

Gay girl prays for a gun

Dealing with my pansexuality, and sexuality as a living void that I couldn’t come to terms with — and am still trying to understand. It’s not really just easier to say “bi”, I often don’t say anything at all. I’m nineteen-years old and answering emails in the middle of a storm while many people I love march for pride in cities away, in a nation that has long misunderstood what it is we are celebrating. This is a nation that has granted me the privilege of silence. My family exists with votes thrown for the yellow party; in that sense — gay people are something to be tolerated. I buy overpriced $15 rainbow socks from the middle of a crowded street in Japan and wear it when I get my hair cut for $2; the hairdresser looks at my mother and asks me if I’m “you know…” and she answers that I just wear it for the colours. Some days, I’m still trying to figure out if I’ve actually fallen in love with m best friend. I dig up old messages where I scream about going gay for girls, long before I knew it was okay to be gay. When I first looked at porn, I looked at drawings of boys kissing each other — and enjoyed it more when they had an emotional connection to one another. During the more vulnerable days I would fantasize this scene with us in place: on shitty beds and sidewalks pushed, looked down upon, taking in the voyeur of knowing there was something so intimately wrong about every single touch. I’ve written a lot about loving boys. I’ve loved them in the form of music, in the form of their warmth in a crowded auditorium despite never having known them outside a theater or a mall. I’ve loved them in a college dorm room before a relapse and in the dark of a field with dozens of other people, making out and feeling them next to the plastic ID in their pocket that costs us 20 dollars to lose. The premise of these anecdotes is to tell you that I’ve loved in the most fucked up (read: awkward) circumstances possible; there was no tender, forbidden love in a summer church camp, nor did I pass notes with anyone in class and receive a promposal to seal in my heterosexuality. In fact, I endedMore?