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THE MIRACLE

The Miracle by Ben Crisp and Rosalinda Flores
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As the days had been stressful, good times were numbered.  Friends popped and disappeared.  When people smelled you could not give enough, they stayed away.  If they could not get anything from you or suck anything from you, merry days would be over; you would be out of the circle.  See I’m out? They smelled they couldn’t get much from me.  “Good morning, Miss!” Where is he? “Please see him in the living room.” He was sitting in his wheel chair.  He was reading the newspaper and a glass of water was on the table.  Postcards were scattered, a record book, and medals of his faith.  He was supposed to be a cleric, but due to weak health, he didn’t get it through.  Instead, he ventured on a business that earned him a fortune.  I always borrowed from this man, and he was the only one who didn’t tax me.  As people could see outside, he lived in luxury – but his heart, it was benevolent to any creature who would seek his help.  The only thing that …

THE MIRACLE

by Ben Crisp and Rosalinda Flores



It must be nice, I thought, to have some sort of certainty in life. To be able to look to a faith to guide you when reality – that deluge of chaos that tears at the flesh and soul – is inescapable.  Or maybe she just liked the statue. More people began to trickle into the park.  The illusion that this was my place began to fade, like it always did, as the sun drew long shadows on the ground; soon it would be time for work.  Once I had enjoyed the anonymity of living in a big foreign city.  Now, I feared, solitude was decaying into loneliness and I felt myself disappearing into the crowds that lined the streets each day. She finished or paused whatever thoughts had held her and stood up to leave, as though in a sudden hurry. Was this my life?  Watching others from outside a window like a child at a pet store? It took a moment for me to notice the sliver of yellow beneath the bench.  Curious, I stood and walked slowly across the park to the space in the fro…

June 23, 2016. THE MIRACLE

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THE MIRACLE
By Ben Crisp and Rosalinda Flores

There was no place to go, but here. 
I was raging as always, to imperfections. As such, at least, be perfect in front of this holy woman.  Something stirred into my memory, while I uttered chants I couldn’t even understand.  So, this holy woman people called their mother, and the Catholics believed to be the mother of Christ, had always stunned me.  No, she did not stun me like ghosts scared, but her benevolence scared my sins and inspired me to hope.  At least, in this way, I could re-organize my undecided life.
At least, I’d be prim in front of her, confident in front of her; complete.  Apart from my whoring affairs to get money, I wished some guy would come back for me, as my yellow dress meant waiting. In a few weeks, my boyfriend, a married man, would decide whether to marry me and annul their marriage, or leave me for his wife.  Of all the men in my life, I just got into material quests so I could sustain my falling business, but this m…

THE MIRACLE

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THE MIRACLE By Rosalinda Flores Martinez and Ben Crisp
The coffee was still too hot, so I cradled the foam cup between my knees and lit my last cigarette.  My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before. The park was mostly empty.  The sun had not yet crept above the horizon, to burn the dirty greyness from the dawn sky, and it would be at least an hour before the rest of the city left the their homes to brave another miserable taglamig day outside. There had been reports of another journalist shot in Manila.  I had long grown used to such news, acknowledging it with a kind of postured indifference that my ex-girlfriend had found no comfort in.  It didn’t matter to her that I was relegated to the smallest sections of the sports pages; I was white, and besides, could not an outraged sports fan be just as violent as a vengeful gangster or deranged terrorist?  She was probably right.  Still, I found comfort in my own sense of insignificance.  Speaking barely a word of Filipin…

Marco and Me in May: Caramoan

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Sometimes we need to soak.