I wasn’t supposed to..

I wasn’t supposed to wake up like this.

I was supposed to wake up to shivers and longing for my blanket, my body splashed all over the bed. I was supposed to see the blinding light of the sun as it painted my room, since I once again forgot to close the curtain last night. I was supposed to wake up to an empty kitchen, void of anything healthy and warm. I was supposed to see empty pizza boxes and a million and one take out boxes and food that I didn’t recognise. I was supposed to open the TV and watch it all day long, with nothing better to do. Then at night I’d bury myself with work, not allowing myself to think for a moment of why the hell did I forget to lock the door, but I was too lazy to get up. I was supposed to fall asleep with the curtains open again, staring onto my window. I’d count stars that twinkle at night, till I fall asleep to a constant tossing and turning.

But today, I didn’t.

Today I woke up to the warmth of a soft skin brushing against mine. I woke up to the sound of giggles as someone brushed their nose with mine. I woke up to the sound of her laugh, as we both fell off the bed. I woke up to the sun directly looking at me, her brown eyes shinning as there’s that pause when you think, This is perfect. I woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs, waiting patiently on my computer desk. My kitchen is now filled with a variety of food, most of them organic. The TV was now untouched, only used for those Tuesday movie nights where she’ll sob at the sight of Channing Tatum suited up for war, but will snuggle up against me. Work was more productive, with only the distraction of her lips as she craves for attention every once and a while. We fell asleep talking to each other like teenagers, murmuring jokes, the sheets tangled up around our bodies. The curtain was now closed, so I didn’t get to see the stars. But I knew, right here, I had one of my own.

I’m never waking up to a day without her.


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And I’m just, ugh. I got this story written at like 5 in the morning when I was supposed to be studying. Someday I’d wake up with my future husband beside me, and he’d never want to sleep alone ever again too.

2 years and two months countdown!

So I may or may have not been neglecting my blog for the past two months. In between studying for exams, making an advertisement and finishing my second book, I never realised that my blog turned two! And even though I missed it, I’m going to celebrate the two year and two months anniversary instead this June! (Because I don’t trust myself to post on the 2 years and 1 month day which is during an exam)(And it’s 3 days from now!)

Today I’m going to write about what has got me busy for the past two months. The good things only, of course.

First off, on March I submitted an application for a National Writing Workshop. And guess what, I got in! You can read about this workshop more here.


Secondly, I entered my poem “The Sea” to a literary magazine, and I got in that too! Watch the launch on their website here.


Thirdly, we had two exhibits to open because to finish our school requirement. It opened AT LAST on Friday!

Advertising Exhibit


“Joy” Exhibit
(Yes, I made a large pencil)

And lastly, I may or may have not chopped my hair again. It’s just so hot!



Surprise announcement! My book Less Than Three is only $0.99 again! Buy it for me pleeeeeease?:D


COUNTDOWN to the DImperfectPrincess-Imperfect is Beautiful Two years and two months anniversary start today!



Countdown Clocks

And of course, HAPPY MOM’S DAY to all Mommies out there!

Remembering Yolanda

I was supposed to die last November 8, 2013.
As Typhoon Yolanda barrelled through Tacloban around seven thirty in the morning, she flooded our house with seawater and mud.  Our furniture floated like it weighed nothing, our appliances like they were worth nothing. The water had its own current inside the house, creating a vortex-like shape. The door was swinging wide open; the two French windows beside it were broken. The water came in without anything to stop it.
And in the middle of this mess and disaster, there was me.
With a box of matches in my mouth, candles raised up with my right hand and the ancient lamp in my left, I was trapped. The furniture began to float toward me, most of them thrice as huge as I was. The water was already shoulder-level, and with my already petite height, it was terrifying to say the least. The water was rising with an alarming rate, and the current was pulling down my feet.
The wind howled outside, as bits and pieces of trees and debris began to float from the outside to our house. My heart was hammering and threatening to leap out of my chest, as I struggled to raise one foot and the other. I was not even halfway towards the stairs when I felt the water rise to my neck.
I remembered my younger siblings upstairs, needing my comfort. I remembered my parents, who counted on me for many things. I remembered my boyfriend of three years, who made me promise to him last night that I had to survive the storm or else he’d get mad at me. I remembered my book, still a draft, waiting for me to finish.
I suddenly felt a rush of adrenalin, giving me the strength I needed.
“Leroi!” I screamed, letting the match go from my mouth.
“Ate!” He replied, running down the stairs. His eyes panicked as he saw my predicament.
He caught the things I threw him, which included the ancient glass lamp. I pushed my way towards the stairs, tossing aside the floating furniture that blocked my way. I stretched my legs as high as I could, grab hold of the stair’s railing, and pushed myself up and ran to the second floor where the rest of my family huddled.
It was only my siblings, my seventy-one year old grandmother, my special aunt and I in the house. My parents were both unfortunately out of the region, and I knew deep inside that they would be worried with what was happening. It was very apocalyptic, one of the things I only saw in movies.
When I reached my room, everyone was together. The second floor was already wet because of the terrace door opening in the mater’s bedroom. The rain and the wind immersed the second floor in ankle level waters. There were broken glass inside their room, and the roof seemed to bounce up and down like a trampoline. I was afraid the roof would collapse on us, just like how one of the ceiling fans fell into one of the beds.
Luckily, no one was hit.
We all began to pray, one rosary mystery after the other. The room felt smaller, the air getting sucked out from our ears as the wind began to pick up again. It sounded like a revving car, about to zoom off to wherever it wanted. We were all struggling to get our voice heard above all the commotion, including the fact that we saw our neighbours climbing the roof of their house.
“That could be us.” One of my siblings said.
“We’ll be okay.” I reassured them
The two girls were crying hysterically when the storm began to blow, along with my grandmother. They were crying for the damage of the house, murmuring and praying incoherent things. I wanted to cry too. But someone needed to be calm.
We began to sing to pass the time, trying to distract ourselves from what was happening outside. My brother and I began to listen to the sound of my mother’s huge vases crashing into our stairs as the wave rose. We were scared when we saw that the water outside our house was higher, covering the houses of our neighbours.
We all tried to eat. But the food, no matter how delicious, now tasted stale. I remembered cooking it hours earlier, when the storm was still making its way towards us. The wind was already whistling when we all woke up, the sound of my mother calling my phone on loudspeaker seemed like a billion years ago. She called to check if everything was prepared, from the food storage down to what we were wearing. Now I had lost my two phones, our clothes were wet, but at least we saved the food.
I remember my sister yelping when she first felt the water rising inside our house. We all hurriedly packed everything we saw, from food to water to the batteries. We foolishly forgot to bring the candles, which was the reason I went back. When everyone was safe upstairs I made myself go back and take the candles, which helped us light up the house the night after the storm.
My grandmother felt helpless as she watched her house slowly become roofless, the flood rising at a fast rate. She watched it all through a window that connected our house with hers, sobbing every time she remembered something she forgot in our hurry to run to our house for safety. Her house was the first to get flooded, as most of the water that entered our house came from hers. It stood for more than forty years, the only thing she felt that was left by my grandfather.
“Ate(sister), the water is going down.”
I felt instant relief, as I counted the minutes that passed since the water came in. It was roughly an hour and a half; the water was slowly going down from the height of the first floor roof. And when everything was calm, we all slowly went down. Our house looked like it went through the power of a washing machine, only it created mud instead of soap.
The bookshelf was upside down; the huge chairs were on their sides. The glass doors were missing; its pieces were all over the floor. Outside, the trees were split in half. The mountains were bare, like a wild fire erupted and removed all the leaves. People were screaming, and some were picking up the things that were scattered along the road.
We just survived what seemed to be something that was made to kill us all but the worst was yet to come.

I am Le-an Lai Angeles Lacaba, the eldest of four and daughter of Leonardo and Romana Lacaba. I’ve lived in Nulatula, Tacloban for eighteen years since I was born. I am a writer and a blogger. And I have survived Haiyan.
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It’s been more than half a year since that day. I’m proud to say that I finished my book, finishing book 2 and working on book 3. Haiyan/Yolanda taught me to finish what I’ve started, because you’d never know when life could finish you.

Internet Funnies

The internet is a beautiful place. Sometimes when I can’t write anything, the internet is there for me. Sometimes when I write the internet distracts me. Either way, I couldn’t write anything today, but the internet was there for me for a few laughs!






Do you have a story you’d like me to write for free? Email me at lean.lacaba@gmail.com and talk to me! Being stuck in school all day rarely spices up my writer cells.

Blind date

I woke up with a heart ache and a massive pile of tear soaked tissues.

Not the best way to wake up, but when your boyfriend got delayed in coming home again, crying all night can become a habit. Especially when you haven’t seen each other for more than a year.

I remembered his pained face when he told me that his study contract had to be extended. He was graduating from his masters, and his professor made him stay two more months so my boyfriend could “tweak” his thesis. He was frustrated and homesick-just like me. He has always been my home, no matter where he was. And I was his.

Thank God for modern technology, the way I could see him every night and hear his voice like he was just beside me. But technology could only do so much.

I couldn’t feel his warmth, they way his breath would tickle my ear when he hugged me from behind. The way his nose would brush mine just before he kissed me. The way he’d hold my hand when we crossed the street like a kid, and he’d never let go at once. His hands would just linger its touch, sometimes with his thumb brushing mine.

I missed his unfunny jokes, the way he’d make me laugh over the most stupid things. I missed the way he never stopped singing so badly when I tried to ignore him, knowing that soon I’d give attention to him anyway.

I hated being so far from him, and I felt like we were growing apart.

Sometimes the thoughts would run in my head wildly like forest fire.

What if he was different now?

What if I wouldn’t recognise who he is in the inside anymore?

What if he’d thought that I was different?

I can’t imagine how I feel around him anymore. What if everything was different now?

Sometimes I secretly wished he stayed where he was, just so we wouldn’t get awkward when we meet again.

What if he didn’t love me anymore?

We haven’t talked in two weeks since he had to concentrate on his thesis. Endless days of overthinking and crying and hoping to see him again.

One night my friends wanted to get me out of my funk, and tried to coax me into going to a blind date. After refusing a lot of times, I gave in, with the promise of telling him about it.

My friends blind folded me, saying it was the whole point of having a blind date. They led me somewhere I didn’t know, made me turn around three times, then made me sit down. I took off my blind fold and there he was, in a suit and tie, smiling like an idiot. There was white pasta in front of both of us, and a candle at the side.

“Hi.” He whispered.

“Hi.”

“I’m Ken. You’re Kelly right? Your friends were right, you are very pretty.”

I couldn’t help but smile as he played on with the “blind date”

“You look pretty handsome too.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do this in person, but will a flying kiss do?”

“I don’t kiss on a first date.”

“Will a handshake do?”

He extended his arm out, and I reached for it.

I held in a tear as I pretended to shake his imaginary hand, and he did the same. The screen between us felt like we were boxed, yet he smiled at me brightly.

“Nice to meet you Kelly.”

“Nice to met you too Ken.”

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Not so good, I know. I’ve been in this funk when I can’t write because my meds make me sleepy. Bugger.
Original, all mine, and fiction.

Good vs. Bad: Why Death takes the good guys first



Ever since the first recorded death on the Bible, the good guys usually die first. Abel vs. Cain is the first human personification of good vs. bad, and until today it’s usually the good guys who get seduced by Death.
            The contrast of the Abels and Cains in this world has been going on for centuries after the first murder, and is still the example that is being shown today. There’s a Filipino joke among teens where they say, “Ang bait mo, sana kunin ka na ni Lord.”(You’re so nice; I hope the Lord takes you). It’s neither an insult nor a compliment (but it depends on the recipient), but simply stating something we’ve subconsciously noticed: that the good ones go first.
            I’ve never really been the religious type, except for the fact that I went to a Christian school through my elementary and high school days. I knew how to pray the rosary, I knew the Ten Commandments, I knew who the 12 disciples were, but I always wanted to know why the good guys got “taken” first since I was nine.
            Another nine years later, I got my answer.
            A friend we’ll call Anne had her aunt pass away suddenly. She was still getting over the shock of it all, and she kept telling me that her aunt was the nicest person in the world. She always gave what she could give without asking for anything in return. From what I heard Anne’s aunt was another Abel-a nice person who went to heaven, leaving the Cains behind.
            And that’s when it struck me.
            The reason the Cains get left behind is not because of unfinished business, or that they have a long life ahead of them. The Cains were left behind because they had to do something before they died that the Bible has mentioned over and over: they had to repent.
            An Abel is someone who isn’t always doing the right thing, but they try to. They help people when they could; they may or may not be religious but believes in a Higher Being; and lives life the simplest way they could.
            The Cains are those who aren’t ultimately bad guys, but are easily swayed into giving in to temptation. They are the ones who know they’re doing the wrong thing but they do it anyway. They are the ones who show us who we don’t want to be, and makes everything else complicated.
            It was then that I had another realization: the reason Cains stay on Earth is that they’re given the chance to become an Abel. Which brings me back to my first conclusion: Cains needed to repent.
            The concept of Repentance has been practically drilled into our heads when we were kids, Catholic school or not. During Mass we are told to return to God and do His Will. Repent is defined as the feeling of regret or remorse over something, and the priests have been telling us to repent of our sins.
            Repentance has been taught to us as our “ticket” into getting into heaven. We are taught that God easily forgives if we find it in us to repent, which transforms any Cain into an Abel.
            This may seem easy enough to do, but it’s not. Everyone knows it’s not.
            We’ve been taught that we had to be genuinely repentant. Saying that you were sorry for your sins didn’t count if in the back of your mind you knew you were going to do it again didn’t count.  
             The Holy Week centers on the idea of Repentance. We remember Jesus dying for us in the cross, another example of Abel. We are constantly reminded that Jesus died for us, for the Cains, for us to see the example of whom we should follow. We may not all be priests or nuns, but just being the person we know Abel would be is all God wants.
             And even though we die first because we became Abels, we will be remembered, just as Anne’s aunt was remembered. As a person worth crying for, a person worth talking to a friend you weren’t close to in the first place. In the end turning into an Able in a world of Cains saves you, just as He promised. Abels don’t die because in fact they’re given a life forever for choosing to be an Abel and not a Cain.

            Death isn’t the end when you’re an Abel. It’s the beginning of Eternal Life.

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This post may be kind of deep, so I’m just going to ask a question for the comments:
Have you ever had someone you know die and you believe they were and Abel? What qualities do they have to be worthy of being called an “Abel?”

The hands that held mine

Is it wrong to fall in love with someone
because of the way they hold your hand?
I remember when I was younger,
my mom would hold my hand when I crossed the street.
It made me feel safe and protected,
like she won’t let go until we were safe.
I remember in school,
we were supposed to hold hands when we sang.
The hands were slimy and they smelled bad,
and the feeling was weird.
I remember my friends holding my hand 
when we ran past the guards,
the feeling was exhilarating,
Yet my hands felt empty.
But when he held my hand,
our hands meshed together like a perfect puzzle.
I couldn’t tell the difference between his hand and mine.
He made me feel a thousand emotions at once:
happiness, anxiety, warmth, forever

and most of all, LOVE.
———————
Seriously, is it wrong? I keep falling for him when he holds my hand, 3 years later 🙂
I know I said I won’t post poems or stories for a while, but I just loved writing this one too much that I had to share it. <3
Original. Copyright.

The wrong generation

I seriously think I was born to the wrong generation.

Not to insult the time I am in, but I wish I was born during the time when writing was something you were talented in, not a crash course you could take in a day.

Everything seems to have a manual these days, everything has rules, everything has standards. Shakespeare didn’t have one, neither did Hemingway. These men just wrote whenever they wanted to, and now look at them.

Before I decided to be a full on writer, I just wrote like them: in whatever way I wanted to. But then I learned the hard truth about writing: everyone else can do it, even though they don’t have the talent to do so. Isn’t it frustrating? How you could want to write with so much passion, and then wuptidoo lookey here, someone who has connections to a publisher got their book published! How you try so hard to enter a competition you weren’t even comfortable with because more people like those who won awards, and then whoooooosh! A kid who was trained by a professional won.

I’m not really bitter about writing. I love writing. It’s the world that gave writing the wrong definition. Writing should be something shared freely, without rules or boundaries. I mean, I’m just fed up because I’m usually “out there” with my ideas that no one seems to understand.

If only I was born in the time when writing was an art and not a job. I’d even like to live in the time when writing was banned, but I’d still write because I love to. I write because I can’t help it, but I can’t be credited for it because I don’t fit in with everyone’s standards.

Writers read and quote this book.
(I like to be original thank you.)

Writers should write a million words a day.
(Okay maybe just a thousand, but most of us suffer writer’s block)

Writers have to live through being poor or stuff like that.
(Life has already hardships. Now I have to chose to go through them?)

Writers shouldn’t publish their works when submitting to a contest.
(How about us bloggers?)

But how about me? I’m just an eighteen year old girl without a mentor, who lives in the Philippines, struggling to finish college, who doesn’t read Hemingway or Tolstoy, and just wants to write because if I don’t I lose it.

This generation makes struggling writers like me struggle more because of nonsense definitions.

I love to read and write instead of partying or drinking. I rush to the nearest bookstore instead of the nearest sale. I’ve been different my whole life, always lost in a world I’m either reading or creating. I don’t have anyone to relate with, but that’s okay.

If that means that I should try harder, then let it be.

I am Le-an Lai Lacaba, 18 from Tacloban City, Philippines. I will be graduating from college next year, and I’m going to pursue my career as a writer. No matter what anyone says, I’m a writer. And I will sure as hell prove that.

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Just a little rant. I’m just frustrated because weeks after applying for so many jobs and entering competitions, I still have nothing 🙁

The freelance writer advertisement

Need an article written?
Have a story to tell but you just can’t seem to put them together?
Do you need someone to take care of the content of your blog, newspaper or magazine?
Are you searching for a writer of original, unique and thrilling content?
Look no further!
I am Le-an Lai Lacaba, an 18 year old junior student of the University of the Philippines and I’m offering my services as a freelance writer. I have been writing short stories and poems for six years, and professional articles for almost two years. I have worked and have been published on Espejo magazine and a few other websites like LDRmagazine. I have interviewed important people, including our mayor. I research my articles myself from reliable sources. I have also published my book, Less Than Three, which is a collection of short stories.
My offer for each article ranges from 50 Pesos($1.11) to 2000 pesos($44.59) depending on the word count and the urgency of the article. 
Please refer to my resume below for more details.
Email me at lean.lacaba@gmail.com if you wish for me to write articles. My expertise of topics range from relationships to family to world news. 
I hope to hear from you soon!
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I am currently on an educational fieldtrip, and we’ve been learning about advertisement. And I thought, heck, I should advertise myself!