M.G. Maderazo
Bio
M.G. Maderazo is a Filipino science fiction and fantasy writer. He's also a poet. He authored three fiction books.
Stories (67)
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Paper Boats
Paper boat makes me smile. It has become part of my life. Has become part of the life of many children, indeed. When we were children, we usually fold a used piece of paper to make one and let it float inside a basin with water. Then we blow air to make it sail around its limited ocean until it soaks and slowly sinks and we could not make it move anymore. Again we build another one until we give up thrusting it with the air from our lungs.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
The Souvenir
It was a great day. A seminar that talked about Sol’s History. A convention that helped every galactic student-delegate understood the origin of the Solar System. It was held in Ganymede, millions of miles away from the planet I live in. They had chosen me as a delegate from our school… the only one from our planet.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
Uncle Jeff's Bedroom
Uncle Jeff’s bedroom was orderly. He put the blankets, pillows, bedsheets, curtains, clothes, and business suits in the right place. Uncle Jeff was orderly too; he rose from the bed, took a pee, brushed his teeth and gargled for three minutes to eliminate bad breath, had a shower, put on a pressed business suit, walked downstairs to sip a cup of black coffee prepared by Vivien, cat-walked across the passageway between Bermuda grass, go outside the gate, and left the house for his office job. He always prepared for everything.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
Green Blood
The stink gusted about him. Viscid green fluid stained his checkered polo shirt and blue jeans. Pus-like matter blemished his youthful face. He was standing boldly over a green-blooded, unknown creature which he had sliced asunder. In his right hand, gripped tightly, was his weapon, a sharp bolo. The moderate sticky green fluid ran down the blade and fell into a puddle of green blood which was slowly streaming on the floor towards a lady who was crumpling in fear in the corner.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
The Small Bridge
The small wooden bridge was our meeting place every Friday night. It rested in the shades of bamboo trees, some coconut trees, and a few paper trees. The moonlit could make through their leaves and shine on our young and eager faces. There was a light bulb on a post standing on one edge of the bridge. It was switched on until dawn and was a suitable substitute for moonlight when the night sky was cloudy.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
The Secret Door to Heaven
“There’s a place in this subway station that conceals a secret door to heaven,” said the person sitting on a waiting bench behind me. I turned to him. He had a gloomy face. “Yeah, you’ve heard that. Heaven.” He glanced at the track and then back at me. “I tell you, heaven is real,” he said.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
The Last Smile of My Pain
I was in college when I went to Mother for consolation. My Algebra professor had flunked me and although I had pleaded with him to give me a second chance, he said, no, the decision was final. I cried in secret. I could not bear the thought I would not pass after working so hard. That was half a decade ago.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
White Palms, Pure Love
Uncle Gerry has white palms like the color of cotton. But his complexion is not pallid. Kids like me have white palms too. I mean, all of us have white palms until adolescence or until we get a crush on some pretty girls. By then our palms would become orange like the tangerine sky of twilight. My parents’ palms have been green like a virgin forest since my birth. They had been white before they got acquainted, turned orange in the first few months of father’s courtship with mother, and then turned red when they got engaged and eventually tied the knot.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
The Filmmaker
At a coffee shop outside St. Luke’s Hospital, Ranimel sinks into a single-seater sofa. He leans his head at the back and stares above the ceiling. He doesn’t care about the baristas going around and the customers pursing lips and shaking heads over what they think they see is indecorum. The truth is, Ranimel is exhausted. He works at night and, on days, he tends to his sick father, Chuck, confined in the hospital.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
Feathers
The infant howled like a wild dog. His worried mother swayed the cradle in rhythm to her humming of a lullaby. The ramshackle hut shook slightly as the cradle dragged its ropes attached to the brace of the palm roof. The mother hummed louder but in a pleasant tone. Her soprano voice flew about, against the lonely light of the sole lamp that was struggling to defeat the dimness inside the hut.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
