Marching out of March Winner
Hello and good morning Tumblr,
It is my great pleasure to announce the Marching out of March.
My name is John Anthony Alcazar Dungan, mostly called as Anthony. I am an Asian—a Filipino who has a dream of being successful in writing one of the these days. If you have judged me based on my appearance, mostly, you would all say that I am eighteen. You’re wrong, I am sixteen only. Despite of this youngster’s (me) purported to be sincere, I am also humorous, loquacious on countless ways. I love singing together with my hackneyed guitar, I love watching TV series, and I love writing.. Ironically, it doesn’t love me back. To be honest, I couldn’t consider my works as stellar, stunning, astonishing, or such adjectives that would compliment it. I honestly thought that I made/am making sloppy poetry and verbose prose. And I am inexperienced at all. I got hook with writing because of reading too much books. Whenever a highfalutin word comes out, I would apparently get the nearest dictionary on my sight. Nonetheless from writing, everything else about my life is worth ditching.
Every inch stings.
The Winning Piece from Marching out March
The syringe plays along with the height of six inches. And this syringe might be the only way to save a woman who has an Aichmophobia—the fear of being involve with pointed objects.
“I do not want that syringe to settle me. Is there any other way?” The woman asked her husband while gnawing her grimy fingernail. “No, there is no other way,” he replied.
The woman swallowed hard and closed her dilated eyes—stating her false attraction with the ongoing occurrence. This is it. The doctor rubs an elastic band—coated with disinfectant on her right arm to prevent any tetanus object from going in her system. And he handed out the syringe.
The first inch of the syringe is making its way down to her milky, soft-textured skin and she winces a little. On her perspective, she cannot fathom the pain that prickles in her right arm is being followed by a misery from her past in return—how she got bruises due to her misogynistic stepfather that never stopped flailing whip on her. It crashes through her memory crystal clear. Then, another inch of the syringe passed right through her. Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Sweat trickles on her palm and her husband cleared it off. “You can do this, Martha!” His husband exclaims in triumph.
As the last inch plunges and it was taken out of her, all she can mutter is a sigh of relief—that she overcame her biggest dilemma which was her morbid past. We get hurt by things we do not expect that we can hurt us. More intriguingly, how it will affect us—sleepless nights, haunting nightmares. There were phases in our life that we would want to be buried—forever. Yet we do not have the hatchet that could bury it all. The first thing in trying to bury these is to fight your cowardice.
Be brave. No one remembers a coward.
