Wazzup Pilipinas Original Short Stories Series: What Made Me Write

Wazzup Pilipinas!

The story starts with a student in her poetry class, namely Caitlin. Mr. Frederick, her teacher, asked them to write a poem about anything for their project.

Later at night, her friend Ellie called her, begging her to come to her house so Caitlin did. Caitlin found Ellie in the bathroom of her house, holding a blade, and crying so hard. Caitlin helped her so she’d stop cutting herself and asked her what happened. Ellie said that she has problems with her family, that everyday, her parents always fight leaving her scared. Sometimes her dad would hurt her just because of a simple mistake.

Caitlin decided to write a poem about Caitlin’s experiences which won the appreciation of her classes but she’s still sad because she realized how vicious our world has become.

In this story, you'll learn that we shouldn’t physically abuse other people because it will have a big effect on them.We shouldn’t cut ourselves or attempt suicide because we can always seek God for help and guidance. You'll also learn that we should be ready to help other people when they are feeling down.

Below is our short story for the day.



I hate school. We all do, right? I know you agree with me. I mean, I love education but I hate school. It’s a bit hard to explain. The only thing I like about school is my poetry class. I know it probably seems geeky but I do love poetry just as much as you love chicken wings.

So here I am, sitting in poetry class, waiting for it to start.“Good morning class!” Mr. Fredrick said with his usual pitched up tone. He didn’t even let us greet him back when he said, “I have a project for you guys.” It was our cue to make whale noises also known as groaning.

“Okay! Stop it class. I’m sure you’ll all love this.” O, I bet we all will. “For the first semester, I decided to let you perform a piece, your own piece. Each of you will deliver a poem about anything. It could be about your dog, really loud neighbor, if you tripped while walking and you felt so humiliated, anything.” That seems interesting. “Starting next week, there would be two to three of you who are going to perform every meeting, is that okay?” A lot of yeses echoed through the room.

It has been five days, five meetings. And I have not written any word to start my poem. Whenever I try to write a word, I end up throwing it and sleeping. This is so frustrating. Wait, there’s someone calling.

“Hey.” It’s my friend, Ellie. “Lake, I don’t know what to do. Help me please.” She’s crying while talking.

“Why? What happened?” I started to panic.

“Please just come here. Please.” She’s crying so hard now. “Okay. Okay just wait for me. Bye.”

When I reached Ellie’s house, I immediately knocked and when no one answered I went to the back door and went in. I went up to her room and knocked. No one answered again. I went in since the door was unlocked. When I entered the room, she wasn’t there. Where could she be?

“Caitlin! Caitlin! I’m here!” I heard someone crying in the bathroom. “I’m here!” When I went in, I saw her lying on the floor with holding a blade. “Oh, Ellie, what happened to you?” I started crying. “I’m sorry. I just. I’m so sad.” She was crying so hard and I don’t know what to do. I took the blade away from her and helped her get up and clean her self-inflicted wounds.

When she has calmed down, she told me everything. She told me about her problems with her family. That every day, her parents always fight leaving her scared and sometimes her dad would hurt her just because of a simple mistake. She said, she doesn’t know what to do and doesn’t want to tell anyone until now because she doesn’t want to be a burden.

I told her that it’s okay, that I’ll be here for her and she won’t ever be a burden to anyone especially me. She should see that I’m her friend and I’m always here for her to hold on. I decided to bring her home and let her stay there for a couple of days till we figure out a way to help her.

It’s past midnight now. Ellie is asleep and I’m sitting her holding a pen, thinking. Then I knew it. I knew it would be the right thing to write.

Today’s the day. I’m finally going to perform. I’m nervous, excited.

“Ms. Kennedy you may start.” Here goes nothing.

Hurt and Hope
two different words
yet share the same bloodline
born from the letter H
separated by meaning
bounded by feelings

Hurt is clingy
he wants attention
he’s deceitful
flashing you his treacherous smile
saying he’ll make you happy
once you feel him through your wrist
and in your heart

Hope is a friend
a friend in times of need
she’ll always say
that it’s okay
that tomorrow will be better
that someday you’ll be okay
but tomorrow came
and it became yesterday

Hope lost her friend
Hurt tapped Hope’s friend on the shoulder
offered a knife
with his treacherous smile

Hope watched her friend
as metal meets skin
Hope lost her friend
Hurt gained a buddy


Everyone was quiet. I just hurried back to my seat because no one’s talking and I don’t want to embarrass myself. Then after a few beats of silence, everyone was clapping.

This is for Ellie, I thought. That I know so well how much it hurts to be hurting.

I should be happy that I’m done with this project, but I’m not. I’ve complied, yes, but the story behind this work of art is a gruesome experience of someone near and dear to me. I wish we could share the pain, but the thing is, I’m already hurting. Seeing her like that is like ripping my heart open and stealing away the good away from it, leaving it dull, shattered and bleeding. I’ve done my part, but not entirely. I wish I could wish away all the pain people around me are experiencing, but I’m incapable of doing so.

And now, I am introduced into a new affliction. It will take a long time for me to forget, maybe not at all. I may be scarred for life, but this experience has made me realize how repugnant the actions of my brothers have become, and now my friend, I ask you to do something that will somehow help restore faith in humanity, not only for me, but for everyone who does the same thing.



Contributed by Janean P. Mati-ong