FLARE - By Mae Grace Edlyn Narciso

Written By: Mae Grace Edlyn Narciso

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Mae Grace Edlyn Narciso, writing under the name FLARE, brings us a powerful short story titled "FLARE" as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This evocative narrative delves into the complexities of family bonds, the pull of nostalgia, and the journey to self-discovery. As Krisha navigates a poignant reunion with her past, readers are invited to reflect on the intersection of dreams and reality, making "FLARE" a compelling read that resonates with universal themes of homecoming and personal growth.

About the Work

The story "FLARE" unfolds with a rich tapestry of emotions, capturing the tension between past and present through vivid imagery and a deeply introspective narrative style. Mae Grace Edlyn Narciso skillfully weaves a tale that explores themes of familial connection, loss, and the bittersweet nature of returning to one's roots. The mood is reflective, with moments of tension that build to a poignant climax, leaving a lasting impression on the reader as they journey through Krisha's world of dreams and reality.

FLARE

Original Submission by Mae Grace Edlyn Narciso

FLARE

by Mae Grace Edlyn Narciso

Krisha reached for her cellphone on the small table beside her bed. Still half-asleep, she fumbled for it before finally answering.

“Hello? Who’s this?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

“Anak? Ishang?” The woman on the other end sounded as though she was struggling to keep herself from crying.

Krisha said nothing.

“A-nak? How are you? This is your mama.”

For years, she had not heard that voice. Yet she recognized it immediately. How could she ever forget her mother’s soft, low voice?

Something tightened in her throat.

She didn’t know what to say. Words seemed to have abandoned her. For a moment, there was only silence between them.

Deep inside, she wanted to ask how her mother had gotten her number. She wanted to ask why she was calling after all these years. But the questions remained trapped in her throat. She was already fighting back tears.

So she pretended to be irritated.

“He’s dead, Ishang. He’s dead… Your papa is dead… heart failure…”

Her mother was sobbing now.

Krisha could barely make out the words. Her fingers loosened around the phone, and it slipped from her hand, landing on the floor with a dull thud.

Her entire body went cold.

“He’s dead, Ishang. He’s dead… Your papa is dead…”

The words continued to echo inside her head.

Outside, darkness had already settled over the city. She glanced at the small, round clock hanging in the corner near the door.

6:30 p.m.

The window of her tiny rented room was wide open. From the estero below came a foul, stagnant smell that reached her nostrils. Inside the boarding house, everything was strangely quiet.

Her board mates had not yet returned from work, while some were still at school. She was the only one in the house who worked at night.

From outside, however, came the familiar sounds of life: children laughing and playing in the streets, mothers calling their children home.

Then, suddenly, the windows slammed shut.

The voices below disappeared.

Silence filled the room.

An unsettling stillness crept over her, making her nervous.

She stared at the door opposite her bed. At first, she thought the white shape behind the red curtain was merely part of the fabric. But then it moved.

A white silhouette stood behind the curtain.

Her breath caught.

It was her father.

He was standing near the window, dressed in a white barong. He looked exactly as she remembered him.

Then he began moving toward her.

Slowly.

Closer.

Closer.

She wanted to run, but her body would not move. It was as though her feet had been planted deep into the ground. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

Then she felt it.

Her father’s cold hand closed around her right arm.

She struggled to pull away.

“Are you all right, Miss?”

Krisha jolted awake.

The bus conductor was standing beside her, looking at her with concern. One hand was still holding her right arm.

“I was just waking you up, Miss,” he explained. The man appeared to be in his fifties.

He released her arm.

“It seemed like you were dreaming. Besides, we’re already at the lungsod’s bus terminal.”

Krisha looked around.

She was the only passenger left.

Embarrassed, she quickly stood up and grabbed her maleta.

“Thank you, Manong,” she said apologetically before stepping off the bus.

Outside, she noticed someone standing in the waiting shed, looking directly at her.

The person was wearing a white T-shirt, floral jeggings, slippers, and a yellow headband.

“Ishang! Ishang! Hoy!”

The person waved enthusiastically.

“Andoy?” she asked. “Is that you?”

“What? No, no, no!” he exclaimed. “It’s Andi!”

He struck a pose like a beauty queen.

Krisha couldn’t help smiling.

The strange dream on the bus slowly faded from her mind.

Andoy was her cousin and, more importantly, her kababata—someone who had grown up with her.

“Hoy! Why are you so quiet?” Andoy teased. “In fairness, it seems the city changed you a lot. Back then, you were as dark as charcoal, and now…”

He looked her up and down.

“Are you taking glutathione? And look at your clothes!”

His voice carried both admiration and envy.

They rode a tricycle to the barrio’s small market, where jeepneys waited to take passengers to their sitio. The ride took about fifteen minutes.

As they waited for their journey to continue, Andoy bombarded her with questions about what had happened after she left the sitio ten years earlier.

The memories came back clearly.

She had been only sixteen then—young, restless, and full of dreams.

It was summer, and the sitio was celebrating its annual fiesta. She and her cousins had been watching a basketball game, cheering for their relatives who were playing.

That was when they bumped into Jhona, her best friend, who had come with her aunt from Cebu City.

Jhona had told her that she would be studying in Cebu City.

Krisha could not hide her envy.

If only she had a rich relative.

But they had none.

They had relatives in Butuan City, but those relatives were struggling just as much as they were, some even poorer.

She remembered the night after her high school graduation when she told her father about her plans.

She wanted to go to Butuan City to study. She could stay with her mother’s sister while attending school.

Her father had stared at her.

“Are you crazy? Studying in the city will cost a lot. We don’t have enough money for your plans, Inday Ishang.”

“But, Papa,” she had pleaded, “I can work while studying, just like Tiyo Didong’s daughter, Ate Lena. She worked while studying in Davao, and look at her now, Papa. She’s already a teacher. I can do the same.”

Her father had laughed.

The sound of his laughter had broken something inside her.

He was usually a jovial man. His laughter was often contagious. But that night, it sounded cruel.

“What did you say? You think you can do the same?” he had asked. “Your cousin graduated valedictorian in high school. And you?”

He shook his head.

“Ishang, stop dreaming! If you want to go to college, you’ll study in the agricultural school in the lungsod and take up a vocational course. And that’s final.”

She could never forget the humiliation.

Her mother and two older brothers had been there.

That night, a disco was held in the open field where the liga had taken place earlier that day. Coconut leaves surrounded the area, and a disco ball hung in the center.

Loud, upbeat music filled the night.

Everyone was excited. It was the only time of year when their sitio was transformed by lights and music.

A generator had been rented from the lungsod to provide electricity for the celebration.

Krisha wore a pink blouse and flared jeans that her father had bought for her the previous December from a stall in the lungsod’s market after they had sold their copra.

She had helped scoop the coconut meat from the shells and dry it under the sun. For many days, she had endured the scorching heat just so she could have a new pair of pants and a blouse to wear to the school Christmas party.

Now, dressed in those clothes, she stood beside Andoy in one corner of the field, watching the others dance and laugh.

For one night, they could forget the hardships of everyday life.

She loved the place where she had grown up.

But she also longed for something beyond it.

She wanted to see the world outside this haven—the much larger world she imagined waiting for her in the city.

She had dreams.

She did not want to spend the rest of her life working in the fields beneath the scorching sun.

That night, people from nearby places came to join the celebration.

Among them was a group of girls who looked like they had come from the city.

One of them was Neneng, her best friend from elementary school.

Krisha could hardly recognize her.

Neneng had changed. Her clothes, her hairstyle, her manner—all of it seemed different.

Neneng’s family had moved to Davao City after elementary school, and the two girls had lost contact over the years.

“Hey, Krish!” Neneng called.

Krisha was surprised by the way she called her. Somehow, she liked the sound of “Krish” better than “Ishang.”

“Oh, hi, Neng,” she replied awkwardly.

“Hey, what did she call you, Anne? Was it Neneng?” one of the girls teased.

They burst into laughter.

Krisha felt her cheeks burn.

“Hey, girls, would you please stop? You’re embarrassing my best friend,” Anne said. Then she turned to Krisha. “Don’t mind them. So, how are you?”

She gently led Krisha away from the improvised disco house.

They talked for almost three hours that night.

That conversation changed everything.

By the time they parted, Krisha had made a decision.

She would go with Anne to Davao City.

“Hoy, Ishang! Are you all right? We’re already here.”

Andoy’s loud voice pulled her back to the present.

She blinked, as though waking from a dream.

They had arrived.

She stepped down from the motorcycle and looked around.

The sitio’s small kapilya stood before them. They had arrived just before the Mass began.

The chapel was filled with people. Some faces were familiar, others were strangers.

Krisha felt uncomfortable beneath the many eyes watching her.

Their stares seemed almost accusatory, as though they were questioning her for leaving.

But she could not blame them.

At the entrance stood her older brother, Tope.

He looked older now.

A little girl, perhaps five years old, clung to him. When she saw Krisha approaching, the child suddenly stopped and hid behind her father.

“Kuya,” Krisha said softly.

“Inday Ishang! Good that you came. We thought you’d never make it.”

Tope took her arms and led her inside.

She felt nervous.

Their eldest brother, Berting, was seated beside their mother.

“Mama! Berting! Ishang’s here,” he announced.

Her mother tried to smile.

But the tears came first.

“Mama…”

They embraced.

Both mother and daughter cried.

Her brothers were teary-eyed as well.

The ceremony continued quietly.

Later, her father was buried in the small cemetery of their sitio.

From the cemetery, they walked home.

It was already getting dark.

Krisha looked around and suddenly realized that she was standing in front of the house where she had grown up.

It had changed.

The old wooden house was gone. In its place stood a concrete home with electricity.

She learned that her two brothers were already married and had built their own houses at the back of their parents’ land.

“He was always waiting for you to come back,” Berting told her as they sat in the front yard, burning dried mango leaves.

Krisha sat on a large log, watching a small worm crawl near her slippers.

She wondered whether they knew what had happened to her in the city.

Her mother came outside.

Berting quietly left them alone.

“Was Papa angry with me?” Krisha asked. “What about you?”

“Yes. We were all angry, even your brothers. But your papa was the most affected.”

Her mother paused.

“We even thought of cursing you forever. But one day, after he attended an agricultural seminar in the lungsod six years ago, he told me while we were having dinner that we should just wait for you to come back.”

She looked at her daughter.

“He even told me the story of the Prodigal Son from the Bible.”

Krisha lowered her eyes.

“But I didn’t come back in time, Mama. He’s already dead.”

Her voice broke.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” her mother said softly. “I know he was happy that you finally came home.”

Silence settled between them.

Only the crickets and the crackling of burning leaves could be heard.

After a while, her mother walked away without saying another word, as if she understood that Krisha needed to be alone.

The flames illuminated Krisha’s face.

In the fire, she imagined her father lying peacefully inside his casket, wearing the same white barong Tagalog she had seen in her dream.

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Then she remembered a night six years earlier.

She had been standing outside the Department of Agriculture in Davao City, waiting at the gate.

A group of men, most of them older, came out of the building.

They were farmers from different parts of Mindanao.

Then a black Fortuner emerged from inside the gate and stopped in front of her.

The driver signaled for her to get into the car.

And then she saw him.

Her father.

He was among the farmers.

He was looking at them.

The memory was brief, but it had stayed with her.

Her phone buzzed.

She reached into the pocket of her flared skirt and pulled it out.

A text message.

“Hey, Krish, when are you coming back? Your parokyanos are already looking for you.”

She stared at the message for a long moment.

The fire was slowly dying.

She remembered the night she had left the sitio—the excitement, the dreams, the fear, and everything that came afterward.

She had been young then.

Young and wild.

Like a flare.

She had burned brightly, fiercely, believing she could light her own way into a bigger world.

But like the burning leaves before her, that flare had been intense and beautiful—and brief.

She deleted the message.

Then she turned off her phone.

For a moment, she simply sat there, listening to the dying fire.

Finally, she stood and walked toward their house.

A soft, cold breeze touched her face.

She stopped.

Then, slowly, she continued walking home.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in literature. This competition encourages writers from around the world to share their unique stories, poems, and creative expressions. By providing an opportunity for participants to showcase their talent, the competition aims to foster a global community of creatives, engaging audiences with fresh perspectives and inspiring works.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Mae Grace Edlyn Narciso for her submission, "FLARE," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her poignant storytelling offers a deep exploration of family and self-discovery, leaving a lasting impact on readers. We are grateful for her contribution and look forward to seeing more of her creative work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.