by Mondo
It was time to prove himself.
Righty wanted to prove that he can be brighter than Lefty. So, with all his might, he shone in brilliance. It was beautiful. It was magnificent. He felt ecstatic. Lefty got worried because it was too much. But righty didn't want to stop. He couldn't. Why would he now that he's brighter. No stopping now. He was so radiant, time would seem to slow down wanting to witness the gleaming beauty that righty was emitting. Lefty looked dull beside him. Perhaps pale. He was worried. He was scared. Righty pushed himself more. Until his glass body couldn't take the energy anymore. It was too much and it was too late. He cracked and bursted into shards of glass. The room dimmed. It was all afterglow for a moment.
Silence.
Now righty is broken.
Insides exposed.
But he lives.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
I almost forgot about My First Love.
by Lieza
I could pretty much attest to the fact that it is hard to raise an old man—my Father, in this case.
These past few months, my Dad has become intolerable. Every morning at 6:30 AM, I’ll hear him knock on my door, open it and say, “PAPASOK KA BA?!” and leaves the door open. Sometimes, at 5AM, he’ll visit me in my room and talk to me, expecting that I’m already up and damn attentive: “Grabe, si Cez Drilon! Nakidnap! Kilala mo yung anak ni Franklin Drilon diba?”
EVERY DAMN MORNING! He never gets tired. If only I could press the stop button.
Everyday I get at least 3 texts from him. The first one, probably around 12:30 in the afternoon, telling me how tired he is from cleaning the house or from doing something else, the second, around 3PM reminding me of either avoiding some route due to traffic and flood or a text reminding me to pick up my two other sisters from work. The last one, would either be, “what time ka?” or “Uwi ka ba?” Some days I get lucky with bonus texts like, “Don’t drink and drive. If you drive, don’t drink” or “Where are you? Who’s with you?” or some updates on our 45-year old neighbor who has a wife and kids, who turned out to be gay (secretly dating our water supply boy—but that’s a different story).
EVERY DAY! He never gets tired. He never runs out of pre-paid load.
On weekends, especially on a Sunday, my Dad would basically pull my siblings and I out of bed. See, he likes to see us “busy.” Ate Elyss, the oldest, would suck up and do some cleaning in the sala, Ate Eiselle would cook up breakfast or lunch, and I on the other hand just wait for whatever utos my Dad and Mom would think of.
I would rant about this madness to my sisters, my officemates, and my friends whenever it gets a little too irritating. But then again, I somehow understood why he began to be like that. My Dad didn’t want us to grow old—he knew we would grow up one day, just not this fast.
There’s this one moment that I clearly remember, back when I was still 5. I woke up from a bad dream, and so I woke up my Dad. He didn’t ask why I was awake; instead he just scooped me up and carried me through his arms. He sang a lullaby and swayed me until I fell asleep.
I remember at that same age how he would ask me to dance and put me on top of the table and sing “tira tira pak pak pak!” while clapping with glee (note: picture it when I was five, not 24).
Everyday until College he brought me to school, attended most of the PTA meetings, made sure I had enough money, and made sure I was always safe. Taught me how to drive, accompanies me in LTO whenever there’s a need to renew my license, and the best thing? I get to get my way out from a traffic violation in Makati whenever I tell them who my father is.
Some nights he’ll visit me in my room and check if I locked the windows, he’ll rub my forehead and tries his best not to wake me up.
Sometimes during dinner, he’ll tell me how to take care of the car, to always lock the doors, and never talk to suspicious-looking people. He’d always say, “Kung wala na kasi ako.”
My Dad is 63 years old, and aside from his enlarged heart, he has prostate cancer.
Our family is a happy one—I mean literally. We joke about anything. It’s not that we didn’t take his sickness seriously when we first found out about it--whenever I look at him, he doesn’t seem to be in pain or even be bothered by it. It’s just that, maybe, we didn’t want to dwell on it…yet.
Kung wala na ko rings in my head like I have a deadline to catch. It means no more reminders, no more do-you-know-my-tough-Dad, no more lullabies, no more I love you anak.
The other night, he went inside my room and thought I was already asleep. He rubbed by forehead, and whispered, “I love you anak.” As if on cue, a tear from my left eye dropped the moment he closed the door.
I could pretty much attest to the fact that it is hard to raise an old man—my Father, in this case.
These past few months, my Dad has become intolerable. Every morning at 6:30 AM, I’ll hear him knock on my door, open it and say, “PAPASOK KA BA?!” and leaves the door open. Sometimes, at 5AM, he’ll visit me in my room and talk to me, expecting that I’m already up and damn attentive: “Grabe, si Cez Drilon! Nakidnap! Kilala mo yung anak ni Franklin Drilon diba?”
EVERY DAMN MORNING! He never gets tired. If only I could press the stop button.
Everyday I get at least 3 texts from him. The first one, probably around 12:30 in the afternoon, telling me how tired he is from cleaning the house or from doing something else, the second, around 3PM reminding me of either avoiding some route due to traffic and flood or a text reminding me to pick up my two other sisters from work. The last one, would either be, “what time ka?” or “Uwi ka ba?” Some days I get lucky with bonus texts like, “Don’t drink and drive. If you drive, don’t drink” or “Where are you? Who’s with you?” or some updates on our 45-year old neighbor who has a wife and kids, who turned out to be gay (secretly dating our water supply boy—but that’s a different story).
EVERY DAY! He never gets tired. He never runs out of pre-paid load.
On weekends, especially on a Sunday, my Dad would basically pull my siblings and I out of bed. See, he likes to see us “busy.” Ate Elyss, the oldest, would suck up and do some cleaning in the sala, Ate Eiselle would cook up breakfast or lunch, and I on the other hand just wait for whatever utos my Dad and Mom would think of.
I would rant about this madness to my sisters, my officemates, and my friends whenever it gets a little too irritating. But then again, I somehow understood why he began to be like that. My Dad didn’t want us to grow old—he knew we would grow up one day, just not this fast.
There’s this one moment that I clearly remember, back when I was still 5. I woke up from a bad dream, and so I woke up my Dad. He didn’t ask why I was awake; instead he just scooped me up and carried me through his arms. He sang a lullaby and swayed me until I fell asleep.
I remember at that same age how he would ask me to dance and put me on top of the table and sing “tira tira pak pak pak!” while clapping with glee (note: picture it when I was five, not 24).
Everyday until College he brought me to school, attended most of the PTA meetings, made sure I had enough money, and made sure I was always safe. Taught me how to drive, accompanies me in LTO whenever there’s a need to renew my license, and the best thing? I get to get my way out from a traffic violation in Makati whenever I tell them who my father is.
Some nights he’ll visit me in my room and check if I locked the windows, he’ll rub my forehead and tries his best not to wake me up.
Sometimes during dinner, he’ll tell me how to take care of the car, to always lock the doors, and never talk to suspicious-looking people. He’d always say, “Kung wala na kasi ako.”
My Dad is 63 years old, and aside from his enlarged heart, he has prostate cancer.
Our family is a happy one—I mean literally. We joke about anything. It’s not that we didn’t take his sickness seriously when we first found out about it--whenever I look at him, he doesn’t seem to be in pain or even be bothered by it. It’s just that, maybe, we didn’t want to dwell on it…yet.
Kung wala na ko rings in my head like I have a deadline to catch. It means no more reminders, no more do-you-know-my-tough-Dad, no more lullabies, no more I love you anak.
The other night, he went inside my room and thought I was already asleep. He rubbed by forehead, and whispered, “I love you anak.” As if on cue, a tear from my left eye dropped the moment he closed the door.
Friday, August 22, 2008
I Tried Not to Cry
by Charmaine M. Campañer
Day 1-2. My dog MIMI painfully gave birth to six puppies. I witnessed how each of the puppies died one by one during the course of reviving their mom, leaving me with just one pup, GENESIS. I prayed. I tried not to cry.
Day 3. While Mimi and Genesis were recuperating and under extreme care, my sister CHAT who had been living with me for twenty-six years left to permanently live in Florida. I prayed. I tried not to cry.
Day 4. While adjusting to Chat’s absence, I rushed my grandma MOMMY to the hospital due to difficulty of breathing. I thought we could go home after the emergency check-up but we were not allowed to leave. I took care of her alone as I was the only one available at that time. I prayed. I tried not to cry.
Day 5. While no one’s home, heavy rains caused major flood penetrating our ancestral home resulting to major damage. Someone who blocked the major drainage of the community caused the flood. I didn’t want to list down our loss as I prayed and tried not to cry.
Day 6. No one can replace me in the hospital because everyone’s fixing the damaged house. I tried not to cry as I decided to enjoy my time with Mommy for she loves to tell stories. I didn’t mind wiping poops in between my meals. I didn’t mind being awake all night for I enjoy our talks. Talking and singing with Mommy enriched and refreshed me. Around 1pm, Mommy suddenly experienced extreme pain but was able to overcome it. I held her hand as I always do but she could not understand me. She was hallucinating. She kept on removing the oxygen and dextrose tubes. She was not cooperating with me nor with the doctors treating her, causing more damage to her system. The doctors had to put a tube on her nose for food. I felt I was tired. I prayed. I tried not to cry.
Day 7. I miss my husband DENNIS. I miss my daughter TRISHA. I CRIED. And I was comforted as I prayed. I remember Job when he said, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, naked I will depart. The Lord has given, the Lord has taken away, and may the name of the Lord be praised.”
Day 1-2. My dog MIMI painfully gave birth to six puppies. I witnessed how each of the puppies died one by one during the course of reviving their mom, leaving me with just one pup, GENESIS. I prayed. I tried not to cry.
Day 3. While Mimi and Genesis were recuperating and under extreme care, my sister CHAT who had been living with me for twenty-six years left to permanently live in Florida. I prayed. I tried not to cry.
Day 4. While adjusting to Chat’s absence, I rushed my grandma MOMMY to the hospital due to difficulty of breathing. I thought we could go home after the emergency check-up but we were not allowed to leave. I took care of her alone as I was the only one available at that time. I prayed. I tried not to cry.
Day 5. While no one’s home, heavy rains caused major flood penetrating our ancestral home resulting to major damage. Someone who blocked the major drainage of the community caused the flood. I didn’t want to list down our loss as I prayed and tried not to cry.
Day 6. No one can replace me in the hospital because everyone’s fixing the damaged house. I tried not to cry as I decided to enjoy my time with Mommy for she loves to tell stories. I didn’t mind wiping poops in between my meals. I didn’t mind being awake all night for I enjoy our talks. Talking and singing with Mommy enriched and refreshed me. Around 1pm, Mommy suddenly experienced extreme pain but was able to overcome it. I held her hand as I always do but she could not understand me. She was hallucinating. She kept on removing the oxygen and dextrose tubes. She was not cooperating with me nor with the doctors treating her, causing more damage to her system. The doctors had to put a tube on her nose for food. I felt I was tired. I prayed. I tried not to cry.
Day 7. I miss my husband DENNIS. I miss my daughter TRISHA. I CRIED. And I was comforted as I prayed. I remember Job when he said, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, naked I will depart. The Lord has given, the Lord has taken away, and may the name of the Lord be praised.”
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Room 324
TALES FROM BLANCO
by Erika
I used to live alone alone at Blanco Center. It was this half a century-old (seemed like) residential condo in the heart of Salcedo Village. I worked at an office buidling a 7-minute walk away.
I had to work late for a particular project. So i went home at 4 am, took a quick shower and dived into bed.
I woke up at 7am to take a leak. It felt surreal as if it had just rained inside the room. As I was about to get back to bed, a dark hazy vignette began to close in on my eyes. My head felt light and cold. My hands & knees were heavy. I tried to reach for the couch, any soft landing, then BANG! My head hit the sharp edge of bathroom door. I crashed to the floor, face down. My last memory was of my hand trying to reach for the empty bed.
I woke up with my cheeks on the cold tiles. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. My forehead and right cheek were throbbing. I had huge bruises, circles of blue and yellow. I called the office that I was coming in half day.
I came to work the day after though. I was still a bit dazed. Staring at the computer I thought, what if I had not awaken at all? Would the neighbors smell my decaying body? Or dismiss the stench as just one of the many reeking through it's cracked walls? I remembered how the room smelled when I first inspected it before moving in. It was sour. Like an old man waiting for death. I had thought about urban legends of people dying alone, locked in their houses. The stench would get so potent that neighbors would have to force the door open only to discover unidentifiable remains. Or crimes of passion wherein a woman was killed and buried within the cement walls of her house. Or closer to home, like dying of fatigue doing overtime work. Bah. I should get more sleep.
by Erika
I used to live alone alone at Blanco Center. It was this half a century-old (seemed like) residential condo in the heart of Salcedo Village. I worked at an office buidling a 7-minute walk away.
I had to work late for a particular project. So i went home at 4 am, took a quick shower and dived into bed.
I woke up at 7am to take a leak. It felt surreal as if it had just rained inside the room. As I was about to get back to bed, a dark hazy vignette began to close in on my eyes. My head felt light and cold. My hands & knees were heavy. I tried to reach for the couch, any soft landing, then BANG! My head hit the sharp edge of bathroom door. I crashed to the floor, face down. My last memory was of my hand trying to reach for the empty bed.
I woke up with my cheeks on the cold tiles. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. My forehead and right cheek were throbbing. I had huge bruises, circles of blue and yellow. I called the office that I was coming in half day.
I came to work the day after though. I was still a bit dazed. Staring at the computer I thought, what if I had not awaken at all? Would the neighbors smell my decaying body? Or dismiss the stench as just one of the many reeking through it's cracked walls? I remembered how the room smelled when I first inspected it before moving in. It was sour. Like an old man waiting for death. I had thought about urban legends of people dying alone, locked in their houses. The stench would get so potent that neighbors would have to force the door open only to discover unidentifiable remains. Or crimes of passion wherein a woman was killed and buried within the cement walls of her house. Or closer to home, like dying of fatigue doing overtime work. Bah. I should get more sleep.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Restroom Fiction
by Abi
It was the usual second floor bathroom –same leaky faucets and (unflushed) toilets, same Manang also, by the door as always, supplying the unarmed student with bluebooks, junk food and sanitary napkins. Same doors that won’t lock, same clogged bowls of waste and whatnot. By the mirror, a row of colegialas bury their faces underneath layers of make-up as if the next beauty pageant will begin any minute, while pretending like the smell of the lunch aftermath was not in the air. I noticed, that the usual angry squiggles on the ceramic walls are becoming more evident now.
The fact is that no matter how ridiculous the vandalisms may appear, a story will always be behind them (or so I would like to think, as I sometimes amuse myself by reading the cheap entertainment off the wall.) I would wonder about what would motivate a certain Miss Petra (not her real name) to amuse her fellow washroom users by writing:
here I sit / broken-hearted; / tried to shit / but only farted
I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve spent much a great deal of my time watching how people behave in this place. How many times have I skimmed through rows of endless cussing, to end them each with a new name, always unsigned. Sometimes there’d be hearts pierced with a name, looking like a high school crush hangover. “I crush you, Jordan!” would be a common thing amidst the sea of Paolos, of Jeffs and yes, this room’s hall of famer, a certain Amboy from MBB. I would be lucky to find entire scripts, from the most random things (“Ang buhay ay isang arinola..”) to entire dialogues on virginity, or politics.
Funny thing though, as it turns out to be one of the rather sad stories I’ve imagined – when you came all of a sudden and wrote poetry instead of usual gabble, that instead of writing “Ang mag-vandalize dito ay fanget”, you began with:
“Love comes to the dry soul like rain to a parched land…”
It looked odd, stood out from among the other scribbles – it was, on its own an oasis in a desert; a Popsicle on a hot summer’s day.
“Inlab ka ba ineng?” someone wrote next to your verse. For a while I had a break from the usual cuss words and imagined a story slowly unraveling itself on the ladies room bathroom. I especially liked the extended version of “If I were the clothes on his body, I shall weep every time he undresses, like it were my death…” And just the same, you came in day after day, writing poetry, or letters – and your face would look as though you have just heard the first joke on earth.
Save for one day.
“For the season of drought has brought nothing, Save the past outbursts of the storm, A torrent of bitter tears Cursing the ground…”
Indeed, it was a drought. It was the last I’ve heard from you.
I can think, perhaps, that you have simply ran out of permanent markers and felt-tip pens, or just a short episode of writers block rearing to you its ugly head. Maybe you have found a more convenient bathroom to deface. Or maybe, your words are no longer constrained to the wall, I can imagine you finally whispering them to the ears of a boy, and on both your faces, that same smile…
But I seriously need to work on being a better optimist.
I still keep amusing myself reading off the vandalisms. In all my years seeing the same second floor bathroom, watching it deteriorate into a dull gray, I remember being witness to countless lives unfold, simply by looking at the writings on the wall - even the most vulgar scribbles must have had some inspiration behind it, I constantly remind myself. Year after year, some janitor would scrub them off, paint over them - over and over and over. Some however, are much harder to forget than the others. Strange talk. Cuss words. Conversations. Euphemisms. Poetry. All I can do is watch. And wait.
And hope.
For that’s who I am, the silent arbiter. I stand watch to these short-lived outbursts of human honesty.
And you thought I was just a wall.
It was the usual second floor bathroom –same leaky faucets and (unflushed) toilets, same Manang also, by the door as always, supplying the unarmed student with bluebooks, junk food and sanitary napkins. Same doors that won’t lock, same clogged bowls of waste and whatnot. By the mirror, a row of colegialas bury their faces underneath layers of make-up as if the next beauty pageant will begin any minute, while pretending like the smell of the lunch aftermath was not in the air. I noticed, that the usual angry squiggles on the ceramic walls are becoming more evident now.
The fact is that no matter how ridiculous the vandalisms may appear, a story will always be behind them (or so I would like to think, as I sometimes amuse myself by reading the cheap entertainment off the wall.) I would wonder about what would motivate a certain Miss Petra (not her real name) to amuse her fellow washroom users by writing:
here I sit / broken-hearted; / tried to shit / but only farted
I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve spent much a great deal of my time watching how people behave in this place. How many times have I skimmed through rows of endless cussing, to end them each with a new name, always unsigned. Sometimes there’d be hearts pierced with a name, looking like a high school crush hangover. “I crush you, Jordan!” would be a common thing amidst the sea of Paolos, of Jeffs and yes, this room’s hall of famer, a certain Amboy from MBB. I would be lucky to find entire scripts, from the most random things (“Ang buhay ay isang arinola..”) to entire dialogues on virginity, or politics.
Funny thing though, as it turns out to be one of the rather sad stories I’ve imagined – when you came all of a sudden and wrote poetry instead of usual gabble, that instead of writing “Ang mag-vandalize dito ay fanget”, you began with:
“Love comes to the dry soul like rain to a parched land…”
It looked odd, stood out from among the other scribbles – it was, on its own an oasis in a desert; a Popsicle on a hot summer’s day.
“Inlab ka ba ineng?” someone wrote next to your verse. For a while I had a break from the usual cuss words and imagined a story slowly unraveling itself on the ladies room bathroom. I especially liked the extended version of “If I were the clothes on his body, I shall weep every time he undresses, like it were my death…” And just the same, you came in day after day, writing poetry, or letters – and your face would look as though you have just heard the first joke on earth.
Save for one day.
“For the season of drought has brought nothing, Save the past outbursts of the storm, A torrent of bitter tears Cursing the ground…”
Indeed, it was a drought. It was the last I’ve heard from you.
I can think, perhaps, that you have simply ran out of permanent markers and felt-tip pens, or just a short episode of writers block rearing to you its ugly head. Maybe you have found a more convenient bathroom to deface. Or maybe, your words are no longer constrained to the wall, I can imagine you finally whispering them to the ears of a boy, and on both your faces, that same smile…
But I seriously need to work on being a better optimist.
I still keep amusing myself reading off the vandalisms. In all my years seeing the same second floor bathroom, watching it deteriorate into a dull gray, I remember being witness to countless lives unfold, simply by looking at the writings on the wall - even the most vulgar scribbles must have had some inspiration behind it, I constantly remind myself. Year after year, some janitor would scrub them off, paint over them - over and over and over. Some however, are much harder to forget than the others. Strange talk. Cuss words. Conversations. Euphemisms. Poetry. All I can do is watch. And wait.
And hope.
For that’s who I am, the silent arbiter. I stand watch to these short-lived outbursts of human honesty.
And you thought I was just a wall.
Encrypted File 102354
by tirabarook
Journal 18-3
August 8, 2453 a.d (Earth time)
IF SOMEONE IS READING THIS NOW, I HOPE YOU ALSO FOUND MY REMAINS
I'm lost in space, in this silent yet annoying universe and I smell really bad. It’s been 3 days since I have taken a bath. All these stars i'm seeing, seems to be laughing at me, laughing at my misfortunes. I was supposed to help my planet from those scumbags, but now i'm lost in nothingness.
I am a complete failure. I was supposed to drop a hydragonite bomb to destroy that planet of Eonix. But as I was to enter their gravitational field, 5 fighter jets tried to disable me. One got lucky, and now i'm lost with little amount of food. What’s the use of my 7 years in applied physics and aeronautics, if I cant even able to dodge those scumbags? I guess they're just better species.
I miss my family... this invasion on my planet that's been going for 4 years now; I just hope it ends soon.
Journal 18-4
September 7, 2453 a.d (Earth time)
I’m seeing this great white horizon across this dark universe. For centuries, scientist believe that the universe is infinite, that it's continuously expanding... well I guess I prove them wrong.
It may take me one more earth week to get to that white horizon.
Journal 18-5
September 16, 2453 a.d (Earth time)
Its more than an earth week now, and the white horizon is getting bigger and bigger. Here, on my cockpit, the view is all white, I don’t know if I’m just getting crazier or I’m going to be blind, or this is the great white light most of those 'near-death experience people' are talking about... or probably this is just really the end of the universe.
I don’t know. Shit
If that white light is indeed the end, please make it soon, can’t take this hunger anymore.
Journal 18-6
September 17, 2453 a.d (Earth time)
I’m so stunned to where am I right nowwwww//||@@||\\ = FILE ERROR======================
Journal 18-3
August 8, 2453 a.d (Earth time)
IF SOMEONE IS READING THIS NOW, I HOPE YOU ALSO FOUND MY REMAINS
I'm lost in space, in this silent yet annoying universe and I smell really bad. It’s been 3 days since I have taken a bath. All these stars i'm seeing, seems to be laughing at me, laughing at my misfortunes. I was supposed to help my planet from those scumbags, but now i'm lost in nothingness.
I am a complete failure. I was supposed to drop a hydragonite bomb to destroy that planet of Eonix. But as I was to enter their gravitational field, 5 fighter jets tried to disable me. One got lucky, and now i'm lost with little amount of food. What’s the use of my 7 years in applied physics and aeronautics, if I cant even able to dodge those scumbags? I guess they're just better species.
I miss my family... this invasion on my planet that's been going for 4 years now; I just hope it ends soon.
Journal 18-4
September 7, 2453 a.d (Earth time)
I’m seeing this great white horizon across this dark universe. For centuries, scientist believe that the universe is infinite, that it's continuously expanding... well I guess I prove them wrong.
It may take me one more earth week to get to that white horizon.
Journal 18-5
September 16, 2453 a.d (Earth time)
Its more than an earth week now, and the white horizon is getting bigger and bigger. Here, on my cockpit, the view is all white, I don’t know if I’m just getting crazier or I’m going to be blind, or this is the great white light most of those 'near-death experience people' are talking about... or probably this is just really the end of the universe.
I don’t know. Shit
If that white light is indeed the end, please make it soon, can’t take this hunger anymore.
Journal 18-6
September 17, 2453 a.d (Earth time)
I’m so stunned to where am I right nowwwww//||@@||\\ = FILE ERROR======================
The Price of Happiness
by Chris Martin
Despite its cliche name, I won't be talking much about how to attain true happiness and whatnot (well, I hope so).
I really wondered what happened to the 500 peso bill I had two days ago. One moment I had the luxury that could rival any lord or king on earth, the next moment, its as if a twisted turn of divinity, all that’s left is enough to feed some of the little digestive monsters inside. And then it hit me, only 6 pesos left. Three 1 peso coins, eight 25 cents, and some 10’s and 5 cents that I’m pretty sure makes up 1 peso just by looking. It’s already past lunch as I walked back to the office. Along the corporate titan called a ‘shopping mall,’ I went along as I ritually do, glancing around the stores and shops that has almost everything… I do not need. I pulled out my coin purse and took what’s left, trying to see if there’s possibly anything to eat with what I have. But unfortunately, the cheapest thing you could buy are the 10 peso ice cream cones from the local fast food joint.
I wonder sometimes if there’s a store where people sell things that you really need. Things like freedom or melancholy, anger or happiness. I even wonder what they would look like if they are actually being sold. Would they be in small bottles, each having a different color than the other. Or would they be sold in a more literal (or perhaps freaky) sense? Would ‘freedom’ embody the head of a dead national hero served on a silver platter, or maybe a cooked dove on which you can eat it to achieve its potency (Lord have mercy on them). Would ‘anguish’ be as simple as a late night television soap opera, or show itself in our world as the god of death himself? Now that would be an interesting bargain. ‘Anger’? I guess my former best friend would be the best thing to represent that (long story); but what about happiness then?
I started to become more conscious whenever I looked around the shops. Most of them sell ‘happiness’ for 1000 pesos, ecstasy (another form of happiness I suppose) for 300 (sometimes even 50, it really depends on the quality or brand that you want. But in the end, it’s how comfortable or how good you’d look in them that matters). Sadly enough, this kind of happiness or ecstasy lasts for only a few moments, years if you get a little lucky. There are some forms of ‘happiness’ that sells for about 70, a ‘value meal’ most would say, with little toys for the kids. None of them could actually give real happiness (or to be frank, none of them costs 6 bucks).
It was after work, I walked back home, it was fairly near (well at least to my understanding). A realization struck me like a bolt of lightning on a lightning rod. It was my mother’s birthday. I was a few blocks before I reach our place and quite far from the nearest mall. Other than that, I remembered I only have 6 left. I looked around checking out for a ‘sari sari store’ (no idea how you call that in english), as I was about to go to one, the sudden smell of fried peanuts drew me to a cart a few paces away.
She liked peanuts. When I was a kid, she always bought some home for the family to plunge in during the afternoons. Its smell was intoxicating (up to the point annoying). But the taste and texture just gives off an out of this world experience to the tongue. Every piece heating up the taste buds just right.
One small pack costs 6, so I bought some.
I arrived home a few minutes later with my mom was cooking fried ‘chicken’. Without putting down my shoulder bag, I walked to her and gave her the small gift. She smiled that sunshine smile of hers as she took it. She was radiating a surreal yet comforting glow. Even though at her age, time didn’t turn its hands on her, she was as pretty as a 20- year-old girl. ‘You’re so sweet,’ she said as she moved in to give me a hug, which felt frankly awkward yet heartwarming. I didn’t hug back, I don’t know why; but she knew that I was somehow hugging back; a hug that cut through time and space. I never knew a pack of peanuts would go this far.
After that, everything went back to normal. Or that’s what I thought. I sat down on the living room couch and turned on the television for some afternoon cartoons. But in some way, some how, I can still feel the hug she gave me.
Almost 2 years have already gone by, and still she couldn’t stop mentioning the friend peanuts I gave her. With that same radiating smile of hers, she tells the story of it to my little brother over and over as if it just happened an hour ago.
Never thought 6 pesos would go a long way, 2 years to be exact. I guess you can buy complex ideas after all. This one’s called ‘Happiness’.
Despite its cliche name, I won't be talking much about how to attain true happiness and whatnot (well, I hope so).
I really wondered what happened to the 500 peso bill I had two days ago. One moment I had the luxury that could rival any lord or king on earth, the next moment, its as if a twisted turn of divinity, all that’s left is enough to feed some of the little digestive monsters inside. And then it hit me, only 6 pesos left. Three 1 peso coins, eight 25 cents, and some 10’s and 5 cents that I’m pretty sure makes up 1 peso just by looking. It’s already past lunch as I walked back to the office. Along the corporate titan called a ‘shopping mall,’ I went along as I ritually do, glancing around the stores and shops that has almost everything… I do not need. I pulled out my coin purse and took what’s left, trying to see if there’s possibly anything to eat with what I have. But unfortunately, the cheapest thing you could buy are the 10 peso ice cream cones from the local fast food joint.
I wonder sometimes if there’s a store where people sell things that you really need. Things like freedom or melancholy, anger or happiness. I even wonder what they would look like if they are actually being sold. Would they be in small bottles, each having a different color than the other. Or would they be sold in a more literal (or perhaps freaky) sense? Would ‘freedom’ embody the head of a dead national hero served on a silver platter, or maybe a cooked dove on which you can eat it to achieve its potency (Lord have mercy on them). Would ‘anguish’ be as simple as a late night television soap opera, or show itself in our world as the god of death himself? Now that would be an interesting bargain. ‘Anger’? I guess my former best friend would be the best thing to represent that (long story); but what about happiness then?
I started to become more conscious whenever I looked around the shops. Most of them sell ‘happiness’ for 1000 pesos, ecstasy (another form of happiness I suppose) for 300 (sometimes even 50, it really depends on the quality or brand that you want. But in the end, it’s how comfortable or how good you’d look in them that matters). Sadly enough, this kind of happiness or ecstasy lasts for only a few moments, years if you get a little lucky. There are some forms of ‘happiness’ that sells for about 70, a ‘value meal’ most would say, with little toys for the kids. None of them could actually give real happiness (or to be frank, none of them costs 6 bucks).
It was after work, I walked back home, it was fairly near (well at least to my understanding). A realization struck me like a bolt of lightning on a lightning rod. It was my mother’s birthday. I was a few blocks before I reach our place and quite far from the nearest mall. Other than that, I remembered I only have 6 left. I looked around checking out for a ‘sari sari store’ (no idea how you call that in english), as I was about to go to one, the sudden smell of fried peanuts drew me to a cart a few paces away.
She liked peanuts. When I was a kid, she always bought some home for the family to plunge in during the afternoons. Its smell was intoxicating (up to the point annoying). But the taste and texture just gives off an out of this world experience to the tongue. Every piece heating up the taste buds just right.
One small pack costs 6, so I bought some.
I arrived home a few minutes later with my mom was cooking fried ‘chicken’. Without putting down my shoulder bag, I walked to her and gave her the small gift. She smiled that sunshine smile of hers as she took it. She was radiating a surreal yet comforting glow. Even though at her age, time didn’t turn its hands on her, she was as pretty as a 20- year-old girl. ‘You’re so sweet,’ she said as she moved in to give me a hug, which felt frankly awkward yet heartwarming. I didn’t hug back, I don’t know why; but she knew that I was somehow hugging back; a hug that cut through time and space. I never knew a pack of peanuts would go this far.
After that, everything went back to normal. Or that’s what I thought. I sat down on the living room couch and turned on the television for some afternoon cartoons. But in some way, some how, I can still feel the hug she gave me.
Almost 2 years have already gone by, and still she couldn’t stop mentioning the friend peanuts I gave her. With that same radiating smile of hers, she tells the story of it to my little brother over and over as if it just happened an hour ago.
Never thought 6 pesos would go a long way, 2 years to be exact. I guess you can buy complex ideas after all. This one’s called ‘Happiness’.
Shadow
by Carrie
Shadow was the name of our late Golden Retriever, taken from the name of the dog in the movie Homeward Bound. She was the “lesser” daughter of a champion breed owned by my friend, Jemboy. Shadow had a defect – a very long tongue she couldn’t keep in. It perpetually hung outside of her mouth and we would always bring a small wet towel with us whenever we would walk her so we could wipe the dirt off her tongue.
Shadow was a big dog and it was part of my weekend ritual to give her a bath. She always knew when it was time and when she sees me with her bath stuff kit, she would bark and wag her tail like crazy. She would put her head on my shoulders as I shampoo away. Either that or her two front paws. I always end up as soaked as she is, with dog hair all over me.
Two years ago, Shadow passed away. It was the day after my mom’s birthday. My mom and I were in my room chatting (can’t remember why she was there at 6 am on a drizzly Sunday morning) when our helper came in and told me to please check on Shadow because she wasn’t moving.
Shadow died in her sleep. They said it was a heart attack. Everyone was crying. Our neighbor rushed over, alarmed, thinking the worst. When she found out what happened, she could only stare speechless at all of us (you know how barrio folks are, a dog’s death is just that – a dog, dead. She couldn’t comprehend what the big sad deal was). Mom insisted to have her (Shadow, not the neighbor) buried at our back yard. And she stayed on until she was laid to her final rest and her grave covered. We placed flowers on top of the grave and lighted two candles.
Lunch was a sad meal. The drizzle turned to a downpour so I went out to take the candles and what I saw made me stop in surprise. I could feel goose bumps spreading from the top of my head to my entire body. The two cats that would always share Shadow’s meals (and most times would sleep beside her) were lying on top of his grave and they were making this sound, like they were crying. I tried to shoo them away but they just gave me this trademark cat look (they turned their heads, looked at me and then looked away dismissively) – if they could talk, they would have said “Can you please leave us alone? Can’t you see we’re in grief?”
Cats don’t like getting wet. But Shadow had been nice, tolerant and accommodating to them. Maybe, they could feel she was gone. Maybe, it was their way of paying their last respect – by enduring the rain.
The cats stayed until late afternoon. On top of the grave. They kept vigil for their beloved friend. And from that time on, my cat alienation has softened a bit. These cats, they have a heart after all.
Shadow was the name of our late Golden Retriever, taken from the name of the dog in the movie Homeward Bound. She was the “lesser” daughter of a champion breed owned by my friend, Jemboy. Shadow had a defect – a very long tongue she couldn’t keep in. It perpetually hung outside of her mouth and we would always bring a small wet towel with us whenever we would walk her so we could wipe the dirt off her tongue.
Shadow was a big dog and it was part of my weekend ritual to give her a bath. She always knew when it was time and when she sees me with her bath stuff kit, she would bark and wag her tail like crazy. She would put her head on my shoulders as I shampoo away. Either that or her two front paws. I always end up as soaked as she is, with dog hair all over me.
Two years ago, Shadow passed away. It was the day after my mom’s birthday. My mom and I were in my room chatting (can’t remember why she was there at 6 am on a drizzly Sunday morning) when our helper came in and told me to please check on Shadow because she wasn’t moving.
Shadow died in her sleep. They said it was a heart attack. Everyone was crying. Our neighbor rushed over, alarmed, thinking the worst. When she found out what happened, she could only stare speechless at all of us (you know how barrio folks are, a dog’s death is just that – a dog, dead. She couldn’t comprehend what the big sad deal was). Mom insisted to have her (Shadow, not the neighbor) buried at our back yard. And she stayed on until she was laid to her final rest and her grave covered. We placed flowers on top of the grave and lighted two candles.
Lunch was a sad meal. The drizzle turned to a downpour so I went out to take the candles and what I saw made me stop in surprise. I could feel goose bumps spreading from the top of my head to my entire body. The two cats that would always share Shadow’s meals (and most times would sleep beside her) were lying on top of his grave and they were making this sound, like they were crying. I tried to shoo them away but they just gave me this trademark cat look (they turned their heads, looked at me and then looked away dismissively) – if they could talk, they would have said “Can you please leave us alone? Can’t you see we’re in grief?”
Cats don’t like getting wet. But Shadow had been nice, tolerant and accommodating to them. Maybe, they could feel she was gone. Maybe, it was their way of paying their last respect – by enduring the rain.
The cats stayed until late afternoon. On top of the grave. They kept vigil for their beloved friend. And from that time on, my cat alienation has softened a bit. These cats, they have a heart after all.
When the Spirit Moved Me
by Carrie
11 pm. Just got home from a long workday. All I wanted was to take a shower then hit the sack and rest my weary body. My Ex decided to sleep over (it was too late to drive home) and we had to do a toss coin on who goes to the bathroom first. We were in the room across my friend’s (with whom I was sharing this up and down old apartment in Kamagong). And when I saw her light was still on, I knocked and said hello. She got up, opened the door and asked why I was still wearing office clothes. Told her we just got home. She looked surprised. Said she heard us talking earlier. Much earlier. I didn’t pay much attention to it. Said good night and went down for a shower.
Fast forward. Lights out. I was jolted awake by a strong floral scent. The motion was similar to what one does with a cotton ball soaked in ammonia. I sat up. Sniffed the side table, sniffed the pillows and blanket, sniffed my ex. I tried to dismiss it as a dream and lied back down. By this time I could feel goose bumps. I remembered what my psychic friend said that there are two spirits in the house – a couple from the 1800s – and they stay in my room. I tried to sleep. Then there it was again. Only it was stronger. I shook my ex awake and told him about it. He went through the motions of turning the pillows and sniffing around the room and under the bed. No floral scent anywhere.
I didn’t want to sleep in the room after that. We took the extra mattress, gathered pillows and blankets, and went down to sleep in the living room.
I woke to the smell of coffee brewing. As I sat down and stretched, my friend asked why we slept downstairs. My ex mumbled, half awake: “the spirit moved her.”
11 pm. Just got home from a long workday. All I wanted was to take a shower then hit the sack and rest my weary body. My Ex decided to sleep over (it was too late to drive home) and we had to do a toss coin on who goes to the bathroom first. We were in the room across my friend’s (with whom I was sharing this up and down old apartment in Kamagong). And when I saw her light was still on, I knocked and said hello. She got up, opened the door and asked why I was still wearing office clothes. Told her we just got home. She looked surprised. Said she heard us talking earlier. Much earlier. I didn’t pay much attention to it. Said good night and went down for a shower.
Fast forward. Lights out. I was jolted awake by a strong floral scent. The motion was similar to what one does with a cotton ball soaked in ammonia. I sat up. Sniffed the side table, sniffed the pillows and blanket, sniffed my ex. I tried to dismiss it as a dream and lied back down. By this time I could feel goose bumps. I remembered what my psychic friend said that there are two spirits in the house – a couple from the 1800s – and they stay in my room. I tried to sleep. Then there it was again. Only it was stronger. I shook my ex awake and told him about it. He went through the motions of turning the pillows and sniffing around the room and under the bed. No floral scent anywhere.
I didn’t want to sleep in the room after that. We took the extra mattress, gathered pillows and blankets, and went down to sleep in the living room.
I woke to the smell of coffee brewing. As I sat down and stretched, my friend asked why we slept downstairs. My ex mumbled, half awake: “the spirit moved her.”
Friday, August 8, 2008
Whack It!
by sam z
I was listening to the radio on my way to work one morning. I was searching for a nice radio station to tune into and then I decided to finally settle with Chico and Delamar's program on RX. If you're familiar with their show, you'll probably know about their Top 10 lists - that day's topic: Top 10 Euphemisms.
Chico and Delamar were going through the entries and one entry was about percussive maintenance. Say what?! Percussive Maintenance, according to the texter, is the action that one person does when he or she whacks a malfunctioning electronic device in order for it to work. Cool!
Given the definition, I guess we're all guilty of being the "percussive maintenance guy or girl". I bet that there was at least one time in your life that you did whack an electronic thing just to make it work again - it could be the TV with a bad reception or your video game console (i.e. family computer, nintendo 64, sega + game cartridges). I remember that when I was a kid, we would "tap" the game cartridges and blow on it just to make it work (just like a wind instrument). I don't know who started with that idea but it kinda worked right? I know that you guys did that too! Then again, you're still probably doing some percussive maintenance work on your gadgets. ;p
Hmmm...if you think about it, making electronic things work properly does not involve rocket science. In order to make these gadgets work, you must have the ability of someone who's a member of the orchestra because you need "whack" and lung power to make things operate smoothly.
I was listening to the radio on my way to work one morning. I was searching for a nice radio station to tune into and then I decided to finally settle with Chico and Delamar's program on RX. If you're familiar with their show, you'll probably know about their Top 10 lists - that day's topic: Top 10 Euphemisms.
Chico and Delamar were going through the entries and one entry was about percussive maintenance. Say what?! Percussive Maintenance, according to the texter, is the action that one person does when he or she whacks a malfunctioning electronic device in order for it to work. Cool!
Given the definition, I guess we're all guilty of being the "percussive maintenance guy or girl". I bet that there was at least one time in your life that you did whack an electronic thing just to make it work again - it could be the TV with a bad reception or your video game console (i.e. family computer, nintendo 64, sega + game cartridges). I remember that when I was a kid, we would "tap" the game cartridges and blow on it just to make it work (just like a wind instrument). I don't know who started with that idea but it kinda worked right? I know that you guys did that too! Then again, you're still probably doing some percussive maintenance work on your gadgets. ;p
Hmmm...if you think about it, making electronic things work properly does not involve rocket science. In order to make these gadgets work, you must have the ability of someone who's a member of the orchestra because you need "whack" and lung power to make things operate smoothly.
Anie
by Lieza
I caught Anie, our helper, singing at the top of her lungs while she was washing our clothes.
To the tune of Aegies’ “Luha,” she sang:
“Ayaw ko nang mangaraaaaap!
Ayaw ko nang fried chikiiiiiin….
Gusto ko ng AMASIIIIIIIN…..”
Bewildered, I asked what she meant by “amasin.”
Annie: Yung Jalibi ba? Yung may pinya ba! Yung AMASING ALOHA ba!
I caught Anie, our helper, singing at the top of her lungs while she was washing our clothes.
To the tune of Aegies’ “Luha,” she sang:
“Ayaw ko nang mangaraaaaap!
Ayaw ko nang fried chikiiiiiin….
Gusto ko ng AMASIIIIIIIN…..”
Bewildered, I asked what she meant by “amasin.”
Annie: Yung Jalibi ba? Yung may pinya ba! Yung AMASING ALOHA ba!
Three Times Three, Make Them See
by chantal
I was almost thirteen when, after a fire consumed our house, my family moved to my great-grandmother’s place in Mandaluyong – an old, wooden house with capiz windows, three small bedrooms and a basement. Grams occupied the biggest room in the house. I bunked in together with my parents. My sisters shared a smaller room. I slept on a folding cot that faced the open door, screened by a hideous pink curtain. Despite our sad yet temporary living conditions, we were grateful to dear Grams.
Surrounded by ancient trees, the house may seem ominous to anyone else besides us… and the others that lived there.
------
It was past bedtime, but I couldn’t sleep. I laid on my cot, facing the curtain that separated the bedroom from the living room. I heard the shuffling of feet. Must be Grams going to the bathroom, I thought. I peered through the sheer curtain, seeing a faint light moving in the darkness. Candle light. I waited and watched from where I laid. I had nothing else to do. The light got brighter as it got closer to where I was. The shuffling stopped. I moved the curtain aside, just a tad, to see my great-grandmother.
I froze.
Grams wasn’t there at all. But the candle was, suspended in mid-air. I swallowed hard. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t find my voice. I felt invisible eyes slowly turn to look at me. I drew back the curtain, shut my eyes and counted to infinity. When I opened my eyes again, nothingness stared back at me.
------
Mom is an early-riser, usually awake before dawn breaks. One very early morning, she looked out of one of the capiz windows. The sun was a slow riser that morning and it was still dark. She saw someone moving outside and she heard that distinctive sweeping sound of a walis tingting (native broomstick).
“Grams!” she called out to the figure in the garden, the shadows of the trees half-hiding her.
The sweeping continued. She can’t hear me, Mom mused. So she went outside to greet Grams a wonderful morning.
Mom looked around, wondering where Grams had gone. Surely she couldn’t move that fast as she was pushing eighty. She saw the walis tingting by one of the trees and was struck cold when
“Tessie! Anong ginagawa mo dyan?” It was Grams, calling out to Mom from the living room. (Tessie, what are you doing there?)
Mom looked at the walis tingting again and ran as fast as she could back to the house.
----
The main gate was about twenty meters from the house and one had to pass by an old open garage house that became a dumping ground for junk. My sisters and I hated passing by that garage house. Something was not right about it. So whenever I came home from school (which was by nightfall), I’d run screaming from the gate to the house.
One night, though, I didn’t. Braving the garage, I decided to walk casually to the house. Bad decision. Something tiny hit my leg, like a dart from a blowgun. Then another and another. What the !@$#? Poised to run, I saw the shrubbery move. There was no wind so how can it move? Whatever it was quietly whispered close to my ear “Chantal”. I stopped, drawn to the voice. It was odd that I didn't feel frightened at all.
"Chantal", it whispered again. The shrubbery shook and parted.
It called to me. It asked me to follow it.
I took a step towards the voice.
A light tap on my shoulder broke the chilly air. I stopped and looked around. No one was there. The shrubbery seemed normal again. I turned on my heel and hurried home, screaming.
Writer's Note: The garage house is gone. In its place stands the house I'm living in with my son and my mother.
I was almost thirteen when, after a fire consumed our house, my family moved to my great-grandmother’s place in Mandaluyong – an old, wooden house with capiz windows, three small bedrooms and a basement. Grams occupied the biggest room in the house. I bunked in together with my parents. My sisters shared a smaller room. I slept on a folding cot that faced the open door, screened by a hideous pink curtain. Despite our sad yet temporary living conditions, we were grateful to dear Grams.
Surrounded by ancient trees, the house may seem ominous to anyone else besides us… and the others that lived there.
------
It was past bedtime, but I couldn’t sleep. I laid on my cot, facing the curtain that separated the bedroom from the living room. I heard the shuffling of feet. Must be Grams going to the bathroom, I thought. I peered through the sheer curtain, seeing a faint light moving in the darkness. Candle light. I waited and watched from where I laid. I had nothing else to do. The light got brighter as it got closer to where I was. The shuffling stopped. I moved the curtain aside, just a tad, to see my great-grandmother.
I froze.
Grams wasn’t there at all. But the candle was, suspended in mid-air. I swallowed hard. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t find my voice. I felt invisible eyes slowly turn to look at me. I drew back the curtain, shut my eyes and counted to infinity. When I opened my eyes again, nothingness stared back at me.
------
Mom is an early-riser, usually awake before dawn breaks. One very early morning, she looked out of one of the capiz windows. The sun was a slow riser that morning and it was still dark. She saw someone moving outside and she heard that distinctive sweeping sound of a walis tingting (native broomstick).
“Grams!” she called out to the figure in the garden, the shadows of the trees half-hiding her.
The sweeping continued. She can’t hear me, Mom mused. So she went outside to greet Grams a wonderful morning.
Mom looked around, wondering where Grams had gone. Surely she couldn’t move that fast as she was pushing eighty. She saw the walis tingting by one of the trees and was struck cold when
“Tessie! Anong ginagawa mo dyan?” It was Grams, calling out to Mom from the living room. (Tessie, what are you doing there?)
Mom looked at the walis tingting again and ran as fast as she could back to the house.
----
The main gate was about twenty meters from the house and one had to pass by an old open garage house that became a dumping ground for junk. My sisters and I hated passing by that garage house. Something was not right about it. So whenever I came home from school (which was by nightfall), I’d run screaming from the gate to the house.
One night, though, I didn’t. Braving the garage, I decided to walk casually to the house. Bad decision. Something tiny hit my leg, like a dart from a blowgun. Then another and another. What the !@$#? Poised to run, I saw the shrubbery move. There was no wind so how can it move? Whatever it was quietly whispered close to my ear “Chantal”. I stopped, drawn to the voice. It was odd that I didn't feel frightened at all.
"Chantal", it whispered again. The shrubbery shook and parted.
It called to me. It asked me to follow it.
I took a step towards the voice.
A light tap on my shoulder broke the chilly air. I stopped and looked around. No one was there. The shrubbery seemed normal again. I turned on my heel and hurried home, screaming.
Writer's Note: The garage house is gone. In its place stands the house I'm living in with my son and my mother.
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