The Weekly LitWit Challenge 5.4: April is the cruellest month.
That’s how The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot begins, and that is this week’s LitWit Challenge.
Write us a story (in any genre or style) that begins with this line: April is the cruellest month.
That’s the only rule. Besides the 1,000-word limit and the deadline: 11.59 pm on Friday, 8 April 2011.
The prize: Two fine Filipino graphic novels, 12 by Manix Abrera and Trese by Budjette Tan.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore. Get a 20 percent discount on all imported books at National Bookstore in Power Plant Mall, Rockwell this weekend. Go!
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
April 2nd, 2011 at 13:32
April is the cruellest month, he said, because April is when we wait, and waiting—he tried to emphasize it, but it seems to have made no effect, at least not to whom he’s talking to—is a dilemma. We wait, hoping that the world stops, just so somehow we won’t be left behind, but don’t we wait precisely because we are hoping that the world is moving, that that which is to come to us is indeed coming, and that is why we’re waiting? Then again the thought of a moving world reminds us—he pauses, just to check if his friend is listening, or if he is pretending to, because friends, while they are true friends when they are honest, are also polite when one is frightened by overwhelming truth, What is overwhelming truth? he thought for a second, Is there such a thing?—that there is no privilege except an occasional luck—
Luck? asked his friend.
Yes, luck, he said, luck explains everything. As I was saying, there is no privilege. Because the world does not wait on anyone, it’s cliché and meaningless, I know, but to say that it does makes much less sense, so we stick to the first.
Right.
The train is moving fast, his friend thought, whose name is Francis. Francis was going to say it, The train is moving fast, but then he thought it should have been moving at the same speed—he contemplated also on the word velocity, because the reality of a train demanded default direction, but because the train’s direction is fixed, is it invalidated?—at all times, except perhaps if it was slowing down to stop to load or unload passengers or speeding up from rest, but the train was far from rest, so it could not have been speeding up, because the next stop was near.
James, said Francis, he looked at his friend, who was looking out the glass of the sliding doors, beyond which James could only see lights—Cop lights, flash lights, spot lights, strobe lights, street lights, he would sing the song in his head, not now but later, when the lights became few, as if the night were really advancing, as if he did not already know—What if we are not lucky?
James said, It doesn’t matter.
What matters? Francis said, beginning to be irritated.
I don’t know. I just, I don’t know, want to do something I want. I want to be doing something I’m passionate about, you know?
Passion is a fancy word. Cormac McCarthy said it. On Oprah.
But you know what I mean.
James knew Francis knew what he meant, but he could be wrong, he thought.
Francis thought, It doesn’t matter.
x
April 3rd, 2011 at 23:40
April is the cruelest month, that was what I thought when I turned around and saw that there were no vacant seats after ordering my lunch. It was the second half of April and I had to retake English class for flunking the last exam. This is while my friends go out to beaches, already enjoying their summer. Why I failed the exam you ask? Well, my breakfast mush have had drugs on it that day because I didn’t wanna look for the stresses on the underlined words so drew as many Pokemon characters as possible on my paper until the school bell rang. I guess you can call me the world’s laziest creation. I spread laziness whenever I can. Now I already hate Pokemon for being so easy to draw.
I came up with the sweetest revenge that’s sure to hurt: an Unlike on Facebook for every Pokemon related page I Liked.
I was also hating the group messages (they call it gm, I call it so-what-who-cares messages) I was receiving from my friends and classmates. First, because group messages are something I feel antipathy on since the day they were invented. And second, because they all bear the same message: It’s fun here at the beach blah blah… Why can’t they just leave their cellphones somewhere in the cottage and do the swimming already? Are they going to waste their day sending text messages every minute?
I wonder what subjects the other guys who were lucky to find their seats before me flunked. I wonder what kind of evil their blaming for the torture they’re getting this summer.
I didn’t know anyone in the canteen. Uh, except for the girls at the table nearest to the exit who were, by the way, on my forget-you list. Them being there at the summer class caused a negative stimulation. They weren’t in the English class so they must have failed another subject.
“Are you just going to stand there the whole lunch time?” the lady behind me said. I wish I had something sarcastic to tell, but I had nothing, so I went outside to look for some place to eat my lunch. I don’t wanna start beating her senseless. That’d be damn violent. And senseless. Oh yeah, I already said that.
Outside, I’m wide awake but still dreaming of what fun it would have been if I were at the beach with my friends.
April 4th, 2011 at 01:55
April is the cruelest month. The first day speaks for itself. I am an April fool. It always brings me back to the day I travelled what seemed to me like five hundred thousand miles just to get from our province to Manila. It was summertime and freedom was at hand. I got my class card and thought I’d go to see the love of my life, my childhood sweetheart. My hands were jittery as I texted him. We agreed to meet at a mall near his place. I rode a bus and recounted the last phone calls we’ve had. Oh, how I wished he still felt the same way as I did. I remember clearly I freshened up and hurried to the Pizza Parlor. I was in shock to see he wasn’t alone. He excused himself from their presence and talked to me. He greeted me and said they had a last minute agreement to have a reunion. I wanted to cry but decided to keep it in. I just left. Deep in my heart I wanted it to be a prank. I was hoping to receive a call from him asking me to come back, but didn’t. Why is it that when we decide to go the extra mile for someone, they fall short. Maybe my gauge in this love thing is broken. I thought we were on the same page.
Fast forward a few years and here I am. Of all the stories about us, the one about April Fools Day stuck the most. By the way, he apologized for that day. I accepted. We had numerous talks over cups of coffee. We went out of our way to bridge the gap despite distance and oppositely growing interests. There were good and bad days. I felt there was progress and we were getting somewhere. Then one day the texts stopped. The calls were mostly unanswered. April first, we decided to meet again. I feared of Jinx, because of that fateful day, but who cares it’s been four years since the blunder happened. We met at a Chinese restaurant. The usual updates, a few laughs then I decided to finally ask him what happened. Then he said, “Heidi, we get our manicures done whenever we both have time and decide to meetup. I thought you would’ve figured it out by now. I’m gay.”.
All this time my gauge was broken, April sucks.
April 4th, 2011 at 08:20
April is the cruelest month. B just met T, his long-time friend who vanished unceremoniously last year. B is currently committed with D. D knew that B loved T when he read B’s diary. D became horribly sad and jealous and envious.
Tension. Fear of abandonment. Insecurity.
Kaching! Kaching!
March 9th. 9th monthsary. Boring. Boring. Love is feigned. Love is faint when they paint the pain in their genitals. They used to be in love until they used love to use and break each other.
May of last year. D met a mysterious looking guy. He thought, he’s weird and looks old for his age. It was B. B was smart. D was artistic and hypersensitive fueled by neurosis. D accidentally saw B’s number and began texting him and clicked easily because they share the same old scar of their lonely childhood. Ass beaten. Ears swollen with harsh harsh words. Lips tightly stitched. Eyes covered with sperm so slimy that it cannot see.
June. One and a half year before May of last year. B was in the bookstore. Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Twain in B’s hand attracted T. T looked fascinated so he invited him to have a cup of coffee for an interview. T, he said, was a researcher from UK. B agreed without thinking. They talked and talked for four hours. They went to T’s apartment and B got frightened so he decided to go.
T, through his powerful persuasive skills convinced B to be friends. They began to meet from time to time and each time they meet, T would ask if B is beginning to like him or at least find him attractive. B said “No” for a few many times. When T gave up, B began to admit he feels something special for T. So so stupid of him. T left and B cried with his left eye.
April. Today. B met T and D became highly suspicious of T and B. B knew his growing apathy for D and will soon leave him for good but D would kill himself, he said, if B leaves. T and B decided to be friends again while B begins to feel nothing for D despite their history of strong sexual and emotional intimacy. B and D argued a lot and D threw offensive labels. B lost respect for D and developed a way to block pain from reaching his consciousness. B felt numbed and less human. This cruel monster is growing inside of him and will soon devour him. It’s April, B recalled, and it will be a month to endure.
April 4th, 2011 at 17:38
April is the cruelest month.
Barely had the ink dried on his notebook than a whacking sound startled him. He’s been whacked at the back of his head; no hint of teasing or fondness, a whack in pure ill-tempered form.
“What the fuck?” It’s the Brother, glaring and holding a rolled newspaper in his hands.
“Are you going to read all day?” I’m not even reading, I’m writing for God’s sake.
“Yes if it kills me.” Whack. Whack. Whack.
-I would have been dead by now. I swear, a thousand and one calculated rolled newspaper hits to the head would kill a man. Pikoy would have done just that, kill me, given the change. No brother’s keeper the sonafabitch.
He lighted the cigarette in his mouth, sucked, and blew the smoke upward. Halfway through the cigarette, he threw it and rode a jeepney.
“Ma, bayad. Market lang.”
The radio whimpered. Some guy got ditched. He looked at the passengers in front of him, from the one nearest to the entrance (chubby dude, glasses, earphones) to the one in front (chick, sleeveless dress, skirt just below the crotch, red undies). A discomforting bulge in his pants.
When he got off the vehicle, he quickly lighted another cigarette from his pocket. He could see the red underwear at the end of his nose. He drowned it in smoke as his member pulsated below his navel.
At the supermarket, he stuffed his cart with fresh milk, chocolates, shampoo and conditioner, soaps, chicken, pork, fish, and some canned goods. At the counter, he browsed over some magazines while waiting for his turn on the queue. Finally, he unloaded his cart and felt for his wallet. Nada. He frisked his side pockets. Nothing but the 12 pesos change from the jeepney ride. The cashier was looking at him now. He shrugged and walked away.
Outside, he sat near the playpen at the side of the complex. Children were playing on plastic slides, driving toy cars, swinging; it’s a happy and colorful scene against the darkening sky. He drew his pack and lighted a cigarette, the last one.
-I watch the children playing in front of me and I feel like going off kilter. All the innocence in the world, all the happiness, what become of them? We’re all fucked up. We go through the motions, but we’re all screwed, victims of a cruel joke.
He smoked until the smell of burnt filter assaulted his nostrils and he coughed. He flicked the stub with his thumb and index finger, stood up, and walked. On the jeepney going home, he wished he bought a newspaper.
April 4th, 2011 at 19:44
April is the cruelest month. I look outside the window; the tint of the van is a mirror, dark and vivid. I look beyond my face and I see the sunset, dirty, peaceful, slow and obscure. The van is quickly driving past a mangrove when suddenly a flock of seagulls takes flight and follows the road down to the intersection, disappearing into the city. My eyes well up from boredom. I wipe my tears away and then I turn up the volume of my mp3 player. I rest my head on the window, looking straight into the setting sun. The last few seconds of the hazy light marked the end of the day, and right before the sun disappeared, I swear I see a brief burst of green light, lasting only as long as I think I saw it before I decide I’m only seeing things, only seeing green.
This morning I woke up with a feeling of resolve. The dark sky was followed suddenly by a flare of white light. I was lying on my bed, blinking at the ceiling, looking at the outline of the window’s shadow. I held up my right hand, my fingers tracing the contours of the shadows playing on the ceiling. I closed my eyes, and I was enthralled by the world coming alive outside my window. The trees rustled, and I imagine them shivering like a child after a cold bath. They say that birds chirp whatever they dreamt the night before. The birds outside where chirping ominously, like the sound of birds flying away from impending doom in apocalyptic movies. The feeling of resolve, I realized, was only something bad I ate for dinner. That feeling settled in my stomach, where it grew, like cancer, spreading all over my body, filling me with malevolent dread. The kind of dread you’d feel right before pouring a pail of ice cold water after standing in the shower for half an hour. I got up suddenly. I had to get to work, and then I have an appointment at the hospital. I grabbed my towel and headed for the bathroom, only to stand there, naked, holding a pail of ice cold water for half an hour.
—————-
“Say ah”
“Aaaaah”
“Now when I say inhale, take a deep breath, and when I say exhale, let it out.”
“Ok”
“Inhale…”
I take a long deep breath, but my chest stops. I feel like something is either pushing it back or pulling it, like when someone grabs the back of your shirt while you’re trying to get away from something.
“Exha-”
I coughed, interrupting the doctor. I taste the chicken I had for lunch. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry.
“Doctor…”
An overweight nurse interrupts us and hands the doctor some paper, lab results I think. They step outside for a moment, leaving me inside the examination room. It’s very white, I notice. White and, strangely enough, dirty. Dirty like diseased. There are posters of some talking fruits, for kids I assume, giving health advice. Next to them are posters of people, or parts of people, that look like exotic food they feature in Discovery Travel and Living. The word “Gangrene” is unappetizing. My mouth is no longer dry, in fact, there is a build up of saliva, but I just can’t swallow it. Chicken ala Gangrene isn’t my idea of whetting my appetite. The doctor comes in looking stern, shaking his head. I misconstrue his head shaking as disapproval, but really, it’s just bad news. I swallow my cold saliva.
—————-
I step out of the hospital, greeted by neon. The lamp posts are daunting; their multi-colored neon bodies are sentries of the unusually cold April night. I should probably quit smoking, given what the doctor told me, but the weather, the cold weather took my hand right into my pocket taking out my pack of cigarettes, and then suddenly a gust of wind blew right into my face. I close my eyes for a moment and when I opened them, a cigarette is already crackling on my chapped lips. I started walking to the bus stop when I heard the sound of a large bird flying towards me. A shadow merged with mine and I duck. I turn around and there it was, a very large bird, resting on a power line of a lamp post. This lamp post is broken; the neon is stuck in green. Its dying light is flickering in intermittent constancy. I step into the swamp of light to get a closer look at the bird; it’s unusually large to be from the city. It’s probably from the nearby sea, lost, drawn by the heat of the city or the bright lamp posts. The bird’s sideway glare is unnerving, I stare back and we hold that stare for a minute or so. Then something burned my fingers on my right hand. I flail, muttering an expletive, sending orange sparks all over the green lit sidewalk. At the corner of my eye, I saw the bird go for the orange glow of the cigarette butt, I jump back in surprise, scaring the bird and myself. For a moment there, I thought the bird might attack me, but then it flies away flapping furiously. I stand in the edges of the green light less upset than unnerved, the cold wind wrapping itself around my diseased body.
April 4th, 2011 at 23:13
April is the cruellest month… yeah, as I looked up on the calendar hanged on my cabinet and thought silently. With all the unexpected turn of events, horrendous turning, it’s undoubtedly so cruel.
I’m trying to remain calm as darkness eats every thing inside my room. My little brother is on my side right now as I try to lull him to sleep for he is so afraid of our dad and he even asked me to double-check if our door is already locked. Perhaps you’re trying to think where on earth are our parents. Well, my mother is sleeping outside the door of my room: trying to guard us and protect us in case my father would materialize and still not sober. I’m afraid for my father might inflict harm to my mom. Yes, my father is drunk. And every time he is drunk he inflicts violence to everyone and tonight is not an exemption. A while back he successfully tried to scared me, my mother, and my aunt as we discussed some random things while we were eating our dinner. The moment he stepped his foot on our door, my heart started to pound. I didn’t know what to do when he started to throw things on our kitchen. My mind went all black and instantly ushered my self outside our house without thinking of my little brother whose already was sleeping because he has a fever. My mother went all the way up to retrieve my brother when my dad slapped my mom’s face and I couldn’t do anything but to run and just saved my self. I was with my Auntie and thankfully our neighbors were good enough to help us escape my father. I don’t know what’s up with him. He does it every time he is drunk but until now I’m still not ready to face it. I’m so afraid, my little brother is so afraid. It’s 12:19 in the morning and he can’t still sleep. Come to think of it, my brother is 5 years old and he keeps on telling me that ‘wag mo ko iwan, takot ako kay papa.’ See. I don’t know why things like this happen. Inside our home, I don’t have peace of mind and I wan to runaway. Maybe go somewhere else and just hide. I am engulfed with pain and why is it that April is so cruel to me? To us? My grandmother is suffering right now, yeah, and we’re running of financial support. My Auntie living in abroad, whose supporting us all throughout is completely messed up. She’s the one whose giving me money so that I could go to school and it destroyed me when she e-mailed me that she couldn’t longer afford to send me to school next school year.
Omigod. April: You are cruel.
I don’t really understand why everything happens for a reason. If what’s happening to me and my family right now has some significant reasons at the end or it’s destined to happen, I’m so tired of knowing why. I don’t know why this repeatedly goes on. Why? I’m not venting out. I’m trying to share a story which I know will not gain any public interest or whatnot but I grew up with this violence inside my home. Now my little brother is the next victim of my father, the drunken side of my father. Well, are there any possible way to stop it? I’m a 1st year college student. I still don’t have any assurance for my future. Of what awaits me the moment I reached all my dream. But how I will reach my dreams if April has laid out all her agendas to ruin my life? You are cruel, please be good to me and my family.
April 6th, 2011 at 16:42
what follows is taken from the exchange between myself and a girl who had mistaken me for an ex-gf of her bf. she would not stop bothering me online. i have changed the names of the persons involved. but the messages are mostly in their original content. i just hope she’s not reading your blogs.
April is the cruellest month. Since this month started I haven’t stopped worrying about you coming into our lives.
From: Mary via Facebook
Sent: April 09
—–
sorry, miss, do i know you? at bakit ka naman galit sa abril?
Sent: April 09
To: Mary
—–
I think u still know who I am. My bf, Jay, must have said something about me to u. I’m sure u know how a woman feels when somebody used to be romantically involved with her man suddenly shows up. It gives her emotional and mental torture….. Ur a woman, u definitely know how i feel…..
Bakit ako galit sa abril? Bakit hindi?
Sent: April 09
From: Mary
—–
hi Mary, sorry but i do not know any guy by the name of Jay. you must be mistaken.
Sent: April 09
To: Mary
—–
I thought his sister rachel is having a great time with u now in camiguin. And the next trip is THIS APRIL in palawan. Isn’t that the home place of Jay Mendoza?
By the way, I know your friendster, facebook, and multiply accounts. One of them was shown to me by rachel. I cannot be mistaken….. Anyway, have a great time….
Sent: April 10, 2009
from: Mary
—–
hello again Mary. :)
if you are really reading my blogs, you will know for sure that i have been living in SingaBore for almost two years now.
i have only met rachel once in CDO, but never her brother.
Sent: April 10, 2009
To: Mary
—–
Hi!
I want the confusion to end also.
1. Are you close to the family of rachel? How did u meet her?
2. Are u back in the country to attend d wedding of rachel’s sister?
3. Are u and ur friends in CDO now?
4. Were u not involved with her kuya before?
Thank you!
Sent: April 10, 2009
from: Mary
—–
sorry, but you are wasting too much of my time already. and i am not really a part of any of this.
paki-settle nyo na lang ang issue nyo sa sarili nyo. i’m a very busy person. everything you want to know about me is in my blogs.
Sent: April 10, 2009
To: Mary
—–
I only tried, hoping that u can give me d answers. Sorry. I would like to believe that this is not what u want, and u are not involved in this. Like u, I am busy also.
I will not bother u again. Soon, I will find out what I need to know, not from u, but from sombody else. Nothing can be kept forever.
How can u be busy when u have plenty of time to go to places for fun and adventure? I’m busier than u are, don’t u think?
Sent: April 11, 2009
from: Mary
—–
Mary, ako ay naging matiyaga sa pagsagot sa iyong mga liham. but i will not for the love of god, disclose my personal details to a complete stranger like yourself. and when i said busy, it does not necessarily mean busy with work.
ito na lang ang maipapayo ko sa yo, dahil ako ay mabait at matulunging nilalang: if you really can’t trust the people around you (like your bf Jay and rachel) to give you the facts, why don’t you just hire a private investigator to put you out of your misery? at para hindi ka nakakaistorbo ng random na tao sa facebook o kung saan mang networking site. nakakalokah ka!
this is the last time i’m replying to your messages.
Sent: April 11, 2009
To: Mary
—–
What a desperate move!!!!
I think that there are things that you have forgotten. Your amnesia is getting really worst. Let me remind you, 1.) you are jay’s past. I am his present, and will be his future. 2.) the mere fact that you were not added in his fb only means that he doesn’t want you in his life anymore. 3.) jay loves to explore places… but there will be no trips with u.. your dream of going to US with him, will not happen… why not ask someone to go with you instead? 4.) Jay’s taste for women has greatly improved. that’s obviously the reason why jay chose me. Face the mirror before thinking of competing with me. 5.) i HAD problems with women when it comes to jay.. but you were so far, the worst.. because you never stopped.
Sent: April 23, 2010
from: Mary
—–
hi! pwede bang pakisabihan mo yang gf mong si Mary na nagkakamali sha ng babaeng pinagseselosan? isang taon na shang nabubuhay sa malaking pagkakamali sa paniniwalang ako ay ex-gf mo na naghahabol sa yo… ang swerte mo naman. at ang kapal ng mukha mo na idamay ang isang estrangherong kagaya ko sa mga kabulastugan mo sa buhay.
Sent: April 25, 2010
to: Jay Mendoza (via facebook)
—–
please check the account Sarah… note the spelling of Sara – with an H… then you will know why u have always been the cause of our problems… i don’t know if u are aware of that account, or you created it yourself. your pics were posted there. all messages for my bf were sent from that account….
Sent: April 27, 2010
from: Mary
—–
i have sent a message to your boyfriend last night to clear up this situation.
since you have already seen my fb account, i do hope you realize that this sarah and i are not the same person. and i have reported her account on facebook as a fake account impersonating somebody.
Sent: April 26, 2010
To: Mary
—–
i sent u messages also in your blog… thanks. again, i apologize for the trouble we caused you… pasensya na… nababaliw lang talaga ko pag Abril…
Sent: April 28, 2010
from: Mary
April 7th, 2011 at 01:01
April is the cruelest month. Because he’s a married man and I went on AWOL most days of the month just to be with him. The same month of the previous year we met on the Recruitment area of a well-known BPO, he was holding a copy of his CV, in the modern format a CV doesn’t need to indicate one’s marital status. So I never knew. We both got in through the final interviews; despite having moments of being spaced out as I would normally do when faced with a difficult scenario. We smiled so casually – a congratulatory smile, because we knew we were assigned to different campaigns. It didn’t make sense to give way to personal introductions.
October is the second cruelest. I was filling out forms for the Salary Loan. We met for the second time. He was an HR staff. There was a big name tag on his left chest. It says Hi I’m Jesse, with a smiley on it. Still didn’t say that he’s married. We got close because I kept on following up on my loan. We got close because he kept on telling me to go back the following day. We got really close because we knew that no amount of daily follow ups would make the approval faster but I went there daily anyways, and then he finally asked me to drop by after office hours.
Here comes March, I read an email announcement informing his resignation. There was no mention of this when we were dating. Not a single word when talked about work right after having sex. He didn’t say anything when I joked about transferring to the competitor BPO. He would grab me instead and put his arms around me, drag me slowly to the corner of his cubicle, hidden from view, and if we were really silent, no one would ever guess we were there.
I called in sick so that I could catch a bus going to Baguio, where he said we would meet at the terminal. There, we would take a cab to a staff house nearby, where he would carefully fold my clothes and stack them on the cabinet, next to his. While he’s at work I’ll be out on a job hunt as planned. Later that day I got home and saw him on his cell phone, he looked bothered, tensed. The same look I saw when he found out I was delayed for a few weeks. “I’ve got something to tell you” we both chorused.
“You go first,” I said.
“No, you go first,” he replied.
“I got the job, I’m starting this week,” I cheerfully announced.
“I just got off the phone with my wife…” I completely spaced out and didn’t catch the rest of what he said.
April 7th, 2011 at 01:30
theOrbiter: Is this that song by Imelda Papin? Lunes, nang tayo’y magkakilala, Martes etc.
April 7th, 2011 at 01:33
roseriver: And the award for Best Use of Factual Event for Contest Purposes goes to. . .
“Your amnesia is really getting worst” has the ring of truth to it! A freak would say that.
April 7th, 2011 at 03:00
“April is the cruelest month.” Dr. December utters while he bathe himself with cigarette smoke. The doctor had a rough night duty at the hospital. He just lost one patient due to a car accident but it appears he is cool with it. He was able to explain sympathetically to the patient’s family what had transpired in the emergency room and, of course, the reason of the patient’s death.
December stares aimlessly at the lamppost while he waits for August to finish his sandwich. August is a fat guy with mohawk hairstyle, who has thick eyebrows that makes him look like he is of Arab descent.
“Is it time?” December asked August timidly.
“A couple of minutes and it will be.” August answered while he enjoys his sandwich.
“Shall we go then?” December muttered.
“Well, I hope January won’t get mad at us for being late. He should give credit to us for visiting him at these wee hours.” August jokingly said while sipping an orange juice.
The two hurriedly went into the car. December started the engine while August licked his right index finger smothered with his sandwich’s mayo. December went ahead and drives carelessly. They are now heading to a bridge outside the metro.
Finally, they reached their destination. Although they arrived unharmed due to December’s slipshod driving, they are half an hour late than the stated time. ~Late again for the fifth time.
The two went out the car, August no longer eating his sandwich and December holding a magazine in his left hand and a bottle of liquor on his right. They walked to a certain spot, an old almost dilapidated tree. The tall perennial tree had been divided into two, the thinner one being decayed and the other flourishing with sprouting stems and leaves. December opened the bottle of liquor and sprinkled it all over the tree. August grabbed the magazine in December’s hand and cautiously laid it on the ground as if putting a bible on a desk. Both guys sat in a Buddha-style position.
“How are you up there, January?” December whimpers.
And a phantasmagoria of flashbacks wrapped the two guy’s world.
Some yesteryears, seven years ago to be exact ~they are to celebrate their independence day: and that is being single. January just came out of a two-year relationship with his girlfriend. It was decided that on that day, April 8th, they are to go for a trip outside the metro to celebrate their “being detached.” December is the self-proclaimed driver of the trio as he just got his renewed license yesterday.
It’s the time of their life. They are happy, they are young, and they are free. The sun is still below the horizon and there seems to be a poignant feeling of darkness on the road. Their car’s radio is loud but their laughs are louder. And all of a sudden, there is a light heading their way. December swerved the steering wheel to the left but it was too late. They crashed on a tree that made it separate into two.
December opens his eyes but could not see a thing. He tastes something and realized it was his own blood. His right arm is numb and he is feeling a tingling sensation on his eyes. He tried to open them again and saw August outside the car and January stuck beside him, both drenched in blood. He reaches for January but his visions blurred to the point that all he can see is darkness.
~And the flashback ended with December looking through the sky. It was the same day that they lost January to a car accident.
“April is the cruelest, nostalgic month.” December uttered in a longing tone while standing up to go back to the car.
August quietly followed December. He opened the car, turns his head once again to have a gaze on the tree. He is a little confused as he doesn’t know if it’s okay to greet his departed friend a ‘happy’ death anniversary.
Both guys walked inside the car.
And the sun revealed its sunshine to the earth.
April 7th, 2011 at 20:47
April is the cruellest month.
What did you just say?
It’s a quote.
From?
Tumblr.
They both lingered over their cigarettes and lattes. The smoke rising from the ash tray spiraled ghostly; the bluish smoke from the pair of cigarettes languidly rose in a mating ritual, moving their torsos and limbs seductively at the slightest quiver of the calm air before finally submitting to each other’s arms and vanishing at the same time. John clipped his cigarette between his fingers. The smoke from it panicked at the intrusion; it violently pushed the other stream away as it left its partner alone in the dance. His cigarette made a faint crackle upon contact with his lips. He exhaled once, twice, thrice, oblivious to the woman sitting across him. Vanessa, her attention split between John and her laptop, observed the artful manner he parted his pink-orange lips while smoking. It was almost womanly, silent, delicate, unhurried. He puffed again, checking his mobile phone with his free hand.
The Waste Land.
What is?
The quote.
Which one?
The April quote.
A book?
Maybe. Could be a poem.
How come?
It says T.S. Eliot.
I don’t him. He’s a him, right?
Yep.
She’s coming.
Stephanie walked towards them, her clacking heels invading the sidewalk with echoes that hung on the ears. Neither guilt for being three quarters of an hour late nor excitement for seeing the two could be traced on her small, peachy face. Neither John nor Vanessa could complain. The absence of any recognizable emotion made them speechless despite the restlessness accompanied by waiting. She began by saying that it’s late, that it’s already 1 AM, like the two weren’t very much aware of the time. She said it softly though, wispy, almost childish. Anyone listening would have been comforted and warded off against his troubles. Anything that she did rendered one powerless to reprimand her.
She proceeded to pull a chair ever so daintily, but John stood up and decided that they should all get going. But it’s late Steph, Let’s sit for a minute though, Do you want anything, Just a bottled water, I’ll get you one , But it’s 1 AM, Do you still want your water, Let’s go instead.
Vanessa turned off her laptop. She murmured something. What was that, I can’t go with you Steph, Why not, My migraine, That’s terrible, It is, Do you have pain killers, I do, Will you be alright alone, Sure thing, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Okay, Bye Vanessa, Bye.
“Van, let me take you home first,” John said. Vanessa looked up to him. She had to tilt her neck at a steeper angle for he was standing right at her side. It was hard to resist this offer. The pain of her looming migraine was starting to crawl with its menacing grips on her temples.
“I’m okay. Seriously. And Mike’s waiting. It’s late,” Vanessa said. John placed her hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze so mild yet so full of affection. She just stared at the huge fingers and let it stay there. She let her eyes hover on the gold band covering the sparse hair on one of the fingers.
“I’ll call you then,” John said, almost in a whisper. He finally let go and held Stephanie, who was gazing absently at the smattering of stars pinned on the deep midnight sky, by the small of her back. Her clacking heels came on, invading the sidewalk once more as they slowly made their way to the parking lot across the coffee shop. Vanessa looked around and noticed that there were now only two people with her at the shop. A man and a woman three tables away, sipping their lattes, smoking their cigarettes, talking in whispers, giggling, letting loose one or two loud laughs. She turned away from them and stared at the ash tray. Her cigarette was still there, burning, pirouetting in a solitary performance. She crushed it on the icy coldness of the ash tray.
April 7th, 2011 at 21:39
yes! yes it is :-)
April 8th, 2011 at 00:28
April is the cruellest month. It heralds the onset of endless sunbeams, hastens the journeys of ebbing creeks. It evokes days of uninterrupted Saturday afternoons segueing seamlessly into eternal Sunday mornings. It conjures rainbows from parched blue skies, the heady scent of day-old salt spray. Sepia snapshots of forever-friendships, spent in recollection of treasured stories read and retold. For fortune’s child, melodious giggles, promises to remember, to never forget May Day Eve. It harks of breezy evenings, the palpable vibe of love in a small town, furtive flirtations at fiestas that ebb with the next day’s tide. In April the heart goes out to she who is bereft of pursuits, for cursed with the burden of a life well lived, it now dulls the gleam of another perfect tomorrow. For youth, that fleeting, most elusive of moments, is beyond recapture.
April 8th, 2011 at 13:23
April is the cruellest month. Especially for April Fools. :)
April 8th, 2011 at 20:10
April is the cruelest month. When I was nine, also the cruelest year of my existence, my father died in April. He climbed a tree and fell on a rusted nail while we were on a remote post. There was no antibiotic for his infected wound. And being born on an April day himself, he was stubborn and wouldn’t get off the island. He died in the heat of a fevered dream.
Since then, year after year, I brace myself when March ends, for a catastrophe bound to happen. Mishaps have occurred, but none yet as tragic as the year I turned nine. But I am only 35 and, hopefully, or should I say, unfortunately, more bracing is yet to come.
Now I have a son. Almost born in April. I held my breath that entire month, willing him to stay a little longer in my belly. And so he was born in May, but just barely at 2 a.m. on the first of that month. I am not a superstitious person. But I become one when April looms.
I am traveling now. And no, it’s only February. I left my son behind a whole ocean away maybe to escape him, or escape his father more likely. We had become seething strangers, his father and I, the years of swallowed anger and resentment weighing our insides down until we felt so heavy we could hardly lift our heads up. So, I am on the move. Back to the island I associate with the tiny puncture wound that killed him.
I remember many things about my father. But strangely they are all stored in subtle images in my mind, like the sepia-toned photographs of my mother’s parents framed on her dresser. None of my other memories are like this, only the ones of him. I remember the smell of his skin after he came home from the camp that doubled as his clinic. It was sharp and stale at the same time, from dried sweat and antiseptic. His hair was the color of the wet brown sand we walked on.
“Lai, la, lai, lai, la lai lai lai la lai…” He always sang a Simon and Garfunkel song. At least from what I remember. I may have very well thrown away other memories of him, and for all I know, they included him singing other things. The day before he fell I saw him talking to Puring, the little girl who lived in the fishing village. Puring came daily to sell us fish. She and her mother held them two or sometimes three in each hand, hanging from a string skewering their open mouths, the tails hanging down. “Lift up! The Lapu Lapu’s almost to the ground!” her mother would always say.
Puring had her head bowed. She stared at the sand, her bare toes curled as my father talked to her. I couldn’t hear them, but I saw my father’s jaw. It was set the same way whenever I had been bad. I took off my rubber slippers and kept walking barefoot. The sand muffled my steps, but I didn’t want them to hear the slap of the rubber against the soles of my feet as I walked. “Go tell,” I heard him say. “You understand? I don’t even know why he sent you. You’re just a child.”
“He couldn’t come. He retches and retches. Our house smells like vomit.”
My father sighed. “It’s just food poisoning. He’ll be fine in a day. By tomorrow night he needs to do what I paid him to do. Tell him, it’s Saturday tomorrow. And he’ll find her in the garden before the sunset, trimming her roses.”
I felt myself grip the edge of my shirt. He was talking about my mother. In that instant I saw her with gloved hands, kneeling in front of a bush, the shears she’d brought from the city pruning away at the blossoms in front of her nose.
Puring gave a slight nod and raised her head. She looked at my father’s face for the first time since I encountered them. And then she looked down abruptly and turned to run home.
That night and all of the next day, I watched my mother and father like I’d never watched them before. I had never seen them argue, or angry at each other. But I noticed for the first time that they talked to me, but never to each other at any length.
“The needles are on the table,” I heard my mother’s lilting voice say the next morning. “You’ll need more in another ten days. Do you want me to send Rose to town? You have to let me know. The boat is coming tomorrow.”
“Whatever you think.”
The line of her mouth thinned and she rolled her eyes. Again, it was something I’d never bothered to notice before. How many mornings had she rolled her eyes at him?
Then my father was gone. By mid morning he had fallen. He had climbed the sampaloc tree, the one with the slender limbs and feathery leaves. Jana, his assistant said he wanted to pick the bundles of sampaloc hanging from above. “For cooking sinigang with fish tonight.” But I knew my mother had planned to roast some pork that night, the cubed pieces soaking in a dark sauce in a bowl on our kitchen counter.
That night, our house was crowded with people tending to him. My mother’s shears stayed in its drawer in the kitcken. He lingered for a few days. By Tuesday he was dead and we left that night, my mother and I together with my father’s body.
I have never talked to her about Puring or what I heard. In truth, I haven’t thought about it much, preoccupied as I was by my own life.
But now, I ride a boat. And I see the rag tag shacks of the fishing village, where maybe I might find Puring and ask her.
April 8th, 2011 at 23:55
April is the cruelest month. I was doing some accounting of the store’s returns and this month’s, compared to the last is barely going to be enough to pay for the rent. I’ve been sitting behind the counter for a good while now that my butt is starting to get numb and still, of the four customers who have been browsing through the shelves of old books and CDs, no one’s really come up to buy anything. Sometimes I blame it on the weather. I read in one of Vonnegut’s stories that April sort of drove people crazy because it wasn’t quite spring yet and it was clammy. Of course this is fiction but since I’ve no other explanation for the low turnout of customers, I’ve started to believe this is true. I grab one of the CDs on the counter and put it on the player, and I realize it’s Caleb’s copy of Pretty Hate Machine. Caleb is the other guy who mans the store and he’s a big fan of industrial rock or as I’d like to call it – electronica on crack. I was never really a fan of the Nine Inch Nails. I am too lazy however to find another record to play so I let Reznor go on with his crooning. After some time, a woman who I recognize as the one leafing through the books in the Sci-Fi section comes up to pay for a couple of books. From afar I couldn’t really see her face well but now I see that she’s actually quite a charmer. Her hair is cut above her shoulders and her flippy bangs make her look young, at least younger than what’s she’s supposed to be. As we turn towards the cash register I catch a whiff of her perfume and it smelled of apples. Already I’m finding myself enamored by this stranger. She doesn’t really say anything apart from asking me if we have any Asimov on stock, to which I answer we don’t. I pack her books and hand her her change. She starts to walk towards the door but I catch up and tell her that I have some personal copies of Asimov I could lend her if she comes back. She tells me she would very much like to do so and gives me the most beautiful smile. Suddenly April doesn’t seem to be too cruel after all.
April 9th, 2011 at 00:02
Pyre
April is the cruellest month. It’s the filing of income tax month. But everyone morbidly refers to it as the Burning Men, Women and Children Festival.
How many will be executed this month, nobody knows.
Last year, 13 million Filipinos had to be gassed. Worldwide, 830 million had to go.
Of course land remains scarce. The Bureau of Disposal will have to keep its crematoriums working at full capacity, otherwise the stinkfest of hundreds of thousands of bodies rotting under the summer sun of two years ago will simply repeat itself.
Just two hundred years ago, people were so sure anything resembling the Holocaust would never happen again.
With the way governments of the world dispose of their citizens in such massive scale these days, Hitler must be laughing his ass off in his grave.
If you think about it, there’s just no other way. Six hundred million Filipinos would have seemed improbable two hundred years ago.
But here we are. Together with seven billion Chinese, ten billion Indians and five billion more from Europe and America.
Natural selection is simply not the most efficient way to control the world’s population.
So, let it be through taxation. Fail to justify your existence with a minimum income tax required from every man, woman and child, then you must go.
Yes, it’s cruel. Yes, it’s inhuman. But there’s no denying, it’s fair enough given the situation.
So, have you filed your income tax yet? If you have nothing to file this year, then it’s been nice knowing you.
April 9th, 2011 at 22:26
April is the cruelest month.
The undulating waves of moist heat rushed to greet us as we stepped out of the cool van. I almost wished I never agreed to this trip. Pretending to be a great girlfriend had it’s perks but it carried with it obligations that had to be fulfilled.
It’s the Holy Week and the whole country is in the throes of self-righteous penitence. The hypocrites, I thought. What could be harder than being an atheist and be living in the only Catholic country in Asia?
On the way to Al’s house, the van managed to avoid running down 3 different processions. We passed by a group of men with their faces covered in ragged clothes and with a wreath of assorted leaves crowning their heads beating their bloodied backs with wicked-looking whips. I watched with a curious mix of fascination and horror as one of the flagellants shake and drop to the scorching asphalt. The van moved away and Al was looking like a loon with a video camera in hand. “Yes! I’ve got something new for Youtube! I was getting kind of worried we wouldn’t be able to catch the show.”
“Wow, you’re sick.” I said, shaking my head.
“Oh come on, lighten up.”
“Ayyy! Son, you are home! Finally!” A shrill voice of welcome broke through my reverie like cat claws on a steel board. Mrs. Perez, a slim elderly woman wearing a short black belo over her curly bob clung to her son’s neck like a heavy choker.
“Yes, mama and I brought someone with me. I’d like you to meet her.”
Reluctantly, the old lady turned to me. Her face plastered in a smile as sincere as ax murderer wooing his victim. Or her.
“Welcome, my dear. It’ so nice to meet you.”
“Come, come inside. This heat is grating on my nerves.”
The family compound is a buzz with activity. A huge and opulent carosa with golden carvings on the side was being prepared by men with uniformed T-shirts that read, “La Pieta – Perez Family”. Fresh flowers and thick satin cloths complimented the mournful statue of the virgin holding her dying son. Although I stopped being a Catholic a long time ago, I remembered that this was my favorite station and religious icon.
We dined that night in awkward silence punctuated by more awkward conversations.
“Tita Rose, you have such a lovely home. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Just Rose, I think. Why, I could just be your older sister! How old are you again?”
“Mama!”
“39”. I said through smiling gritted teeth. I knew this was coming and I thought I prepared myself for it. The double standard still remains with dating younger men like Al who was mere man-child of 27. That awful memory of my mother predicting that I will never have a happy family if I don’t turn back to the church echoed through my head.
“Age is not an issue, mama. We love each other and that’s all that matters.”
“Ay, ijo, I’m not saying that it is. It’s just surprising to me, that’s all. I’m sure, your girlfriend has enough qualities you like in a woman.”
Her smile never did reach her eyes, though.
Laying in a separate room that night, I thought about all the failed relationships I had in the past. I tried to be honest about my believes and spoke my mind against the religion everyone considered sacred and unquestionable. Every man I met slowly inched away from me the moment they realized I believed in the power of myself and not some deity who holds the strings of my life.
Before Al, there was Rico who was the same age as me, with a slate as clean as a newborn’s bottom. He was not into religion and is as cafeteria Catholic as you can get so the topic of theistic belief seldom comes up. He was perfect or so I thought. When he read an article I wrote online, he confronted me and I was honest. He tried to convert me and I thought this was ridiculous since I never saw him attend church but what I did not know was he prayed. A lot. When I suggested that people who constantly utter the same prayers were just nagging God, he left.
On Easter Sunday, the whole family gathered for the special mass and I was dragged along, naturally. The priest, an aging man with white hair was giving a homily on the topic of resurrection that slowly became a propaganda speech against the controversial RH Bill. I was itching to object but I bit my lip and held my tongue.
I never pictured myself alone at the age of 40. Just like everyone else, I wanted a family to call my own, to grow old and die with someone holding my hand. So here I was pretending to be just like everyone else. A good Catholic, a lemming following mindless rituals with great aplomb.
April 11th, 2011 at 00:00
Sorry. Please discard previous post. Thanks.
APRIL IS THE CRUELLEST MONTH.
Havanavee Majinajon’s voice echoed off her conference room’s bare, slightly stained walls, jolting me from stupor, making me realize she’s just said out loud what she wrote on the white board in large, block letters.
Our boss, Al Kong, creative director for King, Kong & Associates, who was playing with his iPad, sounded tentative. “Um. Eliot?” he asked. Our other boss, Baby Mae King, subtly poked him in the ribs.
“Well, that one nearly made me shoot my tiny brain through my big nostril,” the man sitting beside me said under his breath. Vingo Regino is Havanavee’s PA. “Vanavee and T. S. Eliot? Uma and Oprah.”
I don’t know why Vanavee likes her snooty PA. The’re the straight arrow numbers girl and the catty assistant. It’s fine, I guess. On one hand, his nostril really looks huge from this angle. On the other, she seems sane and makes good calls on proposals which, given this account’s marketing history, borders on the absurd, Filipino style. Which is kind of another level of absurd. Regardless, the entity called Vanavingo have been a team for four years since Vanavee stopped working for a Singapore firm. She tells us what the mafia wants done, she takes off and leaves the snooty PA to sort things out with snooty creatives.
Vingo’s boss didn’t let him down. “Elton… who’s Elton?” she asked absentmindedly as she surveyed her handiwork.
“So. April. Lent. This,” Vanavee underlined the sentence, “will kickstart the summer season. Granted it’s a bummer, but then again, so is the Lent. Which kickstarts the season.” Her eyes darted from one face to the next. One could say presentation isn’t her strong point but I don’t know. There’s always something there.
Vanavee is the youngest partner of a family-owned local fast food franchise called Dami Few Don’ts. It rose from humble beginnings — Vanavee’s father Mang Haverto began a small pugon bakery in the 60s, Pugon Ni Majinajon. In the 70s, he learned how to make doughnuts that became a hit with customers across the demographics. Eventually, he bought more fryers, and that was the end of the pugons. Rechristened as Dami Few Doughnuts in the 80s courtesy of dynamic duo King and Kong, the business somehow made the right moves and made the right connections over the next few years that it’s upgraded from just very fried dough to very fried fast food fare, hence the current hip version of the brand name, Dami Few Don’ts.
It would be funny if I were joking, but that’s the gospel truth. There’s a big guardian angel watching over Dami Few Don’ts, people LOVE its food to death, and I’m sure my bosses had a lot of fun developing this brand. I keep telling myself that I am lucky to be working on this project.
Someone cleared her throat. “Um, Vanavee,” her sister-in-law, Vanavee’s eldest brother’s widow, attended the briefing today. “Just a… minor correction. There’s no ‘e’ in ‘crullers’.”
“Right,” she said, without missing a beat, and with a few more gestures, the sentence now reads: APRIL IS THE CRULLEST MONTH. “I want this bit in,” she continued. “I think it has potential for visuals and continuity.” She gave us the budget.
April. Lent. Penance. I thought about penitensya in Pampanga with the penitents beating themselves with a bunch of eclairs tied together with string, and gigantic DFD chocolate crullers stuffed on top of their heads. I added a few more flourishes to my doodles and showed them to Al.
I like Al. He knows I don’t like talking much and he lets me. He also eschews the typical Filipino middle and top management’s obsession with flaunting one’s initials. “My mother’s maiden name was Wu,” he explained. “Why would I want someone to call me Ay-Doubleyoo-Kay when ‘Al Kong’ is much shorter?”
“Great minds, Jojo,” he said. He showed me his iPad. He’s cut and pasted a few stock photos basically illustrating the same thing, only his was a smiling penitent nailed on the cross with a cruller stuck on his head. Underneath his comp, he wrote, ‘’Mas masaya magpenitensya pag may Dami Few Don’t Crullers!” Underneath that: “Clueless, but cute.” I give him my thumbs up. He has a soft spot for Vanavee.
Al started sounding off our ideas in the room.
“… How about ‘May the Force bagel you’?”
“… ‘June Eclair Nacion!…’”
“… ‘Chakang churros sa Chuly!…’”
Someone cleared her throat again. “The thing is, Vanavee, I think we’ve been taking this marketing in the wrong direction.”
Vanavee stopped talking, looked at her sister-in-law coolly. “Vingo and I have figures to back things up, Ate. We discussed this with Tatay. Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, these suggestions are mostly tacky, aren’t they? Your brother worked so hard. It’s a shame if we make mistake, seeing this team’s as young as you. As major stockholder, I want to have my say.”
The team fell silent as I am. Baby Mae, most of all; as the eldest in our group, she’s, like, eleventy.
“Then I guess you can take over from here.” Vanavee handed Mariposa the marker and turned back to us. “Don’t forget the meryenda, guys. New flavors for the crullers and ginataan. Vingo, take note of their inputs. I’ll review things with you later. Right, and I’m off. Thank you for your time.” She and the bosses beso-beso. Al Kong turned pink, to Baby Mae’s amusement.
When the door closed behind her, all eyes are on Mariposa, who went to take her place front and center.
“So,” she said. “I think we can get the messages across a little better than that.” The resolve was there, but then she looked at the door. Looking at Vingo’s thinly veiled withering stare, she faltered. Regaining a semblance of composure, Mariposa then raised the eraser, then the marker. When she moved away and her back was no longer blocking my view, the words had changed. They now started with: APRIL IS THE CRULLEREST MONTH.