The Weekly LitWit Challenge 8.3: Cruel rejections
In this LitWit Challenge you can win a charming hardcover edition of two novels by Carson McCullers: The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter and The Member of the Wedding. All you have to do is to write a story in 1,000 words or less in which the narrator is cruelly rejected by the object of her/his affections.
Notecards by Terrapin Stationers.
The best-written, most cruel rejection wins. Of course we are particularly interested in certified true stories, but we’ll take all tales of spurned and thwarted love, including Rafa-Roger slamfiction. (Soy su destino, no ese Mirka! Beruhigen Sie unten, den Anna Wintour Sie hören kann.)
As always, post your entries in Comments. We’re accepting submissions until Thursday, 26 January 2012 at 2359 hrs.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
* * * * *
Now a word from our sponsor.
National Bookstore is doing its second annual one-day Ang Pao Bag promo on Monday, 23 January 2012, Chinese New Year’s Day, at selected NBS branches. The bag contains more than Php1,000 worth of assorted products, including a Stabilo highlighter desk set, a hardcover John Grisham, photo albums, scrapbook materials and office supplies, and is available for only Php500.
Enjoy your Ang Pao Bag and here’s to a joyful Year of the Dragon.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
January 21st, 2012 at 20:33
My first entry. I might go for a second one.
It was January, nearly a decade ago, my second semester in college. Wishing to take advantage of certain freedoms, my classmates in Chem 16 and I went to Gayuma, which was then located in Xavierville, for lunch. After an experiment in reduction and oxidation that I now barely remember, Andrei drove for the five of us, almost in a hurry and praying that the traffic in Katipunan Avenue would be light for we had to back for the lecture portion of the class at 1.
Andrei, the one with the car, brought his lab partner, the similarly-named Andrea, while I had mine, Sashimi. That is not her real name, of course. It was a code name given by Andrea so that it would not be painfully obvious to the rest of the people in class that we were talking about her. The fifth person was Lyn. In another context, this would have been the equivalent of a double date with a chaperon. But Lyn was our friend, Andrei had a girlfriend, while Andrea had correspondence with a high school classmate. I was the only idiot in the group who could look at that lunch as something else, something more. The thing about such stupidities, however, is that they always end up with me falling down flat on my face.
While looking through the menu laden with innuendos, we talked about the usual things a group of five people talk about in a challenging class.
I think it was Lyn who brought up the fact that February 14 was coming. Those who are of a less sentimental inclination will have to be reminded that we were only freshmen college students at the time who still believed in Valentine’s Day even if it probably all that it was cracked up to be. This is similar to being 7 years old in the United States and still believing in the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. There is still some sense of wonder but it is about to be overwhelmed by impending doubt and cynicism. In that table inside Gayuma during that January day, the dam was about to crack for one person.
After Lyn talked about her lack of prospects, Andrea asked Sashimi if she had a boyfriend, a question that had been on my mind since the semester began.
“No,” she answered. I was ecstatic. It took a superhuman amount of self-control to avoid attempting cartwheels and back-flips. There was a chance. But this turned out to be premature.
“I don’t think I will ever have one soon either,” she continued, “My parents and grandparents are strict about who I can go out with and they only want a Filipino-Chinese boyfriend for me.
Silence fell upon the table, broken only by a waiter nearby who dropped several used plates.
January 23rd, 2012 at 13:24
He sings for a band. I have always had the soft spot for guys who could sing. Their minds might be dull as bricks but when they sing, my undergarments volunteer to evacuate the appropriate perimeter.
My previous relationship was with this band singer I knew since elementary. Grade six was when we became good friends. We caught up and realized nothing much changed in between us since elementary. We got back together. It was a fun ride until the guilt of not actually feeling anything for him caught up plus having to move to Manila to study.
So far, I have never fallen in love. Except with this guy.
He’s here, wearing a leather jacket over a white v-neck shirt, singing a coarse, sexy version of “Blackbird”. The song has so many levels! Once so depressing now so phallic. When I realized what was going through my mind, I almost threw up. I downed a few more gulps of beer from the bottle we shared. “Blackbird flyyyyy….” He sat down beside me, making a dent on the couch that pulled me closer.
He smelt of cigarettes and wet wood. Still sexy as hell. And his hair! Wavy and black just as I remembered when I saw him around my dormitory. Back then, he reminded me of Ross from Friends (annoyed me as hell). Then we eventually sat down for a meal and talked. He asked me out. He drove me around the city, speeding in all the awkward places trying to scare the life out of me. It never worked but he thought it was the funniest thing ever. About two weeks has passed and we’re still just really good friends.
Now we are alone in this small, karaoke room in Eastwood, a short distance from Katipunan where I’ve been living at since the Christmas break started. I’m finishing up my freshman year on a tough course I can’t remember picking. I’m an 18-year-old in Metropolitan Manila and I’ve been living my life like a piece of trash drifting with the humid winds. Parties and toxic conversations.
He was breathing heavily, as if getting a 98 on the karaoke machine was equivalent to a 5-mile run. I couldn’t help it. I drank more beer from the sixth bottle we shared and I lifted my hand to his hair. I felt his hair rub against my fingers and he put his hand behind my back and we kissed. Our heads bobbed while the applause of the karaoke machine made everything seem comical. Our lips parted and his lips made its way towards my right side, hovering just beside my ear. “I just couldn’t fall in love. I never have, and I never will.”
For a while, I thought it was just my head talking. Then rage burned its way through my chest. I bitterly hugged him closer and we just drifted away in the small, dark cubicle away from all the familiar things.
*first entry ever yay!
January 23rd, 2012 at 15:49
This might not sound “cruel” enough but here it goes anyway.
***
You were halfway through Milan Kundera’s “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” when you received my message. Sabina had left Franz; the latter not being able to do anything but worship the first, or at least his memories of her.
You worshipped me. You gave up your sanity for me, or at least your memories of me. I can still recall how pathetic you were when you chased after me in the mall—hurrying down the escalator to give that piece of rolled paper tied with a red ribbon. I never untied it, as you would learn later on. I was taken aback; I inevitably feared, feared you and whatever it was you had for me.
“…you might just be his option when he’s bored…,” so a part of the message went. And you smiled. You knew right away that it was for you. You smiled and agreed. I envy how you can smile at the truth. Or was it because I was already your Prime Mover, your Uncaused Cause, deified in your own little universe, where there was nothing but me, me, and me. Yes, even Sabina was me. And you were Franz. The god and the worshipper, the decider and the option (when bored).
And then you started avoiding me. Perhaps you realized how foolish it was to chase after someone in a jam-packed mall just to give sweet-nothings rolled and tied with a red ribbon. We often see each other, your school being mine as well. But you’ve always looked down when our paths would cross. You were happy just by the sight of me. But more than that, you were afraid—afraid of what I thought about you, of what my friends thought about you, of what the world thought about rolled papers tied with red ribbons. And so I just knew and understood how many butterflies would have fluttered in your belly when chance led us to one classroom.
Classmates. I could but imagine what the thought gave you. It was heaven, bliss, and hell all at once. Strategically, you took the backmost seat and enjoyed the sight of me, at least of my back—the only real memories you’ve got of me. And when the professor suddenly assigned you in the front most row, I could but guess how much you tried not to look back to where I was.
We were classmates. But you never greeted me. Not even once. Yet I know just how many words you’ve rolled and tied with red ribbons. But you chose to keep them in your pocket, just with you everyday—getting crumpled all the while, but just always there. What point was there in trying to hide what you’ve once blatantly (albeit courageously) revealed? Or were you trying to forget?
Probably. I didn’t think real hard before I sent you that message you know. I thought that would help you forget. But apparently, it became just another ‘real’ piece of memory you had from me, another relic to pray to before you sleep and to hold to your heart when you wake.
I gave you time. And that could have been my worst mistake— giving you the impression that ‘we’ were a possibility and that I could have been yours. Somehow— if you could have been more of an actor than a poet, another deity than a worshipper. But not really. I was your god, you were my worshipper; and in this order of things, all that mattered was what the god thought, what the god could make the worshipper feel. And besides, there were a thousand more souls moved by the unmoved mover that I was.
And one of those souls dared become a god and sought my divinity—which I offered up to share. And we worshipped one another. Realizing that can but make you smile again and bring back to mind your mother Sappho’s words, “He was unto me a god who took her hand…”
You sent me that when you knew. And I understood. You, my poet-lover, can but hint things out. But my god-lover took me into the darkest part of the universe to show me how the stars were born. And we created more of them—real memories now forever entwined to my neurons, and to yours, albeit only in your painful imagination.
You can but smile, as you always do. Smile at your sudden decisions, the consequences of which you later on avoid and deny. Smile at your indecision, at how you can but stare at my back and memorize its curves, at how you can just talk about my messages to your friends, or where you last saw me, or how good I looked with my new haircut and our new corporate uniform. And now you can but smile at the demise of your god.
I never thought creating more stars with another god would be a boring thing. But it was. So I sent you the message. And you smiled, and worshipped me more. Perhaps, as you knew, as you’ve repeatedly told yourself, this was all there could ever be between us—my boredom and your smile.
You were trapped, although I’ve long set you free, in that void space between characters you relate to, my messages, your rolled papers, your smile—forever praying to a god that never hears, forever praying for the time I get bored again.
I was your omnipotent, omnipresent god. You were my pitiably bound worshipper. And nothing more can ever be between us.
You are Franz, I am Sabina.
January 23rd, 2012 at 15:53
the accused, answering questions from her court-appointed lawyer.
————————————————————————-
it was not a moment of madness. i knew exactly what i was doing, and i don’t regret it. that woman is evil. she deserves to die. it is not an accident either that i used a knife. i wanted her to suffer, to feel pain for as long as possible, the same degree of suffering and pain i feel. i stabbed her just deep enough to wound her, but not kill her. i watched her bleed, writhe in pain, gasp for breath. for half an hour i stood there as she died slowly, painfully. It is the most satisfying thirty minutes of my life.
she took away my beloved. rosa, my rosa. she could have had any man or woman she liked. as a matter of fact, several men and women were wooing her then. one was a handsome and young and rich quebecer, a native of montreal. another was a stunningly beautiful and sexy woman, also a quebecer, but from quebec city. she could have had either of those, or any of the half a dozen suitors. why rosa? why did she have to choose rosa? the only reason she could have chosen rosa was to spite me, to show she could take what is mine from me.
she knew how much trouble i had to go through to get rosa as my lover. my church does not allow lesbian relationship. i had to lie to my pastor. i told the pastor rosa and i slept in the same room so we could sub-let the third room in the apartment and save on rent. he believed me only because the third room is in fact sub-let. the filipino community in montreal, they gossipped about me. they called me ‘sugar mommy’ for taking a lover 20 years younger than me, and a woman at that. my own daughters, they were aghast when i brought rosa home. they asked why couldn’t rosa sleep in the third room, it was empty then.
i don’t owe my children any explanation. if they couldn’t live by my rules, the door is wide open for them to leave and go live with their father. too bad for them, their father has a new wife, and she doesn’t like them. that’s how they came to live with me in the first place. they preferred to stay with their father and they would have if he hadn’t married a selfish woman.
i endured all that — the stares from other filipinos, the nasty whispers behind my back, the condemnation in the eyes of my daughters, the unspoken accusation of immorality from my church — for the sake of rosa.
i fell madly in love with her the first time i saw her. we met in a party. filipinos have parties all the time. she let it known she was looking for a room to stay in on weekends. she lived with her employer as a caregiver on weekdays. i offered her the third room. she requested a low rent, as her salary is not so high. i said she could stay for free if she agreed to share a room with me and we could rent out the third room.
that was how it started. at first, rosa was not interested in a relationship with me. but i persevered. i showered her with gifts – clothes, shoes, cigarettes. i cooked her favorite dishes everyday. she likes football jackets, i bought her two of those, 200$ each, half a week’s salary. finally, i had to threaten to evict her from my apartment. that’s when she realized how serious i was.
no, rosa did not love me. she never loved me. most of the time, she just laid down on bed while i made love to her. she did not enjoy what i did to her. none of that mattered to me. i was enjoying what i was doing. i was able to show my love for her. that was what mattered to me.
then that evil woman came along. it was my fault. i invited her to a party in my apartment. i did not for one moment suspect she had her eye on rosa. she was sexy and beautiful; she had so many suitors. i couldn’t imagine what she could possibly want with rosa.
i know what her friends are saying. i don’t believe any of that. it’s not true that it is rosa who approached that evil woman. it’s not true that rosa fell in love with her. that evil woman seduced my rosa. i don’t believe that they had a serious talk and decided to build a future together. rosa would not do that to me. she may not love me, but she’s content to be with me.
rosa left me three weeks ago. it would have been our second anniversary. i begged her, i pleaded with her. but she was deaf to my entreaties. i hanged on to her, and she shoved me. i, who have been nothing but loving to her, she shoved me. it’s all that evil woman’s fault. she poisoned rosa’s mind against me.
i went to her apartment yesterday. i pretended rosa left some of her clothes and i didn’t want them. i came to the door carrying a big bag of clothes. as soon as that evil woman opened the door, i pulled the knife i had in the big bag and dropped the big bag. she was too stunned to react. before she could scream, i stabbed her at the neck. she gagged and fell down. i stabbed her some more, shallow stabs, and watched her bleed to death.
January 24th, 2012 at 04:46
I never knew what love was till I met him. Yes, it seems like I pulled it out of a song but no matter how much I wreck my brains out for a proper description of what I felt that time, these words were the only words my heart could afford to come up with. He was stunningly gorgeous with a height of five feet ten inches and his hair had these soft curls that lay on his head perfectly to make him look…well, perfect! He’s got round eyes surrounded by those long lashes that would seem to tease me to touch them. I wonder how it feels when I could lay my lips on those lashes. His nose fit his face perfectly like a knob on a door—simply meant to be there. And downwards was his infamous Betty Boop lips—pouty, small, like that of a woman. These facial features complimented those firm muscles on his arms, abdomen,and round butt. Moreover, chocolate would go bland when compared with the sexiness of his pinoy tan. Oh! I just admire him so! And the emotion tripled when he looked my way and started to notice my existence.
It started when I was in a long queue to the cashier in a department store with my guy bestfriend, Ice. It was an ordinary weekend and I felt and looked ordinary that time. I must have looked so ordinary that I began to look different that he suddenly popped out of nowhere in my line of vision. He greeted me and I think I replied with a smile and a blush which worsened when my bestfriend teased me in his presence. He seems to be nonchalant about it though. I remember praising his feigning of ignorance as something chivalrous.
Our meetings and greetings did not stop there. That scene in the mall was just only the beginning. He started looking for me in the corridors of our department, screaming my name in the midst of all the students eating at the canteen so that he can see my head shot up in the air whenever I hear his voice, offering his help for me during projects, and asking me out for after-school meriendas. I had been the center of envy by all of my classmates since I’m not alone in having great desires for this one guy. And my attraction toward him went from severe to out-of-control.
I’m not a good actress and I am not good with keeping secrets and surprises and since my feelings toward him are something that would definitely lead me to destruction if I can’t spill it out, I had no other choice but to confess. Of course I had to consult my peers and my best buddy for guidance since confessing is something like heroes do when they face their opponents. And sometimes, heroes die on those scenarios. I could still remember what Ice, my bestfriend in the whole world, told me, “Confessing is easy. All you just need to do is take a deep breath and tell the truth. Afterwards, the problem on how to react would now lay to the person you confessed with.”
And so I took a deep breath.
And I heard an awful truth coming from the lips of the man I loved deeply. “I like you too and I want to be more close to you but not the closeness that you wanted me to. I like you because of your bestfriend. You seem to know everything about him and I want to get to know him more…”
Those deafening words broke my heart.
Intro: Pare Ko by Eraserheads
January 24th, 2012 at 16:27
[UPDATE. This is why I should recheck whatever I submit. This is the same story from comment #2 with very minor but necessary alterations. I hope you won’t mind. BTW, glad you had fun in Iloilo!]
He sings for a band. I have always had the soft spot for guys who could sing. Their minds might be dull as bricks but when they sing, my undergarments volunteer to evacuate the appropriate perimeter.
My previous relationship was with this band singer I knew since elementary. Grade six was when we became good friends. We caught up and realized nothing much has changed in between us since elementary. We got back together. It was a fun ride until the guilt of not actually feeling anything for him caught up – plus having to move to Manila to study.
So far, I have never fallen in love. Except with this guy.
He’s here, wearing a leather jacket over a white v-neck shirt, singing a coarse, sexy version of “Blackbird”. The song has so many levels! Once so depressing now so phallic. When I realized what was going through my mind, I almost threw up. I downed a few more gulps of beer from the bottle we shared. “Blackbird flyyyyy….” He sat down beside me, making a dent on the couch that pulled me closer.
He smelt of cigarettes and wet wood. Still sexy as hell. And his hair! Wavy and black just as I remembered when I saw him around my dormitory. Back then, he reminded me of Ross from Friends (annoyed me as hell). We eventually sat down for a meal and talked. He asked me out. He drove me around the city, speeding in all the awkward places trying to scare the life out of me. It never worked but he thought it was the funniest thing ever. About two weeks has passed and we’re still just really good friends.
Now we are alone in this small karaoke room in Eastwood, a short distance from Katipunan where I’ve been living at since the Christmas break ended. I’m finishing up my freshman year on a tough course I can’t remember picking. I’m an 18-year-old in Metropolitan Manila and I’ve been living my life like a piece of trash drifting with the humid winds. Parties and toxic conversations.
He was breathing heavily, as if getting a 98 on the karaoke machine was equivalent to a 5-mile run. I couldn’t help it. I drank more beer from the sixth bottle we shared and I lifted my hand to his hair. I felt his hair rub against my fingers and he put his hand behind my back and we kissed. Our heads bobbed while the fake applause of the karaoke machine made everything seem comical. Our lips parted and his lips made its way towards my right side, hovering just beside my ear. “I just couldn’t fall in love. I never have, and I never will.”
For a while, I thought it was just my head talking. Then rage burned its way through my chest. I bitterly hugged him closer and we just drifted away in the small, dark cubicle away from all the familiar things.
*first entry ever yay!
January 24th, 2012 at 19:27
Names and certain incriminating details have been changed.
———
All that I could remember about him was that he was handsome, intelligent, and funny in his own way. And a very good Christian, which was attractive back then to a lost lamb like me.
He told me that I should stop acting like we were together. He only liked me as a friend, he said, but my neediness was too much for him and he had to put his point across as a friend. Naturally, I didn’t take it too kindly, and I blew the whole thing out of proportion.
The only thing that hurt more than my rejection was the consequences I faced with our circle of friends. When they found out that I was still whining about him, they staged an intervention for me to stop making him out as the bad guy. How dare I paint him as the one who stabbed my heart and twisted the knife, they said. How dare I keep look at him with those eyes, thinking that I could practically love him in more ways than one. How could I let my values get so tainted by the world that I would lower myself to this level?
Still, he was handsome, intelligent, and funny in his own way, and our friends looked up to him as an example of a good Christian.
It didn’t take long until he started making it all about her, which I tried not to mind because she was also my friend. A part of me knew I should give up because I could see them attending Mass together every morning, and hear them talking about swing-dancing as he super-sized her French fries so he could share them with her.
All this time I thought I should put up with this because I’ve gotten too close to our circle of friends. He was as much a part of it as she was – and so were the others who were just as close to us back then – and I thought it would be strange if I had just suddenly disappeared without really saying goodbye.
I was convinced that it was all my fault. This would never have happened if I wasn’t so needy, I thought. This would never have happened if I had been more of a lady, or paid more attention to my career, or gone to Mass more often. Why else would I have blown it with someone who was that handsome, that intelligent, and that funny in his own way?
Then I found out about the wedding reception, which she left in a huff after he dedicated “Faithfully” to her. And Valentine’s Day, when he showed up at her house with roses and she told him, in no uncertain terms, to stop acting like they were together in the first place.
She did not see him as anything more than a friend, either. And yet, when she made that point as clear as possible to the rest of our friends, they still asked her why would she turn down such a nice Christian guy.
By then I had already crossed the Pacific Ocean, and written all of the long-winded letters that I knew I would never send. Everything else is vague to me.
January 24th, 2012 at 21:17
^RE: my entry. That would have been “…super-sized *his* French fries so he could share them with her,” by the way. Apologies in advance for the bad grammar.
January 25th, 2012 at 13:44
I wasn’t really in love with him when he asked me to be his girlfriend. The question seemed to pop out from nowhere. After all, we were just two friends having a drink after our summer class. We were both intoxicated and the beer seemed to cloud our college minds into incoherence. So, I said ‘yes’. I thought to myself: Sure. We’ll probably forget this when we’re sober. But then, as we made our way home, he took my hand in his and I remembered thinking that that moment will be etched forever into my memory.
Summer came and went. We were suddenly seniors on our last semester. Graduation was just a few months away from our grasp. I look back at our happy days and see myself sitting on the low steps of the university theater, laughing at something he said, his hair soaked in sunshine, his eyes dancing with the same joy I felt. Those were the happier times: holding hands at the shopping center, endless conversations about music and our dreams, a kiss on the cheek when it was time to go home.
We had our share of fights, too – every couple has. Ours was like a game of hide and seek. Every time I try to confront him, he runs away, hibernates for days, and wouldn’t speak to me unless I apologize first. I’m not saying that I’m blameless. I was pretty emotional back then, too. Most of the time, I was the one starting the fight.
We broke up one day. I cannot remember the exact reason why. This particular fight happened before graduation, resulting to a decision to end things. Deep in my heart, I was hoping that, somehow, we’ll fix this and get back together again. There wasn’t a thing I wanted more back then. Graduation day finally came and I found myself politely exchanging pleasantries with him – too polite for people who were supposed to be still friends.
Days after, we were both invited to an out-of-town celebration for our block. Fast-forward to a couple of beers and I was really drunk. I found myself sitting beside him, slipping into an easy banter, and then slowly slipping out of the crowd. He kissed me; I started to cry. In between sobs, I told him how much I missed him and how much I wanted for us to be together again. To my horror, he shook his head and I watched as his face hardened. He started to walk away without a word, made his way back to where the others were happily celebrating – everyone oblivious to the fact that my world was tumbling over.
My foolishness did not stop there. As soon as I regained composure, I joined the group, faking a smile as if everything was right in the world. The night wore on with endless supply of alcohol, making everyone as intoxicated as ever. I decided to try again; I had nothing to lose anymore. I saw my chance when we were getting ready for bed. In my drunken state, I begged him to stay with me. In front of everyone in the room. I was beyond caring. I begged and I pleaded. I repeated the words over and over, over and over, until the sense of desperation swallowed me whole that I had to stop and catch my breath. He just sat there, his eyes averted with a faraway look that I will always remember. “Just please go to sleep” was all he said. He turned away from me, left the room, leaving a silence so complete it was almost deafening.
January 26th, 2012 at 09:16
His text:
Can we meet tonight? Seisha around 9?
Mine:
Sure. See you.
8:30, the overtired clock reads on my table. Dresses strewn on my even messier bed. Rubber shoes: laces unfounded. The better half of the kitschy couple tee: creased to perfection. Charm bracelet: Eiffel tower missing. Half-empty Clinique: left open for days. Faux leather belt: off its hook.
8:35: sweat started to slide down my back. Even pressed to no.3, or what my friend called, the tempest 3, the swiveling stand fan on one corner, adjacent to shelves with tomes of Pablo Neruda and Rilke and the ubiquitous Nicholas Sparks, couldn’t brag about its gustiness, its kph. Overhead, incandescent light with dainty, snowy cobweb pierced like molten flame.
His text:
I am heading out of the office. You?
Mine:
I am looking for the Holy Grail.
His text:
Call Dan Brown for digs.
Mine:
ROFL
Spare change: check. Phone: full batt. Moleskin: fuzzy, touchy feely inspiration would come by leaps and bounds. Friction pen: check. I looked outside and the blur of cars wheezed and melted into neon spectacle. I opened my window and let the air tingle my spine. I smelled the pungent earth, the herbal essences of the breeze wafted in and out of my nostril. The clock insisted 8: 45.
Then, the drumbeating started. First, staccato, like a slow waltz. Then, hypnotically, broke down into fox trot. Hands: cold and clammy. Feet: colder, clammier. I looked at the clock again. 8:46. Eternity unraveling. The sound of turning hands perceptible. Out of the corner of my eye, one reptilian lizard tongued a stray fly: wings succumbing to the whirr. Still, no telltale sign of his car. Still. Wait. And be still.
His text:
I will have to see you there, nalang
Mine:
Ok. I’m securing locks.
His text:
Don’t get too excited.
Mine:
I’m not.
I switched off all the lights, including those in the terrace. The house cast silhouettes. The plant I planted to his name browned at the day’s heat and sultry. No, blackened, given the absence of light. Butterflies on my stomach let loose and probably germinating on daises. I poured down the remaining half of Clinique until Cheche-my sister’s cat, snorted in insufferable disgust. I went to the opposite side of the road and tried to flag down tricycle. I totally looked the part. The wrist watch read: 8:50. 10 minutes and my life would be changed. The crescent moon infused ethereal sheen: the Sea of Tranquility slightly visible and rudely parted halfways.
His text:
I’m near Seisha.
Mine:
I’m near Seisha ( lie)
His text:
See you.
Mine:
Blank message
Finally, after flagging down for a decade, the tricycle came. Pondering, how these skeletal vehicles lured when you so needed it the most, and how poured out when you don’t need it. Alanis on my iPod. Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think? The drum rolling deepened. The night wind roared. My heart skipped a beat.
His text:
I just got in.
Mine:
Traffic on the intersection.
His:
I am losing the cool.
Mine:
I am a spit away.
Seisha. Coffee shop serving hookah. Cross between a bar and smoking lounge. I saw his back: well defined opposite his sculpted abs. Phone on his left ear, cooing to whomever on the line. We plan to have it in The Netherland, just in time for tulips on their prime. We ditched New York; the debate has not been simmered down. The plane tickets burned on my pocketbook. He air kissed to whomever on the line. He turned. I hid beneath a misplaced urn.
Mine:
Wait. I am paying the guy
His:
Fine.
Slowly, I crept towards him. His virility seemed to be in full show tonight. I furtively touched his shoulder. He didn’t turn. I went around and oppositely, seated. The eyes: not a patina of luster. He didn’t move for minutes. I snapped my razzle-dazzles. No effect. I made faces. He turned to the door. I followed his gaze. Some lady went in. I sort of expect that he would cut down this nonsense, for it slowly freaking me out. He flashed the lady a genteel, if not over-cultured smile. The black-sequined lady furtively touched his shoulder. He clasped it with his hand. He turned to me. The brooding eyes: empty, distant, expressionless.
Him: “ I want you to meet Audrey”
Mine:“Not, Niffenegger, you know Time Traveler’s Wife”
Him: “We plan to get married tomorrow. And you will be our wedding singer?
The bitch: “ But dahlin, he’s gay. Damn, my third person pronoun failed me. He’s cursed”
Him: “ I know. He’s a mean singer”
The bitch: ” No way dahlin. I won’t let a transvestite ruin my marriage”
Him: “ He won’t. He will be sedated”
The bitch; “ OK, as long as no Adele will be sung. She’s a lonesome, loathsome songstress”
Him: “ No option. If you love me you will do it. You can go. We’re having a date. Save the ticket for your illusions.
I made way to the door full dazed. Her lilt- the sort that made man knees melt followed me. His brogue- the sort that made a woman touch herself inappropriately disgusted me. The tickets conflagrated on my pocketbook. At the side of the Hell house of Java, a saccharine couple just French kissed. I looked at them. They looked at me and the intimacy they built been squashed.
Mine: “ I have tickets here to Netherland”
Them:” Huh, what’s that for?”
Mine: “You can kiss there without the fear of taboo”
I held the tickets. The lanky man about my age snatched my three months worth salary out of my hands.
Them: “ Thanks, Finally, we can go to Africa”
I should have shouted that Netherland is in friggin Europe, but tears welted and under the light of the moon, I broke down on the road. Shoulder’s hunched; I lapped the miles and went home. I plugged the iPod on my ear. Adele burst into tearful tirade. Someone Like You. Great.
January 26th, 2012 at 10:21
We were high school freshmen. I was an honor student and he was a jock. I was part of the school paper and very involved in activities that promote academic excellence and he was a handsome, sporty guy that every girl in my school was dying to date. I was sitting in Row 1 and he was sitting in Row 3… or 4. Oh, you know how these seating arrangements are made. I was the brainy class president and he was the pasaway classmate who’s always on the “noisy” list.
In the middle of school year, though, our adviser was in the mood for some changes so she shuffled our seating arrangements and made me sit beside the cutest guy in the class. I can’t remember our first conversation but all I know is we clicked right away. He knew how to make me laugh. We were always group mates in class projects and study partners in the peer tutoring program.
I let him copy my notes and (in some occasions) my homework. He carried my bag as we walked down the hallway. We shared meriendas. He took me to his basketball games after school. We were seatmates in the bus during our educational trip (we held hands when no one was looking). We were inseparable. We were like Elizabeth Wakefield and Todd Wilkins of Sweet Valley High.
One afternoon he told me, “Can I just take you home and tell my mom that you’re her future daughter-in-law?” Oh how I blushed! I knew he was just joking but it was a major kilig-to-the-bones moment for me. I was young and in love. Bad combo.
When the school year was about to end I received a letter from a Science high school telling me that I passed the accreditation exam. Part of me was happy because at last my father would be proud of me (my older sister went to that Science high school) but the other part was crushed because I had to leave my Todd Wilkins.
After days of acting “weird” (that’s what he told me before I broke him the news), I finally informed him that I would be transferring to another school. He appeared sad, but he didn’t stop me. “Okay yan. Astig yang school na yan,” he said. And because I was very concerned about our “relationship” I asked, “Pa’no na tayo?”
I was expecting him to say, “We’re going to make this long distance relationship work.” And that we’re going to formalize it. Make it official and tell the world that we’re an item.
But instead he chuckled. “Eh hindi naman tayo, di ba?”
BOOM.
My jaw literally dropped when I heard that. The feeling was worse than being a second placer in Math Olympiad or not getting the top prize for my investigative project during the Science Fair. I felt I was having a heart attack.
I was about to say something but his friends arrived to remind him about their basketball game that afternoon. They were still talking when I went back to my senses and forced my feet to take a step and leave.
When I was a few feet away from them he called my name. I turned around half expecting that he’d run after me but he was just standing there. He smiled and waved as if saying ba-bye. I don’t know what made me do it but I found myself waving back and whispering “Ba-bye.”
January 26th, 2012 at 13:04
Although we were always hanging out together, I never really felt anything special for him. I considered him as a friend but not more than that. It seemed to him though that the kindness I showed every time that we’d meet was more than the usual. That the text messages we exchanged with each other were double entendre. Apparently, he read too well between the lines.
And so it came that he could no longer keep it to himself, he texted me (yes, just a text message) and told me that I was the one the he liked (’cause he didn’t want to use the word ‘love’). I replied, “I knew it.”
I didn’t say I liked him, too. I mean, he is nice and smart, but that doesn’t mean that I “like” him. It just doesn’t work that way. But I told him we should meet so we could talk about it. So we met.
It was late in the afternoon and we were both sitting on a bench. He asked me what I wanted to tell him. I said nothing. He asked me why I wanted to meet with him. I said nothing. He asked me what I felt for him. I said nothing. But we met nonetheless.
Before we parted ways, he told me how much he admired me–that I was smart, good-looking, talented, kind, a good this, a good that, that I had EVERYTHING. But that wasn’t true. I told him there was one thing that I did not have. He thought it was a father (’cause my father’s long dead even before we met). He thought wrong.
“What is it that you don’t have?” he asked.
“Kapintasan,” I said.
He laughed, a bitter one. And then I left him there.
I don’t know if he cried. I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get rid of him, or rather his “feelings” for me. I just wanted the friendship, that’s all. I was too busy with finishing college, helping my family, and looking for ways to have money to even bother myself with a serious relationship with someone. Besides, I really didn’t like him as my partner.
He pestered me with text messages after that, telling me to give him a chance, to let him love and care for me, to give it a try. I always said the sweetest thing, “No.”
Then came another guy into my life, and I fell hard for him. I’d wait for him after his class just to make ‘papansin,’ I’d crack jokes whenever he’s around so he’d notice me, and I’d stalk him online to know everything that he’s up to.
We became friends. We’d hang out and enjoy any activity there was. We even hugged in a party! That was pure bliss. I was falling more and more in love with him.
I knew I liked him ’cause I’d laugh to his corniest jokes. I’d smile whenever he’d cross my mind. And I couldn’t eat when he’s around.
And so it came that I could no longer hold my feelings. I texted him. I told him that we should meet ’cause I had an important thing to say. So we met.
We went to this mall and we ate in a not-so-known restaurant where the waiters were gossip boys and girls who didn’t know the concept of privacy.
There I poured all my feelings for him over bottles of San Mig Light. I told him that I admired him. He said nothing. I even shared with him all the antics I did just to make him notice me. He said nothing. It was a no holds barred revelation. He said nothing.
I cried. I didn’t care what other people thought that time. I felt like crying so I did. What’s so wrong with that? He gave me tissue papers to wipe my tears and gladly accepted it. Then he asked why I was crying. “Masakit e,” I replied.
Then we parted ways after that.
I texted him a week after to finally get his “decision.” I wanted to know if he liked me too. ‘Cause I knew that everything we did was more than the usual. That the things he said were especially for me. Apparently, I read too well between the lines.
“Do you like me too?” I texted him.
And he said the sweetest thing ever, “No.”
January 26th, 2012 at 18:07
Struggling to convince myself that what happened last night was a dream, or a nightmare to be exact, the sight of her legs sprawled across my bed make the suffering harder to endure.
“She called?” She gasped before I almost choked of caffeine.
“I am about to pick her up at the airport.”
She stretched her arms trying to reach both sides of the divan while her legs still slumped all over made strange poses. I imagined she resembled a letter J in Cracked Johnnie font.
“So,” she said now forming a perfect T. She repeated the J stunt and went back to T, counting with a hiss.
“This is supposed to make the spinal cord less stiff.”
“You made that up.”
“No, our professor said that.”
The oddness of her motions looked natural to the whiteness of the sheets, reminiscent of the music video of a sleeping woman I watched in youtube a week ago.
“Could you please dial my phone? I might have dropped it under your bed last night.”
After a few seconds, Bruno Mars started singing in the shower. “We were both drunk. That explains everything,” I said.
She finally stood up, and said, “I guess so.” I could not remember what happened next, maybe we stared at each other too long. Or maybe I turned the aircon off.
“How does she look like?” she asked.
The situation did not call for it but I knew I heard myself gave a chuckle. “Who exactly is she?”
“Marissa. Your girlfriend. The one you’re picking up at the airport.”
“Oh. I thought you were… Never mind.”
She was inching her way to me while I stood immobile still holding the remote control. With a slight jolt of her pivot foot, she jumped into me and reached for my lips.
“You are a whore,” I said. We both laughed.
I heard my phone ring and was sure as hell it was you who’s calling. But before I could press the reject button, she filched it with her free hand and threw it to the wall. Ten thousand pesos smashing into three pieces. Great.
We had sex for the third time that day and were about to start with round four when you came…
__________________________________________________________
“I came, with my sunglasses on. Hoping you would notice my perfect tan.”
“M, please don’t do this to me.”
“Why, I am your boss.”
“M.”
“Mr. Heron, I believe it was with a great consideration that I gave you a chance to maintain your post as a writer.”
“But, M.”
“Mr. Heron, it was a fair second chance given to a former friend who was too ignorant to notice my name is spelled with a single s.”
“M. Let me explain.”
“I don’t like your piece, I believe I specifically told you to write everything in detail. Details, Mr. Heron! Details! What Bruno Mars song was it? What course is she taking up in FEU?”
“No, she goes to AMA.”
“Oh. I loathe your taste.”
“Can you flip it to the next page? I wrote my apologies there.”
“Can you not say it now?”
“Fine. I am sorry I did that and I am sorry I am doing this right now.”
“’She called me again that night…..‘Guess who? I hav finishes mine reading Twilight,’ her text reads.’ Details. You forgot the details.”
“Yeah. I forgot the ‘jejeje.’ Can you please just read the last part?”
“Okay. ‘Now, looking at your profile picture in Facebook, I realize how much I miss you. You have changed your relationship status and I feel sorry all your relatives actually liked it.’ Wow, good detail here! ‘I posted something Nicholas Sparks on my wall and nobody seemed to notice how I feel. If only you would forgive me.’”
“Marissa, we were both drunk that night.”
“Yeah, I read that part.”
“Please forgive me.”
“I also read that part.”
“Okay. Then at least spare me from getting fired. You told me once I am a good writer.”
“Did I? But I guess this piece you wrote proved that wrong.”
“Please, I need a job.”
“Your story lacks details… I like the Cracked Johnnie font part though.”
“So…”
“You would do well in the layout department.”
“But…”
“You’re welcome.”
l.l
January 26th, 2012 at 20:45
“Part of the beauty of falling in love with you,
is the fear you won’t fall
It hasn’t felt like this before.
I hate to fall.” – Joshua Radin
I always believed that people who admit that they are in love are losers. Admitting that you are head-over-heels with someone is like giving that person the freedom to reject you and hurt your feelings, and you, wallowing on the hope that he is just one shy guy who at one end is keeping his feelings for you as well. I kept myself inside this safe box, until I met him.
I can hardly remember how we met; maybe because he did not strike my attention at all. We go to the same classes and we are part of the same organization but we go in and out of class and of meetings without noticing each other most of the time. Cliché, but he wasn’t even my type—he is not tall; he looks less than the average. You don’t see him in sports fests or in dance competitions because his talent does not suffice for him to actually be interested in being part of these. I never saw how beautiful he is until I met who he is beyond his flaws.
I know I liked him once, very much, but now all I can remember is the hurting part.
For more than two years, I used to believe that there was an “us”; that we were just waiting for the right time, that we will just finish our studies before we pursue us. I thought everything about us was special until I saw her with another girl—how I saw her being as happy as he was with me, and how I felt that whatever it is that I thought extraordinary was nothing else but pure friendship. I felt angry. This was not because he is with another girl, but because I felt my place was somewhere anyone else can stand as well; that I am easy to replace. Since that day on, he never heard a word from me. I needed distance. Yes, he felt my absence. Yes, he asked. But what I am not sure of it was us that he felt was lacking, or if it was just me, as his close friend.
It was the right time. Perhaps even if I already knew what we were, I would still dare to ask. I wanted to know. I don’t want to go in a battle where I don’t even know whether to fight or to concede. I’d rather eat my words and become a loser than to be left hanging. I’d rather let my heart bleed to death than make myself believe that I am strong, that he is nothing, that I do not like him, that everything I’ve given was for the sake of friendship, then slowly kill myself in the end.
I texted him. I apologized for my absence, and I apologized for crossing the line. I said I didn’t mean to cross the line, that I never knew I would like him, that the reason why I kept myself away from him is because I wanted to sort out my feelings. I said I knew it was such a big mistake and that I am in the process of drawing myself back to the place where I should have stayed. I said I am telling those because I wanted to be honest with him and because I value our friendship more than anything else, that I am contented with what we are now and that I am aware of the impossibility of an “us“ from the start. I said I just needed three months to put everything back into place. I said I am okay.
I know I am not. Everything I said was a lie. I texted him and told him what I felt because I was hoping he’d say that he likes me too. I wanted to hear him say that he was just waiting for the right time and that there was really an us; that he misses me and that he hates me for staying away from him when I knew how happy he is when he is with me; that I need not sort out my feelings and he is happy I took the first step out of friendship and in a possible relationship; that he values our friendship as well but he hopes there can be something more intimate, an us.
But the only thing he said was thank you. Thank you for valuing our friendship that much and thank you for appreciating him as a friend and as a person. There are a lot more messages sent about gratitude and about our friendship, yet that final message said everything that he wanted to say.
I’m sorry.
It was the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt.
It was almost a year after that happened. Yes, we are still friends, but someone has already taken my place. After two years of sharing deepest secrets and stupidest experiences, I feel we never knew each other that much at all. I treat him as an acquaintance and he treats me the same way. This time, I am sure that there is nothing more than friendship. At least, whenever I see him, I am reminded of that bitter truth. At least, he was the one who pulled me out of the quicksand. At least, I know he loved me, even as a friend.
Do I still love him? I am not sure. But what I am certain of is that I won’t let my heart be shattered by the same person again.
January 26th, 2012 at 23:10
CRUEL REJECTIONS
The following takes place between 12 a.m. and 12 a.m., in between heartbreaks and reveries.
Tik tok. Tik tok. Tik tok.
Enter Kiefer Sutherland in 24.
Erase. Erase. Erase.
Tik tok. Tik tok. Tik tok.
The clock strikes 12. It’s already witching hour. There I am. Hypnotize by The Red Post It.
Nag-red ang aking paningin. You see. This is what you do to me.
Remember when you told me how my brain is gay, just because I couldn’t think straight?
Or when I asked you what you really want about me: my beautiful face or my sexy body?
Then you quipped: my sense of humor.
Or when I wake up in the morning and I asked you where my favourite Koko Krunch was? Then you suggested maybe it’s already in my stomach because I was a ‘cereal killer’?
Hahaha. Hihihi. I let out a loud laugh, albeit slightly annoyed, trying hard to make pa-cute.
“Oh goooosshhh, sigh, please honey, you’re being funny.”
And then you do such (terribly annoying) things again. And again. And again that you made ‘redundant’ a cliché. Just like this sentence.
At first, I admired you for your brutal honesty. But later on, I hated- no, present tense please- you for your cruel rejections.
Those simple things, the subtle actions, the subliminal meanings. Ohhhh dear goodness, you gave them all. Ahhhhh. Ooohhh. You’re so good. Our eyes meet, we hold hands, our lips inch closer, I can feel your breath tickling against my face. We stare at each other for what seem to be hours. Then I snap out of my imagination feeling like time stood still.
It did. You experimented. You just finished.
Trying to hypnotize me.
What a prick. You literally proved to me that there’s magic in love.
But is this love?
Then you say we should never tell each other lies; honesty should be the best policy. So I confessed that I really despise French fries all the while you were including them on the grocery list, which is filled with, yeah, mostly, if not only, French fries. Then you told me what a pathetic liar I was; I couldn’t even lie about honesty!
Until today, I honestly don’t know what you mean.
I used to tell you about my dreams, my goals, what hat I would want to wear in this lifetime, and then as if on cue, you rolled your eyes and told me to “rest and get some shut eye… and dream on!!!!!!!!! And by the way, in your dreams, don’t wear a hat because you’re not English.”
Was that supposed to be a punch line? I hope it was you I could punch.
I thought you were so concerned. And you knew about things. And you never break your promises. I love that about you.
You said you were going to give me lots and lots of flowers and chocolates. You did! They were so many! They were larger than life! Goodness, you projected them on 3D/IMAX-like technology!
Then you reminded me that I had to pay for the cinema rental for this. Clearly, you told me, love should not be cheap!
If our love story was to be featured in Precious Hearts Romances, we could have redefined what love story is. Or what romance is all about. Precious? Wow, I don’t know what to say.
If by any chance you were a comedian, these kind of banats could have passed as jokes. Fortunately, you’re not. Gusto lang kitang banatan, actually.
We have so many shared memories. I wish that’s the only thing we shared. Because I certainly did not get my fair share in whatever we had. What we had was ‘fare share’, which I always and totally get to pay kay manong driver because you always forgot your purse.
Sigh.
When all was said and done, I told you, “Don’t you dare be the first one to break up with me! Ladies first!”
Then I stormed out of a room, without even getting the chance to say “It’s over. We’re over.” Perhaps I was just overwhelmed.
When I came back, there it was, that red post it.
I knew it!!!! You would finally accept defeat. You’d regret all that you’ve done. This time, you would apologize. This time, you’ll make it better, be better, love me more than ever.
I feel like crying.
I got the red post it, read it carefully. Tears fell from my eyes.
It said:
I’m sorry.
I love you.
Then at the back. It read:
P.S.
But I love me more.
Seriously? Seriously? No, seriously?
P.S.
Not really sure if this happened between 12 a.m. and 12 a.m. Like I said, I couldn’t think straight.
And would it be a problem if I’m gay?
January 26th, 2012 at 23:50
Napansin kong maraming mga batang nasa paligid ng aming barangay hall. May medical mission daw ang isang konsehal, ang sabi ng aming kapit-bahay. Libreng tuli raw. Bakasyon nga pala ng mga estudyante ngayon. Dumungaw ako sa bintana at nakita ko ang magkahalong kaba’t kasabikan sa mga mukha ng mga nakapilang batang lalaki. Naitanong ko tuloy sa sarili kung talagang kailangan ba ang ritwal ng pagpapatuli para maging ganap na lalaki. Pawisan ang karamihan dahil sa init ng panahon. Ah, tag-araw na naman. At gaya ng mga nakaraang taon, pilit na namang sumusungaw sa aking kamalayan ang tag-araw ng 1964. Para itong libag na hindi matangal-tangal sa aking alaala. Sadyang nakabigkis na yata ang aking mga tag-araw kay Rosalie. Ang magandang si Rosalie! Ang nag-iisang si Rosalie ng king isanglibo’t isang panaginip noon!
Labingdalawang taong gulang ako noon at katatapos ko lang sa elementarya. Dahil may katangkaran ako’t malaki ang bulas ng aking katawan, mga katorse at kinse ang mga edad ng aking kabarkada. Si Rosalie ay second year high school na noon. Maputi sya at may ngiting parang batubalaning humuhila sa akin. Noon lang ako nakaramdam nang ganoon. Masaya ako kapag nakikita ko sya at parang ayaw ko nang humiwalay kapag magkasama kami. Nahalata ng aking mga kabarkada na may gusto ako kay Rosalie kaya tinukso-tukso na kami sa isa’t isa. Si Rosalie naman ay ngiti lang nang ngiti. Kaya lalong lumakas ang loob ko. Nasa kasibulan ako noon at sugod lang nang sugod. Panay ang tambay ko sa tindahang malapit sa bahay nila. Kapag nakita ako ni Rosalie, lumalapit sya at nakikipag-usap sa akin. Pero usapang kung anu-ano lang. Walang pagtatapat ng pag-ibig at lalong walang sumpaang namagitan sa amin. Natuto akong mag-ayos sa sarili at pati na mga gamit ng kuya ko’y napakialaman ko na. Sa isip ko’y nobya ko na si Rosalie. Kaya’t may yabang na ang tindig ko’t binatang-binata na kung umasta-asta.
Hapon ng Sabado noon nang datnan ko sa tindahan sina Rosalie at ang kaibigan nyang si May. Nandoon din ang mga kabarkada kong sina Brian, Pio, at Rolly. Babati palang ako nang biglang lumapit sa akin si Rosalie at nagtanong nang walang kagatol-gatol. “Totoo bang supot ka pa?” Dinig na dinig ng lahat. Nabigla ako’t hindi nakasagot. “Ayoko sa supot!” tili pa ni Rosalie. At sumambulat ang malakas na tawanan. Lahat sila’y halos mamatay sa katatawa habang ako’y parang naupos na kandila sa aking kinatatayuan.
January 27th, 2012 at 15:58
Kay VenusdeSupsup ang boto ko. May mas malupit pa bang pagtanggi kaysa “Ayoko sa supot!”at pagtawanan ka? Panalo rin ang linyang “Para itong libag na hindi matanggal-tanggal sa aking alaala.”
January 27th, 2012 at 22:48
Everyday I ask him if he’ll be home for dinner and everyday he says he will but most of the time he doesn’t yet all the time I believe him (because sometimes he does, and I tell myself, what if today he does?) and every afternoon I cook and every evening I set the table for two and every night I wake to find him already in bed with me, and the dinner I made still on the table.
The night before our anniversary, he said, let’s eat out—and so I dusted off my slingback heels and wore my red dress and perched on his arm. But he had only just sat me at our table and the spring rolls were yet to be served when his phone rang and he left and never came back that night.
Sitting at that table and staring into the candlelight, I imagined—I’m back in the kitchen. I have my apron on and I’m cooking. I’m slicing onions and mincing garlic to sauté. I set them aside and pick up a carving knife, pointed and sharp and small but heavy in my hand. I carve out my heart and place it on the cutting board. I slice it and I dice it, and all the while I feel every cut, I feel the cold steel of the knife riding forward and back and down, until the edge clack, clack, clacks against the wooden cutting board. I sauté the garlic and onion and I throw into the pan the bits of my heart. I add hoisin sauce, pepper, the salt of the years of waiting. I take it off the fire, add garnish, and serve it to him. Oh how he eats my heart with such gusto! Finally he tastes what I cook, he smells it, he sees it, sees me. He smiles, he smiles and it reaches his eyes, reaches mine. It is a warm smile; it melts the big cold lump, the throbbing cancer plugging the hole in my chest, and I smile too. And with that smile I take the carving knife from my apron pocket and run it through his heart.
January 29th, 2012 at 12:24
I vote for VenusdeSupsup.
Both entries of Cake and VenusdeSupsup are well-written. However, Cake’s narrator was drunk when the rebuff took place. She’s probably too intoxicated to feel the rejection. I would be turned off also if a drunk ex-girlfriend was asking for a reconciliation while making a scene. But the rejection in VenusdeSupsup’s entry was most cruel, humiliating and damaging to the young narrator.
January 30th, 2012 at 08:08
My vote goes to VenusdeSupsup. Dagdag boto rin sa sarili ko! I saw the movie based on The Heart is a Lonely Hunter but I haven’t read the book yet.
January 31st, 2012 at 07:44
As an entrant in this contest, I have decided to throw off the process by NOT voting for myself.
In other words: Ikaw na, Venus.
January 31st, 2012 at 13:55
My choice is VenusdeSupsup’s story.
The teenager must have been devastated by the rejection and was probably scarred for life. Why is it a big deal to Filipinos if a man is uncut? Does it make him less of a man?
February 3rd, 2012 at 09:42
available ba yung mga notecards na yan dito? i like it, the frankness and all..