LitWit Challenge: Win a Summer Survival Kit
This LitWit Challenge is closed. The winner will be announced tomorrow. Read the entries and our notes in Comments.
The Devil in Silver by Victor LaValle, Php995. Limited edition Pilipinas Moleskine journal, Php1100. Pilot disposable fountain pen, Php105. Available at National Bookstores.
A good book, check. A great notebook, check. A very cool fountain pen, check. You’re all set for the summer—specifically our idea of summer, which does not include sunshine and sand.
If you want this Survival Kit, write us an essay or short story of at least 500 words on that classic topic: How I Spent My Summer Vacation. Could be any summer vacation. Could be a summer vacation that never happened, as long as it sounds convincing. Just make your essay/story as entertaining as hell. Deadline for submission of entries is Wednesday, 27 March 2013 at 12 noon.
To make things more interesting, entries will be judged INSTANTLY. Tip: Stay away from the “It was a dark and stormy night” opening.
This LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
March 21st, 2013 at 13:17
What Happened That Summer
It happened on a moonlit night, in the summer before I turned eleven. I’m not sure if the moon was full or not; what I remember is the pale darkness that permeated the craggy trees and the tall grass in the vacant lot at the back of our house. Summer was ending. During the day clumps of dark clouds mixed with the feathery clouds, as they seemed to amble in the clear blue sky. I had wondered what the rest of the summer held for me, but that night it was the farthest thing in my mind.
I was afraid, see. I wasn’t alone in the vacant lot. He was with me. We had been playing through most of the afternoon. We never spoke to each other before this day. I went to a public school in the city, enrolled in a special program where we took advanced classes. He went to a Catholic school in town. He’s older, but I’m a year ahead of him in class. But he’s more advanced than me in many other aspects. He is taller and stronger; his voice has even begun to deepen like my father’s voice. My father and his father are friends, working together in an oil company in Saudi Arabia. So there’s some kind of expectation that he and I will be friends also but we’re not. Mother says never mind. You’ll find friends your age.
But today we’d been playing. Mother visited my sick uncle in the neighboring town right after lunch. I insisted on staying home because I didn’t like being around sick people. Besides, I was still recovering from my small operation the previous month. After an hour or so of television I stepped out of the house and went to the neighborhood store to buy some cold soda and candies if my money allowed it. He was standing in front of the store, bouncing an old basketball. We traded small nods and I went inside to get my Sarsi and Nips. My money wasn’t enough for a bag of Nips, but enough for a few cubes of Goya chocolate.
Sipping Sarsi from a plastic pouch–I didn’t wish to make a deposit for the bottle; I found the sidewalk empty when I emerged from the store. He was leaning against the gate of the fence that covered our house, cradling the basketball with his left hand and hip. “Wanna play?” The invitation was almost alien, so I asked him why. “My friends didn’t show up,” he explained.
“I don’t play basketball, but I have these racing cars–”
He frowned, “You still play with toy cars?”
“My cars are different! They have real motors, and you can drive it by remote control. I built them myself.”
Perhaps deciding that I am not a complete loser, he went inside with me.
Basketball was forgotten when he saw my radio-controlled racing cars. We raced the cars in the garage and the small garden, me mindful of trampling on mother’s roses. He was probably relieved that I was not the loser that he expected while I was just glad of the company. I felt a little foolish working on the cars with no one to race them with except with our driver sometimes. Before sunset mother arrived from her visit and looked a little surprised when she saw him. Nevertheless, she prepared some snacks for us: sandwiches, chips, and fruit juice, which we ate and drank at the back garden.
He was the one who noticed the gap in the wall. He asked who lived behind our house and I said I had no idea. He peeked and told me that the lot was vacant. We also realized that we could fit into the gap. “D’ya wanna cross?” He was smiling mischievously. After a quick glance to our back door, I followed him to the other side.
There was a fallen tree and we sat on the trunk. From where we sat, the sky was enormous. And getting dark. We agreed this was a good spot to play. Then he asked me about my small operation. “Were you scared?” Not too much, I replied. He said we went to the same doctor, but he proudly said he’d gone three years ago. I didn’t tell him that three years ago he was my age.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Not anymore. It looks funny, though.”
“Really?”
“Mother says it looks normal. I don’t know…”
“You showed that to your mother?”
“Father’s not here,” I explained.
“Lemme see it.”
“Why?”
“Let’s find out if your mother’s right.”
I showed it to him.
“It’s fine,” he concluded.
“How do you know?”
“It looks like mine. See?”
Suddenly I was looking at his open shorts. By the scant light I saw it, lying in the pouch of his briefs, slightly bent. It looked like mine, yes, only bigger.
“You wanna touch it?”
“No.”
He smiled and reached inside my shorts and briefs and held me. I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. His hands felt warm. I began feeling warm also. He was looking at me when he pulled my shorts lower, exposing it further. I felt afraid when it grew and became hard. This kind of thing only happened to me in the morning. His hands were bigger than mine, his fingers able to cup me entirely. His hand went up and down. My knees buckled when he put it in his mouth.
I was scared because I didn’t know what he was doing to me. But it felt good, and at the same time, it felt that I was doing something bad. What was that word? Nasty. The sounds his mouth made against my skin scared me. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see him on his knees, his hands on my hips.
A strong pulling sensation opened my eyes. I felt I was going to pee. I let out a small scream as I think I peed; only the sensation was much different. Much pleasurable. I saw him spit out what looked like a wad of snot into the grass. I put my clothes in order. He stood over me, covering me with his shadow. He hugged me. I could feel him getting hard against my chest but I didn’t do anything. Couldn’t.
In the end I returned the hug. He pulled me up and hugged me again. Tight—as if I was this fragile thing that could break if he let me go. We should go back, I suggested. He laughed. I tensed.
As we made our way back into our backyard I heard Mother calling us in for dinner. He declined the invitation to have dinner with us, sounding like a polite boy in front of Mother. I walked him out. Do you have a bike, he asked.
“Yes.”
“We should go biking sometime.”
“Okay.”
As he stepped out of the gate he planted a small swift kiss on my cheek. He was smiling, like it was the most natural thing to do. I watched his shadow on the street for a long time before closing the door.
***
March 21st, 2013 at 13:37
You lost us at “It happened on a moonlit night…”
OUT.
March 22nd, 2013 at 13:48
Summer time has that sad, melancholy feel for me. It started maybe when I was till in elementary school. It really has something to do with the impending Holy Week. Our family is a Manila based family. I am often asked where is your province? Where do you go during the summer months? I am quite confused as to the answer to give. Can’t Manila be your province? Do you have to go to a province during summer? Since my Dad was an OFW then we did not have those “summer vacations” in the beach or anywhere usually associated with a Fun Summer.
Summer starts for us elementary kids just before the onset of Holy Week. If you were a kid of 8 years old in the 1970s, you very well know that Holy Week is the loneliest time of all. Why? Because there is nothing on TV! No Sesame Street. No Electric Company. No Sampaguita or LVN movies starring Rogelio Dela Rosa or Carmen Del Rosario in the afternoons after Student Canteen. There were no cable shows before 1986. All you had were 5 channels and if they were on air, you could only watch replays upon replays of those 1950s religious dramas staring Robert Taylor & Victor Mature. See, I still remember their names! Those 3 days of TV blackout for a kid is more than torture. These were the days when Sony as not yet invented the Betamax or if they did it has not made its way into our house yet.
We were living in one of those tenement apartments in the Sampaloc area then & my mother being the ever protective kind never allowed us to play in the streets. Thank you Mom! So we spent our summer vacations playing, reading, TVs & the “Rear Window” inspired activity of looking at other people’s windows inside of our small apartment.
As preparation for the coming 3 days of fasting & torture, I would ask some money from my Mom so I could buy some reading books or comics. I would take a short jeepney ride to Avenida Avenue & walk to either National Bookstore or Alemar’s & get some of those Hardy Boys books or DC comics. I would buy 1 or 2 books since this would last me about a week of reading.
Come Maundy Thursday, I would start off on my precious lifesaving books. Would read continuously or until you get bored again if the story that you got was not that exciting enough. Reading would be interlaced with playing with toys and reading again and playing with toys again until it was time to go to sleep. Don’t know what it is with the Holy Week that our family sleeps early. We are off to bed after dinner. Maybe this was done unconsciously in the hope that this will speed up the passing of the dreaded Holy Days.
It is strange that I being a Catholic I would associate summer time for a supposedly happy ending of school work & late morning wake up times with melancholy because of 3 religious days out of 90 days of vacation.
March 22nd, 2013 at 14:24
jjj_t: IN, with reservations. (IN means you’re in the running. OUT means Get out and rewrite this if you want to be in contention.)
This is a nerd personal history, with many comic opportunities that you declined to take. Having declared summer “melancholy” you feel compelled to demonstrate sadness. And yet there is nothing particularly sad about this piece. In the first place nostalgia is automatically melancholy so you’re free to do other things. In the second place melancholy need not be humorless or the Wes Andersons and Sofia Coppolas would have no career.
Recommendation: Read The Body by Stephen King, or watch the excellent movie adaptation, Stand By Me.
Here’s an opening.
“The summer I read Holy Blood, Holy Grail, I expected a bolt of lightning to come in through the window and fry my eyeballs. I was a good Catholic child then, etc etc.”
March 22nd, 2013 at 14:41
There was no homba on the table. She was gone.
Tita B was the quintessential Filipina matriarch. The eldest daughter in the family, she already became Lola Maria’s kitchen assistant during her teens. Tita B learned how to cook fast and plenty (twelve siblings), how to use her sense of smell to get the freshest picks, and how to please the palate of my fastidious, ultra-traditional grandfather. When my lola died, Tita B took charge of everything and everyone in the ancestral house, from paying the bills to making sure that her nieces and nephews underwent the sacrament of confirmation.
The third generation of the family, including yours truly, always enjoyed summer visits to the ancestral house, even if it was an hour-long plane ride from Manila. Upon hearing our footsteps from the receiving area Tita B would yell “Kaun na (Let’s eat)!” and showcase the table teeming with kinilaw, inihaw na liempo, dinuguan, and other Pinoy fare. The dish that was always sent back to the kitchen for refills, however, was her show-stopping homba.
During our jaunts to the beach, our only incentive for running back to shore with salt in our hair, burnt skin on backs, and sand under our fingernails was the fried chicken, boiled saba, pancit, and Coke which Tita B had brought. On Good Friday, when the teens would sulk because of the mandated fasting and abstinence—no Internet to distract us then—we had only her ginataan to look forward to. Imagine how she would prepare for the Easter Sunday feast for her “deprived” pamangkins.
On the day of our flight back to Manila, there would be boxes, tape, and old newspapers scattered on the dining table. Tita B would be up early in the morning, transferring the homba she had prepared the night before into microwaveable containers destined for her relatives in the city. Intricate packaging was necessary so that none of her precious dish would be wasted (the sauce! the lick-your-plate-clean sauce!). Apart from staying edible and getting even yummier after being reheated ad infinitum, her homba just had a certain something. Sure she had mentioned pineapples, sugar, Sprite, slow-cooking, and other esoteric ways of preparing the dish, but I never really listened. It was just always mind-blowingly good, period. It was great with rice for lunch, with pan de sal for merienda.
Summer was always like that—the ancestral house, the beach, Holy Week activities, and Tita B’s cooking. Eventually her pamangkins got their degrees, got married, and got their children baptized, and there would always be homba.
Last summer it was Tita B’s turn to fly to Manila. She brought the usual microwavable containers and her big smile, which concealed her true reason for coming to town. She was ill. She had not been eating properly. She underwent surgery but did not survive it. She passed away on Mother’s Day. The irony was not lost on anyone.
She was buried in the provincial cemetery. Perhaps in a subconscious attempt to simulate her presence, we prepared a feast on the day of interment. We hired someone to fill the dining table with all our favorite dishes. Every one Tita B had cooked for was present. Stories were exchanged. Family meetings were held to settle all the administrative stuff Tita B had left behind. The house was all abuzz then, so her absence was only felt on the day we were supposed to fly back to Manila.
No one had thought about packing pasalubong. The realization started with just one of us but spread, without a word, to everyone flying back that day. There would no homba. Tita B was no longer around.
March 22nd, 2013 at 15:00
Marielle: IN, but you don’t tell us what was so special about the tita’s humba. “Mind-blowingly good” is insufficient, we have to have an idea what the fuss was about. Also, go easy on sweeping declarations like “…was the quintessential Filipina matriarch.”
March 22nd, 2013 at 16:21
“We can’t go there,” I told Vivian and James, after seeing the throng of teenagers push and step and buckle and groan, to submerge in the sea of humanity that filled the length of Silom road. “No, we can’t possibly find it in this crowd.”
“We can’t go back either,” said Vivian, her voice uncertain. We tried to look behind, yet the crowd kept us from doing nothing but move forward or get out of their way. When we finally found a space to regroup, Vivian took out her camera and pointed it down to the crowd on the road. Nothing but bodies and black hair from below us to as far as our eyes can see. I have never seen anything like it before, except in movies when giant aliens arrive and everyone goes outside to watch what’s coming and then run for their lives – screaming and all.
James stood silently, looking around with his big, brown eyes. Vivian’s camera kept on clicking. Wet people with faces and arms and shirts covered with powder passed us by, and it was scary. Too see a drenched multitude with eyes red from fatigue, carrying high-caliber water guns, never crossed my imagination before.
With the mass threatening to crush us down, we had no choice but to leave the sky train station, and brave the perfect setting for the perfect zombie-apocalypse movie.
I clutched my sling bag and signaled my friends to move.
Even before we reached the bottom of the steps, the three of us, and probably everyone within reach of sprays, were soaked from face to nipples. I laughed nervously. At least the water gave relief from the heat coming from all the bodies around us.
Vivian walked in front, while James followed at the back, so I couldn’t see their reaction. We could have stayed there stranded for an hour and I wouldn’t be able to ask their opinion. No point since I’m sure they wouldn’t hear me anyway. But nobody seemed to be in a foul mood so I guessed they were fine. We just had to figure out how to get to the road, which didn’t look promising for there seemed no space for the three of us at all.
When Vivian looked back, her face was smudged with white and her eyes alight with smile. And then, somebody, a nobody-looking man from the other side of the fence, touched my right cheek with his wet, white hand, and greeted me a happy Songkran. Right after, of course, some nice person in front showered us with a pale of ice-cold water. Happy Songkran indeed!
James and Vivian and I were all laughing by the time we reached the main avenue. We followed a single trail of choo-choo train of girls and boys going nowhere in particular, just walking straight ahead. The three of us looked for signs and names of streets and buildings, while handsome boys reach out to Vivian and caress her face with their wish for a happy new year. If I was envious, I’m sure James was too. We were wet and our faces were white with powder, but they were not quite as loved as Vivian’s. That’s until we happened to walk across the red light district for gay men, with its well-lit bars spewing out muscled go-go boys and beautiful young stallions. Vivian’s market value crashed faster than the 2008 US economy, while mine and James’ were… well, let’s just say we ended up having the most delicious of moments.
We haven’t forgotten the reason we went there, of course. Our happiness threshold were filled to the brim, yet we would not go back to the hotel before at least finding what we were looking for. We looked for a quiet spot so James could take out the map he got from the reception counter. I studied the piece of paper and tried to remember the names of the streets and buildings we glimpsed.
“Oh.”
I had a revelation. The two of them followed me as I walked back to a busy corner and into a deserted, dimly-lit lane.
Seven blocks from the main road, a house with a neon sign stood quietly in the sleeping neighborhood. We stood equally quiet for a few seconds, then us boys decided to come back the following night. And so we walked away from the house that promised a happy massage and a happier ending.
March 22nd, 2013 at 18:40
What Happened That Summer
In the middle of summer before I turned twelve, I had accepted that the rest of the season will hold no more surprise for me. After all, I had been circumcised, which was the highlight of my summer vacation, bar none. So I was prepared to just let the days slip by uneventfully, until it was time to go shopping for school stuff (clothes, bags, books, notebooks, and so on) again. And after that, school is back.
Nothing more interesting was going to happen. That evening, however, that was the farthest thing on my mind.
Because I was afraid. I wasn’t alone in the vacant lot at the back of our house. He was with me. We had been playing through most of the afternoon. We had never spoken to each other before this day. I went to a public school in the next town, enrolled in a special program where I skipped a grade. He went to a Catholic school in our town. He’s older, but I’m a year ahead of him in class. But in other aspects, he got me beat. For one, he was taller and bigger and stronger. His voice had begun to deepen like my father’s voice. My father and his father are friends, working together in an oil company in Saudi Arabia. So there was a kind of expectation that he and I would be friends too but we’re not. Mother said never mind. “You’ll find friends your age.”
But today we’d been playing. Mother visited my sick uncle in the city right after lunch. I insisted on staying home because I didn’t like being around sick people. My circumcision was the perfect excuse to stay home. After an hour or so of television I stepped out of the house and went to the neighborhood store across our house to buy some cold Sarsi and a bag of Nips, if my money allowed it. He was standing in front of the store, bouncing an old basketball. We traded small nods while I got my stuff. My money wasn’t enough for a bag of Nips, but enough for a few cubes of Goya chocolate.
Sipping Sarsi from a plastic pouch, I turned to go home and I found the sidewalk empty. He was leaning against the gate of the fence that covered our house, cradling the basketball with his left hand and hip. “Wanna play?” The invitation was so alien I had to ask him why. “My friends didn’t show up,” he explained.
“I don’t play basketball, but I have these racing cars–”
He frowned, “You still play with toy cars?”
“My cars are different! They have real motors, and you can drive it by remote control.” Proudly I said, “I built them myself.”
Perhaps deciding that I was not a complete loser, he went inside with me.
Basketball was forgotten when he saw my radio-controlled racing cars. We raced the cars in the garage and around the small garden, me mindful of trampling on mother’s roses. He was probably relieved that I was not the loser that he expected while I was just glad of the company. Before sunset mother arrived from her visit and looked a little surprised when she saw him. Nevertheless, she prepared some snacks for us: sandwiches, chips, and fruit juice, which we ate and drank at the back garden.
He was the one who noticed the gap in the wall. He asked who lived behind our house and I said I had no idea. He peeked and told me that the lot was vacant. We also realized that we could fit into the gap. “D’ya wanna cross?” He was smiling mischievously. After a quick glance to our back door, I followed him to the other side.
There was a fallen tree a few steps away from the opening and we sat on the trunk. From where we sat, the sky was enormous. And getting dark. We agreed this was a good spot to play. Then he asked me about my small operation. “Were you scared?” Not too much, I replied. He said we went to the same doctor, but he proudly said he’d gone three years ago. I didn’t tell him that three years ago he was my age.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Not anymore. It looks funny, though.”
“Really?”
“Mother says it looks normal. I don’t know…”
“You showed that to your mother?”
“My father’s not here,” I explained.
“Lemme see it.”
“Why?”
“Let’s find out if your mother’s right.”
I showed it to him.
“It’s fine,” he concluded.
“How do you know?”
“It looks like mine. See?”
Suddenly I was looking at his open shorts. By the scant light I saw it, lying in the pouch of his briefs, slightly bent. It looked like mine, yes, only bigger.
“You wanna touch it?”
“No.”
He smiled and reached inside my shorts and briefs and held me. I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. His hands felt warm. I began feeling warm too. He was looking at me when he pulled my shorts lower, exposing it further. I felt afraid when it grew and became hard. This kind of thing only happened to me in the morning. His hands were bigger, his fingers able to cup me entirely. His hand went up and down. My knees buckled when he put it in his mouth.
I was scared because I didn’t know what he was doing to me. It felt good, but at the same time, it felt that I was doing something bad. What was that word? Nasty. The sounds his mouth made against my skin scared me. I closed my eyes.
A strong pulling sensation opened them abruptly. I felt I was going to pee. I let out a small scream as I think I peed; only the sensation was much different. Much more pleasant. When he released me I put my clothes in order. He stood over me; I couldn’t see his face clearly but he seemed to be smiling. He hugged me.
After a few moments I returned the hug. He pulled me up and pressed himself against me. This embrace was tight—as if I was this animal that will break free from his grasp. We should go back, I suggested. He laughed softly.
As we made our way back into our backyard I heard Mother calling us in for dinner. He politely declined the invitation to have dinner with us. I walked him out. Do you have a bike, he asked.
“Yes.”
“We should go biking sometime.”
“Okay.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Okay.”
As he stepped out of the gate he planted a small swift kiss on my cheek. He was smiling, like it was the most natural thing to do. I watched his shadow on the street for a long time before closing the door.
***
March 22nd, 2013 at 19:21
“Jump!”
I look down and my toes start to curl around the edge of the rock I’m standing on as if trying to hold on and say: No way. It is a long way down.
“Come on, at the count of three ha!”
My friends, all five of them, already took the plunge and they were trying to egg me on, their cheers echoing inside the cave walls. I check my life vest for the nth time, making sure that everything is in place, that it was secure.
We go out of town every summer. We’re backpacking in the Northern part of the country this year. We were in Bolinao just yesterday. Tonight we’re heading off to Baguio. Right now, I’m standing inside a cave on Marcos Island, one of the Hundred Isles in Alaminos, Pangasinan. The only way out of the cave is to jump, 20 feet of free fall, into the pool of emerald water below.
Why do we always end up doing some kind of risky activity each time we go on vacation? I don’t know why my friends have this penchant for trying out new (and dangerous) experiences like zip lining, canyon swings, and helmet diving. I try to avoid these activities. When I absolutely have no choice, I dawdle when it’s my turn, like what I’m doing now. It takes loads of cheering and reassurance that everything will be okay before I’d be convinced to get it done and over with.
I’m twenty six now and it’s a shame that I’ve lost my childlike wonder. I wasn’t like this in my teenage years. I used to climb mountains. I’ve rock climbed Mt. Batulao’s old trail without any rope for support when I was 18. I used to surf, too. I go up our roof and lie down on it just because I can. When I turned twenty, everything changed. I stopped hiking because I worry about slipping into a cliff and be left for dead. I don’t surf anymore. What would happen to me if there’s suddenly a tsunami? And I wonder why the hell I go up on the roof anyway. I became scared of adventure and I don’t know why. Really, I don’t know.
At this very moment, of course, I’m scared. Of what? Of heights? Water? Caves? No. I’m scared that everything might go wrong -like if I jump, what if my head hits a rock? Or if my life vest doesn’t work? Or if I forget how to swim? I guess as you age, you start to become more paranoid thus you tend to choose the “safe” route and avoid anything that might put your life in peril before you’ve accomplished all the things you dream of. Or maybe, I am just being a coward, plain and simple.
“Talon na. At the count of three ha!”
As my friends start to count, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and utter a silent prayer. Well, not really a prayer but more of a question: “Lord, oras ko na ba?”
I hear my friends shout. “One, two –“
I don’t wait for three and just jump.
March 22nd, 2013 at 21:49
When our family left our hometown in Bulacan and moved to Laguna for good (maybe not) at the summer break of 2003, I was devastated. I was just thirteen then and as expected didn’t have that much say on matters like moving to another place by the whole family. During those times I was still very much into socializing with kids of my age and even below. Although staying in the confines of our compound was already in my preferences, I was not yet that person who would prefer staying inside the house reading and doing arts and crafts than meeting anybody outside. Like how many of my current friends would like to put it, I was still pretty normal then.
A grave conflict between my parents and some relatives happened just a month or two before the ending of the school year. Before long, a decision has been made by my parents that we should leave right after my sister and I attended the commencement exercises. And that we did despite of all my attempts to dissuade them. I didn’t have the right expression to describe my feelings then but now I do; I was completely f*cked up. It was not just about the difficulties of starting a new life somewhere. I’ve always been socially awkward but I knew I could make it. Corny as it may sound, it was about parting with the place where you grew up and built all your childhood dreams and fond memories. I just could not accept it that we had to leave when we’ve been in that compound longer than anybody else.
And so we went to Laguna where my sister was working, got a really small studio type apartment, and tried to start a new life. It could have been a great time to move to a different place. It was summer, a change of environment should be very much appreciated. But no, it was a hell hole.
It was called a subdivision but even my parents who were trying rather desperately to uplift our spirits would not agree that it should be called one. The only reason why there are people living there are the semiconductor companies that give them decent jobs. Tall grasses were everywhere. It didn’t have a gate or an arch and we almost did not see the entrance when we got there because the grasses got the way fully covered. It was like the secret garden only less visually pleasant and without the mysterious appeal. It was far from civilization. The nearest mini-mart and supermarket was a long ride away with the view of rice paddies on both sides of the road, few houses, and more tall grasses. It was also too small that you could literally go around and walk all the streets without catching your breath. Walking around could perfectly give you the feeling of being enchanted. You will always end up where you started sooner that you thought.
Well if you don’t want to be outside, one can suggest that you have fun at home. I could not do that. The smallness of the apartment barely gave us space to move around. If you happen to have been born with a curse that makes you bump your little toes to furnitures in a constant pattern, the place will be a nightmare. To add to that, the heat was unbearable that we broke a borrowed electric fan in just a couple of months. I remember quite frequently going to bed fresh from a night bath and waking up in the middle of the night soaking in my own sweat and my mom telling me that electricity went out. Also, we were not able to get any of the appliances and amusements we left in Bulacan (that explains the borrowed electric fan) which means we didn’t have a television or a single book or even pens and a decent writing pad. We only got a cheap deck of cards which prints have faded due to everyday use and (thank God) a radio. I was never more updated in music in my entire life.
Needless to say, it was not a very good experience. But looking back, it quite oddly contributed some great things to me. I got more creative and interested in a lot of things. I guess that was what boredom and isolation did to me. (I actually think it does the same to everybody.) I remember wanting to write a book because I got none to read and growing beans on layers of paper and cotton. I even cut off a small twig from a tree and tried planting it. It lived. I never really thought I had a green thumb until then. I created numerous games and appreciated the radio. It was 97.1 WLS FMs Sunday retro jam particularly. They were cool back then.
What a way to start one’s teenager years. But I believe I eventually subconsciously loved it and it’s one of the reasons why I am what I am right now. I may not have a really awesome personality but I got a very well identified turning point in my life. And it’s something I could always laugh about.
March 22nd, 2013 at 21:56
Doing the Summer Penitence
Back in the ’70s when I was a kid, cuaresma was observed with much solemnity and drama. The latter was literal because it meant just that—the drama or radio soap opera about Christ’s suffering.
Radio then was the ultimate entertainment as this was before the advent of television in our place. But I never listened to this drama at home even if our Maharani stereo boomed and we had 7Ms bourbon and soda cracker biscuits for snacks because I hated it that just as the dragon statue would turn real to snatch the king’s sole heir as prophesied, my father would send me, instead of our maid, to buy Chesterfield. Whew! the hazard of being the youngest.
And so I had to sneak into our neighbor’s hovel and lose myself, along with other
kids, in a fascinating world purveyed by an Avegon transistor radio that whispered from weak batteries. Earlier that week, our neighbor had these batteries alternately boiled and left under the sun for hours to dry. And if the volume still wouldn’t improve, he would wrap them with cigarette foil like they were morcons. Thus, my penitence would take the form of piecing together missed dialogues, enduring a cabal of smelly kids, and jockeying for that place near the speaker that had Vilma Santos smiling in a face much rounder than a satellite dish.
The solemn part of cuaresma was mandated by Lola Pinang, Mama’s aunt who lived with us until she died a virgin at 83. She would instruct our helpers to hoard enough clean rice, water, and firewood as they were not allowed to do manual labor starting Holy Thursday through Easter Sunday. During the same time, we were not allowed to laugh just as we were banned from playing like drawing lines on the ground using a stick as we might cut Christ’s body. We had to walk slowly, on tiptoe if need be, as we might shake the house and the whole world and disturb the newly entombed Son of God. Also, we were shunned from using knives and other pointed objects to avoid getting cut or wounded because it would take a year to heal, a phenomenon my cousin had sworn as true.
On Good Friday, Lola Pinang would bar us from taking a bath as this was the time when “not-like-ours” would go bathing in streams and rivers. More chilling to us was that they could bathe in water stocked in containers without touching it, causing an incurable skin disease to someone unfortunate enough to use it after them. But nothing scared us more than this: because God was dead, the devil and his minions would roam the earth to feed on us. And so we would line up and lie facedown as soon as Jesus died so that she could whip us with pangyawan vine. With its bitter sap on your bodies, Lola Pinang would tell us, you would be spared because the devil and its cohorts don’t have a taste for something bitter.
Of course we fasted. On Good Friday we would eat nothing but my mother’s budbod the size of my thigh or binignit with slices of rootcrops the size of my fist. We also observed the much hated no-meat policy and subsisted on fish that couldn’t be grilled or fried because it would cause black spots to appear on our skin. Think rotten mangoes, she would say. All this made me look forward to Easter Sunday when, as Protestants, we had potluck following a sunrise service at the beach.
That I stand 5’10” must be the result of Lola Pinang making me jump at the stroke of midnight, when Jesus is said to walk out of the sepulchre on the third day after the guards had made ukay-ukay of His garments. The higher you jump, the taller you become, she would say. My cousin, who’s now in the US, did the exact opposite because at 12, she didn’t want to get any taller than her 5’8″ frame.
While cuaresma is still being observed during summer, these Filipino traditions are now dead and buried. But sentimental fool that I am, I look forward to the day when they will be resurrected for all they’re worth. Meanwhile, I see people on Good Friday going to the beach to swim and pig out on food and wine as sounds blared from their mini players. This makes me wish for all the bizarre things Lola Pinang said about cuaresma to come true.
March 22nd, 2013 at 22:16
siege16: Overwritten.
Example: “Our happiness threshold were filled to the brim, yet we would not go back to the hotel before at least finding what we were looking for.”
1. Threshold is singular.
2. The threshold is the bottom of the door—how can it be filled to the brim?
3. “…before at least finding”??? “At least” implies that they had to salvage a crappy afternoon, when the previous clause says they were happy.
What are the Thais, a single faceless mass? Not one of them had a personality worth noting?
IN, but a missed opportunity.
March 22nd, 2013 at 22:34
the boomerang kid: Try to make the tenses agree with each other, the abrupt switching between past and present gives readers headaches.
You replaced the “dark and stormy night” opening gambit variation, but you cannot resist obviousness. “That evening, however, that was the farthest thing on my mind.” (And how can it be far yet on? It’s “FROM my mind”.)
It is always useful to ask one’s self why a story needs to be written. (“To join a contest” is not a reason.) This is the story of a boy who gets his dick sucked for the first time—a significant enough event, but as the telling is strangely void of insight, it’s just over-sharing and titillation.
IN for effort.
March 22nd, 2013 at 23:03
cake: When describing thrilling activities, try to convey the actual thrills. What is the narrator feeling? Scared, obviously, but what are the physical manifestations?
The phrase “it’s a shame that I’ve lost my childlike wonder” is slightly less pleasant than a fork scraping a blackboard.
Interesting attempt at a subjective time story (See http://www.jessicarulestheuniverse.com/2012/12/12/a-condemned-man-stands-on-a-bridge/). But the narrator’s insight (“I guess as you age, you start to become more paranoid”): Duh. And subsequent decision to jump: Eh?
IN but needs an overhaul.
March 22nd, 2013 at 23:05
We’ll be back on Sunday. Keep posting your entries.
March 23rd, 2013 at 11:14
I live in a monstrous, towering, two-story house with a red roof, surrounded by moss-covered brick walls and an iron red gate. To the left of those walls are acres and acres of sprawling rice fields; and had my cousins came to visit as they were suppose to every summer, I would have been walking across the rice paddies with them, pretending we were “adventuring” on that balmy April afternoon from long ago.
Alas, my cousins failed to come that year, and there was only so much you could do on your own inside moss-covered walls – even less when there’s a cranky old maid aunt hounding your every step, shooting disapproving looks at you whenever you try doing something that’s even remotely fun.
My ten-year-old self was soon bored.
She had spent morning after morning of the long summer days sitting in front of the TV, absorbed in the travails of a hapless orphan girl named Sarah; but after lunchtime when the day is hottest, it is the hour for siesta and sleeping is compulsory, particularly for ten-year-old girls. Miss Minchin turns the TV off…and declares that it is to stay shut until five in the afternoon.
But ten-year-old me was never one for siestas or following rules.
Once she was sure that everyone is sleeping, she creeps into the library, gently slides open the glass casings of the bookshelf, and filches one of old-maid-aunt’s collection of pocketbooks.
The pages were brittle and yellow with age; the pink covers tattered along the edges. Miss Minchin gets ever so cross whenever she sees her “borrowing” these.
I’ve kept these books for fifty years, she would sputter, nostrils flaring and eyes bulging out of their sockets as she glares at her. I’ve kept these books for fifty years and not once were they ever damaged! Now you started borrowing them and suddenly there are pages missing and the covers are falling apart and why do you have to take three books at a time? Can you read all of them at once? You’ll misplace them, like you always do. Where did you put the Mills & Boon book you took yesterday? I have twenty of them there and one’s missing! Where is it?
For all her fuss, I have never once seen her actually take out and read those books she was so obsessed on preserving.
That is why young, sly me tucks the book she took into the band of her shorts and underneath her shirt, hoping the bulge isn’t too noticeable. Then off she goes, exultant, dashing away on light bare feet so as to make as little noise as possible on the tiled floor. She looks for a solitary corner to curl up in where she could devour her book in peace. The living room is vacated, yet she dismissed that option, for the sofa is as hard and unyielding as the woman who owned it, despite the cushions. Instead she climbs the stairs into the upper floor.
That particular section of the house was yet to be completed, back in that summer from long ago, and the stairs I climbed then did not even have railings to hold on to. The rooms had no doors, the floors weren’t tiled, the walls unpainted. Everything was grey and rather gloomy, smelling of sawdust and cement. Except for the birds on the rafters, no one ever frequented the unfurnished second floor.
The place was completely deserted – just the way I wanted it.
Ten-year-old me steps over long steel rods and dodges little blocks of sawed-off wood as she walks toward a small balcony to the back of the building, where a rattan rocking chair stood. They had it brought up there because wood lice had set on the chair’s legs, but it was still the most comfortable furniture they owned. From its position in the balcony, one can have the most breathtaking view of the mountains; of clear skies so blue it hurt her eyes when she looked too long; of wide, undulating fields of newly planted rice stalks, crisp and green.
She plops down into the well-worn seat and brings out her pocketbook – a certain “historical” romance written by one Barbara Cartland. The Captive Heart, the title says. On the cover was a pretty painting of a girl in a voluminous blue dress, standing beside a fountain with a black haired man in a loosely-fitted white shirt open at the collar. From how they seemed to be rushing towards each other, one could gather that the two were meeting clandestinely – and of course my young, wide-eyed self knew for certain that they were. She had read the book twice.
Yet she flips through the pages as eagerly as if it was new.
And thus, ten-year-old me happily whiles away the hot afternoon hours. She dreams of horse-driven carriages and arrogant French dukes seeking to force her into a loveless marriage. She dreams of wearing silk dresses and satin gowns with tight bodices. She dreams of a black-haired gypsy spiriting her away into the night. She reads until it is too dark to make out the words, then she goes downstairs for merienda and eats two sticks of kamote-que.
The TV is open again and that was one less summer day she had to endure until school starts. Soon, soon she’ll have new notebooks, new pens, new textbooks to read! But for the moment, she’s still stuck with cranky aunt and her old pocketbooks. Maybe tomorrow she’ll choose the one with the pirate in it.
Later, she takes out the gargantuan Merriam-Webster Dictionary in the library and looks up the meaning of gypsy.
*****
March 24th, 2013 at 00:55
theradioman: Did you know that English was not Joseph Conrad’s first language? He spoke Polish and French but did not pick up English until he was in his 20s. We think that accounts for the formal, wordy, slightly odd quality of his writing—he was translating from another language.
Did you think of this piece in another language, and then translate?
IN, but we’re more interested in the original (if it exists).
March 24th, 2013 at 01:08
kampanaryo_spy: This is quite entertaining but the prose needs tightening.
“Radio then was the ultimate entertainment as this was before the advent of television in our place.”
Try “This was before the advent of television; radio was the ultimate entertainment.”
Or just “Radio was the ultimate entertainment”, from which the reader may glean that there was no TV yet.
“But I never listened to this drama at home even if our Maharani stereo boomed and we had 7Ms bourbon and soda cracker biscuits for snacks because I hated it that just as the dragon statue would turn real to snatch the king’s sole heir as prophesied, my father would send me, instead of our maid, to buy Chesterfield. Whew! the hazard of being the youngest.”
Aaaaaaaaa too many things stuffed into a single sentence. You can try to be lyrical AFTER you get the hang of basic structure.
Try: “But I never listened to radio dramas, though our Maharani stereo boomed and there were 7Ms bourbon and soda cracker biscuits for our snacks. Every time the prophecy came true and the dragon statue would come to life and snatch the king’s sole heir, my father would send me, not the maid, to the store to buy Chesterfields.”
IN, but cut all your sentences in half.
March 24th, 2013 at 06:20
Ken drove slowly as soon as we reached the town proper. We were looking out the windows, trying to find a place to stay for the night. It was only a few minutes after nine, but I could not see anybody out on the streets. When I saw the house, I spoke loudly from the back of the van, “To the right, Ken.”
Wilson stirred beside me and stretched. I heard him sigh as he placed his hand on my left knee.
“Where are we?” His eyes looked into mine.
All I could think of was the warmth of his hand. “La Union,” I said.
“Hmmm…” A sleepy smile crossed his face. I wanted to reach for the stubble on his square jaw and those deep, deep dimples that even poor lighting couldn’t hide. He yawned before leaning forward to rest his head on top of the backrest. I would have embraced him right then and there, and I would have pulled his head to my breasts, play softly with his hair, and sing: Chiquitita tell me what’s wrong…
And then I heard the most vomit-inducing, sugary sweet voice this side of Luzon: “What the hell, Janice?” said Kitty, waking up.
I stopped humming Chiquitita. “What? It’s a nice song!”
“It’s not.”
Kitty wrapped her arms around Wilson and laid her chin on his nape. Her viper eyes closed once more.
By the time Ken parked the van in front of the homestay, everyone was awake – the lovers beside me, Jared and Bill in front of us, Louk and Jesy in front of them. Dom, who was sitting on the passenger seat next to Ken, descended the van, and Ken followed shortly. The two of them entered the gate and walked towards the door across the garden.
“Is this it?” asked Bill.
“Not sure,” answered Kitty. “I think they’re still trying to check if it’s still open.”
Kitty sounded stupid. The house’s front lights were on and their signage says open 24 hours so they should still be open. Bill and Kitty continued chatting but I tried not to listen because her high-pitched voice sounded like nails scratching a chalkboard. I wished Wilson didn’t invite her. Thinking about them together made made me want to hurt myself, so I kept my eyes glued to the house. Dom knocked on the door, hard and loud.
After a minute, the small, wooden gate on the right side of the house slowly swung open. I quickly moved to slide the van’s door and called for the boys to come back. Everybody sat alert. Kitty started shouting for them to get the hell out of there.
Ken and Dom jogged back to the van though they didn’t have a clue what the fuss was about – all thanks to Kitty’s magnificent performance. Wilson tried to calm his girlfriend down as Ken tried frantically to get the van to start. The others kept asking what happened.
Kitty cried and her eyes shone with terror, looking out the window beside me. My heart thudded wildly and I couldn’t make myself move. Goosebumps crawled all over my body. Kitty let out one final shriek when we finally raced away.
After a few minutes, the poor girl slumped on her seat, enveloped in Wilson’s loving arms, sobbing silently like a baby alligator in distress.
I drew a deep breath before finding the courage to look at the road were leaving behind. It was empty, except for the houses and trees and shadows. The old man and the old woman reaching out to us were no longer in sight.
March 24th, 2013 at 09:27
After Midnight In The Barrio
I am the worst person who could ever tell this story. I digress a lot and focus too much on details that are not important to the plot while leaving out others that turn out to be key later on, I embellish too much and try to sound profound by using highfalutin words. Once upon a time, I fancied myself as a writer. This was back during my middle school years in International School Manila when I was in the Advanced Humanities program, which meant that my reading comprehension skills were better than most of my peers’. But the general blandness of the transition from adolescence to adulthood and the personally unappealing books they made me read as part of Serious Literature, from Dostoevsky to Trollope to Woolf, coupled with the learned helplessness, later on, of being in medical school with walls of text that were indecipherable in spite of repeated attempts to learn and internalize the information destroyed any dreams of becoming the next Harvey Cushing or Williams Carlos Williams. Dullards who fall prey to clichés because they cannot be bothered to read what is essential cannot produce anything worth reading.
But this incident is so unusual that I might just get away from resorting to known tropes and, if anything, it has to be written down.
It was my first year after graduation. Still unsure of what to specialize in, I joined the Department of Health’s Rural Health Physicians Placement Program and got sent to Marinduque, an island province south of Quezon. While the job was thousands of times easier than the daily grind of the hospital, the barrios presented its own kind of stress-eliciting moments that can be worrying with the lack of specialists and equipment seen in medical centers.
It was during one of these nights, last April, just after 1 AM, that I received a text message from our midwives asking for assistance in the Rural Health Unit because of a woman in labor with elevated blood pressure. My apartment was only 300 meters away from the birthing facility so I had no problems with this kind of arrangement. especially with certain cases that needed urgent attention. However, I know that most people would be hesitant to traverse a poorly lit path, particularly since most of the population still believed in aswang and manananggal roaming around after sunset. While I too used to fear the dark when I was a child, my experiences seeing patients die at the Philippine General Hospital because of the absence of finances quickly rid me of this nonsense. There were much worse things to be afraid of than creatures of legend or the paranormal.
Halfway along my walk, I noted the grove of banana plants kept by one of my neighbors, enclosed by a barbed wire fence. It was nearing harvest time as the inflorescences were fully opened with hand-shaped bunches.
I was hurrying along when the sound of grunting made me pause. It was definitely human for it was too tender, lacking the unabashed ferocity of pigs or dogs and too low-pitched for a cat. It took my eyes quite some time to adjust to the surroundings before I noticed that there was a figure lying down on the ground.
It was a woman, completely naked with her legs spread apart. One hand was resting on the ground palm down, while the other was clutching a banana which she was thrusting repatedly inside her. She kept on grunting as though I was not there and it took a split-second for me to understand that she might not have noticed me yet.
Know that before this, I was under the impression that women in the rural areas were conservative, almost prudish individuals but this idea clearly merited revision. Not wanting to disturb her, I walked as quietly as I could towards the Rural Health Unit, avoiding the urge to look back.
A conclusive moan broke the silence after I had gone a considerable distance, telling me that she was done, for now.
It took me around two hours to manage the patient and I decided not to bring her to the hospital since her baby was close to being delivered and conduction would only mean giving birth in the ambulance. The strange event was already at the back of my head, close to being completely forgotten as a quirky but by no means definitive episode of barrio life.
However, upon returning home, sitting right at the foot of my door was a banana.
March 24th, 2013 at 13:19
DOING THE SUMMER PENITENCE (redraft)
Back in the ’70s when I was a kid, cuaresma was observed with much solemnity and drama. The latter was literal as it meant the drama or radio soap opera inspired by the passion of Christ.
Radio then was the ultimate entertainment. But I never listened to these dramas at home, though our Maharani stereo boomed. I hated it that just when the tale was nearing its climax, my father would send me to the store to buy Chesterfield.
And so I had to seek refuge in a hovel not far from our gated home. Earlier that week, this neighbor, in preparation for this Lenten marathon, had his Eveready batteries alternately boiled and left under the sun to dry. And if the volume of his Avegon transistor radio still wouldn’t improve, he would wrap the batteries with cigarette foil like they were morcons. Thus, my penitence would take the form of piecing together missed dialogues, enduring his smelly kids, and jockeying for that place near the speaker that had Vilma Santos smiling in a face much rounder than a satellite dish.
The solemn part of cuaresma was ensured by Lola Pinang, Mama’s aunt who lived with us until she died a virgin at 83. She would instruct our helpers to hoard enough clean rice, water, and firewood as they were not allowed to do manual labor from Holy Thursday to Easter Sunday. During this time, we were not allowed to laugh; we had to walk slowly, on tiptoe if need be, as we might disturb the newly entombed Son of God; we were banned from playing and drawing lines on the ground as we might cut Christ’s body; and we were shunned from using knives and other pointed objects to avoid getting cut or wounded because it would take a year to heal.
Good Friday was chilling. Lola Pinang would bar us from taking a bath as this was the time when “not-like-ours” would bathe without touching the water stocked in containers. If we had the misfortune of using the same water, an incurable skin disease would afflict us for life. But nothing was scarier than this: because God was dead, the devil and his minions would roam the earth to feed on us. This would make us line up so she could whip us with pangyawan vine. With its bitter sap on your bodies, Lola Pinang would say, you would be spared because the devil and its cohorts don’t have a taste for something bitter.
Of course, we fasted. On Good Friday we would eat nothing but Mama’s budbod the size of my thigh or binignit with diced ingredients the size of my fist. Observing the much hated no-meat policy, we had nothing but boiled fish; grilling or frying it would cause black spots to dot our skin. Think of rotten mangoes, Lola Pinang would say. All this made me look forward to Easter Sunday when, as Protestants, we had potluck following a sunrise service at the beach.
That I stand 5’10? must be the result of Lola Pinang making me jump at the exact moment when Jesus stretched inside the sepulcher, which was midnight. The higher you jump, the taller you get, she would tell me. My cousin did the opposite because at 12, she didn’t want to grow taller than 5’8?.
While cuaresma is still being observed, these Filipino practices are dead and buried. Still, I look forward to the day when they will be resurrected for all they’re worth. Meanwhile, I see people on Good Friday going to the beach to swim and pig out amidst blaring sounds. This makes me wish for all the bizarre things Lola Pinang said about cuaresma to come true.
March 24th, 2013 at 15:30
joyeah: Choose between past and present tense. The past tense has that wistful/nostalgic thingy. The present tense is more arty. Then COMMIT and change all the verbs to one tense because this abrupt switching is annoying.
Repeat after us: I am not TARDIS.
March 24th, 2013 at 15:36
Edrie: Ahh self-knowledge. Good.
“Once upon a time, I fancied myself as a writer.”
No, it’s “Once upon a time I fancied myself a writer.”
Resist the tyranny of adverbs. It’s also useful to hear the sentence in your head. If the rhythm is off, go back and fix it.
The whole episode sounds like a Gil Portes movie. No wait, that was about latrines. IN.
March 24th, 2013 at 19:29
No Permanent Address
No T.V., no books, no radio, and no neighbors for kilometers. This hell was my summer. I was sent to the boondocks where I could spend time with my grandparents so my Mom would be spared the burden of another mouth to feed. At least the grandies were rich enough to have water from faucets and a toilet and bath, not like others in this province who only had holes in the ground and a wooden plank to stand or squat on. We also had a half-finished swimming pool with no tiles and no water, and a big lawn with no gardener.
Everyday I would sit on our art-deco tiled terrace and wait for the bus. It passes our house four times a day and you could hear it five minutes before it would appear on the horizon as a cloud of red dust. I would hope like hell it would stop by and bring some visitors. Like Mang Sauro with his talk of caves in Bonifacio as big as cathedrals, or streams that disappeared underground. I got a recipe for the Tagabulag Anting-anting from him. You just need to get up well before dawn on Good Friday, sit facing east, stare at the rising sun without blinking while chanting “taga-bulag taga-bulag” and, once a tear slides down your cheeks, wipe it with a pristine white and dalisay handkerchief. Do not, under any circumstances, let the tear or the hanky touch the ground. I tried to do it that morning but there were several problems. Good Friday was several weeks away but I wanted to use the taga-bulag on my cousin Aman who was a pain in the ass. I also did not know what dalisay means. I couldn’t also figure out how to not blink.Perhaps that’s why it didn’t work. I was determined to try again the next day, maybe try to think of something really sad so I’ll cry for real, faster than I could blink.
I didn’t see them coming. They didn’t come with the bus and it felt like they just materialized at the gate and knocked on it. There weren’t even any dust to indicate which direction they came from. Two men with a teenaged girl and a pregnant woman. I couldn’t grasp the concept that they were NPA and my Lola had trembling hands while she prepared food for the visitors. Ka Eugene was the handsome one who showed me his gun and taught me how to cock it and line up the sights. Ka Thomas was the husband of Ka Malou who was due to give birth any day now. Ate Bel is the teenager and they would stay with us until Ka Malou felt strong enough to walk again after her son’s birth. It was annoying that I now had to share a room with my cousin, but my Lola said I had to behave and be kind. Her eyes were darting from side to side, rather like the cows being hauled from pasture by their noses. Maybe it’s a good thing since I wouldn’t now be woken up in the living room where I slept with an Iloko mosquitero by my Lolo shouting at 7:30 am, saying “gising na, tirik na araw.”
Lola said I had to pretend that they were cousins back home and I should not ever talk about them. They allowed me to sit with them while I listened to them talking about equality, armed revolution, and how God didn’t exist, which to me was plain ridiculous. I watched while my Lolo brought out his big Jerusalem bible, the one with all the pictures of the naked women, half-naked men brutally murdered, and babies held by their hair. I saw Ka Thomas bring out a ratty red and brown book that looks like it has been trampled by horses. They went back and forth arguing in very low voices, as sound really carries in the province. Neither side believed the other, but I think Lolo won since he could quote chapter and verse while Ka Thomas only had books that looks like he made them himself and his only had poems from an Intsik and a bearded guy who looks like one of our mangangawits.
Much to my disappointment, Ka Eugene and Ka Thomas would be leaving the next day, depriving me of eye-candy and gun lessons. My quest for the taga-bulag anting-anting would also have to be shelved since I didn’t want to share it with just anyone. I did share with Ate Bel my secret beauty paste of baby powder drizzled with baby oil. It just really takes patience to apply since it tends to clump together and fall off your face. I also asked her opinion if it was a star-apple leaf that was used for the Palmolive commercial, the one where a dried brown leaf magically becomes green and supple after Palmolive lather was applied to it. I couldn’t replicate the lather nor the feat, so I became quite skeptical about it. Unfortunately, Ate Bel said their camp didn’t have any electricity so she’s not familiar with the commercial. Ate Bel was Ka Thomas’ sister and she’s here to be Ka Malou’s companion. She said Ka Thomas’ real name was Pedro del Rosario and that they lived in Los Banos before he joined the Kilusan. Their parents were so proud that he was accepted as a UP scholar. He would have been the first to finish college since their family were just farmers. I asked Ate Bel to go with me and Aman to go clam-digging in the stream at our niugan. She declined as she just wanted to keep their presence a secret as long as possible.
The summer passed quickly. I was too busy asking Ate Malou questions on what it was like to climb mountains, what the ground was like, did they have to use ropes, where did they sleep, where did they bathe, whether there were snakes, wild boar, wild deer, did they kill it, did they eat it, how did it taste like, how did they hunt it, how did they kill it? I didn’t lie in wait for the bus anymore. Any visitors would mean I have to go stay in the room or stay out playing in the niugan and not ask or answer questions about them.
I don’t remember Golly being born. All I knew is that suddenly, there’s this cute, fat, cuddly being that would smile if you made funny faces. He would cry if you pinched too hard. The only place I could pinch is his earlobe, and only if there’s nobody looking. You also have to make sure nobody sees you alone with him so they won’t blame you for his reddened ear. I wished I could take him back home and be my sibling. Maybe we could buy him from off of Ate Malou. I just didn’t know if Ka Thomas will come for him since they’ve been gone for more than two months. Ate Malou and Ate Bel was getting worried since they haven’t heard from him, nor has he sent anybody. Ate Bel went home to Los Banos to ask her parents if they’ve heard anything.
My parents came to take me home as school was starting soon. I wanted to go kicking, screaming, and crying but I was too afraid of the two-hour paluan sessions more than I loved Golly-wow. I didn’t know if I would see them again since Ate Malou said it’s dangerous for them to leave any clues as to where they would be staying next. I wished Ate Bel was here so I could at least get their Los Banos address and write to them there.
I settled back into my old life. I so missed being able to buy candy by the piece and just walking to the next-door sari-sari store to get it, anytime I liked. Golly-wow’s memory was soon buried under school assignments, projects that I’m too klutzy to ace, and old playmates.
I went back to Quezon the next summer to find out that both Ka Eugene and Ka Thomas died inside a Catholic Schoolroom. They were noticed by a group of soldiers patrolling the street outside. They only had one magazine between them and they tried to shoot it out. Ka Eugene was 26 years old, Ka Thomas just 23. I pictured them lying on their back, side by side, their eyes closed, arms and legs spread out, like when we play dead. I heard Ate Malou walked a hundred kilometers from our house to where the shootout happened, but wouldn’t dare claim the bodies nor see them. They left soon afterwards and we never heard from them again.
March 24th, 2013 at 20:03
Ronigurl: Holy shit, a story. IN.
March 25th, 2013 at 04:10
What to Expect on Your First Cigarette
It was a dark and stormy night on that blistering April afternoon. I just got home from UST with a pocketful of class cards. Damning class cards, it should be mentioned, and it was these that gave the afternoon it’s thoroughly unforgettable quality.
I already knew that I failed one major subject seven hours ago, but I still can’t tell her. With my circumstances back then, I was early in getting back. It was two pm, she was in our room upstairs, in her house clothes, busy, as always, ironing the clothes this time. There was a mountain of unfinished business in this green hamper by her feet. And there’s this small pile of neatly folded shirts on top of the TV to her right. There’s a stand fan a few feet away. And there was me, by the door. I was this sorry mess in a shirt and a pair of jeans. Yes, that was me. You can tell by my not getting in the same room as her, until she looked up and smiled at me.
“Ano na balita, anak?”
It was the year 2000, and I was this promising BS Math student a year shy from graduating. I will be my mother’s first graduate, by the way, and the pressure’s all mine. The honor and the bragging rights? Those were all mine too, provided I graduate on time. Which I will not. Which I had to tell her. Which I can’t. Which is why I wasn’t getting in the same room as her, but I had to since she started to notice.
I walked a few steps into our room, and then I stayed where I was.
There was two of us in the room, and aside from that stand fan’s efforts, the silence in there was largely uninterrupted. I can’t do it. I mean, how do you say “Ma, I will not be graduating next year” to the one person who has been spending most of her life, as a mother, doing 12 hour work shifts just so her three kids can get a college education? How do you deliver the news to a mother who risked life and limb just so her kids can get a diploma? And were talking about a real diploma, the kind that she didn’t have to fake just to get a job. How do you tell your hopeful mother that you fucked up big time? And that you will be spending another tiring year in college?
In retrospect, I really had no idea what “tiring” really meant until I was this utterly disappointed single mother who had no choice but to work her aging body some more.
So how do I break it to her? Gently, so at least I leave her with her pride? Try and spare her feelings if the feelings have to die?
Somehow, I gathered the guts with which to deliver my terrible news. It was, easily, the hardest thing I had to do in my life.
“Ma, pasado naman halos lahat. Pero may binagsak akong isang minor na subject, tsaka isang major. Di offered yung major ngayong summer. Kailangan ko siyang kunin ulit next year. Di ako makakagraduate next year. The year after pa.”
She stooped her head down, her short hair covering her face, as she paid more attention to that white polo shirt she was ironing. This goes on for a few minutes to a year. You cannot imagine a well-ironed shirt anywhere than what she was not finishing at that time. And then, amidst the racket of that rickety stand fan, I began to hear her muffled sobbing. I had no idea, until then, how something so controlled can be so devastating, so heartbreaking. But she pursued her duty to keep our clothes neatly pressed, and I remember how her shoulders started to shake, again, with that terrible control. I was already crying at that point. And I cried harder as I noticed how her tears were staining that white polo.
She’s not the mother that encouraged her words with her emotions. So I walked out of that room because I know I will crumble some more in her unspoken disappointment.
I had the very first cigarette off my life later that evening. I got dizzy, and it gave me a zit in the morning.
March 25th, 2013 at 04:39
I’m sorry Madame, a correction please on the 6th paragraph
“There was two of us in the room” = There were two of us in the room
March 25th, 2013 at 19:40
Monstersis
My sister has dissociative identity disorder. “She has split personality”, the doctor put it plainly. My parents still find the diagnosis wanting. Not out of denial, but because of the fact that we were witness to the strangest summer of our lives.
I could no longer recall how it all began. I was only six then. My sister was seventeen. But according to my parents bizarre things happened after my sister was brought home to Manila after almost being trampled to death by a water buffalo. She was spending summer in the province and as most city-bred kids would have it, she would not pass on the chance to ride such a powerful beast. Somehow she fell from the animal and was almost crushed by it. The experience apparently left her in shock. She would not speak, even after she was home.
It was then that strange things began to happen. My sister would not sleep. She had been awake for several days when a scene out of The Exorcist unfolded. My sister began breaking things in the house. As she threw objects on the wall, she was speaking in a language we could not understand. Most disturbing was that she had a man’s voice. My parents were terrified. They called for my male cousins to help restrain her.
Six of my grown male cousins were soon trying to pin down my sister to the bed. I could still remember in slow motion how two of them flew several feet in the air and landed with a thud after my sister was able to wrestle her feet free and give both of them a mean kick. It took all of six men several hours to finally bring my skinny, teenage sister under control.
Then things took a turn for the weird. As my sister was being tied to the bed, we heard the whoosh of giant wings outside. They first hovered over the roof of our house before they settled down. We could hear the corrugated roof buckle under their weight.
As swiftly as they came, the winged creatures left. My parents and my cousins had nothing to say to each other. I do remember my mother asking me if I was afraid. I wasn’t, actually, as I had no idea back then what was going on. All I knew was that for several hours, my sister wasn’t herself.
I still do not believe in the supernatural. There probably is a scientific explanation for what happened that night. Maybe my sister’s mental disorder triggered a part of her brain that allowed her to speak an unusual language. Maybe the disorder flooded her system with a massive dose of adrenaline and testosterone that night. Maybe those winged creatures were the result of mass hallucination. Maybe I would find a scientific explanation to the claw marks that my father discovered on the roof when the first rains at the end of summer came. Maybe.
March 25th, 2013 at 22:19
Momelia: If that first sentence was designed to get our attention, it worked!
OUT.
March 25th, 2013 at 22:28
Cacs: Cacs, Cacs, Cacs. Thank you for submitting a piece in which nearly all the subjects and predicates are in agreement. We’ve always enjoyed your stories, but we don’t believe a word of this one. Maybe if you hadn’t taken a shortcut by bringing in The Exorcist? The narrator sounds disconnected from the horrific event.
Have you read John Collier? British author, weird tales, heavily influenced Ray Bradbury and The Twilight Zone. Fancies and Goodnights is available from NYRB.
IN, but.
March 25th, 2013 at 23:16
huwaw, kahuhusay na mga entry. mukhang naipon talaga ang mga bala at sigla sa pagsali sa litwit challenge. pero mukhang ang kay ronigurl ang patok na kailangang daigin ng iba. ang mga piyesang ganire ang dapat na nabibigyan ng tsansa sa youngblood ng inquirer.
March 26th, 2013 at 00:54
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Naging matagumpay ang pagtatapos sa kanyang High School si FernMichael at bilang regalo pinapunta siya sa America para magbakasyon at makapiling ang pamilya. Nang makarating sa America ay hindi niya akalain na lagi naman palang wala sa bahay ang pamilya dahil sa mga trabaho nito . Para mabawasan ang pagka bagot sa bahay walang ginawa si FernMichael kundi manuod ng sine sa downtown (matinee show 1/2 price)
Sa tapat ng bus stop papuntang downtown (may gas pipe bodega) lagi niyang nakikita at inaabangan ang isang trabahador sa gas pipe na sobrang TALL, SEXYHOT and HANDSOME na puti, minsan ay nahuli siyang nakatingin sa puti at kininditan siya nito (at feel niya sine seduce siya ni puti) kayat nag init ang buong katawan niya di na siya mapakali si puti ang nasa isip niya hanggang makarating sa city at nagpunta sa sinehan na may matinee show napanood na nya halos lahat at gusto niyang ulitin ang The Matrix kasi tinulugan niya ito ng mapanood niya last week.
Isa lang ang new movie at ito ang A Midsummer Night’s Dream wala siyang idea kung sino bida at ano yung movie so no choice ito pinanood niya.
BIGLANG UMAPOY NAG-INIT ang buong katawan niya may sa kung anong sensasyon na naramdaman niya sa nude scene nila Christian Bale, Calista Flockhart, Dominic West , Anna Friel yung hubo sa damuhan scene plus iniisip pa niya si Puti kayat hindi na niya napigilan ang init sasabog na siya so tingin sa paligid mga 10 lang tao sa sinehan at malayo naman pinaka malapit na tao sa seat niya wala ng patumpik tumpik pa kailangan ng pasabugin ang bulkan …10…9…8….7….6…5…4…3…2…1…BOOOOOOOM!!!! SUMABOG ANG BULKAN SA SINEHAN
March 26th, 2013 at 06:08
Thanks for the instant feedback! I think this LitWit format works really well. Also, I’ll definitely check out John Collier and get a copy Fancies and Goodnights. Will most probably post another entry. Pagbigyan niyo po sana ako at matagal-tagal na rin mula noong huling patimpalak. Maraming salamat!
March 26th, 2013 at 17:46
The Last Summer (with minor edits, please publish this version)
There he was walking in Dancalan Beach with some of our friends, one afternoon. I was sitting by a coconut tree when I smiled at him. James was a sight to behold, young and buff in his shorts and white undershirt, with hair that plays with the wind.
He was studying in Manila and was in town for the summer. I was waiting for some girlfriends to join me to go swimming in the beach. He moved ahead of his friends and sat beside me. “Hello, Luis,” he spoke in the dialect and wrapped his arms around me. “We’re drinking at the other side. Join us.”
I joined them without thinking about my friends. It was the start of a number of days with me drinking with this group of boys in my hometown. I told myself that if I was to be closer to James, I would join him in his activities. Anyway, they were fun to be with and oblivious of the fact that I was open about my sexuality and that I liked James.
Of course, James liked me just as a friend even if I was dreaming of something else. I was young and it was exhilarating to fall in love. And so I thought it was.
But when Holy Week was about to start, James began to miss the daily drinking sessions. I tried asking Nilo, one of our friends, and he told me tidbits of James’ whereabouts. “He might be courting a girl or girls in the other barangay,” he said.
On Palm Sunday, I learned that he was right. I was in a tricycle going home from the beach and there was James walking in the dusk with his girl. It was an unimaginable hurt that I felt. It was something new but almost recognizable. Like a promise that you had been looking forward to but never happened as if it was never supposed to happen.
That night, I almost drank myself to sleep with our friends. James was still with his girl. Nilo accompanied me home after we were done. I was about to tell him how hurt I was as we walk towards our house but never fully said a word to him. He also did not say anything except to shush the dogs barking at us in the moonlight.
When we’re near our gate, he sat down in the bench outside and asked me to sit with him.
When I sat down beside him, he placed his head in my lap and straightened himself as if to sleep. I stroke his hair and almost forgot about James. He began whistling a Bicolano song.
A fiery thought inside my head sparked as I listened to his whistling. It traveled fast down to my feet and went up again to my groin. I listlessly asked Nilo to stand up, held his hand, and pulled him inside our backyard to bring him to the back of our house near the star apple trees.
I was telling myself that it was my way of getting back at James as I was taking off my shirts and shorts. Nilo started it by biting my neck.
It was almost like a blur when it finally happened. I was facing the wall of our house as Nilo pushed himself inside me. The hurt I felt was never the same as what was in my heart.
March 26th, 2013 at 20:32
swanoepel: Hahaha! Hindi nga lang bagay sa paligsahang ito.
OUT, pero sulat ka pa!
March 26th, 2013 at 20:42
maninisid: In the late 90s, the X-rating became a marketing tool for movies. Producers put out soft porn movies and claimed they were art. The ensuing controversies only made the movies hits. On one hand, they were useful in the fight against censorship. On the other hand, they weren’t very good.
Over-sharing for the purpose of titillation. OUT.
March 27th, 2013 at 03:56
Madame, pag ni-edit ko ba yung entry ko eh (lalo na yung etchuserang first line) eh may chance ba siya na ma-shoot sa top ten semi finalists? Haha, naaliw kasi ako sa it was a dark and stormy night keme na intro eh. Heto na yung edited. No need to post if back stage pa rin talaga ung story, hehe.
At hanggang ngayon eh bet na bet kong i-add yung “It was a dark and stormy morning, I think.” sa last paragraph, pero baka lalong ma-backstage eh, haha!
=======================================================
What to Expect on Your First Cigarette
I just got home from UST with a pocketful of class cards. Damning class cards, it should be mentioned, and it was these that gave the afternoon it’s thoroughly unforgettable quality. I already knew that I failed one major subject seven hours ago, but I still can’t tell her. With my circumstances back then, I was early in getting back. It was two pm, she was in our room upstairs, in her house clothes, busy, as always, ironing the clothes this time. There was a mountain of unfinished business in this green hamper by her feet. And there’s this small pile of neatly folded shirts on top of the TV to her right. There’s a stand fan a few feet away. And there was me, by the door. I was this sorry mess in a shirt and a pair of jeans. Yes, that was me. You can tell by my not getting in the same room as her, until she looked up and smiled at me.
“Ano na balita, anak?”
It was the year 2000, and I was this promising BS Math student a year shy from graduating. I will be my mother’s first graduate, by the way, and the pressure’s all mine. The honor and the bragging rights? Those were all mine too, provided I graduate on time. Which I will not. Which I had to tell her. Which I can’t. Which is why I wasn’t getting in the same room as her, but I had to since she started to notice.
I walked a few steps into our room, and then I stayed where I was.
There were two of us in the room, and aside from that stand fan’s efforts, the silence in there was largely uninterrupted. I can’t do it. I mean, how do you say “Ma, I will not be graduating next year” to the one person who has been spending most of her life, as a mother, doing 12 hour work shifts just so her three kids can get a college education? How do you deliver the news to a mother who risked life and limb just so her kids can get a diploma? And were talking about a real diploma, the kind that she didn’t have to fake just to get a job. How do you tell your hopeful mother that you fucked up big time? And that you will be spending another tiring year in college?
In retrospect, I really had no idea what “tiring” really meant until I was this utterly disappointed single mother who had no choice but to work her aging body some more.
So how do I break it to her? Gently, so at least I leave her with her pride? Try and spare her feelings if the feelings have to die?
Somehow, I gathered the guts with which to deliver my terrible news. It was, easily, the hardest thing I had to do in my life.
“Ma, pasado naman halos lahat. Pero may binagsak akong isang minor na subject, tsaka isang major. Di offered yung major ngayong summer. Kailangan ko siyang kunin ulit next year. Di ako makakagraduate next year. The year after pa.”
She stooped her head down, her short hair covering her face, as she paid more attention to that white polo shirt she was ironing. This goes on for a few minutes to a year. You cannot imagine a well-ironed shirt anywhere than what she was not finishing at that time. And then, amidst the racket of that rickety stand fan, I began to hear her muffled sobbing. I had no idea, until then, how something so controlled can be so devastating, so heartbreaking. But she pursued her duty to keep our clothes neatly pressed, and I remember how her shoulders started to shake, again, with that terrible control. I was already crying at that point. And I cried harder as I noticed how her tears were staining that white polo.
She’s not the mother that encouraged her words with her emotions. So I walked out of that room because I know I will crumble some more in her unspoken disappointment.
I had the very first cigarette of my life later that evening. I got dizzy, and it gave me a zit in the morning.
March 27th, 2013 at 04:15
Biglang pinaalala sa akin ng mundo na may galit nga pala ako sa lahat ng tao.
“Summer vacation na!”, ito ang paulit-ulit na tumatakbo sa iyong isipan habang isa-isang pinapanood and mga pelikulang nasa external hard drive mo. Ang sarap. Buhay estudyante ulit kahit bente kuwatro anyos ka na at paminsan-minsa’y tumatayong “guardian” ng mga nakababatang kapatid.
Pero biglang pinaalala ng mundo na punyeta nga pala ang lahat.
“Late ako makakauwi.”, text ni nakakababatang kapatid. Sige lang. Matino naman ang kapatid mo. ‘Yun ang akala mo.
Alas onse y media. “Wait lang. Nandito pa kami”. Pauwi na siguro ‘to. Naisip mo na sige lang, maaga pa naman. Magtetext naman ulit yun pag nasa kanto na at magpapasundo. Isa’t kalahating lapitin din kasi ng manyakis ang batang ‘to e.
Alas dose y media. Walang update. Tinawagan mo, hindi sumasagot. Walang hiya, dinadapuan ka na ng antok. Pagbigyan. Party nga naman ang pinuntahan.
Ala una y media. Wala parin. Hindi din sinasagot ang telepono. Punyeta. Buhay pa ba kapatid mo? Kalma lang. Hindi naman ikaw nanay ng batang ito pero kung nandito nga lang ang nanay ninyo, malamang nagpatawag na ‘yun ng pulis, naghakot ng mga kamag-anak at kapitbahay at mag-conduct ng search party.
Alas dos y media. Di kaya na-“Taken” ng isa’t kalahti ang batang ito? Ayan. Kung anu-ano kasi pinapanood mo. Puro kahangalan tuloy naiisip mo. Hindi parin sinasagot ang punyetang telepono. Dahil sa kapraningan, nawala na ang antok at napalitan ng biglaang agos ng adrenaline. Alam mo na handa ka na makipagsuntukan sa mga tambay sa kanto.
Alas tres. Nag-text ang gaga ng “Wala pa”. Tinawagan mo. Lasing ang hangal mong kapatid at naka-tengga sa isang convenience store sa Makati kasama ang mga lasing din na mga kaklase. Magpapaumaga na lang daw sila doon dahil mga walang masakyan pauwi. Lumalaki na ang butas ng ilong mo at malapit na din maputukan ng ugat sa ulo dahil sa pag-aalala pero ang punyetang kapatid mo pa ang may ganang magalit. Kung hindi ba naman talaga isa’t kalahating hangal.
Pikon ka pero tinanong mo parin kung susunduin mo ba siya dahil kahit loko-loko ka, mabuti ka namang kapatid. Pero nagalit pa siya sa’yo.
“Bahala ka nga sa buhay mo.” Galit mong sinabi sabay bagsak ng telepono. Nanginginig na buong katawan mo dahil sa naghalong inis at kaba. Ikaw na nga nagmamagandang loob, ikaw pa ang na-punyeta.
Makalipas ang isang oras, tumawag ang hangal na kapatid. “Sorry, hindi ko alam sinasabi ko kanina. Okay na ako. Galit ka ba?”
“Bahala ka nga diyan.” ‘Yun na lang ang nasabi mo kahit na gusto mong magmura ng magmura at makipagsuntukan sa unang makakasalubong mo.
“Okay ka na ba? Hindi ako makakampante kung ‘di ka pa okay”, sagot niya. Kung ‘di ba naman talaga ungas ang kapatid mo e no?
“Ako dapat nagtatanong nyan sa’yo.” Pilit mong kinakalma ang sarili mo.
“Okay na ako. Sorry…” Sagot ng kapatid mong biglang natauhan sa sariling kahangalan.
Madami pa siyang sinasabi pero binanatan mo na lang ng “K. Fine. Good night” at biglang binabaan. Pinatay mo na din ang telepono mo.
Badtrip. Simulang simula ng bakasyon e kamangmangan agad ang bumulatlat sa iyo. Kaya uminom ka na lang ng dalawang tableta ng Xanor at inintay na kalmahin ka nito hanggang sa tuluyang makatulog at pansamantalang makalimutan ang kahangalan ng sangkatauhan.
Kinabukasan, nakauwi naman ng buo ang kapatid mo. Gusto pa sana makipagbati sa iyo pero sinaksakan mo na lang ng earphones ang tainga mo at binasa ulit ang “Catcher in the Rye” kasi wala ka ng mabasang ibang libro.
March 27th, 2013 at 05:39
Thank God it rained.
I woke up with the sound of rain and spent some time in bed just listening to it. I have been out of breath because of the heat ever since March came. Water bottle became my instant best friend. But rain, after a really hot day, has its drawbacks. It makes damp hair stick to nape like groping high school lovers in a deserted hallway.
It’s summer. I’m working. I’ve been a vampire with a soul for two years now. Since I started working four years ago, summer has been just a series of humid, sweaty days. I eventually got up. I have to go to work and I can’t be late. It’s a dead-end job, I know, but it pays well. The only consolation is that I’d get to take a leave of absence (LOA) twice a month. One is scheduled for tomorrow. The thought inspired me to go to work today.
The thing with working on a night shift is that eventually, you wouldn’t care whether you look sharp or not. You will become a Plain Jane, wash and wear girl. It least that’s what happened to me. Like now, I’m wearing my signature black blazer over a statement tee and skinny jeans. I combed my hair into place, powdered my face, and ta da! I’m ready for work!
Work is uneventful. The usual work, the usual gossip. There was never a day when me and my colleagues stop complaining about work, about how the “system” became a total crap ever since the new general manager came. We spend eight hours working like zombies running on caffeine.
I was giddy when end of day finally came. I love having my LOA days on a weekday. While everyone is at work or at school, I play. But damn, it’s summer! Happy shiny people are out and about, invading the malls. I was planning to use this day for my Me Time, just like every other LOA days I had. But well, needless to say, summer is ruining my alone time. Malls are packed with kids running around like Energizer bunnies. I hate kids. They scream and wail for no apparent reason. Selfish little bastards.
On a regular weekday, I could usually get a whole movie house all by myself. I could munch on chips as loudly as I want. But then summer came and school’s out. Cue in Alice Cooper here. Movie houses are packed though not everyone was watching the film. Some just needed a dim lit place to cuddle and spit swap while others just snooze. Have you seen God Bless America? Remember the movie house scene? I was fantasizing about it throughout the movie.
Cafes are packed with high school kids taking photos of themselves. I was planning on drinking overpriced coffee while working on my freelance assignment but I bailed. I can’t be in the background of another Instagram photo.
I passed by Book Sale. There’s nothing like the feeling of great accomplishment when you find a good book in mint condition for one-fourth of its original price. After spending a good hour scouring the bins, I found it. Sylvia Plath’s Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams! This is an awesome end of a disastrous day! I needed a win and I got it. Suck it, summer!
March 27th, 2013 at 07:24
I love the okrayan portion of the litwit challenges.
March 27th, 2013 at 10:48
Few weeks after my high school graduation, friends from high school would ask me to go out with them and go swimming or just hang out somewhere. I would always say no. Always automatically, I would come up with an excuse that I was in the province or broke, and declined the invitation, trying to sound upset even if I felt otherwise. Mom would ask me why I was always turning down the invitations. For one, I think my mom was just trying to get rid of me because I was always home and ruining her afternoon TV viewing (I got a PS2 and playing Devil May Cry for hours). Second, she might be concerned that her predictions came true about me being antisocial. So one hot Saturday of April, I decided to go with my high school friends to this resort somewhere in the north. I think the name of the resort got something like splash, wave, or hidden on it. Can’t really remember anymore, it was like a decade ago.
The gang was complete. All my closest friends were there. Mark, who taught me how to shoplift in Odyssey, was the one driving the van. Josh, who pretended to be gay so that he would see boobies in the female locker room, was our navigator. Alex, who pretended to be straight so that he could see boys in briefs in the male locker room, was the one who prepared the food. And Jay, who was my best friend-slash-secret nemesis, was also with us, along with his girlfriend Sheila.
About Jay, he was my classmate since first year high school. He was also my seat mate for 4 years. His last name is De Dios, and mine is De Torres, so we were seatmates almost in all classes. Maybe the only time we were not seated together was during P.E., where we held the class on the bleachers. Jay was my best friend because we got along nicely. Our friendship was something designed by cosmic force or something. We reciprocated each other in so many ways. I was shy and he was friendly. I love to get free food, he loves to treat friends. I love to read novels and write reviews for fun, he hates to read, let alone write reviews about the book. We both liked playing Conquest in the Quantum arcade. Our favorite dish in the canteen was tocino. He would give me all the fat while I’d give him the meat part. We both liked Typing class because he had a crush on our teacher who always wears miniskirts, while I liked the class because I squeezed typing some mini poems and prose during idle time. And just like how the cosmos had designed and orchestrated, we also both liked the same girl.
Sheila was the typical chinita. She was like a petite Gwen Garci. When I first saw her waiting at the lobby entrance, I felt a different mix of nervousness and excitement. When I saw her stepped in and sat next to me in our first period class, I froze and was speechless for a few seconds. Since I was too shy and Jay was very friendly, Jay got first dibs. And two years after, they became a couple. For 4 years I was secretly praying for them to break up, but at the same time I remained a true friend to Jay.
As we reached the cottage of the resort, everyone got busy unpacking. Jay approached me and dragged me to one corner, asking me a big favor. He wanted me to help him write a love letter to Sheila for their 2nd anniversary. I thought for a moment, that must have been the lousiest idea, but Jay explained that he was trying to be romantic. The following night, as I was writing the letter, I remembered how I was so much like Brian Krakow in My So-Called Life. And just like what Brian did, I wrote the most romantic love letter I have ever written. And I meant every word.
March 27th, 2013 at 11:27
“Jump!”
I look down and my toes start to curl around the edge of the rock I’m standing on as if trying to hold on and say: No way. It is a long way down. I flatten myself against the cave wall. I am jolted forward in surprise as a protruding stone lodges itself on the small of my sweat-soaked back. I almost fall, if not for my life vest, one of its many strings got tangled on the stone’s edge. Even the stone’s giving me a little push. I unknot my life vest, checked that there was no damage, and resumed hesitating to jump on the precipice.
“Come on, at the count of three ha!”
I can see five neon green life vests below, not quite blending into the emerald water. My friends, all five of them, already took the plunge and they were egging me on, their cheers resonant inside the cave walls. Every summer we go out of town. This year we’re backpacking in the Northern Philippines. We were in Bolinao just yesterday. Tonight we’re heading off to Baguio. Right now, I’m standing inside a cave on Marcos Island, one of the Hundred Isles in Alaminos, Pangasinan. The cave’s main attraction is the 20 feet of free fall into the pool of water below.
Why do we always end up doing some kind of risky activity each time we go on vacation? My friends have this penchant for trying out new (and dangerous) experiences like zip lining, canyon swings, and helmet diving. For them it’s fun; for me it’s tempting fate. I usually sit out on these activities. But, when I absolutely have no choice, I dawdle when it’s my turn – like what I’m doing now. It takes loads of cheering (which sometimes leads to bullying) and reassurance that everything will be okay before I’d be convinced to get it done and over with.
I’d like to think that I was adventurous when I was younger. I used to climb mountains. I’ve rock climbed Mt. Batulao’s old trail without any rope for support when I was 18. I used to surf, too. When I get bored at home, I go up our roof and lie down on it. So, no, I don’t have acrophobia. I’m no aquaphobe either.
Everything changed when I turned twenty. I’m 26 now, by the way. Our next door neighbor’s kid died in a car accident. Shiela was her name. Her dad lost control of the car and they crashed into a concrete barrier. The roads were slippery because there was a storm that day. Her dad survived but Shiela, well, she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt. We were of the same age.
I stopped going up the roof shortly after her death. I turned down invites to climb. And, yes, I stopped surfing. Back then, I was bewildered. I didn’t know why I stopped. Sheila and I were not close but her death left a bad taste in my mouth.
Thinking about it now, I figured what she gave me was a taste of my own mortality. Before she passed away, death was just an abstraction to me – a far-off notion applicable to those who were 60 and up only. I never knew anyone close to me who died in their 20s until Shiela’s passing away. The effect was I no longer wanted to tempt fate by doing the things I used to.
“Talon na. At the count of three ha!”
I don’t know how long I have been standing on the precipice but my legs were starting to feel numb. As my friends start to count, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and utter a silent prayer. Well, not really a prayer but more of a question: “Lord, oras ko na ba?”
I hear my friends shout. “One, two, three!”
I wanted to jump but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
March 27th, 2013 at 13:57
lestat: People secretly want to be oppressed.
March 27th, 2013 at 13:58
lorispeaking: Thank you for the nth iteration of the dark and stormy night opening. OUT.
March 27th, 2013 at 14:01
jksese: Para bang nakikinig kami sa takbo ng utak mo. IN.
March 27th, 2013 at 14:15
theOrbiter: Your sentences are unwieldy. Pay special attention to the opening: it determines whether the readers will do you the favor of spending their time on it. They can’t be expected to read it out of the goodness of their hearts.
“Few weeks after my high school graduation, friends from high school would ask me to go out with them and go swimming or just hang out somewhere.”
Why would we continue when our eyes have glazed over from the unnecessary repetition?
Try “Some weeks after we graduated from high school, my friends would ask me to go swimming or just hang out.”
What is a “typical Chinita”? That just sounds lazy.
IN, but this is a waste of a teen Cyrano de Bergerac story.
March 27th, 2013 at 18:02
I am six hours late. I hope I can be indulged in my want to be oppressed
—
I filed my resignation with feigned nonchalance and with the thought that I would be in a better company and a better place. Baguio City nearly killed me. It felt like I was locked inside the city jail where the guards elbow each other for my lack of prison knowledge. The jeepney drivers and vendors should speak Tagalog, I used to complain. But that’s a minor thing; the major thing is that the city felt out of reach. It might have been a different country. My mother, during my visits, always remarked that I smelled of mountains. Was I visiting from Nepal?
I was doing freelance stuff so I could’ve gone away any time I wanted, with or without a resignation. Fourteen other passengers and I went to Manila at the onset of summer vacation, as if the fifteen of us were making space for the coming hundreds of tourists. We could’ve been sixteen, 14 + 2, but if people want to stay, I will leave them. I tried to be excited, but I didn’t have any idea that Manila could be as lonely as Baguio. The latter made your loneliness felt through the gloomy weather and your soggy socks, and the former for its too dense crowd and your dirty socks.
Time to work for a real company, I told myself as I attended the first day of my training. The newbies got nervous and tried to show some confidence when the trainer told us that we would need to pass a series of exams before we can officially become call center agents. That’s why for the first week of the training, we had to do some language training.
Their fake accents annoyed me, but there’s something worse: their fake accents and their cigarette-bumming. I’m not even friends with these guys but I give them cigarettes anyway just so they would stop talking and keep smoking. I would excuse myself always, and on the third day, the handsomest guy in our class approached me. He needed something. He needed help with prepositions.
So we sat together for the succeeding two days, and I never met him again. The trainer told us after The Hot Guy left that he had to work on his oral communication skills; the call simulation showed what an awful stutterer he was. Nothing was mentioned about prepositions.
We anticipated the next exam with more trepidation. U.S. locals would have casual conversations with us over the phone. Sweaty palms on our end, lists of errors on theirs. 75% of the class failed. I had the highest score, only because I used the word ‘colossal’ in one of my descriptions.
During that month-long training, I would roam around the city. I had to learn the jeepney routes if I wanted to survive with my meager salary. Cab drivers detected my lack of city knowledge. Besides, the trainer told us that the phone exam might include giving directions to our house. I couldn’t tell the examiner to drive me anywhere where there is no heavy traffic.
Whenever I got lost, everything felt bigger than it actually is. Intersections were suspicious. People were not helpful. The buildings were colossal. And yet, I was happy despite all that and the paranoia. Someone could stick an ice pick between my ribs. That was a possibility one cannot shrug off. Someone could pick me up and give me colossal crabs. Another possibility that I have proven.
Two weeks more, and another two failed. Four of us passed. We could now take calls and say the opening spiel with enthusiasm. Two weeks later, one of us resigned. I followed suit two months after. This was at the onset of a theoretical autumn. There are no beaches in sight; there’s only the heat. It’s always summer.
March 27th, 2013 at 23:05
angus25: Aha, a masochist. You want pain, meet the deadline.