JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

6 Responses to “ LitWit Challenge: Futzing with Fairy Tales ”

1. # 1 allancarreon Says:
   May 14th, 2014 at 19:00

   Spin Doctor
   by Allan Carreon

   Milla was the best spin doctor that the mayor ever had. Or so they thought.

   She’d gotten the job because her father, Dolfo Kiskisan, believed nepotism was crucial in politics, and since he was retiring from his job as the PR person of re-electionist Mayor Agosto King, he practically pushed Milla to take over.

   She wasn’t cut out for the job. Milla knew this from the start. She was not a PR person – she was a teacher – and someone like the mayor needed the best PR that he could find. In his first term, he had gotten embroiled in so many scandals – graft, corruption, goons, guns, the works – and getting him back in office would be a monumental task. She could handle basic PR – press releases, coordination, that sort of thing – but she was not skilled enough a liar to cover up for The King’s activities.

   On her first day, a couple of months before the election campaign period, “The King” – as many called the draconian mayor – was already embroiled in a scandal involving his questionable use of city funds. The King gave her three days to come up with a suitable plan to crush the issue. Otherwise, she would be fired.

   Or worse.

   For two days, she sat in front of her computer, not knowing what to do, her mind blank. Her father refused to help her – “You can do it!” – and all she could do was write something before deleting everything. Ad infinitum.

   It was the night before her deadline that a private message from a stranger came into one of her social media accounts. It was from someone using the handle “rumpelstiltskin,” and he offered to help. He was a PR man, he claimed, and he was willing to give her PR advice.

   “What’s in it for you? Why are you doing this?” she typed.

   —If it’s successful, just wire Php50,000.00 to this bank account number.—

   Milla had the amount, but she wasn’t really rich, and cutting into her savings that much would be unwise.

   Then again, it would probably be more unwise to get herself executed, her body dumped in an abandoned field somewhere.

   —And don’t think of cheating me,— rumpelstiltskin added. —I know. I see. I watch. If you succeed and don’t wire me the money, you’ll pay in other ways.—

   She agreed, and within a few minutes, he emailed her a lengthy document on the PR strategy to take, including speeches, newspaper advertisements, TV stations to contact, what to say. It also included detailed dossiers on the The King’s detractors.

   The PR rebuttal campaign was a success. The King’s detractors found their credibility in shambles within a few days, and The King’s ratings went up.

   “You’ve spun this garbage of a scandal into gold!” The King praised, and without warning, he planted a kiss on her lips.

   Milla was taken aback, but she was not at all repelled. Despite his unsavory reputation, The King was a handsome bachelor in his late 30s, very smart and a graduate of a top university. And Milla? She was single at 28. And, despite being attractive, a virgin. She smiled.

   She wired Php50,000.00 to rumpelstiltskin’s account.

   It was on the first day of the campaign period that The King found himself plagued by another scandal, this time involving prostitution rings he was protecting.

   She was given three days to fix it.

   Or else.

   Again she was at her wit’s end by the second night. She couldn’t think of anything, not when there were pictures of The King visiting these whorehouses and money being passed on to him by the owners of the fucking places.

   Past midnight, just as she was contemplating on the most painless way to commit suicide, her social media account once again notified her of a pending message.

   —I can help you,— rumpelstiltskin said. In the darkness of Milla’s office, the bright light of the computer screen seemed hypnotic.

   “How much?” Milla asked.

   —Php100,000.00.—

   Milla would be cleaning out her life savings if she did this, but if she didn’t, her life would be over anyway.

   rumpelstiltskin sent what she needed.

   Once again, it was an astounding PR success. All the accusations were “disproven,” and The King even gained sympathy from the masses.

   “You’re the best,” The King told her in a private moment. “You can turn trash into gold, just like your father promised.” He took her aside, gave her a soft kiss, then said, “Milla, will you marry me? I need someone like you in my life.”

   It was unexpected, they weren’t even dating, but it wasn’t an unattractive proposal. Milla had no more savings, and being married to The King would bring her security. Besides, he was handsome, and she wasn’t getting any younger.

   She said yes.

   They agreed to announce the engagement after the elections.

   Days before the Miting De Avance, another scandal broke out. He was being accused of setting up a hit on someone who had just come from betting at the horse tracks. Not that this was new – rumors had always been around about his “ways” – but this time, there was strong evidence. Milla couldn’t quite wrap the details around her head because she knew, from a PR standpoint, that she was in trouble again.

   And she wasn’t sure that she was safe from being executed even though he was her fiancé now.

   “Help me,” she messaged rumpelstiltskin that exact same day. Why wait?

   —And can you still afford it?— rumpelstiltskin replied.

   “Please,” she said, “I have no more savings. My life is on the line.”

   —I’ll make you a deal,— he said. —I won’t ask money this time, but the moment you and The King have a baby, I will take the baby.—

   “What? Why would I have a…”

   —I know. I see. I watch. Don’t lie to me, Milla Kiskisan. You and The King are going to get married. Once you have a baby, the baby will be mine. I’ve always wanted a baby. Babies are nice. I would like to know what it feels to have a baby in my arms.—

   “No, I can’t,” Milla replied.

   —Very well,— rumpelstiltskin said. —Then I can’t help you. Good night.—

   “Wait!” Milla typed immediately.

   —Yes?—

   It wasn’t like this asshole would be really able to take her baby, right? He was some stranger behind the screen. Who was to say she’d even have a baby, anyway? And if worse comes to worse, if she did bear a child and he tried to make his claim – she could always get The King, her future husband, to have him killed.

   Right?

   “Okay,” she agreed. “My future baby.”

   The King was once again saved from the scandal, and on the night of the Miting de Avance, he surprised Milla by announcing their engagement to the audience. There were cheers from the townspeople. They had long been wondering why The King had never married, and now that he was engaged, they found him even more appealing.

   Family men made the best leaders, correct?

   The King won his second term as mayor by a landslide, and the following month, a day after he was sworn into office, he married Milla.

   After their wedding, The King insisted Milla no longer work for him. She was to be a woman of leisure now, living the wealthy life by his side. He hired a different PR person, and although the new guy was skilled, The King always felt that Milla was still the best PR person he ever had. “My gold spinner,” he called her.

   For the first few months of their marriage, Milla tried her best not to conceive. She took birth control pills, and where she could, she avoided sex – or did other things for her husband. Not that it was difficult, as The King always seemed quite tired from work, but during those few times that they slept together, she found ways of keeping things less risky.

   A year after their wedding, Milla found herself pregnant.

   —Congratulations!— was the simple message that rumpelstiltskin sent her the day she learned she was pregnant. rumpelstiltskin had not messaged her since the last time he helped her. A dread slowly crept into her body.

   She contemplated getting rid of the baby, but The King was so excited by the news that she knew if she tried such a stunt she would follow her baby into death. Besides, at this point, she wasn’t sure rumpelstiltskin would let her get away with it, either.

   As the months went by, her feeling of dread grew. Finally, a month before her due date, she messaged rumpelstiltskin.

   “Please,” she said, “don’t take my baby. Please.”

   —I’m not an evil man,— he replied, —but you gambled with me, and you lost. But I’ll let our deal go on one condition. You have to tell me who I really am.—

   Then he logged out.

   Milla tried all resources she could. She asked an IT friend to trace the username and his ISP, but it was unsuccessful. She called in a favor from a friend in the banking industry, but the accounts she had wired the money to before apparently never existed. She even hired a private investigator – “Be discreet!” – to no avail.

   It was the strangest of things.

   The day after she gave birth to a baby boy, she got a message from rumpelstiltskin. —Have you figured it out yet?—

   It was the following Friday night when Milla woke up from an uneasy sleep, The King snoring beside her.

   Something was wrong.

   She sat up in bed, and by the crib at the other end of the dark room, a tall man in black stood. He had taken the baby in his arms.

   “No!” she cried, but only a squeak came out.

   The man turned to look at her, his eyes red, a malignant smile on his lips. Behind him, her computer’s monitor turned on, and in the bright light emanating from the screen, she saw in large letters a statement that scrolled endlessly therein.

   Kill Mister Punts.

   “Kill Mister Punts?” she screamed, and The King woke up, startled.

   “What did you say?” he said, alarmed.

   “Kill Mister Punts,” she replied. “What does that mean?”

   “He’s dead!” The King said, leaping up and grabbing her by the arms. “That gambling bastard is dead!”

   —Have you figured it out yet?—

   “Who’s Mister Punts?”

   “I didn’t want to do it, but he wanted us to expose our relationship. He wanted us to be a family. Do you realize what that would mean for my political career?”

   —I’ve always wanted a baby.—

   Milla felt The King’s hands around her neck.

   —His baby.—

   “I had to order it,” The King said. “Right after he came out of the race track. He loved to bet. He loved to punt. Drigo found him there and shot him.”

   —You couldn’t figure out who I am.—

   As she was about to lose consciousness, Milla saw the man in black approaching them. The King didn’t seem to see him.

   —So your baby is mine.—

   He touched The King at the back of his head, and The King went into a seizure. His eyes rolled up, and his mouth began to froth. Within seconds, The King lay dying at Milla’s feet.

   —Milla, you were the best PR stunt he ever pulled.—

   “Kill Mister Punts,” The King murmured repeatedly until his last breath.

   —Kill Mister Punts.—

   rumpelstiltskin slowly faded into the darkness, the baby in his arms.

   *** END ***

2. # 2 the boomerang kid Says:
   May 14th, 2014 at 19:30

   THE DUENDE AND THE SHOEMAKER
   In the 80s Greggy was a shoemaker from Marikina who worked in a small factory that made ladies’ slippers. In his free time, he tried to make shoes in the living room of his small house. He made his son Ogie wear it to check if the shoe was good or not. He thought that if it were good, then he wouldn’t have to buy shoes for his son, and he would save money.
   Unfortunately, the shoes that he had been making for his son were mostly bad. Some were ill-fitting and therefore uncomfortable to wear, some were not made well that they fell apart after a few dozen steps, and others were designed so poorly that not even he could look at it. Greggy was becoming desperate. At first he thought he was buying the wrong materials. Later he began to doubt his own skills at shoemaking.
   “Maybe you ought to stick to making ladies’ slippers,” his wife advised. “You’re very good with that.”
   But Gerry was determined to make a great pair of shoes. One day, inspiration hit him hard. It was so keen that it made his head tingle and his skin crawl with excitement. He left work early and started making the shoe in his mind as soon as he got home. He didn’t stop until the shoe was finished two nights later.
   His wife, who got worried that he had some mental breakdown, was the first to notice the new pair of shoes. She asked her son to try it on. They boy smiled as soon as his foot slid into the shoe. And when he took a few steps, he gushed. “This is nice! Can I wear it to school tomorrow?”
   The following morning, Greggy’s son walked to school with a new spring on his feet. His classmates noticed his shoes and they liked it so much that they wanted to know where he got them. When he went home that afternoon, he brought with him a couple of classmates who asked Greggy if he could make the same shoes for them.
   After that, it seemed that every boy in his son’s school wanted Greggy’s shoes. It got so popular that the boys who had them began calling the shoes “Gregs”. Greggy thought it was probably because his shoes were cheaper than those that can be bought in shops. He didn’t use the most expensive materials but he made them so exquisitely that the shoes looked expensive. He was soon swamped with orders that he was forced to resign from the factory so he could focus on shoemaking.
   When the waiting period for Greggy’s shoes lengthened and more orders started coming in, he hired other shoemakers. In less than a year he was able to acquire a property which he converted into a workshop, where they produced Greggy’s shoes for boys of all ages.
   Greggy couldn’t believe his luck. He was glad to quit his job making slippers because shoemaking was his real passion. And his shoes were selling very well. However, he later realized that he couldn’t focus on the joy of shoemaking because his responsibilities increased as he tried to manage his growing business. He didn’t enjoy dealing with the day-to-day operations of the workshop, bargaining with the suppliers, and supervising his fellow shoemakers. He’d rather be making shoes in his own house, like he used to do.
   So when a representative of Crosby Shoes paid him a visit and offered to buy Gregs, Greggy was visibly pleased. Mr Crosby said they were willing to pay him handsomely for his shoes. “You and your family will be set for life,” he promised with a chummy wink.
   Greggy quickly accepted the offer and soon Gregs were being made in Crosby Shoes’ factories in Laguna and sold in department stores under the brand of Crosby Shoes. Greggy bought a house and lot in one of Marikina’s most exclusive subdivisions. He also built a small workshop within the property so he can still make shoes just for his own pleasure. His son Ogie, who was expecting to inherit his father’s successful company, resented Greggy’s decision to sell. So Ogie asked his father for his inheritance, went away, and never returned.
   Crosby Shoes became the country’s largest shoe company, largely due to the huge sales of Gregs shoes. Meanwhile, the money that Greggy got from the sale of his start-up company did not last very long.
   Greggy tried to start new lines of shoes but these attempts were not met with even moderate success. They were utter failures. He made shoes using the most expensive and luxurious leathers and materials but still not many wanted to buy them. He lost more money than he made them and eventually he and his wife moved to a small house because he was forced to sell their house in the exclusive subdivision.
   He tried to get his old job back at the slipper factory but the manager thought he was too old and was turned down.
   Years passed. Greggy and his wife now make a living running a small store in front of their house. When his wife felt strong enough, she made rags from fabric scraps using an old sewing machine. They barely earn enough for their meals. The owner of their house is threatening to evict them because they haven’t been able to pay their rent for the last two months.
   A neighbor took pity on them and gave Greggy some money. Greggy used it buy food and some leather. His wife thought buying leather was a foolish thing to do. Greggy hasn’t made a shoe in years.
   That night, Greggy started cutting the leather. He realized he couldn’t see well in the dingy light of the bulb so he decided to just make the shoe in the morning. Greggy went to bed. For the first time in months, he slept quite well.
   In the morning, Greggy’s wife woke him. “It’s almost ten,” she said. He got up quickly, knowing he had work to do. To his surprise, the leather that he cut wasn’t in the table. There was food instead. Bread, some fruit and some cans of condensed milk, which was his favorite.
   His wife brought him a cup of coffee and sat beside him. “I sold the shoe at the market this morning. A man liked it very much and paid good money for it. I was able to pay half of what we owe in rent, buy food, our medicines,” she said, smiling.
   Then she handed Greggy some bills. “Here. I think this is enough to get more leather.”
   Greggy was astonished, but he kept quiet. He silently thanked whoever it was who finished the shoe while he slept. He knew he wouldn’t be able to finish a shoe in one night even if he tried. That same afternoon Greggy bought more leather and after cutting it there was enough leather for two pairs of shoes. Then he went to bed.
   Sometime after midnight Greggy woke up and sneaked out of the room so he could see who was making the shoes. He saw three small creatures handling the leather and wielding his tools as they made the shoes. They looked human because they had two arms and stood on two legs but their skin gleamed un-naturally. They were naked but Greggy couldn’t tell if they were male or female.
   They moved swiftly but nimbly. Greggy saw the beginnings of a shoe shortly after seeing them. When they finished, they disappeared between the wooden slats of the floor.
   Greggy stepped out of his hiding place, his joints creaking as he stood and walked. He inspected the shoes. They were impeccably made. The design was simple yet very elegant. They looked very expensive. He went to bed happily.
   The following morning Greggy himself went to the market and sold both shoes for an even better price. Before going back home he bought leather enough for three pairs of shoes. He then gave half of what remained to his wife. “Pay the rest of our rent and keep the rest,” he instructed her.
   “How did you manage to make two pairs of shoes in one night,” she asked.
   That night, Greggy woke his wife and together they sneaked into the dining room so she could see for herself.
   This time there were five creatures. Greggy’s wife made a small noise and one of the creatures looked up, its pointed ears erect. He covered his wife’s mouth. After a few moments it went back to its work. Less than an hour later they all vanished in the same manner.
   Greggy’s wife looked astonished as they inspected the handiwork of the creatures.
   “I never thought I’d see them in my lifetime but I think those were duende,” she said. “The question is, are they puti or itim?”
   Greggy laughed. “I don’t care what color they are, as long as they keep making these fine shoes, we’ll be all right!”
   “But they’re helping us so they couldn’t be the bad kind, right?”
   Greggy didn’t pay attention to his wife’s question. He was already thinking of buying enough leather to make ten pairs of shoes tomorrow. He was already remembering his first taste of success years ago, with his Gregs shoes. He was already thinking of new names for his new line of shoes, of how he will sell them.
   “But how do we repay their kindness,” Greggy’s wife continued.
   However, Greggy was already thinking of the workshop he will build for his little shoemakers, how many shoes they will produce in a night, and how much money he will be able to make. He was giddy at the prospect of finding success again. But most of all, Greggy was thinking that no matter how much money is dangled in front of him, he will never sell this shoe line to a large company the way he readily did Gregs shoes.
   The next day, Gerry went home, lugging leather enough to make twenty pairs of shoes. He found his wife busy on their old sewing machine. “Are you making baby clothes,” Greggy asked when he inspected the stack of sewn fabric in front of his wife.
   “I don’t know if you noticed, but our duende-friends are stark naked,” she replied. They might be cold, you know.”
   Greggy smiled.
   “It’s the least we could do,” she said as she resumed sewing.
   When evening came Greggy decided not to cut the leather and went straight to bed. He thought his duende-shoemakers can do it themselves. “I have rewarded them, after all,” he thought to himself. He put the clothes his wife made beside the leather.
   When midnight struck, as Greggy and his wife slept peacefully, the duende emerged from their homes and looked at all the leather in front of them. Then they noticed the colorful clothes. One of them tried it on, saw that it looked good, and it pranced happily. When the others saw it they too put on the clothes. Soon all of them were clothed, and they were dancing around the table. They were ecstatic to receive the clothing because it meant they could go home again.
   Years ago, they were convicted of different crimes and as punishment were stripped of their garments and were exiled in the human realm, forcing them to serve humans indefinitely. Their sentence will end, enabling them to return home, only when their human masters offered them clothing.
   Greggy woke up to see the leather still on the table. He and his wife never see the duende again.

3. # 3 allancarreon Says:
   May 14th, 2014 at 21:45

   The Belly of the Wolf
   Allan Carreon

   Wolfgang loved cars. Or rather, he loved stealing them.

   He wasn’t rich, just above average as they would say, and if he didn’t steal cars, he’d never get any of these shiny fast things that he so loved to collect. Well, he couldn’t very well collect them in huge numbers – people would begin to suspect, and besides, his secret garage outside the city could only hold up to five cars – so whenever he wanted a new one, he would cannibalize the one he was tired of the most, sell the parts, then move on to find a new victim.

   The latest one he was eyeing was a gorgeous two-seater Porsche. It was unusual, not just because Porsches were an unusual sight in the streets of Manila, but because it was painted curiously. It was silver except for the hood, which was painted a bright red. The car had caught his eye one evening when he was driving his recently acquired Ford Escape near Rockwell, and he was sorely tempted to take it right there and then, but he had no space yet in his garage.

   He did, however, manage to get the license plate. And in any case, that was his M.O. He was not one for confrontation if he could help it. He learned this the hard way the first time he stole a car in the middle of Quezon Avenue; after forcing a couple out of a Nissan before midnight, he found himself in a chase with the police. He made it to safety, but he knew he didn’t want that again.

   So instead he did his homework. When he found a car he wanted, he researched. He stalked. He learned about its owner, who drove it, where, when. He even went so far as to learn about their family, their friends, their habits.

   He didn’t like to think he was some kind of sociopath.

   He just loved cars.

   The owner of the red-hooded Porsche, he found out, was a pretty young girl who was twenty years old even though she looked sixteen. She was petite, pretty, and had such lovely curves that Wolfgang was tempted to take more than just the car. A college student, she lived practically alone in the family mansion in Forbes Park, an only child whose parents were always on business outside the country. The only relative she had here was a grandmother who lived in Laguna.

   Normally, it would be easy to just fake his way into a subdivision and steal a car – something he’d done a few times before – but this was no ordinary subdivision, and this was no ordinary mansion. Aside from tight community security, Little Miss Red Hood had her own squad of well-armed security guards in the mansion, not to mention a fleet of domestic helpers. When she went to school, it was a private institution that was not easy to penetrate, either.

   It was almost by sheer luck, one Saturday afternoon, that he learned that Little Miss Red Hood was going to visit her sick grandmother the next day. What a little research and stalking could do.

   The good thing was that he knew that Grandma dearest, unlike her more ostentatious progeny, lived alone in Laguna in a modest home. She had no other household members. It would be easy to take the car from there.

   So it was that he found himself following Little Miss Red Hood the next day. He was on the highway, always several cars behind her, until he saw her make a pit stop in a gasoline station. He saw her go into one of the fast-food joints, presumably for breakfast, and Wolfgang decided this would be the perfect time for him to go ahead and wait in Grandma’s house.

   Soon after, he was parking his car – the Wolf, as he called it, in honor of, well, himself, obviously – just outside Grandma’s house. He would miss the Wolf; he planned to leave it here after he stole the Porsche, and he had already stripped it of any and all identifying markers. He even wore gloves today to ensure it would never be traced back to him.

   Grandma’s house was a two-story dwelling with a two-car garage; it was situated in a new development in the area, and the surrounding lots were still empty. The nearest house was several blocks away. This was the perfect scene for the perfect crime. He knew that he had to get into the property now before Little Miss Red Hood arrived. She would be parking the car inside the fenced lot, for sure, and once she went into the house, he would sneak into the car and drive it away.

   As he climbed over the fence, he noticed movement inside the house. Just as he jumped into the garden, Grandma came striding out the front door, a shotgun in her hand.

   “Get out!” she cried, firing at him.

   Wolfgang barely avoided the shot as he ran for Grandma. All he had been planning to do was knock her unconscious, but in the struggle, he hit her so hard on the head that – when she landed on the concrete garage floor – she began to bleed.

   She was dead, wasn’t she?

   No, this wasn’t part of the plan. But he had no choice now. He was already here, and Little Miss Red Hood was arriving soon. He had to act fast. He placed Grandma in the trunk of the Wolf. He would decide later what to do with the body. For now, he had to focus on his plans.

   Just as he was entering the house, he heard the gates open. Little Miss Red Hood was here, and she was about to park the Porsche.

   In a panic, Wolfgang ran up the stairs, thinking of simply hiding in the bedroom, but then he remembered Little Miss Red Hood would be suspicious that poor sick Grandma was nowhere around. Without thinking about it, Wolfgang found himself taking some clothes out of Grandma’s closet, wearing them hastily, then jumping into bed and wrapping a blanket around himself, including his head. Only his eyes were visible as he tucked himself into bed.

   He turned his head away from the door just as Little Miss Red Hood entered the room.

   This was stupid, but what could he do?

   “Grandma, are you feeling better?”

   “I’m fine, dear,” Wolfgang replied in a falsetto.

   Little Miss Red Hood made her way around the room. “I brought food, Grandma,” she said. She looked at Wolfgang’s eyes underneath the blanket and squinted. “My, what strange eyes you have, Grandma.”

   “The better to…”

   “You’re not Grandma!”

   Little Miss Red Hood screamed, and Wolfgang leapt out of bed. He clamped her hands on her mouth, and the girl struggled furiously. Before he knew it, Wolfgang was twisting her head. She went limp.

   Did he kill her, too?

   Ah, fuck it. There wasn’t any other choice.

   Within a few minutes, he was dragging her body out of the house, planning to dump her in Wolf’s trunk like Grandma. Then he would drive off with the Porsche.

   Not the cleanest of plans, but better than nothing given how supremely botched up everything had been.

   When he opened the trunk, it took a moment to register that Grandma’s body was no longer there. He dropped the girl’s body onto the ground, and just as he was about to turn around, he felt something hard hit him on the nape.

   Then everything went black.

   Wolfgang wasn’t quite sure how long it had been since he went unconscious, but now he was slowly waking up. It was dark, and he felt as though he was in a moving vehicle.

   He was in Wolf’s trunk.

   And he was being taken somewhere.

   He pounded hard against the metal above him, screaming at them to let him go, but it was useless. Minutes later, he felt the car stopping.

   “We lucked into this one,” said a girl’s voice somewhere outside. Little Miss Red Hood. “We didn’t even have to hunt.”

   “What an idiot,” said another voice. A male one. “What do you think he was doing in your house?”

   “Robbery? Murder?” It was Grandma, it seemed. “Who knows? Who cares?”

   “Ah well, at least our pack will get to feast earlier this month. It’s not even the full moon yet.”

   Wolfgang heard a chorus of laughter outside. Then, this was followed by a cacophony of strange howls.

   Like the howls of… wolves.

   And they sounded hungry.

   “Hey,” he heard the young girl say, “don’t forget to save the blood for me. You know I love to use that as a fresh coat of paint for the hood of my car.”

   ** END ***

4. # 4 Isabel Juarez Says:
   May 15th, 2014 at 08:09

   No Other Way

   Every girl’s dream. It is what everyone would say about him. He is too handsome, too rich for the one ugly and cheap detail he posses to go unnoticed. It’s not obvious though, that unlikely attitude he possesses, but if your eyes are keen enough, you’ll see it.
   He’s got over 6,000 followers on Twitter and 8,000 on Instagram. He is, indeed, famous.
   And all his ‘fans’ see one thing about him: Awesomeness.

   “Soliiiid! Mah nigga!” says the guy who just took a picture of his reflection on the mirror. It was for today’s #ootd of his and he just can’t miss it. Every day is about OOTD. Atleast, for him. “Thats so true OMG whe have to tell our niggas but they’re still at Tags pa so we tell them after they got back na.” continued the same guy in boyish conyo language. “Sure. I’m going now. I’ll see you later.” said Josh in smooth dialect. He is by far the most respectable guy in their gang of well-off teens. He clothes himself under maong pants – not to fit nor too loose, Converse shoes – with socks of course, and mostly plaid collared tees – with thin sando underneath, without taking any pictures for the rather eminent social hashtag trends ootd, ootn, sotd and whatnot. Out went Josh leaving his friend alone at Starbucks, their morning hangout place, and sometimes in the afternoons too. This guy looked around for something interesting to watch. He likes doing that – observing people, animals and cars from afar and criticizing them in his thoughts as if he has every right to judge anyone and anything. But it was always in his mind, in his own universe of hurtful commentaries and awful sentiments. He noticed that there was no one around him. Most of the people chose to place themselves in the upper floor of the store leaving him in isolation. It was only him and his frappe. He sees an old woman was walking his way. Instantly, he felt pity for the old lady but without missing side comments about how ugly and dirty she looked. He then started to blame the elderly’s family for not taking care of her when this woman raised them. ‘Mga walang kwenta.’ Of course, he didn’t know that this woman has no family at all. As the woman approaches, he pulled out his wallet from his Jansport bag and picked a few skyblue bills. When the old woman was within his reach, he grabbed her lightly and handed her the bills. ‘Ew. Yuck. She’s so filthy.’ “What is this for?” asked the woman. Her eyes are watery which made her look even more pitiful. “For you. Just a little help.” responded the guy coolly. “This is too much. Anyway, I don’t need them.” the old woman placed the bills at the table where his bag is. “Not because I look like this, I need help.” continued the woman and gave a polite smile. The guy, already raging inside his head, kept his cool and raised a brow at the old lady – he just can’t help it, he has a bucket of overflowing pride inside his cranium. “Oh? But c’mon man, it’s so obvious that you’re suffering po. Take it na lang po. I won’t go hungry without it.” said the guy with a fake smile. “But I am not hungry nor am I suffering.” answered the woman in deep dialect. She was talking like she was in the 80s. SO old school, thought the guy. “Ok, fine. Ang pangit mo, ang baho mo tapos hindi ka pa tatanggap ng blessing? God what are you.” the guy made a waving motion with his hand as if to dismiss the old woman. “I am a goddess.” she answered and started to walk away. With that, the guy laughed so hard he felt a six-pack showing up in his abdominal muscles. The guy finds it so funny he tweeted about it but without his nasty side comments. This is what he wrote: May dumaang matandang babae. ‘I’m a goddess’ sabi n’ya sakin. HAHA. OMG funny woman. Love you po! After a minute, his tweet was flooded with favorites and replies. It even trended nationwide.

   He didn’t know what he got himself into.

   Belle, one of the three daughters of a market vendor named Macario Dimasilayan, had recently joined the Velez group of Housemaids. They weren’t called like that or anything but this family has too many housemaids at their disposal it holds that title among the high personalities of the society. But if you own a mansion, surely you would need a lot of help in maintaining its glamour. The housemaids, to be distinguished from their masters, wear a specially made uniform. It wasn’t embarassing because after all, they weren’t allowed to leave the house. Belle was given a special work because, well, she was pretty. She is now the young master’s ‘yaya’, not that he needed one. Yes, the young master is a guy. His parents reasoned that his son must see something pleasant and with vitality. It was only good for his eyes. For them, Belle was the best exemplary figure of pleasantness and of vitality because, well, for one thing she is alive. Belle met the young master two weeks ago and somehow they got accustomed to each other’s presence. She acknowledges the beauty of him and respects him for that. He has so much appeal and a very impressive physique it would be impossible to ignore him. But everytime the ugly side of him shows up, she forgets everything beautiful in him and sees a monster despite his flawless almost poreless skin.
   The young master, no one actually call him like that though, had arrived for Belle can here his familiar footsteps. Just hearing the staccato his shoes makes against the marble floor, you sense the great feel of self-confidence about him. “Hey Belle. Make me a lemonade. And bring some belgian waffles.” is the greeting of the young master. He said it without even looking at her. Belle immediately obeyed and after five minutes, she went up to the room of the royal highness. “Sir.” she said and laid the tray with food on his bed. She was about to sit on the couch next to his bed when he ordered “Give me a massage.” Without hesitation, Bell obeyed. After the massage, the young master felt very much relaxed he fell asleep without touching his food. Before he slept though, he uttered a few words to Belle. It was something about an experience he couldn’t get over with. “There was a funny old hag whom I met earlier. She actually said she was a goddess. Who is she kidding. Ha ha!”

   A loud scream was heard from the young master’s room. It was Belle shouting from the top of her lungs to the bottom of her toes. The young master’s parents came rushing to their son’s room as well as the guards and some maids. They saw Belle near the door. She looked very scared and frantic she couldn’t say a word. They kept on asking what was wrong but she couldn’t answer.

   Amidst all the commotion, a big shadow of unrecognizable stature rose and towered over them. They slowly turned to look what it was.
   They saw a beast.
   This time, no one made a sound.
   It was an eight foot tall creature with oversized muscles, his thighs about a hundred centimeters in diameter. Instead of skin, it has fur – a darker shade of brown. Its face look like a lion’s without the whiskers but somehow distorted with larger fangs and bigger eyes.
   It spoke, “It’s me, George.”
   The young master turned into a monster. Odd enough, he still has the same voice.
   A note flew inside the room and rested in George’s hands. It read:
   “I was not jesting when I told you I was a goddess. You need to change, I see, therefore I made you into what you really are. Together with this note is a magical rose. It would be your stopwatch, your clock. When the rose dies, you will stay like the monster you are forever. To save you, a woman must love you the way you are. Good luck George.”
   Upon reading the note, mixed emotions sprang in George’s heart. He is worried but he does not fully believe it at the same time. Out came the words he thought he could never say all his life.

   “But I’m gay.”

5. # 5 madewart Says:
   May 16th, 2014 at 12:11

   “What the hell is going on? I lock the door to your bedroom every night, and yet, every morning, I find a dozen pairs of sad-looking shoes outside your room!” yelled Dad. I rolled my eyes. It was the same old routine. He’d demand answers and we would feign deafness or muteness or both.

   He thought he would find out what we were up to when he turned our 3 bedrooms into one giant bedroom and locked us up every night himself as though we were prisoners. He thought he would figure it all out after he installed CCTV and hired a guard. But, we always found a way to work around him. Twelve determined brains are better than one, after all, even if he is a master of the universe known as Wall Street. What man could resist the whispered promises of twelve would-be seductresses? And when all else failed, drugs never did

   What Dad didn’t know is that we snuck out at midnight to dance in Underground, an exclusive masquerade party organized by a secret society and hosted in turn by the hottest clubs in Manhattan. Nobody recognized us as we were always ushered in through the VIP entrance almost as soon as we alit from our limos. Although we walked in as a group, we never dressed alike (totally lame), and always wore masks in keeping with the theme. The masks were cumbersome, but they allowed us the freedom to do our thing incognito. It also helped that the secret society had a zero tolerance cellphone policy. So much for social media.

   Dad grew increasingly desperate. He wanted answers. He needed to know. So unbeknownst to all of us, he apparently sent out an APB to all the guys who worked for him to find out what we were up to. The reward? A fast-track promotion to Managing Director. Considering that my Dad ran Silverman Blacks, the largest and most successful firm in Wall Street, there was a lot at stake. Of course, if they failed, Dad would roar “You’re fired” in his best Donald Trump voice.

   I got wind of Dad’s plan when Mark, a sleazy trader, showed up for dinner and said, “Just tell me where you’re going tonight, so I can get my promotion and marry you”.
   As if! At midnight, as we began to get dressed, Elaine, my eldest sister heard him pacing outside our door. She started humming Michael Jackson’s “Another one bites the dust” . That was my cue.

   “Hey, you”, I cooed, in a voice laden with the promise of sex “Care to join us for a drink?” Mark couldn’t resist. He thought his promotion (and the 6 figure bonus) was in his pocket. He walked into our dimly lit bedroom and drank the drugged scotch I offered him. He slumped on the floor and, it was easy enough to move him back to the hallway outside our room. After all, we’d drugged so many guards/detectives/repairmen/handymen before. We put on our masks, and left.

   The following morning, when Dad walked in, and saw our ruined shoes as well as poor Mark (and Tom and Dick and Harry after him in the following weeks), he was
   nearly apoplectic with rage. At the rate things were going, there wouldn’t be anyone left to do the actual work at Silverman Blacks.

   This went on for several months, until George, the clerk from accounting volunteered to take the job on. George was Mr. Cellophane from “Chicago” the musical. You could look right through him and walk right through him and never know he was there. He was entirely unremarkable — just another clichéd stuffed shirt with a pocket calculator. I didn’t notice the twinkle in his eye or the hint of intelligence behind his carefully composed demeanor.

   When my sister cooed, “Come here, George”, he came over willingly and seemed to drink the scotch. I was meant to make sure that he drank it, but was momentarily distracted and didn’t realize that he had actually managed to spill most of it down the front of his shirt. He pretended to sleep, but had actually caught us opening the door to the panic room the former occupant had built.

   I thought I felt someone behind me, but we always kept the lights off, so I couldn’t see him. I thought I heard footsteps behind, but Cecily said I was hearing things. Little did we know that he had followed us down to the tunnel that led to the parking building, where the limos were waiting.

   He used his everyman invisibility to his advantage and followed us to the Grove, Float and Twilo. He pocketed a silver branch from the Grove that I had touched, a decorative glass from Float that Elaine drank from and a fork from Twilo that my sister Cecily had used.

   When we arrived back home at dawn, he was curled up on the floor. I thought he snored louder than our other victims, but Elaine just said he was probably dumber than most. As usual, we put our discarded shoes around him like an offering. I felt a little sorry that his career was over.

   The next morning, Dad didn’t yell. In fact, he was grinning from ear-to-ear. George had produced his souvenirs and promised to show him the panic room as soon as we had left the room. “DNA, doesn’t lie, my dear’’, Dad said. “No more secrets”.

   George got his promotion. I married him soon after.

   And just like that, the party was over.

6. # 6 joyeah Says:
   May 17th, 2014 at 12:52

   Nieves

   Our barrio’s greatest defining characteristic is arguably its complete and utter lack of incredulity. This virtue, if virtue it may be, results in that which is improbable and unbelievable for some, we would accept as fact and with nary an iota of doubt. Thus we spend our days in an almost constant state of awe over one thing or another. One day it’s mermaid bones along the seashore; the next it’s a vicious aswang, heard flapping its wings at night and hitting nipa roofs with loud thuds. Stories of Tawong Lipod told to keep our children off the streets at night, frighten our adults almost as much; keeping us all wary when coming to wooded Iraya, with its looming trees and grassy, untended lots.

   In many ways, some of our barrio folk are even more fantastical. Old Nay Aida for one, who is small and stooped, and who everyone says is hundreds of years old. Our grandmothers remember her in their youth to have been as ancient as she is now; her ten-meter-long hair just as snowy white. She still keeps it braided in one long coil which she would then rope around her waist. It is said that every full moon she would go to the river and sit by the bank to unwound and wash it. The long, thick locks would spread out and turn silvery in the moonlight, and when Nay Aida pulls it out of the water, fat wriggling fishes would be caught in the strands.

   There’s also poor, mad Carmen, who made a deal with an unano to exchange her own baby for a million pesos. No one thought the strange little man would actually take the deal seriously, but though the dwarf hasn’t been seen since, Carmen received the check on the very next day. A fortnight has since passed but Carmen still has her baby, though now she sits inside her house all day long, never letting the baby out of her sight even for a second.

   Then there’s Salve, the girl who’s gone missing. Her father was going to marry her to a widower twice her age when they say an engkanto in the guise of a frog persuaded her to come marry her instead. We last saw Salve running towards Iraya, never looking back even once.

   People from urban places who come to visit us shake their heads and smile at our backwardness. They wonder amongst themselves how we can be so gullible in this day and age, saying it must be the remoteness of our barrio, our isolation from the center of the town. Take a picture with your phones and show us proof, they retort whenever we tell them our stories. We smile back, let them say what they want, and carry on doing what we always do; and when one of them starts complaining about sudden piercing headaches or of insects coming out of their mouths, our albularyos would be ready with their plates and their candles for the santigwar.

   Albularyos are regarded with the deepest respect in our place, for they bridge the gap between us and the unknown. They are able to reduce the inexplicable abstractedness of pain into something we can understand and cope with. But perhaps our cynical visitors are right when they say that such reverence is unhealthy, for these albularyos are mere human beings and not infallible. Consorting with engkantos however, demands that they do things we ordinary people are unwilling to do, and this can sometimes produce adverse effects on their hearts and minds.

   Take the case of Viring for instance.

   Severina Gragas was the local partera who also used to be our most famous albularyo. Known far and wide for her healing expertise, even people from the city acknowledged that there was something powerful in her ministrations. Patients afflicted with terminal illnesses flocked to her little hut to be cured.
   Viring was a sullen, reclusive woman. For the most part of her life she lived on her own, until her ward Nieves came to live with her. It was through her job as partera that she found the girl.

   Sixteen years before, a heavily pregnant Aeta was seen trudging out of Iraya and walking up to Viring’s house. It was said that she struck a forlorn figure standing outside the fence, not saying nor doing anything. Viring eventually had to persuade her to enter and ask her what the trouble was.

   But all the woman could say were muttered, barely coherent proclamations that she was going to have a baby and that her baby was going to be the death of her. “Ako ma-aki, asin ako magagadan. Ay! pahigdaa man ako tabi ta makaturog na ako.”

   So Viring bid her lay down on the bed, but no sooner had her head touched the pillow when blood gushed out from between her legs and the sad, brown eyes gazing up at the rafters of Viring’s house looked without seeing.

   It seemed as if the woman had already been in labor for days before she even reached Viring’s house. This was what Viring told us the very next day. After some prodding, she grudgingly filled us curious neighbors in on what happened. It was a wonder she even managed to walk all the way here, said Viring.

   But the baby! we all exclaimed; for there in the middle of Viring’s papag, swaddled in bloody white sheets and sleeping quite peacefully, was a dark, curly-haired little Aeta child. Viring said she couldn’t very well leave the thing inside her dead mother’s womb. We were careful not to let our unease show and murmured praises over her ability to perform miracles. “Marhay na lang ta nai-salvar mo pa baya! Suwerte iyang akus na iyan simo, Viring.”

   What if someone comes looking for her, we asked.

   Then I’d give her back, said Viring, but no one will. You’ll see. “Isinumpa an akus na yan. Ukun suwerte kundi malas an ma-abot sakuya.”

   Through the years we waited for this pronouncement of ill-luck to come true, but all evidence suggested that the girl, who was called Nieves, was proving to be very lucky indeed for Viring. Not once did she lose another patient to childbirth again. It was said she could restore a person on death’s door back to the peak of health merely through her orasyon. Her scrying powers in particular, took on an astounding quality. Her plate and candles didn’t just show her the duwendes and spirits hounding her patients; they also revealed to her the person’s darkest secrets, the deepest desires of their hearts. Some were starting to claim she saw the whole future at the back of her plate.

   Which was why it baffled us why she treated her ward the way she did: coldly, almost disdainfully. It was not as if Nieves grew up to be a willful child; on the contrary, it seemed to us she was the best daughter any mother could have hoped for, sweet and kind and always polite. There was, however, an otherworldly air about her that was almost disconcerting. Perhaps it was the curious way her large, round eyes would stare at you, pupils dilating in wonder, as if seeing things we ordinary folks couldn’t. With her dark brown skin that set her slightly apart from us lighter-toned folks, and the untamed tight curls growing all over her head like a halo, we found her enchanting.

   What happened the year Nieves turned sixteen none of us can understand, and perhaps none of us ever will. The facts as we know them nonetheless go thus: One afternoon a fisherman named Jose came to Viring’s house to ask her to cure her son’s polio. He found the albularyo sitting in the steps of her porch with the girl. Nieves’s delicate fingers held the lighted candle firmly while Viring hummed an orasyon and dipped her finger in oil. She took a white porcelain plate, turned it over, and drew a cross on the gleaming surface. Then she held the plate against the heat of the candle, letting the oil drip and spread, and waited to see what it would reveal to her. Jose craned his head to have a better look at the plate, expecting to see the usual black stains that appeared due to the smoke from the candle. He wondered why Viring needed to perform the santigwar on Nieves, who looked to Jose as if there was nothing at all’s the matter with her. A few minutes passed in awkward silence when it became clear even to Jose that something had gone wrong. No matter what Viring did, Jose recounted, no image was formed. The oil remained clear and the plate stayed as sparkling white as before. You cursed little demon, the albularyo said to Nieves, and flung the plate away.

   Early the next day, Nieves was seen setting out for Iraya with a basket. She was to gather herbs and leaves for her ‘May Viring, she told us when we asked her why she was going there. In a short while, someone else came hurrying up the road to Iraya. It was Kikoy, a burly man who’s been seeking Viring’s help ever since his son was shot dead in a drunken brawl, though what could Viring possibly do to help him we dared not think about.

   It seemed the whole barrio held a collective breath waiting for who would come out of the woods first. When Kikoy’s tall frame appeared with a heavy sack slung over one shoulder, our worst fears were confirmed.

   What’s in the sack, Kikoy? we asked as he passed by.

   Pig, Kikoy answered, not meeting our eyes. “Pina-buno sa’kun ni ‘May Viring.”

   Who knew Viring kept pigs in the woods?

   For a week, Viring was peaceful. For a week, we endured the mouth-watering smell of grilled meat wafting out of her house and tried not to talk about the continuing absence of young Nieves. We had finally grown wary of the albularyo though, and some of us could no longer contain the horror we felt over what she did, even vowing to never ask for her help again.

   But really, who had ever found the conviction to keep such a promise once faced with pain and certain death? At the end of the week, a couple ventured to seek Viring’s services once more, hoping she would be able to bring down their infant son’s raging fever. We saw them enter Viring’s house, but they came rushing back out a short while later with terrified looks upon their faces. Inside Viring’s house were the sounds of plates shattering as they hit the walls. Pretty soon she was throwing them out of her windows and into the yard, hitting the trunks of her mango trees before smashing into pieces. Viring’s face was a storm as she emerged into the streets in a blaze of fury.

   Much to her confusion, she was met with a crowd of people calling her name. Viring! Viring! we shouted as she came near us. “Pari ngani Viring, ta may nasaniban daa dito sa simbahan!” As we said it, a long shrill scream sounded from the distance, startling all of us and distracting Viring temporarily from her wrath. Who is it? Viring asked amidst the babble, but no one paid her any mind. We were all busy running to the small chapel by the seaside. “May nasaniban! May nasaniban! Hesusmariyasantisima!”

   The little Aeta girl lay face-down and spread-eagled in the center of the aisle when we reached her. Nieves was wearing the yellow duster she had on when she disappeared, only now it was ragged and dirty. She herself looked half-starved and yet when two grown men attempted to lift her up she thrashed and struggled so wildly that she sent both of them sprawling across the pews. Hesusmaryosep! we thought to ourselves. A scrawny girl with the strength of a hundred men! She was possessed by demons alright.

   Wail after blood-curdling wail issued forth from out of poor Nieves’ trembling lips. We could only watch her, terrified and helpless, until her screams finally abated. Her glazed eyes seemed to clear and she looked blearily at the people surrounding her.

   Are you alright, Nieves? one brave soul hazarded, when a few minutes had passed in peacefulness.

   And Nieves spoke.

   Don’t be frightened, the girl said. Please…you mustn’t touch me. You mustn’t be afraid of me. I have come to help you.

   Help us how, Nieves? we asked.

   I was lost…I was…about to die when they found me…they nursed me back to health. This is why they saved me; so I can come back and help you as they helped me.

   Who, Nieves? Who helped you?

   “An mga Duwende sa Iraya. Pitong duwendeng may saru-sadiring birtud. An Maisog. An Marikas. An Duwendeng Osong. Siyang Makusog. Siyang Mahigos. Siyang Maherakon. Asin siyang Daeng Data, Daeng Ngaran.”

   They are with me, said the girl. They want me to help you. Come, bring me those who are sick, those who are dying. Within me is he who is Merciful, and he shall ease the suffering of those who come to him.

   The whole barrio threw themselves into a frenzied fervor for our new-found miracle worker. We dressed young Nieves in purple silk robes that swept the floors when she walked. The chapel became her home. She sat on the altar steps all day long, touching and being touched by hundreds of people. Local TV channels got wind of what was happening on our far-flung little hamlet, and they traveled long distances to make many a-news feature on Nieves. A great number of people witnessed and experienced first hand the miracles Nieves performed on a daily basis during that time. We’re sure they’d all be willing to tell their stories and provide proof for those who are still skeptical or want to know more about Nieves’ case.

   Meanwhile, Viring was entirely forgotten. In fact, (and what was quite curious) that was the last we ever saw of Severina Gragas and her sullen, stern countenance. Some said they saw her packing her bags, saying she was to visit relatives in the city, but we doubt the accuracy of this report. We are quite certain she was still in the barrio, all the time Nieves was in the chapel. We know exactly when and how she left. We helped her go.

   None of us noticed what she did and how she reacted upon seeing her lost ward that day in the chapel; and perhaps that was how we failed Nieves. We did not pay attention. We would have carried the burden of that guilt all our lives had things ended differently.

   Our good Nieves never asked any payment for what she did for us save for food. That was what convinced other people that she was genuine. One of us eventually placed a donation box on the foot of the steps beside her (the proceeds from which went directly to the funds for the chapel’s renovation), but Nieves received not a single cent and nor did she ask for it. The girl was happiest when people gave her fruits. She was particularly fond of mangoes.

   Everyone assumed she was just someone from outside our barrio, a stranger who came all the way here to see Nieves, for no one recognized the old, hunchbacked woman who entered the chapel one day bearing a basket filled with fragrant, yellow carabao mangoes. They were the kind that looked as if they had absorbed all the yellow from the sun. Just smelling them made our mouths taste the delightful mix of sweet and sour. No wonder Nieves was delighted.

   When it was her turn to meet Nieves she walked up and placed the basket in front of her.
   Before I say what I have come to ask you, she said to the girl, won’t you share these mangoes with me first? It is my thanks for what you’ve done for me.
   I haven’t done anything for you yet, Lola, Nieves answered; but the old woman only smiled. She took out a small knife; chose the plumpest, yellowest mango in the bunch; held it out for everyone to see as her knife cut through the fruit with a slick, moist sigh. She handed one cheek to Nieves and ate the other herself, smiling at her toothlessly as she sucked on the pulp.

   The scene held us all transfixed. Looking back, what happened then now seemed so obvious for us that had we only realized it when it was happening we could have shouted out to warn her. Nieves brought the fruit to her mouth as if in slow-motion. Before anyone could so much as blink, the poor girl dropped to the ground.

   Time stopped for one long heartbeat.

   And then came chaos.

   In the midst of it all, the old woman must have assumed the crowd and the confusion would help conceal her until she could safely leave our barrio without being pursued. She was wrong. We had had enough of her cruelty, of the fear she had sown in our hearts all those years. A number of us followed her fleeing to Iraya. What happened to her there – whether we caught up to her or let her escape – need not be mentioned here.

   Ah, but poor, poor Nieves! We tried all that we could to bring her back. One of us tried giving her CPR and suggested we bring her to the hospital, but the thought of her being poked and prodded by indifferent doctors made us balk at the idea. In utter despair someone suggested she must be dead and we should bury her, but the suggestion was met with outrage. The girl was clearly not dead. Her small chest rose and fell quite evenly and her pulse was steady. There was nothing wrong with her and looked as if she was merely in a very deep, contented sleep. We cried and prayed and cried some more, but her dear eyes stayed shut and nothing would wake her.
   We cleared the altar of its crucifix and chalices, placed the girl on top, and covered her with a clean white sheet. The whole barrio stood vigil for her for a fortnight, our frail hopes fading as time began to pass. We beseeched God to save her, prayed to Jesus and Mary and all the saints. We prayed to the engkantos and duwendes who once helped Nieves to come to her aid once more. We prayed desperately for one last miracle to save the gentlest and kindest person we knew who had been so good to us.

   And at long last, he did come; our one final miracle. He strolled inside the chapel just when our hopes were almost gone. He was another young Aeta, not much older than Nieves herself by the look of him, of middling height but with the slim, litheness of youth. He had on simple maong trousers and a white camisa chino, but his gait and the casual way he walked up to Nieves’s bier would have anyone mistook him for a prince out of a fairy tale. He stooped over Nieves’s prone figure and held her face delicately in both hands. His face close to hers, he said something in a quiet, clear voice that all of us heard.

   “Pari na. Kaidto mi pa ika ina-anap. Buwat na asin pari na. Mag-iba ka na sakuya.”

   Right before our wondering eyes, Nieves woke. Upon seeing the boy’s face she smiled and took his hand. The two of them walked the road towards Iraya hand in hand, never looking back even once. Just like that, the wonderful, astonishing girl that was Nieves walked out of our lives forever.

   ——FIN——-

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.