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9 Responses to “ LitWit Challenge 3.2: Talking animals ”

1. # 1 scheherazade Says:
   August 9th, 2010 at 18:06

   Marder, I say!

   It was high noon when the tragedy occurred.
   My master had just left hell (a.k.a her job) a few weeks ago when we had to arrange the funeral.

   My master was reading a women’s magazine, her feet being showered with intense attention when Pedro walked in. He had just closed the door when he was tripped by a red lace tied tautly at one end to a curtain and to a table leg at the other. Pedro tried to break his fall but his efforts were alas too little and too late. He struck Eloisa who in turn accidentally slashed my master with the implements of her trade.

   As I slowly blinked, full of shock at the unfolding tragedy, my master’s scream pierced the humid air…”Ay, (violent cuss words deleted). Minarder mo ang paa ko!

   After which her body crumpled and contorted into Chinese gymnast-like shapes in vain efforts of shielding her wound.

   Eloisa’s mouth gaped open in guilt. She tried to explain that it would not have happened if Pedro had not struck her. Pedro in turn, blamed the errant red lace. No one knew why its other end was wrapped around the table leg when it was usually artfully holding the curtains together. For a long while, my master’s meager frame was wracked with silent sobs.

   Finally, the spell that held me broke and I realized my master needed me. My exquisitely lean and agile body broke the space that separated me from my master. I swiftly ran to her side, meowing earnestly, I tried to tell her it was no one’s fault…Her toenail was in a much better place. Things happen for a reason. The mysterious confluence of events that led to her toenail’s demise can not be explained, least of all my white and orange beauty…

   My master held me close and accepted my consolations so warmly. Despite the mysterious events that led to the red lace nail murder, I knew everything would be ok.

   Just then, I heard my arch nemesis hissing maniacally from behind, secreting 2 photos taken an hour ago…

   (Note: Sammy’s arch nemesis emailed the photographic evidence to the overlord for her review via gmail)

2. # 2 chiness Says:
   August 11th, 2010 at 05:06

   Testimony before splat

   Bizarre, yes it was. The aircon was on full-blast, so I went through the same crack—it’s really easy for a cockroach, you know—and there was that sweet smell—again. Pugh, I never liked it a bit.

   But it’s dinnertime.

   So I scuttled to the ceiling. The owners had turned off the main lights and had switched on a red lamp—bad taste if you’d ask me. They were mates.

   They had an offspring, but he slept in the other room.

   I preferred their room because there were always bits of cookies beside the bed.

   Mm-mmm.

   Their offspring’s had none; only bits of crayons and paper. I don’t always go there. I hate seeing his drawings of a female with horns. Its label says “mom”. I don’t what a mom is.

   I have antennae! I’m scandalized!

   Oh, where was I?

   Damn, that sweet smell again! How do those bipeds call it? Incense?

   Uh-huh?

   It was their playtime. Of course, minus their offspring. Too tender for such games. But they didn’t know he eavesdrops. Only I know.

   The female works outside the house, don’t ask me where. She has that CEO on her work clothes, whatever it means. She leaves before the offspring wakes and comes home when he’s being tucked to bed. The male takes care of the child. They play games: hide-and-seek, London Bridge, and all other silly games we roaches don’t play. We’re winged, mind you.

   They play every day, after they close the books. The child does not ride the big yellow four-wheeled bumblebee other offspring ride. He’s taller than most of them. Their mothers kiss them goodbye, though. He has none to do that.

   They, however, play only once a month. The offspring knows.

   Red lamp, irritating incense, cookies beside the table. That’s how they liked their playroom.

   They switched on that black box. Then ugly sounds filled the room.

   I had to hold to the ceiling lest I be blown off. Strong currents.

   I waited until they were well into their games before I swooped down onto the cookies. The female’s always too busy breathing adjectives she had attached to my kin. And her mate was whining as usual. Crying, perhaps, but I had no business knowing. Hey, food comes first.

   I never watched them for so long. It was a boring game. We always had those in our abode—we’ve colonized their gutter. Thick black—I don’t know—skin? Garment? Whatever it was, it was not the female’s work clothes. It’s shiny. And she carried a thing that cracks when jerked. CRACK!, it said. I was almost hit. It was like our antennae, only thicker, bigger, and noisier.

   Hahaha! Noise?

   It was noisy. She kept hitting her mate with that thing—that—yes that’s it—that whip! She was whipping the mate. I never understood why she wore those silly cockroach-like clothes, and her mate wears none. Just skin.

   I took a chocolate bit.

   She began screaming. I saw no reason for this behavior. Nobody could hear her.

   Then her hands rocketed to my direction.

   I thought she saw me.

   She opened a drawer, and retrieved something.

   I peeked into the open drawer. Smattering. I’m a cockroach, but I still know how to organize dirt.

   Anyway, she was trying to make what she had retrieved to work. It looked like a giant worm, somewhat the size of a very old millipede, minus the thousand feet—thick, fat, veined. I didn’t how bipeds call it. It looked like a twig, but smoother, rounder, and—squishier?

   She squished it. I saw it was squished.

   Her mate helped her.

   When it finally worked, they were unprepared it almost fell.

   Weird, it buzzed like a bumblebee—not the four-wheeled one. BUZZ!, it noised. I could hear it.

   And it was moving on its own!

   I was astounded. A frisky twig? My grand-offspring will kiss me.

   The female whisked that whip again, and resumed whipping her mate. I concealed myself near the red lamp, nearer to the cookies. She hoisted the male’s body, and faced the part that usually faces the gateway to the drainpipes.

   And she pushed the frisky twig in between the cheeks. Whether there was a mouth between those cheeks or none, I do not know.

   Moments later, they were undulating together.

   I was amazed!

   It was the most beautiful event I’ve ever seen.

   Hmn, how do I describe this?

   Ah, it was like eternity captured in ten beautiful undulations.

   Slow. Perfect. Timed.

   It was like watching an earthworm repelling ants.

   It was alive but serene.

   I was beholden.

   I was—

   Grr!

   That other shadow ruined it all!

   I didn’t see it opening the door! It crept into the room, I suppose. The undulations were peaking when it raised something shiny. It gleamed red. I pulled what I could from the cookies, and then took off.

   Red light!

   I dodged that red glob.

   Red or something darker on the wallpaper.

   More noise. The black box was shrieking.

   Something wet was splattering all over the place.

   I zoomed to the crack. I never looked back.

   I thought I could fall into a coma at that moment.

   But that was five hours ago.

   I am already fine now. My wings can carry me again.

   There are whirring lights outside. Red and blue. Blinding.

   And a yellow cord.

   I’ll go through the other room.

   There are people in here, flashing blinding white lights.

   They’re wearing gloves, sorting through some drawings of a horned female.

   Ugly.

   What are they?

   Curious to what happened?

   I had the shock of my life, thank you very much.

   I think I can die—

   SPLAT!

   That male in black just hit me. . . . I’m feeling dull pain. . . . Sleepy. . . .

3. # 3 misterfreedom Says:
   August 11th, 2010 at 07:59

   It was horrible.

   The dinner they offered me was revolting. I looked at my bowl and it was an undistinguishable pinkish mix of burnt rice, sardines, and instant beef noodles. They probably thought I would be delighted. I looked over the four dogs. They were happily slurping up the mush. Urgh. I slinked away to the house next door.

   I hate it there, dinner is always late and their dog is evil, but I’m hungry. I waited atop their gate. You know, the part where there’s this cute little rooftop covering the iron gate. This way, I can spy through the window. The people inside were still eating, all turned to watch this sickening evening soap.

   I looked down below, and there he was. Evil dog, rabid and barking already.

   “Why so angry? PMS?” I meowed at him. It made him angrier; he now looks like he’s having a seizure. I wished he’d bark his head off. I’ve watched him maul too many dogs, cats and people whenever he’s loose; including the quiet little girl from my house. His owners did not bother to keep him on a leash. Stupid, stupid dog.

   I then heard our gate open. The little girl came out carrying a small plate. Food!

   Aww… I’m touched. She’s really a sweet thing, found me in the gutter, fed me, gave me a home, and tolerated my uncommitted status.

   It was a bit dark, for her anyway, but she saw me and smiled. She placed a finger to her lips.

   She walked without sound, towards the gate and the mad dog; and then I knew something will go wrong.

   It happened so fast. I felt frozen sitting there, forced to watch a very morbid scene.

   The dog was dying, I could tell. It was making this strange wheezing and coughing sound; bubbles frothed at its mouth. The girl had thrown something in its way. The dog attacked whatever it was, ate it viciously, and here he was, dying.

   The murderer watched in silence; the plate was empty and very still in her hands. She watched the dog as if she was performing an experiment and had found the answer.

   The dog stopped moving. Inside, his owners continued to eat, hypnotized by the bright tube.

   My girl slipped back into our house, and I followed.

4. # 4 winnerific Says:
   August 11th, 2010 at 17:14

   Stuffed

   I hate living in closed quarters. And yet here I am again stashed in another contraption. Plus this brown paper thingy is worse than my last house. A few days ago I have been “comfortably” staying in what these humans call “pedestal” which is actually just fancy word for filing cabinet. Believe me, there is nothing fancy about this metallic abomination. Twice have my foot been stuck in these things and, God forbid, I cannot imagine the pain if it were my neck.

   “Loser”

   Don’t they understand that even though we apparently do not need air, food nor water for sustenance and our innards are made of cotton (and some beans), nobody appreciates being locked in a dark box. Still, no amount of noise that I make, whether it be woof-woof, ow-ow, bow-wow, or arf-arf, could make these humans notice my protest. I have therefore digressed that humans are all deaf (except for those things that they wish to hear).

   “Loser”

   That’s R.R. by the way; the other pet and my leash partner. He was recently added after the humans dined outside and he was given for free. He’s a purple horse. I don’t know what is wrong with him but he doesn’t say anything other than the word “Loser”. I think he’s a retard (human term: reject). Maybe that’s why he’s free.

   Anyway, when are they going to let us out? I wish somebody would just wipe me! My behind’s soaked with my master’s drool after Blue Eyes knocked me over the other night. He fell asleep and I guess it was some slumber because he disgustingly created a pool of saliva at our table. Honestly, who’s the dog in here?

   My master is a freak of a workaholic and he practically lives here at the office. Our names attest to this: mine is O.T. for Over Time and R.R. stands for Request for Replenishment, whatever that means.

   “Loser”

   It’s not unusual for him to overstay but he mostly tip-taps on the computer all night and not sleep on the job. Therefore that horrible shriek by Skinny Jeans (front cubicle occupant) was totally unnecessary just to wake him up. That loud wailing brought enough people to fill a union meeting. Good thing those men in uniforms cleared them all away to barricade the whole area. Luckily, my boss didn’t even budge.

   Wow! I never realized boss was a big shot here at the office. He must be doing good lately to have guards surround him just so he won’t be disturbed in his sleep. Maybe that’s why Blue Eyes has been coming around lately to talk with him.

   The other night, just before we were squeezed into this crappy place by those guards (as if my master would be roused by my barks) Blue Eyes came by again to chat. I actually appreciate this from him since I have a feeling my boss has zero social life. Hello! Adopting furry, non-responsive creatures for your desk is not normal adult characteristics.

   “Loser”

   They’ve been talking a lot on the phone too, sometimes getting all excited and high pitched from Blue Eyes’ end and a nice smirk from my boss. They usually whisper in hushed tones when talking in the area, though. Their topics are mostly about figures and office gibber which I find boring and drowsy. Numbers make me dizzy and that’s what they mostly talk about.
   On that night of the Big Hug, master was doing most of the talking and still on those droopy subjects. I didn’t catch most of it except for a few lines since it was late and I was getting sleepy. (Yes we do feel sleepy even if our eyes are permanently wide open!)

   “Ayoko na ng 250. Ilang taon ka na bang successful d’yan tapos 250 lang ang balato ko.?” ( I don’t want 250 anymore. How many years have you succeeded in this and yet my share’s only 250?)

   He mentioned other stuff like 3rd quarter and window dressing which just made me more inattentive. Blue Eyes must have been lost as well because he didn’t say much the whole time. He just kept staring at my master. Something was creepy about his gaze, though. It made me feel cold just by looking at him. It must be those eyes.

   Suddenly, R.R. let out a stream of his favorite word so loud I swear master would have heard it (I told you they’re all deaf). Blue Eyes moved so quickly he was just a blur (or was I just too stoned for sleep). He gave my master a humongous hug through the neck, from the back. Boss must have said something really nice cause the grip was quite long (and tight) in my opinion. It must have been weird if anybody stepped in on them in this position. Boss tried to respond, I guess, and raised his arms reaching in reply. I guess they’re just too short all he could grapple was Blue Eyes’ hair which he grabbed in a bunch. Maybe that showed affection in humans too since they also do that to dogs.

   “Loser”

   After that, master drooped and fell asleep himself. Blue Eyes stood there for a time and did his staring again. Weird though, when he glanced at me, one of his eyes was not blue anymore. It didn’t look as cold as well. It looked scared and tearful. As if I did something wrong, he smacked me in the face causing me to bathe in master’s slime and R.R. toppling down with me still cussing “losers” the whole time.

   I really wish they would free us soon. I kind of miss my master too, you know. At least he strokes us from time to time. Plus he’d totally take this thing that somehow got stuck in my ear. It’s like a small bluish disk that keeps me from hearing clearly. Well, at least it somehow blocked R.R.

   “Loser”

5. # 5 Cacs Says:
   August 11th, 2010 at 18:38

   People couldn’t believe Bobby Chinn was dead. Police found the celebrity chef this morning with a spoon stuck to one of his eyeballs. They believed it was foul play. There was evidence he had a guest over for dinner.

   Their hunch was spot on. I saw the whole thing. With my 800 compound eyes.

   It was almost 7 o’clock in the evening and I was buzzing over the dinner table as Bobby was preparing to serve food. I was eyeing the soup, as usual.

   Then came a knock on the door. Bobby let in a tall, curly-haired man, wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Loved his shirt. Very pleasing to my eyes.

   So they exchanged pleasantries. Bobby was his usual, trying-hard-to-be-funny self. His guest was nonchalant. Sarcastic, even. But I thought they got along somehow.

   I wasn’t paying much attention to them as I was pining for the soup. As the two chatted away over wine, I saw my chance and went straight for the Pho. It was heaven. Having been Bobby’s housefly for the entire 23 days of my life, I could say Bobby was in his element.

   His guest must be that important for him to not be sloppy with the Pho.

   Anyway, I was having the time of my life when I was scooped up in a ladle. I was caught in a torrent of Pho. I thought that was the end of me until the maelstrom settled and I found myself face-up staring into the huge, surprised eyes of Bobby’s guest.

   The guest cracked a joke about Bobby including me in his recipe since Bobby didn’t exactly became famous for gourmet food–more like “gutter food”, he said.

   Bobby didn’t laugh. He asked his guest, “So when was the last time you put on an apron? Like, never?” It was only then that Bobby laughed.

   I wasn’t exactly sure what happened next. All I could remember was that I suddenly found myself on an upward trajectory together with the bowl of Pho. I felt the vibration of silver and crashing china. Flight was impossible as my wings were wet.

   When I landed on the table I saw that Bobby was already dead. He was stabbed with a spoon in one of his eyesockets. His guest was gone.

   I crawled all over the table to continue to relish the puddles of Pho that was left after the incident. I myself don’t have that much time left in this world, I thought.

   Might as well enjoy what was probably my last soup.

6. # 6 mak Says:
   August 12th, 2010 at 13:50

   The strong live off the weak but the clever lives off the strong. That is the code lice have lived to for millions of years. We had surreptitiously on the strongest and bravest warriors of the Earth. We lived on Alexander the Great’s beard and we fed off Hitler’s pubes. We may be weak but we are smart enough to outfeed hunger. Today is a little different. The God of lice and the patron saint of all bloodsuckers were frowning. Good tidings were hard to come by these days and if they come, it’s either we were sleeping or just simply paralyzed. We are parasites and parasites we will always be but we are just as alive as our host. Take Eric, our nine year old host with a lanky frame and bad blood circulation. Hosts with bad circulation are a curse to the whole licedom. The blood that goes up to the head were all waste, crummy and bland. We just wished we could live close to the bone marrow where all blood is fresh and delicious, but we can’t be that picky. Add that to the competition for the best feeding spots in the head and the weekly Armageddon Eric’s mother impose on our fate. Me, a fat and bloody garapata, doesn’t stand a chance against whatever luck dishes on us. So I would have to suck blood with feigned détente. I don’t want get into trouble.

   I thought that day would simply pass by without being noticed for its quirkiness, but it happened I was sleeping in my host’s sideburns when I heard a loud crack in the floorboards. I thought it was his mother about to give him another motherfucking poison bath which we all hate. But it was still dark; who could that be. Then I heard a loud commotion that got Eric the host scrambling towards the door. He peeked into the keyhole and I felt his blood rage in his veins. Did he just saw his teacher, the one that terrorized him? I always feel Eric’s blood rush everytime he sees his teacher. I don’t know what was going on but judging by the rush of his blood, it was something terrifying. Then I heard his mother crying, pleading for help but it was cut short by a loud bang. All the licehood were startled and they started to huddle in the sideburn. Eric darted towards the window and got out there. The door was kicked open and a boot appeared. That was one huge humungous boot.
   “Hey Popo, what was that?” Koko asked, with blood still drooling from his mouth.
   “I don’t know but I think Mama Rosa was shot by that man,” I replied. “I think Eric’s next.” I continued with gravity trailing my words down. The community broke into panic. The death of a host meant days of searching for another one. I heard stories of exodus from the host and it wasn’t always good. Some of them never completed the journey towards another host. They died of starvation from food and hope.

   Eric jumped down from the ledged of the house and scooted towards the street. He turned his head left and we got a good look of the perpetrator. It was Mang Johnny the Beatle, the family driver. I wasn’t surprised at all. I fucking hated his guts and his blood flow. You see, we lice had sophisticated sensors for heart rate and blood flow, and whenever Mang Johnny was near us, we could feel that his heart and blood were always on overdrive. The intuition of the licedom was right; that man wouldn’t do any good.

   Eric must be in deep agitation right now but the licedom were having some party. The blood we were sucking right now was filled with adrenaline; the sweet acid that got us always high. All the garapata babes were shaking their asses and our eyes were filled with inexplicable colors achievable only through adrenaline. That was fun. That was rare. Eric was such a wussy and he was always exempted from having strenuous physical labor. Lazy kid plus no physical labor plus bad blood flow equals ennui, but now we are rolling in sweat, sebum and adrenaline. We were just so high we forgot the possibility of Eric getting killed. The God of Lice smiled on us and we were enjoying every minute of it.

   But our God was also known to be moody. Eric tripped on a wood and conked his head on the pavement. We were all jogged from our acid induced existence and quickly remembered that we were near our doom. Eric was unconscious and we saw Mang Johnny treading towards us with his heavy boots. He aimed at Eric and we all clasped our hands in prayer but fortunately a police siren disturbed our deep invocation to our God. Our host and us were spared.

   “You mean you didn’t see the killer’s face?” asked the humungous policeman as Eric was pulled back to consciousness. His head was fine but his blood flow was way awry and unpredictable; we don’t like it.
   “No sir. He was blocking… the… view on the keyhole…” said Eric said in between sobs.
   “I think we know the suspect sir,” a gaunt police officer interjected. He then whispered to the big cop as if the child shouldn’t hear it.
   “The family driver was missing as we speak…” the thin cop continued as his voices faded into the plethora of officers, reporters and gawkers. Eric was sobbing, his pain apparent and his shock overwhelming. We maybe pests, but we still can feel pain and agony, and we all want to comfort him. The licehood, in unison, patted our minuscule hands on the boy’s head. We all sincerely wanted for him to be well.

7. # 7 hypnerotomato Says:
   August 14th, 2010 at 02:23

   CHILDREN

   Disturbing, disturbing children.

   Of all the species in this huge, huge world there is definitely not a single one whose offspring can compare with the human child. Hideous beings. Demons. Gremlins. Ugh.

   Why the particular distaste for the horrid creatures? Well, why don’t you try living in a house filled with—dozens? I might exaggerate—of the little savages running around screaming like banshees, kicking you, pulling at your tail and ears—though the tail, mostly—running around some more, crying, and occasionally shitting their pants. The more intellectually inclined make hypotheses on whether a cat does land on its feet after falling from great heights (as a matter of fact we do, but that doesn’t make the experience any less terrifying) or, more alarmingly, what happens to a cat if it is set on fire. I still haven’t recovered from the shock of that episode. Nasty, nasty brutes.

   I suppose it would be easier on my part to just up and go live with the people next door. They are a rather charming young couple. I could go into detail on how charming they really are, but I’d rather not. It’s all so tedious to recount. Besides, I already have an owner—sweet, sweet Grandma Roselinde. Everyone just calls her Lola. I daresay she would be very lonely if I left. Ah, the sacrifices we must make for the ones we love. I would rather suffer the abuse of all the children in the world (read: demons in hell) than break the heart of dear Grandma Roselinde. Such is my martyrdom. I suppose that when I die the Pope himself will nominate me for sainthood. Grandma Roselinde has a servant named Prado to do all the hard work for her. He’s a nervous guy with a thing for cooking. His specialty is meat. Meat is so expensive these days but he always manages to come up with delicious meaty meals for dinner every day, and three meals on Fridays. One has to wonder where he gets his meat.

   Today I was sitting in my usual spot in the shade. I was rather enjoying myself, as this was one of the rare times that I was sure all the children are out. How did I know this? Because I saw them all being herded like pigs this morning off somewhere else by the police. They were in a hurry. Maybe the children were being sent to jail? Oh, what a glorious day this would have been! But my hopes were not high on that idea since they also brought Prado, and Prado was the one in cuffs.

   It would be a while before they came back. The perimeter of the house was bounded with yellow tape. Now I’ve watched enough television to know that yellow tape has the magical property of keeping undesirable persons away. It’s like the space inside becomes consecrated ground. The paparazzi can’t cross it. If those demons can’t, then surely any child that tries to will immediately be burned to ashes. The way they tried to burn me. It would serve them right.

   Of course, some people can cross it. The investigators! They were poking around the house. A while ago they found this awesome room in the basement. It was frigid, which I don’t care for, but it contained dead children! Dead children in varying states of mutilation. Children without arms. Children without legs. Children whose faces have been cut off. There was even one who had lost everything but his head. The most entertaining thing was placed on a pedestal in the middle—it was a child sewn together with care and precision using different body parts. It was a veritable masterpiece! If I were not so delighted with its aesthetic appeal I would probably have taken a bite.

   One guy who I presumed to be the head investigator had been poking around in that room all morning. For the moment, however, he seemed to be done. Now he was interviewing Grandma Roselinde. Poor Grandma Roselinde. She was beside herself with tears. I suppose the fate of the little beasts affected her so. Despite being so emotional however she was able to answer the head investigator’s questions. Yes, she had been running the orphanage for five years now. She took in children from the street. Yes, she had run into trouble with the negligent parents of the children on occasion. They wanted their children back so they could beg in the streets. No, they never claimed their children after she threatened to call 163. No, Prado was her only servant. Yes, he had been working with her since she started the orphanage. No, she had no reason to suspect that he had been doing anything of the sort. No, the collection of knives was Prado’s, not hers.

   At this point I took a nap. By the time I woke up, the head investigator and, indeed, all the investigators were gone. The children were all upstairs. This I knew because a multitude of children’s shoes were piled up near the door. Messy children. Curiously they were all rather quiet tonight. No matter, I preferred it this way. I have always been of the opinion that children should be seen and not heard. And if they could manage not being seen as well, so much the better. Grandma Roselinde came toward me with my dinner in my favorite bowl. I’ve always imagined it to be a bowl of ancient Ming china used by the emperor himself to drink his broth, just for the heck of it.

   Grandma Roselinde stooped down and petted me in her customary manner as I ate. “Looks like we’ll be out of meat for a while, my love,” she crooned. “But we’ll manage, somehow. We always do.” Dear, sweet Grandma Roselinde. Don’t worry. Anywhere we go there will always be children. Delicious, delicious children.

8. # 8 kindler Says:
   August 14th, 2010 at 08:30

   Subject: HOLY WEEK INCIDENT
   From: mimi@mnngl.org
   Date: April 19, 2010 12:47:06 AM GMT+08:00
   To: toro

   Dear Toro,

   I’m writing to enlighten you of the events that led to the incident last holy week, dubbed a revolt by the media, and which led to my manang and her clique’s trial by publicity.

   It was the height of summer and once again we found ourselves on this “mysterious island” for our yearly sabbatical (Manang’s words, not mine). Sabbatical, my pink, well-licked ass. Sabbaticals mean vacations. This here holiday entailed falling in line since dawn, all the way till two in the afternoon, following a procession that seemingly hadn’t budged since noon.

   The folks in front attempt to entertain themselves by starting with the sonnets yet again. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou are more lovely and more temperate…” Naturally, the ogres at the tail-end of the line feel the need to intensify everyone’s aggravation by bursting into song, complete with second voice. “Summer breeze, makes me feel fine…”

   We were nearing the cave entrance when an elderly tourist wandered in with his camera, settling directly in front of us to take our picture. “I say, what festival is this?” he asked with a benign smile. Not surprisingly, Manang had devoured his entire head before the old-timer even realized his blunder. It didn’t take long for the other manangs and their fellow familiars to join in the feasting.

   So you see, what happened here was a spontaneous reaction on the part of the much-maligned manananggals, and certainly not the revolt the media has pointed it out to be. And you have to understand Toro, that in the Philippine islands, the locals are more attuned to their self-preservation during the holy week. Suffice to say that Manang and her friends had not fed in three days, and a leathery Brit, all gristle and false teeth really–will do where succulent newborns and expectant mothers are scarce.

   But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. To avoid the long lines and short tempers, Siquijor needs to update their HHL (Hunting & Haunting License) renewal system, and must it always have to be on Good Friday?

   Purrs!

   Mimi

9. # 9 Rogue|Hero Says:
   August 14th, 2010 at 14:43

   “1”

   With a short lifespan, common Musca domesticans spend some of their lives wallowing on the dead bodies of various beasts and fowls of the land. It is rare for them to indulge on a dead human body. Unless, of course, that Musca domestican becomes extremely fortunate.

   I was one extremely fortunate domestican.

   It was broad daylight when I entered the abode of this specific Homo sapien. Although it had a hairstyle resembling that of a male human, I could tell that it was actually female—the high-pitched voice, the two bumps on its chest, and more importantly, the position it assumed while urinating.

   Now this female had a routine that day. She was in a particular room that was other than any common human dwelling. It had that after-smell of those concentrated fluids humans use to clean their floors, walls, and the places where they defecate and urinate. There were two other humans in the room, mind you. These others were seated and waiting. Then, the female human called one of them then lead it to sit on a peculiarly long chair.

   After a brief conversation, the female human would position some kind of machinery that shone a light into the wide open mouth of her guest. Really, these humans and their strange machines! Then, this female would probe miniature metal “human tools” into the other’s mouth, rubbing and pulling in-between teeth and gums.

   And so goes the supposedly typical day of this female Homo sapien.

   “2”

   It was just after sundown when this female left her room and retrieved into another area of her abode. There, she brought to life a huge cube. I don’t know what the cube is called and I don’t how it came to life, but one side of it lit up and flashed moving and talking images. The female just sat facing the glaring & flashing cube and . . . just watched.

   Very strange indeed.

   Just then, another female Homo sapien came in. It was younger than the earlier female, albeit both shared some physical features—probably a relative, a younger sister or a niece. Both humans conversed for a while, then settled down.

   Time passed for a short while when there was a rapping sound from beyond the abode’s front door. The younger female got up and opened it. Standing there was a hooded figure, a male human. I could tell that the young female was startled at the sight of the male and took a step back. The female looked a bit downward. It screamed.

   I flew to the wall parallel to the hooded male to take a closer look at what made the young one shriek. There it was, slightly pointing up: Another of those metal “human tools.” But this one was bigger and thicker than what I’ve seen earlier. It curved on one end where it was held. From what I could muster, it sparked and made a short & sudden booming sound at the same time. I could see the spark but the sound . . . I could barely hear it. All I could make out was “Bang!” I heard three of them. Then, the young one dropped.

   The older female, was wide-mouthed at the events that transpired. It quickly tried to get away while stooping, but the male came in and unleashed four simultaneous sparks and sounds from the “human tool.”

   As the male did this, I noticed some things flying out of the tool that I didn’t see earlier. They were small but definitely bigger than my body. They were cylindrical with slightly pointed tips. What impressed me was how fast these things flew. They were faster than any other flying creature I have ever seen. In that moment, I was frightened at the realization that these human-made tools somehow had a life of their own; that these are so incredibly swift; and that possibly, these may be fierce predators.

   I saw all four of these airborne metals burying themselves into the older female’s back. The female dropped. I looked to the male human. He quickly looked around, then fled to the door. I tried to look where it was going, but it swiftly disappeared behind alleys illuminated by the night.

   Instinctively, I hovered over the body of the older female. The skin was warm. I smelt blood. Warm, fresh blood. It gushed all around her body. It smelt delicious. I dived and indulged.

   “3”

   First to the sixth day after the incident: The older female’s carcass was sealed inside a dome made of sturdy wood. The top panel of the dome was in glass, which made it possible to view the carcass from the inside. There were a lot of other human beings. Various lights and flames were erected around the dome. But what I remember the most was the loads of food that was present within that same vicinity. I had never been so exhilarated at the sight of food in my entire life.

   The younger female was, from what I gather, taken some place else—probably also sealed inside a dome similar to that of the older female’s.

   Seventh day after the incident: I was surprised to see that the dome bearing the carcass was being closed and then carried by several male humans. It was then lowered and covered up under the Earth. What is this strange practice of humans?

   30th day after the incident: I saw three male human beings enter the abode. All three wore the same human armor—steady navy blue armor that covered their torsos and legs, shiny flat metals pinned to their upper torsos, and flat headgear. I could see that they donned the same metal “human tool,” which was used to kill the two females, on their hips. They talked to some humans who took over and lived in the abode, probably relatives of the older dead female. The armored males shook their heads. The relatives shed tears.