The Weekly LitWit Challenge 4.8: No More Food.
Violent protests across the global South, in response to rocketing food prices from 2006 to 2008, highlighted an intrinsic flaw in the modern system of world trade—one that poses a serious threat to regional and international stability. In The Food Wars, Walden Bello traces the evolution of this crisis, examining its eruption in Mexico, Africa, the Philippines and China. Daring in vision and impassioned in tone, The Food Wars speaks out against the obscene imbalance in the most basic commodities between northern and southern hemispheres.
Walden Bello is founding director of Focus on the Global South and a member of the House of Representatives of the Philippines. A former professor at the University of the Philippines, he has written fifteen books. – From the blurb
Your assignment this week: Write us a story set in the near-future in a megalopolis that looks a lot like Manila, in which there is very little food left for the exploded population, there are food riots, and enterprising citizens find other sources of nourishment.
1,000-word maximum.
Deadline: 11.59pm, Saturday, 19 February 2011.
The prize: The Great Short Stories of Guy De Maupassant, and The Apocalypse Reader, edited by Justin Taylor, with stories by Rick Moody, Dennis Cooper, Kelly Link, Michael Moorcock and others.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
February 13th, 2011 at 14:02
Here goes. First time here. Don’t know if this qualifies…
The girl takes brisk steps, ignoring the gunfire in the distance, as she makes her way towards the Lacson underpass. She keeps her bag close to her body, mindful not to squish the loaf of bread inside it. She can feel it against her, like a soft, squishy pillow, and it takes everything within her not to pull it out and shove it into her mouth. Seems it’s been hours ago since she’d eaten.
She keeps her head down as she passes a soldier guarding the underground passage. Briefly, she glances at him, noting the blue, bulletproof uniform; the compact Mini Mitrailleuse slung over his shoulder. Her eyes takes in the two grenades; the berretta on his hip; the silver lance rising behind his back.
They’re everywhere – the soldiers. They stand watch over the rabble like ubiquitous jailers, herding men and women into their offices, and schools and workplaces during the day. Before night falls, the same soldiers ease them into the locked confines of their homes where they stay until the next morning.
A long time ago, something so repressive and restricting would have been openly and vigorously challenged. Streets would have been filled with people, shouting for their rights. But not anymore. Not since the soldiers started with the tasers.
The girl walks, head down, as she descends into the dark, tomb-like passage, avoiding the old woman who told fortunes.
Ineng, do you want to have your palm read?
Twenty pesos for an initial reading, thirty for a full deck of cards. Enough for a measly meal.
A wiry boy reaches out for a fleeting touch of her coat, hawking small, orange-garbed toy figures.
Another boy collides with her legs and she grips her bag tighter and she wonders if they can smell the bread she’d stolen. It won’t be a first time that someone had inadvertently spilled something edible inside the passage. The post-frenzy carnage is always unbelievable.
At the bottom of the stairs, amidst empty bottles and candy wrappers, an infant in the arms of her mother awaits her. A ready hand reaches out to her, palm up, fingers pressed together.
Maawa na po kayo. Piso lang po para sa anak ko.
The hapless child is really not an infant but a four-year old girl, stricken with holoprosencephaly. Her mother brings her to the Lacson pass every Wednesday to beg for money to get her the medicine she needs. A day brings enough alms for them to survive so she can sit in the dark, at the bottom of the stairs, holding out her hand and beg strangers for the chance to live another day, another week.
Emerging from the underground bridge, the girl counts the steps that takes her across the church’s wide courtyard, towards the narrow street that leads to the wooden room that had serves as her home for the last eleven months.
The square leading to the basilica of the Black Nazarene is full. It’s Friday, the girl realizes. Friday is when the soup kitchen beside the church opens to feed the sickly. A bowl of lugaw, seasoned with a sprinkling of MSG and a dash of rat meat.
Her steps take on a slower, more serene pace as she rounds a street corner where tambays flirted loudly with horny dalagindings. Flies buzz in front of an open air diner and she silently curses the girls who ran the place for habitually dumping their shit into the street. She’s familiar with the smell, the squalor, the bustle of life that came with the struggle against indignity and helplessness.
She had chosen the place for anonymity, with its sea of faceless and nameless humanity, as it was far away from the one she’d been used to. Quiapo, home to the largest immigrant and refugee population in the country, seething in equal parts of anger, apathy and betrayal.
She arrives at her building, an old structure that had seen better times. It’s three in the afternoon and most of the building’s occupants are in various stages of stirring, weary women getting ready to ply their trade under the harsh streetlights some time later.
The stairs to the third floor are dusty and she walks silently to let herself into the small space that contained her meagre belongings. The place is dingy and infested with roaches but it’s hers and nobody is trying to kill her there for a mouthful of rice.
The hideous creatures are everywhere, including the corners which leads to her door. She stomps her feet, squishing one to its death. They rest scamper to safety at the sound of her boot.
That’s right, little fuckers, run while you can. Mga putang ina niyo. She squishes another, then another, even knowing that they number in thousands in her floor alone. Most of them are gone, startled by the racket but she knows they would all come back later to feast on the garbage outside her door.
Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive; plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live.
Wasn’t that what Sun Tzu always said?
She opens her door and leaves the cockroaches alone.
February 18th, 2011 at 18:11
This is unfortunate.
First time people are finally interested in me and they want me for food.
Why is everyone going all Hannibal Lecter on each other? Is this my karma for eating too much bacon?!
Apparently, I am Choice Meat these days, according to the reporter broadcasting inside a makeshift tree house on a treetop somewhere in Makati. That’s what he said on the radio. I worry for him because there aren’t really tall, burly trees in the city to save you from those monsters. You could hear ravenous people on the ground yelling at the news reporter to come down and join them. To be their food or their staunch supporter, it was hard to decipher which. His voice was shaky but still professional, and he had advised Choice Meat people like me to stay in, hide, and grab any blunt object to protect ourselves. And when the monsters attack us, aim for the heart or jugular. The news reported said he did this many times, so he has killed many times, and most times, they all fell down. Whether the monsters died or not, he wasn’t sure – he never looked back after each stabbing, and for good reason. He also added that ‘hungry’ was too delicate a word to describe those who wanted us; in fact, ‘voracious’ was not even close. In the years he reported the news, this was the only time he was genuinely scared for his life, because he didn’t know what was going on, only that there was no food, and for some reason the monsters turned on their meatier fellows. When he said ‘God bless’ I wanted to believe him, it however seemed forced and hopeless. His transmission cut off a few minutes ago, so I threw the still-charged and working cellphone I picked up on the street hours ago. There was no one to call, nobody will answer. I have now followed the reporter’s advice, deciding to find a blunt object first.
To be categorized as Choice Meat is insulting, for sure. You’re one of the remaining sane humans left, but it’s basically a euphemism for ‘You’re fat’. I’m not fat; I’m fine. I’m a good 130 pounds on a five-foot-three inch frame. I’m not overweight yet. Since I don’t have rock-hard abs to speak of, it’s really just what you call a belly, I’m automatically sustenance for those monsters. They now have license to cut my flab out and have it be their lunch or dinner. What to do with the rest of me, I bet they would have it smoked.
The news reporter described the monsters as rail-thin, their cheeks sunken, their ribs protruding on their torsos, and I imagine them to resemble Christian Bale in the movie ‘The Machinist’ – you know, anorexic chic. Their hair too had started to fall off, leaving bald patches on their heads. Their teeth have become sharper from gnawing on human flesh. Hygiene had also gone kaput, so I could only imagine how it stinks out there. Erase that. I don’t want to imagine.
What happened? Why has my life turned into an extended version of ‘Alive’ with Ethan Hawke? Or could it be that this is what you call a zombie apocalypse? But they’re really cannibals out there, so is it a cannibal apocalypse then? I can’t think straight, I have yet to get a hold of a blunt object. There should be a knife in this house…
By the way, I am hiding in a house that’s not mine. The apartment building that I used to live in had been overrun by those monsters. My neighbors, having had nothing to eat for weeks, had banded with the newly-minted ‘hunters’ and started preying on us flabby humans. They had gym memberships and had been on diets so they could fit into their designer clothes. Heck they were even supposed to be vegetarians! Now they’re part of this let’s-eat-fat-people frenzy. I guess those leaves, tofu, and fruit shakes can’t really sustain you. But they’ve gone too far. Why turn on fat humans? Aren’t there farms to be ransacked with chickens, cows, and pigs for?
Oh right, there are no more livestock. Diseases such as foot-and-mouth and mad cow’s obliterated the pigs and cattle, while the bird flu virus took down all the poultry. A few weeks ago, I could still eat burgers and liempo and fried chicken – okay, Stop. Thinking. About. Food. There is no more food – YOU are food! Do you know how disconcerting that is? To know that you’re not on top of the food chain? That you’re now the bacon?! I can’t wrap my brain around it… but I know those monsters would know how to wrap my brain in some of my innards. I know I’m tasty so I need that damn blunt object already.
Crash!
They’re here. My legs are tired, I can’t run anymore. I have no more houses to hide in, the malls are now HQs for the monsters – they’ve practically chewed all the leather goods in there to satiate themselves! I have nowhere to run to. Great. I wish I hid in Emilio Aguinaldo’s house in Cavite instead; that has tons of hidden passages and secret rooms. I could live underground until I starve myself and then die. Is it selfish to die without having to share myself to the hungry? Should I help them out? Should I just sacrifice myself for the greater good? Am I letting Papa Jesus down for wanting to die by myself, intact instead? Letting those monsters feed on me is not about the greater good, okay. They’re still thinking about themselves. All this time, shaming regularly-sized, curvy people like me, not wanting anything to do with us, and now wanting every little piece of us? To keep them alive? Starve, you bitches!
Finally, a broken chair! I can make a stake out of one of its legs! Times like this, you need to ask yourself, ‘What would Buffy do?’
February 19th, 2011 at 18:48
Arrrggh, I forgot it doesn’t accept some symbols pala! Am just sending it again with certain symbols replaced, I hope word count doesn’t include dashes and tags. Please delete the previous version of the entry….
hungersolutions.com
“I really am sorry for this, sir, but we’re undergoing our scheduled system upgrade in order to better serve you, our customers. Unfortunately, that means that we’re unable to track some of our couriers at the moment. If you could just wait a couple of hours, we’re–”
“It’s been ten hours, the bird should’ve gotten here already! I’m just so fucking hungry now I can barely think straight and you’re asking me to wait? Hey, do you have my address correct or is there a mixup?”
“The Jefferson Hotel section #3945 unit K, 17th floor?”
“Yeah, yeah. You have my damn address, why isn’t it here yet? Are you having some system-wide error?”
“I apologize, Mr. Roberts, but I don’t have information regarding what percentage of our birds aren’t showing up through the GPS, but rest assured that they are still on their way. We just can’t monitor where they are at the moment.”
“Listen. Listen, you’re not listening to me. Are you listening? I haven’t eaten yet and that doesn’t make me a happpy camper, okay? I’m sorry usually I know you guys are tops when it comes to service. It’s been a great relationship ‘cept for a couple of times when the bird delivered cracked tubes with half the glucose missing.”
“Cracked, sir?”
“Yeah, freak accidents they said, bots colliding in mid-air. And I had to go all the way up to upper management to get some compensation back then. I don’t want to have to do that this time. But anyway, bygones are bygones and that’s three years ago. The point is, you’ve more often than not given good service compared to the other companies. So, we’re having this new problem right now which just fucks up my opinion of your company once more. I’ve been on the phone for two hours now and you’re the third agent I’m speaking with. The guys earlier promised it would get here soon. And the fucking bird with the fucking food isn’t here yet.”
“Again, I deeply apologi–”
“Okay, save it. I’m sorry I have to take it out on you, but you’re the customer representative, this isn’t personal. I just have to say your company is not upholding its end of the bargain. You’re very courteous compared with the representatives earlier, I respect that. You’re obviously trained really well. All I got earlier were outsourced people from Manila or some other hole. I’m just relieved I got an American agent this time.”
“So, what I just need to ask you, James, is this. I’m going to keep it very simple, yes or no question. Is there any way for you to make sure that you can get that bird here with my food today?”
“Again, I’m sorry, sir, but the last update says that they are on their way. We just have a window here where we can’t tell where they are at the moment.”
“Fuck! Bitch! Motherfucker! Wow, your company’s just really gone down the drain this time. And you have the gall to charge me eight hundred dollars a month? You’re killing me here, don’t you know that? Killing me. I’ve been patient but I need that damn delivery bird here, right now! Okay, fuck, give me a supervisor. I need a supervisor.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you, sir. I will just check on the availability of a supervisor. Would it be okay to put you on hold?”
“I’m sorry, sir, can I put you on hold?”
“Fine.”
[–mute-hold–]
Tangina mo, gago ka Shane Roberts! Racist pa ang putsa! Bobo! Burahin ko yung escalation mo rito, eh. Mamuti kaya mata mo diyan hanggang Lunes. Pare, naghahanap na ng sup.
Talaga? Last day mo na sa trabaho may sup call ka pa rin? Putsa, wala pa naman si Sir Judd, lahat ng sup may kausap o, may queue pa. May problema kasi ngayon sa Arizona eh. Nagbago kasi ng laki ng mga test tube, ngayon hindi raw magkasya sa mga sparrow natin. Bente na raw ang patay eh tsaka may riot sa distribution center. Sobrang bawal pa naman lumapit doon, kaya nga mga ibon na lang nga pinapalapit eh. ayun, binaril ng mga pulis mga nag-riot. Panoorin mo sa TV mamaya.
Magutom sila, magtirahan ba naman ng bomba tapos ngayon nagsisisi ngayon na walang makaing matino.
James, kailangan mo raw ng sup? Eto available na si Sup Cat!
Ah, hindi na kailangan. Kaya na to.
[–Line 1–]
“I’m sorry sir, but all our supervisors are currently engaged in calls right now. I do apologize for that.
“Nevermind that. There’s a bird here outside the sill. It doesn’t look like it’s one of yours but I think it’s a delivery bird. Or it could be a real live bird. Does your panel indicate any delivery bird here?
[–mute–]
Pare, sasakyan ko na lang to. May ibon daw na nakita.
[–unmute–]
“Oh, my panels aren’t refreshing successfully at the moment but that could very well be the bird that was intended for you. We had a redesign and you’re probably looking at the new model.”
“I opened the window but it’s not going in. I’d just reach for it but it’s too far away I’d have to get out and carry it in.”
“It’s probably trying to detect whether or not you’re the recipient, sir.”
“It’s not moving at all.”
“They do sometimes need to reboot for a couple of minutes, sometimes an hour or two. My advice is to just wait for it to-”
“Fuck that crap; I’m too hungry to wait here. I’m going to pick up that shit right now. Putting you on speakerphone, okay?”
“Sir, I advise you, please don’t–
[–mute–]
Putsa, makinig ka nga!
[–unmute–]
“Sir, wait. Wait. I’m reloading my panel here, that’s not one of our deliveries. Just please come back in and I’ll escalate this to a supervisor so we can– Sir? Sir?”
February 19th, 2011 at 22:21
Bobo.
Sino kasing may sabing sundan mo yung mabangong amoy ng patay ng daga?
Ngayon lang sumakit ng ganito yung mga binti ko. Di bale. Isang kalye nalang.
Lumingon ako. Shit bumibilis sila a. Pa’no ba naman, pare-pareho lang kaming buto’t balat na. Mga sampung tao. Kahit yung matatanda ang bibilis. Aray binti ko! Okay, ako rin pala matanda na.
Patungo sa Aramismis, nakita ko na may isa pang grupo—mga limang tao—na naghihintay sa dulo ng kalye. Nang marining nila ang kalampag ng paa ng kanilang mga kasama, nagsimula silang tumakbo patungo sa amin.
Tumakbo ako pabalik, papunta sa humahabol sa akin. Nakita ko yung mga gutom nilang ngiti. Siguro napangiti na rin ako. Hindi na sila nag-iisip. Gutom lang ang tumutulak sa kanilang gumalaw.
Yumuko ako habang tumatakbo. Sa luwag nung kalye nalusutan ko yung unang tatlong tumatakbo. Sinundan pa rin nila ako. May isa sa kanila na medyo malaman pa. Pawis na pawis siya at halos namumutla na. Binaon ko yung ngipin ko sa binti niya at hinatak ko kung ano mang laman ang sasama sa bibig ko. Lakas ng iyak niya. Pumulupot ang katawan niya sa kalye.
Babae yung unang sumunggab sa kanya. Sinimulan niyang kumain sa binti, kung saan sariwang-sariwa ang sugat. Hindi nakalaban yung taong kinagat ko. Pasensya na. Ikaw nalang, kesa ako.
Nakalimutan nilang hinahabol nila ako. Galing mo, Totoy. Mga ilang minuto din yung nakuha kong palugit.
Bansalangin. Sa tabi nung nakakadenang mga gate ng simbahan, nakita ko agad ang kinang ng dog tag ni Fifi at ang machong tayo ng katawan ni Ace. Yehes, nakauwi narin.
Sinara agad nung magkambal na pitbull yung maliit na butas gamit ang tatlong malalaking gulong na nahanap namin.
“Nakuha mo yung daga? Inubos mo siguro!” tanong ni Ace.
“Pasensya na, boss. Hinabol lang ako.”
Dinilaan ni Fifi ang dugong nagmantsa sa bibig ko. “Tao?” tanong niya.
Ngumiti ako. “Sarap no?”
“Pwede na rin.”
“Boss, pag madilim na, tawagin mo yung mga pusa,” sabi ko. “Hingi tayo ng tulong. Mas mabilis at mas tahimik sila. Sil’ang maghanap, tayong papatay.”
“Kakain tayo ng tao? Yaks!”
“Tikman mo kasi!”
Dinilaan din ni Ace ang dugo. Nag-isip siya. “Pwede na nga.”
February 20th, 2011 at 00:01
The Visionaries
The news spread quickly across the city. Folks from the eastern district reportedly spotted a 200 pound pig. A living pig.
One could only imagine the frenzy such a news would cause. In no time families carrying all sorts of weapons, from kitchen knives to submachineguns, headed for the eastern district, all hoping to be the first to capture and butcher the pig.
At first nobody believed a pig would still be found in the city. All the haciendas in the northern provinces were practically heavily defended military camps. All manner of edible flora and fauna were by then owned by a handful of rich and powerful families who fought against each other for control of resources necessary to produce food.
Ordinary folks who were unlucky enough to be born without haciendas to their name had to fight for survival in the city.
How a pig could roam freely in the city was quite a mystery. But nobody had the time nor the energy to indulge in mystery-solving. As soon as a dozen or so witnesses claimed to have seen the pig darting across the road in an area of abandoned apartment blocks, people just went Pavlovian.
So the hunt was on for the pig. And it went on and on. And on.
Weeks had passed and there was still no sign of the pig. Had somebody killed it already? Had it returned to the hacienda where it was presumed to have escaped? Had it found a hiding place?
Nobody had a clue. Until one city dweller posted a tweet which was, on hindsight, the most probable explanation for the mystery pig: “Walang himala. Walang baboy. Gutom lang tayong lahat.”