LitWit Challenge 3.8: Sounds like this
Every week in the LitWit Challenge we give you an assignment. We’ve asked you to reveal some deep dark secret (Some secrets were so dark you asked that they be deleted). We’ve had a competition for the worst ex (Yours are horrendous. We’re impressed). We’ve asked you to remake classic literature in Carlo J. Caparas mode, translate Gatsby into Filipino, and write mash-ups of mythical monsters and historical figures. We’ve asked you to write stories involving tennis (Oddly all your tennis stories involved sex), to describe the aftermath of debauchery (Obviously more sex), and to spin tales based on a photograph (Even more sex).
And you have delivered. You’re good. What else can we make you do?
We can toss you a LitWit Challenge with no clear instructions. Just this piece of music. Click on the link.
The music is from a famous French movie. You don’t have to know what it is, but if you do, bravo.
Now write us a story in 1,000 words or less that goes with this piece of music. Think of it as the theme music for your story.
Post your story in Comments by 11.59 pm on Sunday, 3 October 2010. The prize you are vying for is this:
And some consolation prizes. 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 >>>
September 29th, 2010 at 21:26
In Tradition of Bukas Luluhod ang mga Tala and Bituing Walang Ningning.
LUKSANG TAGUMPAY
Taon : 1940’s, Araw ng Linggo
Lugar: Sa isang maliit na barangay ng Meycauayan Bulacan
Gumising si Maria Josefa (dating Joseph) claims to be the only gay in his barangay. Nagtungo si Maria Josefa sa batalan para maglabas ng dumi at maglaga ng dahon ng bayabas na kanyang gagamitin sa pagligo at habang naglilinis ng ngipin gamit ang asin (sea salt) sa batalan , ay laking gulat ni Maria Josefa ng kanyang masilayan si Alfonso (kapitbahay isang 17 anyos na binata) na nagsisibak ng kahoy na walang pang itaas , kitang kita ni Maria Josefa ang kahubdan ni Alfonso (sa edad niyang 17 ay ayos na ayos ang katawan as in super dooper materyales fuertes)
Nagmadaling magbihis si Maria Josefa para rumampa kay Alfonso subalit suplado si Alfonso at sinabihan si Maria Josefa ng “”ohhhhh, piss off, you stupid little poof” .
Nasaktan si Maria Josefa at lumuwas patungong Maynila at pinangakong kakalimutan na si Alfonso , nakapagtrabaho si Maria Josefa sa Clover Theater bilang janitor habang walang palabas ay nag aakting si Maria Josefa ala Judy Garland sa stage at nakita siya ni Donya Matilda (may ari ng teatro) at kinuha siya bilang isang tauhan sa dula.
Dito na nagsimulang sumikat si Maria Josefa at narating ang rurok ng tagumpay subalit malungkot pa rin siya dahil nasa puso niya pa rin si Alfonso.
Itutuloy
September 30th, 2010 at 05:03
Sorry…this is not an entry to the contest but I’d just like to rave about this piece of music: Godard’s “A Bout De Souffle”, probably one of my all-time favorite film scores, along with Vertigo. They don’t create movie music like those anymore.
I just caught this film recently on Netflix (I love how you can stream movies on PS3 as you wish! And at 9 bucks/month!) a decade after I first saw it at the French Film Fest at the Shangrila (do they still do those?). And it’s still as breathlessly enigmatic as ever!
September 30th, 2010 at 07:57
You probably think that you’re on top of the world right now: cream of the crop, best of the best, queen of the last-minute deadline. You must be feeling pretty good right now.
You think of at all that red ink that came before today. You must be convinced that I’ve gone mad, or I just don’t get you. You want to believe that you’re the victim of the numbers system. That’s how self-talk works: say this enough, and it might come true.
And now, as you freeze in front of the overhead projector, you take a question from the floor. “Didn’t I tell you that already?” you reply.
Then you look across the room, as if searching for a flute of champagne with your name on it.
That’s when you hear the sound of my pen scratching paper in the background.
Then you notice everyone else, looking at you now, as you make your way back to your seat. You hear them talk, like they usually do. “She must have rehearsed this pretty well,” they might say, or “She must’ve drank a lot of coffee last night to pull off this brilliant presentation.” They might even suggest – the nerve! – that you’ve been taking drugs. Performance-enhancing drugs, you hope.
Then the next presentation starts, and you do wonder: Did I drink that much coffee? Did I rehearse enough? Did I – gasp! – do anything wrong?
You turn to me, praying for one last chance for me to fix the numbers and set you straight. But then you realize that I used to be an undergraduate, too. And I must be feeling pretty pleased with myself right now, because nobody had Facebook when I was your age.
September 30th, 2010 at 11:13
DANSVILLE
“Pa, pa, and pa de borey!”
MWF, alas kwatro ng hapon, tuwing summer, makikita mo si Dodong sa Dansville.
“Istep tombey, asambley, asambley!”
Naka-tights and leotards, good back, chin up, stomach in, chest out. May mga parteng asiwa dahil sadyang nagpupumilit mag-out, pero ganun talaga. Tutal kinder-senior class naman ang tinuturuan niya. Malay ba nila.
“Cheek and! Bow!”
Kapag malapit nang matapos ang klase, nangangati na ang mata ni Dodong. Parang sore eyes at astigmatism daw.
Isa-isang lalapit sa kanya ang mga naka-all pink na bata, pagkatapat sa kanya, ilalagay ang daliri sa pisngi, sabay istep-bow at mano. Tapos magtatakbuhan na palabas. Parang mga bumisitang gumamela lang.
“Very good! See you tomorrow! Babay!”
Minsan navevery good din siya ng nanay niya. Pero ayaw niya ng OA moments.
” ”
Tapos tahimik na.
MWF, alas kwatro imediya ng hapon, magpapalit ng toe shoes si Dodong. Magsasaksak ng bagong cassette tape sa player. Pinagawa niya pa yon sa radio station, para humaba, paulit-ulit na tig-iisang minutong areglo.
Sa bawat pagtusok ng toe shoes sa sahig, langitngit ng lumang kahoy ang sumasabay sa cassette tape.
Pirrouette a la seconde, retiré
Snappy dapat ang ulo para hindi mahilo. Look back to one point in the mirror. Mukha, mukha, mukha.
Tours en l’air, retiré
Habang nasa ere, umiikot, malaya ang paa sa lupa. Nawawala ang lahat ng makati, ang lahat ng masikip, ang lahat ng mabigat.
Glissade, glissade, grand jete, retiré devant
Babalik sa lupa, dadaloy, dadaloy, panandaliang lilipad, nasa Russia si Dodong at wala sa Santos Street, babalik sa lupa ang paa, pero nakalutaw parin ang noo, pikit-mata, palakpakan.
Titingin ng saglit sa relong nakasabit. Isang minuto. Isang minuto pa.
September 30th, 2010 at 16:24
Bulung-bulungan noon pa man na may naninirahang demonyo sa katapat-bahay namin. Siguro panahon pa nina Lolo nang huling may tumira dun, kwento nga niya samin na kalaro niya yung anak ng may-ari ng bahay—kasing edad at kasing pilyo niya rin daw. Madalas daw silang makipaglaro sa mga batang babae pero lagi naman silang napagkakamalang nakikipag-away. Buong araw silang naglalaro pero hindi naman niya nabanggit ni minsan kung nakapasok na siya sa misteryosong bahay na yun. Hanggang isang araw, bigla na lang hindi na bumukas ang pinto, sarado na lahat ng bintana at wala kang maririnig na ingay mula sa loob. Yun din daw ang araw na hindi na niya ulit nakita pa ang batang madalas niyang makalaro noon. Sabi niya pa sa amin, bago siya mamatay, siguro magkikita na sila ulit.
Mga sampu pa lang ako nung ikinuwento niya samin yun, si Kuya labin-tatlo kaya palagay ko, matagal na ngang panahong nangyari ang kwento ni Lolo. Yung sa tagal ba, eh, hindi mo alam kung paniniwalaan mo pang totoo. Kaya naman parang wala lang ng ibalita ni Mama isang gabing naghahapunan kami na aayusin daw ang bahay sa tapat. Siguro gigibain at tatayuan ng mall, sabi niya. Nang mga sumunod na araw lang namin nakumpirma na aayusin lang talaga dahil titirhan na ulit ito.
Mahigit dalawang taon na rin simula nang lumipat ang mga bago naming kaptbahay. Tahimik ang mga unang araw nila. Pero unti-unti namin silang nakilala nang magbigay si Mama ng fruitcake ilang araw bago mag-pasko nung unang taon nila. Nalaman namin na apat ang bago naming kapitbahay—ang mag-asawa, isang anak na babaeng halos kasing-edad ni Kuya at isa pa na mas bata lang siguro ng sampung taon sa asawang babae. Dahil siguro sa pagkamahiyain ko, naging mas malapit sila kay Kuya. Natutuwa kasi siya sa mga tao at sa mga kwento nito pero hindi rin naman siya palakwento, mahilig lang talaga siyang makinig.
Kaso, tatlong buwan na rin siyang tila bingi at pipi sa amin, tulala. Araw-araw pagkagising ko pa lang sa umaga, alam kong hindi pa siya natutulog ng nagdaang gabi at siguro simula pa nung gabing galing siya sa kapitbahay—nakaupo siya malapit sa bintana na para bang may inaantay. Dumadalas na rin ang pagpunta ni Tin samin, siya yung anak ng kapitbahay namin. Minsan nakita kong iba ang tingin ni kuya nung isang beses na bumisita siya. Parang napagkasunduan na lang nilang makinig sa katahimikan ng isa’t isa.
Hindi ko alam kung anong tunay na nagyari, hindi ko rin siguro maiintindihan, pero sigurado akong hindi maganda yun. Totoo kaya ang mga kwentong may demonyo nga sa bahay na yun?
Sa Miyerkules pupunta raw ang mga taong tutulungang gumaling si Kuya.
Sana bumalik na siya sa dati. Ok na yung hindi siya makwento paminsan-minsan kesa namang ganitong parang wala na siyang ganang magsalita.
September 30th, 2010 at 18:39
LUKSANG TAGUMPAY
Part 2/3
Nagpasyang magbakasyon si Maria Josefa sa kanilang barangay
Sinalubong sya ng bongang bonga , mainit ang pagtanggap sa kanya ng mga kababayan with open arms. Namangha ang lahat sa kanyang
all around MAKE-OVER
BODY:
Ang dating Daffyd “only gay in the village” Thomas body ni Maria Josefa, ngayon ay isa ng BALINGKINITAN QUEEN Danton Remoto’s body.
Hair:
Ang dating steelwool hair ni Maria Josefa ngayon ay Jobert Sucaldito Hair na (hair only)
Face and Skin:
Ang dating nyang aliping sigigilid skin NGAYON ay Mylawhite(cynthia?) perfect skin na.
Ang lahat ng kaligayahan nyang nadarama ay napalitan ng lungkot ng malaman nyang kinabukasan pala ay ang petsa ng kasal ni Alfonso kay Estacquia (ang babaeng mukhang Pigsa (dolly anne carvajal!!!!)
ITUTULOY……………………
September 30th, 2010 at 21:43
ROSES BY THE WINDOW
She made sure that the doors are locked and all the windows are closed. She made sure she was safe. All holes and gaps were well sealed, but flood came in — the flood of music. The song is a statement of suffering, an anthem of a pain subdued by the things which she could not have controlled. Or was it all in her mind?
All that one knows right now is that she is in the middle of the room doing nothing. Maybe she was thinking. Thinking why wasn’t there a fire lit to keep her warm. Thinking why the room looked so sick and yellow. Thinking why the roses near the window looked so red.
She stared at the roses which seemed to bear the color of blood. She thought that the roses are staring blankly at a pile of snow which had built on the window sill. Interestingly, it seemed to her that the pile of snow stared back at the roses, but this time, with a strong sense of indifference. All they had between them is a thin clear sheet of glass.
Slowly, the music came to a stop. That is when she cleared her mind and got up, straightened out the folds in her dress brought by an hour’s worth of being seated, and faced the mirror to make sure she still looked good. She is waiting for someone important.
October 1st, 2010 at 07:10
Kakalokang Mundo ni Fifi Legarda
Kakatapos lang ng pang-anim na interbyu ni Fifi sa isang call center sa Makati, pang-anim na “we will just call you.” rin nung araw na yun. Alas-sais na ng gabi at wala na siyang ibang maisip gawin kundi ang umuwi.
Sa kanyang pagtawid mula sa dela Rosa papuntang dela Costa, sinumpong na naman ang kabaliwan ng ating bida. Sabay sa musikang hindi niya mawari ang pag-andar ng kanyang imahinasyon…
“Paano kaya kung ang mga hayop na nakikita ko lang sa zoo ang maging normal na mga hayop na makikita sa bahay?” tanong ni Fifi sa sarili. Tila mga balang galing sa baril ng kanyang kagagahan ang biglang tumama sa kanyang pag-iisip. “Fifi, bantayan mo ang relyenong bangus sa lamesa. Wala na naman tayong kakainin kapag tinakas yan ng polar bear!” sigaw ng kanyang nanay. “Sit. Roll over. Play dead.” utos ng kanyang kaibigang si Venus sa alagang Giraffe. “Congratulations!” sigawan ng mga bisita ni Fifi sa kanyang kasal habang ihinahagis nila ang dalawang ostrich sa ere.
“ERASE!” sambit ni Fifi sa sarili. Ngunit gaya ng madalas na nagyayari, may bago na naman siyang naisip.
“Paano kaya kung hindi na kumakain ang tao at puro solar energy na lang ang bumubusog sa kanila? hmmm… edi lahat ng tao sa Ecuador ay matataba. Puro obese na rin ang mga tao sa Kenya at Ethiopia. Sa Alaska naman, kalahating taong malulusog ang mga tao, kalahating taong malnourished. Naku! Mamamatay rin kaagad ang mga nagtatrabaho sa call center! Ayaw ko ng magtrabaho sa call center!”
“Prrrrrrrrrt!” maingay na pito ni mamang pulis na naging dahilan ng biglang pagtigil ng musikang nakakaantok rin naman para sa kanya. Si Fifi Legarda, loka loka extraordinaire, ay nagjaywalking na naman. Ganda!
October 1st, 2010 at 13:44
(I wish I could point out the exact moment where each part of the audio clip lands :) anyway, here it goes!)
After picking the lock, she entered the room stealthily. Not because she was worried about the chance of being noticed but simply out of habit. Like creeping upon other people is a norm. She was quick, hiding behind the shadows cast by huge furniture, ever ready with her trusty silenced gun. One glance and she realized she need not be fast, just noiseless. They were asleep after all. She walked, still keeping up with the norm, raising her hand to aim.
Then she slowly lowered her gun. She never knew who her targets were. It was the job and this time the only lead was a room number. She had never hesitated before, only now. One quick look to the person lying beside the target and she raised her hand again, shot 3 rounds at him, splattering red all over, including the face of the creature with beautiful black hair beside him.
Black hair roused, wiped her face off with her left hand, slowly peering with her eyes in the dark. Too slow. Before she knew it she was gagged and tied, no time to scream nor finish off with the wiping. She looked, tears streaked, on a fellow woman back turned against her.
She was examining a glass of bourbon on the counter. Bourbon. Remembering the first time she had a taste of it. At a party / work. The man who offered her the drink was not her target. She was there merely to trail. And yet she remembered exactly how good the liquor tasted. Maybe because she just had it recently. Last night. The taste was the same. Good afterburn. Now, she had a feeling it won’t be.
She lowered the glass, stopped, thinking if she would finish off the bitch as well. She could leave now. The job was done. It was not in her norm to add up on casualties. But she loved bonuses. She faced the bed once more. There, a trembling tousle of black hair, and her assignment: unrecognizable with a mangled face due to one or two of the gunshots. She doesn’t know. She wasn’t looking when she did it.
But now she fixed her eyes intently. Bonuses. Extras. On the side. She took 3 more shots, this time to the exposed groin area of her target. He was unrecognizable but she knew him now. She has been with him since the time she first tasted bourbon. She was with him last night.
October 2nd, 2010 at 15:07
Split screen, real time, dalawang tauhan, isang lalake at isang babae, tanghaling tapat, tumutugtog ang background music.
Si babae ay naglalakad sa bukirin, si lalake sa isang kalye, papuntang EDSA. Naririnig ang papalapit na kalyeng matrapik. Businahan ang mga oto’t bus.
Parehong malayo ang tingin nang dalawa, nag-iisip nang malalim habang naglalakad. Si lalake ay di mawaksi sa isip ang kanyang hipokritong boss na walang alam gawin kundi magpagawa nang report. Puros na lang report na walang resulta. Tuwang-tuwa ang boss at kumikislap ang mga mata pag nakakakita nang mga palamuting bar graph, spiderplots, at piechart. Gustung gusto nya rin ang mga retorik na katulad nang “have a sustainable capacity-building solutions to increase our pool and capability.”
Pareho silang magsasalita nang: “Langya.”
Si babae naman ay iniisip ang ipinipilit nang nanay nyang pagtatrabahuhan na pabrika. Kung siya ang masusunod, ayaw na nyang umalis sa bukid. Subalit ang lupa nila ay unti-unti nang napupuno nang mga kubo nang kanilang pinsan, kapatid, tiyahin, ditse, ingkong, tiyuhin nang tiyahin ng pinsa, na walang libangan kundi magkastahan. Nagkalat na ang kanilang mga anak-anak at unti-unti nang kumokonti ang mga taniman. Sabay na iiling ang dalawang tauhan, at magsasabi: “Tsk!”
Tutuluy-tuloy lang ang kanilang paglalakad at pagtingin sa malayo. Tapos, bigla na lamang, si babae sa bukirin, ay makakatapak nang mainit-init na tae ng aso! At si lalake naman, sa sementadong kalye papuntang EDSA, ay makakajackpot nang isang tumpok na ebak ng kalabaw.
Matatapos ang background music, parehong magtataas nang talampakan ang mga tauhan at magsasalita: “Putsa!”
Magsisimula ang kanilang itinadhanang pag-iibigan, na sinimbulo nang dalawang tumpok na tae na natapakan. Bakit may tae nang kalabaw sa Edsa? Bakit may asong sa pilapil pa dyumebs?
October 2nd, 2010 at 16:36
Hi Ms. Jessica. Please ignore the story I previously posted (I realized there was a grammatical error on the first sentence alone), instead post this one. Thank you! :)
The Warning Music
I realized the diners in this posh Quezon City restaurant were on the phone listening to the same thing I was listening after we all simultaneously pressed our “end call” button, and said things like: “Prank call,” or “It’s the crackling sound of some old music,” or “I think I’ve heard this music before.”
It was a rainy, Friday evening. Ferdinand said it was a special night, so he took me here. We were talking about the man who made a commotion in a Manila church, and our discussion was turning into a heated debate.
Ferdinand was just saying how stubborn I could be when our phones rang. Actually, every single phone in the restaurant rang. Even the local phone hooked on the maitre d’s post. All at the same time.
Some of the people in the restaurant didn’t take the call, while Ferdinand and I, including majority of the diners, including the maitre d’, ignored the flashing “Unknown Caller” warning, and answered the phone anyway.
Then I heard it from the other end of the line. Everyone who answered his phone heard it too. It was a song reminiscent of old movies. It started off with the gentle playing of a lone piano, crescendoing to the sound of what seemed to be a full orchestra. Bittersweet and, at the same time, haunting.
One strange thing I noticed about what we heard on the phone was, the music wasn’t coming from some sort of recording device – the type you’d hear when you’re calling an office and you’re being put on hold. That’s what everyone would have expected, considering it was a simultaneous phone call made on a great number of people.
Instead, what we heard sounded as if the caller was placing the mouthpiece of his phone close to a stereo or a television’s speaker. There was ambiance noise, there was the sound of the caller’s hand shifting his phone uneasily. It was gritty.
In less than a minute, the music stopped. And all of us on the phone hanged up.
“Prank call,” the old man on the other table said.
“It’s the crackling sound of an old music,” the woman eating pasta announced.
“I think I’ve heard this music before,” said another diner.
“Don’t tell me you also heard the same thing I heard,” Ferdinand said, staring intently at me. He reached for my now-clammy hands. “The old song? The piano?”
I nodded. Feeling scared and confused, I gripped his hand tight.
“This reminded me of this line from this novel I read: ‘If you’re in a big hotel lobby, and they start to play The Blue Danube Waltz, get the hell out. Don’t think, run,’” I recited. “I hope that music wasn’t some sort of a secret warning.”
Loud chatter filled the restaurant. Those who didn’t answer their phones hounded the others with their curiosity. But the clamor and confusion were replaced by a hush. You can see terror in everybody’s eyes as they silently finished their food.
“Don’t let that music worry you, it’s bad for both my ladies,” Ferdinand said, gently rubbing my slightly grown belly. We were already on our way home, and he was driving his beat-up car while I sat silently on the passenger’s seat. All night, he had been trying to assuage me. I was rattled by the strange phone call and the music.
“We’ll just sleep this off. Tomorrow, we’ll just laugh at this prank caller and that music,” he said, trying to sound brave for me, even if I could see him tremble with fear.
The next day I woke up with Ferdinand missing from our bed.
“Ferdie?” I called out. It was already noontime and I could hear the television blast from downstairs.
When I reached the first floor, Ferdinand wasn’t by the telly, not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom.
“Ferdy? Where are you?” I wanted to get my cellphone upstairs but I was starting to feel dizzy. So I just sat down in front of the television – it was blaring the late-breaking news.
I’ve only been asleep for less than half a day, but strange occurrences have already been happening across the city.
Earlier, the president had a televised emergency meeting with the head of the church. On national television, we saw him and the man who made a commotion at the church the other day, kneel before the clergy leader. They were both apologizing for whatever it is that they may have said or done that has offended the church. The high priest, with his golden robe, raised his hand to show everybody: “Yes, I’ve forgiven these two. Yes, I’m higher than these two.”
In other news, cellphone stores and telecommunications offices across the city were either set on fire or looted by a random set of mobs. The body count has already reached 40.
I couldn’t bear watching the television so I turned it off.
It was this silence that made me aware of the sound of the engine of Ferdinand’s car running.
I went to the garage, then found Ferdinand inside the car, unmoving. He was all pink. It looked like he stopped breathing. The words “carbon monoxide poisoning” popped in my head. I ran to his side of the car and started opening the locked door, calling out his name as I made all efforts to free him from that automobile gas chamber.
I quickly looked for objects to break the windows with. But as I scampered about, I felt dizzier. Then I felt warm liquid flow from between my legs. I was bleeding.
I started to feel cold. Darkness slowly engulfed my vision.
As I start to lose consciousness, I heard people from the neighborhood shouting someone else’s name, screaming for help, or crying. I could also hear sirens wailing.
Finally, before I blacked out, I heard that ambiance noise-filled music I heard from last night. I realized that it really was some sort of warning.
October 2nd, 2010 at 17:01
The most intelligent person is going to her very last examination today. For most students, exams present a formidable challenge and require nights of burning oil with about two to three cups of coffee to boot. Not for the most intelligent person, however. She goes to her classes with nothing but her brain and goes out not learning anything. Her professors teach her what she already knows. Yet she doesn’t boast about it. She doesn’t see the point in flaunting her intelligence to make others insecure. She is content knowing that she knows more than the combined acumen of ten genius professors in a top notch university.
Slowly, she ascends the stairs to the fourth floor where her very last exam will be held. She walks toward her classroom, thinking of what she’ll do next after her last test and of course, after her graduation. She arrives in the classroom with her classmates still doing some last minute reviewing, hoping that some tidbits of information will stick in their minds before the exam begins. She sits in the chair nearest the door knowing she’ll be the first one to finish the exam. She doesn’t want to disturb anyone, not her classmates who will probably be constricting their forehead in the hope of producing something sensible to answer the questions.
The professor arrives smiling with stacks of papers carefully embraced with both hands. He puts them into the table and motions the students to hide all their academic paraphernalia. The classroom bursts into a sudden noise as students are hiding their notes and searching for their luckiest ball point pens and bluebooks. The professor hands in the exam papers and writes the start time and end time in the board.
The most intelligent person breezes through the exam, writing pieces of the most insightful answer there is in the whole world. After about thirty minutes, she is ready to pass her paper but she decides to keep it for some time. She reclines a bit and thinks again of what to do with her life. She knows as much as the books in the library. She can most probably prove or disprove the most coveted conjectures and theorems in mathematics while doing some groundbreaking work in physics. She can write the best literature there is since Proust and Shakespeare. If there is still time, she might paint something scholars will talk about after hundreds of years. If she’s interested, she can even contribute profoundly to various philosophical debates and easily outshine even Sartre or Camus. There is nothing much to learn that she doesn’t already know. With all these possibilities, none of them is really meaningful. She was, even with her great intelligence, confounded by the question of what really matters.
She looks at her test paper for the last time, hoping to see something that might give her answers. She reads it over and over again and would have read it again if not for the professor telling the students to finalize their answers. The most intelligent person takes her ball point pen again. Without a slightest hesitation, she crosses out her answers one by one. She draws a giant X for each page of her blue book careful not to render the whole thing unreadable. She reclines again, staring happily at her masterpiece. With a flash of profundity, her smile grew wider than before. She finally found the answer to her question. It wasn’t riches or more education. All the best accomplishments men ever attained falls prey to the answer she thought of. She stands excited to finally submit her masterpiece. The professor is quite shocked to see the most intelligent person submitting later than thirty minutes from start time. But after his initial shock, he reaches out his hand to receive the most thoughtful exam he’ll ever receive.
The most intelligent person runs as fast as she can towards the door with jubilation and loud shrieks of happiness and joy like that of a child who just received the best toy. Three minutes later a loud thud echoes across the air, disturbing every bit of silence there is in the vicinity. The whole class and the professor run outside to see what happened. Their eyes are greeted with the sight of the most intelligent person and her answer to the hardest question she ever had. They looked at each other with profound amazement at what they just saw as if questions about life had been answered for them; as if the concept of questions doesn’t exist anymore and the only thing that exists is answers.
The next thing they knew, they are all flying and prancing about in the air, drawing closer and closer to the most profound answer to the most difficult question the most intelligent person in the world ever encountered.
October 2nd, 2010 at 17:43
The house is full of ghosts. The air is permeated with the dust of ghost shadows, which is enough to make anyone have a dizzy spell. The lolo’s and lola’s of the tito’s and the tita’s, they were all here. Sitting by the veranda, one can almost hear their raspy ghost voices breathing on the back of one’s neck. They are permanent fixtures, much like the obligatory Virgin statues by the staircase in ancestral homes.
It was the perfect place for making decisions, and M knew that. Tonight, M decided never to have her period anymore. In that house, where her father and her father’s father were born, have lived and died. Early this evening, she finally tried a charm an old friend taught her that would, if done properly, give her the promise of freedom from being a slave to the species by never having to feel the need to reproduce anymore. It involved a lot of red wine, a few incantations (the prospect of chanting which made her feel very silly), a black candle, and a few drops of blood.
What she felt was not unlike what Woody Allen had when he ran after his seventeen-year old girlfriend in Manhattan: the feeling of absolute certainty. She had that look of fierce determination that only a girl who has found a way to get out of her despicable predicament could have. With a knife clenched tight in her right hand, she sliced through her arm and waited for the first few drops of blood.
She leaned her head against the wall, the small of her back resting on the old rickety rattan rocking chair. Her eyes drooped, her mouth fell open. She crossed her legs and let it rest, tap-tap-tapping into the night in tune with the whirring of the electric fan. She fell asleep…
… and was woken by a clammy white hand grasping her forearm tightly. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, and for some reason she couldn’t see where her cut had been. Like it has healed completely, miracurously. For some reason, her little experiment failed. She thought, well at least I had a good wine.
October 2nd, 2010 at 22:39
He made a quick trip to the church’s nearest rest room, and was glad to find a decent mirror hanging on one of its walls, and he needed such a mirror because his bow was so stubborn and he wanted it to straighten up, and it bothered him a lot because he didn’t want Emily to see her with this crooked bow while she was walking down the aisle, and he knew that she wouldn’t love him less, but still, he was anxious about this bow, about the ring bearer who was known to throw tantrums when the temperature rises, about his fingers that might get too shaky, about the food and the cake and how it would taste like, and about their honeymoon, although they do have sex occasionally, but he can’t help wondering how different it would be, or if they will both feel virginal again, or what panties would she wearing, or if there would even be sex at all after the celebration, but he hoped at least to spend the rest of the night with both of them cuddling, saying something, saying nothing, doing nothing.
He noticed a lint on his shoulder and tried his best to take it off in one go and while he was meticulously pulling it out of his coat, he remembered that day when he was six years old, back when he would always climb the aratilis tree at the backyard of his grandparents’ house during long afternoons, and he knew now that the fruits of this tree are called Jamaica cherries in English, although he never said Jamaica cherries in any of his conversations with his family or friends since the words felt displaced, totally alien to his tongue and claimed no territory on his memories, so on one of these sultrier long afternoons during his childhood, he collected as much aratilis as his plastic bag could contain, and it only took him less than an hour to fill it, nearly bursting with redness and that unmistakable sweet scent of the fruit, and so he jumped, yes, he jumped down from one of the lower branches of the tree and ran outside, his feet leading him to the house of Emily, just one block away from his grandparents’, and there was no hesitation for in his heart of hearts, he knew he would find her in their front porch making dresses for her paper dolls drawn on yellowish cardboards, and he was right, so he went ahead with a surprised Emily who was intently creating a frilly evening gown as the latest addition to her collection of paper doll dresses, and he gave her that plastic bag of aratilis in such a commanding manner, as if it were a set of pills that she needed to take immediately lest she dies any moment, and she took the plastic bag begrudgingly and said that she doesn’t eat the skin, and he said that it was alright, and then out of nowhere, out of mere impulse or perhaps out of some divine intervention, he blurted out that he wanted her to make lots of paper doll dresses while he went around the neighborhood climbing all the trees and bringing her mangoes, papayas, guavas, and every other fruit that can be found in their area, and that she should always brush her hair because her hair is so pretty especially when the sun shone on it, and Emily was so flattered that you could see her cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and pride, and she set down the plastic bag of aratilis on a nearby chair, and then she remembered that her mother incessantly reminded her to wash, wash, wash their hands before and after each meal, so she told him what she had to do, and at her back, he told her that she is the girl that he will marry, and with the conviction of his words, Emily turned back, her face now raging with pallor, and then threw the plastic bag of aratilis at him, which hit him hard at the chest, right at his heart, and the aratilis just flew all over like meteors, planets, comets, and stars, very much like the creation of the universe, the Big Bang theory as he would later learn on in third grade, but it felt like the opposite, where every particle in the universe was destroyed, and he was amazed at himself for harboring such strong feelings, how possible it was to empty his chest and not feel anything except for the low thump, thump of his heart, and he looked at the aratilis scattered on his feet, some still fresh, some crushed, and all of them not to be separated from their skin by the lips of Emily.
That was all the thought running like a news ticker in his head as he went back to the church, like all the five years of his relationship with Emily depended solely on this distant memory, which bothered him in a nostalgic way, which he was sure Emily didn’t remember at all, which was alright because he would still give her all the fruits of the world and create a new universe with one, two, three, or even four paper dolls.
(Is the Yucch-meter still recovering?)
October 3rd, 2010 at 11:32
Every night in a vast field a woman is seen sitting underneath a tree
Underneath the star filled sky, she waits and waits…
Years ago, she was seen under the same tree. The sun is just beginning to fall and she fell asleep.
When she woke up, a man was standing in front of her.
It was already dark and she can not make out the features of the man.
But she knows that he was tall and imposing.
She stared at him but he said nothing. He just stood there for hours.
Then a wind blew and he finally reached out his arm to her.
Underneath the star filled sky with the moon full and bright, they danced and danced…
At dawn when she woke up he was gone
The next night, she sat there again and waited for the man.
The moon was not as bright and he didn’t came.
And then the next night and even the night after that, he didn’t came.
Finally, when the sky was filled with star and the moon was full and bright, he came.
This time he didn’t reach his arm to her, instead he sat next to her.
They sat there for hours looking at the sky while no words were exchanged between the two…
At dawn when she woke up he was gone
Every night only when the moon is full and bright they would meet underneath the tree.
And they would dance or sit looking at the sky and they would fall in love and make love.
Then one night a big storm came at exactly the same night when they would meet.
She was afraid and longed for him to come. But the sky was filled with clouds and she knew she would be alone tonight.
Wind blew hard and their tree surrendered to its strength losing its branches and all its leaves.
He never came again; Every night she sits underneath the bare tree
Underneath the star filled sky, whether the moon is full and bright or not, she waits and waits
And waits. She never left day or night.
She waited until her death
Years had passed and the tree grew new branches,long and imposing. Its leaves thicker than before
Every night when the moon is full and bright, a man is seen standing underneath the tree
And he waits and waits….
October 3rd, 2010 at 14:14
My Ideal Poem
As a reader:
It must be easy, but, not fawning –
words as candies, landmarks, unwrapped,
exposed by sin of careless omission,
or, simply over-exposition, leaving
little, or none for the virginal vision
make me a pioneer
exploring new civilization.
Because the body can only take so much
always the mind leans towards the sunset, dusk
dawn, baby’s touch, things soft and subtle
therefore, if it cannot impersonate the moon
it must razzle-dazzle, stun, be entertaining
enough for the spirit to look again, recoil, leap
ballerina in a dance of (un)words
style as form and function
holding both the audience and stage captive, entranced
terpsichorean’s swan
song.
& where indulgence is human –
Student peeking at review notes
Bungee jumper before the jump, Revalidating
what he already knows, sometimes
I do the diametric opposition –
What Arabic calligraphy is to Phoenician
Or, Apocalypse before Genesis, ending before beginning;
hence, Be
that as it may, let the piece stand strong, god-like
as a captain alerting me to go
Back to start, because truth is irreversible
Writerly pov:
True poets know when,
when not to (un)word, therefore, it ought to
Be
punctuated properly, or
Just
Revere the unsaid,
October 3rd, 2010 at 16:33
Hi Jessica. Can you post this instead of the first one? Thanks.
—
It was a small restaurant a few minutes away from the city. She thanked the driver as she got off the cab and walked towards the entrance where she was met by the maitre d’. Once reservations were confirmed, the woman courtly ushered her to the table. He was already seated, drinking a glass of red. His lips widened to a smile when he noticed her arrival. He planted a kiss on her cheek and helped her to her seat. As always, he complimented her beauty and tonight, “breathtaking” was how he described her.
The place was almost bare, save for themselves and another couple seated by the window. She noticed that even the waiters have all retired to the kitchen and they were left to themselves. She thought it sad that despite the low, warm lights, the pretty blooms in little vases and the soft playing of the piano in the background, the place lacked the romantic ambience it was supposedly going for. Instead, it was somber, gloomy.
He had duck confit which was superb in his account while she opted for the gratin dauphinois. They might have been unsuccessful in projecting an intimate atmosphere but the food was surely a winner. She sipped Kir while listening to him relate how his week has been. He would stop talking once in a while and ask her what she was smiling about, to which she’d say nothing. She just took in every word he spoke like he was some kind of messiah. His mouth was eloquent in its movement. How she loved the lines that form on the side of his eyes when he smiled. At that moment, she felt luckiest of all women. She was with him.
He looked at his watch and it was already nearing nine. He met her eyes and hinted it was time. He reached for her hands and touched her bare fingers. She accepted this act of solace. She memorized the feeling of his hands on hers. She touched the band in his finger fixatedly and realizing this, he pulled away from her with an apologetic expression.
She sat for a few moments more after he had left. The waiter returned to ask if she needed anything else.
Outside, it started to pour. Drops trickled down her face as she searched for a ride home. She looked up the sky in silent thought: “No. I need nothing more”.
October 3rd, 2010 at 20:21
Chloe walks along the aisle, leaving her boyfriend Sarastro and his colleagues behind. The building is eerie. It has a Gothic design. This is not the first time Chloe came to this recital house though.
The original name of the house was Tiangco Recital House, until Sarastro bought it. It was known for its oil-lamp chandeliers hanging in almost every recital hall. One recital hall–Sining Amihan Hall–had a world-famous oil lamp chandelier which had 200,000 oil lamps in it for lighting. Every time there was a performance, the famous chandelier that hung above the stage would be lighted. A chandelier as a tool for fame and popularity, also a tool for tragedy.
Chloe walks right from the aisle, and takes a flight of stairs. There is a vast hall burned into charcoal. Chloe remembered the tragedy that happened two years ago.
A famous sextet known as the Jasper Chamber Sextet was scheduled to perform at the famous Sining Amihan Hall. The pianist of the sextet, Jeaness Lee, was acquainted with Chloe. They studied at the same Conservatory of Music along with Sarastro. Chloe and Jeaness became close friends and eventually became lovers. Sarastro was madly in love with Chloe, but he and Jeaness were best of friends so he could not do anything.
After their graduation, Chloe and Jeaness got separated. Jeaness had the opportunity of being a successful pianist in Europe, but he had to chose: career, or Chloe? Of course he chose career.
Sarastro took the advantage of Chloe’s pain from the separation. Sarastro courted her, and not long after, they became a couple.
At the news of Jeaness Lee & co. is going to perform at the Philippines, Chloe was happy. Sarastro was mad about this. Chloe was never happy in their relationship, and now the Jeaness is returning, she’s the happiest girl on Earth?
Three days before the performance, Chloe made a way to visit Jeaness. She did not inform his boyfriend about this for surely he will get mad as hell. Sarastro was clever though, he knew when to follow Chloe.
After following Chloe and Jeaness all day, Sarastro ended up following them to a hotel. An affair, he thought. An affair. An affair.
Sarastro agreed to take Chloe to Jasper Chamber Sextet’s performance. Chloe was delighted at the sight of Jeaness, the other musicians she paid no attention to. She wondered though where Sarastro is. But that doesn’t matter.
The sextent finished tuning their instruments, they bowed to their audiences, the crowd claps. It began with Jeaness playing a lovely tune, then the string players came in. Then there was a loud noise that did not come from the musicians, but from the chandelier with 200,000 oil lamps falling on them. The glasses shattered, the oil spilled everywhere, and the fire licked everything it can: the musicians, the stage, the audiences, Chloe.
Chloe hears Sarastro call for her, and she snaps out of the flashback. Sarastro comes to kiss her half-burned face. “I love you” he says.