Written on: November 16, 2009
Muntinlupa, Philippines
Cold Tuesday afternoon, December 1995. Several people had already come by, and then walked away with hidden faces, troubled by the reason of the visited and the putrid life that was dictated ahead of them. For almost twice a week, people goes in and out from the dilapidated doors, leaving wakes of both stagnant burden and seldom strings of contentment, forgiveness and joy. And Cecilia, a person who had just awakened from her persistent nightmare, was just about to see and do things across these doors in a different way. Or maybe, she wasn’t much hopeful it would ever be possible.
As she disembarked from the cab, she noiselessly walked across the well-attended pavement, passed through different foul smelling corridors from the first floor up; until she was led into a direction she expected to. Clatter of crumpled scratch pages with some numbers scribbled in them, circular traces of dried beverage leakage onto the wooden desks, old newspapers, and crisscross of wires snaking from the outdated computers and destroyed printers welcomed her with warm nostalgia. Although it wasn’t exactly the same as she used to see it, it was still in its own identity in the universe to be recognized; teeming with decay and depravity, so far from the clean and orderly world she lived in.
Suddenly, a voice of a woman startled Cecilia back into place. “Ma’am, you may go inside.”
Seconds later, as assisted, Cecilia was pulled into a massive cross-section of steel bars. She hesitated at first when a female guard keyed on the padlock, but once it was done and swung open before her she couldn’t help but to step inside and breathe in the air filled with the smell of rust and numbing expectations.
A woman in orange jumpsuit welcomed her with unreadable facial expression across her rounded face. Her deep brown eyes followed her movement as she neared to the desk and pulled a chair to sit. Then the moment had followed for Cecilia to stare at her mother which she hadn’t seen for a very long time. She had imagined once what she would look like, but seeing her face for real was different from the image she had made herself. The first thing that caught her attention was the neck-level hair with a mix of white strands, three to four after she counted, growing down from the central crease. The contrast was so vivid like that of an umbrella. Below, she caught the eyes, same eyes, wherein sagging flesh below had only taken a bit of its beauty. This made her wonder what they had been through; but it’s a wonder so less than her average interest at the moment.
“Hi’ Feli. How are you doing?”
“I was shocked to see how much your face had changed, Cecil,” the woman remarked. “But of course, I know it would be you.”
“So do I.”
With a glimpse of silence, the conversation hanged like a suspended cobweb. The air was temporarily filled by indistinct chit-chat of nearby guards, and distant smashing of doors reverberating against the concrete walls. Few seconds passed to several more seconds. There’s a blank air that surrounded the room. Her mother’s oval face confronted her thoughts the way a child ask for sweet goodies that were locked up inside glass jars.
As gloomy light passed through the nearby windows, a new woman was lit before Cecilia, a face structured by fleshy cheeks ironically against a thin and petite body that was half hidden by a chipping unpainted wood desk. She remembered Feli bragging her photogenic sashes because of this. Of course, that was before she met her father.
She once said as they were sitting at the backyard one afternoon, her younger sister Tina playing with a newly bought rabbit from the nearby church early that morning, that it was the major interest of her father Henry. They met inside a bank both as tellers in the early 60’s. And with the fact that they were aware being both physically attractive, they went along so well. Henry was raised in the suburban Samar and was new to Manila where Felicidad had spent her life since birth. “It’s just a matter of months when I said yes,” she told her many times. “Then another month after that we decided to get married.” Two years later, Cecilia was born.
“So,” Cecilia broke the deafening silence, “Do they treat you well in here? Do they give decent food? Clean blanket?”
“You smell good, Cecil,” the woman in orange said. “I smell your perfume even before they told me my daughter was going to pay a visit. Your taste hadn’t even changed.”
“Shut up.”
“I keep myself informed as much as possible about you even though it’s so hard it’s like I’m prying open a door to which house used to be mine. You were not calling, or giving out letters. I don’t care if I’ve been well taken care of or given with clean blanket. You know, I just --” Feli paused. “Anyway, I managed to know that you have been married five years ago. I haven’t seen the guy but I know he’s a good man. And he has a beautiful name- Henry. Just like your father.”
Cecilia forced a smile.
“Your father would be so happy to see you well now.”
And after she smiled, Cecilia’s jaw suddenly tensed.
“You have kids?”
She breathed in before saying a word, “We have two, both girls.”
“I’m so excited to see my grand daughters.”
“Feli, you know it wouldn’t be possible,” she smiled a wry smile. “I wouldn’t let them get any nearer to a wicked person like you. And in the first place they would be shocked to see their grandmother alive knowing she died even before they were born.”
Feli couldn’t help but to avert her eyes into somewhere else.
“Why?” she asked. “Are you scared you would indeed die here without having a glance at them?”
“Cecil, please don’t do this to me.”
“But I want to. It’s my turn, Feli. It’s my turn. You’ve made my early life miserable, now it’s my time to make you walk, eat… and sleep… and breathe… as miserable as I grew up with the vision of my father bludgeoned to death--”
“Please--” Feli pleaded.
“—killed by her own wife, and to feel so empty and lonely and…” she couldn’t speak the next word. A lump was intruding through the passage between her lips and swollen heart. Her eyes could only moist itself to relieve some of the explosion burning inside her chest. But before she gave in to a noticeable burst, she successfully managed to bring herself back in. “You shouldn’t be thankful that I visited,” she finally said. “I came here not to make you feel better. I’m here to bring back the days you killed papa.”
“Cecile, you know--”
“Please, Feli! You have told us in the court days you have done it, and I felt justice had come since. But suddenly it was taken back as I realized I couldn’t accept the idea that you have done that to him.” Then with a force like wind, “ Feli! Papa had loved you!” Cecilia began to shout. “He loved you! And he is our father!
“But things turned shit,” she said in a lower voice. “What is it with aunt you think more worthwhile than your own family, huh?”
“Your father wasn’t the person you think, Cecil. He turns to a stranger when you and Tina were out of school. But his cousin treated me differently every time. She was always there for me. She loved me and I couldn’t help but to fall in love with her. You can’t blame me for feeling things.”
“Of course, I can. It’s your choice. You can turn away but you didn’t.”
Feli fell silent. A woman carrying plastic bags could be seen outside the window.
“As I recall, a close neighbor of yours had a statement that she heard you screamed before a shot was heard.”
Feli smiled, “Yes. I--”
“Don’t fuck with me. It’s one of the reasons I went here,” she said. “A week ago, she confessed she had been paid by the defendant. That’s you, of course.”
Feli’s face suddenly changed. She looked back at the window. The woman was gone.
“How does that feel? Lucky? That lie wouldn’t make your sentence even worse, right? But it proves a lot of things of who you really are; what you further deserves.”
“Yes. I deserve the worst.” It was all she could say.
“Papa’s body had been uncovered from a backyard in a residential area in Mandaluyong. Have you seen how he looked like then, fresh from crashed concrete?”
Feli didn’t speak.
“I’m asking you!”
“No,” Feli said. “Oh, God. No.”
“Well… half of his skull had been severed into pieces. His jaws hung open like he was pleading for air or something. Forensic people discovered his teeth were jammed probably even before he went unconscious. His legs were severed, so was his lower spine that had led him to a partial paralysis until he was shot dead, close range onto the nose bridge. In short, the murder wasn’t what you claimed to be a self-defense. It was intentional. He was slaughtered. Like a savage beast-- from the street.”
Then a voice called out from the distance just outside the metal railings. “Five minutes!”
“The trial closed in with a question lingering in the air,” Cecilia said. “I was thinking that maybe you were with aunt when the crime was done, am I wrong?”
Without a trace of hesitation she answered, “No.”
“Well, so you let her live her life in freedom?” she asked. “You know, we hadn’t heard of her for more than a decade. That proves you love her unconditionally.”
“That proves it,” Feli said coldly.
“Unfortunately, she doesn’t. She might be mingling with other woman out there at this moment, making them believed she really cared, and would sacrifice for the sake of forbidden love. ”
“I don’t care.”
These three words struck her chest so painfully that made her threw a sarcastic smile on her mother’s face--an act of painful dismissal.
“Well, I think I would be very late to the party,” she said, with a tone of termination as if she just wanted to quit talking to someone who dared insulting her whole life. “It wouldn’t bring us elsewhere, anyway.”
Cecilia began pulling herself together, clutching her bag, key chains rattled. Standing up, she greeted, “Merry Christmas, Feli.” Then she strode away towards the guards standing on the hallway.
The man to the left was smiling to Cecilia’s direction as she walked nearer to them. “We’ve got another beautiful visitor, eh?”
“Don’t talk like that,” the man on the right replied. “I’ve seen her visited her mother once, maybe 13 years ago. I think she’s a little hard to her mama.” Their eyes locked up on her until she finally walked passed them without uttering a word or giving a nod.
It was past 5 when she stepped out of the facility. On the very moment her face was licked by the cold and warm mix of air, then was the time everything became so vivid: in the cold breeze that would make things easier for both of her mother and herself; and something with the sinking sun that told her she wouldn’t regret whatever she have done and about to in her life especially if it bled out from the past years when her nightmare was taking its place, until the time she went absolutely impervious to her own emotional prime mover.
Impervious, she thought. What a word.
* * *
On the distance, a sight of a woman riding off a cab brought so much pain. It was because she knew that woman would be the last to give her deserved punishment and worst guilt an incriminated could ever be holding and bearing with the rest of its life. A guilt that would cause her to take a second look and warm consideration on a simple Christmas gift she had received from her before she left.
It was wrapped in a clean white cloth which she slowly unwrapped feeling what it was. And each time she unfold one over the other, a pause was dedicated to leave a space in her mind the image of her little Tina and Cecil together far back then. Her daughters so naïve about the world and the pain it would bring to everyone who had been given the chance to be born, grow, and realized upon maturity, just like a fruit, that to be picked and put into a basket filled with the other ripe fruits is a fate to be considered just already like a prison; a place to live without any valid excuses from the misdeeds we hadn’t even had the choice to avoid; a prison she was scared not for her but for her daughters to be caught into, which she had built herself unconsciously from the deed she believed she had in no position to control. And every time she held a fold away, she felt relieved by the voice that said she wasn’t the culprit of the bleak future that was laid before them, but at the same time consumed by her own realization of self-deception.
After some moments, bubbles of sudden fear and uncertainty gradually swarmed around her head like disturbed bees. It was triggered by the sight of a gleaming light emanating from the dreadful blade revealed by the last unfold. And with it was a picture of her two grand daughters beaming on her direction. It was a sight that drew a genuine smile on her battered face that occurred since the longest time she could ever imagine. And right there and then, she turned at the blade for the very first time not as a deadly weapon but as a sharp-edged tool promising to cut away all the skin that covered everything that… well, everything that could have nourished a sweet and unregretful life.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Inertia
I am Jonathan Straussman. I work as a patent clerk, doing all the paper works and listings and billings, all for the sake of earning a life with the growing interest of new technologies. I was a clerk. Just like Einstein when he was my age.
Two hours away from the Treaty of Blue Food Products in Manhattan, it was cold. I have no car. It was dark and freezing. The road was black, covered by rubbery asphalt, battered by nonchalant vehicles speeding towards work on their nightshifts.
I slid my card across the obsidian painted box, exerted an effort to pass through the glass revolving door. I was whistling as I walked along the marbled floor, slipping my card back on its upholster which was strapped around my thigh. Before me was a man. He was trimmed with manly couture, gracious with his masculine smile. I greeted back. He was the concierge of the condominium where I lived.
It was so nice to be back home. My back ached. My feet were numb. I stared below, my shoes were still as shiny as if I never left home and worked this morning. And when I eventually reached my unit at the 44th floor and closed the door behind me, the last thing I wanted to do is to flip the lights on.
It was quiet: a silence that endures a lifetime. I jumped off my pants and ran over my undershirt. I jumped over the bed dramatically through the air—like on a TV commercial. Landed softly. Sheets and pillows wavered away to the fringes of the bed, adjusting from the new weight. Naked, I tried to escape momentarily from the active movements of the Universe. I wanted to see nothing but the darkness behind closed eyelids, and hear nothing but the silence of an empty room.
I wondered about tomorrow, fearsome that it wouldn’t come. Then, I chose not to think further. Damn! I wanted to sleep.
INERTIA
It was so nice to feel alive. My head told me I’d rested. Shouldn’t I? The clock registered 3 hours after midnight. Confused, I turned on my window: a small square aperture like a bathroom window. It was freezing, covered by building frost on its edges. Was it snowing?
Waking up in the middle of the night wasn’t a usual incident. I thought I felt a quake, or a thud, or an explosion. I searched around. On my relief, my growing panic was smothered by the sight of orderliness-- things on their places, unmoved, throwing curious glances at me.
Then, might be out of nowhere, I felt an awkward churning on my stomach, like I was on a thrill ride.
Boom! I saw a blinding light.
Silence.
Boom! Boom!
A long stretch of echo was reverberating around the four corners of the room, shaking everything on its nerves. I turned on my window. No light. The frost that I previously observed was gone. Rather, it was wet like as if it rained. But it wasn’t broken.
I stepped off the bed and look for any sign of destruction through my tiny window.
The window was a small square aperture. Like a lavatory window wherein a bright day was in sight- a playground, rich and green, with moving images of children frolicking under the sun, riding over swinging swings. They were moving so slow. In fact, too slow to be real, like a relativistic time dragged by a speeding space rocket…
A playground. The slowness, tenderness, lacking of crisp definition arose from my human confusion. A disbelief that suspended anything that tried to move faster than an average snail inside a lazy bubble…
A playground. The slowness melted into an accelerating exchange of movements—a sign of coming epiphany. Gradually, everything started to move and appear on a higher definition, like on a TV monitor, away from the undesirable blur.
My unit was in the 40th floor of a 60-floor building. And when I realized that everything inside, my phone, wall clock, unattended clatter of clothes, bed sheets, all in all, we are experiencing a free fall. A perception of zero grav was inevitable.
Silence.
Moving now in a realistic, regained velocity, the playground was slowly titling sideways, accumulating angles after angles. I felt my feet entangled by the telephone wire while my head was almost touching the blue painted ceilings. I felt weightless. I slowly swam towards my window and reminded me of astronauts viewing earth from their spacecraft. Floating, rolling in midair, entangled by a telephone wire.
From my reference, the playground was now up side down, falling down onto the ground. But after all, it wasn’t a playground. And it wasn’t upside down. I, my things, my room; we were upside down. Swings weren’t swings but another infrastructure falling on its knees.
Empire State.
Children weren’t children but humans thrown kilometers over the streets by massive yet invisible arms. Their eyes and mouths wide open.
Manhattan was green, not from the rich green grasses of a playground but of funny globs of matter falling like gigantic spits from the pitch black sky.
I felt like an astronaut. I looked around slowly, searching again for orderliness inside my room. Wishing maybe it was just a dream. On my disdain, I found none.
Slowly…slowly… the concrete wall where I nailed my wall clock crashed, not it pieces, but in boulders of fractured concrete.
Two hours away from the Treaty of Blue Food Products in Manhattan, it was cold. I have no car. It was dark and freezing. The road was black, covered by rubbery asphalt, battered by nonchalant vehicles speeding towards work on their nightshifts.
I slid my card across the obsidian painted box, exerted an effort to pass through the glass revolving door. I was whistling as I walked along the marbled floor, slipping my card back on its upholster which was strapped around my thigh. Before me was a man. He was trimmed with manly couture, gracious with his masculine smile. I greeted back. He was the concierge of the condominium where I lived.
It was so nice to be back home. My back ached. My feet were numb. I stared below, my shoes were still as shiny as if I never left home and worked this morning. And when I eventually reached my unit at the 44th floor and closed the door behind me, the last thing I wanted to do is to flip the lights on.
It was quiet: a silence that endures a lifetime. I jumped off my pants and ran over my undershirt. I jumped over the bed dramatically through the air—like on a TV commercial. Landed softly. Sheets and pillows wavered away to the fringes of the bed, adjusting from the new weight. Naked, I tried to escape momentarily from the active movements of the Universe. I wanted to see nothing but the darkness behind closed eyelids, and hear nothing but the silence of an empty room.
I wondered about tomorrow, fearsome that it wouldn’t come. Then, I chose not to think further. Damn! I wanted to sleep.
INERTIA
It was so nice to feel alive. My head told me I’d rested. Shouldn’t I? The clock registered 3 hours after midnight. Confused, I turned on my window: a small square aperture like a bathroom window. It was freezing, covered by building frost on its edges. Was it snowing?
Waking up in the middle of the night wasn’t a usual incident. I thought I felt a quake, or a thud, or an explosion. I searched around. On my relief, my growing panic was smothered by the sight of orderliness-- things on their places, unmoved, throwing curious glances at me.
Then, might be out of nowhere, I felt an awkward churning on my stomach, like I was on a thrill ride.
Boom! I saw a blinding light.
Silence.
Boom! Boom!
A long stretch of echo was reverberating around the four corners of the room, shaking everything on its nerves. I turned on my window. No light. The frost that I previously observed was gone. Rather, it was wet like as if it rained. But it wasn’t broken.
I stepped off the bed and look for any sign of destruction through my tiny window.
The window was a small square aperture. Like a lavatory window wherein a bright day was in sight- a playground, rich and green, with moving images of children frolicking under the sun, riding over swinging swings. They were moving so slow. In fact, too slow to be real, like a relativistic time dragged by a speeding space rocket…
A playground. The slowness, tenderness, lacking of crisp definition arose from my human confusion. A disbelief that suspended anything that tried to move faster than an average snail inside a lazy bubble…
A playground. The slowness melted into an accelerating exchange of movements—a sign of coming epiphany. Gradually, everything started to move and appear on a higher definition, like on a TV monitor, away from the undesirable blur.
My unit was in the 40th floor of a 60-floor building. And when I realized that everything inside, my phone, wall clock, unattended clatter of clothes, bed sheets, all in all, we are experiencing a free fall. A perception of zero grav was inevitable.
Silence.
Moving now in a realistic, regained velocity, the playground was slowly titling sideways, accumulating angles after angles. I felt my feet entangled by the telephone wire while my head was almost touching the blue painted ceilings. I felt weightless. I slowly swam towards my window and reminded me of astronauts viewing earth from their spacecraft. Floating, rolling in midair, entangled by a telephone wire.
From my reference, the playground was now up side down, falling down onto the ground. But after all, it wasn’t a playground. And it wasn’t upside down. I, my things, my room; we were upside down. Swings weren’t swings but another infrastructure falling on its knees.
Empire State.
Children weren’t children but humans thrown kilometers over the streets by massive yet invisible arms. Their eyes and mouths wide open.
Manhattan was green, not from the rich green grasses of a playground but of funny globs of matter falling like gigantic spits from the pitch black sky.
I felt like an astronaut. I looked around slowly, searching again for orderliness inside my room. Wishing maybe it was just a dream. On my disdain, I found none.
Slowly…slowly… the concrete wall where I nailed my wall clock crashed, not it pieces, but in boulders of fractured concrete.
Hallmark
“Maybe sometime?” the woman joked.
“And the baby?” the man beside her pointed to her rounded stomach.
She glared at him. “I’m kidding.”
The man smiled. “Come here.”
The woman walked nearer and closed the distance between them with a sigh. The man welcomed his wife with his huge arms. It wrapped around her as if she was about to live him, and never would be back.
“I know you’re kidding,” the man whispered on her right ear.
For seconds, there was nothing but silence- The two of them against the green background of love and beauty, insurmountable by any hallmark image.
The man pulled the woman tighter, he was almost weeping.
“Dad,” the woman uttered, “I…I can’t breathe.”
But the man gripped her body tighter. He held her head down so her face would be fully covered by his chest.
“Dad…” Her voice was already muffled inside him. But he couldn’t hear.
He pulled her tighter. He felt her feet kicking on the gravel under them, targeting for his invisible knees. But he only managed to dodged it away, like he was dancing.
The woman tried hard to pull him away but his arms were bigger and stronger. There was a suppressed abruptness. Seconds later, there was no movement. The woman was dead.
“If I wouldn’t have you forever, no one would,” he said, staring down into his wife’s wet eyes.
“And the baby?” the man beside her pointed to her rounded stomach.
She glared at him. “I’m kidding.”
The man smiled. “Come here.”
The woman walked nearer and closed the distance between them with a sigh. The man welcomed his wife with his huge arms. It wrapped around her as if she was about to live him, and never would be back.
“I know you’re kidding,” the man whispered on her right ear.
For seconds, there was nothing but silence- The two of them against the green background of love and beauty, insurmountable by any hallmark image.
The man pulled the woman tighter, he was almost weeping.
“Dad,” the woman uttered, “I…I can’t breathe.”
But the man gripped her body tighter. He held her head down so her face would be fully covered by his chest.
“Dad…” Her voice was already muffled inside him. But he couldn’t hear.
He pulled her tighter. He felt her feet kicking on the gravel under them, targeting for his invisible knees. But he only managed to dodged it away, like he was dancing.
The woman tried hard to pull him away but his arms were bigger and stronger. There was a suppressed abruptness. Seconds later, there was no movement. The woman was dead.
“If I wouldn’t have you forever, no one would,” he said, staring down into his wife’s wet eyes.
Forever Magical
6/27/2010
I couldn’t understand why so many people felt discontented by the fact that they had no one to be romantically be with. As I walk by the rain, without an umbrella going to school, or riding on a jeepney without someone to hold but my own soul, and even talking to my peers without dissing issues of being romantically involved with someone within our circle.
I thought there must be a time for everything. Yes. Everything. But this doesn’t include the things that are not meant for you. It could be happiness, an attractive personality, or love, or even a family.
That was until I met Ciara. I was a second year IT student when I realized…no! When I suddenly felt this feeling. It was so sudden as if one morning I just woke up and there was this blinding light burning before my eyes. At first, for the very seconds upon realizing its growth, I felt confused. But as fast as it emerged, was how fast it turned into something incredible. I felt like floating with the clouds, and then poetry was on the loose with the morning sunshine.
She had both the smart and beauty, though still not smarter than I was. Or maybe I was just denying it. But anyway that’s not the point. I was captivated by her presence every time she sat beside my seat as she usually did. I forgot to tell you that we’ve been classmates since our freshman years, and she’s been my best friend. Hence, every time she sat beside me, every time we do assignments together, and every time we give each other turns in recitation (we monopolized the subject discussion), I felt the wisp of connection becoming tighter and shorter like a strand of a silk, pulling us together, eating up the inches and centimeters of distance left between us. Right then, although I haven’t got any idea what it was; I might as well thought that I was in love.
And you might call me crazy, but I didn’t have any bad feelings, maybe a tiny room for jealousy, that’s all, upon knowing that she’s been going out with other man for months even before I fell for her. I wouldn’t want to call him names but since I would be referring to him repeatedly, economically, a “Pest” would do.
Pest, unlike any other college guys, was kind and gentle and honest and good hearted. He’s just damn uncorrupted (as far as we know), and to tell you why I didn’t feel much jealousy or bad feelings for Ciara having Pest, that’s because I and Ciara had been together for more than a year. We spent more time together and talked about more things that couldn’t be compared with other experiences from a relationship that hadn’t been going for more than a year. But frustratingly, we do that as best friends. Though in the first place, it doesn’t make any difference. You know, best friend and girlfriend, what’s the diff? (Please, don’t react that way).
So to deliver and serve the finish product, I’m between them. And I’ll be there forever unless they decided to break apart. No matter how “Pest” abhor my existence I’ll remain to be her best friend. And like what common best friends do, I’ll be watchful for the hazards and red flags rising along the way, and I promise that she’ll know it before dawn.
The end… that was if it would ever be published. And if it did, I was hoping that indeed Ciara was still alive and could still read (of course, she could read. Why not? Oh god! What am I saying), and also hoping that they’re no longer together with Pest. Anyway, it wouldn’t do so much harm because Ciara is just an alias. So don’t worry
***
That was March 2009. It was our EPS or Employment Preparation Seminar to be set within a cinema. I rode off a bus, walked a little bit towards the crowd. I was wearing formal attire minus the coat and tie. It was embarrassing that I was wearing a suit that was so much over my size. Anyway, I see sympathy from their eyes as I passed by and thereafter must feel better.
She was there. She was still beautiful with her long plain hair unkempt. It fell freely behind her shoulders like the mermaid’s. I looked at her, I looked at our other friends, and then to her, then to the other people behind us. I always make sure that I looked at her before I turn on anything else. They were laughing and so was she. I was not. I still felt embarrassed by how I looked like with my long sleeves and felt sorry that she could notice it, too.
I looked at her again, and this time a little longer.
“You look…. good.” She said.
“I know.” She was being sarcastic.
“Don’t you have a tie?” she asked.
As I looked around, everyone was wearing their ties. So I unzipped my backpack and draw out my long red tie.
“I have.”
As I began to wrap it around my neck, I realized that she was walking closer. My stomach churned in a way that forced me to breathe in.
“Let me do it. My mother thought me how to tie a tie this morning.”
Oh, please.
So I handed it to her, trying to make it as casual as I could, trying to stand as if I felt nothing emerging from my chest.
She held both ends, and after recognizing which side is which, reached out around my neck. Funny it was, I didn’t attempted to turn my head lower or around so our face wouldn’t stick together but instead, as she wrapped my tie around me, I feel, smell and remember with all my senses plus one as her face almost closed the distance away from mine. I would never forget the smell of her usual conditioner and cute perfume. I tried not to look at her eyes.
And done! I have my tie tied around my neck like a businessman without a case. She did some finishing touch on it, and I felt tickled as her fingertips probed for my collar button and closed it with a sigh of relief. She was chewing mentos. And I finally breathed out.
I wanted to say “thank you” and kiss her, but she was taken.
“Thank you.”
I couldn’t understand why so many people felt discontented by the fact that they had no one to be romantically be with. As I walk by the rain, without an umbrella going to school, or riding on a jeepney without someone to hold but my own soul, and even talking to my peers without dissing issues of being romantically involved with someone within our circle.
I thought there must be a time for everything. Yes. Everything. But this doesn’t include the things that are not meant for you. It could be happiness, an attractive personality, or love, or even a family.
That was until I met Ciara. I was a second year IT student when I realized…no! When I suddenly felt this feeling. It was so sudden as if one morning I just woke up and there was this blinding light burning before my eyes. At first, for the very seconds upon realizing its growth, I felt confused. But as fast as it emerged, was how fast it turned into something incredible. I felt like floating with the clouds, and then poetry was on the loose with the morning sunshine.
She had both the smart and beauty, though still not smarter than I was. Or maybe I was just denying it. But anyway that’s not the point. I was captivated by her presence every time she sat beside my seat as she usually did. I forgot to tell you that we’ve been classmates since our freshman years, and she’s been my best friend. Hence, every time she sat beside me, every time we do assignments together, and every time we give each other turns in recitation (we monopolized the subject discussion), I felt the wisp of connection becoming tighter and shorter like a strand of a silk, pulling us together, eating up the inches and centimeters of distance left between us. Right then, although I haven’t got any idea what it was; I might as well thought that I was in love.
And you might call me crazy, but I didn’t have any bad feelings, maybe a tiny room for jealousy, that’s all, upon knowing that she’s been going out with other man for months even before I fell for her. I wouldn’t want to call him names but since I would be referring to him repeatedly, economically, a “Pest” would do.
Pest, unlike any other college guys, was kind and gentle and honest and good hearted. He’s just damn uncorrupted (as far as we know), and to tell you why I didn’t feel much jealousy or bad feelings for Ciara having Pest, that’s because I and Ciara had been together for more than a year. We spent more time together and talked about more things that couldn’t be compared with other experiences from a relationship that hadn’t been going for more than a year. But frustratingly, we do that as best friends. Though in the first place, it doesn’t make any difference. You know, best friend and girlfriend, what’s the diff? (Please, don’t react that way).
So to deliver and serve the finish product, I’m between them. And I’ll be there forever unless they decided to break apart. No matter how “Pest” abhor my existence I’ll remain to be her best friend. And like what common best friends do, I’ll be watchful for the hazards and red flags rising along the way, and I promise that she’ll know it before dawn.
The end… that was if it would ever be published. And if it did, I was hoping that indeed Ciara was still alive and could still read (of course, she could read. Why not? Oh god! What am I saying), and also hoping that they’re no longer together with Pest. Anyway, it wouldn’t do so much harm because Ciara is just an alias. So don’t worry
***
That was March 2009. It was our EPS or Employment Preparation Seminar to be set within a cinema. I rode off a bus, walked a little bit towards the crowd. I was wearing formal attire minus the coat and tie. It was embarrassing that I was wearing a suit that was so much over my size. Anyway, I see sympathy from their eyes as I passed by and thereafter must feel better.
She was there. She was still beautiful with her long plain hair unkempt. It fell freely behind her shoulders like the mermaid’s. I looked at her, I looked at our other friends, and then to her, then to the other people behind us. I always make sure that I looked at her before I turn on anything else. They were laughing and so was she. I was not. I still felt embarrassed by how I looked like with my long sleeves and felt sorry that she could notice it, too.
I looked at her again, and this time a little longer.
“You look…. good.” She said.
“I know.” She was being sarcastic.
“Don’t you have a tie?” she asked.
As I looked around, everyone was wearing their ties. So I unzipped my backpack and draw out my long red tie.
“I have.”
As I began to wrap it around my neck, I realized that she was walking closer. My stomach churned in a way that forced me to breathe in.
“Let me do it. My mother thought me how to tie a tie this morning.”
Oh, please.
So I handed it to her, trying to make it as casual as I could, trying to stand as if I felt nothing emerging from my chest.
She held both ends, and after recognizing which side is which, reached out around my neck. Funny it was, I didn’t attempted to turn my head lower or around so our face wouldn’t stick together but instead, as she wrapped my tie around me, I feel, smell and remember with all my senses plus one as her face almost closed the distance away from mine. I would never forget the smell of her usual conditioner and cute perfume. I tried not to look at her eyes.
And done! I have my tie tied around my neck like a businessman without a case. She did some finishing touch on it, and I felt tickled as her fingertips probed for my collar button and closed it with a sigh of relief. She was chewing mentos. And I finally breathed out.
I wanted to say “thank you” and kiss her, but she was taken.
“Thank you.”
Lost And Serenity
Its silver rim was shaking, to the point that the golden liquid was already sloshing and spilling onto the floor. It would cease for a moment, like a receding storm, but it would tremble and spill again like the storm was just getting angrier, until there was no more to spill. Until all the beer had plummeted down onto the floor, making the room smell like a liquor vomit.
The mug was held by a hand, gripping tightly against its body, almost crashing it, breaking it into tiny, invisible splinters. Jeremy Yu, a sheriff, a strong man, was crying. His head couldn’t be seen for it slacked against his revolting chest. However, the chair was strong enough to tolerate too much shaking.
No one would be able to guess why. Maybe the sheriff was angry and he could no longer hold it back, maybe he’s just acting crazy like a drunken mad man, like an alcoholic, or maybe the passing of his wife was too painful to leave it behind and move over his life. That thought, like no one had died. He was focusing on it. But she wasn’t coming back. Not in a week, or a month, or a year. She wasn’t coming back…forever. Her wife’s face was in danger of being forgotten like she never existed.
Jem was not as strong as you might think. He was strong, yes, but he’s a man who hadn’t just lost a wife but also his children: three year-old Tanya and his baby boy who was just born two months ago. No one would survive a brutal crash that that they had as it rolled down the hill side God-knows how many times. Their pain couldn’t be felt, nor recalled, nor investigated. He could just imagine,
Slowly, he stood up, his face a mess, slamming his mug against the table with a brittle implosion. He didn’t care if the mug split into two, or was it the table. He walked across the room and pushed the sliding door aside. It was suddenly cold. He was in the second floor, their house artfully balancing on a hill slope, staring into an inconspicuous veranda. No one could possibly tell time, but it was sure to be dark, dark enough to be night.
He was forcing back another surge of loneliness with a new makeshift bravery that was strong enough to keep him standing there. He observed tiny flickers of light from the distant city below. Its massive structures were devoured by the distance, too tiny to be relevant with anyone’s personal dealings as far away as this house.
In silence, he tried to move one of his limbs, checking if he could still feel, pulling it up and down. Dinner time, he remembered. It was only dinnertime that this view would be as lovely and serene as this. After dinner, he and his wife would go out here to breathe some fresh night air and embrace each other to brush away the cold. It was always a busy day. It was here that they mutually called out for an escape, comforted by the thought that Tanya and the baby were safe inside the house.
He lifted his right limb, grunting as he heaved it with his hands over the railings, and then, like a freak accident, he fell over with a heavy thud, and then rolled down continuously along the slope, his body occasionally bouncing over the concrete debris, thinking only of three faces over the braking pain that was battering his soul. The limped body stopped midway, unconscious.
The night was cold, yet lovely and tranquil. And finally, he found his peace in there- alive or not.
Lost and Serenity
His back ached, like all his bones were in pieces. He couldn’t budge either, only able to lift his eyelids and feel the pain in his eyes at the light that burst like fire. At first, he thought he was drowning, by the blur that blocked his sight like he was submerged in an ocean. Vague. He tasted salt. But then he realized he could breathe. That’s fine. Seconds passed and his vision went clear.
He could feel and see with familiarity, thinking, remembering where he was last. It was his room, he thought. No… it was their room. He painfully turned his head aside and saw the bed side where his wife was supposed to be asleep. It was bright in the morning though. But upon realizing that no one’s there, that he was still alone, he wanted to scream- only when he hadn’t heard a voice.
He tried to listen, his body stiff in concentration. He was hearing indistinct voices outside the room, like they were having a suppressed conversation. Suddenly everything went audible as the door yanked open. He jerked.
“Dad, mama told me to wake you up.” Tanya was talking with her arms holding the heavy door from slamming back.
“Tanya?” He couldn’t believe her voice. It felt… distant.
“Tanya?” he asked again, slightly leaning forward.
“Mama!” Tanya called.
Later, a woman hurried beside her. There were the two of them, standing like angels on the doorway: Tanya and her mother.
“Mama?” he asked. Now, it was his voice that felt distant.
“Jem, what’s wrong?” she asked with concern while walking towards the bed he was sitting. “You’ll be late.”
As soon as she sat beside him, Jem looked at her face, probing for a wound, a scratch, or a scraped flesh; her nose, her mouth, lips, her ears. They’re all perfect, as it were for four years that they’ve been together. No wounds, he whispered to himself. No traces of accident.
At first, he was afraid to touch anything fearing that once he touched her, she would rearrange like a smoke.
“Where are we, really?” He squinted around the room, trying to find something bizarre or out of place.
“What are you talking about?” She laughed as he turned back to her and began poking on the tip of her nose.
“You must be… you must be dead. The accident. I saw you. I saw Tanya.” He could barely speak. He was sobbing lightly.
His wife hugged him. “It’s okay, Jem. It’s okay. You must have a very, very bad nightmare. For now, you must move. You’ll be really late.”
She kissed him on the forehead, and hurried outside the room.
His sobbing stopped. He couldn’t breathe. He was too happy, too joyous, to breathe. It was a dream. Everything was a dream.
“Mama?” he called, just to be sure, as he began to walk towards the open door, struggling to untangle the sheet off his feet.
“Yes? Feeling fine now?” Her voice was sweet, homey, wafting together with the comforting smell of cooking breakfast.
He was dreaming. He wanted to jump, only wondering if it would be good for his knees and aching body.
“Yes, I think so,” he answered gleefully as he sprinted and disappeared from the door.
It was his heaven.
The mug was held by a hand, gripping tightly against its body, almost crashing it, breaking it into tiny, invisible splinters. Jeremy Yu, a sheriff, a strong man, was crying. His head couldn’t be seen for it slacked against his revolting chest. However, the chair was strong enough to tolerate too much shaking.
No one would be able to guess why. Maybe the sheriff was angry and he could no longer hold it back, maybe he’s just acting crazy like a drunken mad man, like an alcoholic, or maybe the passing of his wife was too painful to leave it behind and move over his life. That thought, like no one had died. He was focusing on it. But she wasn’t coming back. Not in a week, or a month, or a year. She wasn’t coming back…forever. Her wife’s face was in danger of being forgotten like she never existed.
Jem was not as strong as you might think. He was strong, yes, but he’s a man who hadn’t just lost a wife but also his children: three year-old Tanya and his baby boy who was just born two months ago. No one would survive a brutal crash that that they had as it rolled down the hill side God-knows how many times. Their pain couldn’t be felt, nor recalled, nor investigated. He could just imagine,
Slowly, he stood up, his face a mess, slamming his mug against the table with a brittle implosion. He didn’t care if the mug split into two, or was it the table. He walked across the room and pushed the sliding door aside. It was suddenly cold. He was in the second floor, their house artfully balancing on a hill slope, staring into an inconspicuous veranda. No one could possibly tell time, but it was sure to be dark, dark enough to be night.
He was forcing back another surge of loneliness with a new makeshift bravery that was strong enough to keep him standing there. He observed tiny flickers of light from the distant city below. Its massive structures were devoured by the distance, too tiny to be relevant with anyone’s personal dealings as far away as this house.
In silence, he tried to move one of his limbs, checking if he could still feel, pulling it up and down. Dinner time, he remembered. It was only dinnertime that this view would be as lovely and serene as this. After dinner, he and his wife would go out here to breathe some fresh night air and embrace each other to brush away the cold. It was always a busy day. It was here that they mutually called out for an escape, comforted by the thought that Tanya and the baby were safe inside the house.
He lifted his right limb, grunting as he heaved it with his hands over the railings, and then, like a freak accident, he fell over with a heavy thud, and then rolled down continuously along the slope, his body occasionally bouncing over the concrete debris, thinking only of three faces over the braking pain that was battering his soul. The limped body stopped midway, unconscious.
The night was cold, yet lovely and tranquil. And finally, he found his peace in there- alive or not.
Lost and Serenity
His back ached, like all his bones were in pieces. He couldn’t budge either, only able to lift his eyelids and feel the pain in his eyes at the light that burst like fire. At first, he thought he was drowning, by the blur that blocked his sight like he was submerged in an ocean. Vague. He tasted salt. But then he realized he could breathe. That’s fine. Seconds passed and his vision went clear.
He could feel and see with familiarity, thinking, remembering where he was last. It was his room, he thought. No… it was their room. He painfully turned his head aside and saw the bed side where his wife was supposed to be asleep. It was bright in the morning though. But upon realizing that no one’s there, that he was still alone, he wanted to scream- only when he hadn’t heard a voice.
He tried to listen, his body stiff in concentration. He was hearing indistinct voices outside the room, like they were having a suppressed conversation. Suddenly everything went audible as the door yanked open. He jerked.
“Dad, mama told me to wake you up.” Tanya was talking with her arms holding the heavy door from slamming back.
“Tanya?” He couldn’t believe her voice. It felt… distant.
“Tanya?” he asked again, slightly leaning forward.
“Mama!” Tanya called.
Later, a woman hurried beside her. There were the two of them, standing like angels on the doorway: Tanya and her mother.
“Mama?” he asked. Now, it was his voice that felt distant.
“Jem, what’s wrong?” she asked with concern while walking towards the bed he was sitting. “You’ll be late.”
As soon as she sat beside him, Jem looked at her face, probing for a wound, a scratch, or a scraped flesh; her nose, her mouth, lips, her ears. They’re all perfect, as it were for four years that they’ve been together. No wounds, he whispered to himself. No traces of accident.
At first, he was afraid to touch anything fearing that once he touched her, she would rearrange like a smoke.
“Where are we, really?” He squinted around the room, trying to find something bizarre or out of place.
“What are you talking about?” She laughed as he turned back to her and began poking on the tip of her nose.
“You must be… you must be dead. The accident. I saw you. I saw Tanya.” He could barely speak. He was sobbing lightly.
His wife hugged him. “It’s okay, Jem. It’s okay. You must have a very, very bad nightmare. For now, you must move. You’ll be really late.”
She kissed him on the forehead, and hurried outside the room.
His sobbing stopped. He couldn’t breathe. He was too happy, too joyous, to breathe. It was a dream. Everything was a dream.
“Mama?” he called, just to be sure, as he began to walk towards the open door, struggling to untangle the sheet off his feet.
“Yes? Feeling fine now?” Her voice was sweet, homey, wafting together with the comforting smell of cooking breakfast.
He was dreaming. He wanted to jump, only wondering if it would be good for his knees and aching body.
“Yes, I think so,” he answered gleefully as he sprinted and disappeared from the door.
It was his heaven.
Perennial Summer
A Short Story by Eduardo Bautista
“Since then, a new day had shone on my vision and the tropical breeze brushed along my cheeks- announcing the coming of perennial summer.”
- Mary Grace
“That was a long time ago, but I still missed him.”
“Haven’t you considered, you know, meeting someone else? To give you real attention and importance?”
“There is no such thing that I recognized then. I was so naïve a girl that I paid no attention to them.”
On my front, touching behind the single-size couch in an angle where she was sitting was a wall that held memories of distant past. “Is that you?”
“Yes. My mother said I was so beautiful,” she said without even turning. “She always had a reason of taking me a picture.”
“When was that taken?”
“It’s my 14th birthday.”
As I stared back through her, that beauty had been departing and leaving wakes on her face just above the hammocks of sagging flesh. In between were deep lines that gradually formed as she smiled; probably delighting the boys back in her youth.
I was staring at one of the photographs. With the reluctant smile on the photo was a daisy clinging on her right ear.
“We are supposed to be together with my best friend there,” she said. “But because it’s my birthday she let me have the shot. The yellow daisy, if you want to know, was the only daisy around. We don’t have a choice. Violets are rare. When my aging aunt discovered that one of her well-taken-care daisies was missing, she went so mad that it became the cause of her death; so sad that when we told it to our friends, they can’t help laughing.”
I still remembered the potent smell of fresh daisies coming from a flower vase. It was perching over a wooden tripod placed at one corner of the house. The smell gathered and mixed with the presence of old newspapers of the early 50’s, creating an ambiance that flowed through nostrils as if they were patient emotions that had been there for so long and someone should feel every time they entered the house.
“When I met my husband, I was not in the thought of marrying him, but because he had been very nice to me and that he proposed, I said yes. I was so afraid to be alone especially my mother had just died. I’m like the other women out there scared for their security.”
As I returned my gaze on the flaking wall of photographs, I hadn’t seen any recent picture, neither in any part of the house. Although on the entryway, there was only an isolated photo of a man beaming on the lenses, maybe in some western forest, in a military fatigue. I didn’t bother to ask. The young man and the old woman I was interviewing had never had a child. I was about to ask more when tears started to blur my periphery.
“How about Clive?”
“He’s gone,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“How could he be gone?”
“You know, since I was 12, he was always there; like wind when I call and like wind once I whispered I needed him. But maybe he was just tired of me. Maybe he thought I was always controlling him; so then I let him. He turned to breeze blowing away from here.”
“I grew up believing we would be together forever,” she continued after realizing the growing silence. “Practically, as long as I could conceive him different from me.”
I made a sound so she would feel I was listening.
“There were suitors when I stepped 18. I still remembered most of their names but their faces. I was in Ohio when I met one of them- Peter. I no longer remember the face but he might be the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met; three years younger though. Nevertheless, I was afraid that Clive would be hurt so I hadn’t given my acceptance to any of them. Anyway, ignoring suitors was fun.”
The thought drew a smile on her face. Her eyes still transfixed to mine. As young and glittering as it had been.
“I couldn’t imagine my parents’ confusion as to why I was doing that to myself. They frequently thought I was into girls,” she said. “All of it I bear on my shoulders for more decades to come because I was into the childish belief that if only I held on Clive long enough, God would have pity and would make him real.”
“Then on 1941, I met my husband.” She said. Although he was the exact opposite of Peter in appearance, 11 years younger, he gave me another chance not to be alone. However, he had never brought his promise for a long time.”
I silently unzipped my backpack and pulled my pad and ballpoint.
“He left you?”
“I was 56, barely a year after the marriage, when I received a letter saying he died fighting in Vietnam. I felt relieved. My worries of him dying in the war had vanished and my life hence had been changed for the better. I was sitting on this same couch every night until midnight, staring and feeling, thinking of how things would turn if he hadn’t died. Honestly, there was no crying, or depression of some sort. It’s just a plain thinking as if he was a stranger I only met once- on that afternoon in the barracks, and never met since.”
She turned her head towards the wall clock that had been giving accurate guide without its permission since it was nailed on the wall.
“It’s getting late. Don’t you have parents to worry?” She placed her hands on her lap, caressing as if it began to hurt.
“It’s for a school project. They would understand.” I assured her.” So after your husband passed away, don’t you have any relative to go home with?”
I wrote something on my pad.
“I don’t think so. Maybe they wouldn’t even care if I was still alive. The closest relative I have, we just lost communication 5 years after Mike, my Husband, died. And with my best friend, I just heard she had cancer. I don’t know how she was now. But if you’re worried of how I could manage the household, don’t be fooled by what you see.” She gave out a laugh. A difficult laugh that was drawing every bit of energy she could have gotten from several hours of sleep.
I went home at 7 o’clock. I left after I refused to join her for dinner. Since then, as I gave my final gratitude and was about to leave the house, it occurred to me that she was indeed happy. Initially, I doubt it. I thought it was another cliché from the elders, but she had been alone for a very long time. Since she and her husband lived here in the Philippines for convenience during the war she had survived all by herself as her choice and decided not to come back home.
Yesterday morning, she was found by her neighbors dead on her couch. They said she’d been dead for almost a week since it was starting to smell.
On that day, the absence of life around her had been uncovered. The sullen, lifeless breeze finally broke out of the house into the lively street of seldom old houses and trees that rarely moved even during a storm.
For some ineffable reason, a vision of contentment was felt by the people who had carried her body into the carriage. So as they say. Maybe from the aftermath of despair, or she had realized how things should really be.
Several days after, I had my turn. It was the same day as Joseph Estrada was inaugurated as the new president.
I stood in front of my classmates as I was called. I recited:
“…For a young people like me, those experiences could be very depressing and unpleasant. But for an indifferent woman like Mary Grace, it was nothing but making memories. All of us, as we grew older, everything would just be memories.” They almost laugh. Some raise an eyebrow.
“ I realized that memory alone might be able to rip everything apart – leaving what is essential that has always been taken for granted. Have we been to wealth or disabling scarcity, it wouldn’t make any difference since it would all come to pass. Then is the time the word contentment would cease to be a cliché; when everyone realized every time it should be here.”
I walked passed every row and sat down. I was crying.
THE END
“Since then, a new day had shone on my vision and the tropical breeze brushed along my cheeks- announcing the coming of perennial summer.”
- Mary Grace
“That was a long time ago, but I still missed him.”
“Haven’t you considered, you know, meeting someone else? To give you real attention and importance?”
“There is no such thing that I recognized then. I was so naïve a girl that I paid no attention to them.”
On my front, touching behind the single-size couch in an angle where she was sitting was a wall that held memories of distant past. “Is that you?”
“Yes. My mother said I was so beautiful,” she said without even turning. “She always had a reason of taking me a picture.”
“When was that taken?”
“It’s my 14th birthday.”
As I stared back through her, that beauty had been departing and leaving wakes on her face just above the hammocks of sagging flesh. In between were deep lines that gradually formed as she smiled; probably delighting the boys back in her youth.
I was staring at one of the photographs. With the reluctant smile on the photo was a daisy clinging on her right ear.
“We are supposed to be together with my best friend there,” she said. “But because it’s my birthday she let me have the shot. The yellow daisy, if you want to know, was the only daisy around. We don’t have a choice. Violets are rare. When my aging aunt discovered that one of her well-taken-care daisies was missing, she went so mad that it became the cause of her death; so sad that when we told it to our friends, they can’t help laughing.”
I still remembered the potent smell of fresh daisies coming from a flower vase. It was perching over a wooden tripod placed at one corner of the house. The smell gathered and mixed with the presence of old newspapers of the early 50’s, creating an ambiance that flowed through nostrils as if they were patient emotions that had been there for so long and someone should feel every time they entered the house.
“When I met my husband, I was not in the thought of marrying him, but because he had been very nice to me and that he proposed, I said yes. I was so afraid to be alone especially my mother had just died. I’m like the other women out there scared for their security.”
As I returned my gaze on the flaking wall of photographs, I hadn’t seen any recent picture, neither in any part of the house. Although on the entryway, there was only an isolated photo of a man beaming on the lenses, maybe in some western forest, in a military fatigue. I didn’t bother to ask. The young man and the old woman I was interviewing had never had a child. I was about to ask more when tears started to blur my periphery.
“How about Clive?”
“He’s gone,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“How could he be gone?”
“You know, since I was 12, he was always there; like wind when I call and like wind once I whispered I needed him. But maybe he was just tired of me. Maybe he thought I was always controlling him; so then I let him. He turned to breeze blowing away from here.”
“I grew up believing we would be together forever,” she continued after realizing the growing silence. “Practically, as long as I could conceive him different from me.”
I made a sound so she would feel I was listening.
“There were suitors when I stepped 18. I still remembered most of their names but their faces. I was in Ohio when I met one of them- Peter. I no longer remember the face but he might be the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met; three years younger though. Nevertheless, I was afraid that Clive would be hurt so I hadn’t given my acceptance to any of them. Anyway, ignoring suitors was fun.”
The thought drew a smile on her face. Her eyes still transfixed to mine. As young and glittering as it had been.
“I couldn’t imagine my parents’ confusion as to why I was doing that to myself. They frequently thought I was into girls,” she said. “All of it I bear on my shoulders for more decades to come because I was into the childish belief that if only I held on Clive long enough, God would have pity and would make him real.”
“Then on 1941, I met my husband.” She said. Although he was the exact opposite of Peter in appearance, 11 years younger, he gave me another chance not to be alone. However, he had never brought his promise for a long time.”
I silently unzipped my backpack and pulled my pad and ballpoint.
“He left you?”
“I was 56, barely a year after the marriage, when I received a letter saying he died fighting in Vietnam. I felt relieved. My worries of him dying in the war had vanished and my life hence had been changed for the better. I was sitting on this same couch every night until midnight, staring and feeling, thinking of how things would turn if he hadn’t died. Honestly, there was no crying, or depression of some sort. It’s just a plain thinking as if he was a stranger I only met once- on that afternoon in the barracks, and never met since.”
She turned her head towards the wall clock that had been giving accurate guide without its permission since it was nailed on the wall.
“It’s getting late. Don’t you have parents to worry?” She placed her hands on her lap, caressing as if it began to hurt.
“It’s for a school project. They would understand.” I assured her.” So after your husband passed away, don’t you have any relative to go home with?”
I wrote something on my pad.
“I don’t think so. Maybe they wouldn’t even care if I was still alive. The closest relative I have, we just lost communication 5 years after Mike, my Husband, died. And with my best friend, I just heard she had cancer. I don’t know how she was now. But if you’re worried of how I could manage the household, don’t be fooled by what you see.” She gave out a laugh. A difficult laugh that was drawing every bit of energy she could have gotten from several hours of sleep.
I went home at 7 o’clock. I left after I refused to join her for dinner. Since then, as I gave my final gratitude and was about to leave the house, it occurred to me that she was indeed happy. Initially, I doubt it. I thought it was another cliché from the elders, but she had been alone for a very long time. Since she and her husband lived here in the Philippines for convenience during the war she had survived all by herself as her choice and decided not to come back home.
Yesterday morning, she was found by her neighbors dead on her couch. They said she’d been dead for almost a week since it was starting to smell.
On that day, the absence of life around her had been uncovered. The sullen, lifeless breeze finally broke out of the house into the lively street of seldom old houses and trees that rarely moved even during a storm.
For some ineffable reason, a vision of contentment was felt by the people who had carried her body into the carriage. So as they say. Maybe from the aftermath of despair, or she had realized how things should really be.
Several days after, I had my turn. It was the same day as Joseph Estrada was inaugurated as the new president.
I stood in front of my classmates as I was called. I recited:
“…For a young people like me, those experiences could be very depressing and unpleasant. But for an indifferent woman like Mary Grace, it was nothing but making memories. All of us, as we grew older, everything would just be memories.” They almost laugh. Some raise an eyebrow.
“ I realized that memory alone might be able to rip everything apart – leaving what is essential that has always been taken for granted. Have we been to wealth or disabling scarcity, it wouldn’t make any difference since it would all come to pass. Then is the time the word contentment would cease to be a cliché; when everyone realized every time it should be here.”
I walked passed every row and sat down. I was crying.
THE END
Falling Debris
Short Story By Eduardo Bautista
Cecilia wasn’t much hopeful that life would be better. Fifteen years ago, since her mother died, she decided her daughters, Mary and Alice, would grow up not knowing anything about the secret past that she didn’t even want to remember. But why? She kept on asking. She wanted to curse God and ask why?
Her past had walked away long after another tragedy came and destined to put her battered soul into more toil. Years before this afternoon, while she was sitting into her favorite bamboo chair, life had been dull, quiet, but peaceful.
Every Sunday her two daughters, or al least one of them, visited to do lunch and dinner despite their happy and contended marriage lives. Her husband, Henry, helped into the kitchen doing his grills. And Cecile, while chopping off onions, garlic, and ginger, couldn’t help but to offer a tearful glance towards their direction there in the kitchen at least every once in a while, helping the memoirs of her mother, Feli, turn into dusts and be blown away by the wind and be forgotten. But time had surely passed. She was sitting on her favorite bamboo chair as she watched the orange sun sink across the sky, sharing daily dread that a day again was about to pass; and had she done anything for a change? No. She doesn’t even want to move or breathe. She wanted to drift away, and to dream and never come back. But she can’t even fall asleep. For one, she was alone. She’s scared going to her unlit room and see that her husband wasn’t there.
Last year, as she turned 44, when Mary was still alive, it wasn’t much of a celebration even though Henry, Mary with her 2 daughters, and Alice were there. For one reason, because Mary was arranging her flight for work, and second, she was not much into celebrating the day she was born four decades and four years ago.
Her birthday was filled with casual conversation over lunch. They shared laughter and usual gossips earlier that day or earlier that month, or even that year and anything conversational followed that could easily be forgotten. It didn’t take much time until it fell into a normal exchange of words she hadn’t thought to be something especial.
Forks and spoons cluttered.
“How about Mary?” Henry asked from the other end of the table.
“I will be leaving next week. Monday.” Mary replied, chewing a chunk of poultry away.
Then 6-year-old Lucy, eldest of Alice, asked innocently, “Where’s Haiti? I’ve never heard Haiti before. Is it in America?”
Then everyone just beamed towards her and no one answered. She doesn’t know how to deal from the domestic humiliation so she just jump off her chair and run to play with her brother.
Silverwares cluttered again.
“And where would you leave your son?” Cecile continued. Others surprised by her not calling him by his name.
“I have a friend in Antipolo.”
“A stranger?” Henry asked as he reached out and poked into his third slab of roasted beef.
“We know each other since second grade. I trust her.”
“You can leave him here. We could take care of him.” Cecile said.
“No,” snapped Henry. “She could manage her life without bothering us with her son. It’s her choice to leave. There are consequences to take.” He started to lose his appetite as anger crawled in. It’s visible the way he put down his fork with firm and pride soundlessly against his plate. “It’s either she would take Jason with her or take risk entrusting him to a friend.”
Or she wouldn’t go. The bamboo chair creaked and Cecil started crying. The intoxicating silence radiating from every corner of the house, the remote control unmoved for days, socks on the floor unkempt, and windows that had never been opened for months. Silence emphasized everything. From dusts settling from “Browny” the teddy bear beside the china lampshade to the drawing of a tiny flower by Lucy with a spare pink crayon she used against the lower part of the wall. And worst, though she would never notice was the unattended front door letting in the freezing afternoon breeze and mosquitoes feasting on her skin.
The room had obviously darkened. It was 6 o’clock in the evening and her image could hardly be seen. She was like an abandoned mannequin staring into nowhere.
Last week, as she was cooking their dinner, Henry was from work, news came showing a thumbnail from the upper right of the screen of devastated infrastructures. Below, she started to read the caption and nothing could be read but …Haiti? She even spelled it out. H-A-I-T-I. Pentionville?
She ran from the kitchen to the living room where Henry was sitting. And she’d seen him watching the same channel.
“Pa,” she said with a broken voice, “Can you call Mary?”
She was almost in tears and started to get dizzy. Henry, the father, was in control as he grabbed the phone and dialed. As he stood there looking into her eye’s, waiting for the phone to ring, she get more wicker and wicker as if time was drawing her energy out, until she bends her knees and eventually sat on the floor. Henry redialed, and then redialed again. For the ninth attempt, Henry gave up and his wife finally burst into flood of tears.
They were suddenly both in vulnerable knees for the moment. There was blood trickling from the inside of her fist as she was still holding the kitchen knife with the unconscious image of her daughter in mind. Burnt garlic filled up the house, and water had long been overflowing from the kitchen sink. Their senses of smell and hearing seemed impaired for a moment, or maybe forever.
After an hour, the phone rang. Both tortured parents jump off their feet and bolted back to life, but Henry was to come first. He grabbed the phone and say with a familiar broken voice:
“Hello?”
“Pa, it’s Anna. Have you watched the news… where’s mama… are you okay?”
“Have you called your sister?”
Cecile was pleading for the phone.
“What?” he asked and passed it to her wife.
“Call your sister, please.”
“I’ve tried. I think the line was cut.”
These statements caused to smash the fragile silence of the room that has been growing like a moss.
“No!” she screamed and gave up for the second and last time. “Oh, God. No, please!”
At that moment, Ana was speaking to herself as the phone was left suspended for the rest of the night.
Cecilia wasn’t much hopeful that life would be better. Fifteen years ago, since her mother died, she decided her daughters, Mary and Alice, would grow up not knowing anything about the secret past that she didn’t even want to remember. But why? She kept on asking. She wanted to curse God and ask why?
Her past had walked away long after another tragedy came and destined to put her battered soul into more toil. Years before this afternoon, while she was sitting into her favorite bamboo chair, life had been dull, quiet, but peaceful.
Every Sunday her two daughters, or al least one of them, visited to do lunch and dinner despite their happy and contended marriage lives. Her husband, Henry, helped into the kitchen doing his grills. And Cecile, while chopping off onions, garlic, and ginger, couldn’t help but to offer a tearful glance towards their direction there in the kitchen at least every once in a while, helping the memoirs of her mother, Feli, turn into dusts and be blown away by the wind and be forgotten. But time had surely passed. She was sitting on her favorite bamboo chair as she watched the orange sun sink across the sky, sharing daily dread that a day again was about to pass; and had she done anything for a change? No. She doesn’t even want to move or breathe. She wanted to drift away, and to dream and never come back. But she can’t even fall asleep. For one, she was alone. She’s scared going to her unlit room and see that her husband wasn’t there.
Last year, as she turned 44, when Mary was still alive, it wasn’t much of a celebration even though Henry, Mary with her 2 daughters, and Alice were there. For one reason, because Mary was arranging her flight for work, and second, she was not much into celebrating the day she was born four decades and four years ago.
Her birthday was filled with casual conversation over lunch. They shared laughter and usual gossips earlier that day or earlier that month, or even that year and anything conversational followed that could easily be forgotten. It didn’t take much time until it fell into a normal exchange of words she hadn’t thought to be something especial.
Forks and spoons cluttered.
“How about Mary?” Henry asked from the other end of the table.
“I will be leaving next week. Monday.” Mary replied, chewing a chunk of poultry away.
Then 6-year-old Lucy, eldest of Alice, asked innocently, “Where’s Haiti? I’ve never heard Haiti before. Is it in America?”
Then everyone just beamed towards her and no one answered. She doesn’t know how to deal from the domestic humiliation so she just jump off her chair and run to play with her brother.
Silverwares cluttered again.
“And where would you leave your son?” Cecile continued. Others surprised by her not calling him by his name.
“I have a friend in Antipolo.”
“A stranger?” Henry asked as he reached out and poked into his third slab of roasted beef.
“We know each other since second grade. I trust her.”
“You can leave him here. We could take care of him.” Cecile said.
“No,” snapped Henry. “She could manage her life without bothering us with her son. It’s her choice to leave. There are consequences to take.” He started to lose his appetite as anger crawled in. It’s visible the way he put down his fork with firm and pride soundlessly against his plate. “It’s either she would take Jason with her or take risk entrusting him to a friend.”
Or she wouldn’t go. The bamboo chair creaked and Cecil started crying. The intoxicating silence radiating from every corner of the house, the remote control unmoved for days, socks on the floor unkempt, and windows that had never been opened for months. Silence emphasized everything. From dusts settling from “Browny” the teddy bear beside the china lampshade to the drawing of a tiny flower by Lucy with a spare pink crayon she used against the lower part of the wall. And worst, though she would never notice was the unattended front door letting in the freezing afternoon breeze and mosquitoes feasting on her skin.
The room had obviously darkened. It was 6 o’clock in the evening and her image could hardly be seen. She was like an abandoned mannequin staring into nowhere.
Last week, as she was cooking their dinner, Henry was from work, news came showing a thumbnail from the upper right of the screen of devastated infrastructures. Below, she started to read the caption and nothing could be read but …Haiti? She even spelled it out. H-A-I-T-I. Pentionville?
She ran from the kitchen to the living room where Henry was sitting. And she’d seen him watching the same channel.
“Pa,” she said with a broken voice, “Can you call Mary?”
She was almost in tears and started to get dizzy. Henry, the father, was in control as he grabbed the phone and dialed. As he stood there looking into her eye’s, waiting for the phone to ring, she get more wicker and wicker as if time was drawing her energy out, until she bends her knees and eventually sat on the floor. Henry redialed, and then redialed again. For the ninth attempt, Henry gave up and his wife finally burst into flood of tears.
They were suddenly both in vulnerable knees for the moment. There was blood trickling from the inside of her fist as she was still holding the kitchen knife with the unconscious image of her daughter in mind. Burnt garlic filled up the house, and water had long been overflowing from the kitchen sink. Their senses of smell and hearing seemed impaired for a moment, or maybe forever.
After an hour, the phone rang. Both tortured parents jump off their feet and bolted back to life, but Henry was to come first. He grabbed the phone and say with a familiar broken voice:
“Hello?”
“Pa, it’s Anna. Have you watched the news… where’s mama… are you okay?”
“Have you called your sister?”
Cecile was pleading for the phone.
“What?” he asked and passed it to her wife.
“Call your sister, please.”
“I’ve tried. I think the line was cut.”
These statements caused to smash the fragile silence of the room that has been growing like a moss.
“No!” she screamed and gave up for the second and last time. “Oh, God. No, please!”
At that moment, Ana was speaking to herself as the phone was left suspended for the rest of the night.
Jason
Jason, a boy who lived the earth for 13 years, wastn sure what to think of the desk he was facing. He was now a criminal. He saw blood trickling though a wound and he doesn’t move to do anything helpful until there’s no sign of breathing. His fearful negligence, or irresponsibility would cause him to serve time, and if his youth doesn’t serve its purpose, maybe forever. He would be behind jail until his last breath. A man without family and life for years since that unlikely incident.
He doesn’t know anything about the constitution, and his family doesn’t even know anyone who could help them out. His parents would be home before four, it’s one in the evening, and they would be dumbfounded once he told what happen. And yes, of course there is the witness. His mistake was to run away after he and the body was spotted. His first attempt to help didn’t work, and he backed out only with blood in his hands, until an old woman came, staring at him as if it was her son’s body.
He ran. Panting, he threw curses in the air, vainly speaking of names, Unaware of the woman who was left behind who decided to go to the nearest precinct and tell everything she saw. A murder was done by a juvenile, something that had been usual since the onset of Martial Law. In their place, it’s almost a daily routine of delinquents who does nothing but plant sticks inside people with imaginary attitudes. The woman was someone who doesn’t believe with change. That boy was a juvenile murderer, like everybody else.
Jason, upon telling his parents, doesn’t dare to look on their eyes. The worse thing went through, hours later, when Jason was slightly relieved by crying everything out. There was knocking on the door, and his parents opened it casually as if they were expecting a visitor. The door made both of rotting plywood and tin roof nailed together swung hesitantly and revealed two uniformed man, asking for a boy named their son. A woman appeared behind them, rushed inside the house, passing between Jason’s parents.
She lowered her head and walked though the kitchen, push through tiny compartments until saying ,” There he is. It’s the boy!”
Jason panicked. The woman appeared out of nowhere. He ran, hitting the woman by the hand, and attempted to kick a weak portion of the wall. He was to escape, but the uniformed men were as fast as cats before a meal.
Jason were brought up by the hair, lifted like a rabbit, and dropped like a toad outside the dilapidated shelter, exposed before a curious crowd of bystanders. They were all looking at his battered body, slumped onto the dusty ground of humiliation, fear, and physical pain.
“Im no criminal,” he whispered, groping for his parents arms in the darkness he was in.
He doesn’t know anything about the constitution, and his family doesn’t even know anyone who could help them out. His parents would be home before four, it’s one in the evening, and they would be dumbfounded once he told what happen. And yes, of course there is the witness. His mistake was to run away after he and the body was spotted. His first attempt to help didn’t work, and he backed out only with blood in his hands, until an old woman came, staring at him as if it was her son’s body.
He ran. Panting, he threw curses in the air, vainly speaking of names, Unaware of the woman who was left behind who decided to go to the nearest precinct and tell everything she saw. A murder was done by a juvenile, something that had been usual since the onset of Martial Law. In their place, it’s almost a daily routine of delinquents who does nothing but plant sticks inside people with imaginary attitudes. The woman was someone who doesn’t believe with change. That boy was a juvenile murderer, like everybody else.
Jason, upon telling his parents, doesn’t dare to look on their eyes. The worse thing went through, hours later, when Jason was slightly relieved by crying everything out. There was knocking on the door, and his parents opened it casually as if they were expecting a visitor. The door made both of rotting plywood and tin roof nailed together swung hesitantly and revealed two uniformed man, asking for a boy named their son. A woman appeared behind them, rushed inside the house, passing between Jason’s parents.
She lowered her head and walked though the kitchen, push through tiny compartments until saying ,” There he is. It’s the boy!”
Jason panicked. The woman appeared out of nowhere. He ran, hitting the woman by the hand, and attempted to kick a weak portion of the wall. He was to escape, but the uniformed men were as fast as cats before a meal.
Jason were brought up by the hair, lifted like a rabbit, and dropped like a toad outside the dilapidated shelter, exposed before a curious crowd of bystanders. They were all looking at his battered body, slumped onto the dusty ground of humiliation, fear, and physical pain.
“Im no criminal,” he whispered, groping for his parents arms in the darkness he was in.
77th Earth Hour
A Short Story by Eduardo Bautista
After a while of standing at the podium and delivering my speech, I felt the pain crawling on both of my limbs. But then I tried to stand up staighter, and strived to relieve the heat and the tension inside myself by breathing out the air trapped inside my throat. As I realized, even the flowing of the harmless air was being intolerably painful. It turned into a moan.
I closed my electric eyes and ignore its other pain. I imagine these people listening, and was interested in doing so further, had been through the same phase as I was being now; It was popularly my technique, until their eyes wandered here and there, confused, and started to mumble words that I couldn’t decipher. It was getting noisier and my sight was blurrier. I thought I was to lose my balance then all I could remember was the hand that held my body against its unfortunate fate of falling flatly onto the antiseptic floor. I soundlessly felt the weight against the hand and everything eventually went darker than pitch-black.
As long as I’m concern, I still remember waking up in a room well-lit by all natural sources of light. I felt the rays of the sun against my skin and the blinding light reflected from the glass-latex equipment that was nailed around my neck and forehead. And moments away from premature consciousness, someone even whispered few inches from my left or right ear that I felt tickled by its warm and consoling breath. But then… still then… my earthly essence chose to be blown away by the wind like the sands of the dessert. I died exactly 8:00 PM during the 77th Earth Hour.
Going through my life, being an environmental activist was the hardest lifestyle of all. And should I correct myself from labeling it as a lifestyle? It must always be referred to as a battle.
Our population wasn’t few after all. There was a guy named James Croft from New Harvard University in Milan . He was only 23 when he started to join the Battle of Man, which, by the time, was led by me. I was 22 then; the youngest of all the 400 official members of the revolution worldwide except Nan who was the genius at 17; a thin and wholesome kid from India who chose to change his citizenship.
James, or Mr. Croft as they usually called him, before joining the revolution, had his goal, and promised to every living essence of the planet that he would fight until his last breath and sight. Together with unfathomable courage and natural longing in curing the wounded of all the wounded, we fought and there we must find happiness and fulfilled dreams of living an attempt for green holistic awakening, and thereafter a prime peddler of climatic change.
On July 30, 2082, after two years, James and I had finally been married under the blessings of St. Francis Church that had newly been erected north of Venice . It was a day I surely love to cherish, but then the revolution really was over everything else. The very morning that came after the wedding we immediately flew to Spain , and there literally exposed ourselves and our lives to danger.
Mr. Croft went separately to Zargoza to breach the technical security of the Latin United Defense who sporadically runs nuclear tests in the growing marshland of Taurel in Spain . It was greatly rumored that it wasn’t what the local authority claimed otherwise than as a breathing ground of barbaric vigilantes who crossed the span of thousands of miles from the southern tip of France for territorial invasion. It's never certain why the government tried to hide this fact in the first place. Still, United Defense wasn’t at all in slight good intention of brushing the rouge vigilantes away from its territory, but, reported as a fact, indeed running nuclear tests in preparation and inevitable international show off for the coming World War III that has currently been burning the core nations of eastern Europe shedding its misled philosophy to its neighboring geographical and economical nations.
During the same day, and during the same month when whole Europe was flexing its nuclear biceps, with the growing revolution that I was with and few selected multi-national representatives, we marched boldly across the erects of the Blue Tower in Central Vitoria, Spain to the populated urbanity of Burgos without knowing that ill luck awaited for our arrival. From there, probably the most unforgettable moment of my life as a green warrior had marked its place as four of my friends, including Nan , who was already 19, and his sweet heart Susan were selectedly arrested by the Spanish National Police that was summoned to stop every civil threats of the coming war. And our revolution was then considered to be such. A year long imprisonment was charged.
To make the incident worse and more heart breaking, a year later, as Argentina, my homeland, was finally waiting for their release, we were reached by the news that a Greek fisherman saw a large oil barrel floating nonchalantly on the other end of the Mediterranean near the shores of Gibraltar enclosing all four of my friends, not all spared from the mischievous and brutal hands of human evil observing from the bruises and ubiquitous cuts found all over their half-consumed bodies.
You wouldn’t want to imagine the effect it had upon us as some of the members decided to detach themselves from the revolution and chose to hide with their own families from what they believe was far worse than the battle we declared.
There were growing bloodshed and famine, and humanity’s third downfall against itself was gaining momentum. Few months later, the war greeted Western Europe with a nuclear blast from Portugal orchestrated by its economic rival Bohemia killing 250, 000 multi nationals and 30 billion escudos worth of properties. After 2 weeks, Canada attacked Russia from behind by bribing economic moderators from the UN, a move that triggered the second wave of the war between America and Europe which was highlighted by a 3 cubic inch magnetic bomb delivered to the heart of American economic and military data hive, deleting information that almost equaled the worth of a small independent country the size of New Guinea.
In spite all this, James and I hadn't given up from the concern we were born to live. May the war be worse or soon better, which I doubt, the heroic and persistent aim of Battle of Man is really on its feet, pretentiously sound and well, continuously proposing various ways of conserving water, food, plants and trees, harnessing the great potentials of solar, wind, and the rest of natural energy sources; all along with the unbreakable and worsening issues of misled virtues,mass hunger, collective murders, and political abuse around the world. Our publication Middle Gospel was suddenly in the brink of suspension.
On January 25, 2083, I was diagnosed of eye cancer. It was undoubtedly caused by the nuclear exposure back in Taurel. And it was very unfortunate that it hadn’t taken a year before my husband, his sister Niña, Ronnie, James’ colleague from New Harvard, and the rest of us who intentionally put the cure of earth’s biosphere over our own lives discovered their own versions of the incurable cancer.
Yes. Time passed. The war had successfully spread and destroyed the civilization that had been the enemy of nature since its dawn in Mesopotamia . And with time, it goes along with my friends and treated family who had gradually lost their individual battles against cancer, all a year before the miracle of interlaced genetics had been written among scientific journals. With the passing of my husband, I managed to perform my promise that I would be the last thing he would see before the aching lids closed from the world he had known for 28 years. During that time, I forced myself not to tell anything about my plan of giving up the revolution that we both cared about when people all over the world hadn’t given a damn for trees when even their ownselves were slowly consumed by fear of dying in the midst of modern chaos.
It must end, I told myself, when virtually no one cared about someone’s dreams and aspirations and ideals. At the peak of the war, Middle Gospel was held back momentarily, or maybe forever. For almost 2 decades I spent distributing seeds of wisdom and insights that I developed myself from the love and care I felt for the future generation who would soon dwell on this planet, I decided that I myself wouldn’t last and so might as well with the revolution that had been neither strengthened nor emphasized during its greatest hardships against other relatively temporary human concerns.
After five years, the war officially ended as was announced by the D.O.V.E Legion, the new face of United Nations, though war-related crimes still remained and rampant especially in the dark corners of each disarrayed cities.
I was faxed one day, I just came home after giving my stem cells for the aforementioned medical breakthrough to cure my cancer, if I could deliver some speech for the 100th day celebration of the third post-war era in the Legion’s first new headquarters in Darmstadt , Germany . I asked why, and later on realized how stupid it was. Of course, I’m the founder and still the leader of my own battle.
That was a night I smiled, not because of the joy that appreciated neither their appreciation nor a temporary relief from my chronic pains, but because of the lie living on this world. But no matter how hypocrite the circumstances would be, who am I to detest the Legions invitation. So I said yes, I'll come. Why not?
-THE END
12
After a while of standing at the podium and delivering my speech, I felt the pain crawling on both of my limbs. But then I tried to stand up staighter, and strived to relieve the heat and the tension inside myself by breathing out the air trapped inside my throat. As I realized, even the flowing of the harmless air was being intolerably painful. It turned into a moan.
I closed my electric eyes and ignore its other pain. I imagine these people listening, and was interested in doing so further, had been through the same phase as I was being now; It was popularly my technique, until their eyes wandered here and there, confused, and started to mumble words that I couldn’t decipher. It was getting noisier and my sight was blurrier. I thought I was to lose my balance then all I could remember was the hand that held my body against its unfortunate fate of falling flatly onto the antiseptic floor. I soundlessly felt the weight against the hand and everything eventually went darker than pitch-black.
As long as I’m concern, I still remember waking up in a room well-lit by all natural sources of light. I felt the rays of the sun against my skin and the blinding light reflected from the glass-latex equipment that was nailed around my neck and forehead. And moments away from premature consciousness, someone even whispered few inches from my left or right ear that I felt tickled by its warm and consoling breath. But then… still then… my earthly essence chose to be blown away by the wind like the sands of the dessert. I died exactly 8:00 PM during the 77th Earth Hour.
Going through my life, being an environmental activist was the hardest lifestyle of all. And should I correct myself from labeling it as a lifestyle? It must always be referred to as a battle.
Our population wasn’t few after all. There was a guy named James Croft from New Harvard University in Milan . He was only 23 when he started to join the Battle of Man, which, by the time, was led by me. I was 22 then; the youngest of all the 400 official members of the revolution worldwide except Nan who was the genius at 17; a thin and wholesome kid from India who chose to change his citizenship.
James, or Mr. Croft as they usually called him, before joining the revolution, had his goal, and promised to every living essence of the planet that he would fight until his last breath and sight. Together with unfathomable courage and natural longing in curing the wounded of all the wounded, we fought and there we must find happiness and fulfilled dreams of living an attempt for green holistic awakening, and thereafter a prime peddler of climatic change.
On July 30, 2082, after two years, James and I had finally been married under the blessings of St. Francis Church that had newly been erected north of Venice . It was a day I surely love to cherish, but then the revolution really was over everything else. The very morning that came after the wedding we immediately flew to Spain , and there literally exposed ourselves and our lives to danger.
Mr. Croft went separately to Zargoza to breach the technical security of the Latin United Defense who sporadically runs nuclear tests in the growing marshland of Taurel in Spain . It was greatly rumored that it wasn’t what the local authority claimed otherwise than as a breathing ground of barbaric vigilantes who crossed the span of thousands of miles from the southern tip of France for territorial invasion. It's never certain why the government tried to hide this fact in the first place. Still, United Defense wasn’t at all in slight good intention of brushing the rouge vigilantes away from its territory, but, reported as a fact, indeed running nuclear tests in preparation and inevitable international show off for the coming World War III that has currently been burning the core nations of eastern Europe shedding its misled philosophy to its neighboring geographical and economical nations.
During the same day, and during the same month when whole Europe was flexing its nuclear biceps, with the growing revolution that I was with and few selected multi-national representatives, we marched boldly across the erects of the Blue Tower in Central Vitoria, Spain to the populated urbanity of Burgos without knowing that ill luck awaited for our arrival. From there, probably the most unforgettable moment of my life as a green warrior had marked its place as four of my friends, including Nan , who was already 19, and his sweet heart Susan were selectedly arrested by the Spanish National Police that was summoned to stop every civil threats of the coming war. And our revolution was then considered to be such. A year long imprisonment was charged.
To make the incident worse and more heart breaking, a year later, as Argentina, my homeland, was finally waiting for their release, we were reached by the news that a Greek fisherman saw a large oil barrel floating nonchalantly on the other end of the Mediterranean near the shores of Gibraltar enclosing all four of my friends, not all spared from the mischievous and brutal hands of human evil observing from the bruises and ubiquitous cuts found all over their half-consumed bodies.
You wouldn’t want to imagine the effect it had upon us as some of the members decided to detach themselves from the revolution and chose to hide with their own families from what they believe was far worse than the battle we declared.
There were growing bloodshed and famine, and humanity’s third downfall against itself was gaining momentum. Few months later, the war greeted Western Europe with a nuclear blast from Portugal orchestrated by its economic rival Bohemia killing 250, 000 multi nationals and 30 billion escudos worth of properties. After 2 weeks, Canada attacked Russia from behind by bribing economic moderators from the UN, a move that triggered the second wave of the war between America and Europe which was highlighted by a 3 cubic inch magnetic bomb delivered to the heart of American economic and military data hive, deleting information that almost equaled the worth of a small independent country the size of New Guinea.
In spite all this, James and I hadn't given up from the concern we were born to live. May the war be worse or soon better, which I doubt, the heroic and persistent aim of Battle of Man is really on its feet, pretentiously sound and well, continuously proposing various ways of conserving water, food, plants and trees, harnessing the great potentials of solar, wind, and the rest of natural energy sources; all along with the unbreakable and worsening issues of misled virtues,mass hunger, collective murders, and political abuse around the world. Our publication Middle Gospel was suddenly in the brink of suspension.
On January 25, 2083, I was diagnosed of eye cancer. It was undoubtedly caused by the nuclear exposure back in Taurel. And it was very unfortunate that it hadn’t taken a year before my husband, his sister Niña, Ronnie, James’ colleague from New Harvard, and the rest of us who intentionally put the cure of earth’s biosphere over our own lives discovered their own versions of the incurable cancer.
Yes. Time passed. The war had successfully spread and destroyed the civilization that had been the enemy of nature since its dawn in Mesopotamia . And with time, it goes along with my friends and treated family who had gradually lost their individual battles against cancer, all a year before the miracle of interlaced genetics had been written among scientific journals. With the passing of my husband, I managed to perform my promise that I would be the last thing he would see before the aching lids closed from the world he had known for 28 years. During that time, I forced myself not to tell anything about my plan of giving up the revolution that we both cared about when people all over the world hadn’t given a damn for trees when even their ownselves were slowly consumed by fear of dying in the midst of modern chaos.
It must end, I told myself, when virtually no one cared about someone’s dreams and aspirations and ideals. At the peak of the war, Middle Gospel was held back momentarily, or maybe forever. For almost 2 decades I spent distributing seeds of wisdom and insights that I developed myself from the love and care I felt for the future generation who would soon dwell on this planet, I decided that I myself wouldn’t last and so might as well with the revolution that had been neither strengthened nor emphasized during its greatest hardships against other relatively temporary human concerns.
After five years, the war officially ended as was announced by the D.O.V.E Legion, the new face of United Nations, though war-related crimes still remained and rampant especially in the dark corners of each disarrayed cities.
I was faxed one day, I just came home after giving my stem cells for the aforementioned medical breakthrough to cure my cancer, if I could deliver some speech for the 100th day celebration of the third post-war era in the Legion’s first new headquarters in Darmstadt , Germany . I asked why, and later on realized how stupid it was. Of course, I’m the founder and still the leader of my own battle.
That was a night I smiled, not because of the joy that appreciated neither their appreciation nor a temporary relief from my chronic pains, but because of the lie living on this world. But no matter how hypocrite the circumstances would be, who am I to detest the Legions invitation. So I said yes, I'll come. Why not?
-THE END
Albatross
It was getting darker. Saturday afternoon, hungry, and I was watchful. I was sitting beside a criminal. And knowing that tomorrow or the day after that, someone would be killed mercilessly, if it even makes sense to kill with mercy. It made me feel like a human reject sent to a battleground where soldiers were dreadful that the war had extended until eternity.
We were surrounded by makeshift houses out of plywoods, used tarpaulins loaded with pools of rainwater, and rotten tin rooves. Housewives were creating a crowd for daily afternoon gossips, while across the muddy, dusty streets of Tondo was a woman responsible enough to call on her youngsters and smack them on the butt as they entered the tiny, old fashioned house.
On the spot that i was squatting, I smiled after someone greeted me with a fellow nod. He lighted a Malboro stick.
He walked past me like I was a boy begging for illegal powder and he's willing to give me some for free.
"Have you met Toning?" the man asked. He dragged on his stick, and it glowed like heaven.
"Not yet. Will he be coming soon?" I asked. "We've been here for half an hour. What a brat." I cursed on my breath and spit onto the uncemented yard of the man we had been waiting for.
"This is Upham, by the way." I introduced Upham to the man who was currently leaning onto a door. "He's expert on ammunitions. R-16, Angel Rum, .38 Special, name them." I looked at Upham and he nodded humbly.
"You must meet Toning, my brother," the man said to Upham.
"I'm not aware that he has a brother," I interjected. "What's your name?'
They both seem to unheard me.
"He's also good at those," the man added. "That man, it's his toys." Then he checked around before continuing like he was planning to masturbate. "He's one of those who assassinated Mr. Go two years ago. And he's smart, my brother. He slid off justice, and see what he is doing now; risking it again."
He smiled. His tanned and tattooed arm flexed as he lifted his cigarette and finished it off with a long single drag. God, that fast. He threw it on the ground and combed the sky like he's a poet hunting for inspiration.
I followed his gaze. The sky was as gloomy as a basin filled with murky, gray water. Directly above one of the shacks passed an unfamiliar bird. It was distant, big and white, and if I was stupid enough would suspect it to be an ostrich. Only ostrich couldn't fly and rarely white as dove. It was flying in an incredible speed, sweeping across the sky in a great heavenly arc, gliding easily through the air. Up there, it was the only thing that was moving aside from a wisp of cotton chugging forward for attention. I lowered my gaze a little and the peaceful space was engulfed by brown dust, wet clutter, and bare skins grazing for unexpected fortune and unusual cash, others contenting themselves by breathing against neighbors and surveying for attacks from sharks they did wrong.
On this world, i realized how consuming it is to look through and down, even by simply looking back. It will be a pleasure to look up sometimes. Up there, it was something different. Like it was a new world built for no one to live rendering it painfully disconnected and uncorrupted. Looking at it would surely be a relief from the pain of our usual territory.
When I had enough, I pulled of that and the small seed of irritability suddenly broke off through my words. "Shit. Where was he?"
Seconds passed and the man noticed my expression. "So, who is this target? Another businessman who treated everyone with kindness?" He snorted like it was funny, although it was true. Kind but elite people are more vulnerable of being murdered instead of average people with huge attitude. Covetousness is a powerful motivation. Not for us, but with the people who had a very short patience from losing.
"Nah," I said. "Actually, it has something to do with adultery."
I looked down, and I could hardly see a stone. It's really getting late. "It's a businessman, yes, but we are taking his revenge for his wife. I heard how wicked she is. She's been bitching around lately with younger boys less than half her age. Jesus, this husband wants her to be tortured first."
"You agreed on that?" the man said, looking amused.
"No." Upham answered for me. "We're mercenaries but we're still human beings, for god's sake. That's why I studied on ammunition so I could finish someone in a snap and keep off the blood out of me, so much of torturing a woman."
I wanted to laugh, but as a fellow, I thought better of it.
It would be Upham's fifth assignment. In my case, I've seen four people killed- with my help, of course- and blood is a natural thing for me. Pool of blood. And justice wasn't something we're scared about after all. It's as simple as getting caught off guard and doing the crime worse than what we've been asked to. That's what we are scared of. The guilt of unnecessarily raping a child or cutting off some man's genitals is too much. It always activated a drop of conscience inside our heads, and wouldn't leave us until another assignment comes when we could redeem ourselves and never do it again. Justice is just a light, formal nuisance especially if someone in a position patronized your skills and previous criminal achievements.
One night, two days after the discovery of the body we dispatched as commanded was discovered floating on the Pasig river, I was reached by two uniformed men. I thought of asking for their badges, but scared to make an impression that I had been on this scenario more often than a normal, innocent civilian, I asked them instead:
"Have I done something?" with matching apprehension as I open the door with uttermost respect for men in uniforms. And I knew, in the first glance, that they were NBI agents, flashing me an arrest warrant even before they step inside. I mean, why would they step inside? Was I expecting them to accept my offer of snacks and forget about things? No, so I immediately came after them because it would already be a crime if I wouldn't.
Once I was in the precinct and been told of me being one of the suspects, I pestered them with the usual but tested what-where-why-when statements and promised to prove the validity of my alibis. Thank god my upper man had a lot of strings to pull. After I called him, I was a free man; as good as an innocent. And this agents ushered me outside with a smile like I was an honorable visitor who was about to leave.
It's hopeless. I stood up and breathed out my impatience audibly. Toning wouldn't come. He's two hours over and it's very late for talking. My wife must be expecting me to be home within an hour.
"You leaving already?" The man asked as I started shaking the numbness off my legs. "He must have reasons."
I flipped my phone open and greeted by a smile from my wife and our son trapped inside her arms. "He must have called then."
I flipped it back with a sigh.
"Maybe he's on his way," he said, inching towards us. Upham was already walking away.
"Fuck him," I said, waving my hand. "Just tell him we've been here long enough to realize..."
Suddenly, a young boy rushed in, panting, towards the man I was talking. I was already few paces away when he begun to speak.
"What's up? Why are you running?"
"It's--" the boy breathed in, and out, and then in. "It's Toning," I heard the boy said. "He was shot."
I turned and looked at the boy in the distance as if I found my long lost child. "What the-"
"He kept on running away but cops gunned him down."
The sinking sun and its remaining light suddenly spilled across the horizon. His words echoed around the foyer of another cold, disturbing evening like a soldier calling out for a truce.
I was tired, I told myself, and I wanted to go home.
We were surrounded by makeshift houses out of plywoods, used tarpaulins loaded with pools of rainwater, and rotten tin rooves. Housewives were creating a crowd for daily afternoon gossips, while across the muddy, dusty streets of Tondo was a woman responsible enough to call on her youngsters and smack them on the butt as they entered the tiny, old fashioned house.
On the spot that i was squatting, I smiled after someone greeted me with a fellow nod. He lighted a Malboro stick.
He walked past me like I was a boy begging for illegal powder and he's willing to give me some for free.
"Have you met Toning?" the man asked. He dragged on his stick, and it glowed like heaven.
"Not yet. Will he be coming soon?" I asked. "We've been here for half an hour. What a brat." I cursed on my breath and spit onto the uncemented yard of the man we had been waiting for.
"This is Upham, by the way." I introduced Upham to the man who was currently leaning onto a door. "He's expert on ammunitions. R-16, Angel Rum, .38 Special, name them." I looked at Upham and he nodded humbly.
"You must meet Toning, my brother," the man said to Upham.
"I'm not aware that he has a brother," I interjected. "What's your name?'
They both seem to unheard me.
"He's also good at those," the man added. "That man, it's his toys." Then he checked around before continuing like he was planning to masturbate. "He's one of those who assassinated Mr. Go two years ago. And he's smart, my brother. He slid off justice, and see what he is doing now; risking it again."
He smiled. His tanned and tattooed arm flexed as he lifted his cigarette and finished it off with a long single drag. God, that fast. He threw it on the ground and combed the sky like he's a poet hunting for inspiration.
I followed his gaze. The sky was as gloomy as a basin filled with murky, gray water. Directly above one of the shacks passed an unfamiliar bird. It was distant, big and white, and if I was stupid enough would suspect it to be an ostrich. Only ostrich couldn't fly and rarely white as dove. It was flying in an incredible speed, sweeping across the sky in a great heavenly arc, gliding easily through the air. Up there, it was the only thing that was moving aside from a wisp of cotton chugging forward for attention. I lowered my gaze a little and the peaceful space was engulfed by brown dust, wet clutter, and bare skins grazing for unexpected fortune and unusual cash, others contenting themselves by breathing against neighbors and surveying for attacks from sharks they did wrong.
On this world, i realized how consuming it is to look through and down, even by simply looking back. It will be a pleasure to look up sometimes. Up there, it was something different. Like it was a new world built for no one to live rendering it painfully disconnected and uncorrupted. Looking at it would surely be a relief from the pain of our usual territory.
When I had enough, I pulled of that and the small seed of irritability suddenly broke off through my words. "Shit. Where was he?"
Seconds passed and the man noticed my expression. "So, who is this target? Another businessman who treated everyone with kindness?" He snorted like it was funny, although it was true. Kind but elite people are more vulnerable of being murdered instead of average people with huge attitude. Covetousness is a powerful motivation. Not for us, but with the people who had a very short patience from losing.
"Nah," I said. "Actually, it has something to do with adultery."
I looked down, and I could hardly see a stone. It's really getting late. "It's a businessman, yes, but we are taking his revenge for his wife. I heard how wicked she is. She's been bitching around lately with younger boys less than half her age. Jesus, this husband wants her to be tortured first."
"You agreed on that?" the man said, looking amused.
"No." Upham answered for me. "We're mercenaries but we're still human beings, for god's sake. That's why I studied on ammunition so I could finish someone in a snap and keep off the blood out of me, so much of torturing a woman."
I wanted to laugh, but as a fellow, I thought better of it.
It would be Upham's fifth assignment. In my case, I've seen four people killed- with my help, of course- and blood is a natural thing for me. Pool of blood. And justice wasn't something we're scared about after all. It's as simple as getting caught off guard and doing the crime worse than what we've been asked to. That's what we are scared of. The guilt of unnecessarily raping a child or cutting off some man's genitals is too much. It always activated a drop of conscience inside our heads, and wouldn't leave us until another assignment comes when we could redeem ourselves and never do it again. Justice is just a light, formal nuisance especially if someone in a position patronized your skills and previous criminal achievements.
One night, two days after the discovery of the body we dispatched as commanded was discovered floating on the Pasig river, I was reached by two uniformed men. I thought of asking for their badges, but scared to make an impression that I had been on this scenario more often than a normal, innocent civilian, I asked them instead:
"Have I done something?" with matching apprehension as I open the door with uttermost respect for men in uniforms. And I knew, in the first glance, that they were NBI agents, flashing me an arrest warrant even before they step inside. I mean, why would they step inside? Was I expecting them to accept my offer of snacks and forget about things? No, so I immediately came after them because it would already be a crime if I wouldn't.
Once I was in the precinct and been told of me being one of the suspects, I pestered them with the usual but tested what-where-why-when statements and promised to prove the validity of my alibis. Thank god my upper man had a lot of strings to pull. After I called him, I was a free man; as good as an innocent. And this agents ushered me outside with a smile like I was an honorable visitor who was about to leave.
It's hopeless. I stood up and breathed out my impatience audibly. Toning wouldn't come. He's two hours over and it's very late for talking. My wife must be expecting me to be home within an hour.
"You leaving already?" The man asked as I started shaking the numbness off my legs. "He must have reasons."
I flipped my phone open and greeted by a smile from my wife and our son trapped inside her arms. "He must have called then."
I flipped it back with a sigh.
"Maybe he's on his way," he said, inching towards us. Upham was already walking away.
"Fuck him," I said, waving my hand. "Just tell him we've been here long enough to realize..."
Suddenly, a young boy rushed in, panting, towards the man I was talking. I was already few paces away when he begun to speak.
"What's up? Why are you running?"
"It's--" the boy breathed in, and out, and then in. "It's Toning," I heard the boy said. "He was shot."
I turned and looked at the boy in the distance as if I found my long lost child. "What the-"
"He kept on running away but cops gunned him down."
The sinking sun and its remaining light suddenly spilled across the horizon. His words echoed around the foyer of another cold, disturbing evening like a soldier calling out for a truce.
I was tired, I told myself, and I wanted to go home.
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