LitWit Challenge 2.8: That which spelled backwards is Evol. (Updated daily with Yucch-meter)
Ooh, notebooks! This week two winners will each receive a large Moleskine My Pilipinas notebook. (One with plain pages, one with lined paper, we’ll figure it out later.)
This week’s LitWit Challenge: How to write a thunderbolts and violins scene that is plausible and non-bloodcurdling, that does not make us want to run screaming from the computer to wash our brains out with soap and water.
Your instructions: Write the scene in which you meet the person you fall in love with. It doesn’t have to be literally thunderbolts and violins, but it has to be clear that something significant has taken place. Subtlety would be highly appreciated.
This first meeting could be factual or fictional, we don’t care as long as it’s the best writing you can crank out. At the first sign of schmaltz you’re out, so think it through. Consider Pride and Prejudice, the grandmummy of all matrimony novels. The first meeting did not go well, but you know there’s more.
So you know how you’re doing, we’re turning on the Yucch-meter. This way you can rewrite and repost your entry. While we’re at it, let’s allow readers to comment on each other’s work. Be kind.
1,000 words maximum, deadline on 11.59 pm, Saturday April the 24th.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by the lovely people of National Bookstore.
* * * * *
The Yucch-meter has been activated. See Comments. We regret that we are not available to critique your work after this contest. If you send us your manuscripts they will not be read.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
April 19th, 2010 at 10:32
Pseudo-historical approach: Mad Scientist Nikolai Tesla celebrates the deployment of his latest brainchild in the war against Filipino guerillas (who are secretly backed by Martians): the Lightning Cannon. Scenes of its use are interspersed with him enjoying a nice steak dinner alone in a restaurant while a string quartet plays in the background reflecting the war between chaos and order in his mind.
April 19th, 2010 at 10:52
Please reread the instructions.
April 19th, 2010 at 13:42
Oh. Whoops. Read the first draft of the entry and took it literally.
It was the first day of Chem 16. Having already gone through the horrors that was Math 17 and survived, I was uncharacteristically quiet, far from my usual demeanor of sharing experiences in previous classes or talking about professors one should avoid in certain other courses, particularly English.
Various people shuffled inside the room and one particular girl got my attention. I had seen her before while walking along hallways and corridors of various colleges. I had often wondered why, despite the frequency of encountering her between classes, she was never my classmate until now. She took a seat on the opposite side of where I was on the laboratory table, with the various pipes that contained flammable gas or water partially obstructing my view.
She was talking to another person who was obviously, while I eavesdropped on their conversation, someone she had met in another subject. Their conversation became somewhat lively and every now and then she glanced at my direction and I had to consciously interrupt gazing at her.
Finally, the lab instructor entered the room and after the usual round of introductions, announced that everyone needed to pair off for the whole semester.
In a move that completely caught me by surprise, she looked at me and asked, “Would you like to be my lab partner?”
April 19th, 2010 at 21:45
- Sabado ng gabi sa isang bar sa Malate
Bestrfriend: Naku gurrrrl ang daming becky na rumarampa. Dumadaloy na naman ang ilog ng berdeng dugo sa malate hahaha.
Boy: Gurl ka dyan! Bakla ka ahahaha. Ang laki-laki ng biceps ko kung maka-girl ka dyan talagang U with rolling R’s talaga puta ka hahahahaha.
Bestfriend: Puke mo! Hahahahaha. Hello!!! Gym buddies kaya tayo, as if naman hindi rin ganyan kalaki biceps ko, plus look at my pecs. Oh divah pecs kung pecs hahahaha.
Boy: Pecs ka dyan! Pekpek mo hahahaha. Sa laki ng pecs mo you need to wear a bra hahahahaha.
Bestfriend: Gagah! Ikaw kaya may collection ng victoria’s secret sa condo mo hahahaha.
- Lalapit ang isang cute na cute na cute na straight acting gay guy (Paminta itey na kahawig ni Akihiro Sato)
Bestfriend: Oh do you two know each other already?
Cuteboy Aki: Not yet Bro.
Bestfriend: Aki this is my best friend Boy.
Boy: Nice meeting you Dude! Hope we could hang out some time over coffee or something.
Cuteboy Aki: Sure thing Bro! The sooner the better. (Cuteboy Aki makes a pang close-up toothpaste commercial smile)
Boy: Let me get your digits then.
- Mega exchange ng digits ang mga becky
Cuteboy Aki: Thanks Bro! Sige i’m going to my tropa’s table na. Feel free to text me anytime. (Naughty smile)
Boy: Sure thing Dude!
Bestfriend: Baboosh Aki! See you when I see you dahhhling.
- Exit si CuteboyAki sa eksena
Bestfriend: Kaloka! Testosterone level ang drama! bumabaha ng Dude at Bro. Leche! Hahahahaha
Boy: Chance ko na to sister. Wag kang bitter ocampo hahahahahaha.
Bestfriend: In fairness haba ng hair mo lola hahahaha.
April 19th, 2010 at 21:49
The whole week was a blur. Just like last week. And the week before that. And before that too. Weekends go by faster than Mondays that’s for sure. A few thousand years of collective consciousness and human beings cannot solve the problem of Mondays. Somehow, I woke up with a feeling of resolve, even though nothing has changed. The same fuckin’ dog yapping outside my door. Wait. There is no dog in this routine. Something’s different. I went to the bathroom to check my face if it’s passable as a Monday morning gruff. Yes, grumpy enough to snarl at the God-botherers I get every Sunday morning, and I guess acceptable to talk to the dog’s owner. Although I intended to harass the dog of the neighbor, my stomach grumbled rather unabashedly. I know dog-bashing is important but can it be important after breakfast? Plus I don’t think they had a dog before. Come to think of it, I never even thought of the existence of neighbors, they were just there, like your belly button, it’s just there. I stole a glance to plan my course of action as I went out to get my newspaper and lo and behold, boxes, boxes, and surprise! More boxes. And there it is down the hall, the villain of my Monday. A minuscule version of what I assumed was a golden retriever was on a leash, sniffing all the doors it passed and barking at them, or what seemed like a bark but was more like a yelp. Its human was an enabler. Smiling awkwardly as they passed each apartment door, she approached me slowly still wearing the disarming but awkward smile. She was wearing a white shirt with hints of pit stains and rather faded jeans. Her glasses reminded me of Lisa Loeb. I remember once complaining to a friend about the disappearance of all the Lisa Loeb girls. They just vanished at the turn of the century, along with good music and good sense, what remained transmogrified into pop star wannabees and their age-appropriate music. But here she was with her awkward sweaty smiling self in front of me. All of the Monday-morning-wrath I was feeling seemed to evanesce like the pope’s child-screwing scandal. Was it the sweaty shirt? Was it the pheromones? Was it the way she introduced herself as the new neighbor at apartment 302 and then giggled like a school girl? Maybe. There was something disgustingly endearing about her. We talked for a while and found out she was a chef at this new place down the street and asked me to check it out sometime. I remember slowly uttering a grunt that was barely human, the dog responded with a bark, I’m sorry, a yelp, as if somehow it understood what I said. I was dumbfounded. I somehow forgot to complain about her dog, I even had a little speech prepared, but nil. She laughed a little and then proceeded with the compulsory good-morning/good-bye nice meeting you talk. I was suddenly self-conscious and immediately grunted another sound and waved goodbye. Geez, who waves goodbye to a person 3 feet away? Nice work Don Juan, maybe she liked your disheveled homeless look. Well, one could hope.
It’s been a few days. Her Sweaty armpits lingered around my nose and my mind. Is it love? Come on. You just rolled your eyes to yourself. Infatuation? There’s a chance. A slight crush? Well if you could call googling her and looking for her in facebook until 3am a crush, what a disturbing affection.
I still see her every Monday during her jog with her dog, say hi even, chit-chat a little, but that’s about it. She doesn’t work on Mondays you see, just one of the interesting information my online sleuthing yielded. See what I did there? That’s stalking 101. I even creep myself out. I know I’m being too hard on myself, I mean it’s not everyday you get to meet someone who could change your Mondays. It’s always been a dreadful start of the week, the rush of people with a seemingly drug-induced trance. But Mondays now are like an excellent blowjob or uninterrupted shitting or pizza and beer with a few friends during Fridays. As if by good fortune, I’ve managed to discover the solution to Mondays. I’ve turned mine into a Friday. The cure to the age-old problem, fall in love on a Monday.
Monday, I’m in love.
April 20th, 2010 at 07:39
I was trying to have some extra fun by staying late in school a couple of years ago. I ruled a sports council and was busy preparing for a basketball league at that time. When I was rushing some assignments from Engineering Drawing 101, a pretty young lady just went in the org office with her friends. I knew some of them but I haven’t seen her before. I was itching to ask them who she was, her name was Janet. I kinda liked her from the start, she was smart, very athletic and easy to be with. She didn’t have any qualms where to go and why. She was easily a perfect match for me. After a few days of fun, I asked her out officially… but I was surprised she begged off. She already had a boyfriend.
Days passed and I kinda tried to stay away from her but the org activities kept us bumping into each other. Pretty soon she got her boyfriend to join too. He was very good looking, and damn I wondered why I wasn’t even slightly jealous. He was assigned to my team just to make matters worse. We had to play a couple of basketball matches and I was a little hesitant to do plays with him. Janet told him about that time when I attempted to court her. It was really awkward. When our last game came and we became champions, I went to the locker room and took a long shower… a very long shower. I was kinda heartbroken, seeing a better guy than I am being with her. I never made it a big issue. I was crying, hiding in the shower and letting each tear fall down as if it were falling with the water. Held myself up and went out. While I was fixing my clothes, that guy went in. I only knew him by his last name since it was printed at the back of our uniform. I wanted to avoid him but when I was about to pack up and go out, he suddenly grabbed me. She broke up with him and told me I was the reason why. He was drunk, probably because of the booze people brought in the afterparty. When I told him that I have nothing to do with that. I thought he wanted to punch me in the face, he grabbed me at the back of my head and kissed me so passionately… and he was crying. I was pushing him back because of obvious reasons. Ok, I kissed a guy… that was the last and grossest thing in my mind.. but after a short while I was telling myself, why am I kinda liking it?!
Dumbfounded and froze on the wall while he was doing that to me, I pushed him out with all my might. He fell on the floor like a rag doll and then said sorry, he said Janet broke up with him because he told her he liked me. I was shocked… I am not into these things.
The next day it was all super awkward, I was a little worried if he told some people about that incident. That was the last day of the week so I had to submit my plates for drawing class. Unfortunately, he was sitting outside the room waiting for me obviously. Not to make a scandal that time when he tried to get near me, I said stop. He asked me if we could talk in private. I said okay and planned to just avoid him later on. But he never went to his own class and waited outside still. When class was over he was still there waiting for me. I told him, don’t come near me or else. He told me he never wanted that to happen, but he liked it and he told me he knows that I liked it too. He wanted to give it a shot so we could get this out of our system. I stupidly said yes.
After a 2 months, we kinda got the hang of it. I think it was more of a HE LOVES ME THAN I LOVE HIM kind of situation still but I am already in the dirt so what have I got to lose. He told me one evening he got someone pregnant. A childhood sweetheart, how unfortunate for me. I said I was okay. He said he still wants to be with me. No one had a clue at what we were. After a few months, he’s getting married. Parents forced him he said, I said it was okay. They got married… and I was the Best Man. When he was about to said YES to the priest’s question, that dumbass looked at me and cried…. because I was crying too.
After a year, he got into a motorcycle accident and almost died. The once goodlooking guy had his face disfigured, stitched and got titanium plates implanted on it. I was in the hospital every night to be with him for 3 whole months until he was able to stand up. People were already noticing I wasn’t going home also. I paid some of the bills; but it was millions and they were not really well off. They had to sell everything and christen their first child too. He requested that I’d be the Godfather… and so I did take care of that.
Today, marks our 7th anniversary… Nobody from their family aside from her sister knows about it. I was the guy who loved him less then, it turned out that I was there when he needed me most and because I didn’t know…
that I loved him more.
=)
Now I am still with that married man… I never knew I loved him the first time I met him. =)
April 20th, 2010 at 07:50
Con’t. from kumagcow’s entry…
Breaking News:
The girl broke up with him and left the kid. Now we are starting our own little family just like what I wanted to secretly eventually happen. His Mom knows too and says she’s okay with it. Beat that! LOL!
April 20th, 2010 at 09:31
The first four entries illustrate why this assignment is more difficult than it seems.
Score for all entries as of Tuesday, 0930: Yucch! YUCCH! YUUUUCCCH!
The beginning is vital, but you have all produced bland variations on “It was a dark and stormy night.”
You lost us at the first sentence. Rewrite!
April 20th, 2010 at 09:48
It is also useful to keep some distance between yourself and your character. We’re pretending this is fiction.
Come on, people, I want to give away these Moleskines.
April 20th, 2010 at 10:59
241 years ago is the time and setting where the first SEB took place. She was Louis-Auguste, and I, Marie Antoinette.
We all knew what happened with that hook-up, so we fast forward 222 years later – she was Louise, I was Thelma.
If you think you knew what happened as we rode that 1966 Thunderbird convertible, you’re probably right.
What you didn’t know is that after the Thunderbird fell off the Grand Canyon, the car entered a warp zone and we both found ourselves in an airplane, 19 years later in January 2010. She, as Lou, the sultry flight attendant, and I, as the cranky guy nearing 40.
You already know from the points above that we’ve had been together in alternative lifetimes, and that our relationships headed for either guillotine or suicide. This, I realised, as she was sexily pouring my orange juice over the tiny plastic cup, as it overflowed to the groin area of my pants. She was demure enough not to wipe it, but that gave me the right to harass her with my “you have to marry me now” mid-day love confession. It is surprising, because she said yes.
Of course we’re still not married, but she’s carrying my spawn now (through artificial insemination, of course – did I mention that I’ve been the girl in our previous lifetimes?). She’s not just my beard – she’s the beard carrying my child.
April 20th, 2010 at 11:16
She didn’t remember half of what was said at the book club meeting. She didn’t remember them talking about how the story is filtered too many times—a man reading a letter written by another man who heard the story told by the governess. She didn’t remember the girl to her right—the tall one, the one who ordered a chai latte—say that she understood none of it, that the language was too deceptive, and she didn’t remember Nancy—the friend who convinced her to join the book club—argue that it was the whole point. She didn’t remember them agreeing that the language keeps the reader guessing. She didn’t remember them arguing for one whole hour, whether the ghosts are real, whether Miles and Flora are in cahoots with them. She didn’t remember them saying cahoots. Normally she would have pointed out how no one says that word, but she didn’t because she didn’t remember it being said in the first place. She didn’t remember them musing about whether the governess is crazy, whether she just made up the ghost story to justify having killed Miles. She didn’t remember Nancy saying that the governess is in love with the gentleman. She would have called her out on this, told her it wasn’t fair that she’s already discussed this same novella with a literature class three semesters back. But she would’ve thought better of it, wouldn’t have said a word, at least not in front of the book club. But she didn’t have to think about any of this because she didn’t remember this part, either.
What she did remember was sitting on the loveseat with Nancy, with the tall girl on her right. She remembered the feel of the leather underneath her, its cushion almost engulfing her, making it hard for her to shift without struggling. She was leaning back but decided she would sit forward so she didn’t have to make a big production of reaching for her drink, a large soy cappuccino. The drink was hot and bitter in her tongue, but she sipped it as though it was the way she wanted her coffee to be. She didn’t want to leave her seat, not for one minute. Because this is what she remembered. She remembered there was a stranger sitting across from her, across from the low, glass coffee table and she remembered that this stranger had eyelashes that almost touched his cheeks as he looked down at his paperback copy of The Turn of the Screw. The café was playing Norah Jones low, in the background, but the sound enveloped her, the familiar strains haunting as his eyes had been when they had lighted on her for one brief instant before he raised a point about Flora. His voice was low, sonorous, as calming as the jazz in the background. He had a learned air about him; he had introduced himself as a graduate student earlier, studying microbiology. The way he said microbiology made her feel strange, different, a feeling similar to lightheadedness. She had shaken herself, to clear her thoughts, but the sensation returned every time he spoke. She remembered the easy way he sat, how he leaned on his elbow, listening to whoever was speaking, how his precious hand cradled his clean-shaven chin, how he nodded at intervals. She remembered feeling the space between them, feeling the irreconcilable void of floor, glass table and intellectual hubbub lay between them. She remembered that moment, sitting on the loveseat, looking at this stranger with the haunting hazel eyes, feeling the shock of it all, not knowing that around her the book club was discussing a similar shock, a shock brought on by the ending of the story, and if she heard any of it, or remembered it happening at all, she would’ve agreed. It was, indeed, spine tingling.
April 20th, 2010 at 11:41
The clock reads one thirteen. She looks around only to find out that no one will be able to share the evening moon with her. No one shall see that stars twinkle, sparkling brighter than it could be. The warmth of the surrounding erased by the cold breeze makes her wish for endless nights while she waits in the green fields. Just like this. Seems like old times.
Everybody’s asleep. But she doesn’t want to go home yet. She’s still hoping to see what she wished she didn’t see the night before. As if she knows she’s always searching for her death while she felt the real meaning of living while he stared at her eyes.
Procrastination.
She realizes that she’s losing a lot if she stays idle waiting for nothing. But she doesn’t care. For she knows that last night, inside the man’s embrace, she just had forever.
What is she thinking? It’s all futility.
“Mom won’t be happy knowing her only daughter ditches out of bedtime to do some nonsense stargazing like this. How romantic. How not me,” she smiles at the idea.
She has no clear intentions on why she is there. But a part of her somehow convinces her to stay. And wait for a while.
Her morning class starts by seven and she has tons of homework to be finished. She doesn’t know but what happened last night simply couldn’t let her system flowing on the right track. And what’s worse is that she wants more.
The wind blows. That kind of air that is both comforting and haunting.
“Just one moment,” she decides to enjoy that moment first before finally going home.
Half a minute and it is gone. And so is the hope of seeing her ironic obsessions again.
She starts cleaning the dirt on her pajamas up and then she takes one last look at the moon. She wants to bid goodbye to her lonely companion but before she could utter the words, an even colder wind rushes.
“Waiting for someone? Waiting for me?,” again from nowhere she hears that baritone voice of his.
She almost freeze to death. But she wants some intellectual and philosophical battles with him right there.
“Mom says I cannot talk to strangers,” but talking to him is what she’s actually doing.
The man registers a plain smile. The smile that could melt even the coldest part of her being.
“Strangers don’t kiss.”
She tries not to look straight into his eyes as she grasp for wiser words. Memories of last night, all vivid, flood in. It’s not a help that her cheeks are actually burning hot.
“I never thought a 16-year-old could have strawberry lips sweet as yours,” he wants to penetrate through her thoughts.
She still strives to look for a smarter counter-attack but she knows this man is a hell lot to conquer.
“I also never thought a 20-year-old could count that a real kiss when in fact no love was involved,” she replies even if she’s unsure how old the man really is.
She’s in the upper hand of this game. Or so she thinks.
Even if she’s not the top of her class, she’s witty enough for her age.
He was a meter away, but in a spur, he’s there. Behind her. He’s hugging her. And she has nothing to do but to fall into her own trap.
For almost half an hour they stayed in that position. The moon is almost gone and the breeze is no more cold.
She could feel the warmth of his breath brushing her long hair. And he finally speaks.
“Now, Sofia, tell me if you don’t love me.”
His words are commanding. She knows she can’t say no while her whole system feels the opposite. But dominating orders like that isn’t what she wanted.
She then puts away the arms of the man wrapping her around. He insisted but she does it again. This time, more forceful. It surely is a task to be done. And she succeeds.
She stares at his furious eyes and she hopes not to tremble.
“Only Nicholas Sparks can make me believe love exists,” she says with certainty and too much confidence.
And those words echo through the man’s mind as she starts to walk away.
And with a faraway look, she said, “And I am not Sofia,” as she slowly disappears from the eyes of the man, left with a dark dawn and a cold heart…
L.L.
April 20th, 2010 at 11:45
I read your blog regularly but have never joined a challenge or posted a comment, for that matter, until now. You want to give away the Moleskines and I want them badly enough to rack my brain and come up with something semi-literate and see if I can somehow eke out a win for the (unlined) Moleskine (ehem). So here is my freshman effort…
April 20th, 2010 at 11:46
this is what happens when you have read “the joy luck club” too many times…
you begin to believe the life you lead is just like the book, your story is but a remnant, an echo of another person’s story in another lifetime…
you imagine yourself so vividly in every scene of the book that when your auntie (the one who everyone thinks is slightly batty but who is probably just too “old country” for the younger, more westernized filipino-chinese generation) announces to the family that she has found the perfect match for you and would like to arrange a “kai siao,” you think you will be hauled off to some God-forsaken province in China to get married to someone you’ve never met, like a character in a Peking opera…
you wonder if you should greet the news with hysterics or with the sure-minded equanimity of a heroine in one of the books you’ve read…
of course, all options or permutations of “no way in hell” are useless because your mother has already answered “yes” for you…
you are 28 years old after all, positively ancient and past the “acceptable marrying age” for the Chinese…
you prepare yourself for the super double-feature family date night…
you go to the “kai siao” with your meekest perfect Chinese daughter manners, 3 aunts, an official matchmaker and your mother…
he appears with his mother, his maternal grandmother, and a cousin…
he thinks he’s meeting the perfect Filipino-Chinese wife…
you think he’s a little bit of a mama’s boy and a lot of obnoxious…
6 months later, you realize he is a self made man and actually put himself through college tutoring children from his high school alma mater…
2 years later, he realizes you don’t know how to cook or do laundry…
but it doesn’t matter… you learn how to cook spaghetti…
and he learns how to operate the washing machine…
and you love him…
and he loves you…
and you realize how much better you have it because what you have is real…
who needs the melodrama of the joy luck club anyway…
the end
April 20th, 2010 at 13:41
“How long have you had HIV?” Mark asked.
They sat in front of each other with Styrofoam cups in their hands. Jake ordered hot choco for him and coffee for Mark. They were at Lupe’s Eatery, beside SACCL in San Lazaro Hospital.
Jake felt himself tense. He looked at his cup. “You knew?” he asked.
“Well, the secretary said you were on for CD4 testing,” Mark said. He kept his gaze at Jake. He felt that if he looked away Jake would take offense.
“And she said you’re for the HIV antibody test,” Jake said. He looked up and saw that Mark still looked at him. He relaxed.
“Yeah. Is she really like that?” Mark asked. Jake noticed that Mark was irritated.
“The secretary?” Jake asked. “Oh yes, she announces what everyone comes here for. I used to get angry when she does that.”
“And no one does anything?” Mark asked. “But then again, they are government after all.”
Jake saw two nurses approach. It was early in the morning and they were buying their first cups of coffee. The sun had not warmed the air enough to become unbearable. His gaze followed them as they sat three tables away from them.
“So how long?” Mark asked.
Jake thought whether to tell Mark the truth or not. It had only been an hour since they met. While they waited their turns for their tests, he kept stealing glances at Mark while he read Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything and Mark played with his PSP. Mark noticed and he smiled. Jake smiled back. When people in the waiting area trickled down in number, he sat beside Mark, said hi and introduced himself.
“I don’t have HIV anymore. I have AIDS,” Jake said.
“Oh,” Mark said.
Mark knew only of HIV and AIDS from the internet and on television. It was the first time he met someone with AIDS and he surprised himself with his calmness. Jake did not look like someone with AIDS at all. He looked fit with his plain white shirt and shaved head.
“When did that happen?” Mark asked.
“Five years ago. My CD4 count dropped to fifty-six. I’ve been taking meds since,” Jake said.
“When I read the news that it is already an epidemic and many call center agents are positive, I had to find out for myself,” Mark said.
“So you work in a call center?” Jake asked.
“Yeah.” Mark said. “You?”
“I teach,” Jake said.
“Even while you read earlier, I thought you were a gym instructor or something,” Mark said.
Jake laughed at the comment and then realized that he could not remember the last time he enjoyed himself like this.
“And I thought you were still in school,” Jake replied.
Mark smiled. “I wanted to buy that book when I went to Fully Booked but it was too expensive,” he said.
“You want to borrow mine?” Jake asked. “I’m nearly finished.”
“I have to see you again to get the book and then again to return it,” Mark said.
“You mean like a date?” Jake asked.
“Why not?” Mark said. He smiled.
The two nurses stood up and went on their way. An ambulance passed by with a silent siren. Mark could see a steady stream of people going in and out of the emergency room. Not one of them seemed to be in an emergency. Mark looked at Jake and saw that he was struggling to ask something.
“What is it?” Mark asked.
“You don’t mind that I’m positive?” Jake asked.
Mark shook his head. “You look like a nice guy,” he said.
“A nice guy with AIDS,” Jake said.
Mark reached for Jake’s hand. “I don’t mind,” he said.
“You should,” Jake said. “I don’t think I will be here long.”
“Why? Where are you going?” Mark asked.
“I mean, I may be dying soon,” Jake said.
“Not even if you have someone to live for?” Mark asked.
“It’s just been so long. I’ve gotten used to being on my own,” Jake said.
“I won’t rush you,” Mark said.
The sweet smell of frying tocino filled the air. People came in groups to occupy all the tables. Even so, Mark held on to Jake’s hand.
“So was this your first test then?” Jake asked.
“Yeah, yeah, it was,” Mark said.
“How was it?” Jake asked.
“Negative,” Mark said.
“I didn’t mean the result, more of the experience. Anyway, it was obvious you were negative,” Jake said. “When you came out your step seemed lighter and your pace wasn’t hurried anymore.”
“You noticed that?” Mark asked.
“I was not doing anything else except notice you,” Jake said. He smiled and gave Mark’s hand a squeeze.
They were finished with their drinks and yet they still held on to them. Mark felt he and Jake had to go soon.
“Do you have classes after this?” Mark asked.
“Not until this afternoon,” Jake said.
“We have time then,” Mark said.
“For what?” Jake asked.
“To go back to my place. My mom is at work,” Mark said.
They stood up and walked. The day was beginning to get hot. They both could hear the faint sound the train makes when it trudges the tracks. Jake looked up and saw two birds flitting from one tree to the next. All the trees around the hospital made the air fresh and the day less hot. The day was pregnant with possibilities and Jake felt bold enough to take Mark’s hand and guide the fingers in the spaces between his.
April 20th, 2010 at 14:43
First day of school–I’m in third year high school now and it sucks it sucks it sucks more than anything. You see, back in second year, I was class president of the elite star section. I was rubbing elbows with future cabinet secretaries. And now I’m here, trying to inch my way to the line that’s assigned to the third section. My self-esteem is nowhere to be found and I literally have nothing to be proud of anymore. I’m the only one who got kicked out from the elite star section and that makes it a double blow for me, the queen of kulelat.
My mom told that it doesn’t really matter whether I’m in the first or last section. High school is the time for me to be careless and fun. Though Advanced Biology, Chemistry and Physics will surely kick my ass this year, I have to show my previous classmates that I’ll regain my star-section status when I’m a senior.
So I make it to the area assigned to section 3. I make some small talk and I try not to look at the glowing stars above section 1′s area. The principal then gives a warm welcome message for all the students. Applause. And then everyone’s off to their new classrooms. My self-esteem is still nowhere to be found. I don’t feel like I belong in section 3 at all.
I manage to make some small talk with some of my new classmates. I’m feeling a bit tense because we have to assign seats to ourselves. Where’s the silver lining in this whole thing?
So I take a deep breath and grab the chair nearest the front door, this way, I only have to impress one seat mate. Plus I have the nearest access to the door in case of a fire incident or something.
I’m a bit surprised when this strange guy whom I know I’ve talked to before takes the seat next to mine. I give him a forced smile and he answers back with a wink. I then examined this new classmate, this guy, and he’s not that bad I guess. I tried to come up with some witty ice breaker just so we can talk about something. Well, I’ve got nothing. Ha-ha. Poor seat mate.
The morning of the first day of classes went by with me on mute. There weren’t any lessons yet and we were just all expected to get to know the new faces that we’ll work with for the next 10 months or so. Since I’m no mood for such thing, I just played with my phone and sent messages to my friends who are all beaming with pride within the pillars of the star section. Just as I was forwarding another quote to my friend, my seat mate gives me a paper with columns.
“Hahahahahaha! What’s this for?” I asked.
“Gawa tayo ng class directory. Ipa-ikot natin ‘to para sulatan nila ng name, contact details at birthday,” answered my seat mate.
“Ang pangit ng sulat mo, hindi maintindihan.” I shot back.
“Bakit ikaw, maganda sulat mo?” I didn’t know that he’d be that affected. Oh. My. God. My seat mate is mababaw personified.
To make up for the unintended insult, I wrote my full name, contact details and birthday. I passed the paper around. Before the bell rang for dismissal time, all the contact details and birthdays of 3-C students were written in the paper with the unreadable headings. Horaay for the would-be class directory! My seat mate, of course, is in charge. I hope he’s thinking of a type-written directory. Please please please. I’m a bit excited for the class directory now–this is me being hopeful for good things to come from this whole being dethroned from the cream section thing. Please please please.
It’s been two weeks since classes started and my mom was right about the whole Advanced Bio-Chem-Physics combo. Being a high school junior in a school with a demanding curriculum isn’t a piece of cake. I’m on my way to becoming a pimple head. The class directory, which I was excited for, is nowhere to be found. My seat mate claimed to have lost it the moment he arrived at their house. He had the nerve to text me that BTW. It’s as if I don’t have more than enough reasons to think that his existence is a big, fat joke. He always sends me text messages to ask about the homework, he calls me up to inquire about some word that he can’t read (because of his very abstract handwriting). I’ve been bugging him to start a new class directory to replace the one that he lost and he promised to make one in exchange of me tutoring him in Physics after class. At first, I couldn’t bring myself to say yes to his proposal, but when he told me that snacks will be on him and that he has a driver which equates to a free ride everyday to my house in really nice cars, I figured out that maybe it won’t be so bad if I’d agree. Free ride and free food, all at the expense of me pointing out that vectors involve both magnitude and direction; and that speed is not the same as velocity. Sometimes I think he’s faking his grim relationship with Physics, but I don’t know, maybe his wit is just like his mood–unstable.
If he asks for help with his handwriting and wardrobe choices, I may have to rethink though.
April 20th, 2010 at 15:02
@Jessica: I was a bit confused with ‘Write the scene in which YOU meet the person YOU fall in love with’ yet we could write about something fictional. I wasn’t completely sure if we were supposed to write about personal experience or something that was totally made up. In any case, here’s my contribution:
—————————————————————————————————-
There’s something pleasantly captivating about a scene devoid of people. It’s like an empty canvass filled with possibilities where your imagination can run wild. The appeal is similar to that of a blank, pristine sheet of white paper: It’s exciting. Who would have thought that emptiness could be so titillating?
These were the kind of thoughts that were going through Sebastian’s head as he was strolling around the refreshingly silent campus during that weekend in May. Even though he was there only under orders from his parents to bring his kid sister to and from her high school summer class, he welcomed the chance to just walk around the college in peace and quiet.
For the most part, it was empty hallways and silent quadrangles that greeted him during his stroll. There was still the occasional sighting of a fellow student or faculty member along the way, but they were few and far between. One of those fellow students that Sebastian caught sight of as he was walking from the library towards the cafeteria was Belle, a girl that he was in the same course with. She was always with her two girlfriends the year before and they never really got to talk to or know each other, so it was quite a surprise when her face lit up and she flashed a smile upon recognizing him.
“Hey!” was the enthusiastic greeting from her as they met which, as Sebastian would later realize, also began the end of his peace and quiet for the afternoon.
“Hi,” was his less enthused reply; and in an effort not to appear so snobbish, was followed up with “what are you doing here?” Thus started a round of small talk that included how she had an English class to attend and how he had to chaperone his sister for the entire summer… and then some. Then for some bizarre reason, it eventually led to her asking if he wanted to sit in and join her class for the day since all they had was a film viewing.
Sebastian had no idea how to explain the preference to rather walk around alone in a virtually empty campus. Coupled with the slight intrigue at the prospect of spending some time with a girl, along with the fact that he had spent the first 12 years of his education in an exclusive school for boys, this resulted in the answer: “Sure.” As it turned out, the film that Belle’s instructor had lined up that afternoon was Il Postino and Sebastian couldn’t help thinking: “Me. Her. Pablo Neruda. How quaint.”
There was little interest in the room regarding how the film actually played out besides what the students all needed to deliver a decent paper. Most of the time was spent chatting in whispers than actually paying much attention to anything on the screen. Belle talked about how one of her girlfriends was migrating overseas and the other one was transferring schools due to not making the grade. Sebastian pretty much said nothing and just listened with matching “ahhh”s coupled with a subtle nodding of the head. It didn’t seem to matter to Belle at all that he had the personality of a tree stump and he felt strangely comfortable with the whispering chatterbox beside him.
At the end of her class, when Sebastian was almost sure that his sister was waiting obliviously for him to pick her up, Belle flashed another smile and offered gratuitous amounts of thanks for keeping her company. Before saying their goodbyes, she informed Sebastian that they had Cinema Paradiso lined up for the following week. He smiled, nodded, said goodbye, and proceeded to head back.
For the most part, the same empty hallways and silent quadrangles greeted him during the return trip, but he didn’t quite have the same kind of thoughts this time. Although there’s still something pleasantly captivating about a scene devoid of people, there appears to be something to be said about the effect of a single person quaintly placed amid all that emptiness. Such a subtle difference can apparently make life seem a lot more picturesque.
April 20th, 2010 at 16:10
I hope entries in Filipino count. Here’s mine.
—–
Overtime ako noong araw na iyon. Medyo madilim na nga ang opisina dahil hindi naman uso ang overtime doon. Pinapauso lang ng boss namin. Pumayag lang naman ako mag-overtime para matapos ko na ang trabaho at bukas, wala na akong rason pang maglagi sa opisina ng ganitong oras. Nang pumatak ang alas-nuwebe, malinis na ang mesa ko, patay na ang computer, aircon at printer.
Akala ko mag-isa lang ako nung lumabas sa kwarto, pero nandun din pala ang dalawang officemate ko, si Edgar at Toph, sa may elevator. Binati ko naman kahit hindi ko sila ka-close. Konting kwento at panglalait sa aming boss. Madilim ang daan sa labas ng opisina papunta sa sakayan, kaya kahit anti-social ako ay nagpasalamat na rin na may kasama ako paglakad.
Habang patungo kami sa sakayan, tinanong ako ni Edgar kung saan ako nakatira. Sinagot ko naman siya. “Ah, sakto, magkalapit lang pala kayo ng bahay ni Toph. Sabay na lang kayo pauwi.” Medyo hindi ko nagustuhan yun. Una dahil hindi nga kami close ni Toph. Mahaba pa naman ang byahe, at mabilis mauubos ang mga reserba ko para sa “small talk.” Pangalawa, may ugali talaga akong matulog sa jeep. Paano naman ako matutulog pag may kasama ako? Dyahe yun.
Pero wala na rin naman akong nagawa. Parehas nga ang sinasakyan naming jeep kaya wala din naman akong lusot.
Kahit humihikab na ako, pinansin ko naman si Toph. Madaldal pala siya, mukha lang tahimik. Madami siyang masasabi sa kung anu-anong bagay. Ang pinakanatandaan ko ay tulad ko, mahilig pala siya magbasa. Kilala niya yung mga manunulat na nabasa ko na rin. Siya pa lang ang nakilala ko sa opisina na mahilig magbasa. Nakakatuwa dahil kahit papaano may matino akong kausap. May alam din siya sa philosophy. Akala ko nagyayabang lang siya, pero nung naglaon eh ako pa yung gustong mag-nosebleed. Hindi rin masama na nilibre niya ako ng pamasahe.
Mabilis natapos ang byahe namin at bumaba na kami sa aming destinasyon. Doon na kami maghihiwalay ng landas. May isang jeep pa akong kailangan sakyan at masaya naman ako sa pagkakataong makakatulog na ako sa wakas. Pero nang pinikit ko ang aking mata, hindi ako nakatulog. Ang naisip ko lang, pwede pa naman ako mag-overtime bukas.
April 20th, 2010 at 16:10
The woman announces the numbers in a bored monotone, her metallic voice sharp in the tense silence. An unlikely deity, she. Here, in this room full of people whose hopes rely on numbers, numbers that she alone can give out like gifts, she is a goddess. When the day is over, her voice becomes softer as she says goodbye to her work mates, says hello to her children. But for now, as she sees the crushing disappointment of many and the unadulterated joy of a few, she steels herself. She announces, “B-10.”
Relieved sighs coupled with frustrated groans echo in the room. A few seconds pass, and everyone is still again, ears cocked, listening tensely and praying harder than they have ever had for the right number to be announced. A man coughs loudly, and like a knee-jerk reaction, everyone quickly looks for the source of the sound, fearing the proclamation. The man grins apologetically. His throat was itchy, that was all.
In a corner, a man sits alone, hunched over pieces of paper that could give him instant fortune. Yet, he has missed several numbers that have been announced. He is not listening at all, his mind replaying an earlier scene with painful clarity. She told him she has slept with six men since he left. In his mind, only that number held any significance. It was the number of pain, of loss. It was the number of betrayal.
A tap on his shoulder, and he glances up, squinting at the light. A woman asks him if they could share the table. He doesn’t see her face, the light a blinding sun behind her. He nods. She sits across him and he sees her for the first time. She smiles shyly. He smiles back. For the next few minutes, she helps him with his numbers, tells him the numbers he’s missed, even marking announced numbers for him. They share their lives in numbers, too. Her age, the year he graduated from school, the number of years they’ve both worked abroad. He looks at her hands, white and translucent under the bright light. She looks into his eyes, dark and hurting in the bright light.
“Bingo!”, the coughing man shouts triumphantly. A few people congratulate him. A woman clenches her fist. Another sighs with exasperation.
The game has ended and neither has won. She grins at him, a what-the-hell-it’s-just-a-game grin. He can’t help smiling back. With more daring than he thought he had, he decides to take the plunge. He knew that life isn’t the movies, so he doesn’t ask her out for a cup of coffee. Instead, he asks for her number. In a soft, trembling voice, she gives it to him.
They walk out of the room together, she, a few steps ahead of him. At the door, she glances back, a silent goodbye. He nods. They separate ways.
He forgets about the number six. He smiles.
April 20th, 2010 at 18:03
First.
Everyone’s into this Boy/Girl Scout (B/G S) thing but not everyone has a novelty BS for a companion: a teen with a normal head and a well-developed body with legs and arms resembling imperfect croissants with small round protrusions that could have been fingers – he teeters from side to side when he walks, a dance, attracting attention from both children and adults.
Everyone looks at us, at him, my companion—a smiling spectacle. Smiles, greetings float to our direction, to him.
A young girl’s eyes catch mine. She looks at me, me. We look at each other for a few seconds. I think I’ve seen her somewhere before.
Years after.
I think I know that young lady, I’ve seen her somewhere. Yes, the GS, the young girl who looked at me. I think I’ve seen her somewhere before…
We’re on the same class.
Finally
The mind chooses to forget bitter experiences? It’s been a while. This business of growing old sucks. Now, years after she exchanged glances with me, took my heart and broke it, I know where I’ve seen her before we met for the first time.
In a dream.
April 20th, 2010 at 22:02
I was the sexually-starved nerd and she was the cerebrally-challenged slut. I thought then that nothing could have been clearer- we were made for each other. That was crystal clear when i looked at her and nearly drooled while she shared with the entire class what has been bugging her for so long “Am I not deserve to be happy?” I would have normally laughed my sorry butt off if such sharing of thought came from any ordinary mortal but she ain’t that. She was a Muse. She was my Muse.
It was our Humanities class and my most humane side had completely gotten hold of me. I assumed that she shall have difficulty in paraphrasing Poe and Dickinson passages so I volunteered to do her work for her. She said yes and next thing I knew we were spending much time together – she satisfying the basest instincts that I, as an animal, have, and me, helping her out to factor in sense, or at least a semblance of it, in her personality.
Of course we had to compromise to sustain our relationship – i had to dumb myself down and try buffing my physical self up by going into the gym (the virtual death traps otherwise known as gym equipment always almost had me killed) and by wearing stuff she thought was cool (honestly, i thought all of them were loud and ridiculous). For her part, she tried her desperate best to step up by reading (I gave her Betty and Veronica for starters, she declined and told me she preferred Cosmopolitan). I thought we were doing fine until she confessed that I and reading bore her to death. I was deeply hurt and retaliated by confessing that I have always had difficulty keeping a straight face each time she praised me for being sensuous when what she actually meant was that i was very sensible.
Before things got ugly, we agreed that we were not doing each other good and that it would be better if we would just call the entire thing off. We did and promised that we would always wish each other the best.
I sincerely did that. I still am doing that. Last thing I heard of her, she got married to some hunk who has, for quite a time now, a career as a talent in a big tv / movie network. I, on the other hand, landed on a low-paying work that I immensely enjoy. I sometimes get scared that for such a long time after her and up to now, I have become so emotionally independent but then, I just always tell myself that there’s nothing to freak about loving oneself above all else. But then, this may also be defense mechanism.
April 20th, 2010 at 22:13
correction re second to the last sentence:
…I have become so emotionally independent that I do not anymore feel the need to find a partner but then…
April 21st, 2010 at 09:17
I am a tarot reader.
With a lot of people being skeptical about our abilities to predict the future through measly cards, I went out to light a cigarette. Okay, I lied. I lit up three cigarettes, successively. Happy now? Upon my return, Gina, my assistant, told me that I have a client waiting for the past 20 minutes already.
So I rushed in our poorly constructed tent. The cloth we used was in Magenta and boy was it a shabby excuse for a wall. Sitting across me, while I was rubbing my hands with alcohol, was a woman. Probably nearing her 30s.
“Hi,” I said vibrantly.
“Hello,” she said sheepishly.
“I’m very sorry it took me a while. I wasn’t really expecting a client today,” I said.
“Did you get that from the tarot cards?’ She asked, “Because if you do, I guess I would have to ask for a refund.” Then she gave out the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. It almost shut me off the world completely. It almost made me regret the fact that I wasn’t a palm reader.
“No,” I retorted thinking of something very smart to say. “But you made a good point there.” (Way to go, bucko.)
I cleared my throat to hide my embarrassment. “So, I guess you want your fortune told.”
“Wow! You’re good,” she said without any air of sarcasm.
I chuckled again, “Yeah, heh-heh! Thanks,” Slapping my forehead in my mind.
My head was going on and on about telling me to relax. Relax, Stephen. Relax. Breath. That sort of schmuck. I took out my tarot cards and shuffled them. I was getting a little fidgety. Good thing I got a good grip on them. Any worse, I thought, I’d be saving time in shuffling the cards.
“As a rule in tarot reading, you are not supposed to hold the card. The only contact you will be doing with them is when I ask you to take a card,” I said gallantly.
“You may now ask your question.”
She was silent.
“Is there anything wrong?”
“Not really. I’m just used to having a woman fortune-teller to read the cards for me.”
I was taken aback. This was the first time someone brought that issue up.
“I mean,” she retorted, “it’s just hard to open up with a guy. At least, for my end. I was kinda thinking that when I see a girl reading the cards for me, I feel she’s one of my girl friends. I don’t know if you understand that.”
(Girl… friends?)
“Yeah, I get that all the time,” I lied. “I just tell them to just think of me as a brother or some sort—or a gay friend, whatever suits you.”
She laughed.
(Bingo!)
“You’re not gay, are you?”
(Oops! Think fast, Stephen!)
“Will it make you comfortable if I say I am gay?”
“So, you are?!”
(I’m now shaking my cognitive hand. Smooth move, cowboy.)
“No!”
“It’s alright. I feel comfortable now. You must be closeted.”
“Okay. Okay. Closeted. Flaming. Tran-sexual. As long as you are comfortable, ask the question for pete’s sake.”
“Can you ask the card if you are really gay?” She smiled.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already told you that I am not. So ask the question.”
“I’m sorry, but I find that hard to believe.”
(Excuse me?)
“Aren’t guy fortune-tellers gay? I don’t see much of you guys flaunting this special ability of divination or something.”
“You got that wrong, Miss. Not every guy fortune-teller is gay. Syllogism, please.”
“Prove it.”
“Do you want me to kiss you right now and check if I have a hard-on?” I said sarcastically.
“You’re gross!”
“Oh, come on. It’s okay with me. I know you wanted it.”
(I know I do.)
“Cut that out! I’ll scream.”
“Ask the question now.”
“Fine, Mister or… miss…”
At that point, I leaned on my divination table (which is actually some cheap wooden coffee table. I just thought it’s cool to say it like that) and tried to act as if I’m going to kiss her.
She moved back and let out a small child-like pretend scream. “Fine, fine! I will ask the question now.”
“So?”
“Give me a minute to think.”
“Haven’t you thought of something to say while you were getting on my nerves?”
“What can I do? You made me preoccupied.”
(Me? But we’ve just known each other.)
“You’re time is running out, miss.”
“It’s Aimie.”
“What?”
“I said my name is Aimie.”
“I know that.” (Riiight!) “So Aimie,” I thought of lightening up the mood a bit so in a big booming voice I said, “ASK ME WHATEVER YOU WANT AND I, MAESTRO STEPHEN, WILL ANSWER THEM FOR YOU.”
“You’re funny.”
(Now, I got you!)
“YOUR QUESTION!”
(I can’t believe it. I am actually having a lot of fun.)
Now, she’s laughing really hard.
“What now?”
“It’s just you face.”
“My face?”
“You look very funny when you do that face.”
“What? This?” Doing a more exaggerated facial mockery of myself.
“Yeah, that’s it!” And by then, she laughed really hard. “You’re very funny, Maestro.”
“That’s what they all say,” I lied—again.
“Says who? You’re girlfriends?”
(What?!)
“Girlfriends? Where did that come from?”
“Well, it certainly didn’t come to any guys you know huh? Unless—“
“Okay, stop it with the gay thing already. I have a lot of clients you know.”
“Oh yeah? If you did, then why aren’t you expecting people to come in today.”
(She’s on to me.)
“I have friends too you know!”
“Oh, I didn’t think I heard you right. Did you just say, girl… FRIENDS?”
“I said, FRIENDS. FRRIIIEEENDDS!”
“Oh yeah?” she said as if challenging.
“Yeah! Like who would date a little weirdo like me doing all this freaky divination stuff?”
“I would.”
“What?” (What?!)
“It’s alright, Maestro. You just answered all my questions. You can store the cards now.” Then she took her purse. Stood up, walked towards the curtain which is just another poor excuse for a door. And just before she left, she turned her head around, smiled (That same smile that blew me away), and left.
…
“Where in the world is my palmistry book, anyway?!”
April 21st, 2010 at 09:41
Iceproof: Thanks. This one did not make me run screaming out of the room. I would suggest toning down the cuteness and the parenthetical remarks which nag the reader (You got that? You got that?).
You know who wrote excellent conversation? J.D. Salinger. Check out Franny and Zooey.
April 21st, 2010 at 09:43
Eric: We are asking for a scene with literary aspirations, not a summary of your relationship. Turn this into a story and submit it again. I would change the first sentence, as it makes the next five paragraphs redundant.
April 21st, 2010 at 09:45
Pulsar: Interesting use of croissants, but the look they exchange: Ewwww.
April 21st, 2010 at 09:47
Thecalm: This is promising, but you should probably lose all the adverbs and limit the use of adjectives. Try to describe things WITHOUT shortcuts.
April 21st, 2010 at 09:52
Boranzohn: Natutuwa ako dahil naunawaan mo ang aming nais mabasa. Di tulad ng maraming kalahok na sa umpisa pa lamang ay tila may billboard na sumisigaw na “Love story ito!!!!” Puede.
April 21st, 2010 at 10:02
Valacirca: If you begin with the protagonist’s thoughts it is best to make them interesting. Unless protagonist is intended to be a pretentious twit, in which case it should be funny.
You keep hammering away about how quiet it is. No it isn’t, we can hear your hammering.
You indulge in overexplanation. We do not need to hear how the ‘hi’ was delivered.
Kill the adverbs, you use too many.
April 21st, 2010 at 10:07
Dyosaimma: When I read “You see, back in whenever, I was president of the elite star section”, I instantly hated the protagonist and stopped reading. There should be another way to say that without ripping enamel off the reader’s teeth.
April 21st, 2010 at 10:10
Hastydevil: Conversation is not merely for the delivery of the character’s back stories. The way a character speaks should reveal more about him that what he does while he’s speaking. I would recommend listening very closely to how actual people speak.
April 21st, 2010 at 10:12
Oldmaid: Nice. Funny. We’re only interested in the first meeting, not in how it turns out. Stop at “obnoxious” then go back and develop your story.
April 21st, 2010 at 10:13
Lhilac: “Share the evening moon with her. . .” Aaaaaaaah!
April 21st, 2010 at 10:15
Thedreaming: In the first paragraph she doesn’t remember the girl on her right, then proceeds to describe her.
In the second paragraph she remembers the girl on her right.
Which is it!!!
April 21st, 2010 at 10:15
Parisjetaime: This is a concept not a story. Get back to work.
April 21st, 2010 at 11:14
It was my sister’s 18th birthday and I feel nothing else but OLD. I chose a blue shift dress for the occasion, hoping the color would keep me serene from frantic relatives who would dare to set me up with some dentist, editor, doctor, engineer. I’m a 25 year old virgin who can’t drive. So what if I’m that clueless, at least I’m not desperate to be anything else.
When worse comes to worst I intend to marry any of my gay friends to get a tax break when I turn 35. I am completely okay with that, then again getting knocked up by a hot Caucasian dude and produce showbiz worthy a offspring is not a bad alternative life plan at all.
My sister’s friends started to arrive. I nonchalantly approached the bar while everyone else were shrieking and greeting one another in annoying teenage tones.
“One shot of tequila please.”
Bianca, the other single lady of the Santos family is taking forever to arrive. A voice boomed over my right shoulder while Miley Cyrus Partaaaying in the USA blared at the background.
“One san mig light! Hey, you’re Sarah’s sister right?”
“Yup, Sarah’s older sister. That’s me”
“You don’t look like you’re older than Sarah”
“Um thanks? I guess.” Okay, so at least the 3thousand bucks I spent on that night cream is paying off.
“I’m Mico. I’m Sarah’s philosophy classmate”
I just smiled. Oh I know who he is. He’s mico, “Mico Revilla”. One of the 300++ sons of Ramon Revilla. But that’s just my theory. He looks like a smarter version of Bong Revilla. I remember seeing him briefly at our house and choking at the sight of a lanky Bong Revilla with unruly hair walk past our living room.
“I was at your house the other day… um, your uncle’s lamborghini looks great”
“Right.” Hmmm… What the hell is a Lamborghini? I knew mom and dad mentioned that the other day. Is that Tito Sandy’s new pasta recipe? Oh wait I think I heard it from an Akon song. I had the sudden urge to open my phone and maybe he won’t notice I’ll be googling it. Seriously now, how do you even spell it?!
“Hey are you alright? You look a little.. confused”
I let out a weak smile and took another shot of tequila. Mico was slowly peeling off the edges of the beer’s label as he watched me take the shot.
“Your tattoo looks interesting by the way”. The tequila almost projected out of my nose, and I managed to make a shallow cough out of it. He restrained a smile, but I could see the corners of his dry lips curl.
How the hell did he know I have a tattoo? Sarah doesn’t even know about that.
“How did you know I have one?”
“I saw you walk out of your bedroom, um the panda made a peek-a-boo”
“Oh, um umm I have a soft spot for endangered species!” Stupid chubby panda. I shouldn’t have listened to my Biance. The giant panda only looks adorable when you’re drunk with cheap vodka. I need to change the subject fast.
“Mico you look like Bong Revilla. Has anyone told you that?” I suddenly blurted out.
“Who ‘s Bong Revilla?” he asked so innocently.
“You don’t know who Bong Revilla is?”
“No.”
“He’s a Senator.”
“I don’t know him”
“Well he’s also an actor.”
“Hmm…”
“Ang Panday? Kap’s amazing stories?” Why do I know these things I don’t even watch TV anymore.
“Sorry, I rarely watch TV. Lots of homework to do. “ He sounded shy, as if trying to think of a much cooler excuse.
Ahh right, the boy has homework, how can he have some spare time to know Bong Revilla. I took another shot of tequila, thinking how Bong Revilla created an awkward age gap conversation.
“Mico! There you are!” A girl with an annoying twang shouts at our direction. “Let’s go dance!” she flashes her nicotine smile and started to walk to Mico’s direction.
“I’ll catch up with you later. I’ll be at your house next Thursday, maybe I’ll see you around or your panda.” Darn it, why does he have to remember the Panda.
Just as he exists, Bianca arrives with a glass of red wine on hand.
“Who’s that?”
“I think I just met one of ramon revilla’s 100++ children. He looks like Bong Revilla noh?”
April 21st, 2010 at 13:01
(Confrontation Scene ng dalawang parlorista)
Andromeda Aquino: You are such a LIAR! Ipokrita! You made us believe na purita mirasol ka, isang dukhang dugyutin na naghihikahos ang pamilya wherein in fact you are funnelling money from my beauty salon to your parlor. May paawa effect ka pa sa mga press release mo na kesyo sa sobrang hirap nyo eh namatay ang kapatid mo pero yun pala binibigay mo lahat ng pera mo sa jowa mong highschool student. You stole money from my company pero kahit humiga ka pa sa salapi ang ahas nababagay lang tumira sa lungga!
Boobita Villar: Mwahahahaha. Luka-luka ka talaga mudra! Are you DEPRESSED or something? You are sooooo crazy accusing me of doing something na hindi ko naman ginawa. At ang mga pananalita mo ha, it shows na wala kang breeding. Sikat nga ang mga magulang mo dito sa barrio natin dahil parehas silang doctor na tumutulong sa mga kapitbahay nating mahirap kaya kung ituring sila ay mga bayani, pero ikaw…..Sino ka ba? Pasalamat ka nanggaling ka sa buena familia kaya ka nagkaroon ng sarili mong beauty salon. Ako, nagsikap ako para maabot ko kung ano man ang meron ako now.
Andromeda Aquino: Oo. Nagsikap ka…..Nagsikap na nakawin ang perang hindi naman sayo!
Boobita Villar: Says who?
Andromeda Aquino: Are you willing to go on a lie detector test?
Boobita Villar: Only if you are willing to do a psychological test to prove na I’m not just giving in to the whims of a crazy person!
(Enter ang isang machong hombre)
Macho hombre: Ako po si Jimbo Madrigal yung pumalit kay Panchito Lacson na delivery boy ng Gasul. San ko po ilalagay yung tangke ng gas?
Andromeda Aquino: hmmmmmmm
Boobita Villar: hmmmmmm
(Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives……)
April 21st, 2010 at 13:13
This allows for edits? Yay.
First sentence of second paragraph should read: “What she did remember was sitting on the loveseat with Nancy.”
In the first paragraph, she doesn’t remember what the tall girl on her right was saying, but she does remember the tall girl. But I understand how it can be ambiguous. Thank you for the critique.
April 21st, 2010 at 15:49
…kill them all, honey…
…who’s that?! …They’re coming…
…take that knife, deary…take them out before they get you, peaches…
…you don’t deserve to live…
…don’t be afraid, sweetheart…I’m here.
Whispers, demands, orders I can’t block out. But out of the crowd of voices, his tone was clear, reassuring me that I am still here. I was sixteen, when I first heard him. It was a particularly bad day for me and my masters. I had been isolated but I was not alone. I’m never alone.
I’ve had enough. I had a stolen blade aimed at my wrist, with the voice encouraging me.
…yes, yes!… slice a little deeper, honey…
…it’s good…it’ll be over… peace, peaches, peace at last…
…no! Don’t…I’m here. Talk to me…
I hesitated. This voice is different. Mellower and less urgent although still ordering me to do something I don’t want to do. Somehow, in my foggy brain, I registered that the voice cared for me. At the same time, the nurses raised the alarm and I was held back on the bed. A pinprick at the arm, and the voices slowly quieted, including him. “I’ll be back, sweethe…”
“Stay!,” I shouted. But eventually, I followed them into the darkness.
From then on, I’ve waited for him to talk to me. I’d refused to take my medicines, willing to endure the torture of the other voices just to hear him. We would talk together for hours on end about everything I could think of. I always have to hide it. I’ve learned not to talk aloud lest the nurses hear and become suspicious. There are moments, when all I could hear was his voice and in those moments, I was happy.
April 21st, 2010 at 17:25
REPOSTING. I was trying to look for an edit button in the dashboard somewhere to save space, but what the heck! Thanks for the comment.
——–
I am a tarot reader.
With a lot of people sceptical about our abilities to predict the future through measly cards, I went out to light a cigarette. Okay, I lied. I lit up three cigarettes, successively. Upon my return, Gina, my assistant, told me that I have a client waiting for the past 20 minutes already.
I rushed in our poorly constructed tent. The cloth we used was in Magenta and boy was it a shabby excuse for a wall, I know. Sitting across me, while I was rubbing my hands with alcohol, was a woman. Probably nearing her 30s.
“Hi, I hope you’re not bothered about me smelling like an old ashtray.” I said vibrantly.
“Not at all.” she said sheepishly.
“I’m very sorry it took me a while. I wasn’t really expecting a client today,” I said.
“Did you get that from the tarot cards?’ She asked, “Because if you do, I guess I would have to ask for a refund.”
“No, but you made a good point there.” I chuckled “So, I guess you want your fortune told.”
“Wow! I’m impressed!” she said beamingly.
“Yeah, Thanks,” slapping my forehead in my mind.
I took out my deck. I was getting a little fidgety today. Good thing I got a good grip on them. Any worse, I thought, I’d be saving time in shuffling the cards.
“Is this your first time having your fortune read?”
“Uh-huh,” she said lazily.
“Alright, then. As a rule in tarot reading, you are not supposed to hold the deck. If you do, then you will be diffusing your energy throughout the cards. I need your energy to be concentrated on specific cards only.” I instructed. “The only contact you will be doing with them is when I ask you to take a couple of cards,” Laying the cards on the middle of the coffee table I so fondly call ‘The Reading Table’ (Well, I know it’s bad, but it’s not half as bad as ‘The Thinking Chair.’) “Now, in order for this to work, you have to ask a question first before picking out the cards. This way, I get a clearer picture of what the cards will say. Ready?”
She was silent.
“Is there anything wrong?”
“It’s nothing really. I’m not used to seeing men giving out fortunes and being so engrossed about it.”
I was taken aback. This was the first time someone brought that issue up.
“I mean,” she retorted, “it’s just hard to open up with a guy. At least, for me. I was kinda thinking that if I see a girl reading the cards for me, I feel she’s one of my girl friends, you know. Just us girls chatting up on boys and girl thingies. I don’t know if you understand that.”
“I don’t think I do. But yeah, no biggie actually. I get that all the time,” I lied. “I just tell them to just think of me as a brother or some sort—or a gay friend, whatever suits you.”
She laughed.
“You’re not gay, are you?”
“Will it make you comfortable if I say I am gay?”
“So, you are?!”
“No!”
“It’s alright. I feel comfortable now. You must be closeted,” teasingly.
“Okay. Okay. As long as you are comfortable, then ask the question already.”
“Can you ask the card if you are really gay?” She smiled.
“Heck, No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already told you that I am not.”
“I’m sorry, but I find that hard to believe,” she shot back. “Aren’t guy fortune-tellers gay? I don’t see much of you guys flaunting this special ability of divination or something. And if in case I do, they all end up being gay anyway.”
“You don’t go out much, do you?” I said sarcastically.
“Allow me to be more specific, then. This is the first time I have heard straight guys doing tarot reading. If any straight guy out there would be interested in divination, they’d be interested in palmistry instead so they could hit on girls.”
Why didn’t I thought of that, I said to myself. “You’re being discriminative already, miss. Not every guy reading tarot cards is gay. Syllogism, please.”
“Are you man enough to prove it then?”
“Do you want me to kiss you right now and check if I have a hard-on?”
“You’re gross!”
I let out a giggle. “I don’t want to sound rude, but we don’t have much time. You’re just paying me for 45 minutes. There’s probably some long queue outside now waiting to get their fortunes read too.”
“Give me a minute to think.”
“Haven’t you thought of something to ask while you were getting on my nerves?”
“I was busy getting on your nerves. Besides, this is my first time, remember? I didn’t know I was supposed to ask a question. So be patient.”
She’s right, I thought.
“So go ahead and ask me something relevant… something about your boyfriend. That’s what you girls wanted to know, anyway.” I prodded.
She giggled. “Now, you’re mocking us, girls.”
“I wasn’t the one who said that guys being into this kind of gig are gay.”
“Fine,” she said nonchalantly.
“So, what about your boyfriend? Do you want to know if he’s cheating on you?”
“Very funny, Maestro. I’d like to find that out but I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Now that’s funny,” I chuckled.
“What? A girl can’t be single?” she said.
“Is that your question?”
She laughed. “You’re such a character, you know that?”
“That’s what they all say,” I said mindlessly.
“Says who? Your girlfriends?”
“Girlfriends? Where did that come from?”
“Well, it certainly didn’t come from any guys you know, huh? Unless—“
“Okay, stop it with the gay thing already. I’ll have you know that I have a lot of clients.”
“Oh yeah? If you have that much of a fan-base, then why aren’t you expecting people to come in today.”
“My clients may be doing something worth-while with their time than to consume themselves with this stuff. Besides, I have friends too you know. ”
“Oh, I didn’t think I heard you right. Didn’t you say, girlfriends?”
“I said, FRIENDS. FRRIIIEEENDDS!”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, really. It must be the macho thing guys have in their nature. I will find it hard to believe if you don’t have girls circling around you.”
“You’re flattering me now, miss…”
“It’s Aimie.”
“It’s Stephen,” I said absent-mindedly. Shaking my head, I said, “What I was saying, I wouldn’t mind that at all. I am still single. There I said it.”
“I still find it hard to believe.”
“Think of it this way. Who would date a little weirdo like me…”
“I would,”
“…doing all this freaky divination stuff—what?”
“It’s alright, Stephen. You just answered all my questions.” then she took her purse. Stood up, walked towards the curtain which is just a poor excuse for a door. And just before she left, she turned her head around, smiled and left.
April 21st, 2010 at 18:15
New entry. Scrap the first one.
The arnis instructor gave us a scenario for the day’s sparring session wherein we would incorporate the maneuvers he had taught us the whole week: a parking lot ambush.
“I don’t get it,” I told my sparring partner, “What possible reason would you have to attack me?”
“No,” she replied with a naughty smile, “the question is: why would you attack me?”
April 21st, 2010 at 19:29
Thanks for the comments / suggestions. Shall find time to write a story out of the summary that I posted. May i still submit the story even after the deadline of this LitWit Challenge?
April 21st, 2010 at 21:15
I hate dust. Oh c’mon, who doesn’t?
Everytime my nose feels the aura of this pure allergen, I know for sure that the next sound will be a deafening sneeze. A loser’s sneeze, so to say.
But I will not talk about myself. Hell, no. This useless, pretentious account is about John. I do not hate John. However, I think some things in life are just intended for the fortunate few, of which so to say I do not belong. I think all of us but John. If the Divine Beings on Mt. Olympus have the goddess Venus and the temperamental Mars, I think our place have been somewhat blessed with a male species like John. His blessings is our curse. Let me bore you with my description of him.
John, physically, is the sunflower on the field. I’ll describe him like this (coz I know this is my only way of stabbing his ass). Bitter I may sound to you but truth hurts my friend. while we shine on our shady cave and pound our heads for being losers, John has all the physique, girls and not so girls drool for. Venus will definitely leave her throne and ask Zeus for her earthly body so she can sashay her heavenly ass for this boy. All his angles define the Fibonacci sequence. He could surpass handsome for a description. He’s the sun, the moon, the star. Oops! I’d rather stop now before i sound like a gay. So see? John’s a perfection. Almost.
He’s the shy type. He never mingles, especially with girls.
It was first day of the class. Gladly, Biology and Chemistry were never mixed, I told myself. I and John sat on the front row. I was on the far corner, right beside John. All the seats were taken but the front part. It was suppose to be an ordinary day until…a girl in bolero sat beside John.
I was busy organizing my thoughts about the class, the subject, the teacher and the girl. Then, he turned to me, with red face and teary eyes. His
forehead was wrinkled in a most disturbing way.I thought I saw Yoda for a while. Beddazled (by the girl) and baffled (by him) I asked, “HUH?”
“I need a handkerchiiiee…”, he said, with the most kick-ass expression.
Quick as a lightning, I knew what to get from my pocket.
Then, suddenly.
ACHOOOOOOOO!!!…
I knew he turned on the other side coz I did not feel the horrendrous air on my face. Moreover, I knew that something was dislodged from his throat by hearing that sound. I was just then surprised by a shriek, a commotion, and a girl and a boy who just left the door.
“I’ll be back!,” John shouted.
From a distant I could hear thunder.
I just stared at his empty chair, and smiled.
April 21st, 2010 at 21:43
Of course if I submit the story after the deadline, I shall not anymore have the chance to get the Moleskine, but then that isn’t really all that I wanted. Would really just be good to find out if I could actually write a story worthy of reading. Thanks.
April 22nd, 2010 at 02:02
I enjoyed reading the entries, especially those of Avatar’s… harhar. You should do stand up comedy… (just saying)
April 22nd, 2010 at 06:03
Jumpinggiraffe. Self-deprecating humor: good. Things projected out of your nose: that’s me. Subject-verb agreement: please check. Clean this up, and never begin a paragraph with “When worse comes to worst”. Also, peeling off the beer’s label is supposed to be a sign of sexual frustration.
April 22nd, 2010 at 06:04
Avatar_aang: Hahahahaha! This is not an entry.
April 22nd, 2010 at 06:05
Thedreaming: It’s not ambiguous, it’s Defective. Do not repost fragments, send the whole edit.
April 22nd, 2010 at 06:07
Edrie: If she were as naughty as you say the question would be “The question is: why wouldn’t you attack me?”
April 22nd, 2010 at 06:07
Eric: Hahahahaha! NO.
April 22nd, 2010 at 06:10
Lzlsanatomy: The voices in the head bit is interesting, then you undermine the idea with the mellow stuff.
April 22nd, 2010 at 06:12
Mjomesa: You mean the Golden Mean, not the Fibonacci sequence.
April 22nd, 2010 at 08:37
Books
She’s seen Good Will Hunting and you finally know a human you think about more than your stories. Not that there’s that much to speak of, nor it matters that you’re unsure whether what they say would make you decent enough to go give up the endless reading of obscure stories you can’t live without (the ones you consider the rarest moments you stopped thinking of, say, jumping off the bridge; not that you can tolerate the fall or anything more painful than your job, but still…), stories others seem to think too obscure to be normal and make a living from.
Or that if it meant anything, It’d weigh enough to at least give her the benefit of the possibility of not making you go back to here. Again. Like what the people evolution made to make you secure did and yet abandoned you like you’re some broken eye glass. Or at least insecure enough to move you to finish school.
You are not insecure. Your poetry is brilliant and the shirt you printed with the word POET embroidered is genius. You are not insecure even about not finishing anything at all. Your quitting your school and reading books are adoring edgy traits and you’re superior than those people uptown every February 14, or the happiest holiest days since zilch that is Christmas and birthdays and family gatherings in function halls and motels reeking of dried stained sheets of semen and tears.
You will be liked, and no one leaves because you’re clearly more than worth staying for.
–You are not what I said you are, although I don’t think you’re also the person they think you’re not; and I’m sorry, although I found out I’m not entirely to blame because there’s the oxytocin hormone factor we can’t control and this isn’t sci-fi and that Stephen Hawking kind of time isn’t yet proven. I see the night you had with him and admitted you wanted because you just missed the idea of unattached carnality has nothing to do with me because we’ve not even met and it’s not like you’re going to miss it again with another man if we’re together just because you just feel like it, but how do we know that? How do I know that?
You can’t say I destroyed you. You will move out, but I stay un-understood and there’s too many of you and the statistics of me landing the right one is bleak. But there’s safety here in papers and stories and thoughts of us sleeping together in rooms at our most surreptitious isn’t really that bad is it is it.
April 22nd, 2010 at 09:44
Thanks theOrbiter for enjoying my krungkrung posts. I’m a closeted gay guy who doesn’t even have the nerve to use the word bonggacious in real life. I can only unleash the balahurang bakla by writing anonymously. Oh divah taray ng lola mo!
April 22nd, 2010 at 10:43
That night I fell to the comfort of my pillows.
We were jumping. We jumped from trees to mountains, past the vast blue ocean and over the grimacing moon. Our feet were barely teaching the ground, and as we jumped our bodies glide with the wind. Purple were the hills; all around the fields bore strawberries. We were jumping, reaching as high as our hands could reach. But all of a sudden gravity was pulling me back to the ground, pulling me apart from her.
It was the same room again.
Bright sunshine began to sputter inside the room. Birds started to flock on my window. The clock was about to ring. It was a little earlier than usual.
I stood up. I fixed my bed. I went straight to the bathroom.
The water was warm. But I felt cold inside.
The trees were teeming with leaves – spring. I drove my bike outside our house. I went past the neighbors who tried to say hi. The warm breeze brushed through my cheeks. It still feels cold.
Inside.
There she was, surrounded by her friends. I thought she was still jumping, reaching for the stars and the moon up above the vast, blue sky. But she was there, stuck on the ground, gravity holding steadily on her feet.
I tired myself from staring at her, but she didn’t stare back. I was tired.
I went straight to the studio. I cried, and all the sadness I painted.
Purple hills. Strawberry fields. Birds defying gravity. Us.
It was a cold, breezy afternoon. I was driving my bike, cold and blue. I went past the studio, past the little girls playing double-dutch on the sidewalk, past the old man at the corner of the street. I went past someone, and for a minute my eyes lingered on her. She was walking alone.
That night we didn’t jump. We just sat together, staring at the bright stars up above the vast, blue sky. The night was cold, yet it finally felt warm.
April 22nd, 2010 at 10:47
I like boranzohn’s entry. It reminds me of Just Before The War With The Eskimos.
April 22nd, 2010 at 11:02
Hello. Thanks for the feedback. Here’s my repost:
This is what happens when you have read “The Joy Luck Club” too many times…
you begin to believe the life you lead is just like the book, your story is but a remnant, an echo of another person’s story in another lifetime.
You imagine yourself so vividly in every scene of the book that when your auntie (the one who everyone thinks is slightly batty but who is probably just too “old country” for the younger, more westernized Filipino-Chinese generation) announces to the family that she has found the perfect match for you and would like to arrange a “kai siao,” you think you will be hauled off to some God-forsaken province in China to get married to someone you’ve never met, like a character in a Peking opera.
You wonder if you should greet the news with hysterics or with the sure-minded equanimity of a heroine in one of the books you’ve read.
Of course, all options or permutations of “no way in hell” are useless because your mother has already answered “yes” for you… complete with the sales talk about how smart you are and really, the only reason you haven’t been snatched up by all those nice Chinese boys is because you’re so choosy and they’re intimidated. Your mother delivers the whole speech with such urgency and a subtle, underlying tinge of desperation that you wonder whether she is still trying to convince the old auntie or herself.
You are 28 years old after all, positively ancient and past the “acceptable marrying age” for the Chinese…even if you can still be a passable 23 with the right lighting and make-up.
You begin the preparations for super double-feature family date night and you suddenly remember why you hate these forced “set-ups” by older, well meaning relatives. Preparing for a “kai siao” is as grueling as trying to finish a triathalon in under 3 hours.
You practice your surprised face and your dialogue because, really, even though everyone in Binondo probably knows all about the ‘kai siao” by now through the Ongpin hotline, you’re still supposed to pretend that you didn’t know anything about it to save face and not appear so…desperate.
You choose your outfit carefully because you want to appear modern and attractive but not too sexy. Oh, well, really, who are you kidding… your mother chooses the outfit for you.
You would rather imagine the possibilities of what your blind date will be like than attend to the trivialities of appearance. All of the heroines in your books you liked were either consumptive (Beth from Little Women) or too independent to care anyway…so should you!!!
You go to the “kai siao” with your meekest perfect Chinese daughter manners, 3 aunts, an official matchmaker and your mother…
he appears with his mother, his maternal grandmother, and a cousin…
he thinks he’s meeting the perfect Filipino-Chinese wife…
you think he’s a little bit of a mama’s boy and a lot of obnoxious…
Everyone sits down for an awkward traditional Chinese dinner…Shit, 12 courses?!!! It’s going to be a long dinner. You grit your teeth and swallow your pride. Really, who still does a “kai siao” over a Chinese lauriat?! Doesn’t the matchmaker know that everyone just goes to Starbucks nowadays?!
Over cold cuts, jelly fish salad and crispy pork skin, you both exchange a total of four words: Hi, Kamusta and Ok naman.
By the time the sweet and sour soup is served, you have exchanged a total of 3 awkward smiles while the matchmaker prattles on about his life story. (Youngest of 4 children! Responsible! Good businessman! Graduated from UE!)
You spend the next few courses assidiously picking on your Yang Chow fried rice and sneaking peeks at him while he eats his chicken in XO sauce. (Not bad looking, clean fingernails, dresses a little like an old guy…)
The fried pigeon comes out and your “Total words exchanged so far” tally jumps to a respectable 10 words: “After you,” “Oh, no, you go first,” “No, I insist.”
By the time the garlic crabs comes out, he has known everything about you and your family. (“Really, Auntie, you’re acquainted with the Tans by Jaboneros? They buy hardware supplies from our store.”)
When the steamed lapu-lapu is served, all the older people in the table are talking about shared acquaintances and Chinatown gossip…including him, although to his credit, he does try a few times to draw you into the conversation. You smile a little, shrug your shoulders and sit back. You never thought gossiping about how Mr. Chua’s business is doing badly was very interesting anyway.
Finally, dinner wraps up and you pretend you don’t see the matchmaker slyly hand him a piece of paper over sesame balls and chilled almond.
Everyone politely says good-bye and you head out to the car. Your head hurts after having to go through 2 hours of ladylike behavior.
Then the cellphone beeps.
1 message received: Hi, it’s Tim. Njoyd dner with u n ur family. Wld u lyk 2 have coffee somtym @ Starbucks?
Finally, someone who understands the allure of a coffee date without an entourage.
And when you type your reply and press the Send button, it brings your “Total Words Exchanged So Far” tally to 11.
1 message sent: K. :)
April 22nd, 2010 at 11:17
[Love, Unqualified**]
My job is not for the faint-hearted. It even makes some scurry in the opposite direction. There are so many rules and codes and dispositions to be observed to the letter, that other people don’t (or simply dare not to) understand, and therefore leave the “dirty job” to people like me. Our humble profession becomes much feared, much maligned, and much respected. Others who don’t understand us better even ballyhoo us for being the loneliest people on earth. But we get our reputation solely from doing the work we are meant to do, and doing it well. The main product we peddle is TRUST (and that’s not a condom).
I came into this world uninitiated, and I am ready. It was a conscious decision after knowing the intricacies and learning the tools of the trade. Am I ready for love? Oh, love. It was bound to find me here.
I encountered him one afternoon. A member of my family introduced us in his usual brisk manner and told me to perform on him for a short time only. No hang-ups, no strings attached. I was to explore every bit of his being, to render his soul without a slice of doubt. The compensation was good anyway, and so I accepted the offer with the confidence of an idealist.
We started out calmly, as acquaintances. I checked on his background, interviewing people who knew him, examining his haunts. I was close enough to be his stalker. I wanted to make a move on him, but he budged sparingly. I was frustrated to say the least — it was a one-way street! It was hard to care when it is hindered by the very subject I had to handle. I spent the arduous days and sleepless nights figuring him out. I aspired for our bond to be more than physical, beyond tangible; but how can I show him for what he is to others, when he wouldn’t give me the benefit? This relationship must work, my dad told me. I argued that he was unreasonable, but why did I sign up for this anyway? I agonized in the long hours, deciding whether or not to break this off, and move on.
I finally confronted him in a low, measured tone. “I want you to be honest with me. I am only here to give you the truth. In turn, you need to earn my respect. My family wants to build a solid association based on my relationship with you; and my friends, they deserve to know what you are capable of. Please, let’s just work this out.”
He mulled over my words, and I was so vindicated that he realized it – reciprocation was key to a strong partnership. He saw me in a new light and started giving in. He filled me in with his life, how he started, and how he came to be. It was exhausting, yes; but it was the most fulfilling months of my life. Every day had its requisite inconveniences – he still had his reservations with my occasional intrusiveness, and sometimes I just couldn’t trust him. But we made remarkable, sensible progress. I finally broke through this man, and I knew he needed love.
Alas, time was of the essence. There was only a week left and my sessions with him were drawing to a close. Although my job did not entail fraternizing, I cannot help but admire a man who has given so much of himself to others. He was generally diligent in his responsibilities, and though reluctant to admit his worth, was truly of good character.
I was saddened to end this relationship because I was also afraid it might consume me, but it was on a happy note. Perhaps, there are others similar to him, but as my dad would say, every man’s got some peculiarities. I’ve accepted my fate. There was always a chance we’d see each other again anyway. I was here to serve, and there’s always someone out there up for it.
My friends have asked me how I choose to view love, and I said “Love should always strive to be unqualified. No misgivings and no pretensions. Something real and uncompromising.”
===
[**Technical Background: This is a sober, non-technical account of how I’d imagine a young CPA’s life as a romantic liaison. Just substitute "love" as the almighty audit/FS report; the audit client-company is the handsome “he / man”; the auditing firm as the “dad/family”, and the general public as “friends”. It’s up to the reader to discern how things are patterned after a usual audit assignment – the paper trail, the uncooperative client, the fact-checking, the professional skepticism, the head-butting, finding the middle ground, the rendering of accuracy, the manic rush just to finish the audit report before the (April 15) deadline. “Unqualified” is an opinion given by auditors to financial statements that they determine as free from material misstatements and errors, the most regarded opinion of all. I referred to a nonexistent subject as a person, because the truth is, an auditor’s real marriage is to her work! ]
April 22nd, 2010 at 13:38
Hi jessica,
I have always been ia little in awe of you, so posting this is kind of nerve wracking for me. Lately I have tried writing down one of the stories in my head. This started as a short story but is now fast evolving into a novel of sorts. I will post here an excerpt of it, hopefully it will qualify at least in what you are looking for. If not, just your thoughts about it will do:
I was born in a place I can barely call home. I had an older brother 10 years older than me, Bryan. My earliest memories as a child was of him hugging me tight into a corner, shielding me with his body against the belt my father wielded. On the background was the muffled, drunken wails of my mother. My memories of that home will forever be dark. If I can forget those I do not wish to dwell more upon, there is no price I wouldn’t pay.
When I turned 4, our parents’ car ended up crushed under an oncoming truck on a free way late one night. Did I feel anything then? I cannot recall. The only thing I remember was the sound of dirt hitting the coffins and my brother holding my right hand so tight but I didn’t mind. On my left holding my other hand was Aaron.
Aaron was my brother’s best friend. He lives in an orphanage run by nuns near us. Nobody adopted him when he was younger so the nuns allowed him to stay and help around. He and my brother hang out together a lot. Since I was a baby, those two had been inseparable. They were always getting in trouble together- which was a lot. I was 2 years old and I have been arrested with those two. I was on Bryan’s back as they broke into a car to steal it for a quick joyride- all just to hear me scream and gurgle with joy. It was dangerous but hey, we take what we can get.
Much as I adore Bryan, I was happier when Aaron was around. When Bryan is into one of his rages and smash things around, Aaron picks me up and we go for a walk or he buys me an ice cream. He calls me Princess Daisy because of my extremely pale skin magnified by my dark hair. He makes me laugh a lot, he was like sunshine to our small world. Later on I learned from Bryan, he came from the same kind of home we had. He said he never really talk so much about it.
When our parents died Bryan and I ended in the care of a distant aunt who couldn’t care less about us. Good thing she just lived along the same neighborhood that we grew up in. Bryan and Aaron however got into more messes. My brother was more aggressive and Aaron, while all for fun and stuff, was often the voice of caution. They were known in the neighborhood, both very tall and good looking. While Bryan is the all American blond boy next door with the easy smile and who can charm the pants off the ladies of all ages when he wants to; Aaron was the mysterious brooding type with the dark hair and the ocean blue eyes. They were fiercely loyal to each other and both spoiled me whenever they could. I would forever hear the sound of stealthy footsteps at night and think of Bryan and Aaron sneaking in my bedroom for a quick hug and a hasty goodbye kiss before disappearing into unknown adventures in the dark.
One night they didn’t come home. Sister Denise from the orphanage found me shivering in the cold on the concrete stairs early morning waiting for them. She wrapped my shivering form in her shawl, made me hot chocolate, waited for me to finish it before telling me that Bryan was dead. He died in a shootout between rival gangs. Aaron was slightly wounded but alive. He was the one who carried Bryan’s broken body at the hospital, walking the 3 miles from where they were because nobody would help. I threw up on Sister Denise’s rug till it felt like there was nothing left inside me.
Up to this day I try to remember the details of what happened after, but I’m afraid I couldn’t. Everything was a blur. Before I knew it , we were standing in front of a graveyard- for the second time in my 5 years- this time with Bryan’s name carved in stone. Now I have only Aaron holding my hand. Dry- eyed, I started to tremble violently, my teeth chattering. Aaron, whose face was as pale as sheet, got on his knees and held me tight. “I’m sorry Daisy,” he cried hoarsely, “ I’m so sorry I lost him!! I ‘m so sorry….!” And that’s when I started crying too. To this day, I will never see a grave and not think of a teenage boy and a little girl with arms around each other, their cries mingling with the rain on a cold and cruel afternoon.
While suffering loss was not new to both of us, Bryan’s death was extremely hard for Aaron and I. While my nightmares would send me screaming night after night, Aaron would pick up fights that eventually landed him some jail time. I was small for my age, but strong willed and feisty, my anguish betrayed only by the dark circles under my eyes. I had Sister Denise brought me to visit him in jail. His lip was split, one eye swollen and drops of blood spatter his shirt. He saw me, got up and turned his back on us, asking Sister Denise softy why she brought me there.
“You know how she is. Besides, “ Sister Denise shrugged, “ I think it’s good to let her see you like this.” A beat passed.
“Will you leave us a lone for a minute Sister”, he said quietly.
When the nun was a few feet away, he finally turned around to where I was sitting and finally looked at me. He hadn’t said one word to me after Bryan was buried, and he hasn’t been in to see me at all for almost a month by then. I sat there looking into his eyes, my lips trembling as my hands. Gently, almost dreamily, he touched my face as two fat tears started rolling down my cheeks.
“Why?” I choked.
His usual sparkling eyes looked almost black as he stared at me. He grasped my two hands and gathered them into his, never taking his eyes off mine.
“I’m sorry, Princess,” he whispered roughly. Thru clenched jaw he bit “ I screwed up…with Bryan, I should have been there to have his back.. I should have stopped him, but I…” he couldn’t go on.
He took a breath, looked away “And I can hardly look at you and see you like this and not hate myself.” He was squeezing my hands, and then he let go and started to turn away. I grabbed his arm with a strength I didn’t know I have.
“Don’t…please..” I cried in anguish. His face was a twisted mask of pain.“ Please don’t…don’t le.le. leave me,” I gasped, “you’re all I have.” I grabbed his neck and sobbed achingly. Then his arms were around me and he was hugging me as if his life depended on it.
April 22nd, 2010 at 13:39
I believe i just laid bare a portion of my heart, sigh! I’m ready for the firing squad!
April 22nd, 2010 at 13:39
- JC will see you now, the lady with the black company shirt told me. I was sitting on the couch for forty minutes. She opened the door.
JC said good afternoon and I said good afternoon. This is Mark he said. Mark said hi and I said hi. He apologized for the delay. He is shorter than me and was wearing a shirt and it was tucked in his jeans.
- No it’s ok, I wasn’t waiting, I didn’t wait long, I said
- Sit down, JC said. – Please, he added.
JC asked me about my qualifications. I told him I quit my last job two months ago. He talked about the job and told me about what I’d be doing in the company – If we’re to hire you. He said if we’re to hire you maybe three times.
Mark introduced himself again when it was his turn to ask.
- Hi, I’m Mark.
I was a little nervous and I forgot what he told me his position in the company was. His questions were about discipline, hard work, and being able to work with difficult people.
- Mark is actually a difficult person, JC was laughing when he said this.
- Hey this is not about me. This is his interview, let’s focus. Mark was laughing to. It was one of those open-mouth laughs, louder than JC’s. He shifted in his seat and made an effort to show he’s now focused.
I wanted this little mini-break in the interview to go on a little longer so I said.
- No, go on, I’d listen. Why is he difficult to work with?
Both of them laughed but Mark composed himself much earlier than he did when he laughed at JC’s earlier comment.
- He does not admit his mistakes. He refuses to talk to anyone for an entire hour; he puts his earphones on and he listens to Whitney Houston, JC was not done laughing.
- Ok this is really his interview, Mark said and he looked at me. – Sorry this is how it is here sometimes. It’s one of those times. So how do you deal with difficult people?
He had his serious face on now. He was looking at me. I said I handle pressure well, I’m friendly and I respect other people’s opinions, and I don’t start fights.
Mark was not smiling. He looked at JC and signaled that he was done asking questions. JC started talking again. I forgot what he told me. Mark said they would call me as soon after they’re done reviewing my application.
I wondered if it would be him or JC who’s going to call. I said thank you. The girl with the black shirt was paged and I was led out of the office.
- Bye. JC said. Mark did not say anything.
When I got home, I turned my Mac on. The router worked and that’s a good thing. I signed on to my email. There are five new messages. None of them was from the company.
Of course they won’t email me today. That’s not how it works. I have to wait two or three days, Someone will call me, some girl who works in the human resources department. I know I did well in the interview.
I googled the company name. I got to page ten of the results. I clicked a green round icon and typed Whitney Houston. I downloaded seven songs and listened to all of them.
April 22nd, 2010 at 15:04
After spending 20 minutes comparing deodorants, I decided to seek help with the nearest human, who happens to be a cute guy checking out deodorants for males.
Me: Excuse me, I badly need some help. Which of these two appeals more to your nose? (holding up two opened roll-ons to stranger’s face)
Cute guy: (perplexed) Excuse me?
Me: (impatient)Uh, better deo? You know, that thing you roll on your pits? I need you to tell me which smells better.
Cute guy: (looks taken aback…tentatively smells the exposed balls) um…this? (gesticulating at the bottle on my right hand)
Me: (brings bottle to my nose) really? Well it smells nice but…I need something like a-whiff-can-have-men-thinking-of-flowers-and-all-mushy-stuff kind of scent. Are you sure? (shoves the bottle in his nose, sticky tip smearing his nose)
Cute guy: (wipes his face, laughter bubbling in his throat) ok, ok…no need to get your panties twisted.
Me: (looks affronted) hey, that’s a pervy thing to say!
Cute guy: (chuckles) Says the girl asking me which roll-on would smell better on her pits. (grabs the lid and caps the exposed bottle on my right hand) Believe me, this scent made me think of asking you out to frolic in the valley or some hill like Jack and Jill. (looks intently at me) Are you always this weird and pushy with strangers?
Me: (snorts) completely drugged from ingested flowery smells
Cute guy: I feel you. (watches as I turn to leave) So where are you off to next?
Me: (‘let’s see if I can gross you out’) Foot powder
Cute guy: (laughs and takes the basket from my hand) I happen to be an expert in that field.
Me: Ewww! Feminine wash?
Cute guy: (Goofy grin) I’m open to new learnings.
(some scene I imagined while at was in Watson’s the other night)
April 22nd, 2010 at 16:40
Sorry for reposting this again, arrgh:
jessicazafra: Thank you for the comment. I have read my entry and agree that the look made it slimy. The characters are children but, yes, one should never underestimate them and the way they look or stare.
Here’s another stab:
Everyone’s into this Boy/Girl Scout (B/G S) thing but not everyone has a novelty BS for a companion: a teen with a normal head and a well-developed body with legs and arms resembling imperfect croissants with small round protrusions that could have been fingers – he teeters from side to side when he walks, a dance, attracting attention from both children and adults.
Everyone looks at my companion—a smiling spectacle. Smiles, greetings float to our direction, to him. Hands reach out, messing his hair affectionately, patting his back and shoulders, shoving paper bills and coins in his pocket.
When we enter the gate of the school, children, fellow BSs, and grown-ups walk with and trail behind us; the school’s façade – from a distance filled with children playing and running here and there, people going about carrying poles and makeshift tents, and teachers issuing instructions and admonitions – a beehive – seemingly freezes with our arrival. Eyes look at us, him, my companion. Then the scene breaks out in a chorus of his name and goodhearted uproar.
Somehow, a girl’s eyes catch mine. She looks familiar.
April 22nd, 2010 at 17:27
Hi Jessica. Please disregard my earlier post. Thanks.
————————————————————-
She drove her beat-up Volkswagen like Michael Schumacher does on the race track.
It was three in the morning and Anya, who was trying to get some sleep after coming home late from partying, was chasing red lights like a madman on the street. Her mother had just called, urgently telling her to go to the hospital at the nearby town. “It’s your grandfather,” was all her mother said. Anya did not even ask what happened, and just assured that she’ll be there as fast as she can.
She did not even bother to put on decent clothes. In fact, she did not even have the chance to change her black tank top and leather skirt before going to bed. Looking at herself from the rearview mirror, she looked like a mess: her red lipstick was smudged on the left corner of her lips, her black eyeliner was a total mess and her hair looked like she had just gone from a ride on an open-window bus. But she never cared. All she wanted was to see her grandfather okay.
She parked near the emergency entrance, left her car keys and quickly dashed inside the room. She scanned around and searched for her mother frantically, but dammit, she couldn’t see her. Where is she? Where’s grandpa? Anya told herself. Her mind was racing. She could just picture her grandfather lying on the white hospital bed, unconscious and with oxygen tube in his nose. She shook those thoughts away. No, grandpa’s okay. Grandpa’s okay, she kept telling herself.
“Are you one of the relatives?” a nurse approached her.
“Yes, yes. Where’s my grandpa?” Anya said anxiously.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but he just expired a few minutes ago,” the nurse offered her condolences, escorting her to the hospital bed where a white blanket was pulled on top of a patient.
Tears began forming on Anya’s eyes. “No, no, it can’t be. I just spoke to him a few days ago! He’s a healthy man! We go jogging on weekends! He’s… he’s….” she couldn’t continue and started sobbing beside the hospital bed. She sobbed and sobbed and blew her nose, then sobbed again and hugged the bed like she wouldn’t let go.
“Excuse me, miss,” a deep male voice suddenly broke her crying session.
She looked up and saw a tall, handsome man standing a few feet behind her. He had unruly dark hair, as if he never had a decent sleep in days. His eyes were red and swollen, like he’d just gone crying, too, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved for days. He wore faded jeans and a white shirt that hugged his muscular body perfectly.
“Y-yes…?” Anya said.
“I don’t think we have met before.”
“I… yes. I think so.” Anya stood up, wiping her tears and making a mess on her already messy eyeliner. She looked at the man’s face and noticed that behind those red, swollen eyes were the longest eyelashes she had seen on a guy.
“So…” the man cleared his throat. “How close are you to my grandfather?”
Anya widened her eyes and stared at the man. “Your grandfather?” She looked down at the hospital bed for a moment, pulled up the covers and discovered a strange old man lying down.
She widened her eyes with the discovery, cupping her mouth and starting weeping again. She didn’t know what she was feeling right now. Part of her felt relieved it wasn’t her grandfather lying motionlessly on that hospital bed, while the other part of her felt incredibly stupid at her stupidity in front of this handsome man.
“I’m… I’m sorry. I thought it was my grandfather. My mom said…” She couldn’t make up the right words to explain her embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I should go. Um… condolence.” She started walking away, averting the man’s gaze.
“It’s okay. At least I’m not alone crying for his loss. Hey, miss,” the man caught up with her and grabbed her arm.
Anya looked back. She could tell the amusement on the man’s eyes. “Y-yes…?” she asked.
The man offered her a handkerchief. “I saw an old man here being transferred to a ward a couple of minutes ago. Something about a broken hip from falling down the stairs on his way to the bathroom. It must be your grandfather,” he said.
It sounded like her grandfather, all right. He had been complaining about going up and down the stairs every morning to pee.
“Thank you. I… I should see my grandpa now,” Anya said, giving the man a tiny smile.
“No problem,” the man grinned – perhaps the first big smile he showed in days. “I hope to see you again. I might need my handkerchief back.”
Anya beamed back shyly. “I’d… I’d like that.”
April 22nd, 2010 at 21:46
Re-write:
…kill them all, honey…
…who’s that?! …They’re coming…
…take that knife, deary…take them out before they get you, peaches…
…you deserve to die, whore…die!…
…don’t be afraid…I’m here…
Whispers, demands, orders I can’t block out. But out of the crowd of voices, his tone was clear, reassuring me that I am still here.
I was sixteen, when I met him. That day, my masters were screaming, I cower in defeat as they leaned over me.
…slut…whore…
…you deserve to rot in hell!…
…how did it taste, peaches?…
The couple of nights before, I’d bitten a large chunk of the orderly’s dick as he tried to put it in my mouth. The stupid man.
They placed me in isolation but I was not alone. I’m never alone.
The voices got louder and louder until finally, I’ve had enough. I had a stolen blade aimed at my wrist, the voices encouraged me.
…yes, yes!… slice a little deeper, honey…
…that’s good…it’ll be over soon… peace, peaches, peace at last…
As the blood flowed freely, I felt lighter and lighter. I was floating. From the corner of my eye I saw him. He was walking towards me and he smiled. “So beautiful,” I whispered.
I knew him from somewhere, long ago. He seemed different, older. He was my best friend. He was dead.
(I was gonna do a story about a schizophrenic girl who tried to drown out the voices by sticking knitting needles in her ear but I don’t know… its too Nightmare on Elm Street, I think.)
April 22nd, 2010 at 22:35
Sorry, editing the edit. Please disregard the one before.
The arnis instructor gave us a scenario for the day’s sparring session wherein we would incorporate the maneuvers he had taught us the whole week: a parking lot ambush.
“I don’t get it,” I told my sparring partner, “What possible reason would you have to attack me?”
“No,” she replied, brandishing her cane, a naughty smile, and a knowing look, “the question is: why wouldn’t you attack me?”
April 22nd, 2010 at 22:44
–Sir mukhang marami kayong lamig sa katawan, wag kang mag-alala tatanggalin ko lahat yan
–Uy salamat
–Mukhang pagod na pagod kayo sir ah san ka nagtatrabaho
–Wala pa trabaho. Nag-aaral pa lang. Stress lang siguro yang nahahawakan mo.
–Madalas ka ba dito sir
–Hindi ngayon lang, nalibre lang nang barkada.
–Talaga sir.
–First time. Kinakabahan nga ako sayo.
–Ba’t ka kinakabahan sir, ikaw naman. May misis ka na ba.
–Wala pa. ambata ko pa, college pa lang.
–Gelpren, sir?
–Wala rin akong gelpren. Walang pandeyt at oto. Puros may mga oto lang ang nagkakagelpren
–Hindi naman siguro sir ako kahit jeep lang ang date basta mabait sir.
–Wag mo akong tawaging sir. Mahirap lang kami,
–Ako rin mahirap kaya nga andito.
–Bat angganda nang boses mo.
–Palabiro ka.
–Hindi nga.
–Pihit na nga. Tihaya na.
–Ang ganda ganda mo. Akin ka na lang.
April 23rd, 2010 at 06:45
I had five hours to kill in Portland.
My original plan for those hours was to take the train from the airport to downtown. That was abandoned as soon as I saw the heavy clouds hovering over the runway; there was no way I was risking my own personal security with that kind of weather, in a city that I had never visited before.
I opted instead for Plan B: using my frequent flier privileges to get into the Northwest Airlines lounge.
I flashed the necessary documents at the front desk, and immediately I was granted access to the mezzanine floor, where upholstered chairs and bar stools hovered over the grand walkway of frazzled travelers underneath.
Next on the agenda was finding the most comfortable chair closest to the most accessible electrical outlet for my laptop, so I could lay down my bags and take advantage of the free WiFi. But somewhere between the headlines about the Obama campaign, the weather in the Midwest, and the 345th question about my trip from some nosy person on Facebook (along the lines of “OMG inggit me, ur going to d’states… sma me nxt tym hehe”), the novelty of actual lounging wore off on me.
There was a buffet table laid out with the continental breakfast staples: fruit, pastries, a cooler filled with orange juice. I stacked my plate high with mini croissants and tiny bagels, but I skipped the OJ and went straight for the coffee pot.
My cup was half-full with dark-roasted fresh Colombian brew when it happened: a voice with a resonant accent started bouncing through my head.
“Um, ma’m? Miss?”
I caught a glance from the corner of my eye. Definitely male, I thought; not much older than I am, dressed in a suit, probably on a business trip. Perhaps a Canadian, too – there was just something about the cadence of the vowels, round and rich, sounding almost American but not as abrasive. Not that it mattered, really.
“Miss, excuse me, miss?”
I grabbed a tub of half-and-half and two packets of sugar. My shoulders jerked suddenly as the voice echoed between my ears. I chalked up the whole thing to sleep deprivation.
“Pardon me, miss?”
Now I was back on my chair, hunched over my tiny coffee cup, and I felt like screaming: For crying out loud, I just got off the plane from Honolulu – my eyes are still cried out from saying goodbye to my relatives – and I’ve got a few more hours left to kill before I board another one for Chicago, where I have friends waiting for me. Make it quick, buster.
“Wait. Excuse me.”
Seriously, I could use the sleep. I could use this cup of coffee, and at least one bite of this mini croissant, before I leave this place and run to the gate before the final call –
“Miss.”
I bit off the pointed end of the croissant, chewing carefully to savor every last buttery bit of that pastry. Then I turned around and barked out, without hesitation:
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
He hovered over my seat, with the eyes of a puppy after a sudden scolding.
“I believe you left these,” he replied.
In one hand he held a familiar-looking set of documents: a book of Sudoku puzzles, an electronic boarding pass from Northwest… and a passport marked with the word PILIPINAS in gold letters.
“Where did you find these?” I asked him.
“Right by the coffee pot,” he answered.
“Thank you.”
As I stashed the book and the documents back into my carry-on, the warmth of his hand lingered on the things he’d touched – perhaps because he had such large hands, and the rest of the airport was cold. From my perch I immediately figured that he was as tired as I was, and his mouth probably tasted like coffee grounds and cheap orange marmalade.
He smiled, and I shrugged.
“Come have a seat,” I said to him. And he did.
April 23rd, 2010 at 09:16
hi, ms. zafra. i submitted an entry yesterday but apparently it wasn’t published. i’m guessing that it was disqualified because it was more than 1000 words. im posting it here again (it’s less than 1000 words now. hehe)
————————————————
We have known each other since grade school. He’s undeniably cute that even my classmates’ mothers had a wholesome crush on him. I had a thing for him as well but I was just a kid so I didn’t take it seriously…until we became seatmates in fourth grade.
We were at the front row, seated side by side. It was kinda exciting when our teacher told us that we would be seatmates because as I said, I had a tiny thing for him. However, I realized that he was a badass kid. He would always tease me to some guy in school and would always have a comment about my hair or my ID holder. He would always piss me off. My days then would not end if I hadn’t pinched him or hit him with my books or anything that my hands could easily reach.
One morning when I just arrived in our classroom he talked to me out of nowhere. “Do you know that that multiples?”
“What?”
“That thingy in your ID holder. It produces offsprings.”
I touched the colorful beads in my ID holder. “I thought only kisses give birth.”
“Kisses and that thingy in your ID holder.”
After our classes I went straight home and covered the beads in my ID holder with cotton. It was what the kids at school did with kisses—that small good-smelling kid stuff. Some of my friends covered their kisses with cotton, kept them in the closet and after a few weeks their kisses gave birth to two or three baby kisses. I wanted to have many colorful thingy in my ID holder so I did the same.
The day after that I eagerly told him that I covered the accessories of my ID holder with cotton. He replied with a very dull “Good”. That was so unlikely of him since he’s a very makulit child. He was unusually quiet too. I wondered if he was sick or something but I before I could ask him a question our Math teacher arrived.
I didn’t know what was wrong with him until Mrs. Math Teacher asked us to copy what she wrote on the board. The guy barely moved. It was very suspicious especially that he’s a kiti-kiti.
“So what’s your drama this time?” I asked.
“What drama?”
“You barely move your hand. You’re not writing.”
He answered my question by raising his right pinky covered with Band Aid. “I hurt my pinky this morning. I was playing on the floor when my sister accidentally stepped on it. I can’t write properly.”
I just said “Oh” and continued writing.
I was done copying the lecture when my conscience talked to me: “Help that poor guy now. How will he able to understand the Math lecture if he can’t write it on his notebook and study it later at home? It’ll be your fault if he will fail in your exam.”
So I told him, “Let me write that down for you.”
“What?”
“Give me your pen and notebook.”
He didn’t argue at all and allowed me to copy what’s on the board. When I was done I returned his stuff.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I don’t have the best handwriting, sorry.”
“It’s okay. Thanks.”
After a few minutes I think he had recovered and returned to his old self. He talked to me again: “Look at John. He’s been staring at you for like hours now.”
“I don’t care.”
“Why are you so snobbish?”
“I’m not snobbish. I just don’t get it why you have to tease me with some guys here. It’s not funny especially if they are not cute!”
“There. That’s snobbish.”
I did not respond. I opened my notebook and pretended to read. I just felt tired of his lame jokes and being linked to my male classmates. But he was really makulit. He turned to me again. “Okay. It’s Ray’s turn to stare at you now.”
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“I said shut up.”
“Do you hate me?” He asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because I hate being teased to our classmates especially if they are not cute and I don’t like them.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He scratched his head using his left hand. I thought he would finally shut up. “C’mon tease me to some girl in this class.”
I shut my notebook. “I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know the girl you like.”
He dropped his jaw and his eyes widened. “You don’t know who I like?!”
“No. Should I?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know who I’m crushing on in this class.”
“I’m telling the truth. I have no idea.”
He was about to say something when Mrs. MAPE Teacher came in and started discussing songs and musical notes. I never learned how to read notes and now I still wonder how I passed MSEP and MAPE.
Mrs. MAPE Teacher asked us to copy what’s on the board. I didn’t pay attention to him. I didn’t care if he could hardly write because of his injured pinky. I just didn’t feel like caring about him at all that time.
Then the sun shone intensely. I was seating near the window so it was freaking hot on my seat. I hated that part of the day when the sun would glare at me at around 10-11 am. I nonchalantly said, “I hate this seat. The sun fries me everyday.”
He stood up holding his notebook and told me, “Let’s exchange seats.”
Before I could say anything he went to my side and jokingly pushed me so I would stand up and go to his seat.
When we were both seated I glanced at him and he was not taking down notes. Instead he was covering his face with his notebook. He was already perspiring and squinting while staring at the board and waiting for me to finish writing so I could copy the lecture to his notebook.
April 23rd, 2010 at 10:27
I will be sitting on a cafeteria, chuckling at the New Age ideas about love and attraction dispensed in a book plainly titled “How to Find True Love” In the middle of my reading session, a couple would enter the café, sit on the table in front of me, and in muffled voices, muffled with muffins they would be eating, recount to each other what they love about “us” A
And then, someone would exit, and a breeze would enter (or maybe an electric fan will just magically appear out of thin air) and the girl (wait, couple seems misappropriated here. They could be man-and-man, too, but hey this is my fantasy) would lustily shake her head from side to side, and take another bite on her muffin. And that’s how I would fell in love with her. With her muffin-muffled sweet nothings carried by sound waves from across the table…
April 23rd, 2010 at 11:37
When I first saw the contest rules all I could think about was that scene in Zoolander when they have that orgy at Hansel’s and the next day Derek goes: “There was a moment last night, when she was sandwiched between the two Finnish dwarves and the Maori tribesmen, where I thought, ‘Wow, I could really spend the rest of my life with this woman.’” Sorry, just had to put that out there!
April 23rd, 2010 at 16:44
I handed him his examination screening for a job in our office. During the exam, I noticed he was reading audibly the test questions and writing agitatedly. I thought, “Bobo.”.
On his first day in the office, he arrived early, second to me. He set down his things on his table, then he came to mine and sat on the guest seat. I thought, “Presko.”.
He started by asking how his new officemates are like and if the stories he heard about us were true. I thought, “Chismoso.”.
To my surprise, I proceeded to blurt details a la Kris Aquino. He seemed to me to be transfixed by my mouth. We laughed at our repartee several times. Then the objects of our laughter arrived. We stopped reluctantly. He left to go to his table. I thought, “Wow.”.
April 23rd, 2010 at 17:57
Edited: I hope this is better. :)
The woman announces the numbers in a bored monotone, her sharp voice cutting through the tense silence. An unlikely deity, she. Here, in this room full of people whose hopes rely on numbers, numbers that she alone can give out like gifts, she is a goddess. When the day is over, her voice becomes softer as she says goodbye to her work mates, says hello to her children. But for now, as she sees the crushing disappointment of many and the unadulterated joy of a few, she steels herself. A slight straightening of the back, a squaring of the shoulders. She announces, “B-10.”
Relieved sighs and not a few groans echo in the room. Within a few seconds, everyone is still again, ears cocked, expressions hopeful, fierce, intent. Many of the players wear their hearts on their sleeves, their faces showing that they are praying harder than they have ever had for the right number to be announced. Others are more guarded, the picture of studied nonchalance, as if they were only playing the game for lack of better things to do. But a closer look gives them away. Feet tapping in impatience, markers gripped tightly in suspense.
Suddenly, a man coughs loudly, and like puppets on strings, everyone is drawn to the source of the sound, fearing the proclamation. The man throws everyone an apologetic grin. His throat was itchy, that was all.
In a corner, a man sits alone, hunched over pieces of paper that could give him instant fortune. But unlike the others in the room, he has missed several numbers that have been announced. In fact, he is not listening at all, his mind replaying an earlier scene with painful clarity. She told him she has slept with six men since he left. In his mind, only that number held any significance. It was the number of pain, of loss. It was the number of betrayal.
A tap on his shoulder, and he glances up, squinting at the light. A woman asks him if they could share the table. He doesn’t see her face, the light a blinding sun behind her. He nods. She sits across him and he sees her for the first time. She smiles, a bit shy, a bit apprehensive. He smiles back, a small, fleeting smile. For the next few minutes, she helps him with his numbers, tells him the numbers he’s missed, even marking announced numbers for him. They share their lives in numbers, too. Her age, the year he graduated from school, the number of years they’ve both worked abroad. He looks at her hands, white and translucent under the bright light. She looks into his eyes, dark and hurting in the bright light.
“Bingo!”, the coughing man shouts in triumph. A few people congratulate him. A woman clenches her fist. Another sighs with exasperation.
The game has ended and neither has won. She grins at him, a grin that says, “What the hell. It’s just a game!”. He can’t help smiling back. With more daring than he thought he had, he decides to take the plunge. He knew that life isn’t the movies, so he doesn’t ask her out for a cup of coffee.Nor does he ask her to take a walk with him or to maybe catch a movie or a quick snack. Instead, he asks for her number. Her voice is soft and it trembles as she gives the numbers to him.
They walk out of the room together, she, a few steps ahead of him. At the door, she glances back, a silent goodbye. He nods. They separate ways. He forgets about the number six. He smiles.
April 23rd, 2010 at 21:30
I sat on a crowded waiting room. I always imagined it bare and lonely, like in the movies, when the montage sequence is about to start and the director is a particularly up-and-coming one who thinks that copying Tiger Woods harrowing look in the new Nike commercial is cool. So, I am that dude with the harrowing look, now standing in front of the vending machine, unable to decide between regular Coke and Coke Zero. Aspartame kills, man. So does sugar. Damn.
So, I walk back to my seat between a woman in a floral tent and a man hacking up his lungs. Might as well start the montage sequence now since i have nothing better to do, i thought to myself. But the tent-dressed woman shifts her bum and I can think of nothing but, huge ass on my thigh, huge ass on my thigh. Right now, I would gladly listen to Abba singing about a dude called Fernando and his drums and how she nailed that bitch Liberty or something.
It was taking a while. But they said it would take a while. I shouldn’t be here anyway but she said I should, if only to see her through this. See through what? They booted me out because “there were complications” and that “everything would be alright”. Alright my ass. If something happens to Nina, I would… yeah George, what would you do? Scream expletives at them until their eardrums explode? Poke them in the eye with their stethoscopes? Cry like a little girl? Yeah, that’ll show them. As if I care, really.
I looked at my hands tightly clasped together. Jesus, George, what have you gotten yourself into? This is not how it should’ve happened. You’ve been a smart man for 30 years, why fuck it up now? Life is sweet, and it could only get sweeter. There’s the new BMW Gran Turismo to look forward to. The South of France this summer with the gang. In fact, you should be online booking your hotel and tickets now, you moron. Instead, you’re here sandwiched between the Horrors of Gibraltar.
They called my name and I stand to attention, like an awkward cadet. The doctor is still in her scrubs and there are a little stains of blood on the front. Is that good or bad, i asked myself? She lead to a corner, and she said in a hushed tone that there was “a complication”. I shake my head and asked what complication? She took this as cue and launched into a medical narrative that involved them having to do an emergency C-section and blah, blah, blah…. she wasn’t able to make it. Being stupid and in a state of shock, i blurted out, make it where? She looked at me like I was stupid and in a state of shock.
She placed her hand on my shoulder, which i momentarily noticed was elegant and ringless, and she told me that Nina was gone. I wanted to asked, gone where? But i wasn’t that stupid. She asked if I can see the baby. The baby? I asked. She said yes, the baby, it’s a girl. I thought, do I have to? But I just nodded feebly.
I couldn’t remember which floor we were in but i distinctly remembered smelling something good. Not hospital, antiseptic good. Just generally pleasantly good. They were quiet, like rows of tiny soldiers in their tiny beds, ready to be deployed to Iraq the next day and kill terrorists with their adorableness. I dislike babies.
She showed her to me. And i winced. Poor thing, all wrinkled and pink, how will she ever get a boyfriend at this rate. The doctor handed her to me and I vehemently protested but she was already in my arms. I started giving excuses about not being good with babies but she wouldn’t have it. I should lie and tell her I’m not the father, I thought. But right now, her in my arms, I can only think, soft, soft, soft. Every inch of her soft, her eyes shut tight and the shock of blond hair that mirrored mine. She wriggles, and i can feel every soft part of her tiny back on my calloused hands. And the way she pumps her arms up and down like that, she is my little girl of rock and roll.
I looked at her and whispered, “I saw the heavens unfastened, and open planets, palpitating plantations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe…” That’s all I remembered from Nina, the poet, the artist, who would read to me poems in bed after making love. I still don’t understand what it means until now, that line, but the compulsion to say it right this very moment was strong. Like whisky, it knocks me back and smashes me to the wall, beaten and awed.
April 23rd, 2010 at 22:11
There may be a thousand reasons I could invent just to excuse myself from waking up early. Today, for example, I could say that traveling from Cubao to reach Cainta in the ungodly time of 730 am is an exercise in futility. You take a shower, get all freshened up, only to have yourself perfumed by the collective exhaust of the vehicles pounding along Marcos Highway. You wake up early, take in the sunshine, and feel at peace, only for that insane jeepney driver to turn his shuttle into an atrocious race car, with you holding on for dear life, looking as stressed as 4 pm.
But it had to be done. I had too many cuts for my Philosophy class already, and I can’t be late for this requirement. It was a miracle that my white shirt still seemed recognizably white after that jeepney ride from hell. However, I could not see any more white shirts in Mini Stop—our class’s meeting place—so I figured I would buy something to soothe my nerves. God, I hate mornings. And falling in line early in the morning. And jeepney drivers who make their day by destroying mine.
Then there it was—a tap on my shoulder. It was a light, hesitant tap, not heavy enough for me to be scared or to start biting the tapper’s head off. Sorry, I had a bad morning.
‘Hi,’ you said. ‘Are you here for the orientation, too?’
‘Yes,’ only I did not think I had seen you enter. Still, you were wearing a white shirt, and you seemed harmless. ‘Can we sit?’ you asked, as the cashier handed me my receipt. ‘Okay,’ I shrugged. ‘There?’ Two blue, round seats by the window, so we could see our companions when they came. Outside, the jeepneys continued pouring smoke into the air, the angry grey mixing with the golden, pristine sunlight that had managed to peep from the clouds. What a waste.
The early-morning grouch that I am, I carry a stern, shut-up-when-I’m-not-talking-to-you look on my face 24/7. This usually works for almost every person I meet, and saves me from a lot of forced and stupid conversations with people I’d rather avoid. But you went to me, shook my hand, asked a few polite questions, and started a conversation. You have no idea how funny this is for me. I’ll talk to you. You don’t talk to me. I will bite you.
‘Ben,’ you introduced, as you held out your brown hand. Beneath your glasses, your eyes are clear and kind. ‘Anita,’ I offered, keeping my lips in a straight line. From my view here by the window, the sunlight hit the road and made the beaten pavement sparkle, like the sea.
I kept my usual sarcasm—reserved for too-early mornings, like this one—at bay. You did not deserve to be dissed, at least, not after you walked up to me, asked for my name, and shook my hand. Not after you told me stories and recalled instances where we could have met before. Not after I took note of how you paid attention when I began to speak. Not after I felt a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
More and more people milled inside Mini Stop, sheltering in the oasis of cold aircon and cheap fast food. Your voice was almost lost in the chatter of early stragglers looking for respite as the heat rose, and in the ruckus of jeepneys honking outside every time the glass doors were opened.
But I listened, even though there may be a thousand reasons I could invent to excuse myself from you. For example, I already could see our group outside Mini Stop, inhaling smoke, while we sat comfortably, enjoying the relatively clean air. I was still slightly annoyed over waking up early, and I could have easily pulled on my biting face and scared you off. You could have walked away (politely, of course) and never talked to me again. I could have sat there alone, hating the jeepneys, cursing the school that allowed torture this early. I could have just stood suddenly, stopped the conversation—
‘Shall we go? I see them already.’
On second thought, no. Not this morning.
April 24th, 2010 at 00:08
Jejemon chat
mZmALditha13: eow h0wE Ar Uh na poewh?
M1ztahKiLLah14: zUp yo homMIeGurL! h@NgiN w1dh maH hoMmIezh 1NN sTarbuxS
mZmALditha13: OwW g@Leng2x mUh naM@nh poWh 1ngGet akHow
M1ztahKiLLah14: pUnTha N@ ekOw Di2 Zha sTarbuxs aMM@ trEatz y@h to a lATThEE pAhR@ m3eT muH na Kohw
mZmALditha13: OwWHh sW3etzh muH nMhan powh. ZiGh3 pHuntha N@ Pow meE dHeR. XOXO GozZiphGurL p3Acze oU+!
(My head is hurting now. It’s hard to write on the Jejemon level trying to show an initial chat for EB. hahahahaha this was a challenge!)
April 24th, 2010 at 00:35
Revised Entry:
It’s my sister’s 18th birthday and I feel nothing else but OLD. I chose a blue shift dress for the occasion, hoping the color would keep me serene from frantic relatives who would dare to set me up with some dentist, editor, doctor, engineer. I’m a 25 year old virgin who can’t drive. So what if I’m that clueless, at least I’m not desperate to be anything else.
The idea of marriage is too remote for me but I do intend to marry any of my gay friends just to get a tax break when I turn 35. I am completely okay with that, then again getting knocked up by a hot Caucasian dude and producing a showbiz worthy offspring is not a bad alternative life plan at all.
My sister’s friends start to arrive. I nonchalantly approach the bar while everyone is shrieking and greeting one another in annoying teenage tones.
“One shot of tequila please.”
Bianca, the other single lady of the Santos family, is taking forever to arrive. A voice boomed over my right shoulder while Miley Cyrus Partaaaying in the USA blared in the background.
“One san mig light! Hey, you’re Sarah’s sister right?”
“Yup, Sarah’s older sister. That’s me”
“You don’t look like you’re older than Sarah”
“Um thanks? I guess.” Okay, so at least the 3thousand bucks I spent on that night cream is paying off.
“I’m Mico. I’m Sarah’s philosophy classmate”
I just smiled. Oh I know who he is. He’s Mico, “Mico Revilla” – One of the 300++ sons of Ramon Revilla. But that’s just my theory. He looks like a smarter version of Bong Revilla. I remember seeing him briefly at our house and choking at the sight of a lanky Bong Revilla with unruly hair walk past our living room.
“I was at your house the other day… um, your uncle’s Lamborghini looks great”
“Right.” Hmmm… What the hell is a Lamborghini? I know Mom and Dad mentioned that the other day. Is that Tito Sandy’s new pasta recipe? Oh wait, I think I heard it from an Akon song. I have the sudden urge to open my phone and maybe he won’t notice me googling it. Seriously now, how do you even spell it?!
“Hey are you alright? You look a little.. confused”
I let out a weak laugh and take another shot of tequila. Mico was slowly peeling off the edges of the beer’s label as he watches me take the shot.
“Your tattoo looks interesting by the way”. The tequila almost projects out of my nose, and I manage to make a shallow cough out of it. He restrains a smile, but I could see the corners of his dry lips curl.
How the hell did he know I have a tattoo? Sarah doesn’t even know about that.
“How did you know I have one?”
“I saw you walk out of your bedroom, um the panda made a peek-a-boo”
“Oh, um well I have a soft spot for endangered species!” Stupid chubby panda. I shouldn’t have listened to Bianca. The giant panda only looks adorable when you’re drunk with cheap vodka. I bet even a snail could have evoked more sex appeal! I need to change the subject fast.
“Mico you look like Bong Revilla. Has anyone told you that?” I suddenly blurt out.
“Who‘s Bong Revilla?”
“You don’t know who Bong Revilla is?”
“No.”
“He’s a Senator.”
“I don’t know him”
“Well he’s also an actor.”
“Hmm…”
“Ang Panday? Kap’s amazing stories?” Why do I know these things? I don’t even watch TV anymore.
“Sorry, I rarely watch TV. Lots of homework to do. “ He sounds embarrassed, as if trying to think of a much cooler excuse.
Ahh right, the boy has homework, how can he have some spare time to know Bong Revilla. I take another shot of tequila thinking how Bong Revilla just created an awkward age gap conversation.
“Mico! There you are!” A girl with an annoying twang shouted at our direction. “Let’s go dance!” she flashes her nicotine smile and started to walk towards Mico’s direction.
“I’ll catch up with you later. I’ll be at your house next Thursday.. Maybe I’ll see you around… or your panda.” Darn it, why does he have to remember the Panda?
Just as he exists, Bianca arrives with a glass of red wine on hand.
“Who’s that?”
“I think I just met one of Ramon Revilla’s 100++ children. He looks like Bong Revilla noh?”
April 24th, 2010 at 01:13
I had to edit it a lot. I reached 2k+ words.
Thank you for this chance, Miss Z.
—
She was THIS close to banging her head on the window. This. Damned. CLOSE.
She took a deep, calming breath. Peace. Serenity. Picture a meadow of bouncing bunnies. A beach in the gold of sunset. Adam Lambert declaring his love for tacos and her.
The scent of pine shot up her nostrils.
Damned buses. Damned evil roach-infested death traps on air freshener and wheels. With holed seats. And obscene messages. And grinning men in sweaty redyellowwhiteblue tees, paper bills between their fingers and lies between their teeth.
She hated buses.
“Excuse me?”
She automatically moved to the right, eyes still closed. Her head was killing her. It pounded to the rhythm of the bus TV, helped along by frustration in pine scent. Damn she wanted sleep.
“-aaaaaaaa-ight… the un-beeeea-tah-ble fo -”
Her eyes shot open.
“-ooooow… to beaaaaaar… the un-beeeea-rah-ble sor-”
Patience.
“-rrrrrrrrow… to reeeeeeeach… the un-reeeea-chah-ble -”
NOW.
“-staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa -”
“Can you please lower the volume?” she asked. She removed her sunglasses for good measure, giving his cellphone-with-TV a pointed stare. She raised her eyes to glare.
“-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahr!!!”
The guy was staring. She faltered. “It’s hurting my h-headache.” What the hell? “My head. I m-mean my head.” Could she choke on her tongue and die? “The volume?”
He seemed to wake up. She figured anyone would, after a blast of verbal diarrhea. “Sure.”
She tried to gather her dignity with a thankful grunt, purposefully re-slipping her shades on. She scooted further away, hearing static. Then -
“- you think!”
She froze. She glanced at her seatmate’s screen and clamped down a gasp of glee. Deciding quickly, she yawned and stretched, her right hand scratching at her cheek, her sunglasses accidentally lowering and giving her a glimpse. Two minutes and pained eyes later, she inwardly snorted. How hard was it to ask?
She removed her shades. “Uh, Chowtime?”
“Yup.”
“Huh,” she remarked, casual. “Cool if I watch?”
“No problem.” She blinked when he scooted close, their knees touching. She inhaled sharply. The pine scent slammed down her throat and she dissolved into a coughing fit.
“Hey!” A hand slammed down her back. She coughed harder. The hand stilled before rubbing circles awkwardly. “You okay?”
“G-Good,” she wheezed out. Dying would be nice. “Awesome,” she added. Her eyes crossed at an uncapped water bottle thrust into her face. She grabbed it with a grateful nod and chugged down its content, returning the bottle with a sigh seconds later. “Thanks.”
“No prob,” he replied, smiling.
She felt uncomfortable.
“So,” she coughed, staring at the screen with interest. She tried to think of words to reclaim her dignity. Again. “You’re watching Chowtime.”
‘Foot-in-mouth disease for the win.’
“Yeah.” He looked down and she relaxed. “And the talents are nice.”
She hummed her agreement, then chuckled at a judge’s remark. Her seatmate snickered. They burst into laughter at the host’s rejoinder, exchanging a glance before laughing again. This they did for almost an hour, whispering comments and chuckles like hiding kids. It stopped with a shrill ring from her cellphone.
She took it out, frowning. ‘Brunch/Causeway/11am.’ ‘Great,’ she thought darkly. ‘Four hours late.’ She wouldn’t have been in this bus if it wasn’t for this retarded alarm.
“Bad news?”
She shrugged, repocketing her cellphone. “More like bad timing,” she muttered.
“Ah.”
She looked up. He was staring at her again. She turned to her bag. “Nearing your stop?” he asked. She hummed an absentminded ‘yeah,’ busying herself with nothing. Almost there.
“Wou -”
“Paramount! Paramount!” the conductor barked.
She straightened and turned to him, nodding. The ride wasn’t as awful as usual, though it was… weirder. “Thanks,” she said. She smiled and slipped on her sunglasses. “Take care.” She paused in the motion of standing. “You were saying something?”
He seemed hesitant. “Can I -”
“Paramount, last call!”
“Wait!” she shouted. She hurriedly squeezed herself between the guy’s knees and the front seat. “Bye!” she called back and exited the bus, her chest tightening for some reason. She ignored it.
She needed a tricycle. Sighting the tryke bay, she ran as her hand reached down. A tex -
“… Huh?”
She stopped, shocked. Where’s her cellphone?
“Shitshitshitshitshit.”
After a minute of groping – and how wrong was that, groping herself in front of tricycle drivers? – a thought suddenly struck her with a staggering force. “That little shit,” she breathed out. No wonder he’s staring! He’s looking for a way to get into her pants for her phone!
“Miss!”
That staring little shit!
“Miss!”
She stiffened. Wa -?
“Miss!”
She turned around, fists clenched. “Yo- Huh?”
Her ex-seatmate stood before her, grinning, waving something before her eyes. “You dropped your phone.”
“… Whu?”
His grin deepened. When did he get a dimple? “Your phone, Miss…?”
“Oh. Oh!” she exclaimed. She grabbed her phone, nuzzling it to her cheek. She paused, suddenly realizing what he just did. Her head shot up in surprise. He didn’t have to do that.
She began to smile. “Thanks, Mr…?”
His smile, fading seconds before, returned. “Ryan.”
She beamed. “Thanks, Ryan. You’ve no -” Shit, the brunch! “Shit!”
He’s staring. AGAIN. “Problem?”
“Stop being creepy already!” she blurted out. She slapped her forehead. What the hell was wrong with her?
He laughed, eyes crinkling. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
“You don’t even know me,” she said, exasperated. Okay. That was just rude of her. He returned her phone!
“Then tell me your name,” he replied, shrugging with an easy smile. Her breath hitched. Her cheesy disgusting heart-thing was pounding so hard, street children were probably constructing a dance routine to its beat right now. Probably beatboxing along too.
Stupid smile. Stupid Christian Bautista.
“But it’s okay if you don’t want to,” Ryan added. His smile was gone, though. “I -”
“Grace,” she cut in. She looked away, irked when his smile returned. Damned heart-thing. “Name’s Grace.”
The relief in his voice was clear. “Care for a cup?”
Her mouth twitched. She hated coffee.
“Sure.”
She hated buses too.
April 24th, 2010 at 01:27
So can you do multiple entries? I have another one; I really want one of those Moleskines. Hopefully, this one doesn’t give you a headache:
It was a cold, windy day when Jack set off from his cottage to go up the steep hill to fetch a pail of water from the village well. Really, if it were up to him, he’d be in a bar somewhere far, far away getting pissed drunk. Oh, what a bitch his wife turned out to be. Jill was such a nag; you’d think she had terminal cancer the way she’d groaned and carried on through the night. He WAS the one who needed 38 stitches on his forehead when he tumbled down that steep hill. The only injuries she sustained were a bruised rib and a chipped fingernail. And those children of hers!!! All those damn teenagers did all day was eat and take naps. The larder was always empty when he came home hungry and tired from a long day of chopping wood. Honest to God if Hansel and Gretel weren’t going to eat him out of house and home one of these days, if they didn’t do it to someone else first. Why, just two days ago, he had to endure another lecture from old Jack Horner about how those rotten step kids of his had stolen one of the pies he had left cooling by his kitchen window. What a life. He smiled ruefully to himself as he swung his pail morosely. He should have run away with the dish and the spoon when he had the chance.
He passed by the low wall and waved absently to Humpty Dumpty, who was trying to climb said wall to reach the apples growing out from Mary Contrary’s garden.
He was tired, tired of life, tired of fetching water and cutting wood all day long. He was leaning against a fence, taking a breather when he heard a voice call out to him. He glanced over to see Angie step out of the old shoe she lived in. He winced inwardly; he dodged a bullet on that one. He already had his hands full trying to feed 2 ungrateful teenagers and a nag of a wife. He didn’t need to take on a mistress with a savior complex and 100 adopted kids to boot. He’d sooner jump off a cliff.
He ducked his head and pretended not to hear or see Angie waving at him seductively by the door as he sprinted the remaining distance to the village well. When he finally got to the old well, he sighed and took off his cap to wipe the sweat off his brow. What a life, indeed.
He was bent over, preparing to hook his pail to the well rope when he was first became aware of it. A looming, a presence, a sense of something infinite, something larger than life. He drew a deep breath and smelled the stars. A dizzying sensation rose up from the pit of his stomach and enveloped his head. It was almost like being on top of the clouds, breathing air so thin, it made your pulse race and your heart pound. He looked up, squinting at the shadowed figure standing against the noonday sun.
“Hi, I’m Mrs. Swan from up the beanstalk. Can you tell me where I can get a pail to draw some water out of the well? My husband’s too busy with his goose to do the chores today.”
He felt worlds within him open up, universe upon universe of new possibilities, a feeling of infinity, of life reinvented, of starting over again at the very beginning before the cares of the world robbed you of your joy and spontaneity. He reached his hand up; she was so tall his hand only grazed the bottom hem of her dress.
“Hi, I’m Jack and I’ve got just what you need right here.”
April 24th, 2010 at 02:30
Avatar_aang.. re:post #76 … OUCH!! i had to re-read this post multiple times and i still dont think i understood what the hell they were texting about. kids these days… i feel like i just killed several thousand brain cells… thanks for migraine =)
April 24th, 2010 at 09:56
The chauffeur stood motionless on the curb. He had his hands tucked behind him, his eyes fixated on the revolving door of the hotel. It had been two years since he started ferrying moneyed visitors around the city and although his face hardly ever carried any discernible expression, one can clearly see he took pride in his job.
The night before he received a call from management that he was to pick up a guest at exactly four o’clock that afternoon. He arrived fifteen minutes early and had the black Lincoln parked at its designated area. He stepped out of the vehicle, straightened his tie and proceeded to wait on the spot he was now.
A few minutes later, he sees a woman in her late twenties emerge from the entrance. Her brown hair was in a haphazard french twist. She wore a pair of oversized sunglasses, the kind that lunges down to the cheeks and half way up the forehead. She had on a long gown the color of which reminded him of a wooden rowboat he once owned as a boy. It was quite an interesting shade and strangely enough suited her very well. To hide his amusement, he pursed his lips which was all his occupation and his sense of propriety allowed him to do.
She stops half way as if she just realized something profound. Then she starts rummaging through her purse for what was the missing piece to her ensemble: a pair of diamond-studded earrings. She inches her way absentmindedly towards the vehicle and the tall gentleman. He clears his throat.
“Good morning madam”, he touches the brim of his hat.
“Good morning,” she reciprocates the greeting distractedly. She had just finished putting on her earrings. As she takes the purse from underneath one arm, she looks up at him as if he had just materialized out of thin air and had not been waiting there the entire time. She slides the monstrous eyewear down to reveal her eyes.
“Have we met before?” she asks, a subtle furrow forms between her eyebrows.
“No, I believe we haven’t.”
“You remind me of someone,” she smiled and without waiting for an answer gets into the limo.
April 24th, 2010 at 11:26
“You shouldn’t be reading that.”
She turned around hesitantly and found a stranger waiting for her reaction on his unsolicited advice.
She frequented this place where she usually slump in the corner, tune out the voices of people around her and get lost with words. But in that day, she decided to move around and explore other titles which she instantly regretted the moment she heard those words.
“What do you mean?” She asked defensively as she scans the guy in front of her. Tall, dark and handsome, she thought, and confident.
“You seriously like that -?”
“Crap? She finished the sentence for him.
“If I say yes, would you leave me alone and just go read that very-worthy-of-reading book you’re holding? She said.
“This?” He chuckled and turns the book over so its title is facing her.
She quietly read the title with her eyes “How to Make People Like You”, it says.
And to make things worse, he followed through with a question accompanied by a smile. “Is it working?” Oh, right the book was pre-meditated. It was lame, mushy, chees-y and it caught her off guard.
“You know you shouldn’t be reading that.” She replied, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
They laughed.
In that moment, it hit her. What’s currently happening, she has seen in movies and read in books. Although she seldom fantasized on this, it never dawned to her that she will actually get to experience one of this moments. She suddenly became conscious of her appearance. And a train of should’a thoughts poured in. I should have worn better clothes. I should have dropped by in the ladies room to freshen up. I should have put my hair down. But it doesn’t matter now, maybe this things really come when you least expect them.
The night ended with the exchange of their names, numbers and a nice-meeting-you handshake.
As she went out of the bookstore, she thought, “I just had my first movie moment.”
April 24th, 2010 at 11:43
How he got me in the car was inexplicable.
To see myself in a shabby-looking, green volkswagen bus with the guy I despised for the past three years of my college life was so much to take. What’s worst? The car stereo eerily plays “Can’t Smile Without You” and on top of that, he sang along with it.
I turned off the car stereo and it took me over a minute to find where the obscured power button was. He turned it on again. Bastard. When i was about to turn it off again, he covered the controls with his hand, and he went on singing louder than he did. I managed to ground my temper realizing that I wouldn’t want to make a mess with this ape, who’s on the wheel. His athletic build convinced me that I wouldn’t want to suffer the wrath of his loathing.
“Come on, sing with me. It’s Barry Manilow,” he said and went singing along with it, tossing his head to the tune.
“I don’t care if it’s Barry friggin’ Manilow, turn it off,” with my temper slowly revving its way up.
For the last time, I boldly shoved his hand off from the cassette player and grabbed that annoying tape out of its socket. He eagerly tried to get it back while he was maneuvering the wheel. I was determined not to hand it over, as was that psychopath when he made a quick turn against a one-way street! Luckily, there weren’t cars on the opposite direction.
“Dick-head! are you trying to get us both killed?!” I exclaimed.
“I wouldn’t have done that if you’d quit being such a smart-ass and give me back the tape!” he retorted back. The nerve.
“Isn’t it fun?” he told me in this boyish sort of way.
“Are you kidding me? It’s not fun to be dead, you idiot!” agitated me in the thick of hysteria. Seriously though, that was mean, dense, and just way too reckless. “To think I would be deprived a natural death, and the idea dying with you would just send me haunting in grief!”
That stupid smile got wiped off his face. Things piped down a bit, and the gas plummeted around 40. There was nothing but the purr of the engine.
Then he spoke, “You know, sometimes when you get into a situation where you find yourself in danger, that’s when you feel alive the most.”
A long, awkward silence passed. Not bad for him and his halfwits but otherwise, that’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard from him out of this situation.
“You would get into this kind of trouble just to realize that?” Pathetic.
“Most of the time, I would, and I have the scars to prove it,” he said with pride.
“Really? I hope you would also be able to see the emotional scar you gave me just a while ago. It still burns.” The sarcasm in me now bares its fangs.
“You know, I honestly believe people, who understand pain are the ones who truly know how rewarding life could be,” he said, still on the lingering thoughts of the subject.
“I happen to know a painful truth about life. These people you’re talking about are not happy. You can’t go on saying who interprets what because there is a difference between you and them. It starts from how you look to how they think”
“How would you know?” he dared ask.
Past three blocks.
“You don’t know how it is to suffer. Maybe that’s why you find it so easy to waste efforts trying to feel alive because you of all the least, have no clue how real living felt. For me, living everyday of my life is—” I didn’t know where that came from but it just had to come out, “having a day less of humanity in this god-forsaken world. I die thinking of that every single day.”
His look shifted from the road towards me.
“You sound so troubled,” he uttered.
“You’re the one with the troubled philosophy here,” I said looking away.
“You wouldn’t understand. You’re not gay,” I clinched.
“Do gays die everyday of their lives?” He asked.
“I don’t know about them but I do,” I answered.
“You’re right, I probably won’t understand,” he concluded, though it seemed kind of unsettling. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
“Well enough, I think we’ve come to an understanding,” I said trying to end his squabbling.
The sight of the school grounds brought comfort. Thank God.
“There is one thing though that I would like you to understand,” he told me.
I was puzzled. I was waiting for what he was about to say. When we were about to arrive at the school gates, he kept driving on. What an absent-minded fool.
“You’ve driven past the school gates,” I said trying to make him notice.
“I know. We’re going some place else,” he told me.
“I have class! I can’t afford to miss a day!” I blurted out.
“Well, if it meant being absent would have you die a day less, then why don’t you take a chance,” he said having no sense.
“Wait! Where are you taking me?” I asked panicking.
“Somewhere we could be alone so I could let you feel how it is to be alive,” he said having a scheming smile.
He drove me crazy—up to this day.
-end-
April 24th, 2010 at 15:45
Hello, Jessica. I’m really starting to get in the spirit of this challenge. I haven’t written anything for so long that it’s been nice trying to rack my mind of entries that would keep you from getting a headache. Doesn’t matter if I can’t have multiple entries, it was just nice to be able to write again. So, believe it or not, I have another one for you. So here’s my 3rd entry…
April 24th, 2010 at 15:46
Looking back, he would think to himself that he should have been smart enough to have seen the signs and run away. But he didn’t. He could remember the first meeting as clearly as if it had just happened yesterday, or 5 minutes ago, for that matter. The punch in the gut, the vortex of pleasure, the feeling that everything hollow, everything empty in him was suddenly filled to capacity and overflowing. He despaired at his weakness, at his inability to say no, even though he knew in his soul that to love like this would destroy him, render to pieces the discipline he tried to painstakingly cultivate in himself; knew that these feelings rushing within him and out of him would just as easily turn into an addiction, a bad habit that would break him apart. But he could not stop himself, would not even dare to try anymore. Something deep within him had shifted, knew things would never be the same again. Knew that no matter how hard he tried, he would keep coming back, unable to say no, helpless against the feelings inside of him. Before he knew it, he found himself, face to face with his tormentor, his sweet seductress and it was like meeting again the first time.
“One slice of the decadent chocolate cake, please.”
April 24th, 2010 at 19:35
It was one of those days when you wake up and you knew that it will be bad. The clock says 7:00 am, 30 minutes before your much hated first class which is PE. And you cannot bear being late because you were relying on the extra points of perfect attendance to pass since you sucked in every sport you’ve tackled and failed every single practical exam. Your mind was busy prioritizing and thinking of the morning rituals you would have to give up. You opted for not taking a bath and just sprinkling your hair with water and washing your privates.
7:20 your out of the house, brisk walking to the highway for a jeepney. Normally, you would not mind waiting for one that has no passenger in it because you love seating on the end near the smoke belcher. Unfortunately, you are running late so you stopped the first jeep you saw which is jam-packed, the kind where only one of the two cheeks of your butt can be accommodated.
You rode the jeepney and every soul was JUST looking at you. Nobody was moving their freaking bodies off. Driver said, “diyan sa kanan, isa pa. Waluhan yan” and upon hearing this, you un-courteously squeezed your butt in the right side while saying “Excuse me po!” somewhat irritatingly. The guy seating beside you smells funny. He was looking on the opposite direction so you grabbed the opportunity to assess him, he was well-groomed. Your mind says “Metrosexual siguro to. Isang metro na lang bading na” and you smirked at your dirty thought.
“Bayad po”, you say whilst extending your arm in front of your seatmate. You know he is still looking at the opposite direction but that is not a valid reason for ignoring you, unless he is retarded. “Paabot po ng bayad!” you say a little louder. Oh, how you hate people who are so stupid they cannot even hear or understand human language, the people you seat on jeepneys with who snob you even if your voice echoed through-out the vehicle. The old lady in front of you got scared of your facial expression so she kindly gave your seven pesos to the driver. The bastard sitting beside you did not even move an inch.
One by one, everyone departed until only you and the underdeveloped guy beside you were left. He knocked on the ceiling of the jeepney signalling the driver to stop. Just before he left, he looked at you. It wasn’t actually a “look” more like a “glance” and you found yourself saying, “Oh please, be not gay. Be not gay”. You must’ve looked funny because he smiled and just like a camera shot, that image was instantly stored in your memory. You forgot that he was retarded and deaf and underdeveloped and apathetic and stupid. After he left, you smiled that sweet smile to yourself. You don’t know why. You just did. You stopped smiling when you realized you didn’t take a bath. Of all days, you chose not to today.
7:30 the jeep stopped in front of your school. After swiping your ID and realizing you’re late, you temporarily forgot all about the guy and started running for your class.
April 24th, 2010 at 23:18
It couldn’t have been a worse day to wake up with bad hair.
It was barely morning when we shuffled into the tour van. An extraordinary feat for me since I was more of a night owl – like most teenagers nowadays, but then again, being abroad with an iron-fisted father could make me do even the most impossible things. The sky wasn’t as bright as it had often been the past few days. It was gloom that replaced the usual cheery atmosphere of Phuket, Thailand. Mother Nature was warning us, something bad was about to happen.
Despite the bleak weather conditions, my family and I were dropped off at the pier for our scheduled boat ride to James Bond Island. We joined a small crowd of foreigners in the waiting area, watching the locals for someone to signal and lead us over to the boat. Crushed between a gorgeous Russian modelite and a buxom Indian, I consciously ran my fingers through my hair. I had forgotten that in a desperate attempt to tame it, I had pulled it up to a so-so ponytail and got my fingers stuck in the wild mess of locks.
A perky Thai girl called our group over, causing half the crowd to abandon their seats. No matter how hard I tried to pull my fingers away; they remained trapped in my hair. Someone bumped me aside, and a spray of coffee from his paper cup stained my shirt while my other hand knocked my glasses askew. It didn’t help that the heat was making me sweat buckets.
That’s how he first saw me. Bed head. Frustrated scowl. I must’ve looked my worst. But even with my current problem I couldn’t stop myself from staring back at him. His eyes were directed at me, although his mouth was producing words that made aforementioned Russian modelite giggle. A hat perched atop his sun bleached hair, he looked like a hybrid of Johnny Depp and Jack Sparrow, only less rum and more tan.
Maybe that’s why I was so surprised when he approached me twenty seconds later, offering his Jason Mraz fedora.
April 24th, 2010 at 23:57
“Ooh, ooh, what’s she saying now?” I asked my friend. The cute girl across the room was comunicating in sign language to the other girl beside her, and I asked my friend to interpret – eavesdrop – for me. It was the least he could do for dragging me with him to this sign language exposure thing with deaf kids.
“She’s saying.. something about a school. Homework, teacher isn’t any good, just writes on the board a lot. And I think this,” he made a gesture, “means something insulting. Let me check my notes.”
As he scanned his notebook, I watched their silent conversation closely, and once in a while I’d catch her glancing my way.
“Asshole,” my friend said.
“What?”
“This,” he made the gesture again. “It means asshole.”
“What kind of notes do you have in that thing anyway?”
“Oh, shit.” The girl across the room was making her way to our chairs, and the expression she wore wasn’t a happy one. She stopped in front of us and began signing rapidly, too fast for even my friend to catch, but we could tell from her expression that she wasn’t pleased.
And then, after a few minutes, and with the entire room’s eyes on us, she slowed, and ended with a familiar gesture.
“Ooh, I know that one,” my friend said.
“Yeah. Asshole.”
April 24th, 2010 at 23:59
“Mmmm, this cake tastes good!” Suddenly, I see a dead rat by the gutter. What am I doing here in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, eating a gourmet cake by the sidewalk? What happened to me a few hours ago should have normally been the best night in anyone’s life.
A few hours ago…
Me: Wow, this place is great! Dark and quiet and lonely, seems like not too many people eat here…just my kind of place. I hope the food’s good!
X: Erm…well…yeah, glad you like it.
Hmm…is it me or does he seem nervous?
The night passed without too much conversation. After devouring my steak, it’s finally time for dessert. The waiter brings out a nice piece of cake. It doesn’t actually look like dessert as much as a work of art. I almost didn’t want to eat it. Well, almost. Can’t resist dessert no matter how beautiful it is. I can’t help noticing but there’s something about this dessert that’s special that I can’t put my finger on.
Lo and behold, what do I find inside the cake? I know, another cliché: inside is the ring that’s supposed to signify the start of a blissful life together until the end of time. But my reaction was not. I was horrified! He started giving the usual speech about wanting to spend the rest of his life with me, yada yada yada. In the meantime, I was frantically thinking in my head how to get myself out of this situation with the least awkwardness, if that’s even possible. Suddenly, I noticed that he stopped speaking. He’s done with his speech and was waiting for my answer. Then in the corner of my eyes, I see our family and friends approaching, with video cams and all. God, he invited them! Everyone’s here! This is slowly turning into a horror movie starring myself.
Me: Erm, I guess you can tell I’m a bit surprised. I was not expecting this. And I was not expecting that I would give this answer, but no, I can’t marry you.
I will not bore you with the conversation that followed. Being the gentleman that he is, he asked our family and friends to go ahead and leave us to talk. I went ahead and explained everything. He took it calmly.
He respected my decision and offered to take me home. Am I so stupid to let this perfect guy go? I said there’s no need. I wanted to stay for a while, walk around, and think. After he left, I walked out into the night, and walked along the trees that lined the streets. By far, this night has been the worst night of my life. There is a lingering sadness in my heart, but I never doubted my decision. I knew it was the right thing to do. The sadness was with hurting the person you cared about. After walking around for a while, I finally felt tired and sat down by the sidewalk. Suddenly, a cake appeared in front of me. I looked up and a man was holding the cake. I recognized him as someone from the restaurant.
Me (confused): What’s this?
Y: I saw you walking around the block, and you didn’t get to finish your cake, so I thought I’d bring it to you.
Me: Oh. Thanks…I guess? Didn’t you think, though, that I wouldn’t want to see this cake after what happened?
Y: It’s a perfectly good cake. I didn’t want it to go to waste. Plus with the way you devoured your steak, I thought you’re the type of person who wouldn’t care and would still want to eat your cake regardless.
Me: Oh really huh?! …well…you’re right…I wouldn’t want it to go to waste.
So I took the cake and it was heaven. Nothing like a good dessert to temporarily make you happy no matter how crappy you feel. I noticed the dead rat and was looking at it when a voice pulled me away from it.
Y: So…what happened in there?
Me: What?
Y: I said what happened in there? You know, the proposal and all.
Me: You saw what happened.
Y: Yeah, but I wanna know why you did what you did.
Me: You expect me to explain everything to you?! I don’t even know you!
Y: Even better. I won’t have any judgments. I don’t know either of you from before so I’d have a fresh perspective. You know when he came into the restaurant and asked me to make this cake, he was so happy. I can feel his love even just with the way he talked about you. I knew then that I had to make the best cake for him…and for you.
Me: Are you trying to make me feel better or worse? Anyway, so that’s what it is! When I first saw this cake, I knew there was something special about it. And it’s not because there’s a ring in it, coz we both know how that went.
Y: Whoa, done already? You should join one of those Japanese eating contests or something. Wanna walk some more? Let’s burn off all those steak and cake that you ate. And you can talk as well.
I looked at him and I noticed that my heart seemed to be a little bit less heavy. Could it have been the cake? I stood up and followed him.
That night turned out to be the best night of my life after all.
April 25th, 2010 at 00:15
I am turning 34 in a few weeks, and needless to say I have been on every imaginable date and every mutation of that so-called relationship thing.
There was that guy who asked me where did I “leave” and he never got to any base. There was also that one who made really dirty jokes on a double date. I would have considered testing his theories out were it not for his skin tone – the kind someone gets had they been floating face down on a river for 3 days. Experimental as I was, I don’t go for simulated necrophilia.
It would be nice to have someone who can pay for dinner sometimes, and I realized I’ve been single for 2 years now, the longest I’ve been without a significant other since I started at 18. Subsidized lifestyles aside, it would be nice to have someone to hold my hand at the gory scenes of the war movies I so love to watch, or drive me home when I get too piss drunk from the cheap tequila I always bring to potluck parties but I end up drinking everything. It would also be nice to have someone else to get crabby at whenever I get PMS.
But I have been there and done all that when it came to relationships. I have tried them all and nothing worked. Single, married, boss, subordinate, professor, classmate, next door neighbor, rockstar, ordinary employee, my grandmother’s caregiver – they were all the same. Sniveling insecure little boys who got jealous at the first sign of independence, then turning the tables so it wasn’t them anymore. And I’m tired of all those relationship drama that always make me want to physically rip out my heart from ribcage and then feed it to stray dogs.
I realized I’ve been so lost in thought I’ve only typed the title of the article I’m working on, so I went back to work. I’ve barely finished my opening sentence when I bounced on the couch. The guy who plopped all 180 lbs (I’m good at guessing weights, I won a prize for that once) of himself at the other end was splayed and had his eyes closed, like he just came from teaching 5 year olds what caused the financial crisis of 2007. He looked that exhausted.
Using only my peripheral view I managed to take a good look at him – full head of hair, really long eyelashes, a straight nose, the beginnings of a five o clock shadow, a little gut, maybe from the weekend binges the working class traditionally have, a medium well complexion (that shade between really dark and brown, and I also love steak), and no wedding ring. Yes, I read Nancy Drew, thank you very much. Yes, until now.
I do the wedding ring check, and the telltale band of pale skin in case the person just took it off for the day. At 34, you always check out men with no wedding rings and a full head of hair.
“I’m sorry you bounced.” My aorta missed a half beat, but nothing that would register on an ECG.
Oh good, he admits his erring ways and apologizes. “That’s ok”, I said without looking up.
He sat up. “I’m still recovering from the dolphin tracking trip. I still feel like I’m at sea.”
“Uh huh.” Dolphin tracking? Interesting. If I hear call center agent one more time I’m going to shoot myself. Nothing against it, there’s just too many of them. “Where did you go to track dolphins?”
“Dumaguete.”
“I’ve been there! The singing guy at the Boulevard ran off with my tempura because I took pictures of him but didn’t give him money.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It was either a 500 peso tip or two 25 centavos. That was all I had.”
“In your next life you’re going to be singing back up to the Celine Dion of their time.”
“Nooo! I hate her! If a banana and a drag queen mated and an evil leprechaun sprinkled some protractor dust for more angles then that would be Celine Dion!”
“That’s why it’s called punishment. Maybe the future Celine Dion wouldn’t look so much like she’d off herself if she looked down.” He half laughed, half snorted.
“I hope she’d look more like…Christina Aguilera. With less industrial strength makeup.”
“Really? I’d prefer Beyonce. I like it less bony.” He looked at me pointedly.
At this point I was just so happy he was speaking perfect English, because God knows love can’t conquer bad grammar. Now he’s implying he likes extra flesh – I resisted the urge to look down at the growing spare tire on my middle section. I just wished it’s possible to push that fat up to the boob section.
He got up and said, “I’m going to order now, would you like anything?”
“No thanks, I’m good.” The skipped beats would probably register now.
“This will be the first of many offers, you know.” He smiled, then looked down, as if embarrassed.
“It’s just that I was taught never to accept the first offer.”
“Then I’ll keep counter offering till we get there.”
“You do that. I’m not going anywhere.”
And with that he went to fall in line.
April 25th, 2010 at 10:55
i liked:
boranzohn’s – inspired me to do some OT this week
oldmaid’s – the revised version of the kaishiao story – though if I were the girl, the guy’s text would totally turn me off
rani’s – i wish you did a bit more exposition on the guy. and how could she have taken twenty minutes to get ready for school and not take a bath?
jewel’s – though at the point where the dolphin tracker dude mentioned Beyonce right after making a Celine Dion reference, shouldn’t your character have made “Let him not be gay” chants in her head like the protagonist in rani’s story..plus I don’t think you can give an offer and counter-offer at the same time
April 25th, 2010 at 20:07
It was one of those days when you wake up and you knew that it will be bad. The clock says 7:10 am, 20 minutes before your much hated first class which is PE. And you cannot bear being late because you were relying on the extra points of perfect attendance to pass since you sucked in every sport you’ve tackled and failed every single practical exam. Your mind was busy prioritizing and thinking of the morning rituals you would have to give up. You opted for not taking a bath and just sprinkling your hair with water and washing your privates.
7:20 your out of the house, brisk walking to the highway for a jeepney. Normally, you would not mind waiting for one that has no passenger in it because you love seating on the end near the smoke belcher. Unfortunately, you are running late so you stopped the first jeep you saw which is jam-packed, the kind where only one of the two cheeks of your butt can be accommodated.
You rode the jeepney and every soul was JUST looking at you. Nobody was moving their freaking bodies off. Driver said, “diyan sa kanan, isa pa. Waluhan yan” and upon hearing this, you un-courteously squeezed your butt in the right side while saying “Excuse me po!” somewhat irritatingly. The guy seating beside you smells funny. He was looking on the opposite direction so you grabbed the opportunity to assess him, he was well-groomed. Your mind says “Metrosexual siguro to. Isang metro na lang bading na” and you smirked at your dirty thought.
“Bayad po”, you say whilst extending your arm in front of your seatmate. You know he is still looking at the opposite direction but that is not a valid reason for ignoring you, unless he is retarded. “Paabot po ng bayad!” you say a little louder. Oh, how you hate people who are so stupid they cannot even hear or understand human language, the people you seat on jeepneys with who snob you even if your voice echoed through-out the vehicle. The old lady in front of you got scared of your facial expression so she kindly gave your seven pesos to the driver. The bastard sitting beside you did not even move an inch.
One by one, everyone departed until only you and the underdeveloped guy beside you were left. He knocked on the ceiling of the jeepney signalling the driver to stop. Just before he left, he looked at you. It wasn’t actually a “look” more like a “glance” and you found yourself saying, “Oh please, be not gay. Be not gay”. You must’ve looked funny because he smiled and just like a camera shot, that image was instantly stored in your memory. You forgot that he was retarded and deaf and underdeveloped and apathetic and stupid. After he left, you smiled that sweet smile to yourself. You don’t know why. You just did. You stopped smiling when you realized you didn’t take a bath. Of all days, you chose not to today.
7:30 the jeep stopped in front of your school. After swiping your ID and realizing you’re late, you temporarily forgot all about the guy and started running for your class.
Revised. Thanks greeneggsnham, i changed the time. haha. and the exposition about the guy, well, that can be done on another story. thanks again :)
April 25th, 2010 at 20:24
I forgot to mention that I found all of avatar_aang’s posts funny, especially the last one. Unlike most people I know, I actually am amused to read the jejemon language :)
April 25th, 2010 at 23:29
Rani: Missed the deadline. We’re not reading this.
April 25th, 2010 at 23:30
Jewel: You know why the expression is “needless to say”? Because you don’t have to say it.
April 25th, 2010 at 23:31
Spooky: This is not the first meeting, is it.
April 25th, 2010 at 23:32
Behindhiddendoors: My eyes glazed over at “The cute girl across the room was comunicating in sign language to the other girl beside her, and I asked my friend to interpret – eavesdrop – for me.” Urgh.
April 25th, 2010 at 23:40
Fleurang: I thought hair would be an interesting metaphor, so I pretended the first sentence did not exist. Unfortunately when I got to “Crushed between a gorgeous Russian modelite and a buxom Indian, I consciously ran my fingers through my hair” my patience ran out. Too bad, because the use of hair is a good idea. My friend was just telling me about Darna At Ang Impakta. Apparently the impakta lived in some girl’s hair, and the poor girl thought it was just a conditioner problem.
April 25th, 2010 at 23:48
Granfalloon: I feel like administering an electric shock every time I see a pile of adverbs. Someone must be parted from their thesaurus immediately. And do you hear that sound, like a fork scraping across a blackboard? It’s the sound of overexplanation. Why do the characters feel compelled to explain every word that passes their lips? They’re not that deep.
April 25th, 2010 at 23:52
Dazzling: Oy vey you have been watching terrible movies. Here are some romantic comedies that may help. Flirting by John Duigan. Sabrina by Billy Wilder. The Apartment by Billy Wilder.
April 25th, 2010 at 23:55
Otap: The bit about the color of the rowboat is good. The rest is formula chick-lit. Yucch.
April 25th, 2010 at 23:59
Oldmaid: Remember our prohibition against “It was a dark and stormy night”? It also applies to “It was a cold, windy day”.
April 26th, 2010 at 00:04
Annabbee: “Because it’s futile” is not a reason.
April 26th, 2010 at 00:12
Saboteur: I have always wondered how it is possible to sit ON a room. But enough of my fixations. Your protagonist is trying so hard to be cute that when something terrible happens he can’t even react like a human being. This is not a character, this is a greeting card.
April 26th, 2010 at 00:17
John Dorian: Yucch.
April 26th, 2010 at 00:22
Turmukoy: Aha, somebody did his research. Good work.
April 26th, 2010 at 00:31
Stellalehua: I like the use of details—I always swipe The Economist or the Financial Times from airport lounges myself. Thanks.