Category: Fiction

Bintana ni Juanito

Fiction by | April 7, 2013

Alas singko ng umaga’y gising na ang diwa ko upang maghanda sa pagpasok ko sa paaralan. Lumabas muna ako upang umigib ng tubig. Maya-maya’y batid ko ang pag-dampi ng malamig na hangin sa nanginginig kong katawan. Bigla kong napansin ang mukha ni Juanito na naka dungaw na naman sa bintana ng kanilang payak na barong-barong. Nakatulala na naman si Juanito na tila nililipad ng hangin ang isipan.

Ilang segundo ang nakalipas ng makita ang tanawing yaon ay biglang nilamon ang katahimikan ng isang sigaw. “JUANITO!” Si Aling Letty na naman ito, ang nanay ni Juanito, na tila ba’y umiiyak na tinatawag ang kanyang anak. Biglang isinara ni Juanito ang bintana at madalian siyang tumakbo patungo sa kanyang ina. Ako nama’y binalot ng katanungan ngunit nagpatuloy na lamang sa aking ginagawa at itinuon ang pag-iisip sa paghahanda patungong paaralan.

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One New Message

Fiction by | March 31, 2013

“Teka. Wait. Ka-text ko pa si Mama…”

Every time I hear those words, I instantly remember my high school days.

Back then, when I said said such a line, especially in front of my barkada, they would immediately assume that I was a mama’s boy. Often, this would be followed by a series of I-have-an-overly-protective-mother jokes. They put on high-pitched voices and went: “’Nak, kumain ka na?” “Yung likod mo baka basa. Magbihis ka na.” and “May pulbos ka d’yan sa bag mo. Ipinasok ka kagabi habang natutulog ka.”

In high school, I recalled that I raged against my mother when she snooped in my email account. I was irritated when she kept asking about my whereabouts, who I hung out with, and if I would have dinner with the rest of the family. Her questions would always be followed by her imperative need to know what time I would be home.

I grudged against her every time this happened. Sometimes, it left me wondering when I would actually be allowed to make decisions of my own and finally exercise my God-given free will. Thoughtlessly, I often ignored my mother’s text messages and even refused to answer her calls, just for the heck of it.

But that was before. In a span of just over 6 months, things have changed drastically and guess what?

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Kwentong MRT, Part 2

Fiction by | March 10, 2013

MRTBoni
Sa pagpreno ng tren ay hindi sinasadyang nasagi ni Can’t Deny ang braso ko. Kadalasan ay ayaw kong nadadampian ng balat ng ibang tao. Hindi ko talaga gusto ang ganoong pakiramdam. Pero sa pagkakataon na ito ay hindi ko siya ininda.

Kung kanina ay hindi ko maalis ang pagkakatitig ko sa kanya, ngayon naman ay hindi ko na maiangat ang aking mga mata kay Can’t Deny. Sapat na ang maramdaman ko siya sa aking tabi, at ang panakanakang paglanghap ko sa kanyang pabango.

Huminga ako nang malalim. Biglang pumasok sa aking diwa ang sabi-sabi na: kapag pinigilan mo ang iyong paghinga habang patawid ng tulay ay matutupad ang isa mong kahilingan pagdating mo sa dulo.

Kasabay ng pagtanaw ko sa Ilog Pasig, ang biglaang pagnanasa na makasama ko si Can’t Deny sa ilalim ng sikat ng araw.

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Kwentong MRT, Part 1

Fiction by | March 3, 2013

North Ave,
Humahangos akong lumusot sa papasarang pintuan ng tren ng MRT. Maswerte naman ako at meron pang bakanteng mauupuan sa gitnang bahagi ng seksyon na nakareserba para sa mga babae, mga may edad, at mga may kapansanan. Sinadya kong sa estasyon ng North Ave. sumakay para mas malaki ang posibilidad na makauupo ako. Nakakapagod kasing tumayo sa halos apatnapung minutong biyahe hanggang sa estasyon ng MRT sa Taft, lalo pa’t meron akong backpack na may lamang damit, laptop at digital camera.

Katamtaman ang dami ng laman ng tren sa paglarga nito. Mag-aalas diyes ng umaga na rin kasi. Sumandal ako sa matigas na upuan at ibinaling ang aking atensyon sa mga imaheng lumilipas sa labas.

Mataas na ang sikat ng araw. Mabuti na lamang at malakas ang buga ng hangin ng aircon sa loob ng tren.

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She, the City

Fiction by | February 24, 2013

Mrs Elizaga had been standing for some time in the middle of the living room with one hand touching her throat and a broom in the other, while she stared at the front door, which was firmly shut and bolted; through the gaps between the door and its jambs streamed the harsh light from outside like metal blades. Clods of dirt had been gathered at her feet, and the blue plastic dustpan stood, as if waiting, in one corner. She was used to keeping house and did so with as much fervor even after the children had all gone to families of their own and even years after her husband’s death. But that day she thought that all that had been taught her in housekeeping—or rather, everything that had been her practice—was incorrect and that her entire life dedicated to that task as wife and mother had been a mistake. But perhaps, she thought, it was because what she expected to come home anytime that day was a husband coming home from the grave.

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Chen Wei’s Magic Amulet

Fiction by | February 10, 2013

Chen Wei threw his socks, school uniform, and Math exams across his room. But not the golden dragon amulet he found while exploring at the botanical garden that afternoon. He made sure nobody, not even the school janitor, was watching when he pocketed it. He thought it had magic powers like those he saw on Wansapanatym. He wiped it clean with his shirt and wore it like a necklace.

Chen Wei had a terrible day in school but there was nobody at home he could talk to about it. His parents were away again for some business trip in Cebu and he wasn’t sure when they were coming back. His aunt Betty stayed at the house, but they seldom talked to each other during the day; most of the time, after she would finish doing all her household chores, she would go outside and chat with the neighbors. She loved to talk about the latest showbiz buzz.

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Soldier

Fiction by | January 27, 2013

Bryan Corpuz walks along the road barely aware of the passing vehicles. Two things bother him. The first is his lack of money. The second is the death of Brigadier General Delos Reyes.

The young man is on his way to a drugstore, in the public market of Tacurong, where he is supposed to buy a week’s worth of medicine for his diabetic father. The money in his pocket, however, is not even half of the amount he needs. When he comes back home later, he might have to explain why. He might have to tell his parents that he is not just on a month-end break; he has gone AWOL from service. He is a soldier no more.

The other thing bothering Bryan is the same news that has shocked the nation. General Delos Reyes, the highest-ranking finance officer in the army, was found dead in a hotel in Makati this morning. The official had been involved in a massive corruption scandal, and he was scheduled to appear in the Senate hearing today. With his death, he took with him the dark secrets of the armed forces, and Bryan’s last hope of being called back for duty.

Bryan is so preoccupied that he doesn’t notice a white van pull up right in front of him. He’s surprised when the door opens and two armed men step out of the vehicle.

“Get in,” one of the men tells him.

The strangers need not use threatening words. They need not brandish or point their guns at him. Having been a soldier, Bryan knows what weapons can do. As though the men are just his pals giving him a ride, he steps inside the vehicle without a word.

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The Feud

Fiction by | December 30, 2012

feudIf you must know, The Feud began because of the mango tree, the mango tree that stood between our house and the Lopezes’ house. Well, not quite in between. You see, if old lady Mameris — from whom we had bought the houses — had only planted the tree right smack along the property line, then there might not have been any trouble to begin with. I think that might have been her plan. As things turned out, the tree took root a few feet inside the Lopezes’ garden.

Now, if it weren’t for the tree, our properties would have been perfect twins. Mrs. Mameris had built the houses for her children, and so they looked exactly alike, only built in reverse, as in a mirror: a spacious garden; a two-car garage; dining room, living room, and hobby room on the ground floor; four bedrooms on the second floor; exterior painted darkwood and teal. Sadly, the Mameris children preferred life in Canada, and so their widowed mother had no choice but to sell, and a good bargain we got for them, too.

Come to think of it, like the houses we lived in, the Lopezes and my family also mirrored each other in uncanny ways. Henry Lopez and I both worked as area managers (I in softdrinks, Henry in detergents); his Sally and my Diane had put their careers on hold to be stay-at-home wives; and their Westley and our Bridget had both just entered the third grade. We bought our houses within weeks of each other. While no one could say that we were close, we maintained friendly relations with each other. Friendly, that is, until the Feud.

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