Category: Fiction

Flash Forward

Fiction by | October 6, 2011

Editor’s Note: This is an experimental work of interactive fiction, one that requires feedback from you, the reader. Please take the time to read through the story and, in the comments section, tell us which ending you prefer.

This story was supposed to run on October 9, but we are publishing it early so as to get as much feedback. This is for a paper that Jhoanna is writing.

“Perhaps I should take the ferry out with you.”

The moment she hit “Send,” she regretted it. She realized how difficult it would be to coordinate their schedules. He was just going there to shoot some additional footage for a documentary a friend was making. But she convinced herself she could swing it; call in sick and stay sick for a few days. It was unlikely anyhow that she’d meet another malingering call center agent in Siquijor Island in July. But more than logistics, she realized how loaded that suggestion was – even reminding her of Charon and his boat. Reminded her too of her high school teacher who had pronounced it “Sharon” and how she had believed him until Wikipedia enlightened her.

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Ilad

Fiction by | September 25, 2011

Usa ka kusog nga singgit gikan sa kuwarto ang mibitad kang Marvin sa halawom niyang pamensar. Kalit nga gigakos siya sa kahingawa. Dali dayon siyang nakatindog sa gilingkoran ug mituhoy paingon sa didto. Sinati kaayo niya katong tingoga. Pag-abli sa niya pultahan, wa gyod siya masayop. Iyang nakit-an si Arlyn ang iyang uyab nga nagtuk-ong sa higdaanan daw may gikalisangan. Iyaha dayon ning giduol ug gihalog.

“Babe, unsa may nahitabo?”

Giumod sa dalaga iyang nawong sa dughan sa ulitawo ug kalit ning midangoyngoy.

“Babe, ngil-ad kaayo ang akong damgo. Gilugos kos yawa! Huhuhu! Way kokalooy nga gipanamastamasan niya ang akong pagkababaye!”

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The Last Will

Fiction by | September 18, 2011

“If there’s a will, there’s a way…”

My teacher’s voice resounds in my head as I look at my father’s lifeless form inside his white coffin. Here is the first man who broke my heart, and the only man I think I have ever truly loved next to my grandpa. He’s dead now, but he was as good as dead to me in his lifetime.

I stand there, idly, looking at my father’s dead face. I trace with my eyes the contours of his face – I have his nose, too ‘Filipino’ from every possible angle; I have his jawline, mine a softer version of his. I feel eyes boring on my back, piercing gazes from the audience behind me, their hushed gossips an orchestra playing at a small rural town wake. I don’t care. I stopped caring a long time ago. I don’t even know why I’m attending his wake at a house in the middle of the fields where cicadas are the only things you hear at night. A good five-hour drive from home. I should blame my boyfriend Alex for this.

Somebody approaches me—my father’s eldest son, who was a mere nine months younger than me, and offers me coffee. I refuse. God knows what sort of bacteria is infesting their water, or their unclean cups.

My father’s wife, Maritess, hasn’t spoken to me since I arrived. For some reason, the woman who caused my parents to separate has the guts to play bully on me. She stares at me wildly, bearing with it a story worth more than twenty years of hatred; I reply with my arctic stare. She looks away. And then does it again later. It’s been a game of tug-and-war between her and me since I got here yesterday, and for some reason, I always win. What a cowardly bitch.

I have long forgiven the fact that my parents never made it to a real relationship because, in my mother’s own words and in my father’s unsaid agreement, Maritess got Papa busy with her when Mommy was busy attending to her rising career and to a newborn me some twenty-five years ago. I just don’t understand why she should be that mean to me. She’s dumb, I conclude.

I heard her complaining why I was there when I arrived yesterday. Dumb and plain stupid as she is, she never had the guts to tell me that to my face. She’s too dumb to put the blame on me when it was Papa’s siblings who called me and asked me to come to his funeral. My supposed half-siblings told me I could stay at their place. I boldly said, “No. It’s gonna cause your mother more grief than she can handle. I don’t want her to die from my presence.”

I knew they are not rich. I’m not either. But I’m out to show them I never needed their—I mean OUR—dad to help me out. And I turned out more than okay without him in my life. They don’t need to know of the troubles my boyfriend goes through once every while because of the trauma I had from my father. They never will. My boyfriend and I rented a car and stayed at a hotel instead of staying with one of the relatives (that’s saying goodbye to the Boracay trip altogether) all because I needed them to know that I turned out better than any of them. Because Papa left us. Because Papa never cared for me like he did for them.

“Fuck you Papa…you’re a man-bitch,” I whisper into the cadaver. The angels will be mad, but I never got the chance to be this close to Papa; never got him to be this silent and not talking about all the good and happy things he has to say about his life.

Someone approaches me again, Nancy or Nene or Nena or whatever, one of my father’s sisters. She touches me on the back, below the shoulder that is bare from the white tank top I am wearing. Right where my koi tattoo is. I can tell that she is feeling my tattoo, maybe to know if it’s real or not. What a hypocrite gossip. She tells me I should stay at her place for the night, all the while she is feeling my back with her rough hands. She could use some lotion. Maybe I should leave her my Victoria’s Secret. It could make her happy, maybe. I say, “No thank you, Auntie. We have a hotel room.”

“Your boyfriend can stay at the hotel, you stay with us. You know, it’s not very good for an unmarried couple to share a room and a bed…” she says, a bit cautious about saying the unmarried bit. I retorted, “We are living together Auntie. And besides, Papa fathered two children from two different women within a year. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be sharing a room with my boyfriend of two years.” I keep my voice low and sweet—and that is to be my best Madeline impersonation of all time. I win.

Auntie N bites her lip. She looks down on her plum-colored toenails then shifts her gaze to my aquamarine ones. “We have to talk about your father’s last will,” she says bashfully, like a first grader on her first day of school. What a fucking hypocrite. I heard her yesterday talking with Maritess about my tattoo. Loud and clear, she said I look like a fucking whore. I just rolled my eyes and whispered to my boyfriend, “I could fax them a fucking copy of this whore’s diploma.” I laughed off my own remark, and Alex laughed harder. I said, “Do they even know what a fax machine is?”

“We can stay late if you want. We just don’t want to stay here,” I tell her. She nods and leaves. She’s probably gonna report to the rest of my father’s brood how distastefully disrespectful I am. I’m laughing my super evil laugh in my head. And then I turn to look at Papa again. My schizophrenic mind tells me he is frowning. He’s probably unhappy over how I treated his little sister. “I don’t care Papa. I. DON’T. CARE.”

Papa still has the stubbles I used to love as a kid. On those rare visits of his, with my mom’s consent of course. I remember loving the feel of it on my baby cheek. This small town is barely five hours from my family home, but he never cared to visit me more than twice a year. In my first ten years of life, Mommy was always careful about saying only good things about Papa. She never really wanted me to bear hatred on him, even if they split a little after I was born because of his infidelity. He did make the occasional calls, missed my birthdays by a day EVERY SINGLE YEAR, and sent postcards with my name misspelled. For a time I thought that was charming and misspelled his name on my letters too.

I knew the situation I was in. He has his own family—that’s why we couldn’t see each other as often as we should. As a kid, I still ate up his reasons of being too busy and of visiting being too expensive. Of course he is Papa. He was infallible.

And then logic tells me there’s no excuse for visiting the expensive new mountain resort north of my city with his family and not dropping by to see me. There’s no logical reason for him to be on a trip to Cebu with his only other daughter apart from me on her birthday, and not calling on mine. Everything fell into place in one of my English classes in freshman high school. Clichés. Example: IF THERE’S A WILL, THERE’S A WAY.

“You never willed it, Papa. You never wanted to see me. You broke too many promises. You broke my heart ten million times. Even Alex can’t fix it. I wonder what you’d tell God when He asks you about me. I could be your ticket to hell. That and the way you treated me. You never loved me, AT ALL. I was just the product of some good orgasm and your pretense at love. You don’t know how to love. Neither do I, and it’s all your fault,” I say to Papa. I can feel my eyes burning. The first time since I learned of Papa’s death that I felt like crying.

Papa died of a bus accident. What a pity. He was the only one who died from the accident; and he died because he panicked and had a heart attack. Everyone else in the bus didn’t get anything worse than bruises. He was on his way to see me.

“Fuck you papa, you bitch…” I tell him again. My evil laughter is ringing in my head, and the first teardrop for my estranged father makes its way to my cheeks. ”You’re always late. This time, you’re too late…”

And then Alex comes to my side and holds me. He kisses me by the ear and whispers, “they wanna talk with you babe.”  He then wipes the lone tear on my cheek and presses my hand.

In the kitchen, the wife, the four legitimate kids, and the five siblings of my father huddle around the dining table. The dirty dog they call pet is half asleep underneath. I can smell its putrid dog smell. I keep wondering how they can stomach it.

“Good that you’re here,” one of Papa’s brothers exclaims. “We are going to settle your father’s properties. He didn’t have much, but I’m sure he wanted all of you to have something” he announces with an air like a lawyer.

“Uhm, aren’t we supposed to do this with a lawyer? Like, this is legal shit,” I say. Their eyes widen as I said the profanity.

The eldest child, Rafael (or was it Raffy?) intervenes, “Papa left a letter to me, Ate. I think, we all think, this is enough. And besides, we cannot afford hiring an attorney,” he says. He got shy over the last bit.

So I shut my mouth and stop myself from embarrassing any of them any more than I already have. They continue with all the gibberish about who’s getting the what and the where from my father’s loot. My ears stand in attention as Raffy (or Rafael? whatever) says my name. He takes out a sheet of yellow paper and reads a letter, apparently, from my father to me.

And then he stops midway into the “how are you” part. He says, “I think you should read it by yourself, Ate. That’s the letter he was bringing with him on his way to see you—before he died.”

“Dear Melissa.”

To the very end, Papa never got it right. What’s so hard about M-A-L-I-S-S-A? Sigh.

Papa, as usual, is saying a lot of shit in his letter. I am struck only by the last paragraph.

“I love you my little Princess, my firstborn. I love you Melissa. I always have. And I’m writing this because I know I can never will myself to say it to you…because I’m scared. I’ve become too scared of your success, of your smarts. My child is more intelligent than me just like her mommy. I’m as proud as I’m scared. But I love you baby. Remember that. I am so happy that Alex is none of the scaredy cat that I have been.”

My hands are cold. My feet are cold. My mind is in a panic mode, willing for Alex to come get me, or at least come and bring me my inhaler. I can’t cry, much as I would want to. Fuck you, again, Papa. Fuck you, and your last will. You never really made it.

—
Hannah is a 21-year old graduate of AB English from the Ateneo de Davao University and is currently working as a content writer for a local BPO Company. She was under the tutelage of such Davao writing greats as Dr Macario Tiu and The Don Pagusara and is in the process of finding her “own voice” in her pieces. 

Sa Sabakan sa Kangiob

Fiction by | September 11, 2011

Mihapdos ang tiyan ni Rafael samtang nagpreparar sa budget sa ilang kompaniya alang sa modason nga tuig. Usa siya ka accountant, ulitawo ug nag-alagad isip budget officer sa Mindanao Foam Corp. nga nahimutang sa sentrong bahin sa dakbayan sa Cagayan de Oro.

Iyang gitan-aw ang relo nga nagbitay sa kilid sa iyang opisina. Alas tres na sa hapon, oras na tingsimasima. Gamay ra ang iyang gipaniudto maong mibati siyag kagutom. Mitindog siya sa gilingkoran og migawas sa iyang opisina aron moadto sa iyang suki nga namaligyag bananakyu. Paggawas niya sa glass door, adunay namay-ongan siyang tawo nga nagtindog atbang sa ilang building. Naka-jacket nig maong ug nagsul-ot ug kalo. Pamilyar kaayo kaniya ang maong tawhana apan morag dugay na niya ning wa nakita.

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Sleep Talker and Secret Genius (Part 2)

Fiction by | August 28, 2011

“Yes. I do that sometimes, I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t apologize. I like talking to my passengers when they ride in my taxi. The stories I have heard are enough for me to write a book. The most special ones are the passengers that I pick up from the airport. They talk about problems, sadness, joy, relief, and anything that they want to talk about after visiting the airport. But this was my first time to talk to a sleeping passenger.”

A taxi driver writing about his passengers. The idea struck me as cool, but I absolutely didn’t want him to be writing about me or the things I said when I was asleep.

He looked at me through the rear-view mirror and asked, “How do you think is she feeling right now?”

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Sleep Talker and Secret Genius (Part 1)

Fiction by | August 21, 2011

I didn’t see the plane leaving. And it sucks. I could have felt the farewell more if I saw that airbus leave and a carry off the half of my soul to a far place. It was a sunny Thursday afternoon, and after my last look at her, as soon as I turned my back to the entrance door of the airport, I discovered that what’s ahead is a long walk on a desert-like walkway towards the exit gate. “From pain to pain,” I thought as I slowly crawled out of that seemingly black hole of a place that just took my loved one away. As I walked, I tried not to think about what just happened. I tried to think about things that I would put if I own an airport. A garden-like walkway with hidden airconditioners on every corner of it would be fine. An ice walkway, much more like a gigantic igloo, also crossed my mind. The heat of the sun can sometimes enhance my imagination in a certain way.

Continue reading Sleep Talker and Secret Genius (Part 1)

Bird Bath (Part 2)

Fiction | August 14, 2011

“Can you see that little bird over there?” he asks.

“Yes.”

There’s a tiny little bird bathing itself on the bird bath in Mom’s garden. It looks so lovely and innocent.

“A bird bath is made for birds so they can drink and bathe if they have to. It’s like a place of comfort for them. But the existence of a bird bath with all its ability to give comfort to the birds doesn’t mean that birds should stay there for the rest of their lives.”

I look at the bird. It wiggles its tail trying to make itself dry.

“Where you are now is your home, Sam. But since you were a kid, I told myself that someday you’ll grow up and would want to fly away, even farther than I could think of, and I was right.”

My gaze is still fixed on the little bird.

“Everyone deserves to live, Sam; I don’t want you to miss that.”

“Thanks, Dad… But, didn’t it cross your mind that I might choose a wrong way, perhaps.”

“You have no idea how scared I am every time you walk out that door, pulling your trolley bag behind you.”

“But you still let me go.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I trust you. I have to trust you or else you will not learn.”

His words make sense, but I know there’s more than just the sensibility of his thoughts. My Dad loves me.

“But it doesn’t end there Sam…I also had to pray.”

I look at my Dad. His eyes are on his lap. My vision starts to blur, and before tears start to stream on my cheeks, I wipe my eyes with my fingers.

“Thank you, Dad.”

The air is cool and I enjoy the soft touch of heaven’s breeze on my skin.

“Do you still dance?” Dad asks.

“Yes, Dad…We usually have a cultural show twice a month. It’s like a show for a cause. We do the traditional Vietnam Dances. It’s fun and interesting. I like it.

“That’s good.”

Dancing has been my passion since I was six or seven. I did ballet and folk dancing in school. When I was thirteen, Mom and Dad started to bring me to dance night parties during the Paete town fiesta. My Mom would let me wear a dainty floral dress and ribbons on my hair. Daddy would say I look like a princess. When the party starts, Dad would take me to dance with him first before my Mom. We would dance the ballroom swing. How I miss those days.

“We haven’t danced in a while, Dad…Too bad I missed this year’s town fiesta.”

“You should witness the town fiesta next year. I’m proud to say that Paete’s town fiesta just keeps getting better every year.”

“That’s fantastic!”

The last time that I witnessed the town fiesta was when I was twenty-two. That seems like a long time ago. I just can’t wait to see it again.

Two birds land gracefully on the bird bath and start drinking. They look like friends or lovers.

Dad takes another sip of his coffee. ”So how’s that artist you’ve been telling me about before?” His face looks light.

“Jacob?”

“Is that his real name? I thought I heard Jake.”

“His real name is Jacob but I call him Jake.”

“Oh…so how are things going on with the two of you?”

Jake. That big hole inside of me. I hate to use the term “hole.” I find it so mediocre since everybody uses that term every time they get themselves broken hearted, like when someone leaves them or their loved ones never come back. They would say, the people who left them leave them with holes inside that they couldn’t bear. But I guess they’re right. When somebody important to you leaves, there is really that hole inside of you that you don’t know how to fill. Or maybe you know how but you just don’t want to fill it up because just the mere existence of that hole makes you feel closer to whatever feelings
you still want to hold on to.

“We broke up,” I say.

“Your Mom actually told me that. What happened?” My Dad looks and sounds like he doesn’t feel anything. His expression is so dispassionate.

“We failed to agree on certain things.” I say in a strained voice.

“Like?”

“My job which includes my charity projects with the organization.”

“What about it?”

“He wants me to come home and stay here for good.”

“Ok…” He finishes his coffee. “And you didn’t agree?”

“Of course I couldn’t just leave what I was doing, Dad. It’s my
ministry. It’s part of my life and he knows it.”

“Nobody wants to wait forever, Samara.” He looks at me with a
touch of comfort.

“I know.” I give a sigh.

“By the way, could you explain to me why I haven’t met this guy
ever since your relationship started? I mean, I’m not playing the
role of a protective Dad here but I’m just wondering why?” Dad
tries to be playful and his mood is so light. It seems like he’s
enjoying the question and answer thing that’s going on.

“We had a plan that he would come here and meet you, Mom and the two
boys but we broke up a month before we could actually fulfill the
plan.”

“Ok I get it…So who made the decision? I mean about the break
up?”

“Me.”

“Surprising.”

“I’m used to leaving things behind, Dad.”

“But not the very important ones.”

My head is bowed down, I’m playing with my fingers and at the same time I’m thinking if Daddy is right. But I don’t want to think anymore. The past months were months of torture for me.

“Have you tried dating other guys after him?” he asks.

“No.”

“Why not?” He takes off his glasses and wipes the moisture with the hem of his shirt.

“Because I don’t want to, Dad.” My voice sounds a little frustrated.

“Why?”

“I think it’s going to be difficult.”

“Can you explain further than that?”

“If I would date a guy, I know I will just try and find Jake in him. I would ask myself: Does he think like Jake? Can he draw like Jake? Or is he like Jake? I don’t think that would be fair, Dad.”

“My question is, why would you look for Jake in other guys?”

I keep silent.

“Someone has to fill the hole, Sam.”

“I don’t want anybody else, Dad.”

I was studying in the university when I first met Jacob. He was practicing his profession as a graphic artist back then. He was five years older than me but we were friends. We used to hang out together, go shopping together, and do the usual things that normal friends do. He started courting me during my last year in school. I turned him down twice (but he said it I did it thrice) since I wasn’t ready for any commitments, and I was thinking that we were friends and it was better for us stay that way. But he was persistent. It took him a year and a half before he could make me say “Yes.”

Aside from my parents, Jacob is one person in the world who knows me well. He can tell what I feel. He knows how I think, what I would say about certain things or on certain situations. He knows my fears, my frustrations, and my dreams. He knows what I’m capable of and what I cannot do. I could tell him even the tiniest details of my thoughts
and my secrets. He was my best friend.

“So my little girl still has hopes, huh?” Dad teases me.

“Dad…you know you cannot just turn off feelings in a snap.” I’m starting to sound desperate.

“Of course…”

“And…we’re still friends…we talk sometimes, over the phone.”

“You call him or he calls you?” Dad is smiling again.

“Both.” I think I’m blushing.

“Well…not bad.”

We are both looking at the garden. We can see the sun slowly setting on the purple horizon.

“Dad, why is love so difficult?”

I look at him and he smiles.

“It’s difficult because the love that you are talking about is something that you don’t give to anybody else. It is something special. It’s difficult because it is a choice. And when you choose that means you are responsible for any consequence of the choice that you make. When something is special to you, you give more of what you already have. At one point you sacrifice, you persevere.”

“Is there any way to make it easier?”

“The last time I tried, well…I just believed in it…Perhaps it can work out with you too.”

I keep my eyes fixed on the sunset. Believe? I do believe…but it doesn’t help a lot. Believing that something good will happen is excruciating. It takes a lot to do it. I hate it. But I still do it anyway.

“Just be patient Sam… Pray for it and wait for the answers.” Dad slowly stands and says,” Come, I’ll show you something.”

We are walking towards Dad’s haven. It’s his sanctuary, his paradise. It is an open wilderness hut.

“Oh, Dad…I miss this place.”

The place is filled with Dad’s wooden sculptures and his other woodcarvings. The floor is a little bit covered with wood debris. The smell of wood fills the whole place. It reminds me of my childhood years when I used to play with my brothers in this haven. Daddy would make us wooden toys: wooden soldiers for my brothers and wooden dolls
for me. On my eighteenth birthday, Dad made me a huge wooden bed with rose
carvings. He knows how much I love roses.

“Your Mom needs a new stand for her new set of porcelain.”

Dad leads me to a smooth light brown stand which is about six feet tall. The style is simple, very minimalist with some tiny butterfly carvings on its edges.

“It looks elegant, Dad.”

“Thanks…Your Mom’s porcelains are full of floral paintings so I have to make a simpler stand so that the porcelain’s designs will
shine.”

“That’s very nice, Dad.”

No wonder I loved Jake. He is so much like my Dad—intelligent, thoughtful, and creative.

“So what about Jake? You told me once he’s also an artist. What exactly does he do?” Dad is putting together his gouges, chisels and wooden mallets of different sizes and places them in his wonder box.

“He’s a graphic artist.”

“Is he familiar with woodcarving?”

“No…he’s more into sketching and painting.”

“Interesting.”

I pull a stool from a table just near where I am standing and sit facing my Dad.

“How are you and Mom?” I ask.

My Dad and my Mom have been together for twenty seven years. Dad was my Mom’s first love. In their relationship, Dad is the quasi-serious and the quasi-funny one but creative at the same time, while Mom is the sweet, loving wife any man would wish for. I adored them even when I was little. They were like the perfect couple for me. That’s when I started to tell my self to look for a guy who is exactly like my father. Then I met Jake.

“We are still doing well…Thank God,” he says. He pulls another stool from the table and sits beside me.

“Your Mom is a gift from heaven, Sam.” He looks at the dark sky. “I don’t think I could make it without her. I mean she has always been there for me. I’m so blessed to have her.”

The stars shine above the sky like diamonds spread out on a black canvass. How I missed this view. I look at Dad. He is smiling at the sky.

“Mom’s also blessed to have you, Dad.”

He gives a sweet laugh, “I’m glad you’re home, Sam.”

“Well, I guess there’s no place like home.”

“You reckon not.”

“Dinner’s ready!” It is Mom calling. Suddenly, I realize I’m hungry.

“Come, your Mom doesn’t want to wait when it comes to her special Filipino cuisine.”

“I’m starving, Dad, let’s go.”

I am holding Dad’s arm and we are walking towards the back door of the kitchen.

“So, what are you going to do with your artist guy?” he asks in a plain voice.

“I’m not sure, Dad. He knows I’m home and now he’s like playing hard to get. Men…Maybe I’ll just kidnap him and get a priest or a pastor to wed us right away. What do you think?”

He laughs so hard. “That’s my girl.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, baby.”

—
Princess Martin is a graduate of International Studies (major in Asian Studies) at Ateneo de Davao University.

Bird Bath (Part 1)

Fiction by | August 7, 2011

bird bathSo this is how it feels. This is how it feels when you lose someone you love so much. You feel numb, frozen. You can’t see or hear anything but you know it’s there, and after a while everything starts to sink into the deepest part of your being. Then your world starts to shake and you start crying as if you won’t ever stop, and just before you can even wipe the last drop of tear from your eyes, you find yourself crying again and again and again.

My name is Samara. I’m standing by the huge glass window of my room, staring at the peaceful view of my little hometown. I’m thinking about the things that I’ve done in my life, the things that I’ve gained, the things that I’ve lost. It’s been three years of traveling and working and finding answers to my unending questions. Finally, I’m home again.

Why do people always think of home during times of confusion, and loneliness, and failures, and loss? Is there something about home that wipes away all these? Is home enough to give comfort to a broken spirit and relief to a hurting soul? Perhaps yes, because I am feeling them now.

It’s four in the afternoon. I go downstairs to see if my two younger brothers are in the living room. Josh is twenty, James is twenty-two. We grew up together and we’ve been close since we were kids. When I reach downstairs, the living room is empty. I go straight to the kitchen and I smell the sweet aroma of milk and eggs. I know right away what Mom is doing.

Continue reading Bird Bath (Part 1)