Elevator

Once, twice, thrice. She lost count of how many times she banged on the door. Her hands were bruised and sore; her voice hoarse from shouting. She didn't even know what time it was. Her wristwatch already stopped. Claire couldn't stop crying; her imagination was running wild. It was dark and she felt suffocated. Resigned that the door will never open, she slumped on the floor and felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise. She felt like she was being watched. Black smoke was emanating from the narrow crack of the door. She thought she saw eyes glinting beyond the smoke. She trembled. Whatever the thing was, it was trying to open the door. She heard it laugh as it shoved the door open, preparing to grab her. She screamed with all her might. Aaarrgghhh!

"Ma'am! We're firemen. We're here to save you."

*Found this in an old writing notebook :)

Needle

I remember her whenever I see a needle. We were in Sophomore year and our Home Economics teacher was demonstrating how to put a needle on a sewing machine. Yes, even guys like me had to know basic sewing – though I’m not sure if the same curriculum is applied up to now. Heck that was back in ’98. Only when we became Juniors were we allowed to pick an elective – woodwork, electronics, etc.

After demonstrating, our teacher removed the needle and then asked for a volunteer who would refasten it to the Singer sewing machine. Kris -yes, that's her- volunteered. She went to the platform where the sewing machine was and started working. She was able to quickly refasten the needle to the needle clamp. Next was to step on the treadle to make sure that the needle was secure. The rhythmic whir of the machine was broken by the girls' panicked shouts. The treadle stopped and everyone stared as blood came gushing out of her index finger -the needle was stuck in it and was broken in half. The other half was still fastened to the clamp. Our teacher immediately went to her and assisted her to the school clinic. 

She didn't cry, not even a whimper. She just looked at her bleeding index finger. Maybe she was thinking: no use crying over spilled milk. She went back to class later that day with a bandaged finger. During Biology, it started to bleed again and all I can think about was how I would like to put fresh bandages on it. Maybe I started to like her that day. I don't really know. I wasn't really paying attention to the girls in our class that much. Or to girls in general. I was more interested in Counter Strike and bikes.

But when I started to take notice of her, I couldn't 'ignore' her afterwards. She's there on the other side of the couch while I'm watching TV. She's standing, staring at me with her hands behind her back as I clean my bike. Or when I'm eating alone at home, she's sitting opposite me, smiling, her right hand cupping her face. It was like I couldn't evade her even when I'm not at school. Though when I'm at school, I could barely even look at her.

I started to write to her at night - on old receipts, on table napkins, on my notebooks. "You're left-handed." "I don't like your haircut." "It's raining outside. I hope you have an umbrella." "Is your bag heavy?" "You weren't in class today." I wrote until I realized I have a shoe box full of unsent, unread notes.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow's Tuesday. Tomorrow I have to give this to her. I promised myself I would work up the courage to leave the box on her desk. I sealed the top of the box with tape and put it beside my school bag so I won't forget. Tomorrow, I will do it.

But I didn't. The box remained on the floor, next to my seat. The boys tried to poke and open the box and I did my best to protect it. I told them it's for my sister's class project (she was a Freshman in my school). All day, I looked over at her desk and then back to the box at my feet, trying to make it move via telekinesis. No such luck. Tomorrow's another day, I told myself.

So the next day, I went to school early and left the box on her desk.

She didn't attend school that day.

So I tried again the day after.

She was absent again that day, and the day after.

It was on Friday (Homeroom day) that we learned from our Homeroom teacher that her family relocated to the U.S. I was still bringing the box to school since Tuesday and as our teacher announced the news, I didn't feel surprised. It's like I knew it all along. I looked at the box. It looked tired and dejected. So when I got home, I dug up a hole in our backyard and buried it - unsent, unread notes and all.

I think she was my first love.

*Image from here.

Date a Girl Who Jaywalks

Date a girl who jaywalks. Date a girl who knows how to cross a street even without the help of a pedestrian lane. When she was a child, she used to play Patintero all day and this is how she got her jaywalker skills. Whoever said that only guys loved the chase?

Find a girl who is averse to pedestrian lanes.She knows that life is not a series of straight lines; that life can take the shape of whatever she wants it to be. (Ano daw?) You’ll know her by her gait; the way she walks at the speed of light when crossing intersections. You would think she is the personification of grace under pressure. But while crossing the street, you can feel her pulse racing two beats at a time and you realize that this brave woman also gets scared. Take this as a cue to hold her hand while you are crossing busy streets, even if crossing is prohibited. Marvel at her sense of adventure, her street smarts, her risk-taking abilities, and her determination to push forward despite obstacles like speeding vehicles. 

Celebrate life with a girl who jaywalks. You will share a siomai or two or many a Jamaican Pattie with her after successfully crossing streets. She will propose a toast and you will clink your C2 Green Tea bottle against her Coke can. You will appreciate how low maintenance she is; how she can be satisfied with these simple celebrations.  

Date a girl whose charm can weaken even the strictest MMDA. When she gets caught, she will smile her innocent smile at the enforcer, explain that this was more convenient for her, and end up having the enforcer, instead of taking her to the precinct, escort her across the street. If she can charm the authorities, surely she can charm anyone - including your family.    

If you find a girl who jaywalks, accept her free spirit. And most importantly, treat her right. Because if you don’t, she’ll walk-out on you without a second thought. Pun intended. 

Note: This post has no aim of encouraging people to break the law. Jaywalk at your own risk ladies.

Image from here.

Marital Affairs

Tea would calm me down, he thought as he put the kettle on. It’s been a while since he had the house to himself and he felt uneasy. He was unaccustomed to the house being so silent without his daughter.

Little Nell’s attending a slumber party at Lucy’s. It was Lucy’s birthday. She’s at that age already, Richie thought. He wondered when his daughter would finally refuse to be kissed in front of her friends. Or when she would demand to be called Ellen instead of Little Nell. Time, it goes too fast.

He pushed the thought away. He didn’t need – didn’t want- to think about that now. What he needed was to enjoy this rare moment of solitude. He switched the TV on and settled for the 6 o’clock news on Channel 7.

“Three patients escaped from the local mental ward this afternoon. Two are already in custody while the other is still at large. The third patient allegedly sprayed Finesse on the orderlies’ eyes. How the patient got the hair spray is still being investigated. The said patient is manic-depressive and has been institutionalized because of violent outbursts in the past.”

A chill ran down Richie’s spine. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps. He muted the TV. Jane, he’s sure it was Jane.

His first memory of his wife –ex-wife – was the scent of Finesse. She was addicted to it. He met her on a blind date. At first, he thought it was sweet – how Jane took the time to style her hair for a blind date. He found out later on, when they got married, that she used hair spray every single day: Jane standing in front of the mirror, spraying away before she went to the market; a little touch-up before dinner; throwing a fit when his hands wander through her hair while they kissed. The scent of hair spray permeated their whole house when they were still living together, all those seven years before the divorce.

And it was that scent – the one he always associated with unripe bananas, so sweet yet so bitter – that polluted the air he was breathing at the moment, turning his mouth dry. Why didn’t he notice it moments before?

Richie suddenly realized how alone he was, sitting on his leather couch with the TV as the only source of light. He tried to think straight. He was relieved for the first time that Little Nell wasn’t with him. He stood up and switched on the lights. That’s why I feel so out of it. He was about to check every room when he heard her voice from the kitchen.

Richard, dear, you forgot about the kettle again.

He froze.

Richard! Richarrrd! Richarrrd! I said you forgot about the kettle! Riiiichiiieeee!!!!

He heard her footsteps coming nearer the living room.

Hello honeeyy! It’s been so long, Jane said, as she hugged him.

Hey Janie. Let me just turn the stove off. He said. Jane released her and followed him into the kitchen. She sat at the dining table, her right hand cupping her chin. Her brown eyes were wide and unblinking, following Richie’s every move.  She watched as he poured the contents of the kettle into a thermos.

Honey your hands are shaking. Do you want me to do it for you? She asked in a sing-song voice.

Richie shook his head and said: I can manage.

But you’re all trembly. Are you tired? Do you want a massage? Jane stood and started to approach Richie. Richie backed away and hit a wall.

Are you afraid darling? Don’t be. I’ve changed you know. I don’t start fights now y’know. Not like before. She said while caressing his right shoulder.

Not like before. Before: she would throw anything she could get her hands on when she was angry. Richie thought this was normal. Everybody’s got a tipping point. Until the outbursts became more frequent. And it was not just the anger, but the series of feelings she can have in a span of a few minutes. She can sob over a messy living room floor, laugh at herself for crying, become infuriated at the mess and start throwing things around. Richie chalked it up to stress; she’s probably still adjusting to being a new mom, trying to learn the ropes of both motherhood and running a household.

One day Richie arrived from work and heard Little Nell crying. He could also hear Jane’s shouts stemming out from the living room. His pulse started to quicken and he ran from the garage, straight to the living room. He found Little Nell slumped on the carpet, her nose bleeding. Jane was pacing the floor, rambling.

Richie picked up Little Nell quickly and carried her to the kitchen, got an icepack, and put it on her bleeding nose. The child whimpered in pain. He kissed her forehead. He waited for the bleeding to subside and then went upstairs to put Little Nell in her bed. Meanwhile, Jane continued to shout like a banshee in the living room.

Jane! Stop it! Stop it! What’s the matter with you! He bellowed from the stairs, barely containing his anger.

With me? What’s the matter with her? I clean every nook and cranny and here she goes shitting on her diaper. She’s a smelly thing. I change her and then she runs around writing on the walls with crayon. Does she know what clean means??? I bet she doesn’t, she’s a smelly thing I tell you. Get her away from meeeee! Or I’ll slap her good until she gets what cleanliness means! I will, I tell you, I wiiiillll.

Richie was dumbfounded. This isn’t his wife anymore, it’s like she’s possessed. Jane continued to pace on the floor, kicking imaginary dust bunnies once in a while. She wouldn’t stop mumbling. She was so caught up in her own reverie that she didn’t notice Richie picking up the phone, dialling the police station’s number.

That was the end of their marriage. Jane was detained and then admitted to an institution. She was diagnosed with manic depression sometime later.

Jane continued to massage Richie’s shoulder. He noticed bruises on her wrists and tried, once again, to move away from her. She caught him looking.

These? Those orderlies were very bad to me. I only wanted to eat chocolates but they wouldn’t give it. So I threw the tray at them. I told them they were assholes. ASSHOLES, ASSHOLES. I invented a chant for them. I was so smart. Every time they visited my room, I start to chant. I even splashed them with soup. I was only trying to let them give me chocolate but look what they’ve done. They tied me to my bed. I didn’t mind. I could still chant at them. She let out a high-pitched laugh at the memory.

Richie you look like one of ‘em orderlies. Her eyes bulged as she grabbed at his neck, choking him. She let out little grunts of anger as her fingers locked tighter into Richie’s throat. He tried to wriggle away from her grip but the more he tried, the harder it was to breathe. He felt his throat closing in, his eyes weary and heavy. And then there was the scent of cloying, bittersweet, unripe bananas before finally, everything fell into darkness. 

Rejection Slips and Rewrites (Overhauled)

**Here's the revised :)

“Jump!”

I look down and my toes start to curl around the edge of the rock I’m standing on as if trying to hold on and say: No way. It is a long way down. I flatten myself against the cave wall. I am jolted forward in surprise as a protruding stone lodges itself on the small of my sweat-soaked back.  I almost fall, if not for my life vest, one of its many strings got tangled on the stone’s edge.  Even the stone’s giving me a little push. I unknot my life vest, checked that there was no damage, and resumed hesitating to jump on the precipice.

“Come on, at the count of three ha!”

I can see five neon green life vests below, not quite blending into the emerald water. My friends, all five of them, already took the plunge and they were egging me on, their cheers resonant inside the cave walls. Every summer we go out of town. This year we’re backpacking in the Northern Philippines. We were in Bolinao just yesterday. Tonight we’re heading off to Baguio. Right now, I’m standing inside a cave on Marcos Island, one of the Hundred Isles in Alaminos, Pangasinan. The cave’s main attraction is the 20 feet of free fall into the pool of water below.

Why do we always end up doing some kind of risky activity each time we go on vacation? My friends have this penchant for trying out new (and dangerous) experiences like zip lining, canyon swings, and helmet diving. For them it’s fun; for me it’s tempting fate. I usually sit out on these activities. But, when I absolutely have no choice, I dawdle when it’s my turn - like what I’m doing now. It takes loads of cheering (which sometimes leads to bullying) and reassurance that everything will be okay before I’d be convinced to get it done and over with.

I’d like to think that I was adventurous when I was younger. I used to climb mountains. I’ve rock climbed Mt. Batulao’s old trail without any rope for support when I was 18. I used to surf, too. When I get bored at home, I go up our roof and lie down on it. So, no, I don’t have acrophobia. I’m no aquaphobe either.   

Everything changed when I turned twenty. I’m 26 now, by the way. Our next door neighbor’s kid died in a car accident. Shiela was her name. Her dad lost control of the car and they crashed into a concrete barrier. The roads were slippery because there was a storm that day. Her dad survived but Shiela, well, she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt. We were of the same age.

I stopped going up the roof shortly after her death. I turned down invites to climb. And, yes, I stopped surfing. Back then, I was bewildered. I didn’t know why I stopped. Sheila and I were not close but her death left a bad taste in my mouth.

Thinking about it now, I figured what she gave me was a taste of my own mortality. Before she passed away, death was just an abstraction to me – a far-off notion applicable to those who were 60 and up only. I never knew anyone close to me who died in their 20s until Shiela’s passing away. The effect was I no longer wanted to tempt fate by doing the things I used to.

 “Talon na. At the count of three ha!”

I don’t know how long I have been standing on the precipice but my legs were starting to feel numb. As my friends start to count, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and utter a silent prayer. Well, not really a prayer but more of a question: “Lord, oras ko na ba?”

I hear my friends shout. “One, two, three!”

I wanted to jump but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Rejection Slips and Rewrites

           “Jump!”

I look down and my toes start to curl around the edge of the rock I’m standing on as if trying to hold on and say: No way. It is a long way down.

“Come on, at the count of three ha!”

My friends, all five of them, already took the plunge and they were trying to egg me on, their cheers echoing inside the cave walls. I check my life vest for the nth time, making sure that everything is in place, that it was secure.

We go out of town every summer. We’re backpacking in the Northern part of the country this year. We were in Bolinao just yesterday. Tonight we’re heading off to Baguio. Right now, I’m standing inside a cave on Marcos Island, one of the Hundred Isles in Alaminos, Pangasinan. The only way out of the cave is to jump, 20 feet of free fall, into the pool of emerald water below.

Why do we always end up doing some kind of risky activity each time we go on vacation? I don’t know why my friends have this penchant for trying out new (and dangerous) experiences like zip lining, canyon swings, and helmet diving. I try to avoid these activities. When I absolutely have no choice, I dawdle when it’s my turn, like what I’m doing now. It takes loads of cheering and reassurance that everything will be okay before I’d be convinced to get it done and over with.

I’m twenty six now and it’s a shame that I’ve lost my childlike wonder. I wasn’t like this in my teenage years. I used to climb mountains. I’ve rock climbed Mt. Batulao’s old trail without any rope for support when I was 18. I used to surf, too. I go up our roof and lie down on it just because I can. When I turned twenty, everything changed. I stopped hiking because I worry about slipping into a cliff and be left for dead. I don’t surf anymore. What would happen to me if there’s suddenly a tsunami? And I wonder why the hell I go up on the roof anyway. I became scared of adventure and I don’t know why. Really, I don’t know.

At this very moment, of course, I’m scared. Of what? Of heights? Water? Caves? No. I’m scared that everything might go wrong -like if I jump, what if my head hits a rock? Or if my life vest doesn’t work? Or if I forget how to swim? I guess as you age, you start to become more paranoid thus you tend to choose the “safe” route and avoid anything that might put your life in peril before you’ve accomplished all the things you dream of. Or maybe, I am just being a coward, plain and simple.

“Talon na. At the count of three ha!”

As my friends start to count, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and utter a silent prayer. Well, not really a prayer but more of a question: “Lord, oras ko na ba?”

I hear my friends shout. “One, two –“

I don’t wait for three and just jump.

*Verdict: IN but needs an overhaul.

Unsubscribe to Unhurt

What was it like to become deaf? She thought about it often. What if she can’t hear hurtful words thrown her way? She can see the offensive person’s lips moving; forming shapes but no sound, no pain, no anger can be heard. Would it be a sure way of avoiding grief? Sometimes, just hearing the voice of the person you despise can shatter your perfect day. It would be wonderful if there was just a mute button somewhere that she can press so as not to hear his voice.

She may not know everything there is to life but this much she knows: friends understand you, without you having to explain. All she was asking for was for him to understand why she had to back out. Friends do not judge. They do not label - well, except for playful labels that friends use to tease each other with. Friends do not make mountains out of molehills - because again, they understand or if they don't, then they TRY.

If only there was a way to block his voice out. If only there was a way not to feel hurt. If only it was easy to cut a person out of your life.

At times like these, she thinks about those who are there for her, who love her despite of all her inconsistencies; people who tell her: "It's alright, you didn't make good on your promise but we still love you." People who are realer than their egos.

Claro (Part 1)

He was born during a solar eclipse, the light of the noonday sun obscured by the moon's shadow for a total of two fleeting minutes. His mother, eight months pregnant, was at the town market, in front of a fruit stall, happily sampling a ripe plum that the vendor has given to her for free. Even though she was way past that period when pregnant women have weird, uncontrollable cravings for certain food, Dona Placida had an inexplicable craving for plums that she left her husband at their dining table, halfway through lunch. Don Jubilo, his spoon hanging in mid-air, was dumbfounded with his wife leaving the table in haste, muttering about how she needed to eat a plum at that exact moment. He shook his head and thought: "What a weird woman" and then continued to eat. Don Jubilo's and Dona Placida's house was situated at the center of the town; the market is just a good ten-minute walk from their two-storey stone house.

Eclipses happen only once or twice a year. The sun and the moon are parallel bodies that, theoretically, will never meet. They are separated by millions of light years, each with a different orbit but nonetheless, connected to each other - moonlight came from the sun. The moon has always wanted to be close to the sun; to experience the sun's magnificent light wash over its dull body; to feel the sun's delicious warmth envelope its cold, rocky surface. The closest that the moon can get to it is when it passes between the sun and the earth.

As Dona Placida bit into her plum, the moon's wish to be close to the sun was granted. Dona Placida stood there, mesmerized by the sudden nightfall in the middle of a hot, summer day. She forgot all about the plum. She didn't even notice that her waters broke. She was hypnotized and time stood still; nothing was of importance to her other than the seeming union of the moon and the sun. No one can peel their eyes off the moon, now bathed in a golden halo that was almost blinding. Gradually, the moon moved on and the light from the sun was slowly spreading over the little town. But, Placida was still caught up in her reverie.   

She was propelled back to reality when she felt a tiny hand holding the small finger of her left hand. She realized that she was sitting on the pavement, cradling an infant - her newborn son - the tiny creature, indeed, holding on to her small finger, his umbilical cord still connected to her womb. He was so small, painfully small. He arrived earlier than expected, a month before he was due. His skin glowed like the moon's golden halo. His mouth began to open and he began to swallow mouthfuls of air without making a sound. His eyes started to open and he met his mother's curious, brown eyes gazing at him. He recognized her at once and managed to give her a small smile. He didn't cry at all, unlike all other newborns. It was Dona Placida who actually cried out of joy. She believed that what she was cradling in her arms was a child blessed by the sun and the moon. Claro, my Claro, she murmured to him. Claro raised his small hand and touched her mama's face in response.       

Another Unfinished Story

Angela’s send-off is tomorrow night. Did you hear me, Sunny? Tomorrow night’s my last chance to talk to her and ask her to go out on a date. I can hear her say ‘yes’ already. You believe me, don’t you? I’m gonna ask her out and she’ll say ‘yes’. I’m gonna take her here after and then, you’ll finally meet her. We’ll have a few more Budweisers and make out in this old and beaten leather couch. I’ll look into her eyes, brush her hair away from her face, and then...who knows.

But, how do I ask her? I’ve been devising how to approach her ever since the first day she stepped into our windowless office. I remember her wearing a crisp white button down, her tight skirt hugging her cute butt, and her wavy hair framing her elfin features. Every guy craned his neck to blatantly stare at her swinging hips as she walked down the corridors to where her designated seat was. To my surprise, her seat was next to mine. I turned to look at her but had to quickly jerk my head away because I saw her looking. And then, the most amazing thing happened, she tapped me on the shoulder. SHE TAPPED ME. Can you believe it? She tapped me on the shoulder and said hello. I acknowledged her with a curt nod and returned to staring blankly at my computer screen. I pretended I was working intently. My fingers started tapping the keyboard automatically, aimlessly: asfjeopjrklnskhek’wefwlfj. Inside I was dancing but, of course, I can’t let her see that. I didn’t want her to think I was easy.

Since then, I’ve left her dozens of anonymous post-it notes and glass menageries to show her how suave I am.  The post-it notes she threw in the trash but the glass menageries she kept. She especially liked cat menageries. See? She’s my soulmate. She likes the same animals I like. I’m sure that you two will get along well. Hey, stop hissing. We’re still best of friends, man. Don’t be jealous. Stop looking so forlorn. Sunny, you’re not even a female cat so snap out of it. There, good boy.

It’s weird, though, because she never did once ask me if I knew who was giving her the post-it notes or the menageries. She just took them as if she was used to being showered with anonymous love letters and glass animals.  I tried to give her a hint that those came from me. One day, I signed my initials on the note but, like any other day, she crumpled the note without even reading it. 

***

And then I got stumped again on what to write next.

Image from here.