Istoryan Writers

[splendid moonlight]

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@aridoasis:

i do not know how to answer your question in such a way that it would not reveal a part of myself. i'm sorry.

[aridoasis]

@Luthienne: okitz, no probz.

[splendid moonlight]

the stranger

strangers are people who
know that we are people too,
yet know no record of
our weaknesses and strengths,
but recognizes our enthusiasm,
the light in our eyes.
strangers have no biases;
they know very little.
the right ones, they want to know you more.
the wrong ones are those
who we've no desire to see.
strangers cannot hurt us
because they know we can hurt them -
we are strangers too.
but we cannot hurt them either,
or they'll hurt us then.
yet when a stranger has your heart
you'll see how strange it is
how though we are strangers
estranged we do not want to be.
you be a stranger to me,
i so love thee.

[diem]

During a dreary afternoon in campus when students are waiting for things to happen, a mischievous imp in the guise of a tall and lanky youth approached a firecracker girl who has a cheery smile. In his hands he holds two ordinary coins and he said to the firecracker girl, “Do you wanna play a game?”

The firecracker girl thought about it for a second. There was nothing much to do but kill time. She was game.

Their interaction sparked interest among the other students who were with them. Soon the imp had an audience: a very happy fellow, a young lady with streaks of magenta in her mane, a vivacious pixie and a quiet owl. The imp then pressed the two coins together, one on top of the other, and held them horizontally in mid-air with his forefingers and thumbs of both hands. Then he declared to the firecracker girl, “In order to play the game you must answer several questions. For every answer you must either spell out your answer or syllabicate.”

The firecracker girl raised an eyebrow and a question. “Syllabicate?”

“Yeah, like entertain, EN-TER-TAIN.”

Firecracker nodded while the spectators stared at each other their bewilderment then shrugged off their replies. The imp continued, “Every time you spell out or syllabicate you have to pull out the coin at the bottom then place it on top.” The imp pushed out the bottom coin, letting it stick out like a teasing tongue.

Firecracker let out a wary ‘okay’.

“Good”, the imp replied. “Okay here’s the first question: What is the name of your true love of your life?”

Firecracker fired a fierce gaze at the imp but she did blush at the same time. The imp grinned, “Don’t worry, just say the name in your head but first are you going to spell out his name or syllabicate it?”

“I’ll spell it out.”

“All right, just for every letter uttered in your head place the bottom coin on the...”

“I KNOW. I heard you the first time.”

The imp sighed theatrically. “Just as long as you understand.”

For every letter of her dear secret love, the firecracker girl placed the bottom coin on top of the other and repeated the process until she ran out of letters.

The owl noted silently that Firecracker was in love with a boy tagged with six letters. A Robert? Darwin, perhaps?

“All right at this moment be assured that you and your love are going to spend the rest of your lives in each other’s arms,” The imp declared with a straight and narrow face, yet there was a twinkle in his eyes. “You would have to get married of course. Where would you like to get married?”

“In a church, of course.”

The remark brought smiles to the faces of everyone around. The imp nodded. “Of course, you have to be married in a church but what is the name of this church?”

“Oh, okay.”

The imp interjected. “But you have to tell us the name of the church.”

“And why?”

“So that we could see you at your wedding,” replied the very happy fellow.

Firecracker turned to the very happy fellow. “And who said you’ll be invited?”

The very happy fellow displayed a hurt face. “Ouch.”

Firecracker then offered her friend a cheery smile to balm the faux wound. Then she focused her mind on what church to hold her beautiful wedding. For the moment, Sacred Heart would do.

“Spell or syllabicate?” the imp asked when she declared her answer.

“Syllabicate.” Then Firecracker repeated the odd ritual with the coins, putting the bottom on top,
the one on top to the bottom, on every syllable of Sacred Heart.

The imp was pleased for the game was going well, the audience was amused and the firecracker girl was slowly drifting to Lala-land.

“All right,” the imp said. “The next thing after a wedding is you and your love going to your honeymoon. You’ve got to have a honeymoon. Where would you hold your honeymoon? But you’ve got to share with us the name of the place.”

“Why, are you planning a visit?” The firecracker said while a name formed in her mind.

“Spell or syllabicate?”

“Syllabicate.” The firecracker girl performed the odd ritual of the coins for the third time. “A-MAN-PU-LO.”

The pixie turned to the owl. “Where is that?”

“Near Palawan, I think.”

The imp was grinning from ear to ear, in the inside where the others couldn’t see. “Okay, of course during the honeymoon and as adults, you and your love will do the thing that adults do best. So when you’re about to .” the imp thought for the proper word. “When you’re about to consummate your love for each other, when you’re both naked in your desire, you want to say something that will express your undying love and devotion.”

Firecracker, already in Lala-land, blushed at the thought.

The imp asked, “What would you say? No need to syllabicate or spell it out. Just what would you say?”

Firecracker said the words in her mind, repeated them again until they sounded just really right to everyone who would hear.

When she reached for the bottom coin to begin the ritual, she found it really difficult to pull it out the bottom coin. She tried again but the imp’s grasp on the bottom was firm and unyielding.

In her momentary exasperation, she tried for the third time. When the imp did not release his grip, Firecracker exploded.

“WHY IS IT SO HARD?!”

[splendid moonlight]

[aridoasis]

[diem]

Like a giant the balete stood, its verdant crown brilliant against the clear bright summer skies of that day— Its leaves shone with golden edges. Â*Its wide trunk seem to be built up from the grasslesss hard earth, like a Â*mountain. Â* The balete’s roots spread down from its branches and out from the tree’s base in a full compass, a nest of serpents, some thicker than a man’s arm, others fine as locks of a woman’s hair.

For the child Francisco, the tree is both a great and terrible thing, a goddess and a monster. Â*He had never seen anything like it in the five years since he realized what seeing and remembering were. Â*For the first time, he felt his heart drum hard and quick, his breath shallow, his blood so warm that it made his head feel so light.

Embolden, Francisco ventured towards the balete without holding his father’s hand, walking with sure small steps. Â*He reaches the edge of its vast shade, there he was greeted with a cool, gentle wind. Â*There, the child Francisco found his breath and the wind filled his lungs, calming him steadily.

Francisco—

Carefully, the boy came towards the tree, walking over its many roots just as a titan would stride over mountain ranges. Â*The wind blew and flew around him, but he felt it slide against his back more often to urge him to go forward, move closer—

Closer, Francisco.

Finally the boy found himself under the great shady canopy of the balete, he stares upwards— it is dark as night, with the sunlight passing through in small spaces, glinting stars.

Closer, Francisco, come child—

Francisco reached for a hanging root, tugging it affectionately the gentle way he always grabbed his mother’s braided hair. Â*There was a rustle of leaves above as the branches swayed when the wind blew, a little more sun blessed the top of the child’s head.

Closer, closer, to me, to me.

He now stood before the huge gray wood, within the embrace of the balete’s maiden roots. Â*All is quiet, all is calm— even the wind blew and flew soundlessly, a cool waterless river. Â*Francisco touched the tree with both palms, the feel of its bark strangely reassuring because of its reality— for the boy has been fooled by his own dreams before.

Francisco, Francisco—

Francisco leans his head on the tree, all of the sudden, feeling tired— quite tired from the excitement of this moment. Â* The ignition and alleviation of his mortal emotions were too much for the child.

Francisco, Francisco, come now—

I’m here, thought Francisco, I’m here.

Francisco—

The boy heard his father’s voice, calling out patiently on the grassy tuffet beyond the shadow of the balete— Â*Francisco’s father beckons with a wave of his hand, It’s time, hijo, time to go back.

Francisco looks at his father sadly but he must obey. Â*He walked away from the tree carefully over the nest of roots, away from the cool shade, Â*and approached his father with a question in his small voice, can I come back?

The father saw sleep in his son’s eyes and nodded politely, yes tomorrow you can. Â*

Safe and satisfied, the child raised his arms allowing the man to lift him in an embrace. Â*The boy rested his head on his father’s shoulder, looks back to the balete as the man walks away. Â*

The great tree stood, Â*waiting— Francisco?

The boy looks back to the balete with a desire in his eyes, I will come back, tomorrow I will.

The boy blinked as a breath of cool air swept back his fine hair off his forehead, touching him like a soft, loving kiss. The great tree stood with its verdant and gold crown against the bright blue, I will wait.

I promise, I promise, I will come. Tomorrow. Â*The boy yawned, his eyes failing him and he bowed his head and dreamed of the tree.

When the boy woke, he found himself on the smooth linen of his pillows and bed, properly at the time of day when his nurse comes in to deliver Francisco to his bath.

Yaya, yaya!— the boy couldn’t wait to share what he saw, the balete, both goddess and monster, both a great and terrible thing. Â*

The young nurse smiled obligingly as she dried off the water from his small arms and legs, for the boy gets too excited if he is ignored. Â*
Now clean, refreshed, and dressed— Francisco can join his parents and his grandparents for dinner a couple of hours later. Â*At the grand table, the boy sat between his grandmother and his mother. Â*Despite that a place had been set for him, Francisco ate from his grandmother’s and mother’s plates, from their spoons, from their hands— like any child of man.

But it did not deter the child to share the excitement of meeting the balete for he was still excited—

But often in his sharing Francisco the third would look to Francisco Junior with wonder for sometimes the child thought that afternoon could have been a dream during his nap, and he’d been often fooled by his dreams.

I walked into its shade—

The man nodded obligingly, that’s true.

Over its big roots—

The man nodded again, that’s true too.

I touched it with my two hands—

True, true.

I will go there, tomorrow—

Francisco Junior stopped nodding, his eyes away from the little boy who quickly followed his father’s gaze to his mother’s face and found to his dismay a disagreeable set of her neat features that the boy understood long ago led to unhapiness.

The boy turned away from his mother to his grandmother who had always been kind and ever more so loving and found to his further dismay, an even darker mirror of his mother’s face.

A feeling akin to wisdom whispered don’t try, but the child being a child was a deaf fool; tried— I will go tomorrow.

Daringly, His mother ignored him, wiping away the remains of supper from his mouth— Time for bed, now—

The boy obeyed but, I will go tomorrow—

Good night, Francisco—

Francisco kissed his grandmother goodnight, his father goodnight, his grandfather goodnight.

His mother would come to his bed later and guide him through his prayers, there and then he would kiss her goodnight.

The young nurse came and held Francisco’s hand. Â*Together they departed from the dining table to his bedroom.

Leaning his chin on the windowsill of his bedroom, Francisco Jose Pelaez III stared out into the darkness where he thought, he felt, the balete stood— waiting.

Francisco, come—

The boy turned and saw that his grandmother has come instead of his mother. Â*He knelt beside her as she sat and listened to the prayer he had been taught to pray, asking for God His Grace and blessings. Â*Then his grandmother helped him rise then lie on the bed.

Leaning close to him, the old lady asked— sleepy, unico? Do you want to hear a story?

The boy loved to hear stories because they caused dreams for him to wander in but his heart was heavy for the balete.

Why so sad, unico—?

The old lady knew what the child desired, for most grandmothers bore such knowing, but it just would not do.

I will tell you a story, Francisco— a story about the balete, she compromised.

The grandmother clasped the child’s small hands in hers as she looked at the cherubic face with an ominous shadow in her eyes. Â*The child could only stare back, mesmerized.

The old lady whispered the words in Â*the candle-lit dark, weaving a cocoon round the child’s mind— of ageless secrets, of old shadow gods and spirits in the wood. Â* White smoke and red eyes were thought to been seen emanating from the dense foliage of the tree by those foolish enough to wander so late at night. Â*Ghostly corpses dangled down from the balete’s verdant awning, reminding the living how these poor souls met their death in the War. Â*The old gardener’s eldest son whose playground was the balete’s branches, was never to be seen again after one wet night during the monsoon.

And the grandmother spun on and on, sealing the boy’s desire of the balete in a cold dry wrapping. Â*At the end, the boy’s heart was hollow but his mind was full of fear. Â*When the old lady left him, Francisco was still as a grave, her last words echoed in Â*the hollow—

Remember Franciso, you must not go to the balete— it is very dangerous. You must not.

When his nurse turned off the lights and lied down beside him to sleep, the boy nestled close to the warm breathing body for comfort and security. Â*Soon the echoes faded away into deep silence.

By morning, Francisco remembered enough of last night to please both his mother’s and his grandmother’s anxieties— he relayed the ghost stories during breakfast, turning once in a while to the old lady for affirmation. Â*It was a pleasant morning meal.

But when the sun passed a hour from its apex, the boy Francisco grew restless, very restless. Â*In the light of day, dark spirits were weak and have no power over a boy’s curiosity and his sense for adventure.

He approached the one who can be a true friend, his father.

His father looked at Francisco solemnly, Aren’t you afraid Francisco?

The boy did not know how to answer the question, he was afraid but he still wanted to go. Â*The man looked at the boy, a small reflection of his youth. Â*He is to be a man after all, a father has his duty to his son.

I will take you there—

And so Francisco was able to fulfill his desire and saw the balete tree again. Â*He moved through the rooted soil and pressed against the wide body without fear for in the day, the balete was a goddess. Â*The wind blew through the canopy and the leaves danced.

Francisco, Francisco you come.

Calmly the boy walked around the tree, his hand on the roots that vined arcoss the balete’s body like a belt and for the first time saw the balete in all its entirety.

The child wanted to play and climb but he is a intelligent boy and he had been to church before with his parents who scolded him when he climbed the pews and played in the side aisle. Â*This was not a playground but a sacred place, they said of the church. Â*Francisco knew it was the same way about the balete.

So the boy sat on one of the largest roots he found and listened to the quietness around him. Â*And the balete spoke in the Language of Nature, through the flow of air, the sway of its branches, on the shadows of the ground and the light on its leaves.

The tree spoke, the boy listened and both understood each other.

When Francisco heard the impatience in his father’s voice calling him, the child touched the tree goodbye. Â*The tree knew that there was a time for things and did nothing to stop the child as he returned to his father’s side. Â*There will be a time again and the balete will wait, patiently with eternity.

But the wind whispered gently on the child’s cheek, kissing a spot of his soft flesh cool and warm at the same time—

So that’s how the boy Francisco spent an hour or so every afternoon of that sunny summer last year, embraced with his first true romance.

When Francisco said goodbye on that last day, he knew it would be days, months before he would see the balete again. Â*But for the ancient tree, time means nothing and without much ado— the wind blew a kiss on the child and allowed him to leave.

I’ll be waiting, always—

The days pooled into weeks, the weeks into months, Christmas came and went, a year grew older, storms and droughts passed through the land like wayward travellers but the tree remained, standing and waiting.

F.J Pelaez III never thought much of the balete for those days of summer faded into that of a fanciful dream. Â*Besides there was much to occupy his curiosity in the townhouse of his parents— particularly that of a hostile cloud that has settled on his father’s eyes when he received a letter and a small book in the mail which he both tore into pieces and threw into the fire—

From then on the man behaved like a wary animal, muttering gloomily about ‘kommunistas’ and money— Francisco wondered aloud to his mother whether if the ‘kommunistas’ was anything like the communion during mass, and was the church asking money again? Â*Never had the boy seen his mother grow more pale and she laughed, calling him silly then ignored him completely.

It was an exciting time for the intelligent boy who knew they were keeping something hidden, unsaid, a secret lurked in the stuffy air of his home, in the quick glances his parents shared, in the hushed whispers of the helpers— a secret, perhaps much like his very own.

Francisco knew about secrets, they’re very much like living things— they breathe in the dark for a time and will soon be found out, be secrets no more and die. Â*He wondered which secret will die out first, his or theirs.

Finally summer came and father announced a trip back to the country home. Â*Francisco was estatic until the day after they arrived at his grandparents’ home when he found out that his father abandoned him in the care of his mother, and returned to town—

Papa has some work that he still has to do, explained his mother and then ignored him completely.

The child became restless, staring out to where he felt the balete stood. Â*Without his father, he had no ally, no stalwart companion— his grandfather Francisco Jose Sr. held himself aloof and unknown from the boy and so the child could not trust him—

For Francisco it was most terrible especially when he leaned his chin on the windowsill, stared out longingly to hike through the gardens and over the hill into the broad vale where he felt the balete was waiting— a wind will come, a very familiar cool wind, smacking his face with freshness, gently coaxing him to come, come, come, come, Francisco—

There was a small brown sparrow, who probably heard the wind and flew off with it— the boy envied the bird for its wings.

Francisco spent the first few days and nights much like a caged bird, knowing he had wings but no freedom— but he was more than just a bird, he was a spoiled child and he threw tantrums when the women could not understand what the boy wanted. Â*He declared what was his heart’s desire they pretended to be deaf or blatantly said no—

Rogue rainclouds rose from the horizon and gloomed the entire sky, strengthening the women’s resolve to remain ever so indoors and thus dampening the child’s spirits ever more so.

A dark day breeds dark thoughts and the prisoner thought a-plenty, dangerous, desperate and daring thoughts— these coupled to a child’s relentless desire became a plan.

Later that night, when Francisco was sure that his nurse was warm with sleep, he wormed away from her. Â*Stepping on the pad of his toes, the child made his way to the door and opened it, always glancing back at his sleeping nurse just to be sure.

By the stairs he went down on all fours like a cat and crawled down the steps— when he finally reached the floor, he scurried for a hiding place by the huge potted palms.

The house was quiet— only the night outside was alive with the wet noise of toads and crickets.

All of a sudden, a roar of an heavy engine rose and Francisco heard it stop by the front doors— heavy quick steps followed then the doors opened with a crash and a burst of light! Â*Frightened, the boy lay low on the floor, seeing only five pairs of mudcaked boots striding in. Â*He also saw the shadows, men bearing guns.

A hoarse voice cracked out a command and the group broke off— Francisco heard some boots thunder up the stairs, shouts and screams soon followed.

Francisco was frightened, he was thrilled as he rose to look— he saw the open doors, the glare of the headlights streaming in from the truck and the darkness waiting beyond. Â*Free-! He made a dash for it!

Behind him, he heard raised voices— a cry of alarm but he did not turn back. Â*He ran straight on, barefoot, sloshing through puddles of mud. Â*He heard his splashes echo louder, following him but he did not turn back.

Three men tried to overtake the boy but they clumsily slid on the muddy earth in their haste— Â*they saw the small white figure plod on towards the distance.

Then the rain fell again. Â*Francisco did not stumble in the darkness, relying that his beating heart would lead him where he has to be.

And he found the balete, shimmering in the rain like a silver tower. Â*The child ran towards it, crying. Â*When Francisco’s bare feet reached the canopy, the ground beneath was hard and warm— nor did the boy trip over anything, nothing was to hinder him from coming to the tree and embrace it. Â*The wind breathed softly, surrounding the child until he heard nothing of the rain, just the leaves rustling and his own heart drumming down to calm.

Francisco, Francisco— hush, hush

Beams of light tore through the night and rainfall as cries and gunshots fade into the deathly silence of the house. Â*After loading their truck with some valuables, the six rebels were now searching for the child to seize as hostage for ransom. Â*They gave themselves half an hour to find him.

The boy left himself a trail though the rain made it difficult to follow but the gunmen found themselves before the balete where the small footprints stop at the rim of the canopy.

The gunmen cautiously pushed back the curtains of hanging roots away and stepped over the mess of thick roots, casting the beams of their lanterns everywhere, side to side, down then up—

!-A small hand disappeared from the sight of light below into the darkness above. Â*A shadow skulked among the high branches—

The hoarse voice barked at the small man to climb after the boy. Â*The small man slung his rifle across his back and walked through draping vines and roots toward the trunk.

The others heard the small man’s struggling breath, heard his boots scrape against the wood and bark, the branches moaned and cracked— burdened by the sudden weight Â*and then nothing—The five below listened intently for a moment and heard nothing— The hoase voice shouted the small man’s name…

Something short and heavy fell down with a snap and dangled before them swaying-! The beams turned as with their eyes at the small man, with a rootvine strung around his neck, staring back dead on!

The wind howled solidly among the gunmen, sparking their volatile superstitious natures— they began firing their rifles at the balete, Â*up at its high boughs and foliage—

The hard earth shook raging(!), as roots heaved themselves out of the soil and swiped at each rebel. Â*Frightened, some tried to flee only to lurch down to the ground as more roots whip out and grabbed the men’s ankles like tentacles.

The hoarse-voiced man kept firing at the snaking roots until his chamber clucked empty. Â*Recklessly, he snatched a grenade from his ammunition’s belt unaware that the curtain of hanging roots coiled themselves into a rope, looping itself around his throat—

A sharp break!— the body shuddered before it became limp, the dead hand released the grenade and it fell— Fire, light and force exploded through the earth and wood. Â*And silence followed, only for a moment. Â*The sounds of the storm returned and pervaded through the entire night till the shining of dawn.

Francisco Jose Pelaez II was found dead, gunned down inside his car. Â*

Authorities rushed over to the home of his parents where they found them, their daughter-in-law, and the househelp ripped dead from a hail of bullets— only the child’s nursemaid survived her wounds but not expected ever to walk again.

Six dead men believed to be members of a rebel group where discovered at the scorched remains of a bullet-ridden balete tree— their bodies broken due to an exploded grenade used during perhaps a heated falling-out between the rebels.

As for the child Francisco, he was unearthed from beneath a deep bed of fallen leaves by the ruined tree— clean and untouched. Nevertheless, the boy was dead.

[diem]

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[diem]

The Heart has its reasons that Reason could not know.
David jumped off the crowded jeepney, landing both of his feet firmly on the asphalt.  Then he stepped to the pavement fronting a small eatery at the intersection of Gorordo Avenue and F. Sotto.  The youth waited for the jeepney that will deliver him straight to the University’s main campus at the belly of the City.
Soon this day will be over, his mind said for what might be the tenth time this morning, soon.  David wiped a growing cloud of sleep off his eyes and breathed a deep breath of stale air with a tint of smoke. He looked again down the street and saw that traffic was moving towards his direction. He hailed the first jeepney he saw only to be ignored. 
The second jeepney had a more observant driver and a slightly filled cab.
David quickly leapt inside as soon as the jeepney parked itself on the curb. The youth settled himself deeper into the jeepney’s cab, behind the driver,  and away from most of the passengers. He placed his backpack in front of his lap, his arms still through the straps, like a fat man bears his gut.
The jeepney driver stared at the overhead rearview mirror and seeing no potential passengers from the small crowd of pedestrians on the curb, he shifted his gear from neutral, glanced his head outside and pulled the jeepney away from the curb into the flowing traffic.
Soon this day will be over, David’s mind said for the eleventh time.  Suddenly David felt tired, the cloud of sleep rising again in front of his eyes. Working late into the night, catching only three hours of sleep and waking early to work still. Never, never again, David said to himself. Never.
Never, the mind echoed.
You should never taken this responsibility alone, you should have delegated some of it to the others.
But it isn’t just my way, David realized, I’ve always worked better alone.
And now you suffer,  the mind pointed out.
I know, David told himself, but this is the last time.
David glanced at his wristwatch but did not read the time displayed.  He glanced quickly around the inside of the jeepney, at his fellow travelers, avoiding eye contact.
There was an old lady wearing a dress as old as she was, a boy child in his uniform with his nanny behind him. The nanny gripped the stroller that strapped the boy’s enormous school bag while a protective arm was placed behind the boy.  A salesgirl who sat prim and stern, overly conscious how short her skirt was when sitting down. David saw one of her hands struggling with the hem beneath her thighs but he did not stare, instead he concentrated his eyes to the blur of the passing scenery before his eyes.
His mind voiced out a things-to-do list and David plowed through it as if the act alone would make him ready. But the truth was no amount of preparation would help him out of this fiasco that was forming. Nevertheless, the mind said and continued to go down the list.
But David did not listen. In a fit, the mind threw away the list and bombarded David with a rain of random thoughts that were numerous and forceful as the heavy drops of a rainstorm.
David was thinking of a 1000 different things at a 100 miles per hour. How he hated being here on a Saturday morning when he should be sleeping fitfully then rising to have a delicious breakfast made by Mom.  How could Mom marry his father being so completely opposite in manner and mind? How he wished his father had the foresight of allowing his eldest son the benefit of a car when the family can afford to.  It would make life so much easier for David. Will this day ever end? This country sucks. If only he chosen a different course. David should have chosen something easier. He must be a masochist. Like psychology or mass communication.
Then David thought of that summer, the summer of Her. For first time today, he thought of Her. Yesterday it must have been three times. The third time was after he gathered his papers off his bed and before he laid down to sleep. The day before yesterday, it was two. But how many times the day before that, the week before, the months, and the years since that summer?
It’s been two years and six months, said the mind. Never mind the weeks and the days, much more the moments you spared for Her. It is beyond measure. Don’t think of Her now.
But David brushed away the suggestion and amidst the noise of a busy city, the motion of the public utility vehicle, and the chaos of his thoughts, he opened his memory to that summer.
She was the girl sitting in front of the class, striking an animated conversation with the female instructor and seemed to be enjoying it. David came inside the classroom without a sound, walk past through the rows, some chairs were already  occupied by students who didn’t notice him and minded their own business. 
He sat two chairs behind her. When the instructor turned away from their conversation and gave her attention to the blackboard, She turned behind her to have a glance around the classroom. Eventually she caught David’s eyes.
She smiled.  David stared blankly then looked away. But his heart froze and he found it difficult to breath. He didn’t see Her features clearly but something made him want to look at her again.
He waited for a moment. Then waited a little more. Finally he made a small motion with his head and found Her sitting straight in her chair, glancing towards the door. He saw her profile, the lightness of her skin, the stylish set of her hair, her lips set in a small smile.
He ignored Her during the whole class that day. He only saw the white words on the board and transferred these dutifully on the surface of his notebook with his black pen. When the instructor started to erase the board at the end of the class, David was among the first to get out of the door. But before he passed through the threshold, he caught a glimpse of her standing and approaching the instructor…
He didn’t think of her at all the rest of that day. Funny, how the day after turned out to be so different.  He just spoke his mind during a heated class discussion concerning a question the instructor proposed and he then found himself being interviewed by Her.  She was quick, charming, intelligent and seemed eager to get his attention.  He was glad to give it.
From then on, they were inseparable. Sitting side by side, walking side by side, talking constantly, laughing frequently. David never remembered a season so sweet, so bright.  Then he realized he had fallen in love.
The realization came too late. The summer was ending and besides, she belonged to a whole different class, a class that is defined not as a group of students but a way of life, luxury and leisure beyond measure.
Isn’t that just the story? A pauper falls in love with a princess but life isn’t a fairy tale, a happy ending was not clear in sight. David was not willing to risk it.  So they parted as friends, no promises, no vows, just friends.
It was a wise decision, reaffirmed David’s mind.
Was it? David asked since he wasn’t really sure.
The days after, the months passed and living was not the word David would describe the way he breathed those days.  There were days and nights when nothing was good enough, David wasn’t good enough, and David hated himself totally.  The only thing David truly made his day and filled his mind was the thought of Her, of being with Her and of making Her happy. But that was something David was not so sincere that he knew he could do. So that was why he let Her be free while David remained captive, a prisoner to a pleasant past that was and to the dreams that he hope might come.
Stop this foolishness! The mind scolded. You have more important matters at hand that needs your attention!
David did not care.
Then the mind used its voice, it spoke rationally to David and reasoned, if ever you are not meant to be with Her, if the Power that be decided to play a cruel joke to you as a test to you character, then you shall surpass that test! Let’s  wish Her well, of a good life, happiness, and a love that you were not ready to give Her. God must really love the man who He finds worthy of Her devotion and love. If You are not to be that man, well, let’s strive harder and become a person worth loving. You have a bright future ahead, David. You will be a sun of a man and then you will bestow your light to another beautiful, intelligent girl; a star that could surpass Her.
Yeah, right. Like who?
The mind searched David’s fancy, How about Cindy Kurleto? Then there was Sarah Meier. Let us not forget Amanda Griffin…
While the mind was consoling David from his self-pity, suddenly a portrait of Her came to David’s vision from nowhere. And She was there, Her image sharp, three-dimensional, DVD-quality with surround sound. It was only for a moment and for a sweet moment it was. David was astounded. How could this be? He had tried before to find this memory before, in the days and in the nights past but never did he remember her like this. Where was this memory kept? He searched again for the portrait, thought hard and focused but could not recapture it. Where did it go?
The mind did not answer.
Then David knew that there could be no other that could surpass Her. She was the one and for the moment she was gone. The truth made his eyes water and he covered his eyes. David wept then and there in the moving jeepney amidst the curious stares of his fellow passengers.
The mind was silenced yet the heart beats on.

[diem]

Rela couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t sleep. She sat up in her bunk, careful not to hit her head on the underside of the bunk above her. She pulled her knees closer to her bosom and rested her head on them. Her surroundings were dark, very dark, but filled with sounds of the waves, of the strong sea breeze blowing through the ship, of low whispers and deep snores from the other passengers in Economy Class, Deck A.
So Rela sat there in her bunk bed labeled A41, in bold white letters A41, and listened to the sounds that surrounded her. In the past, these were usually the notes of a lullaby, a soothing lullaby that would slowly let her fall into a deep and peaceful sleep. How she wanted to sleep but she could not, the discouraged state of her soul, her very soul, would not let her.
She reached for her sandals that she kept under her large travel bag near her head, one couldn’t be too careful among strangers these days of all days. She plopped these sandals down on the floor and slid her feet into them. Rela stood from her bunk bed and walked three feet towards the starboard side of the ship where she could lean over and stare into the night covered sea, the black sea.
She breathed the salt of the blowing winds, which was spiced with the crisp scent of the rust, the rust and the oil of the ship. The temperature seemed to her to be a touch warmer than before and she supposed that dawn will soon be rising. And soon she will be home.
Home. Where the mango groves grow as far the eye can see, where mango blossoms change into fruit that swell in size and sweetness through the seasons, many seasons. Where for one such season, Rela’s heart knew true love for the very first time. True love went by the name of Joseph, a visitor from the Queen City, the big city in the big isle. He and Rela became quick friends. Even she, who was usually shy and quiet, was astounded to see how quick and easy, so easy, it was to be intimate with him. They spent every day together, strolling through the orchards, wetting their feet in the brook, a small brook, that ran near Rela’s grandparents’ home, and talking. Talking about anything under that bright, summer sun.
Then one picnic they shared, where Rela prepared sweetened rice and ripe mangoes for him, he told her of his love for her. How he felt the first time he saw her, then of the first time he knew her and how he only seemed to breathe every time they were together. Only when they were together. It all seemed foolish to Joseph but Rela eased his troubled mind when she revealed that she felt exactly the same way. Then they knew at that very moment, that it was truly love, truly love.
Rela hoped that day would never end. But it did and so did Joseph’s summer. But he promised that he would write to her constantly and that he would return to visit. He would love her always, love her always. Would she write to him too?
Oh, yes, oh yes…Rela would. And love him and remain true to him always, always.
Rela cried, she really cried, on that day when Joseph got on the boat and waved good-bye. She remained on the pier until the ship disappeared beyond the shimmering horizon that sunset, that sunset.
Three weeks she waited for word of him, a letter, a call, a postcard or a note. But none came. None came at the post-office for Rela from Joseph. Soon she became troubled. Another week passed without a word from Joseph, she became confused. From that week she only let a day through then she became determined.
Beware of a woman whose heart is hot and her mind is set. Days before, her imagination was playing with the thought that her Joseph was a player, those sweet words of love were just a game, and that Rela was a pawn, a mere pawn. But since there was no word, not a hello or a how are you from her man, the imagination became a delirious fever; that to stave her off from the brink of insanity, Rela determined that she will go and find Joseph, she must find Joseph.
In half-a-day, she was at the city, and she didn’t know what to do or where to go. She thought back to those days with Joseph for a clue then she went to and fro. To and fro through the busy city, Rela sought to find him. For three days she searched and searched but in vain. She couldn’t find Joseph not in those three days, not even if she stayed a year. There was no other choice, no other, but to return home.

So there she was now, on this boat, staring to the black sea as if staring to the abyss. Her eyes brimming with tears, tears that trickle down her cheeks like that very brook near her grandparents’ home. Warm these tears were at first but soon cold by the sea wind’s touch. These fell, these drops of wet salt fell into the salt of the sea.
What was Rela supposed to do? Forget about Joseph? She cried some more. And more. But Rela was a child of the earth, good solid earth, and of the sun. Despite gray gloom, she always was hopeful. A part of her determined that she would return again to the City and this time stay to find work then stay to find Joseph. After that, she cried some more, tears falling like rain. Why? Why Joseph? Where are you? Why aren’t you here with me? She cried and cried these tears for Joseph until there was no more. No more, for now.
Exhausted, tired, Rela felt sleep caressing her entire body. Reluctantly she turned away from the view of the sea to return to lie in her bunk A41 and close her eyes. Then she heard hurried steps on the staircase that lead to the lower decks. Pang! Pang! Pang! And the panting of hot breath, she turned to see a young man, with sweat beading on his forehead. A young man, with a smile, and bright eyes warming to the sight of her. A young man, with a smile, and bright eyes and a face like Joseph’s, Rela’s Joseph!
“Rela!� Joseph called.
“Joseph! Joseph!�
It was quick how they crossed the distance between them but long did they hold each other and they kissed, they kissed amidst the wary stares of the newly-awakened passengers.
“Why didn’t you write to me? Why didn’t you call?� Rela asked.
“I wasn’t planning to!� Joseph confessed. “I was planning to come back to you!�
Rela wanted to know. “How did you know? How did you know I was here?�
“I didn’t. I didn’t!� Joseph repeated. “But I couldn’t sleep, I was excited thinking of you, of asking you to be my wife…so I went over to the window near my bunk in Deck B. I enjoyed the sea air when I felt wet on my head. I thought it must be raining…there were drops falling, I looked up and I saw you. I saw you so I ran up and here I am. Here you are �
Rela was laughing and crying and kissing Joseph when he told this to her.
Joseph wanted to know. “My dearest Rela, why were you crying? Why?�
“I was crying for you, Joseph, I was crying for you…�
Joseph held Rela some more and Rela cried her tears. For him, her Joseph, and this time for her, for her happiness.