Istoryan Writers

[galenostiel]

---

The seminar for writers I'm talking about will hopefully push through once the logistics are figured out. They plan to help writers find editors and publishers.

whoo, can't wait for that, sana it'll push through. please keep us posted, diem.

[diem]

EPISODE ONE She is a remarkable 5 feet and 8 ½ inches, 6 feet if she wears those high stiletto shoes that could stop traffic if she would puncture several car tires with those murderous heels. With fair, creamy skin and brown hair flowing with natural blonde strands, she is a wondrous genetic anomaly produced from a Dutch-American father and a Chinese-Filipino mother.
She exudes rebellion in fuchsia. I could imagine her as a freedom fighter; her body braided with bullet belts, a blood soaked bandana tied on her head while in her hands a bouquet of unsoiled white flowers. It is her independent spirit that will take anyone’s breath away. Like mine. Me, exposed to only demure Maria Claras, see her as a breath of fresh air blowing from a fierce thunderstorm. I meet her at, where-else.. a fashion party where she is surrounded by a barricade of admirers, of all sexes; male, female and definitely otherwise. I slowly take the place of a gay man who leaves for a drink. I stare at her but am taken in by her when she first declares herself working at the Children’s Village as a volunteer then second, a student of Filipino literature. Of course, she picks up spare change working as a model.
The week after the party, I visit the Children’s Village(CV), ask for her and she is there, showing me around the place, introducing me to her ‘kids’. I watch her talk about the situation that is facing most children in the city. She moves me to devote 10% of my earnings to the Bantay Bata Fund. I give the cash up-front.
She looks at me and says, “Let’s have coffee sometime.�
I glance at my watch. “Okay,� I reply, thinking about the presentation tomorrow which I have to prep for using today’s time.
“How about now?�
I look back at her, her head leaning to one side as if looking at me at a whole new perspective. She may be thinking, will I say yes?
“Yes.�
She smiles, those perfect little white teeth gleam with victory.
“Wait here, I got to log out first.�
Via MRT and a taxi I arrive at the CV, via her Toyota Altis we leave the CV. A gift from her estranged father, she reluctantly admits.
We have espressos, sprinkled with mirth and spiced with flirtations. My heart is pumping due to the coffee on my cup and the coffee on her lips. By the time we part ways, I need to see her again.
It takes me three months of more surprise coffee breaks and lunches to have the courage and the cash to take her out to a formal dinner. I bring flowers, white ones. She takes my flowers and my compliment of how beautiful she is this evening.
After a salad, steak, risotto, pie and cream and over two glasses of wine, I confess to her of my intent attraction to her. Her eyes light up and I swear they are brighter than the candles lighting our table. A corner of her lips curl and she holds me in a bemused gaze.
“I’m sorry,� she starts to say. “I’m involved with someone else…�
“Someone else? When did that happen? I asked you last week if you are seeing anyone romantically and you said you weren’t..�
“I didn’t lie but I’m involved with someone else. With the kids at the Village, with the things I’ve got to do for my master’s, and everything else I’ve got to do for ME…�
I become quiet.
“I hope you understand…�
I nod my reply.
Later, we walk to her car in silence. I open the driver’s door for her. She rolls down the window and stares up at me.
“Can I drop you anywhere?�
Hands in my slacks’ pockets, I look away to the bright city lights. “No, I’d like to take a walk. Thank you. Have a safe drive home, lock your doors.�
She turns inside her car and switches the auto-door lock, the bolts fall into place. “Done. Will I see you tomorrow?�
I offer her the condition, “If you only want to…�
“I want to,� she declares. Her eyes never leave mine until they are covered by the rising window pane.
I watch her drive off and sigh, Fine she wants to see me tomorrow.

EPISODE TWO After several more months of coffee breaks, sudden invites to parties and lunch, a Valentine’s and Christmas, she calls me up for New Year’s.
“Are you free?�
“It is the holidays…�
“Are you free?� she repeats.
“Yes.�
“Good. Let’s meet up at Mandy’s…�
Mandy’s belongs to Manang Annie, a woman with an amazing service history, she’s been a cook for thirty years for several families all around the islands. So it’s no surprise that her small carinderia sells tasty food from all regions of the country plus she makes the best batchoy and puso, cooked rice packaged in dried banana leaves. My Fil-am girl adores the place.
She is already there, talking up a typhoon with our bulky hostess. When Manang Annie returns to her domain, she greets me with a smile and tells me she already ordered.
Within fifteen minutes, the table is littered with steaming plates of brown rice, an assortment of barbecued meats, and spicy vegetables sweetened with prawn sauce.
“Eat up!� She declares and we dig in.
We wash these down with tall glasses of artic-cold cola that taste like bitter acid, searing our taste buds and numbing our throats.
“Ahhhh…�
Later we stroll, shoulder-to-shoulder, by the black bay of the City. Traffic travel by us at break-neck speeds but we take no notice. She hooks my arm with hers and pats my belly.
“Full?�
Uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t get used to this.� I look at her. “There’s something going on…�
She rolls her eyes to the brown clouds in the night sky. Something is settled in her mind. She stops, pulls my hands and makes me face her with the sea and the sounds of the tides as her backdrop.
“Remember you confessed…�, she begins
“I don’t want to remember.�
“It’s okay now…�
“Eh?�
She is holding my hands, her fingernails are actually wedging themselves between my own fingernails. The sea wind is whipping her fine hair that it reaches the sides of my face.
She stares at me keenly, I get the feeling that she is etching every feature somewhere in her.
To break the awkward silence, I inquire, “What are you saying…?�
It is a cue. She replies, “I’m saying this..� She releases my hands and cups my face and pulls me in for a kiss.
After a moment, she says, “You don’t believe me…?�
“I must be dreaming…�
“You’re a skeptic,� she counters.
I grin weakly. “Sorry, my skepticism runs kind of deep.�
She sighs. “Oh well, got to deal with that I guess.� She again pulls me in and I fall into her arms, into her mouth. I have fallen forever.

EPISODE THREE It has been a terrible week, I’ve gotten myself demoted at work. They say that my position is redundant and useless, that my talents should be relocated elsewhere where it’s needed. Elsewhere is at a lower rung of the company hierarchy.
Don’t want to look at anyone, don’t want to talk to anybody. But she’s so persistent with her calls and text messages like a vulture that’s out for dying prey that I give in and agree to meet her over the weekend. She drives us to a remote place high on the hills overlooking the city. After the pleasantries, she asks me point-blank why I’m avoiding her and then waits. I am so adamant to suffer in my own self-mire of pity but then she is there, it first comes out a trickle, then it spews out, all the frustration, misgivings, doubts and fears….
I’m pouring it out like Niagara out of a faucet and she’s just drinking it in. She’s a black hole with a pretty face, absorbing all my dark misery like a dry sponge.
The strange thing is after I declare myself as a total pathetic loser to the wide world, she takes my hand in hers and grab my eyes with her round, hazel-brown eyes and said ‘Kiss me’ with a kiss. My mind and my lips turn jelly and she swallows like it is sweet dessert on a plate. I breathe when she draws back then it’s my turn to eat.
When the delicious sharing of flesh, water, breath and fire passes, she says something miraculous to my wanton self
“Let us make love.�
She watches me with sincere expectation, with baited breath for my answer.
I stare at this beautiful girl and think of the nymphs and Nereids, those naked vessels of Nature’s living essence of Greek lore. I think of her as my Nereid and I feel myself turning into Zeus, that mighty god with a big thunderbolt.
Yet reality reasserts itself. Where? I can’t afford a five-star hotel suite which this occasion definitely deserves. I can’t bring her home to my bedroom which I share with my brother, that’s family territory. I don’t want to have her in the car, that’s tacky. Also having it outside in the grass is counted out. If we do it on her bed I feel that’s kind of sacrilegious, don’t make me explain because I can’t. There are a thousand reasons for me to say STOP and only one reason urging me to GO. But this one reason is so strong, so biological that it really, really defeats the thousand. I must have a soul and a virtuous one because I somehow open my mouth and kiss her before saying what I think is the impossible.
“I love to. I want to. I want you so much to love you so much but we should not.�
Thankfully, she didn’t look disappointed, my nymph. Instead she regards me with bright eyes and holds me tighter against her soft body and her overwhelming scent. “This feels so good, this is so right.�
Yeah. “I’m drowning,� I hear myself say to her again and again.
“Hold on to me. Don’t let go.�
I don’t want to. Even if it means my death at that moment I would never let her go.

EPISODE FOUR I decide to resign from the company and eventually, after a year, land myself on a nice job with a high salary and so-so-great priviliges. By the way, did I tell you I’m an entrepreneur? My Fil-am girl and I produce and sell military-themed clothes and fashion accessories. Strangely, It is doing quite well.
It was a lazy Sunday when we are having lunch after hearing Mass, my Fil-am girl is a heretical Protestant who loves Catholic traditions. Then and there, while we wait for our meal, she tells me, “Mahal kita.�
“I love you, too.�
She reaches for my hands and kisses them. “Mahal na mahal kita.�
I pull my hands away.
She smiles. “What is wrong? Don’t like hearing I LOVE YOU that way?�
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.
She raise her chin defiantly. “Well, I think it’s a wonderful way of saying I love you. If you think about it…�
She goes on, “Love. Define it. Hard to, because it is so abstract a term, so many degrees of understanding that word. Personally, I find it flimsy and double-edged. But when one says Mahal kita, Mahal meaning – has value, you could even say precious. That is more tangible, more concrete a feeling, like a need for air, for food as nourishment. You won’t just give up on such by feeling like that because its that important to you or in this case, for me…�
Then she becomes tranquil in her seat, looks away to the view by our window then she returns to me. “Mahal kita, mahal na mahal,� she declares simply.
I know when I’m beaten. It’s been like this ever since I met her but honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I reach for one of her hands with my own and say to her with all my heart, “Mahal na mahal kita.�
She flashes her smile, then as expected, a gasp escapes from her mouth. Her smile widens and is adorned by her eyes beautifully shimmering with tears. She feels the ring in the palm of my hand and she isn’t letting go, even when the waiter arrives with our sizzling large pan pizza.

[diem]

For the past few months, I have been sleeping early— early in the morning, round 2 to 4 am in the morning. Somehow, my mind is very productive at these unChristian hours. The wholesome silence of midnight is the void before creation, from which all comes. I usually wake up around 10 am or 10:30, just enough to perform the morning ritual and have a bite of brunch before Yugi-Oh starts on Hero TV.

That’s how it begins, my typical day since I’ve resigned from my job in a MEPZ food ingredients firm. The life of an wanna be writer, the life of a middle class urban bum, what’s the difference? `Obviously hygiene but aside from that, it’s all really madness in limbo.

It was a February Saturday when about 9, my Nokia 3220 started blasting angrily. Before that, I was on the threshold between sleep and consciousness; my brain was slow, no coherent thought could be born but instinctively I rose and answered the tiny damn thing.

A voice, female, seemingly young yet mature in her professional tone, informed me that she was calling for a local outsourcing firm. I was recommended to their list by my cousin(God bless his goodnatured soul). Was I ready for this phone call interview?

My replies to her smart, clipped questions came in hoarse tight morning breaths. My brain was all abuzz. When I had to expound on my personality, experience, I spoke normally which I think is bad. After ten minutes of gabbing and shooting through the lines, she was glad to inform me that I passed this initial interview and she’s recommending me to the next step. With the manner of an overworked travel agent, she promptly and politely reserved me for an exam, Monday. My cousin may have been quite influential in this process, I might have to owe him one.

Saturday, Sunday, life was pretty normal, pretty frustrating for a man like me desperately to prove my passion and believing beyond belief that the universe works with me in fulfilling my dreams. But truthfully, I haven’t written a decent page in months. A decent ending in a year. Spent the weekend mostly daydreaming. I did polish up my resume, drove around to get my picture taken and got a not-so-decent trim(I’m not letting a gay stranger cut my hair ever). Sunday night, I have to look over my moderate wardrobe for something presentable and had the idea of going in khaki legs, pale sky polo and brown suede loafers.

For Monday, I had my 3220 set to bling at 6 am but my internal clock woke me by 5. I showered and dressed. 7 I was out of the house and grabbed a taxi by the guardhouse.

During the drive, my mind blew out a hundred thoughts all lining up into several sheets of thesis: one) what am I doing with my life? Two) parents should really do a better job of educating their kids in discovering and developing their individual personalities and talents. Schools are there to educate the child in social interactions and the virtue in cooperation. Shouldn’t parents and schools actively work together? Three) there is a story in this somewhere. Four) I forget. Five) I’m 24 going on 25, no gf since birth, so on and so forth.

Finally I arrive at the building lobby 30 minutes before the appointed time required before taking the appointed test 15 minutes later. I am the Saint of Punctuality. Filipino time has no effect on me. I wait by reading the book I had handy, the Bhagavad Gita As It is. A heavy tome for light reading. Anything to take my mind over today.

I turned and saw several meters aaway, a pretty young lady waiting to get upstairs. What seized my interest was her well shaped and fair calves stemming out her sage skirt. I turn away but I couldn’t resist for too long so I stared back, finding her looking over my way. I took a beat before turning my eyes somewhere else.

I was amazed to find out that the office clock was just seconds off from my 3220’s digital clock. I took the exam este exams: IQ I breezed through and IT was a joke that made me laugh in the inside. Clearly I had no idea and if this was a romantic comedy, this would be the scene that would establish the quirky, romantic lead as me.

Again, I was tested for my fluency reading aloud two paragraphs of descriptions and missions. Before that I got to chat with some of my fellow interviewees, some called in while others walked. Hey, it was like the 1st day of freshman year all over again, essentially.

I was scheduled for an afternoon interview and honestly I had enough. Enough. But since I was already here, having spent a substantial taxi fare to get here, I decided to wait it out someplace near, immesing myself once again in the verses of the Gita, floating wistfully through the infinite cosmic yoga of Krsna.

The afternoon interview was a bomb. I could easily recollect the job interviews of my past and found myself comparing while answering questions. Honestly my personal evaluation is self-disparaging. I felt that I could have done better; what just happened was a masochistic bruising of my ego by my own ineptness. Okay, okay, drama queen stop it beating yourself up.

Yet by divine grace, I’ve been recommended once again to participate in a workshop to improve my potential. Apparently I have potential. The stuff is there and just needs to be molded.

But I don’t want to be molded. I basically lied through my teeth during the interviews. It was not me but an attempt to be eager to have a job, to be a man, to stop being a bum in my parents’ eyes, to make something of myself, anything worth something worth seeing.

But is this worth being? I had the whole week to find the answer that lay all selfish(?) anxities to rest. I do not have blood flowing in my veins anymore. It’s chilled cream milk. My flesh substance is weak wafer. There is a sickingly sweet and sharp sense zipping through my nerves.

I am the Gingerbread Man and I’m about to be eaten alive.

[DexterTexter]

Sheer talent! I wish i could write that way. Great work! :mrgreen:

[galenostiel]

I Wish

I wish I could see the sun as it rises above the far horizon, its soft rays just peeking out as it begins its journey across the morning sky.Â*

I wish I could see the blue ocean stretching out for miles before my very eyes, feel the salt spray on my skin, and dig my toes into the sand beneath my feet.

I wish I could see the moon light up the warm night sky, stare at its reflection on the still waters of the sea, and fall asleep to the music of the waves crashing into the rocks on the beach.

I wish I could see...your smile. The sparkle in your eyes. The way your dimples brighten up the corners of your mouth, and how your lips lift up when you greet me.

I wish I could hear the soft melody of your voice each moment you say "Hi."

I wish.

[diem]

Things are never the same anymore, thought Nilo as he stared down on the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes. Dirty dishes that piled up from Monday’s lunch, Tuesday’s breakfast, Wednesday’s dinner and from many late evening snacks. There were two bowls of rotting Thursday’s leftover take-out.
“Niña would have a fit.�, Nilo said aloud. Yes she would, if she was only here.
Today was Friday morning and in about 29 minutes, Nilo would be officially late for work. Nilo promised to himself that he would definitely wash the dishes this evening and went out of the kitchen. He called out, “Cathy! It’s time to go!�
The house remained quiet, Nilo called out again. “Cathy!�
Nilo fumbled with his papers, stuffed them in his briefcase. He heard small steps coming from behind him. Cathy was Nilo’s daughter, 7 years old, long black hair with curls at the ends. She stood there in a creased uniform, bearing a creased smile on her face.
“Sorry Papa, I was looking for my shoes.�
Nilo frowned gently as he opened the front door and pointed outside.

They arrived at school, Nilo hugged and kissed Cathy. “See you later, Cathy. have a good day at school.�
Cathy gave her a father a look that meant it never is a good day in school. She left him in the car with that thought. She’s right. It was never a good day anywhere, anytime, after Niña passed away.

He was alone and safe in his office. Nilo mourned for his wife. Niña wasn’t the prettiest of girls nor was she the smartest, but she was kind and funny. She was Nilo’s best friend. She loved him first. Her whole world revolved around him. It was why Nilo married her. It was only until Cathy was born that he fell in love with his wife.
Niña was an amazing woman. Other working mothers found it difficult juggling a career and raising a family. For Niña, it was a breeze, an innate talent in her. Her work as a bank clerk was demanding yet she was able to find time to organize her family’s daily matters, like Cathy’s lunches and Nilo’s underwear. She kept the house clean, so clean that a hospital administrator could learn from her.
She was always smiling, carrying a joke or two in her mouth. She never seemed to be tired. “Oh, I can always get enough rest when I’m dead�, she would quip.
How prophetic.
Nilo missed Niña terribly, in the world of ways a husband would miss his wife and the mother of his daughter. He thought of the moments he took for granted that Nina will always be there and intensely regretted every one.
The assistant Evie walked in with a sheaf of forms for review. Nilo was popping eyedrops on his eyes.
He blinked at Evie. “Eye-strain.�

Nilo picked Cathy up from school. She was carrying two very thick books along with her bag. Lately, his daughter was borrowing books from the school library and immersing herself to reading in her room.
Give her time, the school guidance counselor said to Nilo. Children have their own way dealing with grief and loss.
Enough time has passed, thought Nilo said to himself, Cathy should go out and play and laugh and smile. She used to. We used to.
“Papa.? Why are you staring at me like that?�
“Nothing honey. More books to read?�
She didn’t answer. She climbed in her seat and strapped herself with her seatbelt. almost automatic, a wound-up doll. Nilo thought he heard the gears clicking in Cathy’s neck as the girl turned to him, “Ready Papa.�
Nilo saw himself in those clear brown eyes. A doll’s glass eyes, lifeless.
Nilo swore to himself that he isn’t going to lose his daughter too.

“Papa?�
“Yes, baby?�
“Can we see Mamma?�
“Cathy, it’s kind of getting late.�
“Please? It’s important, Papa.�
“Why not tomorrow?�
The girl became quiet for several moments. “Please?�
There was no use arguing, Nilo turned the wheel around and so did the car. He glanced at Cathy who rewarded him with a small smile. That was all right for him.

Its been seven months since Nilo and Cathy last visited the grave, eight months since they buried Niña. Sitting the lush green of Elysium Memorial Park, Cathy spoke to Niña’s marker. Nilo stood by watching her, listening absent-mindedly.
Cathy finished, leaned down and kissed the marker. Nilo thought whether or not Niña would approve of their child committing such an unsanitary act of affection. He would let it go for now.
He heard Cathy audibly whisper, “I’ll see you soon.�
A brush of evening air stroked Nilo with icy fingers. Cathy turned to him again with that doll glass eyed stare.
“Aren’t you going to say anything to Mama, Papa?�
He couldn’t, knowing that it wasn’t Niña anymore lying below that marker but it wouldn’t do to use philosophy against the child. He knelt behind Cathy and tenderly embraced her. With Cathy as his audience, he spoke little of his troubles and worries, more on his hopes for Cathy and his love for Niña. He was done and was surprised to find himself choking a bit, feeling again a glean of tears in his eyes.
“Let’s go home,� said Cathy and she clung to him tightly.
Nilo carried her in his arms, away from the grave. Cathy looked back at the patch of grassy plain turned to her father’s ear, her breath carried the warm words, “It’ll be okay.�
“Where do you want eat?�
The child yawned. “Anywhere is fine.�
“Okay.�
Night was falling.

Being a man of his word, Nilo washed the week’s worth of dishes on the kitchen sink. Tomorrow, he planned to do a general cleaning of the house that would make Niña proud.
Nilo glanced under the sink’s cupboard and saw with satisfaction that they have enough cleaning powders and implements. He checked the refrigerator and mentally took note of the grocery items that are missing. He might have to clean the fridge too tomorrow.
Nilo went to Cathy’s bedroom and knocked at the door. A meek ‘come-in’ came through the door. He opened the door and found her in a sea of paper and open books. Surprised he asked in a louder voice than intended, “Baby, what are you doing?�
Cathy looked up from the paper she’s been scribbling, “Project.�
“Well.. do you need any help?�
“No. Thank you Papa.�
“Clean up this mess before you got to bed. You’ve got an hour.�
“Yes, Papa.�
Nilo left the room, closing the door after him. He sneaked a glance at his daughter who opened another thick volume, scanned the pages and returned to her scribbling.

Nilo came back to find the papers gone and the books piled almost neatly on the table and on the floor. Cathy was waiting for him, already in her pajamas, lying in bed. They had a small father-daughter talk about today and tomorrow. He watched her say her prayers, blessing her friends and cousins, the orphans of the world, her Papa and herself. Nilo kissed her and remained on the bed as she fell to sleep.
Nilo didn’t like to go to his bedroom. Things weren’t the same anymore, he missed Niña more and more. So he sat there, on his daughter’s bed, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.

Nilo woke up abruptly. He looked around and saw he was still in Cathy’s room, he must have fallen asleep. Cathy has already left her bed and he could hear the clang-bang of a Saturday morning cartoon downstairs. He leaned back in the bed, struggling with the remains of a strange dream off his mind.
He remembered a green light glowing somewhere. He remembered a shadow with a woman’s voice calling his name. A familiar voice, Niña’s.
He got off Cathy’s bed and went out to find his daughter.

Nilo found her eating quick oatmeal and sipping orange juice while watching the animated funfare on television. She already seemed washed and ready to go. Even her hair was braided neatly.
“Did you do that yourself?� Nilo asked of the braids.
Cathy looked at him and smiled widely. The first real smile from her he’d seen in months. Yet she didn’t say anything.
He went to the bathroom to brush and shower. Entering the tiled room, he was met by a strong whiff of Lysol, as if the air was saturated with it.
Fifteen minutes later, Nilo was in his bedroom looking for something decent to wear from his bag of fresh laundry. He looked around his bedroom which moved to the top of the list of have-to-clean.
Now he was back out and Cathy was nowhere to be seen. There was a newly washed bowl and glass by the kitchen sink. His daughter is more neat than he was and for that he was grateful and remorseful at the same time. Nilo went to the bedroom.
Cathy was pulling an old pair of sneakers from under her bed which was already arranged, sheets tucked in, blankets folded and pillows well-placed and puffed.Nilo felt pride in his daughter and shame in himself swirling together in a dance.
“Come on, let’s go.�

They returned home from the mall in the evening, dinnertime. They spentteh entire morning and afternoon at Cathy’s coaxing to go window shopping. Nilo broke his word to clean the house to appease the child. Besides there is always tomorrow.
They carried out the plastic bags from the back of the car to the garage. Cathy was standing by the door with an agitated look on her face and was marching on the spot with impatience.
“Hurry Daddy, I’ve got to gooo!�
Nilo quickly took out the door key and inserted it into the lock. As soon as it opened, Cathy bolted inside, leaving her father with all the grocery bags. Nilo stepped and stopped.
It was the hesitation that bit him. He couldn’t explain it. Instinctively he smelled the air, there it was—the smart scent of lemon Lysol. He walked into the room it grew stronger, it stung his eyes a bit.
Nilo placed the bags on the kitchen counter, and felt the tiles cool, clean surface. He smelled the citrus saturated in the air and it made him woozy again. Cathy returned to him casually and help in removing the items from the bag.
“What would you like to eat for dinner?�

After dinner, Nilo and Cathy watched a late movie on cable. The child folded her knees on the cushion as she rested on her father’s chest. Nilo felt her body move to a more comfortable position and her breathing grew more quiet.
“Sleepy baby?�
The child shook her head, a weak response for delay. She did not protest when Nilo picked her up and carried her to bed. She clung close to him as he, with one arm, pulled away the sheets and slowly lowered her down. He kissed her as he tucked her in.
Nilo left her in the dark room, with the shadows on the walls lined up like sentries. It did not unsettle him to imagine if one would pull away from a wall and move over Cathy gently. It don’t not appear strange for Nilo to dream that the shadow followed him to his room, watched him as he lay down on smooth linen that felt clean(how?) to his face. As Nilo breathed deep, his nostrils smelled sharp and fruity floating thinly over some smell, deeper, stronger, worrisome. But Nilo buried his sleeping face slightly into his pillow, and the smell faded away.

Nilo woke up choking for air and choked even more. The room air was so stale, dank with an unexplained humidity. Nilo felt hot, sweaty and unclean. He got out of bed and out of the room and breathed in gratefully for the air in the corridor, an apparently fresher kind of air.

In the kitchen, Nilo drank cold water. He sensed every inch of his skin screaming for a shower. What is happening? He heard it, from the front door.
Warily he approached the open front door. Something just ran out. What, the man couldn’t be sure. Fear said he mustn’t go beyond the threshold, into the night outside. Something was waiting. Nilo locked the door, he thought of Cathy instantly. He turned on the balls of his heels and slid on the first step. He caught his fall with his open palms on the floor. He felt a strange thing between his toes, it was moist and cold. He saw that he stepped on a handful of muddy earth and more, it bore a vile odor which betrayed that it was rich in decay and death. Nilo ceased to breath and clamped his nose before the odor violates his lungs. How could such a thing be here, in Nina’s house?

Cathy. The man stood up and hopped towards the stairs.
He burst into the room and couldn’t believe his eyes. Cathy’s bed was moved to the wall, leaving floorspace where a star symbol embellished with a ring of runes was scrawled white with chalk. At the center of the star, before a crucifix of open books knelt Cathy, her mouth muttering out oracion after oracion.
“Cathy! What are you doing!�
Nilo approached and instantly he suffered a cold hand grip his chest pulling him forcefully down on the floor. Confused, Nilo did not know what is happening but he felt this is wrong, evil, this is all wrong.
“Cathy!�
His daughter turned to him, her eyes now empty as shadow. “Cathy!�
“I’m bringing her back, Papa.�
No, no! For some reason, Nilo’s soul burned against Cathy’s words. I must reach her! Nilo found it difficult to move, as if he were limbless, but he crawled. He fought for every inch, crawling, willing his hand to reach his child.
The ether that surrounded her was chilling And lonely, so miserably lonely. Such sadness. Nilo’s throat suffocated with silent cries, no-! NO! I’m not going to lose you!
His hand claimed her. He pulled her free and embraced her tightly. I’m not letting you go! Cathy’s body was ice-cold, hollow. Nilo embraced her, willing his own warmth to fill her. Please. Please.
A gasp of air and a pair of sobs made Nilo look at Cathy. Her face was red and her eyes bright and wet with fierce angry tears. He saw himself in her eyes and was relieved.
“I just want Mama back! I just want Mama!� she cried, burying her small face into his chest. Nilo let her cry, knowing soon she would be calm as his own beating heart.

The morning light found Nilo, stirring into his mug of instant black coffe. He’d been stirring for the past hour. He finally sipped the dark, bitter and cold beverage— he found the flavor matched his state of mind. Crazy.
He stared at the old huge thickbound volumes that Cathy borrowed. He would have to speak to the librarian for allowing a child to have these occult books. Crazy.
Today, he is going to drop Cathy at a safe place, with her grandparents. Together they could share the loss and care for each other. Nilo himself would join them later. He had other business to attend to. He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. He had to make sure. He is going to Niña’s grave and see—see what? Nilo shook his head. Crazy.
Nilo threw the spittle of coffee left into the drain and readily washed the mug clean.

“Cathy, it’s time to go!�
The girl heard her father’s voice, and his steps are coming closer. She was kneeling beside her bed, reaching for something underneath.
“Cathy?�
The child turned to the door, it was empty. “I’m looking for my shoes, Papa!�
Cathy glanced back just as a slender pale moldy arm snaked out from under the bed, placing a pair of polished shoes within Cathy’s reach.
Cathy leaned closer to the thick darkness underneath the bed, it smelled sweet and sharp of citrus. “Thanks Mama. I’ll be back soon.�
The voice softly came out, full of love. “I’ll be waiting.�
The child slipped into her shoes and quickly pranced out of her bedroom to join her father waiting at the door before the day.

[diem]

Marriage changes a person. Being married with Ben changed me, Maggie realizes as she sits, listening to her girlfriends gab about the latest office gossip.
“You think he’s gay.�
“Girl, I SO KNOW.�
“Maybe he’s just effeminate—a modern man, a metrosexual.�
Maggie sighs inwardly, her face creasing at the sight of the eager, mischievous meaningful grins on her girlfriends’ faces. These fashionable, bright, metropolitan, SINGLE(!), career women now seem so immature for her.
Maggie shakes her head. She couldn’t believe herself thinking that she had more fun swapping stories with her in-laws the night before.
How easily had she become domesticated. The consummate bachelorette Nielle is saying with sudden concern, “Mags, are you okay?�
Maggie smiles serenely, batting her eyelids low to hide the boredom in her eyes. “Fine,� she lies.
Nielle is about to comment but someone else throws in another titillating tidbit into the slander stew, and everyone laps it up.
Except Maggie.

“You’re quiet.�
Staring at her reflection on the tinted passenger window, Maggie finds out that indeed, she looks quiet.
She turns to Ben slowly. Pulling his driver’s gaze from the road, Ben glances at her. They lock eyes. Ben smiles.
Warmth fills Maggie’s skin. It’s a good feeling. Maggie loves Ben. Maggie loves being Ben’s wife. But the odd truth of the matter is that aside from their marriage, Maggie and Ben have nothing in common at all.
Maggie is a successful events planner/ producer while Ben is a writer with several works in print. Maggie loves to socialize, to be in the thick of things because that’s the nature of her job, of herself. Ben earns by working alone, writing alone, and watching life, studying life. Maggie has loads of friends— intimate, close, boy, girl, gay, and friendsters. Ben has only one best friend, almost like a brother— Dave.

Dave is single, gentle, polite, well-mannered and soft spoken. He is a decent person, a good man, a fine catch.
Maggie thinks on these points and wonders, why is he still single?
She wonders aloud for Ben to reply. “I guess he hasn’t found the right girl. Besides, he’s very involved in his work.�
Dave is a writer, like Ben, though Maggie couldn’t remember what kind of writer Dave is. A remnant of the night’s earlier high chatter echoes out of Maggie’s mouth.
“You think he’s gay?�
“What?!� Ben turns to his wife with surprise. Maggie appears surprised herself, what the-? She must be really tired!
“Never mind… I must be tired.�
“Maggie I would know if Dave is gay and he isn’t, believe me.�
Maggie smiles, a true reflection of her heart warming. “I do.�
Ben grins, pleased to have defended his friend’s character. Maggie grins, pleased to have landed an opportunity.

Her name is Richelle. She manages a flower shop which became popular after the owner hired Maggie to refresh the shop’s image via a grand reopening. Maggie and Richelle worked closely together on the project. Richelle was simply sweet and sincere, of a kind mind, with a generous heart— the stuff true lifelong friends are made of. Maggie fell in love.

Since then, when Maggie has a new gig or special event to prepare— she always refers her clients to Richelle’s flower shop which never fails to disappoint in their delightfully original arrangements or the personal customer care. If Richelle’s customers are looking for a planner to organize their special moments, the flower lady always has Maggie’s card handy. During the special events of their own lives, the two will either send a greeting or deliver a bouquet to one another.

The more Maggie thinks about it, the more Maggie loves the idea. Richelle and Dave will make a good couple. Their natures compliment each other, much like Maggie’s and her Ben. Having another young couple to relate with, Maggie beams, that would be very nice. Very nice, indeed.

Now to make it happen, Maggie couldn’t just leave it to Cupid. Never send a winged babe in Pampers to do a job. That’s child exploitation. This is her job, this is what she does— Maggie makes things happen.

Maggie surprises Richelle whose soft comely face grows bright with delight.
“This is unexpected! Why the visit?�
“I just wanted to see how you are, so como esta?�
The flower lady shrugs her shoulders. “Eh. Good. As you can see, it’s presently off-season. How is Ben?�
“He’s doing fine. That reminds me, Ben and I are having dinner with his best friend tomorrow night. Though its not really exciting for me for I often feel like a third wheel with those two.� Maggie pauses, staring intently at Richelle until she sees a blush rush in her friend’s cheeks.
“Are you busy tomorrow night?�
“No.�
“Really? Oh could you, you know please join us?�
“Hah?�
“Please, say yes. The four of us. More is merrier.�
Richelle stops to think, her features pleasant. Maggie dares to ask, “Will someone get mad?�
Richelle is quick and eager to reassure. “Nooo, still single.�
Maggie bites her lower lip to supress the smug smile.
“Okay,� Richelle says . “I’ll be there.�
“Thank you. I’ll text you the details. We’ll pick you up.�
“No, don’t go trouble yourself.�
“What are you talking about? You’re no trouble.� Now Maggie allows herself to smile as she changes the subject. “Now that’s a lovely bunch of mums, how much?�

Dave is surprised to find Maggie by his desk rather than Ben’s.
“Hey, Dave.�
“Hi, Maggie. Looking for Ben?�
“Actually, I’m here for you. Ben and I are having dinner tomorrow night with a girl friend of mine and I sometimes feel that Ben gets bored, being the third wheel and all. So I thought, if you’re free—it’ll be fun.�
Dave frowns, thinking and seemingly trying to read Maggie. Maggie couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty under the man’s smart gaze.
“Okay.� Dave smiles pleasantly.
“Really? Great! I’ll just text you the time and place.�
“Okay.�
Maggie’s smile warms her skin, utterly pleased as she leaves Dave.

Ben finds her in the corridor and seeing her features locked in that smug grin tells him all that he needs to know.
“Dinner tomorrow?�
Maggie’s eyes twinkle in anticipation. “Yes!� She gives Ben a quick kiss.

The men are finishing the meals while discussing the finer points of writing young adult fiction. Maggie yawns, her body tired with disappointment. She stares at the clock on her cellphone’s LCD screen and for the 6th time reads Richelle’s last message.

Mags, I’m really sorry but I just got out of the shop. Will catch up with you. I promise.

An hour earlier, Ben and Maggie find Richelle in the middle of a crisis in her flowershop, catering to the selfish fauna needs of an important and indispensible client.
“I’m really sorry-! Why don’t you go on ahead with your dinner and I’ll catch up with you guys in 30 minutes.�

Thirty minutes later while Maggie pierces her fork into her chicken comes Richelle’s SMS.
It’s going to be a little longer. I’m really sorry. Have you guys finished dinner?

Maggie thinks quickly. She slides her thumbs over the keypad.
We’re planning to go to K1 for an hour or two. Please do join us.

Richelle replies. Ok.

Maggie stares up to the men. “Why don’t we go to K1?�

Ben and Dave is belting their voices against the walls of the room at the K1 Family KTV. Maggie tries to calm down by sipping her drink, wondering where the hell is Richelle. Impatience itches her feet so she stands and walks out the door. The wannabe rockstars do not notice her departure.

A tiny flame burns the end of Maggie’s cigarette as she breathes in puffs of that dry, menthol flavor. She turns and finds Richelle, smiling, waiting for her.
“I’m sorry.�
“Richelle!�

Maggie pulls on her friend’s hand somewhat insistently as they head back to the room. Maggie opens the door, “Look who’s here!�
But her voice is drowned out by the passionate yelling of her husband as he gets carried away by “Sweet Child o’ Mine.�
Sitting down, Dave turns and smiles at Maggie.
“Dave, this is Richelle. Richelle this is Dave.�
A question glows in Dave’s eyes. He looks at Maggie then at Richelle, nervous.
Richelle’s pleasant face remains pleasant.
Maggie places Richelle beside Dave. She’s done all that she could, now let’s see if Nature could do better. Then again. Maggie grabs the controller and punches in the keys of a love song that she knows and sings so well. It might help, just a little bit.
As the electronic chords start to play, Ben yields the floor to her and becomes her number one fan.
“There is no rhyme nor reason,
Only a sense of completion
And in your eyes
I see the missing pieces, I’m searching for,
I think I’ve found my bestfriend..�
Maggie watches the couple in dismay. Richelle is just looking at her still, with that smile full of guilt and apology. Dave, on the other hand, has bowled over and holds his head with both hands.
Ben goes to his friend and whispers closely. Dave leans back to Ben, replying. Ben nods as Dave leaves.
Maggie stops singing. “What happened?� The question bounces hard against the walls.
“Dave has a headache.�
This time, Maggie couldn’t hide her irritation. She frowns unintentionally at Richelle who still wears that apology on her face.
Maggie feels shame. “I think we should go.�
Richelle just quietly nods.

Ben and Maggie walk out of the K1 KTV entrance arm in arm, with Richelle following silently behind them.
The hoarse and painful sounds of an overturned stomach make them turn to one dark corner where they could see David’s figure doubling over in spasms.
Concern makes the couple quick to approach. “Dave? Dave? Dave?�
“Dave, what’s wrong?�
“Gasp-! I have this terrible headache.�
Ben catches the secret in Dave’s eyes. He nods knowingly. “Did you feel one of them?�
Dave turns to his friend, shrugs. “Maybe.�
One of them? thinks Maggie. She turns inquiringly at Ben.
Ben explains. “Dave has a third eye. ESP. He sometimes pick up spirits, ghosts or sometimes they just pick him, pick on him.�
Really, Maggie stares at Dave who excuses himself as another gush seizes him.
Maggie turns away, wincing at the acrid, moist aroma and finds Richelle gone.

Ben finds Maggie standing by the open door. Her body and her face frozen yet tears fall from her eyes strong and unhindered.
By her bare feet lay today’s newspaper, open. One article heading grabs Ben’s gaze.

HIT & RUN. WOMAN DEAD.
Last night, around 10 pm, a black Toyota Vios was seen careering through Maxilom Avenue towards Banilad. The driver somehow lost control and hit a lady pedestrian. The Vios did not stop however and continued to drive down. Bystanders and witnesses tried to help the victim who unfortunately died on the way to the Medical Center. From her purse, the victim was identified to be Richelle Go of Cabangcalan, Mandaue City, manager of Blessings and Blossoms, single…

[diem]

You write your first draft...with your heart.
You rewrite with your head.

The first key to writing is...to write.

Not to think.

---- William Forrester, Finding Forrester, Columbia Pictures 2000.

If anyone is interested to learn the basic and finer points of screenwriting for both TV and film, I could teach you for free. Please PM me and let's set something up.

[diem]

The Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Foundation is now accepting entries
for the 56th Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. Entries
will be accepted until 12 midnight of April 30, 2006.

The theme for this year's Kabataan Informal Essay category is "Why I
Would Want to Stay in the Philippines?" (English division),
and "Kung Bakit Nais Ko'ng Manatili sa Pilipinas?" (Filipino
division). The Kabataan Informal Essay is a special category open to
persons below 18 years of age. Palanca awardees who have won four
first prizes in this category are bestowed with the Kabataan Award
of Distinction.

The Short Story category is open in English, Filipino and the
Regional Languages (Hiligaynon, Iluko, Cebuano). The Futuristic
Fiction, Short Story for Children, Essay, Poetry, One-act Play and
Full-length Play categories are open in the English and Filipino
divisions. The Teleplay and Screenplay categories are open only in
the Filipino division.

Entries may be submitted in person or sent by courier service to
Carlos Palanca Foundation, 6th Floor, CPJ Building, 105 C. Palanca
Jr. St., Legaspi Village, Makati City. All entries submitted via e-
mail should be transmitted not later than midnight of April 30.

Entries should be in Rich Text Format or a Word Document File and
should be sent as an attachment, together with the author's bio-data
and an original copy of the notarized authorization form.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Complete contest rules and official entry forms are available at the
Carlos Palanca Foundation office, through e-mail
cpawards@info.com.ph or palancaawards@yahoo.com. Call 818-3681 local
31 for details.

[diem]

What is so frightening about change? What is so frightening about risk? One of the greatest challenges a fledgling independent filmmaker faces is the hesitation that s/he meets when he says the words that are the core of his/her being, “Let us make a film.�

S/He encounters this silent opposition from his/her family, relatives, friends, fellow film enthusiasts, acquaintances, strangers, and even in him/her own self. This opposition is often accompanied by bemused smiles, uneasy laughs, wary grins, the shaking of heads, and looks that plainly say, “You’re dreaming.�

But that’s what exactly what a Filmmaker is, being an artist, s/he is constantly dreaming. S/he is also striving to making those dreams come true, from the fertile fields of the mind’s eye onto the actual celluloid for everyone’s eyes to see.

The Filmmaker may be a dreamer, but s/he is a generous dreamer. S/he wishes to share his/her dream to everyone, to gain as much pleasure, enjoyment or any emotion from it as s/he does.

Unlike music or art, the filmmaker cannot create his/her art all by his/her own. A musician can make his/her mark as a solo performer while a painter or sculptor reveals his/her originality with his/her own hands.

Much like his/her forebears the playwright of the stage or the ringmaster of the bigtop, the Filmmaker cannot show anything on his/her own. Not only equipment, s/he needs subjects, talents, costumes, and venues. All this, s/he must weave into one existence, one being.

The point is the process is so much faithful to actual conception. The Filmmaker cannot conceive the child of his/her imagination alone.

The Filmmaker needs help. S/he needs kindred spirits, those who hold the same passionate, generous need to share dreams. Blessed is the Filmmaker who has a major film studio, a TV network, or a family fortune to back him/her in the pursuit of dreams.

Unfortunately, not all Filmmakers are that blessed. Generally, these are the true independent lokal filmmakers.

True independent lokal filmmakers come from two sorts of people; those who start as students of filmmaking or a discipline close to filmmaking. They make films as class projects with their fellow classmates, and are graded accordingly. After graduation, they get assimilated into the lokal filmmaking industry, TV networks or the marketing sector.

They would realize the virtue of patience as their creativity, skills and talents are used or even exploited in the production of concepts of others who claim the privilege of predecession, older loyalties to the powers who are.

The young lokal filmmakers must wait for their turn to present their own ideas the way they want it and without any dilution or compromise. It may take decades or never at all.

When some of these “corporate� lokal filmmakers find the wait too long and thus they deviate by working their own projects on the side, hoping the products of their unique sensiibilities and talents may prove their worth.

Some may be blessed with favor, achieve acclaim but in a country afflicted with a shaky economy and a circus of a political crisis, producers are still hesitant to chance their money on such young stallions, despite their achievements. They would go for the sure win, the old veteran steed, despite the winnings from such a predictable bet can be considered relatively small, as long as profit is made.

Thus some young filmmakers break off from the old-boy network ruled by the so many old boys who are so unwilling to share their toys.

The break-offs start their own production outfits, lure in some investors, and make their own dreams come true. Some succeed but most fail in the first two years. Like any business, profit and loss, egos and madness, tip the scales of the fates of such ventures.

There is another kind of independent lokal filmmaker. These start off as students from other disciplines, distant from studies of media— Accountancy, Chemistry, Computer Science, Management Engineering etc. It is only through the course of living they realize that their divine sparks lie outside their present occupations.

Their teachers are Spielberg, Kurosawa, Wong Kai, Kubrich, Coppola, Yimou. They take their classes from the comfort of their own homes or inside the movie theaters— watching the works of professional filmmakers and do more than enjoy them— they emulate the techniques in their minds, constantly dreaming and striving to weave their dreams into film.

From the lining of their own wallets they put up the money to buy books and equipment. They use the Internet to find more information to flame their passion. They constantly seek out kindred spirits and often enough they encounter such, though not cut from the same cloth.

The wacky lokal adage, Birds of the same feather are the same birds, comes to mind. Independent filmmakers can work well with others, but they create with those essentially their twins or creative clones. Like dissolves like, like knows like.

It is not easy. Diversities can be enjoyed but sometimes can be ridiculed. Artists, possessing the need to create, have an almost a divine possessiveness— a mountain like ego. It takes a unique soul, one with a world of life experience, to understand and empathizes with her/his fellow independent filmmakers.

When these unique souls collaborate, they conceive a work which does not alienate its audience but attracts like the sound of a calm river flowing under a sturdy bridge that leads to a garden. Such masterpieces of Art are created by empathy thus inspire empathy, these build bridges from mind to mind, heart to heart.

The true lokal independent filmmakers are constantly building bridges, talking to strangers, sharing their dreams. Despite ridicule, opposition and the practical challenges of life versus the passion of dreams, the true lokal independent filmmakers like any true lokal independent artists, are fighting— the secret sons of a constant revolution desiring diversity and change.

Their numbers are few. Profit does not fuel them but their passion. Their passion often makes them solitary but they fight for alliance, for that necessary human connection. It often burns them, but they fight nonetheless. They are fighting dreamers.