Istoryan Writers

[roselyn]

---

haha...geow guy

[MrBiddle]

I am waiting to be impressed.

[galenostiel]

hi! hmmm, i do write short stories...pero not sure jud ko if my stuff meets ur expectations hehehe...bitaw dugay nako wa suwat2x...pero interested ko.

[MrBiddle]

pero not sure jud ko if my stuff meets ur expectations

It will.

[galenostiel]

i was a staff writer in high school...staff writer again in college (focus on news, and short stories)...and now i'm a web content writer, hehehe. but i really want to write fiction and poetry. that's my real inclination.

i took engineering at first too in college..ECE...then realized I wanted to write and not compute hehehehe. so ni-shift gyud ko.

personally writing really helps me kay its a form of expression and avenue for me gyud for all the things I can't say and do..char..

[galenostiel]

what subject do you lean to? or any subject lang...?

[The_Gadore]

i am currently reading a book on scriptwriting by ricardo lee entitled "trip to quiapo". here's an exercise that we could all do. please post your answers here:

create a story that has a beginning, middle and end using the following images in no particular order:

1. an old man crying
2. bloodied diary
3. a man dancing
4. a broken guitar floating in the river
5. a man laughing in the rain
6. a woman looking at a mirror.

also you might want to check out a friend-writers blog:

Dean Alfar - a 7 time Palanca Awardee and an National Book Awardee.
http://deanalfar.blogspot.com

It’s the 5th day of August. A man dancing on the center of a hall most likely the house’s receiving area can be seen. From the boombox a tune is heard playing “Changes” from the artist Tupac. Dancing with his heart he did, like it was the last dance he could ever have. The man is old and is in his 80’s. He has a distinguishing scar on his arm and probably on other parts of his body but was only not visible because they’re hidden under his shirt. The scars were his remembrance from the last world war. He is surrounded by kids. His grandsons. The kid wearing a Star Wars trilogy shirt then said “ah kuyawa lolo o”. “Unsa man diay, kamo ra diay kabalo? hahah” the old man replied. Everybody laughed as they continued dancing. Not so far from them were women sitting on the couch. Adjacent to it was a painting in oil. The brushstrokes formed somewhat like a broken guitar floating in the river. The painting’s atmosphere was solemn… dim yet presented in a celebrated manner. The women were eating fruit salad and busy chatting until they’ve noticed what was going on in the hall. One of them said “Hai tan-awa gud… Nagpabadlong ang wanggits. heheh”. The oldest among the group of women, in his late 80’s too, then said “Ay pasagdihi lang gud nang inyong Papa gud”. She has got deep set eyes and a mestiza complexion inherited from her half-Spanish parents from Bogo. An old looking necklace with a heart-shaped silver pendant is noticeably worn around her neck. “He’s just happy I know.” she continued. “Opo mader… molaban jud ni siya sa iya lover boy oi..” the other girl said displaying a smile of appreciation and respect.

<<<<<>>>>>

From a distant past, a river flows in the middle of a sugarcane plantation. It was drizzling. A man laughing in the rain riding a banca boat together with a woman on the other side reaching her gentle hands caressing the water and splashing it to the man opposite to her were enjoying the moment. They were young. They were making the most out of that moment. They didn’t seem to mind the weather. All they cared about was themselves. They were young lovers. They haven’t told each other what they felt but words were not requisite for them to know. They feel it. It shows. They have reached one side of the river close to a big house. The woman went inside the house and went back to the banca holding something in his hands. She gave it to the man and said “hiposa na.. mapalgan mo ra ako..” and softly whispered “hinaut”. She gave a faint smile but deep inside she was about to cry. She tried to compose herself and hastily went back to the house without saying a word. The man did not understand what she meant. He felt the book in his hand, looked at the front cover and read what was written. “DIARY” in shorthand writing. It was her diary. He hid it in his pocket. The next day the man knew from a friend that the girl’s family has moved out that very night. The news broke his heart. Now only the diary is the one thing he has of her so every night before he sleeps he takes out the diary and holds it close to his chest and thinks of her ‘til he falls asleep.

<<<<<>>>>>

“BOOOOOOOMMMMM” “BOOOOOSSSSHHHHH” “BLLAAAAAMMMM”. One dawn of the following week, the Japanese had invaded their place. Everything was destroyed. Everybody has left the place except for an old man crying. He was howling in the midst of the ruins like he blamed God for what has came about. Just feet away from where the old man was, he noticed something on the ground. A diary almost bathed in blood... A bloodied diary. He went closer to pick it up but then he saw a young man was trapped beneath the piles of rubble. Although the man was badly injured, he was saved and eventually fully recovered. Years have passed and the war was over but still he kept the diary in his possession. Somewhere deep within him was an empty space. So bare as if it was waiting for something to fill it up. In his heart was a yearning. He still longs for the girl... the girl who gave her the diary.

<<<<<>>>>>

He finds himself inside a resto-bar. He had taken a couple’a shots of Rhum. It was noticeable that he was dreary and the shadows on the room seem to cover his face like it was his ally. “Someday… when I’m awfully low… when the world is cold… I will feel the glow… just thinking of you… and the way you look tonight…” was the song the band sang... He was clutching the diary for a longer time now. In his mind he repeatedly uttered “are you a star in someone else’s sky?”. He hid the diary back to his pocket but mistakenly placed it on the same side where his bills were. As he reached to pay for the drinks, the diary fell on the floor without him noticing it. He stood up and pace towards the door to head home. The table next to his sat a woman looking at the mirror placed on the post opposite to her. She was staring blankly. Her thoughts were of another place, of another time. As she moved her feet to another position she stumbled upon the diary lying on the floor. She stared at it for a moment and leaned to pick it up. Inserted on the diary were a couple of unsent letters without envelopes and an address. Her eyes went wide as she tried to read the first pages of the diary. The writings were familiar to her. In fact it was her own. She wrote it years ago. She embraced the diary tight and close to her heart-shaped silver necklace and excitedly rushed towards the door. It was August the 5th.

[MrBiddle]

Any will do....

[sercor::jhumzki]

My son Gilbert was eight years old and had been in Cub Scouts only a short time. During one of his meetings he was handed a sheet of paper, a block of wood and four tires and told to return home and give all to "dad".

That was not an easy task for Gilbert to do. Dad was not receptive to doing things with his son. But Gilbert tried. Dad read the paper and scoffed at the idea of making a pine wood derby car with his young, eager son. The block of wood remained untouched as the weeks passed.

Finally, mom stepped in to see if I could figure this all out. The project began. Having no carpentry skills, she decided it would be best if she simply read the directions and let Gilbert do the work. And he did. She read aloud the measurements, the rules of what they could do and what we couldn't do.

Within days his block of wood was turning into a pinewood derby car. A little lopsided, but looking great (at least through the eyes of mom). Gilbert had not seen any of the other kids cars and was feeling pretty proud of his "Blue Lightning", the pride that comes with knowing you did something on your own.

Then the big night came. With his blue pinewood derby in his hand and pride in his heart they headed to the big race. Once there Gilbert's pride turned to humility. His car was obviously the only car made entirely on his own. All the other cars were a father-son partnership, with cool paint jobs and sleek body styles made for speed.

A few of the boys giggled as they looked at Gilbert's lopsided, wobbly, unattractive vehicle. To add to the humility Gilbert was the only boy without a man at his side. A couple of the boys who were from single parent homes at least had an uncle or grandfather by their side, Gilbert had "Mom". As the race began it was done in elimination fashion. You kept racing as long as you were the winner. One by one the cars raced down the finely sanded ramp. Finally it was between Gilbert and the sleekest, fastest looking car there.

As the last race was about to begin, my wide eyed, shy eight year old ask if they could stop the race for a minute, because he wanted to pray. The race stopped.

Gilbert hit his knees clutching his funny looking block of wood between his hands. With a wrinkled brow he set to converse with his Father. He prayed in earnest for a very long minute and a half. Then he stood, smile on his face and announced, 'Okay, I am ready."

As the crowd cheered, a boy named Tommy stood with his father as their car sped down the ramp. Gilbert stood with his Father within his heart and watched his block of wood wobble down the ramp with surprisingly great speed and rushed over the finish line a fraction of a second before Tommy's car.

Gilbert leaped into the air with a loud "Thank you" as the crowd roared in approval. The Scout Master came up to Gilbert with microphone in hand and asked the obvious question, "So you prayed to win, huh, Gilbert?" To which the young boy answered, "Oh, no sir. That wouldn't be fair to ask God to help you beat someone else. I just asked Him to make it so I don't cry when I lose."

Children seem to have a wisdom far beyond us. Gilbert didn't ask God to win the race, he didn't ask God to fix the out come, Gilbert asked God to give him strength in the outcome. When Gilbert first saw the other cars he didn't cry out to God, "No fair, they had a fathers help".

No, he went to his Father for strength. Perhaps we spend too much of our prayer time asking God to rig the race, to make us number one, or too much time asking God to remove us from the struggle, when we should be seeking God's strength to get through the struggle. Gilbert didn't pray to win, thus hurt someone else, he prayed that God supply the grace to lose with dignity. Gilbert, by his stopping the race to speak to his Father also showed the crowd that he wasn't there without a "dad", but His Father was most definitely there with him. Yes, Gilbert walked away a winner that night, with his Father at his side.

[jootz]

NICE!!! you guys are really good!
okay.... here goes......


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

it took me ten years to ask her why she never kept a mirror in her room. she never kept one in her bag, giving her hair a cursory comb and nothing more. she never put on make-up, or tweezed her eyebrows. nor was she a woman of the homely sort. comely, yet, unmade, her face glowed more from the fierceness of her lips, than the redness of rouge, and her eyes conveyed more coyness than eyeliner ever did. but rather than play up her

mama never ever spoke of why things had abruptly changed ten years ago. why she'd left papa one rainy night, after doming, his right hand man knocked on our front door and said he was needed at the hacienda. he never knew, nor did we, dina and i, at that time, why we had to leave so suddenly and take the last bus trip, out of calamba, out of our lives and into this new kind of life. when we arrived at the pier, dina and i were too preoccupied tossing coins into the water where kids would dive after them. there this one small bangka where a small child, perhaps too small to swim after coins looking on, banging a small broken toy guitar --- 'that's a ukelele,' piped in dina, smugly as she could, her round face questioning why the toy was treated so. the baby was wailing for its mother, searching frantically among the waves and refuse floating with the tide. in the damp weather, people were crowding the pier, gathered in threes and twos, their umbrellas useless as they peeked out to look up at us, searching, searching, and getting their faces drenched by the rain. i thought i saw papa among the throng, but when i looked again, nothing.

lolo ben was there, hunched against the rain, a lonely figure. but his eyes beamed at us, eagerly waiting for young arms to clamber over him, ready for his welcome. we loved him, dina and i. we saw him often enough, back in calamba, and to see him again at the pier --- was that uncle oben, behind him? uncle oben is my mama's older brother you see. he never married. when he died at the age of eighty, he left his house to mama, a fat savings account to dina and his vulcanizing shop to me.

lolo ben's familiar scent of pomade and rubbing alcohol banished the fear and the quickening that hounded me in the past few days. i didn't understand what i felt then, only that we had left suddenly and that the houselights were on, ate neneng, papa's younger sister was ironing the clothes, while watching a black and white show of a man singing in the rain. i wanted to take bazooka, my tiger-striped cat, with me. but i couldn't find him and the rush of leaving so suddenly left me breathless and thinking of nothing else but to hold mama's hand and dina's in my other hand.

it was ten years till mama told us why. dina, now sixteen, self-conscious as any pubescent lady, had once asked my mama if she looked pretty. she was more conscious of her looks now, as a press of suitors would come knocking at all hours of the day. often, they would ask for uncle oben, or me, befriending the men of the house, to gain their favor and perhaps soften the flat stares of hostility that we both took from lolo ben. he could stare down a rabid dog whenever he wanted to, my lolo ben. he was gentle, but he could be strict if he needed to be. all it took was for him to stare at us, and we'd whimper for our mama's skirts. when lolo ben passed on, a neighbor remarked how frightened she was seeing him lying in his coffin, the soft features of the old friend she knew would never strike at his children now hardened by cold death. dina cried because she was frightened, rather than feeling the loss of her 'lo ben.

mama looked at her, her face suddenly clouded over, as if she never expected the question. she held dina by the shoulders looking deeply into her face, and blanched. 'your face,' she stammered. 'oh dear mary, mother of god, what have i done?' then, she fled the room. dina, surprised by mama's reaction, went to her room, her eyes brimming over with tears. i asked my wife to go after mama and see to her.

uncle oben sighed. he had seen the scene play itself out. he looked at me and whispered, 'your papa loved your mama. truly he did. but had you not left, he would have. after dina was born, it was all he could bear. and though he was poor, he was proud. he never asked your mama for anything. but your mama asked for much more than what he could not afford. your papa's amo... he saw this, and--- '

'he said liked looking at me. that my face was of an angel's. he said he had always wanted to woo angel, to make love to her, to glorify her beauty,' smiled mama, hold my wife's arm as she entered the room. 'i thought dina was the fruit of that evil union. so did you father. so did he. so i was afraid that my face would lure more evil men into committing sin, so i never left the house, or slept in the same bed as your father. he always slept on the floor now. all because of my foolish pride and greed.

'yet the deed was done. your father believed dina was not his. his heart was broken. yet, he never struck me in anger. he loved dina as his very own --- and dina was his own! that i now realize. i left him for nothing. it is in her eyes, antonio! your father is in her eyes!

'i never believed it myself, thinking dina was the fruit of my one sin against your father. i left him before he could ever think of leaving me. i was afraid he leave me. that he would deceive me and leave, never coming back, ashamed of me, his sinful wife!'

'he once said he could never be able to look at me again, nor my shadow, or my face in the mirror. that he would love dina as his own, but never myself. now i realize i truly loved him. and i had betrayed him in bed, and in his daughter.'

it was ten years before i realized the truth, before mama saw the truth. by then, it was too late. i put in a call to calamba, to relatives i've never seen in ten years, through numbers my uncle oben faithfully kept in store. i found out my papa had died of a broken heart. that night, when he returned to his home, with the the tv man singing in the rain, his sister neneng ironing the clothes, he found his wife and children gone. his heart failed him and he collapsed on the sala floor, banging his head on the table. ate neneng, now in her late thirties and with children of her own, saw him lying prone on the floor, blood blossoming from a cut on his forehead. he was cradling dina's baby book, in the crook of his right arm, now pinned under him and matted with his blood. he carried it with him constantly, diligently scribbling her first steps, her first taste of halo-halo, her first words (she called to him and pointed to bazooka and croaked, 'okah). when i told her about mama's tale, she cried softly into the telephone and mumbled that papa would have wanted to know that.

i thanked her and promised to call again. i went to the sala, sat down with my wife, caressed her cheek and gave her a kiss, and joined her to watch Gene Kelly singing in the rain.