Istoryan Writers

[shaxyra]

---

yey... suwat na unya ko. remind ko diem hehe.. musta na diem?[br]Posted on: November 30, 2006, 02:14:46 AM_________________________________________________d ugay2 nako wa kabalik hehe nalingaw ko sa buy and sell

[diem]

yey... suwat na unya ko. remind ko diem hehe.. musta na diem?

@shaxyra, I am doing fine po I'm hoping you are doing well where you are and with your studies! Please do write! Write write write!

Hmmm... should I have a roll-call on the other iStoyran writers?

Let me start with me first-- I'm currently writing film material for Sinebuano and Company plus striving to delve into feature-length screenwriting again-- facing some physical difficulties along the way since I don't have full, unchallenged access to my PC at home. Serious considering purchasing a laptop.

Biddle is busy with school-- last I heard he's working on his short stories again.

Thisbe is also busy with work but on weekends (as long there's no black-out); she's trying her hand on screenwriting. Last time I checked she's on her 3rd page-- that's good progress... she's probably on her fourth now.

Shaxyra is busy with school and adjusting to her new surroundings-- just now she promises to write. I think she has her eye on one of the competitions.

Von-x is every busy with figures and such-- he's writing bits here and bits there. I believe he's finished with one story and is currently finding time to revise it.

Pnk_shadows is now down under in the sunny brightland of Oz. She's working and striving to adapt-- when she's free and able she promises to write.

I'm sure there are a lot of you who wants to write and write well but priorities do get in the way. All I can say is, if you really want to write You will--

[br]Posted on: November 30, 2006, 11:30:56 AM_________________________________________________P rolific and popular American author Stephen King has a very simple formula for learning to write well: "Read four hours a day and write four hours a day. If you cannot find the time for that, you can't expect to become a good writer."

[zsigred]

hi guys,

im looking for freelance writers for my website.http://www.cebu-philippines.net
write a 500 word article - get paid 300pesos

i want a unique, special interest articles.the essay/articles should
be informative and original.
articles will be accepted on the following subjects:

*the philippines

*cebu - the city, the island...write about a trip/vacation you took

*filipinos - special interest stories

*cebuanos/cebuanas - what's unique about the people in cebu, the women?

*attractions - info about a specific tourist attraction in cebu city,
cebu province (please include at least 2 digital photos)

*friends - advice for having online international friend, advice for a
successful interracial marriage

*scuba diving - your scuba diving experience in cebu or the philippines



if you are interested, please feel free to contact me
zsigred@yahoo.com
09216433159

[KS Stanilavsky]

It may be not as good as C.S. Lewis.. but I hope its ok:
_________________________________________________

THE ACCUSER
by Paolo S. Macachor

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
- 1st Corinthians 13: 13





Abigail Kaanyag, 25 is my soul mate. No, we're not in a relationship...
at least not just yet. But we agreed on this certain divine pact to be
in one way or another the desired end of our great expectations.

I'm Bruce Bacalso, 26 and I work as a video editor in Modern Cebu
Television (MCTV)... Abigail is a drama teacher. In this memoir,
I am gonna grow ever closer to Abby Kaanyag... because it is also the
recollection of my prophetic nightmare, that Abigail will be shot
in the heart... the triggerman being myself.

I woke up to this nightmare in a fit of exhausting hyperventilation,
wearing nothing but my Hanes undies, I threw water over my face in
my apartment's only washroom. When I stood upright from my stoop
to the sink, there I saw him yet again... The Man dressed in the Grim
Reaper's robe, the man with the contentious, bearded face with an
evil warrior's piercing gaze... it was my hallucination. My imagined
apparition. The Accuser stood and pointed and bobbed his pointer
finger in a gesture of blame, like always, he grinned maniacally and mouthed
those 2 words of hatred. The words of anathema and alienation:
"Hala ka!!!!! Hala ka!!!!"

Then, after accusing me of being my soul mate's own assassin - he vanished.
Leaving me wounded with fright and dread, and an overwhelming sense of
guilt.

***

It was February the 14th, 2006.

Later during the day, I was cutting a segment where MCTV reporter
Nancy Salimbangon interviewed Mayor Alfred Go about his sense of
liberalism of allowing topless nude female dancers to perform in his
Eroto-Sinulog exhibition to be held at the Serge Osmeña building in Jones
Avenue.

And then it happened, in the computer monitor, in the cropped screen preview,
I saw her in her sky blue, sleeveless dress and my right hand holding out a
Glock 19 - trigger finger ready. BLAM! Her heart reduced to smithereens. I jumped
back from my seat in surprise, startling my colleague, Fred
and as a hallucinogenic punctuation mark - The Accuser's face flahsed subtly but
perceivably and he wore a malignant snarl. I merely heard a whisper for an aftershock,
the ominous whisper of the word.. "Hala."

I must need therapy, though I quickly regained composure, Fred slapped
me in the back, perplexed but still a reassuring friend. Yes, I need help.
But delusions or not, my prophetic nightmares, to me are nonetheless tangible enough to be
qualify as genuine sepulchral warnings.

"Nah, I'm ok Fred.", I said.
"Well... okay, whatever you say," was Fred's response. Not really believing my obvious
denial of my state of tension.

Oh God. Today, today I had to contact Abby and confide in her all these peculiar
and delirious manifestations.

Right before I finished work at MCTV, I sent an SMS to Abigail asking if I could
see her during the night. After that I got her positive reply, The Accuser manifested before
me again and said, "Midnight." I saw an amazingly detailed vision of the Glock's
double action firing pin striking the primer of the bullet, exploding and ricocheting out of
the ejection port, my supposed soul mate at her moment of death....

The Accuser snarled, "Kill her... Mang Nardo will still be my vessel. Shoot her. It's the
only way."

***

Little did I know that Abby kept a Glock 19 for home defense. She tucked it under
her bed and with it a 10 round magazine but not yet in condition one. She dressed up
in that sky blue dress and Hawaiian skirt, her top being the wardrobe she wore in
my dream. Abby is also an actress - well, was.... she starred in Independent Cebuano Films.
All four of which where directed by , "Mang Nardo" - the prolific 60 year old filmmaker whose
themes ranged from politics and in the case of ANG KABAN NI VAN DAMME - Van
Damme's Chest; also costarring Abby - it dealt with erotica and homosexuality.

Personally I hated that film, Abby's character Mona was raped by the faggot when he made
his transition to heterosexuality.

I even spoke with Abby and we came to terms in agreeing that the material, well in ALL of
Nardo's material is vile and ungodly. I am no saint, I curse, I get even... I... Anyway,
Abby once told me, "Bruce, dear, showbiz is too much... few people get to own their souls in
the stratas of upper class life." And further she stated that the infidelic and worldly complexities
that surround the quasi-Westernized Cebuano filmmaking scene. Nardo's producers paid her 80
thousand Pesos during each film, half of her earnings she donated to the non sectarian institution
called ORPHAN WATCH (anonymously) and now she invested most of her earnings in the
business of a cybercafe - ABINET... Only a year younger than myself, she is now the CEO of
her own venture of individual proprietorship. And as if God has recompensed her from departing
the corrupting, devolving world of showbusiness, her sideline and her work as a teacher pay off
very very well.

Save for herself and househelp Boy Kuarisma, anonymous to all are her contributions to ORPHAN
WATCH.

She merely checked the pistol under her bed and as she went downstairs, the doorbell rang.
These little details, I found out not because I am a voyeur who spied on her during the moments
where I supposedly wasn't on the scene, but through her recollection... as she is aware of myself
creating a journal of my ... our uncanny experience.

For the record, Abby is trained in firearms use and she even has a liscence to carry... although
her Austrian weapon usually stays put at home... She was trained as a sharpshooter in
Mang Nardo's action film, "Tambokikoy nga Higayon" (Fat Chances)... I didn't like that
film either, it was her second movie... it was very well made, but it was dark and it did
no good whatsoever in alleviating the human condition.

***

We sat on the floor, in the carpet, like Japanese, and Boy prepared us dinner... Unlike the
S.O.P's of class marginalization of househelps and masters, to Abby there was no such S.O.P.,
Boy Kuarisma was to eat supper with both of us... he was 50 years old. A loyal servant. And
with what Abby pays him he might as well be called a butler.

"I will be ready with supper in 45 minutes,", said the man named Boy.
Abby smiled.
I nodded in acknowledgement.

I told Abby every single occurence during the recent time. I told her I was certain it was a
hallucination. But it was too good and too vividly prophetic to be a product of mere
hysteria.

"Abby, look.... I haven't been really exactly close to you recently... but I love you... Tell me,
tell me a reason why I would have to shoot you..."

At this Abby's face tightened. She swallowed, and then went on to say, "It must be my father's
curse..."

"What?"

"My father, he was a practitioner of the black arts... The occult. It was Satanism... Any practitioner
of the black art and his offspring may be subjugated even through no will of their own to the
lawless one..."

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"I have encountered the devil."

***

Hala ka - those 2 words literally meant, "Watch out you!" But the nuance and the way it is
normally uttered in the Cebuano language make it all the more a malevolent, ominous and
accusing phrase... Little did I know, until tonight that one of the devil's titles is The Accuser.
As he was thrown down to earth, he would accuse the brothers and sisters of the Lord,
day and night because of his wrath that his time is short...

First of all, I didn't really know what to make of this sudden foray into the world of religious
mythology... After my parents died at an early age, when I was 22 - just when I had something
to prove to them after numerous fiascoes as a college student... It's PAINFULLY tragic to
experience the loss of people that you love at a time when that is right to cherish them the most
and to make peace with them.

As a result, I stopped saying my prayers and started relying on things that are physical, tangible
and easily reliable in THIS LIFE. I didn't care about God, Jesus or Mary and Joseph... I didn't
give a damn.

And as we ate dinner, I still wanted to maintain the possibility that this must be some sort of
psychic energy, maybe a genuine prophecy from myself - but nonetheless The Accuser being
a construct or archetype of delusion.

We had Lumi noodles and fried chicken, and as I've primed you to expect, Mr. Boy ate with
us... His mind was busy as well, he was pondering...

"Bruce... Yes, I've seen him too, the guy with the hood, bearded... dressed like the Grim Reaper...",
said Abby.

At this my eyes widened with terrified awe. But she could have been pulling my leg, because -
I've already described the manifestation in my dreams... in my visions.

"He told me..", she continued, "that on the night of February the 14th in my 25th year on earth,
he will take me over as his vessel.... because I will have the prominence and grace necessary
to alienate the masses from God... the Filipino masses and at a time when what we call
the local filmmaking industry is growing..."

I raised an eyebrow, "But what about Mang Nardo? What has he anything to do with this?"

Abby shrugged, "Hey it's a little obvious that he's one of the people in the industry ushering
in the neglect of values, religiosity and the essence of responsibility. We know Nardo's films..."
Abby took a deep breath and continued, "The devil told me, the possession will take place
at midnight. My 25th year, 14th of the second month..."

She swallowed, "And the only way it isn't gonna happen is if someone kills me... because
Satan can't ressurect the dead... The weapon I own for home defense is a Glock 19... it's
upstairs, Bruce."

***

It was 10: 45... Boy Kuarisma was extremely tense and uneasy. Of the three of us,
he was the only one wearing clothes suited to ward of chills of either environmental,
or psychological causes...

"Abby, I don't want the sight of that gun...", I told her...

She brought it down awhile ago.

"Bruce, I don't know how if you can ever trust anything the devil says
but when I encountered him vis a vis Aragorn meets the Grim Reaper, he told me...
that there is an alternate
prophecy... something that he HATES."

An alternate prophecy that the devil hates... okay.

This was all very hard to swallow for me, the concept of demonic prophecies, a
grand plan to sow perdition amongst our local "Hollywood", and my soul mate
speaking with the lawless one... But I had to ask, "Someone else is going to die?"

And right after that query, The Accuser... Satan appeared in front of me, and taunted
me once again. "Hala ka!!! You have no hope... There will be no alternate endings...
Because Mang Nardo will die tonight.... and SHE, She alone will be my vessel...
The filmmaking industry is mine! The media is mine!"

"Be silent!", said a guardian angel, to which the Accuser reflexively responded
by evaporating. No it wasn't a guardian angel after all, it was Abigail who said it...

I was catching my breath, "You saw that?"

Mr. Boy was pale and he was trembling, "We all saw that, young Mr. Bacalso,
sir..." Boy was pressed against a wall.... Abby's face was an expression of
righteous fury. For some reason The Accuser did not ever frighten her.

***

Voices. I was tormented my voices... Whispers. But all coming from The
Accuser, Satan, the father of lies... They were random thoughts, free
associations, as if the ruler of the damned was ventilating his catharses
to me... "Never... made peace.... with God... and man.... parents .... death...
your fault..... God hates you...... Parents... your fault...."

"Arrrrgh!", I moaned.

After the voices ceased their torment... Abby parenthesized my ears, and
said, "Bruce? Bruce?!!"

I took a deep breath... "I'm okay now.... I'm okay..."

Abby then said something that I couldn't fathom, it was either because
I was in a state of disorientation, or the content of what she was saying
was undecipherable in and of itself, "One Kay Oh Are... One, Three,
Eight..."

"What?"

"It's a recurring dream I've been having Bruce... One Kay Oh Are,
One, Three, Eight... I think it has something to do with the
alternate outcome of the demonic prophecy..."

She was saying, 1KOR13-8.

This was wayyy too much for me. "Oh God, give me a break... now
a bunch of codes and numbers to decipher to keep you from
having to be shot? As if.... My unwillingness to shoot you isn't enough.
Shouldn't we be getting some sleep now, Abby?"

"Erm... yeah, I need rest, I have papers to check and videotapes
of performances I have to review but... I don't feel like dozing off
NOT tonight!"

And, right then... a knock on the door came.

"I'll take that.", said Mr. Boy with finality.

***

It was 11: 15.

The man standing in the doorway was Mang Nardo. He was dressed
in a tattered white shirt and pants. He was haggard, and he was carrying
a San Miguel Beer bottle, he barged into Abby's living room and
tossed the bottle towards the far wall, where it shattered.
To this Mr. Boy flinched.

"Why?!", Nardo cried out.

I blacked out when he elbowed me in the chin. I was on the carpet,
according to Abigail... As loyal a servant Boy Kuarisma was, he was
also a coward, he ran off... and Abby was left to fend for herself against
a geriatric madman.

"Why?!!!!!!", Mang Nardo howled. Abby grew tense. She backed up,
up onto the stairwell where Mang Nardo prowled tauntingly. As if
assailants under the influence still know how to taunt...

***

Skin. Physical attractiveness. The feminine physique. Cosmetics
was the modern world's definition of beauty... and making out in
your car, or you and your lover's special place of solitude, or the
first episode of lip locking was this world's definition of love...
How sad, how shallow....

Mang Nardo continued to prowl and climb up the stairwell while
Abby was climbing - up as well, yes but backwards...

"Why? You could have been the industry's.... number one icon
of elegance... and beauty... and love.... you could have been
the object of men's covetousness.... But now, I lost my job
with the producers of my pseudo-Indy prod co because you
backed out!!!!!"

Abby did not respond. She wanted to make her way to the bedroom.

After she dashed past a hallway on the second floor, she finally did,
she locked her door, made a deliberate fall to her sides and reached
under her bed... No gun!

(Continued)

[KS Stanilavsky]

(Continued)

... THE ACCUSER...

_______________
***

"I've heard about your critique on the priviledged lifestyle Abigail,
I know your indifference to hedonism... and your hatred for life..."

More taunts from the evil filmmaker, and the door was starting
to give way as the old man was frantically ramming it with his
body.

All this Abby heard and experienced while being isolated in her own room.

"But you see... your hypocrisy is evident... because you wouldn't
give this 2 story house up for a shanty..."

Disorientation. It happens. When people panic. Abigail panicked,
which is why she forgot that she had tucked her Glock 19 under
her sky blue blouse, and tightly fitted between her waist and
Hawaiian skirt. She whipped it out...

Mang Nardo finally broke down the door... but BLAM-BLAM!
The loud report of 9 millimeter fire erupted, and the 2 rounds
struck the geriatric, maniacal, perverted, and depraved sociopath
of a filmmaker in the sternum.

He fell prone with a thud! on Abby's wooden bedroom floor.

Abby told me that she can somehow adopt easily to the heavier
"kick" of the pistol... she has tried firing 1911 pistols, and slightly
larger models of the Glock series. The Glock 17, also a 9 millimeter
and the Glock 22, which fired with 0.40 caliber rounds...

This was justifiable homicide, hopefully... although he was an old man,
Nardo was armed... with alcohol, and manic fury. He was that....
plus dangerous. Although Abby was not too prissy as to feel she
has lost the innocence and gentility that was essential in being a woman,
she took no pleasure in putting 2 rounds of lead in the homicidal
director...


***

I woke up my ass still seated on the living room floor
, this is where Abby told me everything that happened.
"We have to call the police!", I told her.

"I must second that motion.", said Boy... who just came out
from hiding.

"It's 11: 55, Bruce...", Abigail said...

After this, a sudden, subliminal appearance of the Accuser cackling
"Halaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" startled me. Immediately, I stood up, and
Abby rose from her crouch.

Abigail handed me the Glock 19... "As incredible as all this sounds,
Bruce... I think I eliminated Mang Nardo, The Accuser's optional
vessel... he's gonna use me... I don't know how... But I may be
a danger to the Cebuano... and the Filipino society with the ways
the devil willl...."

I instinctively grasped the frame of the Glock and held the pistol in
my hands but I retracted from doing what she wanted me to...

"Abigail? What are you talking about!!! I won.... I can't... I...."

Abigail held the slide region of the Austrian weapon, and aimed
it for me on her bosom.

***

Semantics. Why wouldn't I call Abigail a girlfriend... or a lover...
Or even attach to that at least the prefix "Ex"... Abigail and I
have come a long way, we were friends at the end of high
school, and all the way through college... She dated some back
then, she even "went out" with me, whatever that means... but
much more so than intimacy in the carnal sense of the word,
we felt a connection in our journey through adolescence
onwards to early adulthood... and though we didn't share the same
proximity of interactionism when we moved out of the academe
(though Abby remained, technically, because she teaches), we
still felt that strong connection TODAY, that our little joke of
being soul mates was still a normative aspect of the way we relate
to each other.

I didn't dare put my finger into the trigger. The Glock has a
safety protruding in the trigger itself, but the feeling of having
such a dear person coersing you to train a weapon unto herself....
was reviling. It was repulsive. It was depressing!

I don't know if Abby knew something about hypnotic trance
induction, but the next thing I knew was that my right index
was already on the trigger.

I saw the clock on the far wall. 11: 49....

Abigail's eyes misted. But Jesus, were my eyes soaked with
fat tears... I was sobbing.

"Make your peace with God and men.... by doing this act
of atonement... sacrifices have to be made, Bruce... God's
way is more important... God's appeal for the betterment
of spirituality in man...."

I sobbed.

The Accuser appeared and howled.

BANG!

***

It took me awhile to recover.

It hurt....

It hurt my eardrums, that is.... No I didn't shoot Abigail.
But, this was the first time ever that I fired a weapon, and I
trained it to the direction where The Accuser, Satan himself
vis a vis Grim Reaper stood.... The shot punctured a region
in the concrete wall of Abby's living room.

But he howled with fury... and disappeared. Abigail was
never possessed.

***

One Kay-Oh-Are, One Three, Eight. 1KOR138.
It's been 2 years since that tense and eventful night
at Abby's. She is now my wife... and she is carrying
our first child...

This is the power of love.

1KOR138.

The cryptic numeric figures that popped up in Abby's dreams...
She was immune to the curse....

1KOR138.

1st Cor(inthians) 13, verse 8... Love never fails... Where there
are prophecies, they will cease...

This is the power of love. Well, okay, I'll give you this,
we are mushy on each other, and we still have the fire of
romantic passion... But it was the love in the broader sense,
that made Abigail immune to Satan's plan of possession....

She left the vile filmmaking industry.... she never kept much of
her earnings - the residue of profit from being an actress,
or the cash she rakes in from Abinet... she gives. She donates.
She loves.

As for me, I still work at MCTV, and encounter the eccentricities
of being a media man... But now I say my prayers at night... and
I look at love as something MORE than just kissing, pecking, or....
going to bed with my wife at night....

When I look back, I find out more about the intensity of my fear
and anticipation of the days when I dreamt that Abigail would be
assassinated by yours truly... The Accuser was never to be heard
of from midnight that night... Where midnight relieved Cinderella
of magic, it was that same stroke of time that put cessation to
Satan's grip on our lives because he knew of his failure....

So if you're rather uptight reading this, I, Bruce Bacalso would
like to end with this note: Pray... live life... find someone to
fill your empty space... have fun... give... sacrifice.....
Learn to love.

THE END.

AFTERWORD

The filmmaking industry as portrayed in this short story is non-existent. At least in it's status quo of being "quasi-Westernized."
And it is not as infidelic as to merit defection from an actress who does not want to compromise her values and integrity as a person... and it certainly (I hope) does not have Cebuano filmmakers who are so pumped up with alcohol that they deserve to be shot twice by automatic weapons....

-P.S.M.

[galenostiel]

Here's a work in progress...hopefully this will turn out to be something good.

Tentative title is Tales of the Damned


[font=courier new]——-
One moment was all it was.
One moment brought them together.
One moment bound them to each other.
One moment was all it took to seal their fate forever.
——-

She stood in the shadows of a stout mango tree, listening to the constant spatter of raindrops on the rough asphalt. Ah, how she loved the rain! How she welcomed those dense, black clouds that blotted out the sun and covered the sky in an all-pervading gray mist! She reveled in the gloom that descended over the city, as it gave her a sense of freedom and boldness that could only be hers once night began to fall.

It was not yet night. It was, in fact, early afternoon, though time was hard to tell on such a dark, stormy day. The streets were empty of people, save for a few who dashed about in the rain, seeking the nearest shelter.

She stood in the shadows waiting, waiting till the streets were absolutely deserted and not a soul was in sight. Then slowly she stepped out into the rain, lifting her pale face up as if to catch every raindrop. The rain felt cool on her skin, and strangely cleansing.

That troubled her.

She was Amara, a Tormentor, a demon of pain. She fed on human anguish and preyed on lost, hapless mortals, driving them over the edge until they take their own lives and damn their souls to eternity in Hell. Born of darkness, her kind did not want cleansing.

So why was she feeling otherwise?

**********

[font=courier new]He watched her as she stood in the rain, wondering faintly if she had felt his presence. Probably not. She seemed somehow oblivious to anything but the rain. Impossible as it sounded, it looked like she was actually enjoying the feel of raindrops on her skin.

Strange. No demon ever took time to enjoy anything unless it involved pain and death and absolute evil. He knew she was a Tormentor, a mid-level demon, but not one to be taken lightly. Tormentors reveled in pain and hunted suffering humans. They did not stand around in the rain doing nothing.

Yet Amara seemed different. There seemed to be something inside her that was not evil, some part of her that yearned for the light. Did she know it? He doubted that very much. But he had glimpsed that hidden part of her, hidden even from herself. He had seen it briefly in her eyes that fateful night when he first encountered her — a meeting he was not likely to forget. He was an angel, after all, and angels had the power to see the good in anyone and anything.

Demons weren’t supposed to have any trace of good in them. That’s why they’re demons! But Amara…

For the first time in his long life, Izurfiel was confused. What sort of creature was Amara?

**********

[diem]

^^galenostiel, its a solid step! Please do keep at it! I'd like to share of my observations with you on your work (via PM of course) but I'd like to read more if you don't mind

I just want to wish all Istoryan Writers a merry merry Christmas and a Bright New Year ahead! A chapter of our lives has been writ, a new page awaits!

[diem]

January 1, New Year’s Eve.

It was the silence that woke Rosalyn. She remembered sleeping to the sharp cracks and loud snaps of five-stars, super-lolos and Judas belts. She could even smell the acrid stain of burnt smoke (the remains of rockets) lacing the evening air.

Now, she woke up in deep silence of midnight. It was startling. She rose from her bed and swung her feet to the floor. Shadows clung to every surface and corner of her room but her eyes saw enough to make her way out to the den.

Across cold tiles Rosalyn’s feet padded, as quiet as cat falls. The girl turned her head, trying to hear— but there was nothing. Nothing. The silence sounded unreal, felt unreal. Rosalyn wiped an ear as if to brush an invisible hand away, but still nothing.

Rosalyn moved toward to one of the den’s windows; pushes aside the curtains, looking beyond glass, wire-screen and grille. There was no one outside. There was nothing outside except a dense blackness. That blackness frightened Rosalyn. It appeared to be endless and full of things; unseen, imperceptible. It’s as if Rosalyn has closed her eyes again to sleep, yet she doesn’t fall into the safe harness of slumber. She was conscious in that darkness and no dream nor nightmare would come to distract her sight. The deep darkness can blind. The darkness can burn.

God~! Rosalyn wrenched her stinging eyes from the window. The sudden gush of tears was a wet relief, the sound of her cries a reprieve from the dry silent darkness.

A tear dropped. She saw it glisten in its descent, catching whatever light that was available. Like a shining shard, it fell to the tiled floor. The floor glowed with a bright white light but its luminosity was soft to Rosalyn’s gaze. She stared into the light and experienced love, hope, truth as tangible things, dreams with substance and shape, too beautiful beyond understanding.

And at the center of all this immaculate loveliness stood a queenly lady, standing on a mound of roses and pearls. Her fair head was crowned with constellations of stars. Her dress was no brighter or whiter than the light surrounding her but it flowed smooth and covered her form as petals would to a lily of a field.

Rosalyn felt she had to kneel; the awe of what her sight beheld was too much to bear. She turned away and shut her eyes but she could sense all the beauty around her, surrounding her, reaching her, touching.

She felt her face being raised and the colossal queen looked at Rosalyn with gentleness— an essentially profound familial intimacy that made the girl cry out, “Mother!”

Without any awkwardness, Rosalyn reached out and was welcomed in an embrace of embraces. Again; the feelings of security and safety, the meanings of love, hope and truth became tangible for Rosalyn.

As she was being embraced, Rosalyn heard a voice giving her a message. Rosalyn listened and the knowledge briefly gave her a cold feeling. She was afraid. The voice spoke again; the sound of it warmed the girl’s soul, banishing her fear, making it nothing.

The voice spoke and Rosalyn’s heart sang with its warm words. She listened as the song grew loud as the white light bloomed into a mighty sun!

Then it was dark again. The silence drew back and soon the night was filled with loud snaps and cracks of sound. Rosalyn stood in the middle of the den, her back to its wide windows, to the evening punctuated by firecrackers now and then.

The girl stood before the tiny family altar, which her family genuflected and prayed every evening to the Holy Virgin Mother whose small white figurine stood stately, like the queen of the world. On the face of the figurine there was a smile, curved to make it appear gentle but a corner of it seemed to rise slightly higher; as if it knew something and was smug in that knowledge.

A similar smile formed itself on Rosalyn’s lips.

*****
Meryl crossed her jeaned legs and pulled out a cigarette from a nearly-empty pack of Lites. Her table companion stirred the heat out of his coffee, watching her as she lit her fresh cigarette and blowing angry puffs.

“Anong gagawin ko, Don- What am I going to do about her?!” She said, her frustration clear through the grey haze. Don just sipped his coffee and said nothing; he gazed out to the traffic passing by the open roadside café.

Meryl took another long draft of smoke when Don asked, “Kumusta na ba, your sis?”

The woman gave out another angry puff, the look in her eyes distant. “Nandoon sa bahay, nagdadasal. Laging nagdadasal. Nasa kuwarto, nakaluhod—NAGDADASAL!”

She spat out the word with some volume and venom. Don casted a quick glance around and reached for the woman’s hand in reassurance. “Meryl—“

Meryl opened her hand and clasped tightly on Don’s but she didn’t look at him, she couldn’t bear to. She gulped down a sob and Don saw she was about to lose it. “Meryl—“

“Dammit!” Meryl twisted in her seat, holding her head with two hands (as if it was to fall off her neck), her elbows dug at the table’s edge. “ Noong sa Febrero, nagtatalumpati siya sa mga kayle sa mga kanto-kanto! Tapos buong buwan ng Hunyo siya nakatambay sa Plaza, nagpapahayag! Tapos ngayon— sa bahay! Diyos ko!”

Don watched her as she raised angry glare at him. She said, “Dalawang TV crew pumunta sa bahay para makakita sa mga milagro niya! As if meron?! Wala silang nakuha kungdi ang mensahe niya, na paulit ulit niya sinasabi mula pang Enero, parang sirang plaka!”
Don knew the message that Meryl was talking about it. Nowadays he’s been seeing it scrawled in paint all over walls and streets in the City. He’s been hearing it in the news and the radio. His e-mail is full of forwarded copies of it. The Message which Meryl is stressing over is the same message her younger, absolutely delusional, sister Rosalyn has been devoted to all year.

Fire will Reign the Skies and Raze the Earth on the First of Days. Forgive. Repent. Save Yourselves!

A beep sounded from Meryl’s cellphone. The woman took a glance at the LED screen. Don noticed the tremor in her fingers. He grabbed the unit before she could throw it away. And there on the screen was the message, Rosalyn’s message. It had gone mobile.

Meryl flicked her burnt cigarette away and stood up. Don followed her to the car.

*****
As soon as the moans of pleasure became soft echoes on the walls, a mournful cry rose.

Sweaty, Don leaned down and settled himself beside Meryl and cradled her in his bare arms. She embraced him, buried her teary face into his shoulder. The man stroked her naked back and she became quiet with sleep.
Don lay quietly, careful not to disturb her. An hour later, Meryl woke up. Without a word, she drew away from Don, rose and got dressed. Don dressed too.

As the car left the motel. Meryl said, “Thank you.”

Behind the wheel, Don nodded in reply.

He dropped her in the front gate of her house which was already full of people, a crowd of poor faces and of poorer clothes. A human stink was in the air. Meryl pushed through the crowd, ignoring the pleas and the hands, reaching to touch her, imploring her to listen to them.

She reached the door, feeling she needed a bath. Two men, two baranggay tanods, held the crowd back with their arms. Meryl was grateful for their presence at the same time felt repulsed by it. These two men personally experienced the miracle of Rosalyn. One had a killer gallstone, the other had a rebellious daughter lost in the city.

Somehow, someway, Rosalyn restored both men. What one had, was removed. What the other lost, was returned. And here they are now, loyal and dedicated to Rosalyn and her family.

Meryl entered the house and closed the door shut on the stink and the pleas. Inside, the den was free of furniture and was warm with incense. Before the family altar there was a group of old maids praying novenas to the plain white statuette, to the Mother of God.

They were led by none other than Meryl’s mother, reading now the prayers without the use of her glasses— another ‘gift’ of God through the hand of Rosalyn.

Meryl used to regard her mother in high esteem. After the untimely death of her husband, leaving two daughters to take care of— this woman singlehandedly strove to make the best education available for her two daughters. She was strict, stern. Nothing was good enough, it had to be perfect or none at all. She had guile and her voice was sharp that it whipped out words to carry on her demands to the letter.

And now this same woman who Meryl strived to follow, sits before a little figurine praying for the sins of the world in a soft voice, full of pleas. It was a humbling that Meryl didn’t thought she would see. It was all Rosalyn’s doing.
This time of prayer made the den a place out of this world so unnoticed did Meryl strode to the bedrooms. She wanted to go into her own room and locked away all this foolishness, take a couple of pills and pray the only prayer she needs: for sleep. Instead, she found her hand on Roselyn’s door and turned it.

Roselyn’s room was like the den, free of furniture. All her belongings were either given away or sold, the proceeds of which given away still the same. Rosalyn had the four walls of her room painted blinding white and she just kneels in the center, muttering prayers and names over and over and over and over again.

For the briefest of moments, Meryl felt the need to knock her sister down and slapped some sense into her. Ever since the fateful New Year’s night, she was awakened by Rosalyn who shared her frightening delusion that she experienced a vision; a Holy Vision was her very words.

At first, the elder sister thought that Rosalyn was babbling out an insane dream but it was startling to hear her with such careless joy and exuberance that it was unearthly, unreal. Through the coming days, the surprise of that first night curdled into fear for Meryl because she saw that the dream never left her sister’s eyes.

A kind observer would have reasonably described Rosalyn as an inspired zealot but Meryl’s realistically blunt self saw that Roselyn’s actions went beyond inspired, it was obsessed. And often zealots are mad people. For that, Meryl mourned for her sister.

Whatever possessed Rosalyn, apparently it was contagious. At first their mother resisted, her words rang sharp against Rosalyn bringing strangers for dinner, for holding spontaneous sermons on the front steps or on the street corners. What converted their mother were the miracles, Rosalyn’s miracles. Meryl couldn’t understand it herself but she read enough life articles to know what the human mind believes to be real , it can make real. She just wished they weren’t so ‘spiritual’ about it.

When the two invited her to join in Rosalyn’s crusade of salvation. Meryl couldn’t stand it anymore. There was no privacy no peace for her at home. She took it is as affront to her good senses that her non-virgin sister(Rosalyn lost hers before Meryl) was playing saint at home. The elder spent more and more time at work. And as much as possible stayed out late and away from home, both killing time and herself with her Lites or in the physical pleasure of Don’s company.

And now Rosalyn has taken her crusade all throughout the city.

Fire will Reign the Skies and Raze the Earth on the First of Days. Forgive. Repent. Save Yourselves!”

“Ano kaya ang ibig sabihin ni Ros,” Don asked thoughtfully one time as he lay down naked on the bed, eyes to the ceiling. “…raze the earth on the First of Days.”

Meryl was feeling the muscles under his chest, breathing in the musky cologne, trying to ignore what he said. “Kailan ba iyon First of
Days—?”

Meryl raised her eyes to meet his. “Kailangan ba natin pag usapan ito?”

Don shrugged. “Curious lang ako.”

Meryl bit her lip in frustration. “Sa tingin ko baka New Year.”

“Next year?”

“Whatever.” And she pressed her lips on his belly for some kisses, sinuously curving the wet trail to the lower sensual regions of his body. Don became tense with silence much to Meryl’s satisfaction.

It was one of the few things Meryl anchored her world, those times with Don. Those were real. This now, facing the kneeling figure of Rosalyn in this pallid room, was unreal.

Rosalyn raised her head, ending her prayers with a breath. She turned to Meryl and smiled. Meryl flinched inside. She saw the ever-constant dreamy gaze of Rosalyn and the sight of it was a cold wipe on her spine.

“Ate, malapit na.”

Meryl closed her eyes on the words. Tomorrow will be the New Year, the first of Days. “Matatapos na.”

Rosalyn rose to her feet, joy spread on her lips. “Oo Ate, matatapos na ang lahat.” She strode past her sister, her footsteps as soft as cat falls.

“Saan ka naman pupunta, Ros?”

“Sasabihin ko sa mga naniniwala na kailangan natin tumungo sa mga bundok bago sumapit ang Bagong Taon bukas. Kailangan natin umalis ngayon.”

Meryl stared at the white wall her sister was facing when she knelt in prayer. She threw her words to it. “Hindi ako sasama sa iyo
Rosalyn—“ The words echoed hard.

Rosalyn’s back seemed struck by it, it became stone-still.

Meryl whirled to face Rosalyn. “Hindi ako naniniwala sa iyo, Rosalyn. Tigilan mo na itong kalokohan!”

The elder saw a shiver on the shoulders of the younger. Somehow, it gave Meryl some satisfaction. Rosalyn looked back at her and
Meryl was startled at the tears falling freely from those dream-seized eyes.

“Ate—“ Ros struggled to say, but the cries choked her words. “—’Te, i—ipag—dada—sal ki—“

“STOP!” Meryl roared, her frustration rose to a tempest. She stepped forward and a hand snapped upwards—slapping Rosalyn! “Tama na, Ros!” She seized her sister’s shoulders, shaking her. “Tigilan mo na ito!” Meryl cried, pleading! “Tama na, parang awa mo na!
Gumising ka!” She gave her sister a hard slap.

Meryl stopped, her sudden temper giving out to fatigue. She’s tired of all of it! So tired. Now this! God!

A change came over Rosalyn. She blinked her eyes twice. A red harsh blush came on her cheek where her sister struck twice. She touched it, felt the pain of it. Meryl saw the dream in her eyes faded. Awareness flickered in Rosalyn’s eyes—

Rosalyn looked around with apprehension, as if she found herself in a stranger’s house. When her wavering eyes found Meryl, it became focused and locked on the familiar. “Ate—?!”

Rosalyn reached for Meryl with her hands, “Ate— anong nangyari?”

Meryl saw it instantly— this was the Ros she remembered, loved and cherished. Her sister!

“Ros—!” The two embraced each other. Meryl felt Rosalyn gripped to her in a familiar way, the special way they used to embrace if they missed each other so much.

“Ate! Ate!”

“It’s okay now. Tahan na. Nandito ako.”

Rosalyn cried out loud, like a lost child finally finding relief. All fears were extinguished with those wet cries.

“Magiging ayos ang lahat ha. Nandito ako.”

“Ate—anong nangyari?!”

“Isang masamang panaginip. Isang panaginip lang iyon, Ros.” Rosalyn’s head quickly nodded, agreeing for the sake of it. Meryl closed her eyes, holding her sister. It was just a dream, a long dream. Now it ended.

“Meryl—“The voice stopped Meryl cold. When she opened her eyes, she saw her mother waiting with the devotees. Meryl pulled Rosalyn behind her, and she placed herself between the door and her sister.

Meryl’s mother had the same pleasant dreamy look in her eyes. In fact, she shared it with all the crone devotees. They all had it, beaming on their wrinkled faces! As if all is right and fair in the world!

Their mother turned away from her eldest and eyed the youngest with favor. “Rosalyn, kailangan natin umalis. Hinihintay nila--”
“Mama—“

“Ros! Huwag kang makinig!” Meryl snapped. She turned to their mother. “Ma, hindi tayo aalis. Dito lang tayo sa bahay. Dito lang tayo!”
Meryl’s voice had the tone and timber of her own mother’s voice. It was the same voice, as if the soul was calling to the body to submit.

The older woman’s smile stretched as her lips under the dreamy gaze uttered the words.

Fire will Reign the Skies and Raze the Earth on the First of Days. Forgive. Repent. Save Yourselves!

And it was repeated by the devotees behind her.

Fire will Reign the Skies and Raze the Earth on the First of Days. Forgive. Repent. Save Yourselves!

In exactly the same way and manner. It was terrifying to witness. They repeated it again and again in chorus, like a mantra of the maddened, like a broken record, like an echo without end.

The sounds became substance, Meryl could sense the room filling with the repeated words as if a whirlpool was being conjured at the every same spot where they stood. They are held over the vortex by a silk string. The swirling mouth waited for them to fall, to swallow them. There was no way to turn. They were trapped.

Meryl clamped her hands to her ears, lest the whirlpool form itself in her mind. She would not listen, she would not listen.
Fire will Reign the Skies and Raze the Earth on the First of Days. Forgive. Repent. Save Yourselves!

But she heard. She heard the words because it came from one voice. She lowered her hands and turned to her sister, Rosalyn.
Rosalyn said, “Fire will Reign the Skies and Raze the Earth on the First of Days. Forgive. Repent. Save Yourselves!”

And she had the dream in her eyes again.

Seized by sadness, Meryl mutely watched as Rosalyn stepped forward to their mother and her flock of devotees who were waiting for her. As an entourage, they made their way outside, silencing the pleas. Soon Meryl heard all of them leave, chanting the words.
“Fire will Reign the Skies and Raze the Earth on the First of Days. Forgive. Repent. Save Yourselves!”

Until these became dim and distant, the words of a dream.

January 1, 5 hours to midnight.

Don found Meryl stoic and stunned in that empty white room. Without a word he carried her in his arms out of the house and placed her in the car.

“Saan tayo?”

“Doon kung saan ang kapatid mo.”

“Pero—Pero hindi ako naniniwala—“

Don looked at her with compassion. He turned away and spoke the words Meryl will never forget. “Walang mawawala sa iyo kung maniniwala ka—para ngayon lang.”

A question worried her. “Paano bukas?”

“Pabayaan mo muna ang bukas. Wala pa ang bukas. Ngayon muna, Meryl.”

With that, Don drove the car.

With a few minutes to spare, Don’s car blew dirt clouds and gravel as it slid to a stop on hectare-wide ledge of a mountain’s face.
There, Rosalyn’s flock gathered under the midnight sky. A few torches were lit , a warm light covered everyone like a blanket.

They came out of the car and hand in hand, Don and Meryl walked to the flock. They were watched and welcomed, a way was made for them towards where Rosalyn and their mother waited.

Don stopped and Meryl broke away from him to face her family.

“Ma, Ros— hatinggabi na.”

The two nodded in the dim darkness.

“Para saan ba ang lahat ito? Saan ba ang—”

Then it came. Meryl was surprised how quiet it was. Trails of fire burned down from the sky, straight to the celebrating city below. Only when the meteors struck the earth did the calm end and the thunder of a thousand simultaneous lightning strikes cracked both heaven and earth.

Meryl stood where she was, her eyes burning the image of a lake of fire blooming where a city once was. She watched as flames touched and held concrete and metal structures as if these were dried wood. And from the tongues of fire she could hear the death cries of those who did not come. The light bloomed more and more until it seemed that hell itself was giving birth to a sun. A strange new day was breaking at midnight

And by the fierce glow of this hellish dawn, Meryl saw her sister Rosalyn smile gently, yet one corner turned higher as if smug that she was right all along.

In her eyes, the dream burned.

[thisbe.ara]

Thisbe is also busy with work but on weekends (as long there's no black-out); she's trying her hand on screenwriting. Last time I checked she's on her 3rd page-- that's good progress... she's probably on her fourth now.

hi diem, thanks for the update. i am now busy with lots of things (work, extra-curricular, sideline) but i have this great sideline business that involves writing. so basically, i'm not that far behind.
scriptwriting: still on my 3rd page and planning to re-write. i am still not clear on that movie in my mind. hehehehe.. great thanks to diem on the tips!
poem: in the middle of making my first-ever cebuano poetry piece. just for fun. hopefully i can post it here.
features: a lotttttttt.. i've been updating my dream diary a lot and base topics from there. it's new and it's fun. though you should expect a lot of fantasy ideas. hehehehe..

thanks for posting, guys! happy new year!

[Von!-x]

Happy New Year to all!

Hey, Diem, I have not returned to short story writing for quite a while. I still have tidbits of poetry, and a few paragraphs on my blog.