INSTAMATIC!

filial piety

Thu, 15 Mar 2007 09:42:36 GMT

note: Again with the drabble-writing. I still can't choose which one is actually okay enough to pass. Agh.

firefly's glow

The acacia tree's branches are heavy with blossoms, but all she can smell is the sweat pooling on his neck. The wall is rough against her back; his chest is rough against her breasts. Above her, fireflies spark and dance as he splinters something inside of her.

Later, she lies on her bed, wetness cooling on her thighs. He neatly tucks the blanker around her shoulder and brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The naked lightbulb overhead casts a shadow on his eyes; he whispers, "That's a good little girl. Now kiss your daddy goodnight." [100 words]

you talkin' to me?

Wed, 14 Mar 2007 06:09:15 GMT

title: What You Lost
word count: 125

Adam dated only long-haired women. There was ponytail-ed Sheila, curly-maned Joan and stick-straight Mickey. When his co-workers joked, "You've been brainwashed by all those shampoo commercials," he just smiled and continued to text sweet nothings to waist-length Myrna.

After dancing with braided Steph, he went home, toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket. He knocked gently on the bedroom door before entering.

Treading soundlessly over a tangled snarl of cords, he knelt down next to the bed. A tiny middle-aged woman huddled under a blanket, clear plastic tubing snaking out from under her parchment skin. Her watery, sunken eyes squinted up at him. The ventilator by her bed hissed rhythmically.

He stroked the grizzled stubble on the top of her head. "Hey, mom, it's me, Adam."

one hundred one.

Wed, 14 Mar 2007 02:42:45 GMT

notes: I think this project may have driven me insane. OH WELL. It's entirely possible that one of the stories I've posted on LJ will be the one I'll eventually pass.

thrilling heroics

"He's got a gun!"

Screams. Crash. Thud. Broken bottles of spilled milk. The nervous clatter of the cash register. Okay, okay, don't hurt me!

A boy stood in front of an old woman, her bulky purse digging into his back. Lord almighty in heaven what's going on there?

The man wasn't wearing a mask.

Local boy dies in robbery— what a noble sacrifice— such an example for us all— a memorial built in his memory— he will be dearly missed—

He ducked. Behind him, his grandmother crumpled to the ground, a surprised look frozen on her face. [100 words]

--

heartbreak kid

First, he asked: you come here often?

Then, he asked: can I have your number?

Then, he asked: would you go out with me?

Then, he asked: how about a second date?

Then, he asked: how about you come inside and we'll talk?

Then, he asked: do you love me?

Then, he asked: was it good for you?

Then, he asked: you think I'd actually want to marry you?

Then, he asked: why are you still here?

Then, he asked: what the hell are you doing with that?

Finally, he said: oh god please baby put that down! [100 words]

--

colegiala

They were the only ones on the poorly-lit overpass. The man with the tattered jeans and leather jacket carelessly stepped on puddles. The young girl in a school uniform walked gingerly, not letting her shiny leather shoes get the slightest bit dirtied.

The girl's eyes darted nervously over to the man. She took in the moustache, the half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, the hard lines on his face. His eyes were hidden by his unwashed hair.

Suddenly, she spun to face him. Her books were clutched to her chest. Her other hand held a gun pointed at him.

"Wallet and cellphone, please." [100 words]

if you say that you will.

Tue, 13 Mar 2007 10:14:55 GMT

title: Space Restrictions
word count: 273
notes: Another short-short. Whoosh.

There was only a foot of carpet separating the two of you. If you wanted to, you could reach out towards him, rub warm skin with your cold fingertips until the fine black hairs on his flesh stood up. You could place your palm against his pulse, feeling the minuscule change in the speed of his heartbeat. You could trail your way up his arm, leave half-moon marks on the soft flesh inside his elbow that no one but you would notice.

But your hand stayed still against the bedcovers and he slept on, probably dreaming of songs and rhythms and melodies, while you stared at the ceiling and wondered. Eventually you fell asleep, fingers buried in your hair seeking warmth of a different sort.

And when the morning came and the two of you were inside the elevator to the first floor, you smiled at him with all of your desperation aching in your chest. He didn't see, though, because the doors slid open and the cameras almost blinded him with their harsh white lights. The burly security guards kept the reporters at bay while you scurried towards the limo that would take you to the arena. A part of you wants out from all of this, wants to say something and damn all else, but the wanting and the waiting were nothing compared to his laugh when you told him a joke, his arm draped over your shoulders while your hands glided over your guitar onstage and a foot of carpet separating the two of you.

You, a boy who fell in love with a boy, could wait and want forever.

screaming infidelities.

Mon, 12 Mar 2007 23:17:57 GMT

It's strange how you only learn new things about people after they're dead.

Mom, dad and I went to my aunt's father's wake yesterday afternoon. While I drank diet soda that left a funny aspartame taste in my mouth, the adults exchanged quiet condolences. It was excessively, ridiculously cold in the room, prompting me to mutter to my mom, "I bet they keep the A/C on high so that we'll feel what the guy in the box feels."

I barely evaded her swat on my shoulder.

Dad leaned forward towards my aunt. "How's the second family?" he asked.

I cringed. Dad, what kind of joke is that?

My aunt didn't look offended. "They're not allowed at the wake, but we'll let them go to the funeral as long as they don't make a scene."

What the— My eyes darted to the coffin, then to the floor. I carefully pretended that I wasn't listening.

"It's like with Angie's father," my dad said, pointing to mom. "At least there was no huge scene over who gets to inherit what, right?"

I remembered my grandfather as an old man with coke-rimmed eyeglasses. In his last few months, he was always accompanied by a very pretty female nurse.

My uncle butted in. "Dr. Acorda's marriage has been annulled, have you heard?"

Mom said, "Really? Why?" Dr. Acorda was a friend of her, and the chief of staff at the hospital where my mom work. She was a very nice lady and my mental image of her was somehow very purple-y.

"It turned out that her husband's mistress already had two kids from him."

"Oh my, I thought it was just a fling."

"The kids weren't too happy about it, but Dr. Acorda's just relieved that it's over."

We stayed at the wake for a few more minutes after that, then my dad got up to leave. The healing mass was about to start; I think he was half-afraid that he'll interrupt the priest in the middle of his homily to debate theology.

"Healing mass?" I whispered to mom. "What, they gonna resurrect him from the dead?"

I wasn't fast enough to avoid the smack this time. My uncle overheard and volunteered to shake the coffin to "make it look realistic".

Mom and dad were still talking about the "second families" of their relatives while we drove home. When my father revealed that his grandfather also had two families, I suddenly wondered if adultery had a genetic component.

"It's a good thing your grandfather didn't have a mistress," my dad told me. "Then again, he won't have anything to pass down to them!"

We burst out laughing.

attempting to.

Sat, 10 Mar 2007 06:37:48 GMT

title: The Awkward Rhymes
notes: A short short story (less than 500 words). Does this make sense? No.

--

They were shoulder to shoulder on Jon's couch. Jon was in a gray sweatshirt, bare feet peeking out from the tattered edges of his khakis. Stephen's tie was loose and his sleeves were rolled up. He had a mug in his hand, and he noted with mild disgust that it was empty.

Jon noticed. "We're too old to get drunk at 2 am."

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you—" Jon ignored the pointed stare at his gray hair "—but I am still in the prime of my life."

"Yes, male pattern baldness is so macho. Gets all the ladies at the nursing home hot and bothered."

"Ooh, that burns. It's good to know that there's still a part of you that isn't soft and doughy."

They stared at each other for a few moments. Jon turned away first, his shoulders shaking. Stephen added a point to his mental tally of, well, he lost count after 2001, but he still added it. It was then that he noticed them.

"Woah, Jon, you have wings." He tilted his head and regarded them. "And they're looking kinda frumpy. Didn't those feathers come with a special shampoo?"

But Jon was still shaking, and Stephen knew suddenly that it wasn't from repressing giggles. He gently eased away the hand covering Jon's face and felt dampness on his fingers.

"Hey," he murmured, brushing a knuckle across the furrows on Jon's forehead, "what's wrong? Do I have to call you and leave bad jokes on your voicemail?"

Jon shook his head wordlessly. Stephen waited while Jon wiped at the snot dripping from his nose and cleared his throat twice. He looked at Stephen with red-rimmed eyes and Stephen stilled. Jon looked so weary, wearier than Stephen had ever seen him (even that time when Stephen had been fired from his job for showing up at a pride parade). He caught Stephen's hand in his and kissed the palm gently.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. You have wings, you're crying, and did I mention? You have wings."

Jon's eyes were on their tangled fingers. "I have to let you go now."

"What are you—"

Jon smiled like a goodbye. "Don't go into the light, Stephen. You'll fall and break your hip."

—we have a pulse!" And then there was light, bright light, much too bright and soft at the edges. Stephen tried to open his mouth, but all that came out was an inarticulate sound.

A green-and-flesh blob swam into view.

"Welcome back, Mr. Colbert. We lost you there for a moment, but—"

all the king's men.

Thu, 08 Mar 2007 08:58:17 GMT

title: Walls Of Jericho
word count: 203

Her neighbor was a rock star.

Every night, she'd hear him practice with his band. They laughed and yelled and she could imagine the beer bottles littering the floor. The low hum of the bass guitar lulled her to sleep.

When their album came out, she bought a copy to support them. She was too busy to sit down and listen to it, but it didn't matter. Every night the band practiced next door, going through their sets. She thought she liked track five the best.

Her boyfriend was a huge fan. He screamed and flailed when he found out who her neighbor was. At his insistence, she went over and knocked.

Her neighbor the rock star opened the door. He ushered her inside and poured her a glass of juice.

"Is this about the noise? I'm terribly sorry," he said anxiously.

"That didn't bother me!" she laughed. "In fact, I wanted an autograph, if you don't mind."

"Oh, good!"

"Make it out to 'Ted', please?"

"Ted? He your boyfriend?"

"Yes," she blushed. "We met when I bought your album."

That night, the band didn't practice next door. Her neighbor the rock star moved a week later.

classroom exercise # 8

Tue, 06 Mar 2007 14:33:05 GMT

notes: In 10 lines or less, write a dialogue-only story of a situation unfolding. I chose "nun tells mother superior she's pregnant".

"You called, Mother Superior?"

"Ah, yes, Sister Theresa, sit down. I just got a disturbing report from Sister Joan down at the homeless shelter. It seems that knitting needles and a few feet of pink wool had gone missing there after you visited."

"Mother Superior, I can explai—"

"No need. You will confess to Father Gomez. Afterwards, you will be on solo scrubbing duty for two months, breakfast, lunch and dinner. No gloves, only the scrubbing brush and steel wool."

"Yes, Mother Superior."

"Although, I am curious. Seven feet of wool isn't enough for a pompom, let alone an entire cap. What are you making, a shirt for an extremely tiny person?"

Pause.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God."

"It was Our Lord Jesus, Mother Superior! He came to me in my dreams and showed me great and mighty—"

"I will not hear of this, Sister Theresa! Sister Carmel, escort Sister Theresa to the infirmary! Sister Maria, bring Father Gomez here at once, and the new gardener as well, the one with the full beard."

classroom exercise # 7

Tue, 06 Feb 2007 08:07:10 GMT

title: Discard
word count: 250
notes: Rewritten. Like, a lot. (The power of revising compelled me!)

As I dodged a pair of scampering street kids, the heel of my shoe caught on some loose gravel and in doing so, I almost stepped into something soft. 'Soft' was definitely not a regular feature of the mean streets of Philcoa, and I stopped to get a closer look. It was a stuffed toy in the shape of a weird alien-bug thing, like a teddy bear with an oversized head and anorexia. It had a prominent purple nose, beady eyes and a bright red X for a mouth. It used to have white fur, but I supposed that years of grimy little hands and the unidentifiable brownish stains that permeated the sidewalk hadn't done it any favors. The bright green X on its abdomen also served to highlight just how mangy it is. The toy lay sprawled half-under a rickety fruit cart, as if it had been carelessly dropped, then aimlessly kicked here and there until it reached its final destination. Against the concrete-and-dirt ground, the weird alien-bug thing seemed both ridiculous and mildly threatening. I glanced up at the darkening sky (where was the mothership?) and at the mass of humanity around me (any terrorist-y types in the crowd?) before realizing that I was the ridiculous one in this tableau. Everyone else was buying meat and fruits, walking, talking, moving while I stood here, static and unmoving, gaping at a stuffed toy some idiot kid had probably dropped. Quickly, I stepped over the thing and strode away.

classroom exercise # 6 (story machine)

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 09:48:28 GMT

title: The Miserable Teaser On Quickly?
notes: A story writing machine exercise. Kinda like madlibs, only less sexy results. I wrote the sentences starting with the letters 'A' and 'M'. Unedited and typed as-is.

Adam stood in the middle of the hallway, waitng. But he was slowly getting sleepy coz he had been waiting for so long. Cursing words he ran out of patience and prepared to go out of the building. Dieter is not yet around, late again for sure. Every friday night, Dieter stays a little longer in his office to finish off his paper works. Friday night are party nights but the party won't ignite if the two haven't got in sight. Gazing upon the clock, he wasn't sure if could make it. Heaving a satisfied sigh, Dieter starts saving his final draft when suddenly, the power goes out. It was all a bit confusing, so he decided to just take a long walk. Just as he was about to go out, he saw a lady dressed in black pass by him. Keeping quiet, Adam tiptoed and followed the lady. Lust filled the entire body and soul of Adam and he decided to forget all about Dieter. Making his way down the stairs, Adam didn't hear the door opening behind him, Dieter calling, "Adam? I'm done." Noticing his friend behind him, Adam turned guiltily and stuttered. Owlishly, Dieter eyed Adam and asked, "Whats wrong?". Pacing the street, Dieter didn't see anyone. Quietly, Dieter continued walking. "Reduce yourself to ashes, old friend.", Dieter mumbled. Suavely, he brushed his own hair with his hands while still looking at the seemingly mysterious girl. "Total hottie," Adam whispers, discreetly pointing at the girl. Uninterested, Dieter continues walking. Violently, Adam threw himself at the girl and his hands landed on all the "right" places. "X-factor, you really have!" said Adam in between kisses. "You bastard! How dare you?", the girl slaps him hard which makes him instantly drop from cloud nine. Zen master that he is, he composed himself and barked, "I never said that I love you!"

notes: Okay. I lie. There were sexy results in this story, although in the most unsexy way possible /woeface

rock the vote.

Thu, 25 Jan 2007 13:59:22 GMT

Today is my sister's birthday and my parents' wedding anniversary. To celebrate, we are eating at a grill. My sister's not in the best of moods, and she complains to my mom that people keep greeting her a happy 17th birthday.

"But," I interrupt. "What's wrong with that?"

She glares at me. "And you're joining them, too."

My mom takes out her camera. I raise my hand in surrender. "But I thought you were seventeen!"

"If I were seventeen, we'd be the same age," she mutters as she rounds the table to stand next to my grandparents.

"But I'm eighteen—wait. No, I'm seventeen. Oh, you're sixteen?" And even though I'm torn between embarrassment and confusion, I manage to find a smile in time for the camera's flash.

rule 34

Thu, 18 Jan 2007 10:11:40 GMT

In an airport somewhere—all airports are the same to him, except for the smell and sometimes, the pictures on the brightly-colored t-shirts displayed in the gift shops—he was seated beside a man who eyed the CNN logo on his carry-on and told him that in the Filipino language, the technical term for the process of editing was 'tuhog'. No extended vowels, two clipped syllables, rolling off his tongue with some relish. Anderson nodded and kept an eye on the flashing neon letters on the board—OSAKA, NOW BOARDING, GATE TWO. The man continues, 'In the colloquial sense, "tuhog" means "to skewer" or "to pump". A very popular term in movies with sex and violence." He looks at the man and the man's very wrinkly tie and asks, 'Why are you telling me this?' The man shrugs, looking too comfortable as he stretches on the hard moulded plastic seat, and says, 'You tell me. You're the reporter.'

Shoot me in the head. Why can't this story just shut up and let me write it?

I despise it when stories get uppity on me, when they veer from the direction that I've been gently and carefully steering them towards. I especially despise it when it means that I have to cut out certain elements or scenes that I really, really like and want to nurture because they no longer fit in the flow of the story.

I especially especially despise it when those scenes or elements I have to cut were my favorites. It's like telling a movie director to edit out the scenes that he/she slaved over the most. It just doesn't suck, it's also a personal affront to me.

But. I have to do it. Sacrifice the few for the good of the many. Plus, I don't ever want to be called a sentimental ninny who can't let go. That kind of reputation sticks to a person.

classroom exercise # 5

Mon, 15 Jan 2007 08:42:59 GMT

activity: Take a classmate's memory and appropriate it as your own.
word count: 155
notes: I am torn between embarrassment and pride. I'd also like to thank SocSci 3, because I was required to write a research paper on female masturbation last sem. I SHALL NEVAH FORGET.

When I was in second grade, I learned how to touch myself.

I sat on the living room couch, Indian-style, watching the morning cartoons. Behind me, my dad paced while he talked to my grandma on the 'phone. He suddenly interrupted the conversation to order me to lower the volume, you'll be deaf if you don't. As I leaned forward to grab the remote control from the table, the heel of my foot bumped against something down there and it felt inexplicably, unbelievably good. I moved back--there it was again! I started rocking back and forth, back and forth, paying no attention to anything else besides this lovely sensation. My dad's voice became an intelligible hum, gibberish compared to the sudden loud pounding in my ears. Then, I jerked and I felt warm all over, even in my toes, which were tingling. What was this? More importantly, when can I do it again?

trickle-down effect.

Mon, 08 Jan 2007 23:27:52 GMT

word count: 250
notes: Inspired by Anderson Cooper's Dispatches From The Edge.

I learned about the tsunami on static-sliced television in Tagaytay. It might have been on CNN, but it could easily have been Fox Channel or MSNBC.

My parents, brother and I were in a hotel room that strongly resembled the sleeping quarters of a submarine. Two bunk beds against one wall, the room longer than it was wide. I'd occasionally intone, "Dive. Dive. Dive." in a terrible Russian accent to make my dad laugh.

I curled up on the bottom bunk nearest to the TV as talking heads echoed George W. Bush's promises of aid. A news ticker crawling at the bottom of the screen updated the number of the missing and the dead. Beside me my brother was muttering about how he wanted to watch something else, but my dad kept the remote away. My mom was in the bathroom, and I could hear the relentless gush of water through the closed door. Thousands dead, even more missing, relief on the way, outpouring of grief, unexpected, washed away--in between sudden gasps of white noise, they talked and we watched in that submarine room.

That night I was plagued with nightmares (I could never sleep well in hotels). I imagined my eyes gleaming in the unbroken darkness, pupils dilated with the lack of light and suffocating fear, darting to and fro, unable to blink, and I believed that if I closed them, a cold, clammy hand would grip my ankles and I would be unable to scream.

freewriting exercise # 2

Fri, 05 Jan 2007 10:49:55 GMT

activity: A New Year's resolution.
word count: ~310
notes: Where's the resolution? Somewhere. It's there. Some dialogue translated from Tagalog.

In the middle of medya noche my brother says abruptly, "I've broken up with Philline." Philline was his third girlfriend in three years.

The fork stops halfway to my father's mouth. "So that means I shouldn't be expecting Christmas gifts this year, huh?"

"You got the Havaianas she gave me, Dad."

My mom looks concerned. "So, who broke it up?"

"She did. All of them did," my brother says between mouthfuls of rice, "but then again, they all courted me."

"No more expensive little cakes and bouquets of flowers for no reason at all?" I ask.

"No. The Yellow Cab pizzas were from Tracy, though." We all pause, mourning the loss of free food and extravagant little gifts. "Don't worry, I think I have another one soon."

My dad turns to me. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm working through the pain," I deadpan.

My brother laughs. We continue eating.

---

I'm in my brother's room, looking for something to alleviate my boredom. There's a John Grisham novel on his bookshelf that I haven't read yet, but I had previously flipped through it and was in no mood to read about a man named "Willie".

There is, however, a stack of comic books in a corner of his room. I've rummaged through it many times--it seems to be chiefly composed of Spawn and Spiderman titles, neither of which appeals to me--but there was no harm in looking again, right?

Behind the stack was an illustration board. On it were pasted the lyrics of several popular love songs. It was signed "Philline ~9/7/06".

A paper bag was leaning on the board. Curious, I stick my hand inside it. Several papers, some scraps of plastic and--

oh

--a tiny plastic cup, just the right size for a small but horribly expensive cake to fit into, with a pink candle carefully taped on it.

---

My brother is unusually sullen today. He's glaring at the television like he wishes he could send it to hell. I hesitate at his doorway.

"Remember that movie you wanted to watch a while back?" I asked, my fingers restlessly plucking at the plastic bag in my hand. "I--I've bought a copy."

classroom exercise # 4

Thu, 04 Jan 2007 10:06:25 GMT

activity: Write about a holiday memory. Make it interesting.
word count: 228
notes: Written on January 4, 2006, edited later that afternoon.

This is my mom's hospital's Christmas party—middle-aged doctors and bright-eyed residents and their grimy little children scampering underneath tables and legs. A paper plate heaped with chunks of pork-like matter is balanced on my lap, gently staining my jeans with grease. The MIDI-fied opening tones of "Pinoy Ako" suddenly bursts from the loudspeakers and I expected it, but it still makes me swear (softly, under my breath so my grandmother can't hear). The doctors are dancing, no, flailing their limbs vaguely in time with the music as my mom photographs the embarrassment on their faces. I want to stage a strategic retreat to the ground floor, to the empty clinic, where there is some sanity or at the very least passable taste in music. Then the Christmas raffle is announced, all cheerful grins and lame jokes as numbers are called and gifts are handed out one by one. Finally, the last box, the biggest gift and I am relieved that it's over. The winning number is called and, oh god, it matches the one on the stub half-forgotten in my hand. The big box in the shiny pharmaceutical company wrapping paper is mine.

A year later, my mom tells me that I ought to just go to the U.S., live there by myself, and I say, sure, fine. I won a washing machine last Christmas—I can live anywhere.

"happy birthday, jesus. i'm sorry your party's so lame."

Mon, 25 Dec 2006 00:35:21 GMT

My brother, mom and I arrived to the annual family Christmas party-slash-reunion at Uncle Winston's house an hour late. As I walked towards the front gate, Uncle Tom and Aunt Mimi headed towards their car. I thought they might be going back home to retrieve something they forgot, and I waved and smiled to Aunt Mimi as she sat on the front seat. In return, she glared at the dashboard. Uncle Tom then shouted for his kids, and they went. Carlo, the eldest, grimaced when my brother asked him what had happened.

Turns out, a falling-out with Uncle Tom and his family had happened. My dad used the pre-party mingling to accuse them of leeching off their parents--my grandparents--who they had been living with for three or so years. Everyone knew it was true, that they've basically taken over my grandparents' house, forced all of the maids to quit, tried to get my grandmother's trusted secretary of fifteen years fired, eaten food and used up utilities without paying for any of it. In a family where the matriarch worked her way to med school, where one son was the summa cum laude at seminary school, another son a successful doctor who goes abroad every other month, and their kids in excellent schools, Uncle Tom's family was the cancer devouring the healthy cells.

In the kitchen, my grandmother and her remaining sons were discussing the situation loudly and vehemently. Aunt Lolette was looking stressed as she sat and listened to them. Carmela, my cousin, was standing with the maids near the sink. She was sniffling. I assumed she was upset after an emotionally draining scene, but she just had a cold. My grandfather was sitting at the kitchen table, eating an orange. In the background, my sister was playing "Joy To The World".

It took twenty minutes and a lot of ignoring-the-raised-voices-downstairs, but eventually we kids were called down from my cousin's bedroom to lunch. As was tradition, everyone gathered around the dining room table for prayer. Our heads were bowed down when my grandfather suddenly asked, "Where's Tom?" I started rubbing his back as my dad explained that Uncle Tom had left for Cainta. Grandfather was deaf and I knew he won't hear the first answer. I stared at his mustard checkered shirt and wished very hard that his hearing had gotten better.

Aunt Lolette and my mom took pictures of us surrounding that table laden with too much food for just ten people. I supposed that was the reason why this year's Christmas party had less photographs than last year's--empty chairs with no one to fill them, gifts with recipients we were afraid to mention by name and a question of whether there will still be a party next year or not.

classroom exercise # 3

Mon, 04 Dec 2006 08:53:27 GMT

activity: Describe a loved one.
word count: 250
notes: Written on December 4, 2006 and revised later that afternoon.

Even without knowing his age, you can tell with one glance that this guy is old. Not just "oh, he's a few years older than me" old, but more of the "shit he's old enough to be my dad!" old. With dark hair greying at the temples and noticeable wrinkles, he might've presented a sufficiently dignified and officious portrait, if it weren't for his height. His suits, too, would look better on someone three inches taller. It's obvious he's uncomfortable with the tie and jacket—it's in the way he fidgets with his collar like he's this close to ripping the starched cotton off. Like 30 million other people all over the world, I've seen him half-naked, wearing only his boxers, socks and a sheepish expression, and yes, his physique is what you'd expect from a middle-aged family man—pasty white all over covered in coarse hair with a doughy bulge around the middle. He bounces when he laughs, high-pitched giggles when he lets himself forget, but most of the time it's just shaking shoulders and a fist half-stuffed into his mouth. It's remarkable how he manages to express more emotion with his eyebrows in five minutes than a regular person can with their entire face in five hours. In stillness, he looks worn out, all color washed from him by harsh television spotlights and a bone-deep exhaustion. But in movement, his hands scribble figure-eights in the air and the corners of his lips twitch with repressed excitement, fireworks waiting to explode.

classroom exercise # 2

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 14:38:07 GMT

activity: Write about certain smells at certain periods of your life.
word count: ~350
notes: Originally written on November 27, 2006. Revised on November 28, 2006 and December 3, 2006.

16 years old.
Mica had this joke about a friend of ours: first, his ego would enter the room, then his cologne, and then finally, he would. I sat behind the guy for an entire year, but I won't be able to describe exactly what his cologne smelled like. A room of large artificial flowers, maybe, or an old woman who spends hours carefully applying make-up to her face before going to church. I still see the guy around the campus, and while it seems that he has toned down on the fragrance, his ego is still as all-encompassing as ever. I think the cologne might have developed a consciousness of its own, and spent the rest of its days hitting people over the head with a lead pipe and molesting them while they were unconscious.

12 years old.
First day of school is supposed to be about getting to know your new classmates, new teachers, new school, new everything, right? But at this school, first day of school meant 'Unearthing the classroom buried under a summer's worth of disuse'. With a rag in hand and growing apprehension, I approached what appeared to be an opaque window jalousie. The girl to my left was already scrubbing industriously. Outside it smelled of sunshine and cooking food. Inside the combination of chalk and floor wax was a shock to a privately-educated Catholic grade school student. I could still smell the fluffy grey dirt even under the multiple applications of soap, and at dinner time, I proudly detailed the nitty-gritty of this wondrous new feeling to my amused parents.

10 years old.
The National Orthopedic Hospital doesn't smell like one. I've been to a lot of hospitals and they all smell alike--crisp white sheets and too-clean plastic tubing. Here at the NOH, you keep expecting to see an unflushed toilet flooded with seawater inside every doorway. In the Children's Ward, with too many people in too little space, the smell is so pervasive that I believed that the reason the walls were yellow was because the smell had ingrained itself into the cinderblock. The patients didn't seem to notice the smell, though; their shy smiles were almost enough to distract from the sleek metal bolts sticking from their thin limbs. That night, lying in bed, I imagined that the smell had burrowed its way under my skin, and I couldn't sleep.

freewriting exercise # 1

Thu, 23 Nov 2006 08:28:44 GMT

activity: Write about a sad moment in your life with using the word "sad" or any other related word.
word count: 343
note: Revised on November 26, 2006.

My siblings and I were in our parents' bedroom when my mom accused my dad of adultery. My sister and I were huddled on the floor, backs pressing against the television cabinet. My brother was half-standing, half-crouching beside us. None of us could look at the bed, where my mother was seated, or at the dresser, where my father was. The door was closed, the lights were bright, the silence sliced open by my mom's harsh sobs. I remember thinking, in the back of my mind, This is the first time she ever cried like this. We shouldn't be here.

Dad wasn't a full pastor then, only a student at a seminary in Cavite. The woman my mom said he was cheating with was a deaconess at our local church who had trained me for a national bible quiz bee. To this day, I could never look at any woman with bright red lipstick and hennaed hair without seeing the deaconess's painted fingernails and that peculiar way she said my name.

The weeks that followed were hazy, preserved only in still-shot images—my mom, walking down the stairs accompanied by my brother—in my head. Every time my parents were in the same room, I would always feel this urge to get up and leave. They never talked to each other directly, relying on their children to rely important messages like, "It's dinner time. Come down and eat."

I can't recall where my father slept whenever he was home. He might never have went home at all.

Then, one day, it was all better. My parents were talking again, touching and hugging and being husband and wife again. It faded into a memory perceptible only in the very few times the deaconess was mentioned, if ever she was.

It may have been just me, a delusion conjured up by my brain to create drama where there was none. It was possible that none of this ever happened, but I have no way of knowing. No one in the family ever talks about it. I never dared.

sit in front of a typewriter and curse a bit.

Wed, 22 Nov 2006 03:51:34 GMT

I'd like to apologize in advance for this, and beg pardon of my readers. Fortunately, the poor condition of my neck prevents me from excessive navel-gazing, and hopefully the lint that I've picked, mounted and presented today will be a horrendous anomaly.

I wish I could write some new fiction. I've already got some pretty killer lines (to be modest), but they're just that. Lines. They haven't got lines before them, or lines after them. I've got a plot all laid out neatly in my head, but the actual writing bit eludes me. I'm a really lazy writer, and yes, it's true what I say about only having the energy to write pieces every few months or so. And short pieces, at that. I want to try my hand at writing a novel, but I know it's an impossibilty, seeing as I'm not a novelist, like that guy in Haruki Murakami's after the quake. He can't seem to write anything longer than a short story, and I guess I'm the same way. My stories are like windows—they catch glimpses of things, and when you look back out through them, the view's already changed. I can't cling to a single plotline for very long. It always writhes in my hand like a living thing, like it knows that I believe that there isn't an ending for everything. (It reminds me of a line I liked from this story I read: Love is knowing that love doesn't have a happy ending, because love has no ending at all.) Whenever I finish something, the first thing that comes to my mind is, "What's next? What happens after the hero and heroine (or two heroes or two heroines) ride off into the sunset hand in hand?" And my brain works overtime thinking about the countless possibilities and I get tired of that and just stop. Because thinking about what's next will lead to thinking about what's after that and pretty soon I'm sick and tired of thinking.

The old writing mantra is, "Write what you know." I'd like to believe in that, but experience tells me otherwise. When I'm with people I know, I'm weird and pithy and just the slightest bit condescending, and I like to talk shit about a lot of things and conversations with me are odd because I go off into tangents and don't pay much attention. I'm also cynical, sarcastic, rude and innuendo-riffic. But my writings are dreamy, melancholy, almost poetic and it horrifies me, because a part of me wants to write edgy, rough things, cyberpunk and street and grit, but all that comes out are these emo-ish sentences and killer tragic last lines in stories about unrequited love and subtext. Sometimes I'm a bit Wodehouse-ian in turns of phrase, and it also horrifies me a bit because I'm Filipino, why the hell am I writing like I'm some godforsaken British dandy? I'll never be a successful writer because I don't write like the way I want to write, but instead write in a way that completely perplexes me, but delights me all the same.

Sometimes, most of the time, I feel like I'm not really a writer at all. I can string together words and sentences and paragraphs and knot them with punctuation marks, but anyone can do that. I feel like I'm pretending, like a child wearing adult clothes as if they could somehow be proof against the harshness of the world. I don't think that what I have is a gift that should be carefully nurtured until it blossoms into something special and unique, a butterfly emerging with brilliant powder wings and shaky limbs. Sometimes I feel like it's so much better if I don't write, as if by forcing the vague flutters in my head into solidity and shape I am cheapening my ideas. Everything I've written down becomes a lie, because my intention was never to ignore the real world outside in favor of admiring the painted shadows inside.

resource-alicious!

Mon, 13 Nov 2006 09:43:13 GMT

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