After the rain By Inno

Feel the frosty wind embraced essence

Gasp the breezy murmur of leafy presence

Then witness the empty, warm sense

To grip with nature’s license

Heed the tone of rain drops

For you to hear, to unwind to the top

And reach the blue-gloomy horizon

With its uppermost serene reason

Dawn hanging golden

To blanket the dimness of a whole long day

And take the lane all the way

Soaring the sky once and again 

The Anatomy of Deception by Telle

It is quite funny--o tragic to say the least-- to think that we are a race that inherited kids. Your forefathers believe in this and their forefathers believe in that and eventually, those beliefs will be forced on you, eventually making you the next victim. So much for living in a free and democratic system! Well, he you look at it, some of the lies-- half-baked or fully orchestrated--became other people's truth; it is much like saying one person's trash is another person's treasure. Because truth, the face value of truth can be considered as wealth to most people. It is what defines integrity-- after all, a concept is just a version of another concept, depending on how it is used, depending on intension.

Forces have two poles, as it was inculcated to us: the positive and negative, the light and the dark, the evil and good. We are too inclined to grouping concepts according to these opposing poles. Actually, it is not about thinking that all concepts can be justified by being labelled either of the two. If we look at reality, we are caught between impetus of intentions; we are being manipulated by the appearance of reality. When we look down with contempt on our fellow human being because they sinned differently from us, we think that our religious side is being justified, rendering us holier than thou. Well, that is how some fabricated lies are formed into a shadow of veracity. Too pathetic if I dare say so myself.

We are beings who accept what is served before us; we do not contemplate on it. One thought, one's conforming would become a culture; culture, more often than not, is not refuted. The precepts are accepted without our consenting on its relevance. We merely accept. I remember something I read: one would come up to the conclusion that one plus one is equal to two, another would accept that truth without even asking questions and will compel to other that, indeed, one plus one is equal to two. A teacher told me to give reasons a benefit of doubt. And doubting presupposes awareness. You cannot doubt something if you are not aware that it is wrong. Then, if so, why did one plus one become two? What we know or grew up in becomes our general truth. We fear to question it lest we would be labelled haters of mankind. Being human requires being able to accept. No? This is far better: being human requires being able to doubt. We have to learn to set a standard for ourselves. We live in the shadows of others. We accept things as they are. Come to think of it, do we still think? Is Rene Descartes justified when he said cogito ergo sum-- I live therefore I exist? Again, the glint of awareness is cast upon a shadow of doubt. We may think that we think but never thought that other people made up think that we do think. It is the greatest deception of all: to believe in something a system has fabricated.

On the other hand, I am not contesting that the mundane world-- with all its flaws and glories-- is a system of fabricated lies. We should only be aware that the truth, a harmless little fly, may be caught up in its convoluted web and be gobbled up by a manipulating spider.

Our culture is dominantly an "I-command-you-to-do-this" kind of culture. We just listen to what we are commanded; and the silent orders-culture, that is--are composed of orders we are not questioning. Transgressing these unwritten laws would bring forth shame, hence, a shame-oriented culture controls our every note. Again, the benefit of doubt. We are in the position to question established norms. As I said: we live in a society that tells us all transgression is a sin. Something sinister. It contains us, thus, we fear to question. We fear to go against the flow. Cynicism has no place in us all. Why--for our self-preservation's sake-- consider everything a lie then prove what is real in the process.

Our agnostism is not a way of life but a concrete evidence that we seek the truth. If we doubt, we give ourselves a free gift of finding out the best way to live life. It should not be subjected to a lie or deception made for the benefit of others. We need to think. Acceptance is utter surrender to something. This generation is led into a compulsion so great, no one ever dared question it. If we stand our ground to see what is beyond the veil of subterfuge. Maybe then, a new revolution would befall. Let up open our minds to the veracity of our existence; it is our right. A right long taken from up by the self-proclaimed gods and masters.

The Servant's Whisper by Enma

I am loyal

 that's what he thinks

for what he says I follow

for what he thinks I please

'cause someday I know he'll be finished

i serve my whole life for him

for i am already dead

but breathing

i wasted my time for the person

who ruined my whole life

i protect

i care

for the man I HATE

I smile

i thank for my worst nightmare

'cause HE is my MASTER

and

i am his SLAVE

I'd always taught him

things i don't want to learn

i'm always with him

not for the concern

 but the reason

i know

soon

i will kill him

i will kill every person

who's against him

i'd always kept him safe

the man who took my everything

i put my love to him

'cause i know someday

he will bend his own knee in front of me

i'll always be at his side down to his last breath

 seeing my sword and him both bleeding

and before he closed

his eyes forever kept him asleep

 i'm going to tell him a bedtime story

 'bout a young boy

crying beside

his bloodless parents

SWEARING TO TAKE REVENGE. . .

Ride the Wings of Redemption by Telle

·        
She is a dove trying to conquer the sky.
Her nest the icy cold of earth's embrace.
The light of autumn wishes her flight well.
But she wanted to stop the worthy race.

Against herself.
Her eyes are the loneliest star gracing the sky.
Against herself.
Her wings a pair frail to spread and fly.

She cast all doubts to the sky, forming clouds.
Just to fly into them, a growing pain.
If it'd fall like rain, her nest would not warm her.
Perhaps the life she has is ashes to remain.

Her wings are broken from the fall.
If I have the chance I'd come to the rescue.
And restore this winged creature of tears and broken hopes.
Now I know just what to do.

I became the nest to give her the embrace.
The light of autumn to guide her flight.
Look into her starry eyes to know who she is.
And tell her to fly she has the right.

A thousand miles she thought she could never cover.
For hesitation holds her mending wings.
The wind of life shall blow to stop her.
But if again she falls, on the ground I'll be waiting.

This is redemption beyond flight.
Her savior stands aground.
Behind the broken wings there's purity.
Beating for life for her I found.

Manipulasyon ng Utak ni Telle

• ·  

  
  Ikaw na nag
  
  ma ni
  pula
  
  ng
  sali
  ta
  u(pang)
  dima
  ka pag
  dala ng
  kahu
  
  lu
  gan.

  
  

The Ultimate blasphemy By Telle

Neither God nor Satan

Created this world

and held the power

after gold

Some people would think that equating God with Satan is sure blasphemy. But how about the blasphemy that can be done in poetry? Poetry is most of the time figurative, so accusing the author of trying to be literal in a verse is a stereotype we must get away from. They suffer from censorship pure and simple. If the majority tries to tell the poet to change the verse because it does not suit their 'religious' or philosophical taste, they are violating the author's freedom-- much like holding press captive. If the poet have in to the whim of the majority, he becomes a sell out to them. Yes, he may gain fame, but in the end, he sacrifices his convictions and principle. Fame is just a question of being favorable.

When a writer finds himself in a dilemma, he is caught between himself and the collective. Choosing the collective is like deciding to do business with them. But no learning is achieved when we, the writers, say yes to the collective. If we sell ideas to them, the reactions would be a yes, no and 'wait, that's something else'. There is no growth on the side of the reader when he says yes. They already know those things so they would not bother to scrutinize the idea: but still, other mainstream writers offer mainstream ideas to keep their names 'mainstream'. That is the anatomy of being a sell out. A no, on the other hand, reflects only one thing and that is the passivity of the reader; his mind would not grasp the new idea. Perhaps, due to the shackle of mainstream market, he is preoccupied with the prevailing notions that is why he would not process new ones. The 'wait, that is something else' is an intellectual answer to the 'no' part. Because he scrutinized ideas, he would give time to examine a text, understand it, make it his own(or reject it) and in the end, the written words serve their purpose.

This is the case of the verse above mentioned. It suffered censorship from the religious bigots who think in literal terms. But try to examine the verse and a multitude of meaning will arise. First, the polarity of God and Satan may be questioned: no one equates God with the Devil. But what does the word God imply? Purity, justice, good, holiness and sanctity. But one can also draw implications such as restrictions and laws. God and all that He implies may draw a conclusion that in order to achieve freedom, one must be permitted to do something. On the other hand, Satan implies corruption, injustice, evil, vile and death. But he could also symbolize hedonism: a form of freedom. See the contrast? Restriction and freedom. Neither restriction nor freedom creates this world because they both shape all the affairs that make man move. And to achieve the power to grant freedom, one must have gold: treasure. No power in this world is not shaped by gold. But this is just my take; let the purity of its meaning solely to its author and the interpretation to the wise reader. Most especially to the reader whose mind dictates his yes, no and 'wait, it is something else'.

The reader's reaction upon a text reflects his intellectual level and understanding. Acceptance of words in literal level is a proof that a man does his thinking in a shallow way; preferring God and Satan to be. . . Literally God and Satan. The metaphor fails to serve the purpose. Perhaps, ignorance is founded on two ideas: the absence of initiative to think and playing with words on literal level. The crime most of the time is not upon the writer but upon the reader. They become neither God nor Satan, preferring the passive way.

But on the part of the writer, being questioned is better than being accepted or rejected. He does his job well by stirring the mind of the reader, and he provokes a discussion. Again, this is the concept of 'wait! it is something else'. There is neither controversial nor questionable article, just people who could neither accept nor analyze something. They become gods in imposing their sets of right and wrong but at the same time, a satan to the writer.

The writer, in all his honest judgment and integrity must keep a firm feet upon his ground, or else, when the torrent of rain-- or the whim of the collective-- swept over him, he would be washed away. One more thing: only dead fish swim with the current.

poetic force: a contribution

Neither Nor

By Inno

Neither God nor Satan

Creates this elusive world

And holds power

After gold.

Neither heaven nor hell

Strengthened a thousand reason

To see the moon crying

And turn those tears into sand.

Neither Good nor Bad

Can explain the purity of innocence

And hang it on the silent crime

For them to break the fragile sound.

Neither white nor black

Can paint the flawless wind

And draw one sky

To clearly color the high above.

Broken Piano

By Inno

All I want is to play this music with you forever

And nothing’s dimmer to surrender

But I’m awake to the music that gives undefined sight

To hear the pain under the night.

Farewell my friend

For you are the greatest song ever played

Like an angel wh’s watching me

And lead this heart of mine

To the path of your glorious dream

There’s a broken piano between us

And key to unlock our broken heart

For us to hear the tune of love

And fell the purity of kindness

Just between you and me

Who gave this music of time?

And sang “goodbye to the lonely me”–

Its end to our souls.

The Blood: last drop

By Vie

In the child’s eye of innocence

Witnesses the reign of fire

Bombs exploded, bombs everywhere

People screaming for help

They’re fighting for what they think is right

Even taking away one’s life

Not afraid of holding guns

Lifeless body anywhere

River of blood flows like water

Houses burning, hopes burning

Hands trying to reach for peace

Sweet laughter would never be heard

Does it have an ending

Or it would last till theblood last drop

Blue sky would never be seen.

Even light shines red in morning

The Black Rose (A symphonic Gothic Romance) by Telle

Along the path of roses black as night,
walked beauty, her beauty and things despite.
I'll hold your hand forevermore, my love.
Your lovely promise, etched at heart, I have.

Walking, approaching she’s to the oaken door,
I would hold her hand so she would not scour.
For if I lost all grip, grasp to reality,
the tears in my eyes would bring forth clarity.

She is a black rose; she is my black rose.

I held the black rose in my hand.

Piercing, it’s thorn bury itself into my veins.

Bleeding, still am bleeding I hold

‘Cause the better future for us’d unfold.

She is a black rose; she is my black rose.

Open the door, cathedral benighted.
To the altar she walked, my heart swayed.
I look at my beautiful, damned bethroted.
The dark sky, though childish, black God painted.

Walking, approaching, to the oaken altars,
She looked at me waiting, i forced a smile.
For if I unveil the frown: times to come,
"I love you" (a curse) would not be worthwhile.

I held the black rose in my hand.
Piercing lovingly, its thorn I would kiss.
For if I sleep for a second,
a precious, ever, moment I would miss.

She is a black rose; she is my black rose.

This
wedding
is not
meant to be
this black hearts
ne'er meet
eternity.

Stained glass and crucifix.
Black candles and its light.
Spectators all gaping,
saying "this isn't right."
for darkness and darkness
Shall not bring for light,
only heartache and tears
and all that, evil, might.
The priest would not bless
nor read a line from the Script.
He would not let this lest
to hell he'd too weep
tears fall from her eyes
i too would weep soon.
I plead bless this wedding
under the bleeding moon.

So, along the aisle of tears and heartache,

Beauty and tears are about to be wedd’d.

If I hold your hand me you’d ne’er let go:

I’d run away to save what you bestow’d.

I'm running out of the oaken door.
i'll save my black rose from being crumpled.
For this love so strong would and will save her,
Even tho both our worlds to the ground crumbled.

I let go of th’rose from my hand.
Musing, I walked to a crystalline lake.
The shining red moon guides the land
even tho mine would break.

Like Narcissus i look.
to the water, shimmering,
I’m sitting there for hours
merely contemplating.
For before me, reflected
as tho it were to mock
i too am a she
a weeping rose black.

Raven-black Tree By Telle

It was a tree that stood in solitude atop a hill where silence in form of gray mist hang; the fog seemed to carry all the cries the whole human race had let out: it was a cold and desolate cloud enshrouding a one-tree hill. No other life was to be found there. The grass that struggled to raise its fingers to the sky was impeded and killed at the moment of their conception by an unknown force. The tree stood like a victor as it cast a deathly shadow upon the sterile hill. The tree itself, towering is if it wanted to reach the sky, was as black as night. It was a skeleton of a time long past. A monument of a glorious and chthonic part. But it stood, as persistent as the red moon that guarded it at night, as if it was pointing its fingers accusingly to the sky. It was like a cross to mark someone else's grave. The wind was persistent in its journey toward the unknown. Had the tree--lonely and alone--been clothed with leaves, it would have swayed to the cadence of the mountain's breath. But it did not have leaves to begin with. The only thing that swayed on that dead tree was a noose. The rope was tied to the seemingly strongest branch, its end formed to serve as the most grin of all execution device. The cold symphony of the misty wind was the only mark to indicate that time was still affecting the quiet hill.

Through the mist, a young girl as comely as a blooming rose was passing. The countenance conveyed the purity of her heart. She was a small girl for her age. The face, framed by a neatly cut hair the color of the blackest night, was a canvass for the curious and intelligent eyes, a small nose and a mouth that held all the inertia of mystery and pulchritude. She was known for her mildness, her fragility and curiosity. A typical young lady who would partake on a caucus around a camp fire. Well, she was, in her own way, a girl around a camp fire.

She eventually saw the foreboding that was the raven-black tree. At first, the tree was, for her, a crack upon the white mist, a rift upon the sky. But as her steps progressed, as she approached, the place was revealed to her. It was indeed a funereal tree of whose grave she did not know. She knew of the infamy the tree had. She grew up with the people who feared it. Why? Why would they fear it? It was just a dead chunk of wood! She did not fear the tree. The girl who made the place a temporary refuge came back there again and again. It was always misty whenever she came. She felt hidden from the rest of the world. She would sit on its roots and contemplate on the tree's being there for hours on end. She would look at the noose and wondered who would have used it to kill himself. The question would always taunt her, interest her to no avail. She would also wonder why the townspeople would let the lifeless tree alone. As it was. Don't they care? Was she the only one who had the liberty to ask questions? To--as the other people would say--blaspheme? She would ask her mother what that tree was doing there. Why it was feared. The old lady would scold her for being inquisitive and admonish her. She would be told to drop the matter off. And never to go there anymore. She became silent but the questions remained. The girl asked other townspeople, creating theories as she went on. Maybe someone who was in despair committed suicide there. But upon telling them what she was doing there, they would tell her, just like what her mother told her, to never return to that place again. The raven-black tree was cursed. It would drive her insane, or kill her, if she would keep on going there. This remark made a big impression on her; this only strengthened her desire to go back. Nothing could stop her, even the ghastliness of the place. Even the cloudy foreboding that descended and eventually veiled the place. The tree standing in the middle of that hill became a symbol of her inquiry.

The town wherein she lived was never to prosper; it was, as the old fellows said, the curse of the raven tree. Why? Again, she was not told. She was only forbidden to utter anything concerning the tree; otherwise another curse upon them should befall. The history of that malefaction, the tree, the one who committed suicide there would not be disclosed. It would remain a mystery. They just believed that via tree was powerful to cast a curse of perdition upon its blasphemer. No words were uttered against the infamous tree. Upon observing those she asked, she noticed that they conveyed ad nauseum a kind of reverence upon the tree. The tree with its concealed part was left alone amid the fog. No one ever dared to go there.

When night fell, the villagers shut their houses tightly lest something--a progeny of darkness, they reckoned--would enter the house and kill them all; the practice was reminiscent of Egypt back in the Mosaic times. The wind would blow and shake the roofs of windows slightly. Fear was with them as they suppered and eventually went to sleep. The girl did not share the prevailing atmosphere. In fact, she was growing more curious. If given a chance she would open a door or a window, to have a peek outside.

That morning, she decided once more to visit the forlorn place. She touched the dead bark, feeling its roughness; it made her skin infantile in comparison. Her touch lowered until it reached a cavity. Something was telling her to plunge her hand into that hole. And she did. Her trembling hand explored the hole. She was like an inexperienced spelunker in search of a hidden treasure. She jerked her hand to the other direction. Nothing. To the other direction. Noth-- she gasped. There was something that greeted her skin; it was like a smite of a cold air from another world. She grasped the object and extracted it from the hole: a leather-bound pocketbook. The wind, with its symphony, continued to blow, swaying the noose and her hair frantically. The mist-veiled hill seemed to warn her against opening the book. She remained standing on the foot of the dead tree; she was deciding whether to unravel the book's content or let it be. She opened it.

The book's content was let out like a dam breaking before her eyes. It answered all the questions she was shouldering: about the tree, the noose, the past, the fear. In her mind was the fog dispersing. According to the book, there was once a witch whose description was not given-- she had to rely on the stereotypical appearance of one-- who disseminated fear upon the village. The witch was a one-woman army victorious upon her mission. The villagers lived in fear for far too long. No one rose to defy the supernatural ability of the said scoundrel. It was an irrational fear deemed rational by irrationality. Man fears death: this the witch used to manipulate the village people. But one man stood up to end that reign of darkness; he persuaded the others to rise up and end this crow-black tyranny. It was strength in number against a demonic art. They vanquished the evil incarnate and hanged her on that tall tree; but before the execution occurred, the old witch cast a curse upon the row of pitchfork and torch: the rustic place would be relentlessly beaten by storms every now and then, the fog would haunt them like the howling of wolves, a specter would fly every night in search of human flesh, and the utterance of her story would bring a curse. The tree that once bore leaves died when the witch's breath of life left her. It was a nightmare to remember. It was a nightmare to forget.

It was a legend according to the book; it was a myth studded with sheer mendacity and exaggerated by fear. It was a hearsay nevertheless. A gossip opted to be believed by people who could not think for and by themselves. The shame! she thought. Evidences gathered by the writer of that book led to the contradiction of such an absurd tale. At the tree she looked. In her eyes grew indignation-- a righteous anger for her townsfolks. She cursed the tree for bringing fear to her fellow townspeople. Now, the time had come to liberate them from such foolishness. With that book in her hands, she strongly believed that that naïve people would take her word.

She ran swiftly towards town; her feet were given a surge of juvenile energy to fulfill a task. Through the sulky vapor and fields of leaflers trees she darted. Liberation was tightly clasp upon her hand, and she wanted to impart that freedom she had found to the folklore-chained dwellers of that dismal town. When she reached the town, she screamed despite her gasping for air: "All that you believed in all your life is a lie! It's all a lie! You're just deceiving yourselves!"

They stopped walking, talking and working. Their collective and scrutinizing eyes were focused upon the young girl. Each and all eyes wondering. An old man approached her, his eyes although softly alarmed was inquisitive. "What's the problem, child?" His hoarse voice blared through the fog. That kid he recognized was the daughter of the weaver; he knew that the child was a gentle soul. He saw her eyes: eager, naïve but inquisitive.

"The hill. . . The tree!" And all the words of veracity poured out from her mouth. She narrated with vigor the story behind the accursed tree, unravelled the truth about the fear that consumed them all; the fear that they devoutedly regarded. The urgency was in her voice. The need to free her fellow villagers overflowing.

But as she related her tale, the anger in the old man's face began to form and rise. He was horrified. Enraged. He seized the young girl by the hand, shook it and shouted at her. "What did you-- Do you know what you've done?!?!"

Incredulous, she looked at the old man shaking her. When she recovered, she tried shaking herself from the man's tenacious grasp. But her efforts to tear herself from the old man's grip was in vain. The man continued his harassing, his asking, but she did not want-- and ultimately could not-- answer the questions. Slowly, like the cold embracing the land, her heart was gripped with fear. Tears welled from her comely eyes-- eyes that could magnify the most minute of all her emotions.

"What have you done, you foolish child! Do you know?! Do you--"

At last, with a vicious heave, she managed to free herself from the man's anger. Her mind was as misty as the frigid air; she could not think. Fear and confusion overwhelmed her. What did I do wrong? this echoed in her mind. What? The backward step she made was an initiative to find and retreat to an unknown comfort. She must run! She must hide! What did I do wrong? With all the strength she could muster, she looked at the face of the old man; she realized that that one countenance was also the collective faces of all those who dwell in fear. Dwellers of the shadow. She became the object of humiliation. The ignominy incarnate about to sentenced of being banished. She must run! She must hide! The hand was about to get her again. She felt as though it were a snake about to bite her. She must run. She must hide. Mustering all the feminine and childlike strength left in her she scrambled once again through the mist towards the veiled comfort of the cold.

---

The wind blew harder. The fog seemed to grow thicker and more dismal than ever before. The sun seemed to have betrayed them. But the curse had not befallen yet. However, despite this, some people talked about its impending arrival. They feared, and the fear was enough to drive them crazy.

"It was always like this. We would like peacefully without any worries as long as we consecrate the tree until a girl with a preposterous idea would come to distort our way of living," that same old man said..

"I know. I'd rather obey the tradition than to risk my neck saying something wretched about it." One would say. "Besides, the tree has taken many lives. If it couldn't be attributed to it, I don't know what is."

·         They were afraid that via more "innocent" minds would be affected by the discovery. They were afraid that all the things they know, all the things they believed in--all the things they reverently feared-- would be questioned and ultimately alter their their ways of life. They feared the tree and dared not to go near it. As long as the wolves howled at the moon-- wishing for its lunar guidance-- they would believe that it was the voice of the tree. As long as the nocturnal rustles and noises existed when darkness fell, they would believe that they were the witchcraft of the tree. As long as the fog hang ominously, they would think that chaos would stretch its arms and wipe them off the face of the earth with the most sickening notion of pestilence. The dusk would come with the darkness it conceives and the dawn and the light with which it deceives, and between those two they would live in false fear forevermore. The girl saw all of these and more. She was an anathema from that point on. A blasphemer to a persistent belief. A victim of traditions. But on the other hand, she liberated herself from the curse of the raven-black tree. With no second thought, she poured the gasoline on its roots and struck a match. The fire, which the thickest of damp mist could not fight off, rose to the sky. The fingers that accusingly pointed to heaven was devoured by flames of fire.

Yes. It "was" a tree that stood in solitude atop a hill where silence in form of gray mist hang. The fog that seemed to carry all the cries of the whole human race had let out rose with the smoke of a once infamous tree that scared a whole village-worth of fools.

Malamig ang Gabi

ni Kapitan

Hindi ko na maalala kung kailan naming huling naranasang ibili ng mga bagong damit at kumain ng masasarap ng pagkain. Ewan ko ba. Simula kasi nang magkasakit si Ina ay tila isinumpa na rin namin ang araw ng Pasko.

Malamig ang gabi. Nanunuot sa aking katawan, bumabalot sa marumi't magalos kong balat. Naglalakad ako pauwi sa aming munting tahanan, at kahit saan ako tumitig ay dinuduling ako ng iba't-ibang ilaw at kulay. "Pasko nga nga! Pasko na naman!" Ilang hakbang pa at sa wakas nailapat ko na rin ang pagal kong katawan sa matigas na papag na dahil sa katagala'y binubukbok na yata. Minumuni-muni ang isa na namang araw ng pakikipaglaban sa buhay. Sadyang napakahirap makipaghabulan sa mga rumaragasang sasakyan, ang humawak ng lata at umupo sa tapat ng. . . Ang masakit pa, hindi ka na nga bibigyan, duduraan ka pa.

Ipinikit ko ang aking mga mata, nagbabakasakali na lumaya sa payak na mundo, mundong mabaho, sa pagiging alipin ng pagdarahop. Nang bigla akong bulahawin ng sunud-sunod na dalahit ng ubo ni Ina.

Matagal na panahong inalipin siya at ibinilanggo ng kanyang karamdaman. Lima ang kanyang supling at ako bilang panganay ang siyang pumapasan ng lahat ng pasakit. Walang pormal na edukasyon kung kaya't nananatiling bansot kundi man mangmang ang kaisipan. Mapalad na kung makumpleto ang tatlong beses na pagkain sa isang araw na kadalasa'y nauuwi na lamang sa paglunok ng laway, nakakasulasok na rin para sa akin ang amoy ng imburnal at kanal, kung minsan halos kapitbahay na rin yata namin. Ang ingay ng mga iskwater na kinamulatan ko na o mas tamang sabihing kakambal ko na yata. Ahhh. . . Kung buhay lamang si Ama! Kung buhay lamang si. . . "Kuya! Gutom na kami!" malamig ang dating ng bahaw na tinig na iyon. "Tiis muna, Toto, Junjun, tulog muna ulit at paggising n'yo, pramis, kakain na tayo."

Lagi na lamang bang ganito ang isasagot ko? Bakit ba ganito? Sa kabila ng mga pagpapahirap namin, ni minsan ay 'di pa kami nakakaranas ng ginhawa. Nakakatawa, tuwing Pasko lamang kami nakakabawi, kasi halos magkakapatid na kaming nangangaroling at pumipila sa madre. Pero ngayon, sa hirap ng buhay, tila malabo pang makakain ng sarsa ng sardinas. Papaano ba naman ang hina ng kita (pasensiya na, sawa na kasi ako sa salitang "limos"). Malapit na naman ang bertdey ko. Habang abala ang lahat sa paghahanda, pamimili at kung anu-ano pa, kami nama'y tila mga dagang naghihintay ng patak na kahit na mumo lamang ng keso. Nakakainggit ang mga magagarang damit na suot habang kami nama'y tila basahang nangagkalat sa lansangan. Katulad ngayon, mamaya lamang ay hapunan na naman pero ang barya sa sisidlan kong lata ay mabibilang mo pa rin. Ano'ng kakainin namin? Si inay, anong gamot ang iinumin niya? Pwede bang maglaga na lamang ulit ako ng tubig at lagyan ng kaunting asin at siyang ipainom muli? Ahhh! . . . Ganito ba talaga? Bakit ganoon? Hindi naman ako nagkulang sa dasal. Hindi naman kami nakakalimot na magkakapatid na magsimba. Katunayan, pagkatapos na pagkatapos naming umalis sa puwesto ay dumidiretso na kami sa simbahan, kahit pa sabihing nagtatakip ng ilong ang mga nasa loob ng simbahan kapag kami'y dumaraan. Bakit ganoon? Sabi nila, kumatok ka't ika'y pagbubuksan, humingi ka at ika'y pagbibigyan. Pero, bakit halos ipagduldulan na namin ang aming mga sarili ay ganoon at ganoon pa rin? Mabuti pa kaya'y gisingin ko na ang mga mahal ko sa buhay upang aming pagsaluhan ang aking inihandang kaning bahaw at tatlong piraso ng tuyo na malamig pa yata sa ilong ng pusa.

 Pumasok ako sa kabilang kuwarto upang gisingin sina Toto, nang makita ko silang namimighati. "Kuya, ayaw magsalita ni Inay, ayaw din niyang gumising. Bakit kaya?" tanong ni Junjun na talagang wala pang muwang sa mundo. Malamig na pawis ang yumakap sa aking katawan na tila yelong bumabalot sa aking puso, ang tibok nito ay palakas ng palakas. Nilapitan ko si Ina upang hindi kawasa'y malaman lamang na . . . Ahhh. . . Gusto kong sumigaw! Umagos ang luha't pawis sa aking pisngi. Pinigil ang damdaming halos sumabog sa matagal nang pagtitimpi. Iisa lamang ang aking nabanggit, "Inay, malamig ang gabi."

Aling Taseng

Ni Kapitan

Sino ba naman sa aming lugar ang hindi makakakilala kay Aling Taseng? Sa pangalan pa lang marami ng bagay ang maiisip sa kaniya, lalo na kapag nakilala mo na siya. Si Aling Taseng ay hindi madaling magustuhan. Kung sakali't may magukol sa kanya ng una at mahabang tingin, iyon ay upang basahin lamang ang iba pa niyang kapintasan. Ang kanyang buhok ay gupit-lalaki at matigas pa sa walis tambo tuwing madadampian. Ang kaniyang katawan na doble ang laki sa kanyang asawang hikain. Maligasgas ang kanyang kutis (kahit sa tingin lang). 'Pag siya ay tumawa ang madilaw na ngipin ay katunayan na hindi ito nakakakilala ng sipilyo. Habang tumatagal ang pakikipag-usap sa kanya'y lalo lamang nadaragdagan ang kanyang kapintasan, kaya bihira ko siyang tingnan at iniiwasan kong kausapin.

Naging kapit-bahay namin si Aling Taseng sa loob ng isang taon at kalahati. Gayon din katagal na naudlot ang gana ko sa pagsusulat. Sino ba namang makakasulat ng matino kung tulad niya ang kapit-bahay mo? Sa gitna ng aking malalim na konsentrasyon sa paghagilap ng mga ideya ay bigla siyang humikab ng pabuntong-hininga na hindi nagtatakip ng bibig, kaya't kitang-kita ang bibig na napipilas hanggan tainga. Naroon siya'y kumanta sa boses na parang binibiyak na kawayan, kung minsan nama'y magmumura, magdadabog o tatawa ng "tawang-mongoloid." Walang katiyakan na tahimik siya sa buong magdamag. Siya kaya'y baliw? Ewan ko, basta ang alam ko ay mababaliw ako sa pagbulabog niya sa aking inspirasyon.

 Madali lang hukayin ang katauhan at nakalipas ni Aling Taseng. Rapido kung siya ay mag-kwento (kahit tinatalikuran ng kakwentuhan). Siya ay isang Bikolanang hindi marunong bumasa at sumulat na nakipagsapalaran sa Maynila. Noong siya'y "teen-ager" pa, ang ganda niya noon. Sa katunayan, ipinakita niya ang larawan ng balingkinitang babae na talaga namang mala-Angel Locsin. Nakapag-asawa siya na kababayang maskulado (kalingkis niya sa larawan.)

na tulad niyang naghahanap din ng swerte. At tulad ng dapat asahan, silang mag-asawa ay nakaranas matulog sa bangketa pati na ang ilan sa pito nilang anak.

Hanggang si Maskulado ay naging tingting at si Angel Locsin ay tumaba sa hirap. Dalawang beses rin siyang nakulong, ayom na rin sa madulas niyang dila (dahil sa away, ano pa?). Kaya ng balibagin ang kanilang inuupahang bahay, nakatawa pa siya habang ini-interbyu ng mga tsismosa. "Magsasawa rin ang tadong iyon." Kusa niyang inilakas ang pagsasalita pagkat nagkataong kaumpok ng mga tsismosa ang suspek (kasabay ng "tawang-mongoloid"). "Sa Tondo! Pinapanood lamang namin ang mga nagbabarilan at nagsasaksakan," malakas pa niyang dugtong. Gigilitan daw niya ang duwag na ayaw lumaban ng harapan. Biglang naglaho sa umpukan ang suspek.

Nang gibain ang inuupahang bahay nina Aling Taseng, lihim akong nagdiwang. Inakala kong mabubunutan ako ng tinik sa lalamunan. Ngunit ng siya ay naluluhang nagpaalam sa akin, naramdaman kong may tila malaking tipak ng monay na nag-trapik sa aking "adam's apple." Sa unang pagkakataon, may nasilip akong kakaibang sangkap sa kanyang pagkatao. Kay laki ko palang hangal! Hindi ko agad napansin iyon, pagkat naging negatibo ako sa pagtingin sa kanya.

Tatlong buwan ang lumipas, isang tanghaling tirik ng Abril ay dumating si Aling Taseng. Malayo pa ay nanunuot na sa tainga ko ang kanyang boses na ipit at mataas ang tono. May bitbit siyang plastik na sako na nangangalahati ang laman. "Regalo ko sa inyo," pabirong sabi niya. Parang hindi ko narinig ang kanyang sinabi 'pagkat sinalpok ako ng singaw ng kanyang maasim na pawis. Mahigit dalawang kilometro ang kanyang nilakad maihatid lamang ang regalo.

Sa pagitan ng maingay na pagngasab ng biskotso na inihain namin sa kanya, si Aling Taseng ay nagsalaysay ng kanilang buhay sa bagong tirahan sa liblib na barangay. Sa pagitan ng kanyang "tawang-mongoloid" ay pinilit kong unawain ang kanyang malungkot na kwento. Nagtiis akong talsikan ng maliliit na piraso ng tinapay na nag-aalpas sa pagitan ng madidilaw na ngipin. Nagtiis ako pagkat bihirang makakita ng kausap na walang pagkukunwari sa sarili. Nagtiis ako, 'pagkat sa ilang sandali ng aming pag-uusap ay nakita ko ang katauhan at katapatan ng isang tagabukid na nagiging marahas at magaspang ang ugali dahil na rin sa karanasan at kagagawan ng kapwa.

Nang makaalis si Aling Taseng, sabay kong naramdaman ang pagkapahiya sa sarili at mumunting kutob ng budhi pagkat nagkamali ako sa una kong paghato sa kanya. Naging plastik ang aking pakikisama dahil lamang sa pagbulabog niya sa aking inspirasyon. Siya pala ay inspirasyon din.

Ang regalo ni Aling Taseng-- saging na saba at kamoteng kahoy. Walang golpe ika nga. Pero para sa akin tinitimbang ko ito sa halaga ng ginto, pagkat ang taong walang pagkukunwari ay bihira nang makita sa panahong ito.

Ang tatlo sa mga kwentong pag-ibig ni Telle

Isa Lang Namang Bracelet
ni telle

Hindi ako fan ng mga love story. Ewan ko kung bakit. Siguro nakakadiri lang kasi. Pero iba ang istoryang pag-ibig na ito nina girl at boy. Isang lab istori na walang kakornihan, ka-cheesy-han at kung anu-ano pang panlarawang related sa pagkain. Kung tutuusin, hindi nga ito maituturing na kwentong pag-ibig dahil hindi naman talaga sila. Hindi nga sila. Hindi mag-on ang dalawa. Hindi magboyfriend-girlfriend. Hindi rin nagkakaligawan.

Pwede nga natin sabihing isa itong kwento ng pagkakaibigan.

Kung gano'n nga, bakit nasabi ko pang love story ito? Ewan ko ulit. Baka pati ako gulatin ng dalawang ito.

Hindi sila tipikal na magkaibigan. Kung hihingin kasi ng pagkakataon, magbabangayan sila. Magtatalo tungkol sa mga maliliit na bagay hanggang sa magpatalo na itong si lalake. E di, okay! One point na ang bida nating babae. Pero kung gaano kabilis magsimula ang world war x (and let x be the number), ganito rin kabilis matapos ang gulo. Tama! Mairaos lang ang away. May mapagdebatehan lang. Ito na yata ang lambingan nila. Bangayan.

Pero matagal na silang magkaibigan. Seryoso! Matagal na talaga. Para lang silang mga batang nag-away, nagkaiyakan at pagkatapos, bati na uli. Sa ikinahaba-haba ng panahong magkakilala sila, away bata lang ang nangyayari.

Iyakin itong si girl. College na siya pero mababaw pa rin ang luha. Pero, 'wag ka! Hindi pa siya napapaiyak ni boy. Hindi ba ironic! Madalas magtalo pero hindi pa rin napapaiyak si girl.

Kaya siguro pwede na nating label-an itong . . . Um. . . Love story. Kahit wala pa yung elementong nagsasabing ganito nga ito: isang corny-free love story.

"E di kung ayaw mong maniwala, okay lang. Pake ko sa nararamdaman mo!"deklara ni boy. Palabas silang dalawa sa campus. Pauwi. At as usual, nagtatalo na naman sila tungkol sa mga walang kwentang bagay. "Basta isa yon sa limang 'wag pag-uusapan: yung edad!"

"Bakit? Kano ba tayo? Culture kaya ang nagdedetermine non. Sa atin okay lang." Saka sisingit ang kulog sa usapan nila.

"Actually nagiging magalang ka pa nga no'n, eh."

"Huh! Depende uli sa social status yan. Kung mahirap lang ang tao, wala yong pake sa edad pero ang nakakaangat, meron na."

"Edi, culture pa rin."

Saka pumatak ang ulan.

Patuloy pa rin sa pagtatalo ang dalawa. Walang gustong magpadaig. Wala ring makakapigil kahit na ang epaloids na ulan.

Pero hindi napansin ni girl na okay lang kay boy na mabasa basta maayos niyang napapayungan si girl.

As usual, late pumasok si boy. Sagana kasi sa internet hanggang madaling araw kaya thirty minutes late sa klase.

"Sorry po, ma'am. I'm late!" bulalas niya pagbukas ng pintuan. Mabuti na lang at may probisyon na siyang upuan mula kay girl, na si girl mismong ang kumuha. At ito ay laging katabi ng upuan niya.

"DoTA na naman? Lagi ka nang late tuloy," bulong ni girl na tama lang ang hina para marinig ni boy at hindi masagap ng praktisadong tenga ni instructor. "Try mo kayang matulog ng maaga."

"E di nagkasakit naman ako. Di na kaya ako sanay matulng nang maaga. Nasakit ulo ko."

"At ano?! Magrereklamo kang puyat! Tae mo!"

"Tae mo din!" ganti nito. Saka mamamantot ang usapan nila dahil sa palitan nila ng sweet nothings.

"May research ka?"

"Ano'ng research"

"Yung assignment natin dito, yung ideas ni Jean-Paul Sartre? 'wag mo sabihing nakalimutan mo; magdamag ka na sa computer."

Kamot-ulong sumagot si boy na nakalimutan niya. Tama! Magdamag na siyang babad sa liwanag ng DoTA at iba pang electronic means of mental masturbation, hindi niya naalala ang assignment. Walang halaga ang academic sa buhay niya. Pero napakamot pa rin siya ng ulo.

"'Yan! Ta'mo kung sino'ng tae." May kinuha siya mula sa envelope niya: isang naka-stapler na kaligtasan mula sa mapaghusgang mga mata ni Ma'am Cheapipay.

Bakit natutuwa siyang makita ang pangalang Jean-Paul Sartre na naka-times(new romans), font size x+y=z? Siguro dahil talagang ligtas na siya. Muli, ang pagkamot ng ulo sabay kuha sa plake ng pagkasalba. "Nag-abala ka pa. Magkano?"

"Wala."

"Tae ka! Magkano?"

"Wala nga. Kunin mo na. Magagalit ako sa'yo."

Pagkabanggit ng salitang galit, tumiklop na rin si boy. E, madalas naman silang mag-away, bakit kakatakutan pa niya ang galit nito. "Okay," ang pagsuko niya. "Marami na akong utang sa'yo." Kahit wala naman.

I-try nating ilarawan ang dalawang ito with as much precision as yours truly could muster para naman kahit papaano-- o depende sa bisa ng inyong lingkod maglarawan-- ay may imahe ang mga mahal kong mambabasa ang mga itsura ng mga tauhan sa kwentong ito ng pag-ibig na hindi nawa maging mamais.

Si girl ay isang maliit na tao, maliit para sa kanyang edad. Maraming nagsasabing maganda raw siya-- at 99.9% roon ay totoo sa kanilang tinuran. Maputi siya na may kaunting pula sa pisngi; para bang bago siya umalis ng bahay, kinukurot muna siya ng mga magulang niya, nakatatandang kapatid, lolo at lola o kunsinuman ang kaniyang pisngi dahil sobra silang naku-cute-an sa kanya-- kawawang bata dahil isang sumpa sa kaniya ang maging maliit at sobrang cute. Lagi nga siyang inaasa ni boy na kagagradweyt lang sa elementary. Gagantihan naman siya ni girl ng "NAGSALITA."

Tahimik lang siyang tao. Ang akala ng marami ay masungit siya dahil na rin sa mga mata niya. Hindi nila alam na baka siya pa ang nabu-bully-- kawawang bata dahil isang sumpa sa kanya ang maging maliit at sobrang cute. Pero sa kabutihang palad. Walang nagtangka na i-bully siya dahil na rin kay boy. Kinokonsidera ni boy na isang lucky charm si girl-- kawawang bata dahil isang sumpa sa kaniya ang maging maliit at sobrang cute.

Si boy! Isa siyang tipikal na binatang walang hinangad sa buhay kundi maghapong magmura sa harap ng DoTA, gumimik, makipagtalo tungkol sa mga philosophical na bagay at. . . Titigan si girl. Gaya ng tinuran, matagal na silang magkaibigan; isa itong pagkakaibigang tahimik na namukadkad mula sa dilig galing sa laway ng kanilang pagtatalo at tahimik na pagmamalasakit sa isa't-isa. Balewala sa kanila ang konsepto ng who-cares-even-the-care-bears-don't-fucking-care. Kaso hindi halata.

·          

o   
Nasa gitna silang dalawa ng dalawang klase ng init: ang init ng araw at init ng pagtatalo. Tulad ng dati, walang gustong magpadaig. Alam ng isa ng mas valid ang argument niya kaysa sa isa-- well, kung titingnan, di ba ganito naman talaga ang backbone ng isang debate? Kung may debate team sa school, malamang kasali ang dalawang ito; at mas malamang na lagi pang magkalaban.

Pero, biglang napatigil si girl nang mapatapat sila kay ate vendor na nagtitinda ng mga accesories. Ang mga mga mata niya ay nakatuon lamang sa isang bracelet. "Ang cute naman no'n."

"Alin?" Hinanap ni boy ang tinitingnan ni girl, na itinuro naman ng huli. "Ah, yun ba?" Tapos kay girl naman. "Gusto mo?"

"Oo. Cute nga, eh." Then, sa kasama niya siya tumingin. "Pero baka hindi kasya sa 'kin yan."

"Malamang," diin niya. "Ta'mo nga yang braso mo: gatingting na. Ang nipis-nipis mo."

"Wala na akong pag-asang lumake."-- kawawang bata dahil isang sumpa sa kanya ang maging maliit at. . .

'Sobrang cute,' naisip ni boy. "Ganyan ka na lang. 'Pag lumake ka pa batuk-batukan mo lang ako."

"Sa ugali mong yan? Malamang talaga sa hindi. Tara na. May assignment pa tayo."

'Ang cute naman ng magsyotang yon,' naisip ni ate vendor.

At yun nga! Nagpatuloy ang dalawa sa ilalim ng sikat ng dilaw at nang-aasar na araw. Habang ang init-- ang nakakapasong init-- ng pagtatalo nila ay nawala na sa kanilang mga isip. Nanatili naman sa utak ni boy ang larawan ng mumurahing bracelet.

·          

o    Dumaan ang mga araw kasama ng timba-timbang topics na pinag-awayan at pwede pa nilang pag-awayan; pati na rin ang mga gabing ginugol sa pagbabasa ng mga paperback novels at paglalaro ng DotA.

Foundation week ng school. Wow! Kaguluhan na naman ito! Tatlong venues ang pinagdausan ng mga events sa school: sa campus ground, sa basketball court at sa track and field.

Nag-iisip si boy. Ano kaya ang ibang mas magandang ibigay kay girl; yung klase ng bagay that would speak for itself. Pero parang nagdadalawang isip siya. Si girl kasi parang walang pakialam. Well, ito rin naman ang gusto niyang palabasin; na wala siyang pakialam.

Buong araw magkasama ang dalawa. Nood nito; nood niyan. Bili nito; bili niyan. Magbibigay ng random at-- ayon kay girl-- irrelevant na trivia si boy. Magpapakita ng pagdududa ang maliit na mukha ni girl. Ididiin ni boy ang gusto niyang sabihin at ganon pa rin: hindi maniniwala si girl.

"Alam mo, dapat hindi na nagse-celebrate ng foundation day ang school na ito. Wala namang nararating." Likas kay boy ang maging cynical kaya pati ang mahal nilang alma mater ay binibiktima niya.

Naglalakad sila paalis ng track and field. Ang mga stall doon ay inaayos na para ihanda ang isa pang event sa campus ground. Kulay dugo at halaya na ang kanluran; naalala tuloy ni girl ang kapitbahay nilang walang taste sa art dahil pinapinturahan nila ng kulay panghimagas ang dingding ng bahay nito. Pinangako niya sa sariling hindi niya uulitin ang pagkakamaling yon ng kapitbahay.

"You've got to start somewhere. Saka sabi sa kasabihan: hindi ka makakarating sa paroroonan kung di ka lumingon sa pinanggalingan. . . " ani girl.

Baliktad ang pagkakaayos ng mga salita ng kausap niya. "Eh, wala namang pupuntahan. Bobohan kaya diyan. Ta'mo! Hindi nga na-explain ni Ma'am Chipipay nang ayos yung Sartre's Ontology, eh."

"Alam mo masyado kang skeptical--"

"Cynical," correction niya.

"Cynical. Masyado kang cynical. Try mo kayang tingnan ang brighter side ng ibang tao."

"At ano? Magpakaboplaks dahil sa patae-tae nilang. . ."

·          

o    . . . nilang pinaggagagawa. . ."

At hindi ko na kelangang isulat pa ang natitirang 99% ng pagtatalo nila. Hayaan na nating ang outline ng pag-uusap nila ang mabasa ninyong mahal kong mambabasa. Hindi nga ba't ang buong buhay nila ay nakalaan sa pagtatalo; ito ang kanilang oxygen.

Nakarating sila sa campus nang ligtas at iisang piraso pa. Nakikita kasi ni girl na parang sasabog na sa inis si boy, e. Kaya hayun! Napilitan si girl na magbigay ng words of encouragement. . . na once in a blue moon lang kung ibigay niya.

Tumahimik naman si boy na parang umiiyak na sanggol na sinubuan ng dede ng ina nito. Well, kelang niyang makinig.

Ito rin ang isa sa mga time na gustong sabihin ni girl na 'aba, nakikinig ka pala' pero hindi na niya itinuloy. Nagtagumpay na siyang patahimikin ito, e.

Nagpatuloy ang gabi habang nanonood sila ng Mr. and Ms. Let x be the name of the school. Naisip ni boy na kung biniyayaan siguro si girl ng height, isasali niya ito sa nasabing event; pero sa ngayon, sa Little Miss Philippine lang ito papasa. Nakatingin siya sa maputing pisngi ng babae-- na colorful sa oras na yon dahil na rin sa mga ilaw. Nakatingin lang si boy. Kung tutuusin pala kaya niyang tiisin ang buong gabing ito na puno ng mga candidates na wautak ang mga sagot. May Little Miss Philippines naman sa tabi niya.

Inangat ni girl ang patpatin niyang braso para tingnan ang oras. Saka siya natigilan. "Kainis!" bulong niya. Saka siya tumayo mula. Yung tipong may isang nakakatakot na bagay siyang nadiskubre. . . Ganun!

"Bakit?" Si boy naman, concerned.

Tiningnan niya ang katabi. "Punta lang ako ng track." At wala nang kasunod pa, saka siya umalis.

Eh, alam niyang hindi dapat maglakad mag-isa ang babaeng yon dahil delikado. Isa pa, hindi nya kayang iwan ito. Kung gaano ito kaliit, ganon din kaliit ang katapangan nito. Kaya tumayo na rin siya at sumunod.

"Anong gagawin mo don?" tanong ni boy pagkahabol.

"May hahanapin ako."

"Cellphone mo? Nawala ba?" Tiningnan niya ang bangs nito na parang ni-ruler ng parlorista. . .

·          

o    . . .noong isang buwan. "Pabawasan mo yang bangs mo."

"Yang bangs mo pabawasan mo. Assymetrical."

"Oh? Symmetry is beauty? Tamo yung Leaning Tower of Piza, parang ikaw lang--" muntik na niyang masabing maganda kaya iniba niya. "Parang ikaw. Tagilid."

Madilim sa field. Salamat sa pakurap-kurap na ilaw na ibinibigay ng mga poste sa daan at ng mga kumukutikutitap na mga bituin, kahit papaano ay may liwanag. Kung katahimikan ang pag-uusapan, malabong magkaroon dahil sa ingay sa campus. Rinig nga nila ung sagot ng isang contestant, e. ". . . my pamily. . . My pamily. . . Dey was. . . " English sa perfect tagalog accent. Kung di dahil kay girl, malamang may na-trash talk na naman siya.

Salamat na lang at may flashlight ang cellphone ni girl. Teka! Eh, hayun ang cellphone nito, ah! Ano'ng nawawala?

"Uy! Ano ba'ng hinahanap mo?"

Hindi nakikinig si girl. Tuloy pa rin siya sa search and rescue operation niya. Baka hindi siya maabala nito. Dahil doon, bumalik ang isip niya ilang taon na'ng nakakaraan. Elementary siya noon. Mahiyain at mag-isa. At dahil na rin kulang sa height, madalas asarin. Siya kasi ang typical na batang masarap ibully. Tahimik na iiyak. Kawawang bata!

Pero may isang insidente siyang naaalala na kahit kailan ay hindi niya malilimutan. Ganito yan:

Characters: siya at ilang mga malalaki at uhuging bata.

Setting: sa canteen. Lunchbreak noon.

Plot: maghahanda na sanang kumain si Little Red Riding Hood nang bigla siyang cornerin ng mga batang amoy mangga't bagoong.

"Uy! Buuwit. Ano'ng ulam mo?" tanong ni kapitana.

Walang sagot si girl.

"Amin na lang!" Saka hinablot ng isa ang lunchbox niya.

Nagulat si liit pero first time na naging defiant. Nakipag-agawan siya. "Akina. . . Please. . ."

Ang iba naman nitong kasama ay nag-cheer. Ang iba, nakatanga.

Ngunit, di inaasahan, may lumipad sa mukha ni Jumbo Kapitana. Pansit palabok. Whooosh! Dahil doon, napabitaw siya at napaupo sa maruming tiles.

"Pucha! Sino'ng?"

Lumapit si boy. "Yan! Gusto mo'ng pagkain, di ba? Marami pa niyan. Sopas?"

Dahil doon,

·          

o    karipas ang tropa. Nanakot pang isusumbong nila ito kay ma'am.

"Thank you, ha." ani Liit.

"Thank you ka d'yan. Gusto ko ako'ng mambubully sa'yo."

Hindi niya malilimutan yon dahil simula non wala nang nang-away sa kaniya.

"Hoy! Ano ba'ng hinahanap mo?" ulit ni boy.

"Yung bracelet na bigay mo." at patuloy lang siyang nanuyod ng damuhan.

"Ha? E, isa lang namang bracelet yan. Bili ka na lang ng bago."

"Ayoko."

Buntong hininga lang ang ibinigay niya; mahirap talagang makipagtalo sa babaeng ito. Mahirap pilitin. Kung kutusan ko kaya ito. "Di ba nagrereklamo kang malabo na'ng mata mo? 'Pag di mo pa tinigil yan. . . "

Tumigil si girl sa paglingon-lingon at tiningnan niya si boy gamit ang mga 'vunerable' niyang mga mata. "Ayoko! Wala 'kong pake kung kelangan ko nang gumamit ng reading glasses. Nawala ung bracelet na bigay mo. Binigay mo sa'kin un, e. Importante kaya un! Ikaw nagbigay, e."

Saka papasok sa eksena yung slow motion at mute-all-sounds effect. Walang makapagsalita sa dalawa; pati ang tunog sa school ay nawala. Ito na yata ung moment na gustong mamoment ni boy: yung lagi niyang dine-daydream bago siya matulog. . . Sa gabi.

Parehong namula ang mga mukha nila.

. . . at ang hindi alam ni girl, ang bracelet na napamahal na sa kanya ay nahihimlay lamang sa kaniyang bulsa.

WAKAS.

Mula sa pasmadong panulat ni Malice. Istoryang hango sa hiling ni Juan Carlos y Un Favor de la Torre para kay Cristina Villa Mefenamic Acid. J

Dear (Pangalan Itinago)

                Paano ko ba masisimulan ito? Ganito. Alam mo kasi matagal na akong may pagtingin sayo. Simula pa noong nasa unang taong tayo ng kolehito. Hindi ko lang masabi sapagkat natatakot akong masira ang pagkakaibigang naipundar ng ating samahan.

                Mahal kita at gusto ko sanang­ –

                Shet! Ambaduy!

                Nilamukos ko ang papel na sinulatan ko at itinapon ito sa kung saan mang sulok ng aking kwarto. Doon nakita ni pobreng sulat ang iba pang mga katulad niya. Ganito ba talaga kahirap magsulat ng love letter? Eh, mas madali pang magsulat ng research paper kesa sulat-pag-ibig!

                Sumandal ako sa aking monoblock chair at tiningnan ang bintanang papasira na. doon, nakamasid ang sanga ng gumamela na para bang nag-aasar pa.

                Oo na. torpe na kung  torpe.

                Naalala ko ung status ko sa facebook:

                Siya ang laman ng isip ko sa aking paggising at ang ilusyon ko sa aking pagtulog… sinasabi ng isip ko na sabihin mo na kahit na nilalaban ito ng aking damdamin. Eh, paano kung umoo siya, r di mapupuno ang notebook mo ng mga kathang tila ba mga awitin. Masaya. Eh, paano kung hindi, masasaktan ka na naman.

                Ang laking problema, ano? Ma-i-in love ko lang naman. Yun na! ano bang mahirap doon? Kaing dali lang naman yon ng pagsasabi ng ‘ tsong, ampanget mo!’ Eh, bakit hindi ko pa magawa.

               

Nasobrahan ako sa pakikinig ng Funeral for a Friendkanina pag-alis ko sa bahay kaya  medyo emo pa ang disposisyon ko.

                Ipapakonsulta ko ang aking love letter kay HB(heartbroken) at GD(great depression)– si Hb ay tropa kong lalake. Medyo hindi sila magkasundo ng inamorata niya kaya down; si GD naman ay totally heartbroken kaya talagang malungkot siya despite her cheery disposition. At anong reaksyon nila? Napakibit-balikat lang si HB while grabe namang makatawa si GD. Magkamali ako. Diagnosis lang talaga ng nakamamatay na sakit ang hinihingan ng second at third opinion, hindi mga ganong bagay.

                ‘Akina nga yan!’ Hinablot ko ang papel sabay lakad paalis.

                ‘Hoy, kuya! Teka!’ Hirit pa ni HB.

                Nag-horns up lang ako kahit na inis na. Grrr… makakapatay ka! I’m feeling malice right now. 

                ‘Hoy! (Pangalan itinago).’– na-inspire ako doon sa pelikulang “Hello, Stranger” na hindi nila alam ang pangalan ng isa’t-isa kaya ganon din gagawin ko para may parehong effect– ‘Wala akong load kagabi kaya hindi kita na-reply-an. Saka si (Pangalan itinago) kasi at si (Pangalan itinago) inaway ako kagabi. Hindi na tuloy ako napapagload…’ At sisismulan na naman niya ang kaniyang kwento, bida ang mga taong wala akong idea kung sinu-sino.

                Ako naman nakinig lang. whoa! Ito na yung feeling ng tinatawag nilangso near yet so far. Nasa harapan mo lang ang taong gusto mo perop bestfriend lang ang tingin niya sayo. Haybohay!

                Pero, okay lang. tawa lang. ngiti lang. kahit hindi ako natatawa sa kwento niya, nakakatawa naman ang paraan niya ng pagkukuwento.

                Kapag namaos ka, pagtatawanan kita!

                ‘Ah, bago ko malimutan.’ May kinuha ako sa bag ko at pinukpok sa ulo niya: isang payong. ‘Inamag na sa bag ko.’

                ‘Hala, oo nga! Kaya pala hinahanap ko sa amin, di ko makita.’

                ‘Emo ka kasi kaya hindi mo makita,’ sabi ko.

                Lunchbreak, ito yung pagkakataongg ayaw kong makita si (Pangalan itinago). Ewan! Dahil ba sa so-near-yet-so-far na feeling? Baka. Pero okay na rin na dito muna ako sa canteen, makikipagkwentuhan kina, (Pangalan itinago), (Pangalan itinago), (Pangalan itinago) at (Pangalan itinago).

                Pero, kahit na sila ang kasama ko, bumabalik ang sulat na yon sa utak ko.

                Ang sulat! Wala na akong maisip na way para ibigay sa kanya un. Un na lang. sana lang mapansin niya. Sana lang…

                Gaya nga ng sabi o, matagal ko nang kilala si (Pangalan itinago). Pers jir (First year) pa kami, talagnag kami na ang magkasundo. Lumakas na lang ang feeling pagsapit ng terd jir.

                Hindi naman siay kagandahan– para sa akin– pero maraming natutuwa sa kaniya. Marami siyang prenship. Pero kaming dalawa lagi ang magkasama.

                Ako? Ako ang author ng short story na maikling ito kaya ako ang magsasabi kung ipapakilala ko pa ang sarili ko.

                In lababo ako sa kaniya, un na yon.

                Tuwing uwian, madalas din kaming magkasabay. Sakay ng jeep, magkatabi, magkukulitan… at sari-sari pa. dahil doon, inasar kami sa isa’t-isa, hindi naman nila alam na totoo yon. Bwahahahahahahaha…

                Pero, iba ang hapon na yon. Palihim kong inilagay sa  (bagay itinago) ang love letter ko. Ayoko namang makita ang reaksyon niya habang binabasa yon kaya umeskapo ako.

                Oo na. Handa na ako sa cosequence. Basted na kung basted! Sawi na kung sawi. HB at GD na kung HB at GD. Basta na-try.

                Hindi nga ba ang sabi nila…

                Ahm…

                Ano nga ba yung kasabihang yon?

                Shoot! I forgetfulness na.

                Basta! Un na un!

                Ang dilim ng langit. Wala akong payong. Hindi na naman ako makakatakbo pabalik kapag bumuhos na ang ulan. Kapag minalas ka nga, magkakasakit pa.

                Tapos, wala pang dumaraang jeep.

                Ang swerte!

                Kulog!

                Kulog!

                Kulog!

                Saka pumatak ang pandagdag malas na ulan. Hindi na niyan halata ang luha at ihi ko.

                Pero, biglang tumigil ang ulan.

                Hindi! Hindi un tumigil. Naliligo pa rin ang kalye, eh.

                Yun pala, pinapayungan na ako ni… nino? Ni… alam mo namang hindi ko sasabihin, di ba?

                ‘Daya! Iniwan ba akong mag-isa? Tas wala ka pang payong.’

                ‘Sorry agad. Akala ko dehins uulan, eh.’

                ‘eh, umulan. Talo ka. Wala kang payong.’

                ‘Oo na. may payong ka na,. hiyang-hiya naman ako, ‘no?’

                ‘May extra pa nga, eh.’

                ‘Huh?’

                ‘Ang corny mo. Mais lang kaya ang corny…’

                Oh, my gushiness!

‘Susunod naman sa bag ko na dapat nakalagay yung sulat, ha. Wag sa payong. Muntik na kaya maputikan.’

                Tumahimik ako. Feeling ko cherry bomb ang mukha ko. Sasabog na!!! hay, nakupowses!!! Sana sumabog na ako s kinatatayuan ko.

                ‘So, anong tingin mo?’ Saan ko nakuha ang strength ko o talk?

                Ngumiti lang siya. Yung lang. hanggang sa…

                ‘Wag muna tayong sasakay,’ ang sabi niya. ‘Malaki naman ‘tong payong.’

WAKAS

Ang alamat ng butong pakwan by Malice

Nagsimula ang lahat noong nag-umpisa silang asarin ako sa isang babaeng maituturing ko ngayong isa sa pinaka-astig na babaeng nakilala ko–si Ikay. Maganda, mabuti, outspoken… basta. Ako naman itong si hindi masyadong interesting na guy na laging aligaga sa mga bagay na wala namang kwenta. Ewan ko kung bakit nila ako itinutulak sa kanya. Wala naman sigurong malalim na dahilan. Trip lang. may magawa lang ang tropa. Pero, naiinis ako sa aking sarili dahil ako itong si tanga na nahulog dahil sa panunulak nila. PANALO! Nakakainis. Ngayon, hindi ko na alan ang gagawin.

                Pakiusap! Tulungan niyo naman ako, o!

                Dumaan ang mga araw at ang feelings ko na ito ay nag-ugat na ng malalim. Hindi na ito tatablan  ng bulldozer for sure. Stable na. ang tanging bagay na lang na peuwede kong gawin ay ang titigan siya mula sa malayo. Buwisit siya! Bakit ba naging balon pa siya?! Ayan yuloy! Nagkamali lang ako ng hakbang, nahulog na ako sa kaniya.

                Kung wala silang dahilan upang itulak nako, wala ring dahilan ang pagkahulog ko. Wala ring dahilan akong nakukuha para umahon pa. nahulog na ako. Yun yun, eh!

                Pero, may balak ba akong magtapat? Am… ewan. Wala? Basta! Takte! Mahirap kapag sa kaibigan ka nahulog. Tung feeling na kapag sinimulan ko, may mababago. Ayoko ng ganoon! Sanay na kasi akong lagi siyang kakuwentuhan at ang maganda pa, pareho kaming fan ng The Script. Sabay namin iyong kinakanta kahit asar siya sa boses ko. Eh, ano naman!? Ganito na tio, eh. Madalas naming mapikon yung rakista naming kuya-kuyahan sa office- si Kuya hardcore- ng aming publication dahil nga sa music namin. Astig! Kung makikita nyong mag-walk out si kuya.

                “Uy, guys, a-attend ba kayo ng Foundation ball?” tanong ng anak-anakan ko sa opisina. Oo, meron akong anak-anakan kahit hindi alam ng ina.

                Foundation Ball? Oo nga! Rumehistro sa utak ko ang senaryong ito: kasiyahan, hiyawan, party-party… a dance with her. Kakilig! Gusto ko yon! Pupunta ako kung pupunta siya.

                “Ikay, pupunta ka?” tanong ni Kuya hardcore sa kaniya. “punta ako kung pupunta kayo.”

                Kulang na lang ay i-cross ko ang daliri sa parehong kamay at paa para lang makita siyang pumayag. Gusto ko siyang makitang naka-dress, todo-ayos at to the highest level ang kagandahan. Yung tipong matutunaw ang lamang loob ko sa kilig.!

“oo. Sige. Punta ako,” tugon ni Ikay.

                Yes! Halos mapatalon ako. Mapasigaw. Pero pinigil ko. Baka makahalata. Ayokong ibuking ang aking sarili. Sa ball ko yon gagawin. Oo, magtatapat na ako.

                Dumating ang gabi. Tae! Kasi hindi ako masyadong nakapag-ayos. Buti pa yung iba kong kasama todo hataw. Para lang tuloy akong napadaan. Astig sila! May mukhang ahente ng lupa, may kampon ni Kamatayan dahil all black, may nagmukhang manika dahil ang cute, may kulang na lang ay kabaong… pero siya ang gusto kong makita.

                At, hayun nga! Hindi ako nabigo. Ang ganda niya! Takteng tae yan! Nakakakilig! (at hihiyaw ang puso ko ng ANG SWEAT!!!) para bang sabi ni Kuya Hardcore, sa sobrang kilig ko parang gusto kong manira ng gamit. Basta! Iba siya ngayong gabi.

                Kinailangan ko ang lahat ng lakas ng loob na nagkalat sa buong mundo para lang yayain siyang sumayaw. 

Yung kaba ko, grabe! Balak ko na rin kasing sabihin sa kanya. Dapat may masimulan ako para may matapos. Ayoko nang nai-stuck at walng progress. Kaya heto na, humigop ako ng tamang lakas ng loob, tumayo mula sa upuan at inabot ang kamay ko sa kaniya.

                At ang kantiyaw ng tropapips! Bahala sila, basta magawa ko lang ito ng tama, masaya na ako. Kahit mabigo, at least na-try.

                Imagine, yung pamumula ng mukha niya! Napahiya siguro. Ngunit, kinuha niya ang aking kamay and we headed to the dancefloor. Five munites of perfect stillness yon para sa akin. Tumigil ang oras. Pinanood ko lang ang pagtama ng spotlight sa buhok niya. Isang perpektong gabi sa perpektong kasayaw sa hindi masyadong perpektong musika. Puwede na yata akong mamatay bukas, kung matapos pa ang sayaw na ito nang buhay pa ako. Naalala ko ang tulang nabasa ko: may isa lang akong kahilingan, na sana kapag natapos na ang tugtog, sana hindi hindia ang ating sayaw. Sarap imagine-nin!

                Natapos ang musika. Inokupa ko ang silyang nireserba ng kapatid-kapatiran ko sa publication. Para pa rin akong nakalutang sa hangin. Surreal! Panalo! Nangyari ba talaga yon? First dance ko. Pero, teka! May nakalimutan ba ako? Isang bagay na mahalaga. Meron ba?

                Isip!

                Isip!

                Isip!

                TAE!  Nakalimutan kong magtapat. GAGI!  Sinabi ko na sa sarili kong ito ang gabing yon. Hindi ko man lang nasabi. Tol, ang bobo mo! Gusto kong iumpog ang sarili ko sa mesa kung saan kami nakapalibot.

                Kung hindi naman sandamakmak na boplaks! Lutang ang utak ko pagkatapos. Kahit na ramdam ko pa sa aking kamay ang malambot niyang palad at ang paghakbang pakaliwa’t-kanan ng paa ko, sabaw naman ang aking isipan. Leche flan at shiva!!! Wala na. Kasabay ng pagkamatay ng kandila ng tsansa ko ay ang pagkaupos ng lakas ng tropa. Bored na sila kaya nagliparan na ang butong pakwan, butong kalabasa, butong chicharon at butong plastik. Hindi ako nakisali sa kalokohan nila kahit na may lumilipad na sa mukha kong butong fill in the blanks. Takte ka kasi, ikoy. Bobo! Well, ang sariling boredom na lang at ang pagkadismaya ang in-enteratin ko. Ayun ang isang plato ng watermelon seed! Makapag-lettering na lang. Ewan! Sabaw na ang utak ko. Nabobobo na.

                “I LOVE HER” ang nakasulat sa ibabaw ng table, ang nabuo gamit ang mga sawing butong pakwang wala nang pag-asang kainin. Katabi ng mga salitang ito ang isang arrow na nagtuturo sa kanya. Hindi naman niya ito mababasa dahil sa madilim doon sa lugar namin. Kundi ko pinabasa kay anak na katabi ko lang. Ayun! Nakatikim pa ng kampas de kilig. Smiling face pa ako kahit na deep inside ay super ultra mega to the highest fucking level ang disappointment ko. Gademet naman, oh. Tumayo ako para magbanyo, pampabawas tensyon. Pagbalik ko ay wala na ang butong pakwang romantiko, narororoon na tropa sa dancefloor at nagwawala at inaantok na ako. Pwe! Itutulog ko na lang ito! Baka sakaling sa panaginip ay magawa ko na ng tama ang hindi ko nagawa sa mundo ng mga matitino.

                 Lunes. Burado na yung feeling na gusto kong iumpog ang ulo kosa pader. Back to reality. May tsansa pa naman. Kailan lang ang tamang tanong. Ah, hindi pala!  Kung pala! Hindi ko tinungo ang office noong umaga. Baka pumurol lang ang utak ko. May quiz pa akong dapat bunuin. May project pang dapat ipasa. May pagkaboplaks pang dapat i-enhance. Ang pagpatay oras na lang ay ang pagtingin sa room nila sa third floor. Nasaan kaya siya? Pampakumpleto lang ng araw. kundi muna ako lumabas ng roon. Gala.

                Sa canteen ko nakita si kuya Hardcore ko kuno. Nagba-banana cue. Dahil wala akong kasama, nilapitan ko siya.

                “Tol, nakabawi na ba ng tulog?” tanong niya.

                “Medyo. Dami ko kasing ginawa. Si Ikay, andiyan ba siya?”

                “Oo. Andun sa office. Hindi pumasok ng first meeting. Naboboplaks na ‘ata”

                Tawa lang ang bida niyo.

                “eh, tol. Kumusta?”

                “Alin?”

                “Alin ka diyan! I know you know that I know that you know what I am talking about. Si letter I…”

                “Ha?” hindi kasi nila alam na may gusto ako sa kaniya. Yung anak-anakan ko lang ang may batid ng mga bagay na hindi batid ng dito ay dapat makabatid.

                “Painosente? Tol, nababasa kita. Ramdam ko na ganon ka sa kaniya. Nasabi mo na?”

                Lakas ng radar! O baka naman ganon na akong ka-obvious. Naku! Kailaingan nagng mag-ingat. “Hindi, eh. Takte kasi. Nadala ako nung last time.”

                “Problema yan. There is always time. Kailangan lang makita mo yung time na  yon. Gawan namin ng paraan. Tol, pamilya tayo. You are one with us.”

                “Salamat, kuya. Oo. Gagawin ko yon.”

                After ng maikling short conversation na yon, bumaba na ang bida niyong bad trip papunta ng office. Andon daw siya. Ano namang sasabihin ko? Yun na? yun na yun? Gusto kita and puwede bang manligaw? Nasaan yung sining? TAE!  magpapakanatural na lang ako.

                Pagpasok ko ng office, katahimikan ang sumalubong sa akin. Asan na siay? Wala. Baka lumabas or something. Iginala ko ang mga mata ko. SHIT! Ang kalat naman sa computer! Puro butong pakwan! Naalala ko tuloy yong… sino ba namang walang disiplina ang gagawa ng ganoon?

Lumapit ako sa dalawang white table na paborito kong tulugan. Ilalagay ko na sana ang bag ko doon nang meron akong isang shocking na bagay na nakita.  Picture ni Maria Ozawa? How I wish! Pero mas malala ito.

                “Oh, my God!!!” bulalas ni Ikay na kapapasok lang. parang nakakit siya ng multo! Sinugod niya ang nasa ibabaw ng table at ginulo. “SHIIIIVVVAAA!!!”

                Speechless ako.

                “K-kanina ka pa?”

                “Ah–“ uy, boses ko, lumabas ka! “K-kadarating lang.” wasak ang composure dahil sa nakita. Feeling ko kamatis ang mukha ko dahil sa pamumula.

                “Nabasa mo?”

                Tango. Yun na lang ang naisagot ko. Tango.

                Katahimikan. Katahimikang malupit. Katahimikang meaningful.

                Namumula man, napangiti siya.

                “Alam mo na tuloy…” Wala na siyng nasabi pa kundi yon.

                Buti pa nga siya may nasabi pa. ako, stapled shut na ang bunganga. Speechless. Sobrang speechless. Weird. Nananaginip ba ako? Yun kasing nasa table…

                Nananaginip lang ba talaga ako? Sana hindi. Sana totoo yung lettering ng butong pakwan na nabasa ko, yung kagugulo lang niyan. Yung kabubura lang niya. Kainis! Naunahan niya ako.

                At saka, wala siyang originality, ha.

WAKAS