Sub-versions

sub-versions

sub-versions

Short stories

by Markus Aserit

Sub-versions Copyright Š 2018 by Mark Aserit All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without a written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Book design by Alyssa Manalo Proofreading by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

In Search of a Reader Behind the Glass Window 1

Operation Lumad 11

The Mobius and Other Escapes 27

After She Read My Short Story and We Went to Baguio 37

Of In-Between Places 53

Dreaming of Fire 69

X by Pedro Javier 75

Gunshot 83

Notes on How to Escape 89

A Letter from Pedro Javier 99

For Alyssa, of course

In Search of a Reader Behind the Glass Window

I. Because stories let us meet from both sides of the spectrum

a. The Reader The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts at the opening lines of the story, a thin steam partly hides the first paragraph. She is about to begin a new short story. Seated in a leather chair inside her room, she finds the most comfortable position to read. She hunches her back over the book, puts her hands on the table, and places her palm under her chin.

She adjusts the light on her desk so her eyes won’t strain from reading. She makes sure there’s no part of the page that is hidden in shadow. She tries to foresee everything that might interrupt her reading. Cigarettes within reach. Ashtray. A cup of coffee beside the book.

But as she is about to start, someone turns on the TV at the sala. So she stands up and shouts at the next room “Please turn off the TV!” raising her voice. “I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” After she yells, the TV automatically turned off as if it has a life of its own.

So, then, she found out on Facebook that this young writer is about to publish his first short story collection. It was not that she was looking forward to buy his book. It just happened that she was in a zinefest where the book was being sold and she was intrigued by the cover. She bought a copy together with other interesting titles.

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She derives a special pleasure from a just-published book. The smell of its paper and the fresh-from-theprinter look of its cover. Inside the jeepney going back to her apartment, she was thinking of leafing through its pages. But it was still wrapped in plastic. She turned the cover over, and scanned the words printed at the back, which were generic phrases that didn’t say a great deal about the book. She imagined reading the freshly published book, taking possession of its newness at the first moment.

And now, she is here ready to consume the book. She intently reads every word, slowly immersing herself in the story. It is like getting to know a new lover.

She scrutinizes every nuance of the writer’s sentences, studies the way he cuts his paragraphs, and listens to the tone of his storytelling. She tries to identify him with a certain face in her mind and try to make out his features. b. The Writer He is struggling to finish his short story, but he can’t help looking at the young woman reading behind the glass window at the opposite building. Curious at what she is reading, he gets binoculars and trains it at the reader’s direction. She seems to be concentrated on the book in front of her. Who knows what she is reading? But it’s obvious it is not the story that he is working on.

Somehow he feels the jealousy of his not-yet-finished story, which would like to be read the way she reads what she is reading.

How long has it been since he read like that? Reading a book just for the sake of reading. Reading a book with no relation to what he is writing at the moment. Sit in a chair, relax in front of the book, and let the world fade away.

He checks the clock. It’s already 10:00 he can’t think of a good conflict to must finish it now. So in order to jolt another cigarette and blows a cloud of 2

in the evening, but move the story. He his mind, he lights smoke in the air.

As he is waiting for the story to come, he stands up from his wooden desk and stretches, and then he goes to the sink filled with unwashed dishes and makes 3-in-1 coffee. He feels unsettled. He decides to smoke a joint.

An idea may come down. But while waiting for that moment, he reads a random poem from an unknown poet, and then he copies the poet’s words in a paper. But in the end he crumples the paper and throws it to the trashcan.

He looks at the young woman again. She is so intently focused on what she is reading. The way she curls her lips and how her eyebrows twitch, she seems to be absorbed by the words of the story.

Returning his attention inside his room, he notices a tattered poster facing his desk that somebody gave to him. Homer Simpson is sitting at a typewriter, and in the thought balloon a sentence writes, “Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia,” which is a line from Kurt Vonnegut.

That’s it! He quickly returns to his desk and writes the words coming to his mind. He imagines what kind of story would appeal to the young woman. He pictures her as his 100% perfect reader. A kind of reader who has a knack for unusual stories. Stories that would make readers speculate first. Perhaps, she is a kind of reader who has patience to wait for the story to develop. She also possibly knows what he should write, or rather, she does not know, because she is waiting for him to write a story that will fill her insatiable desire for words.

Ideas come down to his mind like a storm. The blank paper on his desk quickly fills up with sentences. He jots down every word that comes through his mind. Sentences after sentences surge over the paper. At some point, he has an absurd feeling that there’s someone out there whispering words in his ear for him to write. Some call it muse, a god, or a creative soul. Or it may just be an effect of smoking a joint. At any rate, he writes down every word that passes through him and finishes the story.

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Hours pass. He thinks about the young woman again. What will be her impression to the author, how will she react to the story, will she like its ending?

II. Because paper is the only thing that links us together. Paper where you read and where I will write the story.

a. The Reader She seems to be suspended in another time and another space. An observer will quickly notice in her face that she desires to read. At this moment, she is fully immersed in the story. An observer can feel the invisible journey of words through the young woman. The quick spurts of action; the pause and delays in the scene; and even the occasional straying of her attention. The journey is always shifting and sometimes uneven.

But before she finds pleasure in reading other stories, the young woman had desired to write her own words in paper. But she has developed a fear of looking at a blank page. For her, a blank page appears like a void, a black hole that sucked up all of her energy. She was able to write a couple of stories before. But there always comes a time when her well dries up and she can’t write anymore.

When that moment comes, she reads a book to make herself feel good again. Now, she has become disinterested in putting her words in paper. The pleasure of writing has escaped her. She believes there’s a boundary line: on one side are those who make books, and on the other, those who read them. And she does not want to cross the boundary of those who write books, which gets more and more crowded.

Just like tonight, she sits at her desk, relaxes herself, and let herself disappear in the story. She does not want to experience a writer’s suffering anymore. The fear of 4

being rejected, the anxiety of being judged, and the feeling of finishing a story with self-doubt.

Now, as she reaches the second part of the story, she notices something. Wait a minute! She looks at the page number. Damn! From page 4 the page number jumps to page 7. At first she thought it was stylistic subtlety on the author’s part but it was an error in printing. She checks the book once more, turning it over her hands. All along, she believes the book is intact. And then this error comes up. She knows she will not be able to sleep with an unfinished story hanging in her mind. She can’t wait until tomorrow to return at the bookstore. She needs the continuation of the story now!

As she ponders what to do, her cell phone suddenly rings.

It’s already past twelve. She hesitates to answer the call, wondering why someone has to call at that hour.

She lets the phone ring three times before giving in and pushing the answer button.

There is a long pause on the other end, and for a moment she thinks the caller has hung up. Then, as if from a great distance, there comes an unfamiliar voice in her ear.

It is just a short phone call, and she doesn’t even utter a single word. She just listened to the caller, and then puts her phone back in her pocket. After the call, she quickly surveys the windows at the opposite building, searching for some suspicious activity. She scans the building from left to right, up and down. Aside from the lighted room at her opposite window, residents at the other building seem to be sleeping now. So she trains her eyes on the opposite window, but she can’t see who is inside. She has to go to the lobby. She grabs the book on the table, puts on a jacket, turns the doorknob, and runs outside.

Thanks to her strong legs and long strides, she is able to catch the elevator going down from the 5th floor.

Inside, she catches her breath while clutching the book in her chest. She is thinking about the call. The caller 5

says he will give the missing pages at the ground floor.

But how did it know about the missing pages of the book?

As the elevator reaches the 2nd floor, she has an absurd feeling that there’s a pair of eyes trained on her, secretly watching her movement. Her heart is beating so fast she can hear it. The elevator dings as it reaches the ground floor. And when the moment comes, she squeezes her way outside and runs straight to the lobby.

She looks around, searching for the mysterious caller.

She paces back and forth at the entrance. Then as she is walking to the direction of the sliding glass door, somebody bumps her shoulders. Sheets of paper fling all over the tiled floor. A brown-skinned young guy wearing t-shirt says sorry, and then he picks up the scattered papers. While looking at him, she suddenly notices that the book in her hand is missing! She looks around the floor, hoping to find the book. A cold sweat runs through her body. It is as if she has lost a special someone.

Then the brown-skinned guy pokes her shoulder. “I think this is yours,” he says. She grabs her book and goes to the exit door. But she forgets to thank the guy. So she turns to his direction, but he is already gone.

She quietly walks to the exit door. She checks her cellphone to check if the caller has tried to reach her.

But there is no message or missed call. Instinctively, she opens the book in her hand. She goes to page 4. There she finds sheets of paper sandwiched between pages 4 and 7. b. The Writer His greatest desire is to be read the way the young woman is reading. At some point while he is writing, he felt an absurd desire that the sentences which he is about to write is the same with what the woman is reading at that same moment. The idea mesmerizes him that he convinced himself that the idea is true. He writes the sentences hastily, gets up to windows, and trains his binoculars to the opposite window to check the effect of his sentences to the woman. The way she twitches her eyebrows, shifts her body position, and changes her breathing pattern.

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But as he is writing the second part of the story, he thinks how the young woman will read his work. She may just pass by his book when she sees it in a bookstore.

Or perhaps she grabs the book, checks its contents, and then places it back to the bookshelf. With this idea in mind, he thinks about the mentally-taxing act of writing; written words will only have meaning once it has been read and has passed through the mental circuits of a reader. Then he thinks about the books that no one has read before. They are just there, in the bookshelves, collecting dust and waiting for someone to read their contents. Can they still be considered books if no one ever reads them?

As he ponders on these ideas, the unread books, on writing, and the readers, his cell phone rings. He checks the clock on his desk. It’s already past twelve. Why would someone call me at this hour? He thinks to himself. He just let the phone ring. Just as he is putting the last paragraph of the story, the cell phone rings again. This time, it is much louder. As if the caller on the other line is in a hurry and can’t wait for one more second.

He decides to answer the call while clutching the pen in his left hand, writing the story’s title. He writes “In Search of a Reader behind the Glass Window,” while waiting for the person at the other line to speak.

“Hello?” the unnamed writer says. He is about to drop the call when the person at the other line speaks. His forehead wrinkles and his eyes narrow after hearing what the caller said. It is just a short phone call. And before he utters his response, the caller drops it.

The person from the other line says a young woman wants to read his short story, but she is too shy to talk to him. So she asked for help from the mysterious caller.

The caller says she’ll meet him at the ground floor of her condominium, but he must not talk to her or make any interaction with her. “It’s too dangerous. Let the story speak for you,” the caller emphasized. “She’ll drop a book and you can secretly put your story inside that book.”

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He quickly gathers the papers containing the story and looks at the opposite window. She is gone! He grabs the papers, wears his slippers, and goes outside the room.

He does not wait for the old elevator to reach the fifth floor. Instead, he goes to the emergency exit and takes the stairs all the way down to the ground floor. He nearly bumps at the guard stationed at the entrance when he gets to the lobby. And thanks to the taxi driver’s sharp reflexes, his ribs are still intact and he is able cross the street going to the opposite building. He is panting as he reaches the lobby of the new condominium across the street. There, he finds the young woman exiting the elevator, clutching a book on her chest.

He notices a brown-skinned young man in white t-shirt carrying sheets of paper. He is going to the direction of the young woman, who seems to be in panic. She looks around the lobby, looking for someone. As the brownskinned guy draws closer to the young woman, their shoulders accidentally bump each other, causing the book and sheets of paper to drop on the floor. While the two are still distracted, the writer quickly gets the book and slides his story inside.

After that, he quietly takes a seat at the sofa in the common area. He watches the young woman as she turns the pages of the story, hoping she will like it.

III. The “I” of the story

I was the one who made the phone call and bumped the woman. The story that I was writing was not progressing, so I decided to smoke a couple of cigarettes at the corner, clutching my drafts. There, I found a young man inside the old building working on his own short story. Then my eyes went to the new condominium at the other side of the street. There, I found the young woman

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feverishly reading a book behind a glass window. What a scene! A writer who struggles to finish his work inside a small room, and a reader who devotedly reads a book inside a spacious room.

Anyway, out of creative impulse, I tried to think of a story on how they will meet each other. First of all, there’s the seed idea: the writer and the reader. To make the story a little bit unusual, I decided to split the story into two. The first perspective will be from the writer and the other will be from the reader. That’s it!

It’s like he-said-she-said kind of short story. I guess.

But how will I connect the two characters?

Ah! A phone call! So I quickly dialed the cell phone number of the reader telling her that I—the mysterious caller—will give the continuation of her story. And because she is a savvy reader, I know she will fall for the trap.

As for the writer, well I can relate to his struggles on starting a new craft, so I called him to say that the young woman wants to read the story he is making. Yes, I know, I made a lie, but it is what fiction writers do, right?

Well anyway, as you can see, or rather read, I am named “I.” It does not mean that I am the representation of the author of this short story collection. I am just called “I” and this is the only thing that you know about me.

Since the author has no intention of putting his name in this sort-of-prologue, he has decided to call me “I” to conceal himself. However, by the very fact of writing “I,” the author feels driven to put into this “I” a bit of himself: his feelings, memories, and thoughts.

Honestly, I’m envy the author because he was able to finish his first collection of short stories. My drafts are still on my desk, waiting for their time. It’s very hard to write. The process is arduous and painful. Plus the fact that you also have to earn money to sustain your writing. You can’t just write, write, write. You also

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have to work hard to make a living. Aside from the story you’re working on, you also have to worry about the job orders and their deadlines.

The story of the reader and the writer above is just an introduction of what the readers will experience in this collection. I guess it’s a story of all of us in the literary world. We are the reader who wants to find satisfaction through words. And sometimes, we want to be the crafter of stories, wielding imaginary characters and enclosing them in a paper.

Now, to give you a brief introduction for this collection, the stories included here is a library of what the author has experienced, read, and dreamt. This is his attempt to put into words the characters and worlds in his mind.

It’s as if they passed through him, possessing him, and urging him to put them into something concrete. There has to be somebody to write them. So, one morning of August the author decided to put them in the physical world through words.

From a story about members of the Movement desperately looking for an escape from the clutches of the man called Geo-thirty, to the quest of a boy to find the author of a mysterious book, to the cryptic dreams of a techenhanced soldier, this short story collection takes you on a journey through the absurd, futuristic cities, and world of dreams.

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Operation Lumad

The chromatic windowless room is still. No one is moving except for the proctor sitting at the front, checking the examinees’ statuses on his tablet. He is eyeing every student inside the room. Sitting at the back row, I have just finished the 19th set of questions. I sit upright and look at my fellow examinees. Only 13 of us are left after 48 hours of National Evaluative Test (NET), which will determine if we can enter the System. I adjust my headgear and instruct my personal assistant.

“Alex, initiate Allegiance Assessment Test.”

It is the last part of the examination. The set of questions appeared in front of me, superimposed on the proctor behind a glass table. The proctor, Mr. Reyes as he is called, has graying thin hair and wolf-like eyes. Our statuses are being reported on the device that he is holding. A while ago, three students were escorted outside after their body temperature apparently shot up and their heartbeats went faster than usual.

Internet signal jammers are placed around the room to prevent us from cheating. At the automatic two-door entrance, two armored soldiers with jet-black rifles are stationed, ready to deploy in case of emergency.

“Allow the System to access your memories?” a robotic female voice asked, I think for a second. Then I lift my right hand and tap “affirmative” in the air. A sensor emerges

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from the headboard and attaches itself to the back of my head.

A loading icon appears on the screen. It takes sometime before it reaches 100%. “Scan Complete.” A large twodimensional window appears in my view, suspended in space.

It is placed right beside the proctor. The proctor can’t see the window, only me.

There are blocks of texts written on it.

“Read the following story and be prepared to answer the question after. You may begin now,” Alex instructs.

oper a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n lumad He woke up from a bad dream. He can’t remember the whole thing, but there were blurry images that he can’t recognize. It’d been a recurring dream, but he should not have that dream. It’s banned. He had an interaction with the Roaches last week, but he didn’t talk to them.

Half asleep, he slowly got up from bed and made some stretches. His body was still aching from the operation last week. He never knew he would be able to kill a Roach.

“Not bad for a trainee,” he remembered his instructor said. It was his first time seeing them. He read about them in his Second year in the Military Academy. Barbaric, uncivilized people dwelling in the Ruins, claiming they own the mineral-rich valley.

Sitting digital a weird flashed

at the edge of his bed, he commanded Alex—his assistant. “Please check my brain charges. I had dream again last night.” A bright yellow light through his headboard. The beam scanned his head.

“Your brain activity is a bit intense than usual. You’ve received an external data,” a female robotic voice with high pitch tone announced.

“Explain,” he asked, holding his temple.

“These 12

data

did

not

come

from

your

memory.

Someone

implanted you false images.”

“Do you know who or where it came from?”

“Negative. The images are not registered in the database.

It might have come from unknown data sources.”

“Unknown data sources?” he blurted out.

“Would you like to send this diagnostic report to the Health Ministry?”

“No, thank you. Please prepare my breakfast.”

His dream involved strange-looking people. They were not wearing tags or government bracelets. They were dressed in ethnic garb with a wild tribal pattern. Men were wearing colorful embroidered costumes and beadwork accessories. Women, on the other hand, wore a kind of wrapped-around skirt with brass bells. These bells clung while they danced around the fire. The dream was a kind of narrative, but these details were the only ones that were retained in his mind after he wakes up.

He tried to shake off the memory of the dream. He had to prepare for the NET exam tomorrow.

A vault-like door opened at the side of his bed. A robotic arm emerged out of the opening, holding a tray of cereals, protein shake, and the daily government-issued Health capsule. He got the tray and mentally reviewed the questions that might be given in the NET. While eating, a notification popped up on his Personalized Computer Tablet (PCT). Beep. Beep. “Two messages for you,” his A.I. assistant said.

“Flash it.” A screen showed up on the wall in front him. A hologram of his father appeared. “Hi son, good luck on your NET. I know you can make it. Make us proud. We can’t wait to see you again. Bye.” “Next message,” he commanded.

A hologram of General Ebdane appeared. “Good Morning 13

Cris, tomorrow is the day that you’ve been waiting for.

The System knows you are more than ready to take the National Evaluative Test. Take a good rest today but don’t be overly relaxed. You know what happens to the dropouts. Good luck on your test. You may get your NET Number in Military Department Building. Just remember: be true to your duty and serve the System.”

From the onset, it was obvious that the message from the General was an announcement for all NET takers, he said to himself. The computers were just changing the names to make it seem like a personal message.

He commanded Alex to turn on the television. The hologram of Gen. Ebdane changed into a tuxedo-wearing news anchor.

“5 Army soldiers were killed while two others were wounded in an encounter with the Liberation members in Sector 8 of The West Valley,” the well-combed reporter announced.

“The authorities believe the Liberation was forcing the Roaches to join the rebels to halt the System’s development plans in the area. For the latest update in Sector 8, here’s Jun Dela Paz.” He finished his breakfast while mindlessly listening to the news report. Then he went to a small capsule-like cubicle. Standing there, both of his arms spread; the machine automatically washed his body like a vehicle in a car wash station. He tried to think about the origin of the dream while a robotic arm scrubs his body.

How did someone implant images in my mind without me knowing it? He thought to himself. The System is rigorous in its citizens’ mental health. Doctors at the Health Ministry constantly check my brain waves and mind patterns. Anyway, maybe I can search those images over the Intranet. I’m wondering where those people came from.

The machine dry-cleaned his body, and he went out of the bathroom. He wore his trainee uniform— a navy blue tight-fitted suit. It had a built-in computer that checks the status of his body. He tapped the switch beneath his wrists. “You’re now online, Cris,” Alex said. He 14

looked at himself in the mirror and put on his Universal ID bracelet. The automatic door slid open, and he went outside to get his NET number from Military Department Building.

He had 48 hours to finish the test. It consisted of 20 sets of questions that would test his abilities. After passing the test, the System would train him for 15,000 hours before he becomes a part of his specialization in the System-determined Department. The System has 18 Departments that maintain government stability. Before he reached high school, the Education Ministry recommended Cris to apply for Military High school. His parents were confident that he would pass the NET to become a full member of the System, just like them. Before his mother gave birth to him, the System had issued 10 instructors that would enhance his abilities and intelligence. His father said it was the System’s way of helping him become an efficient citizen.

“The NET was much easier now compared to my time,” he remembered his father said one night. Many of his fellow batchmates did not pass the test. The dropouts were reportedly put into guidance counseling, but they were never seen again. According to his father, there were rumors that his batch mates answered several questions outside of system-approved answers.

He doesn’t have an idea about his father’s job in the System. But he knew his father was working because he leaves their home at exactly 9 o’clock in the morning and goes back at precisely six o’clock in the evening.

His mother said his father was in the Thought Police Department (TPD). But he doesn’t have an idea what that department was doing. He has never been called in their office.

Cris arrived in front of the Military Department Building at exactly 12 o’clock in the afternoon. He doesn’t know why, but he felt a chill ran down his spine the moment he stepped out of the jet shuttle. He placed his bracelet in front of the scanner to pay his fare. The doors slid open and he stepped outside. The jet shuttle sped off to 15

the highway and he walked his way through the transparent staircase heading to the MD Building.

Entry #67 .6.30.2056. >>> I had the same dream again. I don’t know why but those images came to me out of nowhere.

I know I should not tell this to anybody, even to Annie. Or maybe she can help me. She might have already written a report about this case.

I’ve already read E-books on Interpretation of Dreams, but it does not seem to help me.

The images in my dream did not correspond to the images that were stated in the book. I also searched on the Intranet to look for dream symbols but did not find any answer. The images in my dream were too specific. People in ethnic garb dancing around the fire. They seem to be peaceful though, not like the Roaches who were armed with spear and bow. >>> Annie said it might be the side effect of the memory eraser when I visited her yesterday in the newsroom. She said the device was being used in Thought Police Department. They use it to neutralize Thought Criminals and make them productive citizens again. She said someone might have erased memories in my mind and those memories were resurfacing again like a creature crawling its way back to the surface. But how can I check that memory if it is already erased in my mind? I know it’s a foolish question but maybe my mind is just playing tricks on me. >>> I’ve consulted Dr. Ford about the dream. He gave me a CD containing 18 tracks of vaporwave music. He said it would help to calm my mind and relax. He suggested for me to listen to the album twice a day to release the “unwanted images.”

He said it was just a result of stress because of my training and upcoming NET Exam. I’ll visit him next week to report on my progress. >>> I searched through my PCT notes for saved pictures to check if I can find a trace of that memory in my files. Strangely, the history of my pictures and notes ended on the month before I entered the Academy. It was as if someone erased 16

all of my files from birth up to the month before I entered my Academy. But I can still remember my parents. Even my classmates in Military High School like Annie. Selective memory erasure?

Maybe, but still I can’t be so sure. If the System discovered this dream that I’m having, I might be kicked out of the Academy, or they’ll send me to the valley to dig rocks. >>> Don’t think about it too much Cris. That memory would just eventually fade away just like other histories that we had. Do you know muscle memory? The more you think about it, the more your brain makes strong connections to reinforce that memory. So I advise you to stop thinking about it, Annie said to me one time.

Well as much as I can, I am trying not to think about it. >>> I tried not to ask Dad about the memory eraser device. He might be suspicious where I would use it. Using an incognito window, I searched for the device on the Intranet. A website wrote that the memory eraser is actually called a Neurolizer which is used by TPD officers to apprehend thought-breakers. It added that it was the System’s way to ensure peace in the Metropolis. Assuming that Annie speaks of the truth that the dream was a side-effect of the device; did I commit a crime in the past? Again, there’s no way to verify it in my memory. But why did other offenders not report the sideeffect of having a recurring dream?

Because the System might know that the device is not yet fully working? I put this thoughts aside for I still have to prepare for the NET. As Dr. Ford said, this might be just a result of stress.

oper a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n lumad He arrived at the MD Building before lunchtime. The huge logo of Military Department engraved on the center of the hall welcomed him. It had the face of the Military General with a laurel of rifles surrounding him. The MD Building had a high-ceiling lobby. In his estimation, 17

the ceiling must have a height of a 3-story building. On the ground was a lounge area and android tellers, which were lined around the hall. These machines resemble the ATM machine of Tony’s forefathers, but this version looks like plasma TV etched on the wall. He went to one of those machines. He stood in front of it and a hologram of a female receptionist appeared. “How can I help you, Cris?”

“I would like to get my NET Number,” he said in a deadpan tone.

“Oh great!” the hologram gleefully smiled like she really meant it. “Please stand right here.” The receptionist laid her right palm. Cris stepped forward to move closer.

An LED stick emerged from the teller machine. It extended its length up to Cris’s eyes. “Retina Scan complete,” the receptionist said mechanically. “You’re NET number is 456-6537” “Save the number, Alex.” Cris commanded his digital assistant.

“Good luck, Cris. Make sure you have a good rest before taking the exam. The NET will start at exactly 9:00 AM tomorrow. Late comers will be not entertained. Thank you!”

After getting his NET number, Cris turned around and took a seat on one of the leather couches in the lounge area.

He fished his PCT from his pocket, connected it to MD Wi-fi, and logged in to the Intranet. He typed the words “people dancing around fire” on the search bar and added “dream interpretation” on the keywords.

He selected the images section, but there were no photographs that resemble the images in his dream.

He stopped for a second and thought about the word that he heard in his dream. It was not clear to him if he really heard those words, but the sound of the word stuck in his mind. He typed “Operation LUMAD” in the search bar. Surprisingly, he found a link to the keyword on the Military Division website. He selected the link. It 18

took sometime before the website to load. His heartbeat went faster. And then seconds after “Access Denied” appeared on the screen. He refreshed the link but the warning message appeared again. “Alex, can you check how I can access this link.” He gave the URL to his digital assistant.

“You need Five Star Officer Rank to access this link,” she explained to Cris through his built-in earphone.

“Search the term OPERATION LUMAD in the Intranet.”

“0 Search Results found,” the female digital assistant said.

“Search LUMAD” “0 Search Results found.”

He looked around to see if someone observes him. Several bystanders, the same age as him, were looking down on their PCT, playing games. On the other side, men wearing suits were calling on their gadgets. He secretly peeked at the CCTVs that were placed around the hall.

Suddenly, a group of soldiers carrying gym bags was marching towards his direction. He tried not to look at them. He looked down and pretended playing games on his PCT. The soldiers stopped on their tracks. They dropped their bags and stood straight. They raised their right hand and gave salute to a broad-shouldered man, wearing a coat adorned with holographic medals.

He let out a sigh of relief. He opened his PCT setting and erased his browsing history. Scenes in the dream came back to his mind again. He recognized a face. It was a woman. She was sitting right beside what looked like the chief of a tribe. He closed his eyes and tried to squeeze his memory to see the woman but her face was fading out to his Long Term Memory (LTM). It might’ve come from unknown data sources. He recalled Alex’s analysis. He got up from his seat and went to the exit.

19

He tried to think about the NET Exam tomorrow but the images in the dream kept coming back to his mind. He can’t tell where the images started to appear in his dream. The thought of classified information bothered him. He was thinking of talking to his father to borrow his Intranet account to access the Operation: Lumad link.

But his father might suspect him for accessing classified information.

There’s one way to search for the answer. Go back to where he found the images: in his dream. He went out of the MD building and hailed a hover-cab.

oper a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n lumad Entry #74 6.32.2056. >>> In one of the books that I read about dreams, it said dreams were representations of repressed memories or desires. Well, if I used that theory to my dreams, what does dancing around fire symbolize? Also, I was intrigued by the lack of rules in their dress. They were not wearing government issued bracelets or healthmonitoring suits. I wonder how they maintained their health and buy the things that they need with that lifestyle. They look like unruly and uncontrollable people.

Uncontrollable? freedom?

Does

the

dream

symbolize

>>> I didn’t follow Annie’s advice. Can’t stop thinking about the dream. Was someone trying to control me through dreams? Well, I don’t know. Annie let me borrow her report about the Neurolyser. She was there when the TPD introduced its new ground-breaking device to the people.

She reported how the new device would help criminals go back to society in just a snap.

They don’t have to spend too much time inside the prison, unlike the past generation. “Prison and prisoners are products of a by-gone era,” the head of TPD Department declared. “Criminals will become productive members of the society 20

in just one flash.”

In our next meeting, I told Annie the events in my dream. But she can’t determine what the images mean. “C’mon Cris it’s just a hallucination. Let me give you my extra capsule.” She trusted her own blue-tablet to the table. “Lie on your bed, play the music that Dr. Ford gave you, and It’ll make you feel better.” >>> Dr. Ford said I’m making good progress.

He gave me two red capsules which I take two times a day. It’ll help you relax and eliminate those hallucinations, he said. The red capsule was much stronger than the blue ones. He also recommended me to stop watching news for a while to let my mind relax a little bit.

oper a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n lumad Going back to his room, he set his automated body clock to 10 hours of sleep. He needed to have a good rest to prepare for the exam. But aside from that, he wanted to go back to the dream. The sleeping fluid quickly went to his system; the chemical took effect seconds after he lie down on his bed.

Half asleep, he tried to stay awake inside the dream. He had seen the dream for so many times that he had easily recognized the opening sequence. The sound of bongo drums and the natives dancing around the fire. But in his dream tonight, he saw the events in first person. He looked at his palms like a child learning to control his body. It felt as if he was in a first-person shooting game. He tried to feel his body. He touched his ribs, biceps and shoulders. He was there. He was physically there inside the dream, not just an onlooker, unlike his past dreams.

He was conscious that he was dreaming. He tried to move his palms, turning it over and over in front of his eyes. He stood up and felt his legs. They were shaking at first, but he eventually learned to control them. He looked around. There were no skyscrapers or flying cars around. They were in a forest and were surrounded by vast mountain ranges.

21

Three pairs of men and women in ethnic garb were dancing around the fire in the middle of the circle. Their arms were spread wide, resembling the movement of a fowl. Then one of the men, who look like a chieftain with his red bandana and intricately-designed robe, slashed the neck of a chicken and let its blood spill on a wooden bowl. He smeared the blood of the slain chicken to other dancers.

Then he walked around the circle and let the audience dip their hands on the wooden bowl.

The woman. The woman he kept seeing at the edges of his memory. She was sitting beside him, watching the people dancing around the fire. Her head was bobbing up and down to the beat together with other members of the tribe.

The woman’s left arm was draped around his shoulder. He wished there was a screenshot function in this dream.

But unfortunately, there wasn’t. The System still can’t automize its citizens’ dreams.

Strangely, he called the woman. Her name escaped from his mouth. “Lara.” The woman looked at him. She was wearing a green khaki jacket and a cap with a star-like symbol in the center. There were also other people wearing the green khaki jacket.

Suddenly, the sound of drums stopped. There was an explosion. People craned their necks to look where the explosion came from. “Mga sundalo!”

A sun-tanned man wearing a navy-green vest shouted. The ground was rumbling.

From the sound of it, it looked like hundreds of soldiers were marching towards their location accompanied with armored trucks. “We’ve given you enough warning. This is government property. Leave this area now. We don’t want violence,” one of the soldiers blared through a megaphone. Seconds later, they heard gunshots.

They ran towards the woods and looked for a safe place, while other members of the khaki-clad people pulled up guns and tried to stall the government forces. Lara pulled out a gun from her jacket. “Cris. I’m sorry to put you into this,” she said. He tried to respond to her but words were not coming out from his mouth. It was as if he was in a movie and he couldn’t do an action outside of 22

the director-written script.

“We’ve given you enough warning. This is government property. Leave this area now. We don’t want violence,” the announcement was getting louder and louder as government forces get closer to the woods.

Lara escorted some of the natives and gathered them in a man-deep hole, which was just wide enough for five people.

She let the children and women first. “Stay there until it is clear,” she instructed and covered the hole with dried leaves and bushes.

The group and the soldiers met. A clash ensued. An exchange of gunfire and explosion surrounded the whole place. Lara grabbed Cris’s elbow. “Look at me,” she said.

“You’ll go back to the Metropolis, okay?” Her voice was blurry and his vision was clouded. She produced a sticklike device from her vest and flashed it to Cris’s eyes.

A blinding red light surrounded his vision. He became momentarily unconscious for a second, and then different scenes and images went through his vision like a fastforwarded movie.

He woke up drenched in sweat. His head was aching as if someone drilled thousands of needles in his forehead.

He squinted and tried to make out the features of his room. His body alarm clock was blaring in the background, announcing the time. Using his back strength to lift his shoulders, he slowly got up from bed holding his temples.

He commanded the alarm to stop. Then he proceeded to the sink and washed his face. He was breathing heavily. His shoulders were heaving. “Alex, can you put this in my notes section,” he commanded his digital assistant. He paused, trying to recall the events that happened in the dream.

But he can’t remember it anymore. The images of people dancing around the fire were the only thing that remained in his mind, again. He went to the bathroom with doubts to himself. It was as if some important thing was missing and he couldn’t remember where he placed it. And the problem was he doesn’t know where to look for it.

23

He tried to hold on to the memory for as long as he can.

Operation Lumad. People dancing around the fire.

He went back to his bed. A robotic arm emerged from the opening carrying cereals, protein shake and the Health Capsule.

“Alex, please turn on the TV.” I just need to make myself calm, he said to himself. He ate his breakfast while watching the morning news.

Footage of arrested members of the Liberation flashed on his wall. They were wearing khaki jackets and a cap with a star-like symbol.

“Members of the Liberation caught destroying System’s satellites,” the headline said. After the news report, a panel of news anchors and experts appeared on the screen.

“The Liberation spreads terrorism? We’ve invited a panel of experts to discuss the issue” the tuxedo-wearing news anchor said.

“Well, they are also conspiring with the Roaches to prevent the developments in The West Valley. I mean c’mon, aside from property damages and terrorism, they’re also working with the roaches to slow down the installment of additional mine excavators,” one of the panelists said.

He turned off the TV and finished his breakfast. He wore the haptic suit and went outside to go to the MD Building for the NET examination.

oper a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n l u m a d o p e r a t i o n lumad After I finish reading the last sentence, the window disappears on my screen. I do not remember having those dreams. Was it a government-implanted memory in my mind?

I check my status in the upper right-hand corner of my screen. It shows my heart beat is going faster. The proctor looks at me and reviews his tablet. I’m not the one who is in the story. It’s just a test. This is just a test. I need to calm down. I need to pass the test.

24

Two rifle-armed soldiers march in my direction. The proctor speaks through my built-in earphones. “You’ve just finished the NET exam. Calmly follow the escorts to the next room where your evaluation will be given.”

Unsure of what was the right thing to do, I follow the soldiers to the automatic door. They bring me to another room, which is just right beside the room where I took the exam. The two soldiers wait for me to step into the automatic door before leaving.

Inside, the room is astoundingly white and does not have a speck of dirt. There’s a glass table and two chairs in the center. A panel door opened at the far right corner of the room. The proctor emerges from it, still holding his tablet. “Please take a seat,” he says in a calmly matter-of-fact tone. He takes a seat behind the glass table, and I take the chair in front of it.

“This is just standard procedure, but I will ask you to give me your consent to erase your memories. You know the System safeguards its citizens, and it does not want instabilities. Unpredictable tendencies. You’re one of the bright students, Cris. You let us down one time but here you are, ready to offer your intelligence and abilities to the System. Now, I will ask you again, and take note that I’m not forcing this on you.

“Do you allow the System to erase your memories?”He repeated, emphasizing the last sentence. I stare at his wolf-like eyes, thinking about what to say next. Lara.

Operation Lumad. People Dancing around the fire. The System does want instabilities.

“I allow the system to erase my memories,” I say, but I feel like my mouth moved automatically to say those words.

“Well then let’s proceed.” The proctor produces a sticklike device in his suit and places it at the center of my vision. “Try not to blink,” he instructs. A blinding white light floods the room.

25

The Mobius and Other Escapes

We have arrived at the Sunken Cave before other players got ahead of us. Mara quickly finds the hideout of the Bakunawa. She has already scoured this cave countless times to know the boss’ hideout. It is in the far end of the cave. On the top of its rocky platform, there’s an altar with a moon-like crystal ball. The moment we step in front of it, a large monstrous creature emerges in front of us. It’s true what she said the first time she saw the boss. It looms out of my headgear and I need to walk back to see it fully. Its red hit-points bar is suspended on top of its scaly head.

“You’ll be tank. I’ll be the hitter,” she commands. I open my inventory and quickly equip the Knight-compatible TriVanguard Shield which I bought earlier in the Town. I run towards the monster to lure its attention. Mara is aiming for its head while I’m taking the hits.

Minutes pass. “Quest Complete!” a Wizard-of-Ozlike voice announces in the background. We are now just one mission away from finishing the “Tala Saga.” Mara let me finish the Bakunawa to get most of the Experience points. “You need it more, besides I owe you for helping me get this bow,” she says, flashing her flaming bow in front of my avatar. Her red-haired Archer is wearing a gold breastplate and a pair of hunter greaves. However, my attention is on her avatar’s smile. I imagine her playing inside her room with the same smile and features like her archer-chiseled face, chinita eyes, and long, pointed nose.

27

Before the monster disappears, the right arm of Tala appeared. The item is spinning together with other loots from the monster. I let her pick up the right arm of Tala.

We already acquired the four fragments of the five-part Legendary item. I have the left arm and leg, and she owns the right leg and right arm. Only the head is missing.

“So shall we go to the Moon Mountain now to get the last part?” she asks.

“Wait you’re still not answering my question.”

“It can wait Mike,” she says with a cheerful smile as if she saying you already know the answer. She summons her hoverboard and jumps over it. Then she dashes off in the direction of the Moon Mountain without waiting for me to ride on my jet-motor.

mobius and other escapes “Welcome to my own MOBIUS,” Mara says as I enter her room.

She is sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor. The headgear and haptic gloves of the MOBIUS Online are still glowing. She must have been trying to level-up before I arrived. It takes sometime before my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. The blinds are shut, and practically there’s no amount of light coming inside.

I feel like I’m Jonah inside the belly of the whale.

There’s no way of telling whether it is day or night.

But I know it is sunny outside before I come here.

I put down my backpack beside her bed and scanned the room. There’s a shelf containing old stuff from a forgotten era. Eliza Victoria’s books, Vertigo comics, and Asimov’s collection of short stories. Also, there’s the complete set of Stranger Things Series Blu-ray, a couple of Christopher Nolan film CDs, Tame Impala’s Lonerism album, and other memorabilia. I wonder if there’s still a player available to watch those movies. I have thought of asking her but did not pursue it.

28

“Taking a break?” I ask.

She offers me one slice lunch. “Yep, hunting for my bow. I already killed two drops. RNG is not on sit down beside her.

She is eating a box of pizza. but I told her I already ate a Fine Crystal Gem to upgrade hundreds of ogres but only got my side.” I give her a nod and

I’m thinking of what to say to her, but she is looking down on her smartphone, checking messages and app notifications.

“Hey, I’ve brought what I promised,” I say, breaking the silence. I open my backpack and fish out the “The Queen is Dead” album of the Smiths.

“Are you sure the GMs will not ban us for this?”

“I already tried to upload it in my account so don’t worry.” I grab the scanner and get the Mobius code of the album. She let me use her account to upload the album.

Seconds later, the computer says “upload successful.”

“Great! Thanks! Now I don’t have to buy the full album.

I don’t know how you did it but I’m impressed.” She gives me a gleeful smile like the one she had when we finished the Tala Saga Quest.

“Well, I just found a loophole in the system and exploited it.” I don’t know if she heard my explanation though because she quickly puts on the Mobius headgear and as well as the game’s haptic gloves. She pushes the button on her temple and goes inside the game. Next, I hear the “There is a Light That Never Goes Out” flowing from the gear’s built-in headset.

“You also have the option to connect to your room’s audio system.”

“Oh yeah?” she shouts. “Well, let me try it.” The sound transfers to the room’s speakers blasting the song’s chorus. I watch her as she tries her new background music. But it looks like she is already enjoying her Fine Gem hunt. So I grab my backpack, pat her shoulder, and 29

say goodbye.

“Are you leaving now?” she abruptly stops playing and takes off her headgear. “Yes, I still have a deadline to finish. Work-related stuff,” I shout, trying to overpower Morrissey’s voice over the speakers.

“Okay, just give me message if you need my help. By the way, thank you for giving me a copy of this album. I really appreciate it,” she says, flashing her smile. She put back the headgear, and I leave her room.

mobius and other escapes For some reason, there was one time she agreed with me to go to a theme park in the Metropolis. It was a galaxythemed park that features different adventures for its guests. It was only two train stations away from her apartment so it was a pretty easy travel.

I remembered she enjoyed the Interstellar Rollercoaster in which we travelled different star formations and galactic systems while strapped in a moving car. She held my hand when we passed through a series of exploding stars and nebulas. The explosions felt like they were real, complete with high definition audio and realistic 3D graphics. When we dived into the Jupiter’s Great Red Spot, it was the first time I heard her scream like that—a mix of enjoyment and fear. As we went closer to the planet’s huge swirling storm, I said: “Put your hands in the air and shout!” Both of us were laughing when the rollercoaster safely landed back to Earth.

“You know it’s amazing when we can find escapes in our mundane life. It was like realizing that there’s still something out there, waiting for us to explore,” she said while sipping a strawberry milkshake in a café. Sheets of Aurora Borealis were hanging above us. Their color was changing from bright green to dark purple. Its effects though were not still good enough to convince us that they were real northern lights.

30

“What do you mean?” I inquired.

“You know there’s the Mobius, the Vive Glass. This theme park. We know that they are all inside this reality that we know. But somehow they give us a feeling of being transported to another world. They are the cut-offs in our real world.”

“Why use ‘we’? I’m not yet agreeing with you,” I argued.“Isn’t that a counterproductive act? You’re trying to find escape from real life when there’s so much more that we have to fix. It is like trying to resolve your problems by getting drunk,” I said before taking a sip of my ice-cold beer while looking at her.

She let out a chuckle, appreciating my act. “So Mr. Philosopher, what should I do with my boring life?” she asked with the familiar smile on her lips, showing her dimples on her right cheek.

I did not reply. I had an answer in my mind but I’m not confident enough to give her an advice. I paid the bill and we went outside to check out the other shops. Beside the café, there’s a plaza and benches. Families were strolling around the park together with their kids and babies on strollers. Right beside the bench area, there were groups of teens wearing Mobius headgears and gloves.

That spot might be the designated Mobius Area. The teens were shooting guns in the air and shouting commands to each other. It looked like they are in an intense PVP guild battle.

mobius and other escapes When get I back to Mara’s room, she is watching a VRmovie in the Vive Glass. It is an add-on feature in the Mobius that gives users an experience that they are inside the movie. A much more immersive experience than the IMAX cinema of the past. Viewers have the liberty to roam around inside the movie. I look at the title displayed on the device, “Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of 31

the World” by Haruki Marukami.” I didn’t know they’ve released the VRmovie version earlier than the scheduled date.

“Hey,” I greet her. I haven’t tried to ask her about the movie as she seems so engrossed watching it. The question may only just hang in the air and disappear. But minutes later she acknowledges my presence.

“This is great. Join me,” she gives me another pair of Vive Glass so that I can also see the movie. Luckily, I bring my Mobius headgear and gloves with me. I install the glass and join her inside the movie. She points to a guy running towards a huge castle. The thin guy is wearing black long sleeves. He is with a girl with blackrimmed glasses. Both of them seem to be running from something, but it is still not yet revealed in the frame.

“That guy reminds me of you,” she says. I move around the bespectacled, lanky guy and try to see our similarities, but I can’t find any significant likeness. We watched the rest of the VRmovie in silence.

I remove my headgear and sit at the edge of her bed. “The weather is good outside,” I say cheerfully. “Rainy season is over. Sun is shining high, perfect for a short walk.

Care to join me?”

“Nah, not in the mood right now. Besides, I already have enough food supply here so there’s no reason to go out.“ “Well, there’s a big concert on the Plaza Grounds tonight. Some of the new indie bands will be playing. And guess who is their main act?” I say, trying to get the conversation going.

She shakes her head. “I can see it right now. Groups of people are now gathering around the stage waiting for the front acts. A mix of pretentious music-lovers and fame whores. Bands nowadays are just internet stars with huge following.”

“You used to like to go to these concerts.”

32

“Hey!” she yells. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I’m more comfortable inside here. I have shelter, food supply that can last for a month, and stable internet connection. I got everything I could ever need. And I really appreciate occasional visits from a friend like you. “ I wanted to tell more reasons to go outside, but I know I wouldn’t be able to convince her. So I give her a reassuring smile and pat her shoulder. I stand up from her bed and get something in my backpack.

“This might keep you company.” I hand her a flash drive containing the VRmovie that I was telling her last week.

“Oh great thanks. Wasn’t able to find a copy in torrent sites. I’ll give your flash drive when you come back.”

I nod, thinking about the possibility of coming back here to retrieve the flash drive. I wave her goodbye and leave the room.

mobius and other escapes Mara was living in a three-story apartment in Makati.

She was working in a graphics design company where I was a copy writer. That was before businesses moved to the Internet. Everyone can now practically stay inside their room, do their job, shop , and entertain themselves online.

Mara and I used to wonder around the Metropolis after work. We had a lot of spare time. Being single with good paycheck was a huge luxury for us. We don’t have to worry about responsibilities. At first, we play Mobius after work. Our job was pretty easy so sometimes we play in between job orders. Our boss was also playing the game so it wasn’t a problem.

Most of the time, Mara and I finish quests and join PVP battles in the game. If we were not playing Mobius, the two of us were going to retro arcade shops where we played classic video games like Tekken and Street 33

Fighter. Aside from games, we also shared a lot common interest in movies and comics. She described these things as little Mobiuses as they have little worlds of their own, which she defined as “perfect flawed worlds”.

It did not take long before the online world took over the real world. Businesses could now build virtual offices inside the Mobius and do transactions. College students could get degrees inside the game. Players could shop in virtual malls and restaurants and have the items delivered straight to their door. That was the time Mara started to imprison herself inside her room.

In one of my visits, I asked her why she chose to live inside her room playing Mobius instead of sprawling out in the world. At first I thought the question would offend her but thankfully it did not. “I love this world,” gesturing her arm to the headgear as if it was the embodiment of the online world. “It is perfect in its own way. I can be anything I want and do anything I want, without fear of being rejected. I can be what I want to be. I can present myself the way I want to . Plus, there’s certainty in this world. I know where the quests are going to start and how they’re gonna end. In books and movies, all of the things are happening for a reason.

Not unlike the real world where the rules are not clear.

Expectation and reality do not always meet.”

There were times when I’m walking around the Metropolis, paying bills, or buying groceries and I think about Mara.

She really didn’t open up to me. We’ve only talked about our shared interests in her “perfect flawed worlds.” I didn’t know where she studied college, her first job, or even If she still had parents. Those were the parts of her that seems untouchable, a void. But maybe, I am thinking, I’m not the person whom she would say those things. Or maybe, I am just another Mobius for her. A cut-off from her real world. Another place where she wants to find comfort.

But still I went back to her room a number of times to find an answer. There were times when I caught her reading comics or books. Sometimes, she would not let me 34

disturb her when she is in a difficult quest that she has to finish. During these times, I would sit beside her and log in to the game to help her.

Even though there’s barely enough light inside her room, I saw how her appearance changed. She became thinner and thinner that her collar bones were sticking out. It looked like she was not eating meals on time. And her room was slowly becoming a storage room for her things.

Her books, CDs, comics, and other stuff were splayed around the floor. The whole room was littered with dirty plates and unwashed laundry.

“Are you expecting something from me?” she asked in one of my visits. “Why are you coming back here?” She had these sullen moods once in a while. But I think it was just her way of reassuring that I’ll still accompany her whenever she felt lonely. Sometimes I think these were the times that she was having her period, but I didn’t dare to ask. I’ll just let the mood pass and she’ll be alright again.

Months and months had passed that I couldn’t remember how many times I’ve been into this room. I couldn’t also remember the last time that we went out in the Metropolis. The feeling of holding her real hands was escaping me. Have we seen each other more times in the Mobius? There’s no way of finding out. The memories of our off-world adventures and her room were starting to get blurred.

By this time, I knew this was our story now. There could be a number of ways on how it would end, depending on our intentions. She might still stay inside her room until she completes all of the quests in Mobius, or I might be able to forget her and find another woman. But if were to decide the ending of this story, I would end it this way: I would let her read the imaginary worlds that I wrote. A collection of short stories and two unpublished novels.

I think she would like my last novel; it was a crime noir involving time-travelling characters. I would also hear feedback to these stories. I’ll listen to her, look 35

to her eyes, while she is saying her thoughts. After immersing herself to these stories, I would let her enter into my world.

I know it’s a boring one. It was a series of mediocre achievements and hundreds of disappointments. But we might have a couple of interesting conversations.

Philosophizing life and small talks about the nature of the universe.

I would invite her into my room. We’ll sit at the table in my veranda. Or maybe we’ll put a carpet on the terrace and lie on the floor while gazing at the stars—the real Tala. We would speculate if they were still twinkling in their own time. She’ll tell me about her childhood memories, her unforgettable birthday celebrations, the day she knew her parents will be separated, her first heartbreak. After getting tired of talking, she’ll stood up and go back inside. She’ll play the “There is a Light that Never Goes Out” in my speakers. Then I’ll put my arms around her and wait until we fall asleep.

36

After She Read My Short Story and We Went to Baguio

The dim light inside the hotel room was just right for her to read. She wanted to read that way. “It improves my focus. Besides, I don’t want to see you while I’m reading your work.

Just sleep there. I’ll wake you up when I’m finished.” The blanket was pulled up, covering her breasts.

Beside her, the young man was naked. His head was lying on the back of his arms. He was staring at the ceiling, waiting for her to finish the story.

“Well, you’re doing well. This is the character that I imagine the first time I read this story. What’s her name again?”

“Samantha,” he answered in a soft voice.

The girl puffed her cigarette and blew the smoke on his chest. She put down the paper and licked his nipples and went down to his stomach. The young man wanted to end it now. He didn’t know that she would reach this far. He should not have started it. Something inside her that the man didn’t want to see finally came out. She could finally be herself. That’s what he was thinking, when she was on top of him and they had sex for the second time. s

s

s

Tony had just finished the first draft of his manuscript, which he planned to release next year, when Samantha came home from a rehearsal for a play which would be shown in CCP next month. She caught Tony in front of his laptop.

37

She put down her bag on the table. “Just proofreading.

I’ll be finished soon,” Tony said gleefully and kissed her cheeks.

“Working hard huh. I’ll just change clothes,” she said.

She came back to the table wearing a loose dark blue T-shirt and floral pajama pants. She sat and stared at him, flushed. She had missed him for the whole day because of the rehearsals. “Can you make some coffee?” Tony said, looking into her eyes with a smile on his lips. Without hesitation, she stood and went to the kitchen.

Their apartment was just enough for two people. There’s room for the two of them and they have a common area where they eat and work. Their 10th floor apartment room belonged to Tony’s mother. She didn’t hesitate for a second when Tony asked her if Samantha could live here while she was looking for a vacant apartment near the studio. Actually, Samantha was the one who had some hesitation, but Tony assured her that it was really okay.

She also did not have to share for the rent. However, Samantha had only one condition: they would sleep in separate rooms.

They had known each other for two years now. They met in college. Tony wrote the script for a play where Samantha played one of the major characters. They dated and found out they have a lot of common interest. Wedding was not on their mind right now. Samantha wanted to go abroad to pursue Theater Arts, and Tony wanted to finish his MA in Creative Writing.

The kettle whistled. Samantha poured the boiling water to two separate cups and added instant coffee. She brought them to the table and sat beside Tony. “Do you have plans next week?” she asked. The smell of the coffee excited his senses.

“It’s long weekend right? I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll just read or sleep. Why?” he responded, blowing the thin smoke on his coffee.

38

“Well good! I am thinking of going to Baguio. You want?

I want to feel some cold breeze,” she blushed, thinking about new adventures that they would have. She put her elbow on the table and placed her cheeks on her hand.

“Besides, we haven’t yet taken a vacation there. We planned to go last year but we postponed our trip. We went to Tagaytay instead because of heavy traffic going north. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah. That was July, right? So I guess if we leave earlier, we would be not be stuck in traffic,” he moved closer to her and put his arms around her shoulders.

“I’ll do our itinerary tomorrow.” He got the calendar beside his laptop. “Let’s see hmm,” he said, checking the possible dates. His free hand was caressing her arms.

“Let’s leave on Friday. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, I think it’s good.” She kissed him softly on the lips and he hugged her.

“By the way, can you read this story and tell me your thoughts about it?” He printed the manuscript on bond paper and gave it to Samantha. s

s

s

She wanted to play different roles. She loves the idea that she can be another person on stage. Interestingly enough, her roles were always different from the one she had played before. There was one time she portrayed a damsel-in-distress girl in one play, and in another show, she played as an evil stepmom. The roles were given randomly, like a motel attendant allocating room to two strangers. So she can’t practically choose which one suits her personality. Sometimes, she thought her body is independent to her mind. She can be in different states of personality, but her physical body is still the same.

She often longed to feel free with her body, just like other girls her age. But there were expectations for women that she has to adhere, which is why it when comes to her real self, she wanted to be decent as much as possible.

39

Her face was not that appealing. A kind of face that would not stand out in a crowd. It was her acting that made her characters convincing. However, even though she had played many roles on stage, she didn’t change her personality towards Tony. She remained sweet, cheerful, and loving partner. But there were times she thought: what if Tony would meet a girl that was more enjoyable than her. A girl that would give him some thrill. In their two-year relationship, they already became too comfortable to each other, and sometimes she thought Tony was slowly becoming sick of her. So, on their way to Baguio, she gave her partner some challenge.

“Do you remember the story that you let me read last week?” she said to Tony while munching on a bag of chips.

Hands on the steering wheel and eyes focused on the road, Tony thought about the manuscript. They had just arrived in Baguio City. It took sometime before he remembered the scenes in the short story.

“Oh yeah, so what do you think about it? Is it good enough?”

Samantha collected her thoughts for a second, thinking about her initial impression of the story. “The flow of the story is interesting. It makes the reader puzzled but there are some flaws in the characters. I don’t know, but the girl who is,” she hesitated for a second, “named after me is not acting based on her role.”

Tony did not answer. They had just passed the Burnham Park. He had booked a room in Cloud Hotel in La Trinidad.

However, they had to stopover when he noticed that the needle on the gas gauge suddenly dipped towards empty. He signaled to his left and drove to the nearest gas station, near 7-Eleven. It was already 5:00 in the afternoon but the sky was overcast. It was gloomy like a storm was coming.

“What made you say that?” Tony asked Samantha while waiting for their turn at the gas station.

40

“Hmm there are inconsistencies in her role. Sometimes she is this sweet girlfriend, and then there are scenes when she becomes a femme fatale-kind of woman. The reader might be confused if there are inconsistencies in her character.“ Tony did not respond. He was looking at the big 4X4 Isuzu Land Cruiser in front of them, refilling gas. He took a glance on his watch, estimating their arrival at the hotel. “Hey, did I say something wrong?” Samantha hugged Tony’s arms and put her head on his shoulders. “I’m sorry. It’s just my observation.”

There were times when Samantha was not confident when Tony asked her opinions about his works. She felt her comments do not have any substance, but she appreciated the fact that Tony would like to know her thoughts.

“No, don’t say sorry, love.” He kissed her forehead softly, smelling her lavender-scented shampoo. “I’m just thinking what time we’ll arrive at the Cloud. There might be a heavy traffic in Session now. If we will have some free time tonight, I’m planning to revise the manuscript, so that I’ll just send it by the time we get back to Manila. Let’s just enjoy our vacation, all right?”

The driver of the Isuzu Land Cruiser was talking to an attendant. They seem to be in some kind of trouble as the driver was pointing fingers to the attendant. The cars behind them were blowing horns.

“What’s happening?” Samantha asked.

“I guess the attendant made some mistake.”

“Okay, while we’re waiting, I’ll just go to ladies room and maybe get some snack for us. There’s a convenience store nearby. What do you want?”

“I’m fine. Anything that you want will be fine” “Okay, love,” she planted a kiss on his lips. “Just wait for me at the corner.”

41

“Be quick. I’ll be missing you,” he whispered in a sweet tone before she opens the door. She responded with a smile. s s s Tony did not mind that Samantha might had different partners on stage. That was her job and she was just portraying a character. It was very much the same in writing. He was putting himself in one of the characters of the story but it was not necessarily himself. He was just putting some elements of himself to the character.

In his two-year relationship with Samantha, there were times when he thinks she should be like this and she should be like that. But no, he really loved his partner.

He did not want to shape her based on his expectations.

He wanted to love her for who she really was.

But after their conversation about his new short story, things started to change. At first, he thought it was her way to help him write one of the characters.

After refilling gas, he parked at the corner near the highway and waited for Samantha. It did not take long before he saw her on the side mirror, walking towards him. She was carrying two paper bags. She knocked on the heavy-tinted window. He hesitated for a second then he rolled down the window.

“Hi,” the girl said, peering at him from outside. “Waiting for someone? I didn’t know where my boyfriend went. He was just refilling gas a while ago and then he was gone.

Is it okay if I stay here for a while?”

His eyebrows curled. He thought for a minute about what to say. “Yeah sure, hop in.” He opened the door for her.

The girl sat beside him. She got a pack of toasted bread from the paper bag. She opened it and got one stick for herself.

“So where are you heading?” the young man asked, trying to pretend as a gentleman behind the wheel.

“Well, my boyfriend told me he booked us a room in Cloud 42

Hotel. You know, the famous hotel with the grand view of clouds and the city.”

“Oh what a coincidence! I’m going to that hotel too.

Would you like to go with me?” He felt it was not his words that came out from his mouth. He was trying his best to be in character.

“Well, I don’t mind. Let’s go,” the girl responded. The driver signaled to his right and stepped on the gas. The sports car left the gasoline station.

When they got to the highway going to La Trinidad, there was a slight traffic. It was a long weekend anyway.

Baguio is one of the favorite destinations of Manilenyos during holiday. While waiting for the red light to turn green, Tony tried to play with Samantha.

“I guess it is true what they say. Baguio girls are beautiful.”

“You’re a liar,” she said but she was very grateful from the compliments of the young driver beside her.

“Do I look like a liar?”

“You seem know how to flirt with women.” She suddenly felt jealous. It was the same feeling when she suspected Tony was hanging out with one of his new colleagues in the faculty. But it turned out it was only an office gossip.

She knows Tony is faithful to her, but there were times when she just couldn’t help herself to be suspicious at him.

Tony sensed a bit jealousy in Samantha’s words. For the longest time they were together, he already knew if she had something in her mind and she just didn’t want to say it. However, he didn’t mind her words as she only said that to an unknown driver beside her.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

“No,

we

are

not

dating

anyway.

We’re

just

complete 43

strangers. We’ve only known each other an hour ago. So, it does not bother me.” The girl’s words contained subtle message for the young man. And then she addressed the driver. “After we arrive at the hotel, we are on our own ways again.”

“Why?” Tony asked.

“I’ll be with my boyfriend. We’re planning to go around and visit the Strawberry Farm.”

“Would you like to go with me, instead? I’ll drive you around. Besides, your boyfriend might not be on that hotel. He might be with someone else too,” He paused, thinking about the imaginary guy that was waiting for the girl beside her. “That was only my guess.”

At these words, the girl looked up to his man. was alarmed on how he was trying to flirt with (unknown stranger). She felt the familiar anxiety he was coming late at night, suspecting he went out someone. So she responded with provocativeness.

She her when with

“What would you like to do with me?” she looked at him, biting her lips.

“Well, let’s see.” He gripped the steering wheel tightly, while looking at the red light. “There are many things to do with a beautiful girl like you,” he said gallantly. He wanted to sound like a tough guy. But when he looked at her face, her defiant look made him feel sorry for the girl. He wanted to end the show now. He wanted to talk to Samantha again.

The light turned green. He stepped on the gas. He took a glance at Samantha and put his arms around her shoulders.

“Hey, you’re too fast. I’m not that kind of girl.” She blurted out, removing his arms from her shoulders. s

s

s

She had known Tony as a meticulous and organized man.

His clothes were carefully arranged in his closet and 44

drawers. His room was amazingly clean and did not have a speck of dust. His books were protected with precisely trimmed and folded plastic covers. Compared to her, he was a more orderly person.

She was surprised with herself when she tried to pose as a character that Tony was writing in a short story. She wanted to show him how the Samantha in the story should react. So she acted how she imagines the character.

However, things started to change on their way to Cloud Hotel. She saw how he was enjoying the show. She sensed his desire for the girl. An aggressive, wild, and spontaneous young girl. A complete opposite of her. It felt absurd for her to feel jealous to the character that she was portraying.

When they got close to the hotel, she wanted to end the show. She wanted to be with her man again.

“I guess we can have a rest for now. It’s been a long ride,” she said to Tony. Up ahead, she can already see the 7-floor Cloud Hotel situated at the edge of a cliff. It was at the right side of the forked road. The Cloud Hotel towered its nearby right-lane establishments. According to its website, the hotel has “…spectacular overlooking view of the city and a sea of clouds.”After seeing the pictures on the website, they both agreed that they would spend the long weekend at that hotel.

On the other hand, to the left side of the forked road, there were over-grown bushes and trees. It was the Hanselma National Highway going to Mountain Province.

As they approach the forked road, Samantha imagined how they will spend their honeymoon in the future. But when the car was only 100 meters away from the Cloud hotel, the driver signaled to the left and turned to the other direction.

“Hey! Where are you going?” the girl asked anxiously.

“Just be calm. I’ll take care of you.”

The game went on a higher gear. Tony didn’t mind the 45

premium room reserved in the Cloud hotel. They were now moving to an unplanned narrative. Tony and Samantha were now moving away from themselves, heading to the characters that they have not yet explored. The fiction became real.

“You said you booked a room in that hotel?”

“I’m a free man, miss. I’ll go wherever I want to said without looking at her, feeling like a tough stepped on the gas harder revving up the engine. like a self-assured man out of trashy Hollywood car movies.

go,” he guy. He He felt action-

At that point, she decided to play the show with him as long he wanted. This could be a test for their relationship.

It was the first time that she saw this side of him.

For countless months that they were together in the apartment, she was always thinking the other side of Tony that she has not yet seen. Her mother said you would only know the true character of a man once you lived with him under a single roof. But Tony always projected himself as a responsible and an orderly man to her.

On their way to Mountain Province, the driver casually looked at the girl beside him. With a mischievous smile on his face, he asked: “So what do you do? I guess you should talk for us to get to know each other.”

“It does not matter. We just have to stay this way. We don’t have to know each other. If we start falling in love, things might fall apart. You know what I am saying?”

She imagined how a bitchy heroine in cheap pocketbooks would say that. She gave him a sharp look.

The driver just nodded in response, thinking if she said those words to the stranger beside her or to her partner.

The girl took something from the paper bag. A pack of White Marlboros. She fished a stick and put it between her lips. “Mind if I smoke here?” she lit the cigarette before the young driver could answer. She rolled down the windows and blew a smoke. Reclining her seat, she put her feet on the dashboard. She didn’t plan to light the 46

cigarette from the start. She just wanted to show it to him as props. But she was enjoying the show now.

It was the first time that the young man saw her smoking.

He tried not to mind her gesture and asked for a stick.

“Can I bum a smoke?” he asked. The girl handed the pack to him. She did want to be dominated.

“My hands are on the wheel. How will I get one?” he looked at the girl with a grin. She sighed. She got a stick from the pack and put it between the young driver’s lips in a rough gesture.

“So I’ll just wait before it start to ignite?” he said with sarcasm. She gave him a feisty look. She lit his cigarette with a lighter intentionally letting its flame lick his chin.

“Aw! It stings!” he yelled. She only let out a chuckle.

She turned the radio on, put her feet back on the dashboard, and blew a cloud of smoke outside. Keane’s Everybody’s Changing flew from the speakers. The smoke from her cigarette quickly disappeared in the air and invisibly moved back to the forked road. Tony and Samantha were now moving faraway.

So little time/ Try to understand that I’m/Trying to make a move just to stay in the game/I try to stay awake and remember my name/But everybody’s changing/And I don’t feel the same

s

s

s

It became dark when they arrived at Atok, Benguet. He wanted to drive all the way to Sagada, but driving by night in this mountainous terrain was difficult. He asked several passers-by and local people to know the nearest hotel where they could stay for a while. It took him several turns and change of direction before they got to the nearest and cheapest hotel. He didn’t mind the reserved room in the Cloud. It could wait until tomorrow.

47

Besides, it would be good to spend the first night of their vacation in an unexpected fashion. He picked an old hotel beside the highway. It had a small diner beside it where they could eat dinner.

The young man parked his car in the middle of the diner and the hotel. There were no convenience stores in the area or other commercial establishments. Crickets were chirping everywhere. At the side of the road, they could see the glowing city lights.

Without a word, the girl got out of the car, slammed the door and peered through the window. “I’ll get us a room and I’ll take a shower later. What are you planning to do?,” she asked the driver behind the wheel.

“Just see me at the diner. I have to make a call.” She didn’t ask who he was calling. Actually, he was just making an excuse. He wanted to make some revision in the manuscript.

“Okay, see you later,” the girl said before strolling to the hotel’s entrance.

After seeing the girl disappear in the hotel’s tiny entrance, he took out his laptop and went out of the car.

Inside the diner, Tony was in his normal self again.

He was upset that he was in this remote town. Their itinerary wasn’t followed because of some stupid game.

But they had already reached this far, so there was no stopping now.

While editing his work, he imagined Samantha making herself beautiful for the young man whom she had just met a while ago. He could not shake off the fact that she was with her right now, but this was not the Samantha that she used to be with. He was surprised on how she was trying to seduce him like a loose woman while he was driving. Her provocative stares and seductive way of showing her legs. He felt mad thinking she was doing it for a stranger. However, he didn’t want to admit that he liked her provocativeness. It was the first time that he saw in her that wild sexual state.

48

Inside the room, Samantha was in her normal state again.

While she was taking a shower, she imagined how Tony would spend a night with a girl in a remote hotel in Benguet. On their way to this town, she saw how Tony expertly flirted with her as if he was doing it for the longest time. She observed the satisfaction on his face when he succeeded to pick up a girl in Baguio and drove all the way to this hotel. She knew he was thrilled on her tricks. She knew his fetishes.

She felt a bit of shame seducing him, but she was pleased that the show allowed her to become what she had not felt until now: a free-spirited, happy-go-lucky woman.

She liked the stares of the young driver while she was showing her legs. She couldn’t do that if she was in her normal self. Tony would not let her act like that. But tonight was different. She didn’t want to act based on the expectation of others. She wanted to feel free with her body.

On her way to the diner, she sensed some foreigners in the lobby were staring at her chest. It was the same feeling she had when she caught her high school classmates at the back row staring at her blossoming chest while she was reporting. She was a bit shy at first, but she liked the idea that the boys were attracted to her.

Now, she felt how the stares of the strangers were following her on her way to the diner. She didn’t mind the awkward feeling. She knew how to draw attention. So she savored the attention that she was getting. One of the foreigners whistled and called her, but she didn’t mind it. She went straight to the young man’s table.

She saw Tony working on his laptop. But by the time she sat at the table, he had closed it. “Did you make the phone call?” she asked. She tried if his tongue would slip. But he did not answer the query. Instead, he threw another question.

“What took you so long? You don’t have to prepare so much. Your boyfriend might become suspicious if he had found out your wearing different perfume,” he said after 49

smelling her new scent—a spicy yet aromatic scent of perfume.

“Don’t think about it. Are you afraid we’ll get caught?”

“Why should I?” He defended himself. He felt she was trying to test his masculinity. He did not want to be overpowered.

They ordered a bowl of chicken soup and two glasses of beer. The diner quickly filled with people. It was noisy.

Stainless spoons and forks clatter in concert with loud chatter in Ilocano. There were some locals but most of the people at the other tables were tourists. She saw the two foreigners that had catcalled her in the hotel lobby.

“See those two white men at the corner? They had catcalled me on my way here. Perverted old foreigners.”

“Well, what do you expect? You look like a slut. Those boobs are calling for attention,” he replied. She looked at him. She was surprised on how the young man casually called her like that. She felt humiliated with his words.

Silence. They did not speak to each other for a while.

It was as if both of them were thinking what their characters would say in this situation. Or rather, they were thinking about how to end this role playing without ruining their vacation. Gotye’s Somebody I Used to Know was playing through the speakers.

“So you’re editing it now?” she asked while pouring the beer on her glass, trying to change the topic.

“What are you talking about? The manuscript? I don’t know whores have also interest in reading,” he chuckled.

“Hey, you’re being rude!” Her shout alarmed the other customers. They looked at the young couple.

“That’s not how to behave like a woman,” he whispered to her. He pressed her hand on the table. She felt the heaviness of his hand. She was hurt. She looked at him 50

in the eyes, wondering where his Tony went. She was now seeing a complete stranger in front of her. She didn’t finish her meal. She stood and stormed off.

Tony paid their bill and followed her. Inside the room, he found her sitting at the edge of the bed. She didn’t want him to see how weak she was. She didn’t want him to see that she was crying. She wiped her tears and stood and faced the young man. She should be strong. Without a word, she kissed him hardly on his lips. She rolled her tongue inside his mouth. It was the kiss of bitterness, revenge, anger, and all other emotions inside her. She had to let it out. It was the first time that she made love to him that way. It was painful to her to realize that she really did not fully know her partner.

Tony enjoyed her wildness. He pushed her hard on the bed, putting his body on top of her. “Strip!” he shouted at the girl in front of her. She refused. She still didn’t want to undress. She put her arms over her breasts. But the young man forcibly pulled her hands away. He pinned the hands of the girl, and with his free hand, he took off the girl’s dress. He entered her hard. s

s

s

While lying on the bed, Tony apologized for his reaction at the diner. He explained that he didn’t mean to do it.

He just got carried away by his emotions. They were in their normal state now, but she had seen enough.

She waited for the young man to be asleep. She packed her things and got the car keys. He made me do this, she said to herself. She was crying on her way out. I don’t want to be treated that way again.

In the morning, by the time he woke up, she had already left.

51

Of In-Between Places

You were sitting at a bar, drinking a summerblend cocktail—a mix of a light rum, lime juice, and strawberries. Perfect blend for this fine, warm weather of Liwa. You can hear the waves rustling in your left ear. It’s not yet surfing season but the waves were large enough to crash hard on the shore. In your mind, you pictured how they slowly build their momentum in the middle of the ocean, and then lay down on the coast as if tired from a long journey. For some reason, the sound had a calming effect on you.

It blended well with the music playing at the background.

You looked around, and you see the tables were slowly filling up with guests. A host of young professionals who travelled all the way here to have a break from work. They picked the best spots where they can sit comfortably and watch the sunset.

Some lied on the hammocks tied between coconut trees, while others settled at two lounge chairs under each umbrella with mandala-patterned cushions. Between the kiosk and the shoreline everything was clean and neat. The air was calm, the sea was quiet, and the late afternoon sun shimmered with metallic orange splendor between black silhouettes of the few passersby: a young hippie couple smoking, a solitary man looking out at the ocean holding a bottle of beer, a surfing board stuck into the sand beside him.

You also recognized some familiar faces. The regulars. Sitio Liwa does not have a decent accommodation, not even a good restroom, but 53

why these young people, who are accustomed to luxuries of life in the metropolis, keep coming back here? Maybe it is because of the waves? The carpet of stars at night?

Or maybe because of the community?

Amidst of this crowd flocking in your makeshift bar, you noticed this girl at the counter. She was hunched on the table, writing something in a Moleskine notebook.

You don’t know how long she was sitting there; it was as if she suddenly came into existence in that place and decided to sit at that spot. And then you asked yourself: why would someone go to Liwa to write in a bar when everyone was drinking and taking a break?

She picked up a pack of Esse Slims from the table and was holding a plastic lighter, a cheap one to a cigarette while reading what she had written in her notebook. She was wearing a comfortable dark blue swimsuit that fits perfectly on her slim figure. Her sun-bleached curly hair was splayed on her shoulders. She was shoeless, her feet half buried in the sand.

She raised her hands. The waiter behind the counter noticed her but you gestured to him that you’ll attend to the girl’s order. You walked towards her direction and asked what she is getting. She ordered a tall glass of melon shake, no ice.

“Is that all you’re having?” you asked.

She flashed a nervous smile at you and said in an apologetic tone, “I don’t really drink.”

“Then why hangout in a bar?” you said, flashing a smile to her.

“Oh,” she chuckled a little, backing away a little bit.

“I don’t usually drink while writing. It loses my focus.”

Flirting to a customer was not your thing but it’s a way to make them comfortable staying at your bar. Liwa was just a small community. One would get to know everyone else eventually. So it was a good thing to start making 54

acquaintances. Plus, making a conversation to customers kept the drink orders coming, or so you were told.

“So I guess you’re writing about Liwa,” you said leaning to the bar. “Well, I would not blame you. This place feels perfect. The vibe, the people, and the waves. They make you feel at home and relaxed. If I knew how to write I might also write a book about this place. But I don’t know how, so I only put up this small bar to serve as a home for guests like you. Are you staying here for a research? Or is that what you call it?” you asked.

“Well, yeah, you can call it that way,” she lit the cigarette perched between her lips.

You moved closer to the girl; just enough space to make her comfortable. Then you said slowly, “So maybe if I played my cards right, I might end up as a character in one of your stories.” She stopped writing and looked at you. You thought your interruption would annoy her, but her lips curled slightly, making her dimple pop out.

“I… I suppose so,” she said, looking at you behind the cigarette smoke, her eyes were slightly almond shaped.

“I haven’t met a writer here yet, or even read a story set here.”

“Really?”

A short pause. You put your elbows on the table and looked straight at the girl. “Okay, let’s say you’re writing this story. And I am one of the characters in it.

What name would you give to him?”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Carlo” “Carlo´ is a good name for a character that is a beach guy.”

“And what does ‘Carlo the beach guy’ does in your story?”

55

you asked. She looked at you straight in the eye all of a sudden. You saw a glimmer in her eyes that wasn’t there before. You can feel the rapport between you and the girl.

“Well, let’s see. Carlo is a character with a past. Let’s say he is running away from something that’s why he ended up here in Liwa. He decided he’ll make a small business to keep himself busy. He enjoys watching people, and tourists are beginning to discover this small surfing village in Zambales. So it might be a good decision to stay here for a while.”

She paused a little. “Go on. Continue,” you insisted.

“So he ends up in a place just where we are right now, where no one he knows would find him, or so he thinks.”

Something about her made you unsettled. You already taught yourself how to compartmentalize things, to separate one thing from another. Listening to the girl’s story brought back some memories that you chose to forget.

Those memories had not been buried deep enough in your mind, so one moment they could crawl back to the surface, just like now.

Before she continued wait while you make to the kitchen. Then glass across the bar said.

her story, you gestured to her to her melon shake, no ice. You went minutes later, you pushed the tall towards her. “Please continue” you

She went on: “Carlo befriends this girl sitting alone at the counter. She seems a little lost. So he talks to her to make her comfortable while staying at his bar.”

“What’s her name?” you asked.

“Abi” “Abi huh?” you nodded, curling your lips.

“Yes, Abi is her name.”

56

“So what happens next to Carlo and Abi?” “Abi does not drink.”

“Why she is in a bar then?”

“Perhaps she is bored inside her room. So she decides to take a little walk to calm her mind. She found this small restaurant near the shoreline and ‘Carlo the beach guy’ approached her.”

“And then after that?”

“They talk.”

“They quickly become comfortable to each other?”

“Yes, it’s possible. It can happen.”

“And that’s it?”

“Abi asks him if they can watch the sunset together. Then Carlo walks her back to the hostel where she is staying.”

“And?” “They have sex inside her room.”

Your lips curled a little. You were now flushing. You felt your insides shift. You didn’t anticipate that plotline. Now, you couldn’t resist yourself to know what happens next to this fictional beach guy and his fictional friend.

“And then?” you said, trying too hard to sound casual.

“The next morning, they go surfing.”

“Abi knows how to surf?”

“She has tried before, but she does not know the best spots to catch waves in Liwa yet. So, Carlo takes her to what the locals call ‘Lahar Siyete.”

57

She has done her research, you said to yourself. Some locals don’t even know that surfing spot. It’s been a while since you surfed there. You can’t remember why, but the enjoyment of riding the waves has escaped you, so you asked the young woman.

“So they are going to surf the next morning at Lahar Siyete?”

“Yes” “And then?”

“Carlo will fall in love,” she said quickly with an air of certainty.

“Oh that’s fast” you scoffed. “How about Abi?” “She will break his heart.”

There was a brief silence between the two of you. The only sound you could hear was the lapping of waves on the shore and soft chatter of people. She finished her last sip of melon shake, gathered her things and put them inside her tote bag. Then she reached across the bar to shake your hand. The skin of her hands felt smooth, and her long tenderly fingers wrapped around your hand.

“My name is Abi, by the way” she said.

“Abi,” you repeated.

And so it was that you found yourself walking towards the shore. Abi was walking ahead of you, holding her notebook in her right hand. The sun was just beginning to set.

Its ray was reflected on the sea, dancing on the waves.

The two of you watched the scene in silence until the sun disappeared on the horizon. s

s

s

“So, are they going to end up together? What happens next?” the questions come to you quick like a gust of 58

wind. You turn towards the direction of the inquiring voice. The woman is wearing a brown summer hat that matches her off-shoulder floral printed dress. Her name is Michelle. What you remember is her smooth, tanned skin and sad goodbye.

It’s been a while since you last talked. 10 months?

2 years? You don’t want to remember. You don’t want to give a damn about the young woman. Still, it gives you some amusement: tanned girls with curly brown hair.

The surfing village of Liwa is full of girls who have beautifully tanned skin. During summer season, they are almost everywhere, carrying boards and flaunting perky butts. But you have come to wear a tie-dye shirt too, like the rest of the boys, and you realize how blending into the landscape can be accomplished without trying really hard. How easy it is to pretend to be a native in a town where everybody is from somewhere else, but not here.

You think about that because the humid evening began with you reading on the bar counter of Board Culture café. The place is illuminated by torch placed at the corners, and the café is fenced with bamboo posts. It is the second week of April and there are many guests walking around the surfing village.

Later, you find a young woman near you. This is Michelle.

She is just a few meters from you; an empty stool stands between the two of you. She is lost in her iPhone, scrolling her social media newsfeed, and you are lost in the ream of papers you call a “story”. You have found plot holes that give you problems, and her presence has struck as an intrusion. But actually, you are just trying to make yourself look busy. Both of you are thinking who will say “hi” first. You don’t want to give in.

Later, she says “Kumusta?” looking up to the menu scribbled on a blackboard, trying to avert your gaze. It takes sometime before you answered back. You just want to confirm that she is really talking to you. “I’m good.

It’s been awhile. This place is slowly getting crowded, ano?” you answered nonchalantly. Then she makes a small 59

talk about how tourists are changing Liwa. She orders drinks. Two bottles of Corona beer.

“For you,” she says pushing one of the bottles. “Welcome back, Carlo.” Hearing your name from her soft, lovely voice brings back some memories, but you try to shrug off the thought and get the bottle.

“Cheers?” you offer.

“Yeah, sure. For Liwa!” she says, raising her bottle.

“I heard you’re a writer now,” she asks, facing your direction.

You hesitate a bit before answering her question. “Yeah, I guess. You can call it that way. How about you, what are you doing right now?”

“Well, there’s nothing new. Still the same. The souvenir shop is doing well, thanks to the steady flow of tourists.

Remember the shirt you helped me design? It’s one of our bestsellers.”

“Good to hear that.”

“I want to read it,” she says, looking at the papers in front of you.

“Read what?”

“Your story about Liwa. The one that you are holding. It’s been awhile since you come back. There may be some details you got wrong,” she says with an air of confidence.

You shrug, and for whatever it’s worth and for some unknown reason, you begin reading. “You were sitting at a bar, drinking summer-blend cocktail…” you begin.

She moves to the empty stool beside you as you read. The words tumble out as you recite the story, and you make mental notes on possible revisions.

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Soon it is late in the evening. The DJ behind the counter starts to play some lo-fi jazz beats on the background.

Then you stop reading. This is the part where she asks you: So, are they going to end up together?

“I don’t know. I’m still thinking what will happen next,” you finally tell her. For a second, you think about her question—what happens next to the two characters? Are they going back to Manila together? Or one will stay here in Liwa—just like what happened to you and Michelle. You still don’t know the answer. You turn to Michelle and ask, “But does it work so far?”

She takes a sip of her beer before answering your question.

“It has something in it. But I want to know what goes on in‘Lahar Siyete.’ I sense there will be a tragic ending.”

“I still don’t know what happens next. I’m still thinking how will it end,” you reply, nursing the half-emptied Corona beer.

“So why are you writing the story?”

“Hmm let’s see,” you pause, thinking about your answer.

“It just came to me one day. I just felt like I needed to write this out, to write about this guy. I just want to find out what will happen to him. But I guess I just have to follow wherever the characters lead me.”

“That’s an interesting way of writing,” she says, taking a sip again. “I always thought writers played God in their characters, imposing their will on the story and putting the characters in a situation they don’t want to be in.”

“Sometimes they are stubborn. They want certain unexpected things to happen,” you add.

“And you follow their demands?”

“Yeah, most of the time. If didn’t do it I wouldn’t be able to finish my story.”

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“Abi will die,” she says, smiling.

“But why?”

She doesn’t answer. You don’t tell her either that there have been many other versions of the story.

She looks around, taking the last puff of her cigarette.

She stands up. “I must be going, it’s getting late,” she says. You nod and you stand as well. You gather the papers on the bar and hold them between your armpits.

“I’d like to know what happens next,” she says. “Maybe we can meet here again tomorrow. Same time?”

“Sure,” you say, shrugging, non-committal. s

s

s

You woke up earlier than usual. She was sleeping calmly next to you. Her soft breathing made you wonder what is she dreaming about. The aircon inside the room was humming in the background. What time is it? The curtains on the window were pulled down, but you could see the sunlight coming through the edges. You fumbled under the blanket to look for your cellphone, but you can’t find it. Instead, you found Abi’s naked legs. You gently pulled your hand under the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed. You looked for your boxers and pants, then you went inside the bathroom to change clothes and wash your face.

When you came back, Abi was still sleeping. But she had changed her position. She was now facing the ceiling, her mouth slightly opened. She seemed to be lost in the dream world.

You sat at her desk and tried to remember what happened last night. Even with effort, you could not exactly remember the steps that led you here in this room. The images were bleak but you had a sense of the sequence of events. All that came to you were flashes of recollection— there was the strange conversation at the beach and the 62

spellbinding walk going to this hotel.

The two of you watched the sunset until the sun disappeared on the horizon. “And just like that it’s gone,” she said while the two of you were sitting on the shoreline. The open sky shimmered in metallic orange and the clouds were hanging low above the blue sea.

“So why did you come back to Liwa?” she asked, looking at your direction.

“Life is a mess in Manila. It’s very toxic. Everyone’s competing for space, for money. But look at this place,” you said, gesturing your hand to the sky that hovers between orange and purple in the summer glow. “This is like a piece of heaven. Everything is calm and serene.”

“But you definitely need to come back to Manila to get good opportunities, you know? It’s beautiful herein Liwa but it’s not always like this. When the rainy season comes, profits will be hard to come by. The guests will come back to their normal routine, clocking 8 hours a day, waiting for the next paycheck.”

“What are you trying to say?” you asked.

“No matter how beautiful Liwa is, this is just an inbetween island; a breather after months of working in Metro Manila. Practically, you can’t live here. This place is an escape. In the end we still have to go back to city to live.”

You remembered you had that Manila is where you can find the place where you can have better career. Your “success” Liwa.

kind of thinking before: best opportunities. That’s good connections to get a will not come here in Sitio

After that conversation at the shore, you can’t recall what happened next. You found yourself wiping the tables in your bar and counting sales for the night. It was almost 2 AM when you could let yourself out of the bar, thinking about the warm bed waiting for you. But as you 63

were walking on the boardwalk, the sounds of beer-fueled conversations drifted towards you and there was the smell of pot smoke in the air. At the end of the boardwalk, you saw a shadow walking towards you. You had stopped a few feet off, and regarded the girl’s smile with surprise.

“How about drinking two bottles of beer before calling it a night,” Abi said.

“I thought you’re not drinking,” you said.

“Yes, I’m not. But you are. Come on, I have some drinks at my place.”

Like a drowning man ensnared in a whirlpool, you allowed her to drag you all the way to the hotel where she was staying. You remembered walking in a small alley and the sand was sticking to your slippers. The sound of waves was slowly escaping from your ears. The sound of chirping crickets entered your senses and you could hear the rustling of agoho trees up above. You can’t determine where you were headed. Street lights were turned off—the electricity must have been already cut off; it’s already 2 AM in the morning. The alley where you were walking was only illuminated by the moon. You followed Abi as she navigated the forking paths heading to the hotel where she was staying.

The Grand Palace Hotel seemed out of place in Liwa. It does not blend well with nipa hut inns, where you were staying, and other DIY cottages in the village. The Grand Palace has a beautiful landscape at its entrance, a fountain, and a mini pool. Its lobby was well-illuminated with chandelier and soft jazz music was playing at the background. For the first few minutes inside the hotel, you had a feeling that you’re not in Liwa.

Abi’s room was wide enough for one person. You quickly noticed her bag. She did not seem to have many things to carry with her. It was just a simple medium-sized North Face backpack with two small pockets at the center.

Nothing fancy. On the table beside the bed, you found freshly-rolled joints and her Red cricket lighter.

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“Got any siblings or parents waiting for you in Manila?” you asked.

“Nah. I’m living on my own. Why don’t you come with me?

There’s a place near my apartment where you can put up a small café or whatever you want to open there. It can be a good spot.” she said while dialing the operator’s number on her bedside telephone. She ordered two cans of Corona beer.

“I’ll think about that,” you replied.

“How about you? What keeps you busy before coming to Liwa?” she asked.

“Me?” you hesitated for a second. “Just got fired from my previous job and I needed time to think what I should do next. That’s why I decided to come here,” you lied. The truth was, your startup went bankrupt.

“So I guess we have a lot in common.”

“What do you mean?” you inquired.

“We both needed a break from our lives. And we found it here. You know what they say? You may not fall in love in Liwa but what happens in Liwa stays in Liwa,” she whispered in your left ear.

Abi abruptly stopped her sentence, then she moved closer to you. She ran her fingers through your hair, then gently caressed your face. She kissed your neck fervently like a vicious mermaid smelling her victim’s warm blood.

She pulled up her off-shoulder dress, revealing her velvet bikini. You helped her pull down her panties while she was taking off your shirt. What am I doing? you thought—but without a trace of panic. Instead, there was some amusement that you were flinging yourself into the whirlpool’s vortex, not knowing where you were headed.

In the morning, there she was lying beside you. When she wakes up, the two of you would head to Lahar Siyete to surf.

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s

s

s

“That’s some steamy scene huh?” Michelle says after taking a sip her melon-infused cocktail. You are sitting at the bar, drinking beer. From where you are, you can hear the sound of waves lapping on the shore.

“I saw it coming though,” Michelle continues, “It’s just too easy, it’s the kind of boy meets girl story anyone can write about. But then again, everyone likes this kind of stuff—the excitement of meeting a stranger in a beach and then ending up in bed. Your typical summer fling stories.”

“So tell me,” she moves closer to you, “do you often write this way?”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Writing confessional stories and putting something that happened in your life and turning it into a piece of fiction. The girl in the story. What’s her name again?”

“Abi,” you said in a deadpan tone.

“Yeah right Abi, I know I was that kind of girl before.

Young, reckless, carefree. But I’m not like that anymore.”

Silence.

You sigh deeply and look at the half-finished bottle of beer in your hand. “Remember what you said when I asked you to leave Liwa and come with me? ‘We are young. We can be reckless and do anything that we want’, that’s what you said. But what happened? You chose not come with me to Manila. We could have a life together but you chose this place.”

She does not answer back. Silence hovers between the two of you for minutes and you feel the sound of waves on the shore becomes louder. Your attention suddenly shifts to that sound. You imagined how the waves lay on shore after a long journey and then vanish. And after that, a 66

new set of waves comes along and the cycle will repeat over and over. Then your mind shifts back inside the bar.

“I was afraid.” There is a crack in her voice. You remember that it’s a sign that she’ll cry. You know her.

You know what makes her cry. Being together for so many years is enough to know a person.

“I love this place. And you wanted me to choose between going away with you or staying here with my family.

You know I loved you but I can’t leave this place.”

Without realizing it, her tears are now falling on your manuscript, smudging some of the words printed on the paper. Anyhow, you don’t want to give a damn about the paper. The real story is in front of you.

“We all have choice,” you finally speak up. “I chose the attraction of the city and you chose a simple life here in Liwa. And I can’t force you to do the things that you don’t want. That’s why I’m here to see why you choose this place. Life’s hard in the city. Everyone is fighting for space and competing for money.”

You get a tissue and wipe Michelle’s tears. “You’re right. You’re still the same, you easily cry at small things,” you say. It makes her smile.

“So what’s the ending of the story?” she suddenly asks.

The truth is, you haven’t written down the last part of the story, but you already have a sense of what will happen. So you face Michelle and recite the ending.

“As you’ve suggested, Abi will drown. From the shoreline, they had paddled up all the way to the Lahar to catch the biggest waves. Sitting on their boards facing the horizon, they started waiting for the curls. The sea was strangely quiet that morning, and there was hypertransparency on the water that they could see their shadows on the seafloor.

The clarity of the water gave them an unsettling feeling, as if a void had suddenly opened underneath.

Then there was a soft rumbling. Huge sets of white foam 67

emerged beyond the horizon. The turbulent roar of waves intensified as it marched closer to the line-up. The two characters paddled hard to ride the swell. But as the wave breaks, their surfboards ran onto each other and their leashes got tangled. Before they were able to swim back to the surface, a massive wave loomed above them.

They were caught by the curl. It pummeled them hard. And before they realized, the sea dragged them to the deepest part of the Lahar Siyete. In the afternoon, their bodies would be found on the rocky part of the shore.”

After telling the story, you realize it’s already late in the evening. Only you and Michelle are the only customers left in the bar. The DJ stops playing music, but the gentle sound of waves stays in the background.

“I thought only Abi will die.”

“Well, I decided ‘Carlo the beach guy’ should also join her to make a beautiful ending. You know the classic Romeo and Juliet story.”

She takes the last sip of her drink and then she says, “How about going to my place before calling it a night?” she asks.

You do not respond. Instead, you grab the manuscript from her hands and throw it in the trash. Then you hold her hand and the two of you walk away from the bar. The story continues.

68

Dreaming of Fire

“Bhikkus, all is burning.

And what is the all that is burning?”

—Fire Sermon, Buddha

His cup of coffee was already empty. He shut the door to prevent noise coming from outside enter his room. His dorm mates were having good time on the ground floor. He did not want to join them. He had a story to finish. He had a deadline to beat. Alone in his dark room, he was struggling to find the right words. He wanted to write a character. A character that would have a life of its own after he finished writing its story. How he would do it? He did not have an idea but he had to start writing.

The light coming from his laptop was the only thing that illuminates the room. He had been sitting in front of it for more than three hours now, but still no word was coming out. He was staring at the blinking cursor. He felt it was talking to him, urging him to begin now. Tic. Tac. Tic. Tac. He tried to type few sentences but they didn’t sound good. Fuck, it’s not natural to read. Backspace. Delete.

Delete.

He already did his jumpstarts: smoked two sticks of Marlboro Reds and finished a cup of strong barako coffee. Still, he couldn’t move the plot. He was thinking of making another cup of coffee. Maybe an idea would come in. Words might start putting themselves on the screen.

It did not matter if a writer already published dozens of novels. There would be a time that his muse would not cooperate.

He typed slowly at first, savoring every word that comes out on the screen. He read the words aloud as he typed them. One word at a time. He 69

didn’t let words pass through his mind without putting them on the screen. He typed them as they enter his thoughts. He did not mind the voice that says they did not sound good. He did not mind whether his sentences were ungrammatical or his words were misspelled. As long as my fingers are moving, I will finish this story.

Tac. Tac. Tac. Tac. The only sound that he can hear inside the room was the clacking of his keyboard. He typed hard and fast as if the world would end in an hour. He thought of himself as a piano player doing recital in front of a full-house theater. Repeated pressing of the keyboard numbed his hands. They were moving as if they have their own life. The tips of his fingers were heating up. But it did not slow him down. He typed the words before they disappear. He let the story take him wherever it wants to go. The banging of the keyboard became faster and faster like a symphony on its climax.

Then he stopped.

He heard somewhere that stopping for a day while you still know what will happen next was helpful for a writer.

It probably came from Ernest Hemingway. He had read somewhere that Hemingway used that technique to maintain his writing energy.

He got a glass of water from his dwarf-height refrigerator, finishing it in one gulp. He put the glass on the sink.

Then he pulled up the dark curtains. City lights finally entered his room. He checked the clock. It was 11:30 PM. He opened the window to let the world come in. The honking of cars and other city sounds penetrated his room. He looked at the starless dark sky above skyscrapers. Ah, the weird real world.

Suddenly, the character that he wanted to write entered his thoughts. He sensed it was on his desk, talking about how he should be written. It gave details about his face, hair, clothes, and other things. It was inside the room in a form of shadow.

I’m sorry I’ll continue tomorrow. I’m already tired, he said to himself. He went to his bed. It took some time 70

before sleep came to him. He was lying on the bed, facing the shadow, but it was not talking to him anymore. And as a way to close the day, he tried to think what lead him to write the story. Why was he in this barren room?

But he couldn’t think of anything. It was like a dream sequence. He couldn’t remember how it all began. s

s

s

It did not take long before he started to dream. His dreams were always vivid. And there were times he thought the events were real. Only to realize that it was just a dream upon waking up. That night, his dream was chaotic at first; then in a short while, it became structured.

The writer dreamed that he was in an abandoned ancestral house. With a kerosene lamp, he was writing on a paper using a quill feather pen. He also noticed a moth, circling around the fire.

It was the first time that he dreamt about himself.

He saw himself clearly sitting at a wooden desk with a kerosene lamp, not with a laptop and cellphone. After that scene, the dream went to the world that he was scribbling on the paper. His dream self wanted to tell the story of an old man.

The old man is probably in late 50s. His graying white hair is gnarled and straw-like, it is so dry it looked like it was nearly fossilized. He has an unkempt beard.

It is thick and lice-infested. He has creased skin and sad way worn eyes. He is lying down in a cold empty cell and has a wound on his right leg: a deep slit above his knee that reaches to his thigh. The wound is already dry, but the pain is still there.

No one knows how long the lone old man is inside the cell. Moonlight pours all over the ground where he is lying. It is coming through the caged window. Aside from his tattered clothes, the old man has a parchment and a blunt charcoal pen. He does not know where the pen and parchment came from, probably from one of the former inmates. Holding that piece of paper and charcoal, the old man thinks of writing a story.

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Outside, there is chaos. People are running. He can hear their loud stomps and screams. Children are crying for help, looking for their parents. He can also hear the crackling of fire. The sound of wood breaking down in pieces. He thinks that might be his house, crumbling down in pieces. His children and his wife might be one of the people looking for help. He wants to know what is happening. But he can’t stand up. The pain coming from his leg is too much to bear.

But in the midst of this disorder, an idea dawned on him.

He wants to write a character. A character that will have a life of its own after he finished writing its story.

How will the story end in the readers’ hands? He does not have an idea, but he has to start writing. s

s

s

He opened his eyes. It took a while before he realized it was the ceiling of his room, not the caged window. He put his right hand on his right leg. He remembered the pain that was coming there. He turned to his left and saw his laptop on the desk. He checked the digital clock beside his bed. It wrote 4:05 AM in blue digital pixels. Four hours of sleep. The shadow was gone.

Ugh I have to finish this fucking story, he said to himself.

He checked the refrigerator to see if there’s something to eat. There was some leftover lomi from last week. He turned on the gas stove, put the casserole, and poured the bowl of lomi. He waited for it to boil. Then he suddenly noticed the curtains. It was pulled down. He remembered that he opened it before going to sleep. Somebody closed it while he was sleeping?

He pulled up the curtains again and opened the windows. There was a heavy rain outside. The sound of rain surrounded the room.

After finishing the bowl of lomi, he opened his laptop and read what he wrote last night. Still not good enough for a first draft. He added the events in his dream. The old man in his cell and his pain. He typed fast while

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he can still remember the details of the dream. Move the plot. Move the plot.

They say writing is like dreaming with open eyes. The writer consciously creates the world while letting the story flow wherever it wants to go. There’s an excitement not knowing how the story will end. It is like there’s some inner voice, or it might be God, that grants the writer ideas how to move the story. The ideas that are not planned by the writer, but it come out of nowhere while in the process of writing.

That morning, the unnamed writer let his muse drive the story. He did not want to take control. He just wanted to ride the flow. His dream-self wanted to continue the story of the old man. It was not yet clear if the old man was his father, grandfather, or his old self.

Nonetheless, readers might not want to know the origin of the story.

The old man is still inside the cell. He is lying down on the cold cement, scribbling on the parchment using a blunt charcoal pen. His sickly thin hand is shaking while writing. The cries for help outside become louder.

Together with the screams, the sound of crackling fire is slowly closing in on his cell. He senses the ensuing chaos is now only meters away from him. Its sound feels like a flesh tearing up in pieces but he does not want to think about it. A story has to be finished. He is writing the story of a boy.

He feels his body would collapse anytime soon. The wound makes his lower body numb. He had lost a tremendous amount of blood. He squeezes out the remaining words in his mind. The blaring noise outside intensifies. The ravenous cry of the people melds with the sizzling sound of fire. It is as if hell is marching down towards his cell. The inexhaustible flame scours the ground looking for him.

He begins the story with a boy inside his room. Why begin a story with this? He does not have an idea, just as we do not know why he is inside the cell in the first place.

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Maybe that is what his maker wants him to be. Trapped inside a four-wall concrete cell while missing his wife and son. At any rate, life happens, and most of the time we don’t have any control with it.

He folds the parchment in crosswise and faces the ceiling to wait for the marching hell. Indistinct screams of people outside is earsplitting. Together with the mob, he can hear the crackle of fire like a monstrous laugh destroying everything in its path.

He closes his eyes and lie on the cold cement. He spreads his arms wide like an eagle ready to take flight. He pictures himself finally coming home to his wife and son.

They welcome him as he is walking down the road. He feels the warm embrace of her wife as the fire enters his cell.

The moonlight quickly turns into sheets of orange light.

It does not take long before the fire consumes the whole building. Blazing orange fire eats the ground. He is in flames from the waist up with arms that have themselves grown wings of fire. He let the heat savor his pain. s

s

s

He found himself lying on his folded arms on the table. He raised his head. He was greeted by the blinking cursor.

He stared at it for a minute. Tic. Tac. Tic. Tac. It’s all just a dream, he said to himself. His shirt was soaked in sweat. He stood and washed his face on the sink. He thought about the old man. Did he survive from the fire?

Suddenly, he noticed a cloud of smoke inside his room. He smelled something was burning. He looked at his door. Black smoke was coming out from its edges. He was startled. He ran towards the door and opened it to see where the smoke was coming from. The whole ground floor was burning. He heard the wooden stairs crackle. It collapsed, sending out fumes. The emergency exit on the left was the only way out. But there was a huge fire that stands between him and the exit. He thought for a second what to do. He inhaled deeply and ran straight to the sheets of flame but it did not bite his skin. It only caressed his body.

He did not feel any pain. With shock and relief, there he realized he was also in someone else’s story.

74

X by Pedro Javier

The following story is based on the manuscript that was found in Mike Juarang’s room. It is about the controversy surrounding missing copies of the book titled “X”. Some paragraphs and words are missing as the author reportedly became insane before he finished the manuscript.

The first three pages are missing.

s

s

s

...and I closed the book. I inhaled deeply and collected my thoughts. It was the feeling when the book’s ending haunts you after you’ve finished it. It was as if I’m the one who chased the murderer and came back alive in the real world. I didn’t know the book would be that good. I’ve randomly bought it at BookSale. I was intrigued by the cover. It has a big red X mark over a black background. The title was not explicitly written in the book, but the X mark also appears on the front page, so obviously, the reader would assume that was the title.

Pedro Javier, the author’s name, was written under that mark. The book was published by Misterio Press in 1952.

After reading the book, I searched over the internet to look for Javier’s other titles. But when I typed his name into Google search bar, I found a mysterious story about the X. It was an archived article titled, “The Enigmatic Pedro Javier and a Series of Missing Books,” from the now-defunct Philippine Free Press.

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I’ll tell you later what was written in that article.

What I want to tell you now were the strange things that happened to me the moment I stepped out of my apartment.

It was as if I entered a dream, but not my own dream.

I was about to meet the publisher of X that morning. He scheduled a meeting three days ago after I called him to inform him that I have one of the last copies of X. I offered to personally deliver it to him so that they could reprint it.

I remembered going outside at exactly 9 o’clock in the morning, clutching the book in my arms. Yes, it’s very early, but I really wanted to deliver the book to the publisher. Anyhow, I had this odd sensation that someone was watching over me. Its eyes were closely watching my steps and the book that I was holding. I also felt it was trying to enter my thoughts.

Before I got to the LRT Station, it rained very hard.

It was as if there’s a signal #3 typhoon. And then after the torrential downpour, it became sunny again. The strangeness of the day did not end at that, the LRT broke down at Vito Cruz station. And the coach in front of us detached from the train’s body, leaving us in the middle of the tracks. We had to walk all the way to Buendia station along the railway. It’s not everyday that you would experience things like these which was why I am writing it down here.

The writer of the Free Press article about Pedro was Ralph Torres.

He published the story one year after the publication of X. The three-page report was about Pedro Javier and his new book. The article said Pedro was a close friend of Nick Joaquin. They shared the same interest in Spanish novels and gothic stories. Of course, they often chat over a couple bottles of San Miguel.

Unlike his contemporaries, Pedro did not become known in Philippine literary scene. Pedro Javier was actually a pseudonym. Ralph Torres wasn’t able to get his real name, but he was allegedly called “M.J.” by his friends.

Pedro actually wrote two novels. The first one was titled

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“The Red Coat.” But there were no copies left of that book. It was a complete critical and commercial flop, so the publisher decided to pull it out of the market to recycle its paper for new titles.

His second book is the X. It tells a story of a mysterious tormented individual who breaks into secondhand bookshops and libraries to get and destroy his published works.

It is his way of erasing himself from the world, so to speak.

Torres linked the X book to an incident in a secondhand bookshop in Malate where a bookseller was killed. The connection between the book and the incident was not clear as some parts of the article were deleted. I tried to get in touch with Mr. Torres after reading his story. I found his email address as well as his Facebook account. I messaged him to say that I have a copy of the book, and I wanted to know more about the author. It has been three weeks since I messaged him, but I haven’t got any reply.

The office of Mysterio Press was in a 4-story building in Padre Faura. I caught the head of Mysterio Press smoking behind his table. He was reading. The room was filled with smell of nicotine and dust. Joel Tolentino was a large, pot-bellied man. I guess he was already in the forties. He has a rounded face and chin covered with a thick mustache. I knocked two times on the open-door to announce my presence. He was reading a newspaper. He looked up and scanned my face.

“Who are you?” he snapped. He was like growling when he was speaking—a sign of a longtime smoker. His forehead curled.

“I’m... Mike Jua... rang. I called you three weeks ago about this book,” I answered. I lifted the book and showed it to him, facing the X cover.

“Ah, Pedro,” he said. His pockmarked face became calm. I walked towards his table and handed him the book. I sat down on a white plastic chair in front of him.

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“I haven’t seen this book for long, long time. Where did you find it boy?” he barked after blowing a cloud of smoke in front of me. “I bought it from BookSale sir,” I quickly responded, trying to suppress my cough.

“Lucky find, eh? Well, I’m wondering where he is now. I know he’s dead; he has the same age as Nick Joaquin. Nick is our National Artist for Literature, just in case you don’t know . A lot of young lads don’t know our national artists. If you’ve read the reports, there’s still no concrete evidence how and why Pedro died.” He casually tapped the ashes of his cigarette on the ashtray on his desk. He fished another stick from his chest pocket.

“Before writing this book, Pedro wrote a novel titled The Red Coat. However, he did not send that book to Mysterio.

Lucky for us because the book was a complete flop. It is very corny, pucha. But it really created some noise for his next book, the X.” “My uncle was the director of Mysterio that time. Of course, we have the nose for selling things, so he presented an idea to Pedro to use the plot of The X to market the book. The plan was to recreate the events in the book to the real world. The idea was to make the story believable that someone was trying to destroy a mystery novel. However, things become different when a bookseller in a secondhand bookshop in Malate was killed.

TV reports said the motivation of the killer was to rob the bookshop. But witnesses had a different story. The bookseller reportedly caught the thief stealing their copies of X, and he tried to recover the books. That story seems straight out of Stranger than Fiction. But there’s more horrible, or should I say, interesting story surrounding that book.”

Tolentino is a very talkative man. In between his cigarette smoke and an occasional splash of saliva on the desk, he told the history of Misterio Press. It took sometime before he gets straight to the important facts. So I’ll summarize it for the reader’s convenience.

When stories about missing copies of X spread out, some 78

bookstores feared that the incident in Malate would also happen to them. So they pulled out their copies of X in exchange for other titles from the publishing house. The sales of the publishing house went down during that time.

Joel’s uncle’s solution was to keep their copies of X in a storage room until the issue dies down.

On that year, the Department of Health became alarmed when suicide rates went up, and most of the victims were teens. Initial findings showed that the victims were always alone and didn’t have a group of friends. The parents said their children always stayed inside their rooms, reading books. Everybody thought it was a case of isolation that lead to depression. However, in-depth investigations revealed most of the teens that committed suicide had a copy of book X by Pedro Javier. It was as if the book was cursed. Mysterio Press was huge that time so they tried to suppress the negative reports to keep their business.

There were only a handful of people that really saw Pedro Javier in the flesh. One was Nick Joaquin, and the other was Mr. Tolentino’s uncle. It was said that Pedro had multiple personalities. Just like a writer, creating different characters and fleshing them out, Pedro can create different characters inside him. However, he had a tendency to attach a character to his own personality. It was his own technique to effectively write a character.

The problem was that the difference between the writer and the character was blurred.

Realizing that he already talked too much, Mr. Tolentino stood to get a cup of coffee. He offered me one, but I refused. Carrying his refill, he went back to his desk to explain his plan on how they’d republish the book.

He lit a stick of cigar before talking again. “Actually, the book has a good backstory. We can use it to create some buzz about it. You know, marketing strategies. Mysterio press is the only publishing house that can plan like that. I really don’t believe the stories behind that book.

It’s just all coincidence with a bit of sensationalism.”

After he finished his sentence, my body shuddered. I 79

heard a soft rumble, but I didn’t know where it was coming from, or if it was only in my head. You fools!

You don’t know what you are doing. I heard the clanking of a typewriter in the distance, but no one was using it here, at this time.

My phone rang. I looked at it. An email from someone.

I opened it while Tolentino is giving details on his marketing strategies. It’s from Ralph Torres of Philippine Free Press. “BURN THAT BOOK! It is cursed.”

Tolentino realized that I was not paying attention to him. My eyes were on my phone. “What’s the matter, boy?”

I did not respond. “Well, if you don’t have any question, I’ll just ask my circulation manager to check if there’s still a slot left for this year.” He stood, carrying the book in his hands. He walked out of the room and closed the door.

By the time Tolentino left, I felt that strange sensation again. Someone was watching me. Its eyes were focused on me. He looked at me like a tiger waiting for his prey.

The predator seemed to be looking for a baseball bat or something to hit me on my face, or perhaps he already has a weapon to kill me. I stood to shake off the feeling.

I went to Tolentino’s bookshelves. As I was checking the titles, my eyes suddenly went to the window. It was already dark outside! Last time I checked my phone, the time was 11:00 AM. I opened the window and put my head out. There was nothing. When I say nothing, I mean it was pitch black outside. No buildings, cars, or people walking. It was as if a black cloth covered the whole building of Mysterio Press. Even the honking of cars and sound from the other buildings disappeared. I felt a chill run down my spine. My palms became sweaty. I closed the windows hoping that Tolentino would come back immediately. But when I faced the room, I saw the walls were melting. The solid walls were like a newly applied paint, trickling down to the ground. The whole place was disintegrating.

I have to fight for my existence. He is trying to era... to trying to...e.. erase me.

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I quickly get my backpack and fetch my notebook. If he’s trying to erase me, I’ll fight for my story’s existence.

I wrote every word that came to me and quickly poured it on the paper. I didn’t mind the sweat dropping on the paper as long as my hands were moving. I would like to imagine that I am M.J., Pedro Javier, or whatever his name was.

I am writing down my own story. I don’t know where this story will go. But I want the reader to know that the X is cursed. This manuscript will testify to that. Once you start the story, you’ll fall under the spell of Pedro Javier. I tell you now, don’t look for him.

81

Gunshot Is it time to wake up? The alarm has yet to ring. It has three more minutes before it should alarm. But for some reason she wakes up earlier.

She heard a gunshot. She checks the digital clock beside her bed. It reads 6:27 AM. It’s because of the gunshot. She heard the gunfire in her dream. She can’t exactly remember what happened, but the terrifying sound etched in her mind. A thunderous explosion. The sound of a bullet rushing to kill a man. She tries to remember the dream, but her mind goes blank. It is only the gunshot. In her three-year stay in her Dela Rosa two-story apartment, there are only a handful of incidents, stealing mostly.

Shooting are very rare.

Maybe it is because of the TV news that she watches before going to sleep. Reports of extrajudicial killings. It is the content of news every night. Same reports. Same narrative.

A suspected drug pusher is gunned down because he resisted. Nanlaban. But there is no gunshot sound in TV reports. Only CCTV footages. Or maybe, the killings burrowed into her subconscious like a bullet and showed up in her dream.

Half awake, she gets up, hoping to shake off the memory. She looks at herself in the mirror and ties her long black hair. She pulls up the curtains, turns up the jalousie windows, and looks at the corridor to check if something happened last night. Everything seems to be normal though. Students and office workers are now heading to school and work.

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She turns on the gas stove to boil water. While waiting for it, she washes her face on the sink. She notices her puffy eyebags on the mirror. She moves closer to her reflection. She looked as if she aged a little. And for some reason, she thinks it is not herself she is seeing in front of her. It is as if she is looking to another person.

The kettle suddenly whistles. She is startled. Her shoulders shudder. The whistle sounds like a shriek to her. She quickly turns off the gas stove, pours the boiling water into a bowl and mixes it with a 3-in-1 cereal drink. She tries to think about the deadlines in the office to distract herself from the bad dream. The contracts that needed to be signed, meetings that have to be arranged, and clients that need to be called. She finishes her breakfast and takes a bath.

It’s Monday, the most stressful the day of the week.

She also hasn’t paid her monthly rent yet. There’s still three days more before her paycheck comes in, and there’s a possibility it will be delayed, just like last month.

While choosing her outfit for the day, she thinks about the salary increase that she wanted to request. She’ll just wait for a perfect timing; probably wait until her boss is in a good mood.

She chooses the pastel-colored blouse in the shade of lavender she bought last week. She partners it with ankle-length loose black trousers and a black blazer on top—a good pair she found in a flea market in Greenhills.

For her feet, she decides to wear medium-height beige sandals, which she bought with 50% discount from Landmark.

She opens her drawer containing her bags. She gets her favorite cream-colored shoulder bag.

Before going out, she checks the light switches, making sure all of them are turned off. Then she presses the doorknob. Click. She freezes in her tracks. Its sound reminds her of the gunshot. She thinks where the sound came from, but she can’t remember the dream anymore. She shuts the door and heads to the stairs.

84

Outside, it is gloomy like it is about to rain. Dark clouds are hanging in the sky. While walking in the street, she can feel the heaviness of the air. Her apartment is just a few feet away from the bus stop. She always walks all the way to the highway and waits for a bus going to Ayala.

But strangely today, there’s not a soul waiting at the bus stop, but there are cars that are going to and fro.

It does not take long before an empty bus arrives. She takes a seat at the second row. She checks her wristwatch.

It is 7:26 AM. She can still get to the office on time.

She is in this routine for more than three years now: wake up at 6:30 in the morning, have breakfast, take a bath, then wait for a bus, and then get to the office before 8:00 AM. In the office, it’s also a routine: meet the clients, sign them a contract, report to the boss, and wait for the next paycheck. Sometimes she wonders why she is doing it, why is she trapped in this mind-numbing job. She should be painting right now, thinking about her next exhibit. But it is not. She has to work hard for the company. She is earning from it anyway.

But there are times when she thinks about herself that pursued painting. What would that self say to her? You should have accepted that art residency offer. That may be the start of your career. But no, she refused. She accepted a job offer in a multimillion insurance company in Ayala. Her mother worked hard for that job offer.

She begged her kumare to recommend her daughter to the company. “You’ll start as a clerk first, but it will not take long before you get a higher position. Lucy is there to back you up. And if you worked hard, you may be assigned to their head office in Canada. You won’t get those opportunities in painting, Karen. Trust me,” her mother said to her one night while eating dinner.

The bus quickly filled with passengers when it stops at Paseo De Roxas. But strangely, there’s no one sitting beside her. It is as if there’s a barrier that separates her from the rest of the passengers. She didn’t mind it though. Besides, she is more comfortable sitting alone.

85

As the bus stops in a crossing, she sees a young man selling paintings in a street corner. His paintings are laid on the ground. They are somewhat dreamy in design, filled with swirls and brightly-colored splashes. She does not know if it is legal to sell on that spot, but there are no enforcers around. There are several passersby looking at the painting and talking to the guy. While watching the scene, she wonders if the guy is fulfilled making those paintings. He’s lucky. He has time to do those things. He does not have to conform to powerhungry managers. She imagines herself in the position of the young man, waiting for potential buyers. She will not mind if all her paintings will not find its buyers. She will try and try again.

While thinking about the young painter, finds herself walking in Ayala Triangle. her tracks and looks at her watch. Three before 8:00 AM. She walks briskly and heads building.

she suddenly She stops at more minutes to her office

“Good morning ma’am!” She is greeted by the old security guard with graying thin hair, God knows how long he has been working in the company.

She responds to his greeting with a smile. She does not know his name though.

Employees only call him “Manong guard”. s

s

s

She has finished making appointments to clients in her checklist before twelve o’clock. Doing it for so many times enabled her to memorize all of the spiels and tricks on how to convince a client. Her body automatically knows what to do without thinking hard about it.

By lunchtime, she turns off her monitor, applies some face powder and exits her station. Then she goes to the elevator and heads straight to the ground floor. Eating alone at the cafeteria, she watches a young man at the counter taking orders. He seems to be a new employee.

He smiles brightly like he really means it while asking an old office woman if she wants to upsize her drink.

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She remembers the time when she worked in a fast food restaurant.

She looks at the young man. If he has a chance, will he still pursue that job or do something that he is passionate about? She thinks to herself. Or maybe he has to support his family that’s why he needs to keep that job. She thinks about the possibility of resigning from her job, but she suddenly remembers her mother. She would be really mad, she thinks. She lets out a sigh and takes a sip of water.

She finishes her lunch and goes back to the office floor.

Suddenly, she finds the room empty. Not a soul is around as if everyone decides to go on a holiday after taking lunch.

She walks to the aisle between the cubicles, checking each station. Her office mates’ computer monitors are turned off. She checks her boss’ office door. There’s no one inside. The leather seat behind the large mahogany table is empty. When she gets to her station, she finds herself dimly reflected on her monitor’s dead screen.

Where are her officemates? The room is unusually quiet.

It has a deafening silence.

She screams. She releases a loud thunderous cry. A shrilling noise floods the empty room. It is a scream that may clear all of her burdens. A scream that may make everything all right. Her whole body is shaking. She does not mind if someone hears her cry. Tears roll down her cheeks. She puts her hands on her face and sobs. Her shoulders are heaving.

She catches her breath and wipes her tears on her cheeks.

Then the room goes back to stillness.

In an instant, she hears a soft chatter of people. She quietly goes back to her cubicle. She checks herself in the mirror placed on her table, and then she re-applies make-up. Someone turns on the giant TV in the room and tunes in to afternoon newscast. Everything returns to normal.

87

5:00 PM comes. It’s time to go home again. She packs her things and exits the room as soon as the digital clock hits the 5PM mark. She puts her thumb on a biometric time clock and heads to the elevator. She exits the building without goodbyes or hellos.

She quickly finds an empty bus going to Baclaran. She gets off at the corner of De La Rosa and Magallanes street. She walks all the way from the bus stop to the apartment building.

The sky is overcast. It is still gloomy and hazy, filled with dark clouds. She fixes her eyes for some time at the clouds. They seem to be carrying heavy loads of rain, but for some reason, they can’t release it. She enters the apartment building. No one is still around.

She climbs the stairs and heads to the second floor. The clicks of her heels echo down the empty corridor. She suddenly feels a chill run down to her spine. Her heart is beating widely inside her ribcage. And when she gets to the second floor, the rain pours hard. It batters the roof of the apartment.

The door to her room stood ajar. She remembers closing it before going out. A thief? But she has not heard any recent reports of robbery in the apartment. She walks slowly towards the door. Her heartbeat goes faster as she holds the cold doorknob and gently pushes it. The door makes an absurd creaking sound.

All of the lights in the room are switched off. She can see a silhouette inside, but she can’t make out its features. She puts her hand in her shoulder bag, searching for something to defend herself. She turns on the switch beside the door. There she finds herself, at the edge of her bed. She freezes. She stares intently at her herself. It produces a pistol and aims at her. Her reflection pulls the trigger.

88

Notes on How to Escape

In a dimly lit room two people are sitting at a table. Both of them are not speaking to each other. They are in this position for more than five hours now. A young man is reading a little red book. A young woman, on the other hand, is writing something in her notebook.

Their relationship, whether they are siblings, friends, or in a romantic relationship, is not yet established. But the clear thing is that they are reading and writing, and both of them are preoccupied with what they are doing.

On the table, there’s a black cellular phone.

Aside from the red book and the notebook, there’s no other thing placed on top of it. Inside the room, there’s not much stuff. A closed metallic door, a dark window, a brown table, and two chairs for the young man and the young woman.

There’s also a hanging light bulb connected to the ceiling with a string. The bulb is perfectly placed between the two characters to give them equal distribution of light.

The cellphone, which we do not know who owns, vibrates. A text message. Seconds later, the vibration stops like it is tired of waiting.

However, it seems that the young man and young woman do not feel the slight vibration as they are still immersed on the tasks that they are doing. The cell phone vibrates again. This time, it rings. Its ringing tone is a staccato of bell ringing. Cling. Cling. Cling. Cling.

The young man notices it. His eyebrows twitch a little. He inhales. He slowly put the down 89

the book and gets the cellphone. However, by the time he reaches it, the ringing stops. He looks at the young woman in front of him. She is still absorbed by the words that she is writing. He does not want to disturb her.

He gets the cellphone. He checks the list of missed calls. There are three, and all of it comes from the same source: “Private number.” He checks the inbox. There’s a message. Again, from “Private number,” it reads: “Get out of there. They are coming for you”. The “you” here is not established whether it is the young woman or the young man, or perhaps the owner of the cellphone. But upon reading the message, his heartbeat becomes faster, and he feels an ounce of sweat trickle from his forehead.

“Hey!” he shouts to the young woman in front of her.

“Let’s get out of here.” The young woman is still in the zone of writing. So he pulls out the notebook in front her.

“What are you doing? I’m still writing!”

“Do you want to die? C’mon let’s get out of here. They are coming.”

“What? I thought this is a safe place. How did they know we’re here?”

“I have no answer to that. But let’s get out of here cause they are coming.” He grabs her wrist and leads her to the door.

“Can I bring the notebook with me?” the young woman asked.

“Leave it. It would not be helpful.”

“How about no?” she says looking into his eyes.

“Well, it’s up to you. I’ll be leaving the book here.

C’mon, C’mon we don’t have time,” he insisted, grabbing the hands of the young woman.

90

s

s

s

Outside, there’s chaos. Some of the buildings are engulfed with fire. There are oily smokes plumes rising up from the city. Most of the establishments are abandoned, and there are no people outside. The factory workers are on strike to join the Movement. The old motels and malls of the city are deserted. Their paints are tearing off and their walls are enveloped with bullet holes. Glass windows of stores are shattered, and goods are ransacked.

Up ahead, helicopters with blinding flashlight check the streets if there are rebels left in the city.

There’s an awful smell everywhere. A combination of rotting flesh and burning tire. The streets are also hazy because of the continuous burning of some buildings.

By the looks of it, it seems only rats can live in this shithole.

On the ground, there are armored police escorted by tanks. Just like the helicopters, they are scouring the streets to check if there are civilians left. A loud siren is blaring. Equipped with megaphones, the armed forces are shouting “President Geo-Thirty Calls You to Join Us in the Mega City. Surrender Now. We’ll Escort You Back to the City Safely.”

“No, we’ll not enter that fucking shit city. We’ll destroy it.” The young man whispers.

They are hiding in one of the abandoned stores in the city. He spots the ground soldiers marching around the plaza. From his position, he sees the soldiers are now entering the warehouse where they came from. “Negative sir,” he hears one of the soldiers shout to a radio.

The soldier finds the book that he is reading a while ago. The commander gets it. He put the book inside a resealable transparent plastic.

Holding the cellphone, the young man waits for the next instruction. The young woman, on the other hand, is crouched behind him. She is still writing in her notebook.

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“What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you see that we are in danger right now?”

“I’m actually helping you, you know,” she retorts without looking at him. Her eyes are glued to the letters she is writing. “Helping how?”

“Escape,” she replies in a deadpan tone.

After the soldiers left the warehouse, he sees that the other troops are now closing in on their position.

He looks around, searching for a safe place where they can stay for a while. The soldiers march towards the abandoned convenience store where they are right now.

Once they turned on that corner, we’re dead, he whispers to himself.

Up above, it looks like the helicopters already know their position. He can see the helicopter’s flashlights on the ground, searching for them.

Just in time, the cell phone vibrates. A new text message.

“They still don’t know your whereabouts. Get out of that place. On the first corner to your left, you’ll see the old Cinematheque. Go there. The underground passage is already open for you. Be quick.” They hear an explosion coming from the old warehouse. A Molotov cocktail blast.

An exchange of gunfire follows. There are also indistinct shouts from a mob, protesting against the soldiers.

“C’mon let’s move.” He grabs the wrist of the young woman, who is still writing. “Finish it later. We have to move now!”

As instructed, they ran while still crouched until they get to the first corner.

To their left, they looked for the entrance of the old movie house. People used to go there if they want to have some escape from their monotonous life. Now, they are entering it to literally save their lives. The two easily find the entrance. It has tattered posters of old movie titles.

They pass by the rusted turnstile, where a steward used to stand to check tickets. The young woman pushes the two-door entrance. Together, they went inside the 92

Cinematheque. Inside the cinema, the lights are dimmed as if a movie is about to start. But as they are surveying their new hideout, the two-door entrance closes itself, making a loud thud. Darkness envelopes the room, and there is sharp silence. Helicopter noise and shouts of people has escaped from their senses. It is as if they entered a different dimension.

It might be a self-closing door to ensure the safety of rescued members, the young man thinks.

“Where are they?” the young woman asks. “I don’t know. I think we’ll just have to wait for them here.”

They part ways. The young man goes to the front row seats.

The young woman, on the other hand, notices a transparent room behind the seats. She checks to see what is there.

The cinema is surprisingly intact. There’s no dust or bad odor. The leather seats look like they are brand new.

Somehow, he feels this can be their temporary refuge. He walks around and decides to take a seat at the first row.

He looks up at the giant projector screen in front of him, remembering the time that citizens are still allowed to watch movies. Before the government banned literature, he always takes a seat at the front row when watching a film. He wants to receive the images first, when they are still new, still fresh, before they are relayed from one spectator to another, row to row. When he watches movies, it is like he is entering another dimension, and sense of time escapes him.

He feels a need to take a rest. Hiding from government forces has exhausted him. He leans his body on the soft leather chair and stretches his feet on the carpeted floor. The old Cinematheque is surprisingly quiet as if the noise outside is muted. While looking blankly at the white screen, he has an absurd feeling that he is a character in a short story or a movie. But as his mind wanders, he remembers the young woman is not beside him.

Suddenly, he hears a film rolling. A sound of gears linking together. A pale yellow light casts on the screen.

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It is a size of a dot first, and then seconds later, it stretches to cover the whole white screen. He turns around and sees the young woman inside the transparent projector room. “What are you doing?” he shouts from his seat.

“Giving you escape,” she quips while rolling the film. s

s

s

Images start to show on the projector. The film has no introduction or opening credits. It goes straight to a scene. The young man and the young woman see themselves on the film. But they are somewhat older. The young man is wearing a white tie over black long sleeves. The young woman is wearing a summer-themed blouse with floral print. To not confuse the reader, let’s call them the man and the woman.

The camera is performing an establishing shot. It shows the name of the café and then it goes inside. With a medium shot, the frame shows the woman and the man. They are sitting in front of each other. They are perfectly placed in the middle of the frame à la Wes Anderson movie.

The woman is on the right side, smoking cigarette, while the man is on the left side, reading a book beside an empty cup of coffee.

“Do you want to hear a story?” the woman asks.

“Shoot,” the man answers without looking up.

“I’ve read it somewhere but I don’t know who is the author,” she takes a sip of her espresso. The camera is now in over-the-shoulder shot, showing the distinct appearance of the woman. “Well, there are two characters.

They are trapped inside a room. Outside, government forces are looking for them, ready to eliminate them on the spot. They have no chance to survive outside. So they decided to wait for their rescue. But you know what they did?” she asks the man. A pause. She waits for his response. “C’mon, at least give me an answer.”

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“Uhm I don’t know. They watched TV?” he quips.

“No, no. They don’t have TV or internet. They only have food, which is just enough for the two of them, and hundreds of books. So what they do is read voraciously while waiting for their rescue. The story is somehow boring but I enjoyed the thought that they found an escape in written words.”

The man looks up at the woman. He closes the book with his two hands and crosses his legs. The camera switches to a close-up shot. It shows the face of the man. He seems to be in deep thought. He puts his palm on his chin, stroking his gray stubble. “Hmm. I just realized something,” he says. He looks at the camera, and breaks the fourth wall. “We all have source of escape from our mundane life. Something that would give us hope or meaning. For you it might be watching a movie but for our viewers, it is reading a short story. We always want something new. Something that would take us away from our current situation. Anyway, this might be the story that you are talking about.” He hands the book that he is reading to the woman. s

s

s

The film snaps, but the projector is still rolling. The sound of its gears permeates the room. The young man and the young woman are staring at the screen, waiting for the next sequence. Realizing it is the end, she turns off the projector. The room returns to darkness. The young woman walks out from the projector room and goes to the front row.

“Did you see that?” she says, pointing to the white projector screen. “I don’t remember filming that movie.”

“Ah shit. What’s happening? What is this place? Why the hell are we on that film?” he fishes the black cellphone from his pocket. He checks if there is a text message or missed call. “They also haven’t contact us.”

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“Wait. The message says there’s a secret passage inside this cinema. The double-door entrance is locked. So the secret passageway may be our only escape.”

“What? It is locked?” He runs to the door and checks to see if it’s really locked. He tries the handle, but it didn’t turn. He pushes it with two hands, but it does not move an inch. Then he examines its edges to search for a switch or knob, but there’s none. Then he applies his shoulder to the door to force it open.

“Okay, now we’re trapped. Let’s look for that passage.”

They start searching at the corners of the Cinematheque.

The young woman goes back to the projector room to find if there’s a light switch, but she can’t find any. So she turns on the projector again to give them some light. The familiar sound of rolling film floods the room. And then she goes back to the rows of seats to help the young man find the passage. After several minutes of searching, they can’t seem to find it. The Cinematheque does not seem to have a backstage or any other door aside from the two-door entrance.

“So what to do now? We’ve already looked at every corner of this room, but we still can’t see a trapdoor or any entrance,” the young woman says while fishing a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She gets a stick and then hands the pack to the young man. They are sitting on the floor, under the white screen. She lights a stick and blows out a smoke. The smoke blends with the projected light on the screen.

“You know what? I have this feeling that we are already doing this again and again.”

“What do you mean?” the young man says while lighting his cigarette.

“I mean we are doing this sequence: read a book in the warehouse, go outside to find a safer place, watch a film of our older selves, light a cigarette, and then go back to start. It’s like when you watch a movie or read 96

a book. The characters’ lives are static. So it doesn’t matter how many times you read it, the sequence is the same again and again and again.”

“I don’t know about you, but I want to escape this shithole and disrupt the government. Maybe that’s what you get by reading too many books. “ “But how will you do it? We are trapped in this room without anything. We’re done,” the young woman grunts while looking down at her last cigarette. She crushes it with her shoes.

There’s a surreal silence inside the movie house as if only the two of them exists in the world right now. The cellphone, which is their sole connection to outside world, can’t detect any signal. But they are relatively safe inside the cinematheque. There is no exploding bombs or blaring helicopter noise. Shouts from megaphone can’t also reach them. Only the sound of film rolling can heard from inside the room.

“I remember something. You said you are writing at the back of your notebook to help us escape,” the young man says to his partner. “Maybe we can find some clues from there.”

“Oh wait.” The young woman gets up and goes to the projector room. She gets her notebook which is placed beside the projector. Sitting beside the young man under the yellow light of the screen, she read the scribbles.

In a small room, two people are sitting at a table. Both of them are not speaking to each other. They are in this position for more than five hours now. The young man is reading the little red book. The young woman, on the other hand, is writing something on her notebook.

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98

A Letter from Pedro Javier

After writing these sentences, I will leave this room. How long was I writing? I’ve lost track of time. Was it months now? I have been sitting in front of my desk for weeks now that I do not know what is happening beyond these concrete walls.

Anyway, I already packed my bags and am ready to leave. The shadow beside me is still staring at me. I can’t count how many times he has tried to stop me from writing. He does not want my stories to be finished. But he has failed. I have defeated him. Right now, he is looking at me. His eyes are red, glowing, and his body is covered in darkness. He is sitting in a crouch position, like a bul’ol. It seems that he has already sensed I’m about to finish my stories, that’s why he is just there in the corner, waiting for me to leave.

In the past few months, I have been holed up in this room like the couple inside the Cinematheque. Speaking of them, I hope they were able to find what they are looking for.

I know they were safe inside the Cinematheque.

They can read their story again, again, again and again, or watch their older selves on the screen. It is just a matter of time before the Movement finds them.

How about Tony and Samantha? I do not know if they will able to see each other again. They were both miserable characters anyway. They both gave in to the expectations they wanted to see from their partner and did not appreciate each other. But maybe, under some circumstances, 99

they’ll find each other again just like how waves of Liwa brought Carlo and Michelle back together.

And oh, another star-crossed lover, Mike and Mara. I hope their realities converge. As Mike said, they were many ways that their story might end. And if they did not work together to finish their story in a good way, then I would prefer to stay with Mike’s narrative. Mara might still be inside her room, sprawling her perfect flawed off-worlds.

As for Cris, he is doing great in the Military Department.

The industrial-grade Neurolyzer is working well in his brain system. He does not have any recurring dreams anymore and unwanted dreams. Next week, he will be assigned to Sector 8 of The West Valley to purge Roaches and arrest members of the Liberation. The System has already declared war against them.

In between writing sessions, sleep is my escape. Sometimes I get ideas in the dream world and put them in paper. But the other day, while I was sleeping, I met the young woman in the dream. She was still working relentlessly, not knowing she was slowly killing her other self, herself that wants to pursue painting. I watched the young woman inside her office doing her job mechanically like a wellprogrammed robot. I had an urge to talk to her, but did not pursue it. Instead I went to the other dream world.

I found the old man and the boy. I don’t know who was writing whom, but maybe they were both writing each other.

It is a paradox. A circle. I can’t determine who started the story. I just found them in my dreams and watched how their story progress.

Anyway, I will not let this letter become longer. I hope the shadow will read my story the way the woman reads a book behind the glass window. Just like what the young man felt inside his room, I also like to be read that way.

But as Mike Juarang said, reading is a curse. It will take you to places you’ve never been, meet people you’ve never seen before, and plunge you to narratives where you don’t know what will happen next. But at any rate, letters are here to stay. You are doomed to hunger for it.

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Markus Aserit lives in DasmariĂąas, Cavite. He writes fiction and critical essays. He works as a freelance cultural worker.

If he is not writing or running, he spends time with a certain creative soul essential to his well-being.