fiction | nonfiction


We celebrate the feast day of Saint Isidore with a beauty pageant of bikini-clad teenage girls. People of all ages in the town are all gathered in the multi-purpose hall to witness this event. Local politicians are present to make their speeches and they are thanking this person and that person, and all the people gathered here, and of course the young people whose bodies we are about to ogle here in this feast day of Saint Isidore, May 15th. It is not an easy thing to do, the Vice-Mayor said. It takes a lot of guts and courage, so we should not heckle and say negative things about our brave and courageous and beautiful candidates. The Vice-Mayor is the daughter of the current Mayor of the Municipality of which this town is a constituent. The Vice-Mayor’s hair is a tribute to the 80s. It looked like it was sculpted first and then lowered with a crane on to the top of her head. She is about middle-aged and she is wearing this black lacy top, and jeans.

The night is warm this summer, people are gathered tightly-packed in front of the tiny stage in the open-air multi-purpose hall. It is mostly young people here. There are stalls selling popcorn at five pesos per small pack, fruit shakes at either five or ten pesos per plastic cup, size-dependent. I bought two five-peso cup mango shakes. I gave one to my brother. He is glowing red, practically incandescent in the badly-lit multi-purpose hall. We have just been to an uncle’s house where we ate a meal of pig’s blood, rice, and pork vegetable soup. Also there was beer. I counted one and a half cups my brother imbibed. Me, I lost count, but it was probably like seventy-five percent of a liter of beer. I have remarkably high alcohol tolerance. It takes a lot for me to be drunk, and I don’t stay drunk easily. While taking in the atmosphere of the festivities, a though appeared in my head, a question: Why is it that the drunker I am, the more I have the urge to write something?

Which was an unfortunate thing. I did not bring any writing implement, and besides there was no place where I could write. Overall it was typical drunk logic, which is to say it was illogical. But it felt good to think thus. Thank God for alcohol, one of the cool things in this world. Drink moderately.

Then up on the stage, while I was thinking thus, this girl’s turn to do her bikini walk. A cousin sidled up to me, and said, she’s a cousin of ours. Oh, I said, and strained my eyes. I seemed to have developed a bad case of drunk blindness, which is when you are so drunk your vision gets all fuzzy. Blind drunk, I thought, so this is where that phrase came from. I tried but failed to focus my sight. I ain’t no prude, but this whole event is much too icky for my taste. Maybe it’s the presence of older people. I mean, like, if it’s a youthful affair, no oldies allowed, then maybe it would be interesting. As it is, you have these old folks, semi-drunk to blind drunk, ogling as Rizal wrote ‘the hope of our fatherland,’ which is a very Eurocentric thing to say. Russia always though of their country as ‘Mother Russia,’ while Germany’s mindset I guess is more patriarchal. Anyway, I bought more popcorn, gave one to my brother who is wearing this black shirt with the words up front printed silver saying ‘Fly Me to the Moon.’ It’s a reference to the anime Neon Genesis Evangelion. Fly Me to the Moon was originally sung by Frank Sinatra. Fly Me to the Moon was covered by the voice actress for the character of Rei Ayanami and it is the ending song of each of the episodes of the anime. I’d rather be back in my room watching my anime and shows and whatever, than be here.

On the way back to the house, riding at the back of another cousin’s motorcycle, I gazed at the darkness of the sky. The air was cold as it whooshed past us. Three of us in the motorcycle – cousin driving, my brother, then me. This is a primarily agricultural place, and there’s a vast space for all the projects of this agricultural college, which is the nearest center of higher learning in this municipality. Starry night, you can see much because the politicians and people here seem not to believe in street lamps. The cold wind contributed to my being back in a more sober state, and I thought about our dogs, and our rooster, which we haven’t fed yet, et cetera.

I dreamt of this girl

I dreamt of this girl I was seeing back in college. She was with this gay friend and they boarded up this jeepney I was in. But the jeepney only had one seat left. So the gay friend sat at the spot in front of me, while the girl sat on my knees. She has lost weight, and generally just improved her looks. I had my arms around her waist, then she started talking to me about how she felt when we stopped seeing each other all those years ago. Hearing her talk, my heart felt unburdened. Her voice, all the feelings, it was a cathartic/therapeutic experience. This was something we should have done before, I thought. Just laid it all out in the open, all those feelings, instead of just breaking contact because most things were awkward between us. I tried to tell her something but I could not remember what it was.

A Year-Long Period of Mourning for the Murder of Presidential Sister Kris Aquino

– – – – –

A Year-Long Period of Mourning for the Murder of Presidential Sister Kris Aquino

– – – – –

No one expected that Kris Aquino would be murdered in front of a live studio audience by a rampaging deranged ninja.

This ninja, whose name has been lost to the police, and thus to history, just done appeared out of the blue and ran tanto-first onto Kris Aquino.

Kris Aquino was in the middle of saying something totally stupid when this happened. Her child, the annoying dark one, was being all annoying and dark. He was I think busy mixing some ingredients in a bowl.

The attack happened in the morning, when the theme or topic or current area of interest of Kris Aquino was baking. I think they were making some sort of cake. There they were, the small dark child, his doting, high-pitched whiny-voiced mother, all the cameramen and studio assistants, the co-hosts, the live studio audience, and of course, the viewing public with their eyes on their television screens all across the nation. There was also the ninja, wearing dark, close-fitting overalls, tiny horizontal slit on his headgear to see with. Though he actually did not need that slit, for even if his eyes were closed, he would have killed Kris Aquino just as easily.

The ninja, after the attack, using his ninja-powers, then disappeared in a puff of smoke.

The Scene of the Crime Operatives afterwards determined that the ‘puff of smoke’ which the ninja vanished into turns out to be nothing than common ordinary flour.

The sentiment among the public afterwards was that the ninja was a Godless and evil and overall bad person. That he was sent by the political enemies of the Aquino family. That he was an agent of the communists. That the communists imported him from China, with Chinese training from Chinese Buddhist monks with all their martial arts and kung-fu.

But I ask this: if he were truly an evil immoral person, then why did he not kill the child as well? If he were really really bad, he would have slashed that annoying child’s throat as well, saving us all from further exposure to it. The fact that he did not do so is evidence of a sort of sentimentalism that is ruining the image of ninjas around the world as these stoic motherfuckers who are professional and utilitarian and just focused on the mission at hand. Clearly this ninja was a soft ninja. A weak ninja.

The President, behind his Presidential standing desk from where he has read countless speeches written for him by hired professional speech-writers and lawyers, said, and I paraphrase, that his sister touched the hearts of everyone who met and heard and saw her. She was a kind-hearted individual who strove to improve the lives of the Filipino people. Both their parents, his and Kris’, (they have the same parents) brought them up to serve the public in whatever way they can. Kris did this through her movies and shows. Her shows and movies have delighted the hearts and guided the lives of countless numbers of Filipinos here and abroad. Kris was a good sister, a loving mother, etc. etc …

You get the idea.

The mangled body of Kris Aquino could not be put together decent enough for public viewing by the most masterful of embalmers and morticians of this country, and of those from all countries possibly even. The injuries caused by the flurry of attacks that followed the initial assault by the ninja was so severe that in the interest of public morality and decency, I decline to describe them in this short account. The wake, needless to say, was a closed-coffin affair.

Tears, tears, tears. All the celebrities gave all their words of sadness and condolences to the family, the clan of Kris Aquino. Friends, relatives, and former lovers gave their words too after the President had his say on the matter of his sister’s death.

How in the world can we continue to live now that the light which is Kris Aquino, this light that has been guiding our domestic lives, Presidential Sister to all the Filipinos all over the world, has been snuffed out? As Nietzsche wrote, how can we continue with our lives after witnessing this ‘divine putrefaction’? But as DH Lawrence has written, we’ve got to plod onwards ‘no matter how many skies have fallen.’ In lieu of this, the President has submitted a bill, which was then quickly approved into law by all the politicians of the land, mandating a year-long period of mourning for the murder of the Presidential Sister Kris Aquino.

– – – – –

Wednesday, April 15 2015
Rey Claveria

33 Of The Most Hilariously Terrible First Sentences In Literature History

kara angtawo:


Originally posted on Thought Catalog:

Every year, the announcement of Bulwer-Lytton Prize is a gift from bad writing heaven. Inspired by novelist and playwright Edward George Bulwer-Lytton’s famous “it was a dark and stormy night” opener, the contest asks writers to submit an opening sentence for the “worst of all possible novels” — although Fifty Shades of Grey has already been written. The results are perennially astounding, with entries in every genre from Children’s Literature to Spy Novels, and one sentence awarded the dubious honor of the worst sentence of the year. It’s like the Razzies, but better.

Here are some of the best entries from the past decade of the contest, each of them just as wonderfully atrocious as the next. Think you can write a sentence that’s worse? Leave your (unofficial) submission in the comments.

1. Sue Fondrie

Cheryl’s mind turned like the vanes of a wind-powered turbine, chopping her sparrow-like thoughts into…

View original 1,905 more words

A Dog Named Snacks

I call him Snacks because a few times a day, besides his meal, I toss out some morsel for him, some snacks. I like naming animals after food. I think it’s funny. The trend started I think because of this sketch comedy show called ‘Super Laff-in’ I watched when I was younger. I remember there was a cartoon segment there, and there was this cartoon character, and he had a dog. The cartoon dog’s name was Adobo. He got into all sorts of shenanigans at the expense of his master.

Back when I lived in a dorm in college, my dorm mates and I named several of the cats that wandered inside the compound. There was this big white cat we called Siopao. He was a sweet cat who followed anyone and meowed and asked for food. Then there was Siomai, a tiny white kitten. Siomai died young because he was abandoned by his mama. We tried to feed him and take care of him, but he was too young and already too weak when we found him. RIP Siomai.

Snacks is right now lying down on the driveway. It is sweltering hot. The kind of hot that melts asphalt. I whistle and call for Snacks to come under the shade and drink some water, but he does not reply. He is not dead since from inside the house I can see his chest rising up and down. He just seems to like the heat.

Snacks is old and a bit infirm. He is a big white dog, with large orange spots on his body. The top of his head and his ears are orange-furred, so he looks like he’s wearing a helmet. Other dogs respect Snacks. They let him eat the food I leave outside for them first. They leave him alone when he growls at them. I suspect he used to be the alpha around this street. That must have been a few years ago. Now, Snacks spends most of his time lying on the front lawn of our house.

Destroying something beautiful

I was about to go to sleep last night when I noticed a tiny flickering green light flying all about inside my mosquito net.

It continued wandering about my sleeping mat, even flew onto the back of my hand.

It was mesmerizing seeing it up close.

I thought after some time of observation, now you must be free little firefly.

I opened a side of my mosquito net a bit and sort of shooed the little firefly outside.

The firefly had a hard time finding the outside world.

I got a bit impatient and also concerned that mosquitoes would come in, so I sort of brushed the little firefly out.

A line of luminescent green innards smudged on my sleeping mat.

Felt awful for a while for I have accidentally destroyed something beautiful.

Then I closed the side of the net, and went to sleep.

Pointless Reminiscing

There are big holes in my memory. Especially during my time in high school. I wanted to forget, and have succeeded, and I don’t know if I like the condition now. It’s like, after years of drilling into my head the mantra of forgetting, the success left me feeling empty. I can’t remember the name of that girl who always sat at the back of the room, and was made fun of for wearing the same dirty uniform for days. I don’t remember anything interesting happening during that time. Or at least I don’t think they have any meaning any more. There’s a huge meaning-sucking machine somewhere near me. I don’t know where exactly it is, I only deal with what is left. And what is left is this vast flat wasteland, dry cracked earth, hot winds, total sun, empty skies.

There was a girl, a classmate in my junior year (third year) in high school. I found out she died years later. It was a congenital thing. She was born with a hole in her heart. I remember commuting to school with this girl. I remember her being silent most of the time. She had the most sophisticated-looking smile, like she does not smile just for any reason. There has to be something meaningful and special, and she smiles, and everything is alright with the world. I remember we were both staff members of the high school paper. I wrote the news and editorial, she wrote feature. I learned of her death when I was still puttering around in college, delayed, because I failed to complete the requirements in a couple of courses. I learned she had graduated nursing in this college in our city. I learned she had passed the nursing licensure exam. I was late to the knowledge of her death. I remember I sort of liked her. She had a great personality. She was nice, and most importantly, she was silent. Silent in the classroom, unless called upon to speak. Like me. I felt a camaraderie of sorts, but we weren’t close friends or anything. She was someone I felt was on the same wavelength as me.

I remember the numerous academic failures I had. I remember being absent a lot of times. Days in a row, whenever I felt awful. I remember that feeling of my heart being crushed while preparing for my commute to school after having been gone from school for days. The looks on the faces of teachers feeling let down, saying in their eyes how did things turn out so bad when you held so much promise. All the crushing expectations I made my own because I was severely insecure and lacking in personality. I think that’s what I felt. Not really sure. High school was a long time ago. And yet here I am still reminiscing. Contradicting myself with each succeeding paragraph.

All these politicians, man

All these politicians man.

I had this conversation with a friend about politics. He said that a young person should be liberal, only in her later years should someone turn towards conservatism. I thought this was a trite observation he possibly picked up from some girl who’s trying to impress him. But I took the bait and went with it, tried to play with the idea. I generally agree, I said. People usually are liberal in their younger days because they hardly think of anything beyond their immediate concern. This is the hedonistic phase of their lives. This is that whole ‘gather your rosebuds while you may’ philosophy. It also helps that younger people usually are not propertied, so they feel they don’t have much to lose in this world.

On the other hand, older people have experienced much. They have properties, or land, or some serious adult stuff like that. So they tend to be more cognizant of protecting things. Like Protectionism if we put it economically.

But I’ve known conservative young people, and I’ve known some pretty radical older people. So there’s your counter-argument or counter-example.

It was a roadside store and on that spot immediately outside the window the shopkeeper set up a table and a few chairs. We had the conversation while eating pancit canton. We often sat there and talked and watched all the people and vehicles that passed by. Some cats passed too. We looked at them and surmised about their lives here on this earth. There are too many cats, I said, and recalled the time that there was a rumour circulating in the dormitory that the maintenance staff, in order to control the rising cat population, bagged kittens and just drowned them in some far off canal somewhere. It was true, of course. It wasn’t a rumor. I was there when they captured those cats. They were cats, not kittens. Well there were some kittens that they captured too. But mostly it was adult cats. They were of all colors – black, white, calico, yellow, orange. They were all just gathered into sacks. I have no idea whether they actually drowned the cats or not. Maybe they just released those poor animals in some far off place where they would start another colony of cats. Cats breed really fast. It’s not that they don’t have any positive contribution in this world or anything, it’s just that there’s too many of them, and the dormitory authority just does not care too much or does not have the funds to have them neutered. Maybe there should be like a dedicated or maybe even just a volunteer vet, a heroic veterinarian who would just go around and neuter cats and dogs. Maybe this person, a great individual, full of the vigour and idealism of youth, would set-up an online funding campaign. She would then post videos of the neutered cats online on her youtube page.

“Is she single?”, friend asked.

“How is that relevant in the whole veterinary undertaking?”

“Is she hot?”

“Dude, concentrate on what’s important here. It’s the cats, man.”

“Just askin dude, but please continue.”

Oh well okay, so she’s like a recent graduate. Average slim build. Likes wearing jeans and running shoes. Black long hair which she keeps in a bun because she’s an active young lady who’s into adventures and hiking and all that active stuff like mountaineering and rappelling. She had a boyfriend, but they broke up some few weeks before she started her neutering activities, because of some personal, political, religious, philosophical and ideological reasons. These people are complicated. She wears glasses because she has bad eyesight. People have remarked that she does not smile a lot. She has what is called a bitchy frowny face. But really she’s just like the Russians in this regard. A smile should only be for close friends and close relatives. The world is a cold, dark place and smiley people just don’t have a fundamental understanding of how this world functions. But that’s just me affixing my views on her, I don’t really know. She could be a happy and fulfilled person really.

So she has neutered this one cat who then began to follow her in her neuterings. It’s a black cat. A big cat. It’s called Blackie. Real creative name. She adopts the cat, or rather the cat adopts her. Cats are like that. It’s a mutual adoption sort of thing. They just bonded. You know how witches have what is called a ‘familiar,’ which is their spirit animal, only this animal ain’t just spirit but flesh too. So Blackie is like this ambassador, or like a go-between between the Vet and all Catdom. In a loud booming voice he would gather all the cats in some place and talk to them, or meow to them, about the dangers of irresponsible reproduction. He would like have this PowerPoint Presentation with slides showing photographs of kittens and cats in deplorable and horrible living situations. The cats are all gathered and staring and feeling sad. One raises a paw and asks, how can we prevent this sad sad thing from happening, mister?

And that’s how the whole cat population was controlled. No more strays and unwanted kittens. A peaceful world and society.

“Wonderful,” friend said.

“It’s a utopia of cats,” I said.

“A world where we all can live peacefully.”

“Cats and humans, God’s creatures.”

“So what happens next?”

The ex-boyfriend shows up.


The ex-boyfriend tells her he still loves her.

“Oh fuck.”

She picks up the sleeping Blackie off the floor who then wakes up and glares at this new face he hasn’t seen before. Boyfriend takes little notice of Blackie. The problem, the boyfriend begins, was that he wasn’t ready for that whole commitment thing? His boyfriend has this tic where he ends all his sentences like he’s asking a question? But he’s ready now, he says to Vet Girl. He’s ready to take it all onto the next level. He’s like all responsible and propertied now and shit, so like come on babe. But Vet Girl’s just eyein him all skeptical. “Oh really?”

“Yah really?” boyfriend says.

My friend asks the shopkeeper for a couple of boiled eggs. The shopseller is an older lady, and during certain hours she sells hardboiled eggs. There’s a technique to peeling the shell off hardboiled eggs, my friend said. The trick is to break off both ends first, then you blow air fast and hard through one hole. It’s like magic, he said. He demonstrates and huffs himself red in the face, but the shell just won’t come off in one piece.

About the Girl

About the Girl

We went to Quiapo and looked at all these pirated DVDs and VCD stalls. It was a whole building just filled with stalls of pirated shows. There were movies from Hollywood, anime from Japan, documentaries, etc. etc. There were softwares too.

It rained the day we decided to go to Quiapo. I waited for her in McDonald’s Philcoa. I ordered then drank hot chocolate while waiting for her. Inside behind the glass wall, I stared at her as she walked towards where I was. We waited inside for the rain to subside. We talked, I can’t recall what we talked about. We’ve been to several dates before that. We watched movies, we ate, we went to this cafe once where we drank cold expensive frothy coffee. She invited me there because she said it’s where she often worked with her classmates on their projects. All I got from that experience was that it was cold and that you’d have to take a tricycle to get there. I think I was reading something about Rizal. I looked at her handwriting. She has beautiful, clean, precise handwriting. She is very organized. My mind was frozen inside that place. I couldn’t think.


I was at the back because I always sit at the back. She was at the back because she was always late. She talks to me when I only wanted to listen to the lecture. So I listen to her. I listen to the lecture too. The professor does not see us because we are at the back. She likes to eat sometimes during class. One time she bought a Baby Ruth candy bar. She rarely takes notes. She asks for my notes after class. She has shoulder length black hair. She always wears shorts. She always wears t-shirts with words on them. Org shirts. Event shirts. Commemoration shirts. High school reunion shirts. She has a Lacoste shirt colored purple. She wears glasses. She wears flip-flops. The only time I saw her wearing jeans she was also wearing sneakers. The sneakers were white. She tells me about her favorite professors, her favorite topics, her favorite movies, her favorite shows (she really likes Glee). I tell her my favorite movie is Fight Club. I like reading funny stories. I like making people laugh. She likes making people laugh too. She once won an essay-writing contest. I was awarded once by the principal back when I was in high school for being the most active library user. She asked me to watch a movie with her sometime. There were free movie screenings in the University Film Theatre. I said okay. It was a lesbian film. From what I could make out of the darkness, there were not much people in the theatre. We sat side by side. She was texting someone. I could see the blue light from the cellphone screen reflected on her face in the darkness. We went out several times after that. We watched a movie. We watched a play. We watched more movies. I lent her some of my DVD’s. I never got any of them back. We went out to the old part of the city. We walked the streets and looked at the stalls, the people and the architecture. We looked at the house of Gregoria de Jesus. She took photos. It was raining earlier that day but it later subsided. We got wet on the way to the old city because water from the puddles splashed inside the vehicle we were in. It was cold.


In the reception area of the dormitory, we sat and ate while watching television. There were a lot of people gathered in front of the tv screen because it was the Miss Universe finals. We ate spaghetti. A short news update that day: a young rising star was found dead inside his apartment. This young rising actor was well-loved. I was surprised with her comment that the young actor committed suicide. She has inside information because she has worked with entertainment industry people and that was that filtered through the grapevine. What struck me was the way she said this, like his suicide wasn’t such a big deal really. And in a sense it really wasn’t such a big deal in her world, and in mine too.


I always sat at the back because that’s how I usually sit. I have a strategic position in every classroom that I maintain: at the backrow, second chair to the right. She always sat at the back near me because she’s always late. That class was twice a week, and I looked forward to that class after befriending her. I recall the first times she went to class she sat at the row ahead of me. But then she sat by my side the rest of that semester.

Our class went to see a play. I kept the half of the ticket in my wallet for a long time after that. I also kept the ticket they gave us in the lesbian film festival. I think I paid five pesos for that ticket.


It was fun. The atmosphere was carnival-like – lots of people, groups carrying flags, there were people who sold stuff like Che Guevara t-shirts, punk shirts, etc. She let me use one of her cameras and I basically followed her around like a puppy. When the protesters burned this effigy, the smoke billowed around us and I wet my handkerchief and gave it to her to wipe her eyes with. She wore a purple Lacoste shirt and jean shorts which showed her white legs. People talked to her in English, thinking she’s American. We saw a busload of delegates from other countries pass by. It rained later that day.


We were in the mall, talking. I don’t remember now what we were talking about. It must have been historical, since we stopped for a long time watching this display of historical things. Inside the mall, on the ground floor, in the center of the wide immaculate expanse, were set-up these display booths showcasing large tarpaulins with images and text printed on them. One that caught my eye was the display on the revolutionary-dubbed-bandit Macario Sakay. In the accompanying image, it shows him having long hair and sitting along with other uniformed officers of the Revolution. In a separate and smaller tarpaulin, there was an article and image detailing the amulet used by Macario Sakay. It was a small, white jacket, I surmised must be worn behind the shirt, in contact with the skin. It had Latin words written all over it, and images such as an all-seeing eye, a pyramid, a cross, and I think I also saw a heart. Not the emoticon kind of heart, but the semi-anatomically correct heart one often sees on old antique statuettes of Christ.


In another earlier time in a similar place, we watched a movie together. In this movie, insectoid aliens have landed on earth. Years pass and we find that they are being contained in this ghetto/camp. I have watched the movie already before with friends. She said she has not seen the movie, so I thought we should go and watch it. I remember the blue light of her cellphone screen, illuminating her face in the darkness of the theatre. She was staring at her phone. I was looking at her. Later, we went out to the open space outside the mall where she could smoke. She was telling me about this professor of hers, a favorite of hers. We talked of the future. I told her of a dream of mine to open a cafe inside a library where I would support all artistic people in their activities. I would support, because I would be very rich in that future time, various cultural endeavours. Paintings. Books. She said she has a similar plan. But foremost in her mind is to have her own house. She would then decorate its walls with framed artworks made by her and her sister. We sat and talked and I watched the white smoke she has exhaled as it rose up and dissolved into the air.


Alone, I stood behind the clear plexiglass wall. I looked below at the people. They were so small and busy, going on to work or school, underneath the heat. It was very cool inside the mall. The white square tiles were clean and shiny, reflecting the flourescent lights on the ceiling. The atmosphere reminded me of a hospital room I was in before, only without the smell of antiseptic alcohol, bleach and medicine, and also without the constant but subdued hum of people talking and walking. I sent her a message on the phone asking how she’s been doing lately. We haven’t seen each other for almost a whole semester. I’ve had some personal issues to deal with the months before and was unable to summon the right mindset to reply to her messages. She replied that she’s in the hospital, just some gastroenteritis.


I recite her name like a mantra to drive away all the sufferings. It doesn’t work, but subjectively, inside my head, it works. It doesn’t make sense I know. I thought of methods, techniques. One is I flood my head with memories of her. I recall details about her and then hold on to them as long as I can. She had curly black hair. One time she showed up to our date with frizzled unkempt hair. She wore black-rimmed glasses. She has thick, constantly chapped lips. That day inside the airconditioned fastfood place where we were eating and studying, she smelled like milk – sour and sweet. She does not paint her nails, they are always clean and short. She has the most delicate-looking fingers.

The first and only time I saw her wearing jeans, she wore a green polo shirt. I don’t know whether this was before the fastfood episode or after. So she wore blue jeans, shoes (running shoes. it surprised me how small and dainty those shoes were. she usually wears flip-flops around the campus), and most importantly, her hair was short. It was also straight. We were in the library that time and I promised her I would help her with an assigment or something. I had nothing to do that day. I finished all my requirements already. I waited hours. She’s usually late.


One time in the library of her college, she showed up wearing jeans and a shirt probably of purple color. Every time I think of her, I think of her wearing that shirt. It was thick T-shirt with a green Lacoste alligator logo on the left breast. I remember her eyelashes – so thick. I remember her teeth, not so good, kinda yellowish and one has a bit of discoloration from cavities I think. She has a dainty nose. She always wore glasses. She has black and long and wiry hair. Sometimes she doesn’t comb them so you could see the split-ends. The last time we met I think she had it cut off to just about neck-length. It looked good on her.

We visited the house of Gregoria de Jesus. It was an old building and badly -maintained. You could still see the old architectural details, like the balustrades and the windows. There was a historical marker there saying that Gregoria de Jesus, the wife of Bonifacio remarried after he was killed. Her next husband was an architect.

We went inside the Quiapo Church. We saw one of the old ladies by the entrance of the church, the ones who will pray for you if you pay them. We saw one knee-walking the aisle from the back towards the altar. I wore my Buddha shirt.

She took photos. We talked about her favorite professors on the way back from Quiapo.


I can’t recall the last time I saw her. I can’t recall what happened during the last time we met. I can’t recall what the last words were that we exchanged. I do remember that I sent her a message saying I wanted to kiss her. I did not get a reply immediately. I was particulary overbold that time (early morning) because I was slightly drunk. I got very little sleep. That was the context of that message. And her reply was an apology. In the text message I got near the afternoon, she said she was sorry she was unable to reply because she was already asleep.

Friday, January 09 2015 Dream [Nuclear apocalypse, monsters, mudhill climbing]

I have the most vivid dreams when I fall asleep through anti-allergy medication. In this dream, Japan was nuclear-bombed and my high school class was sent to this high school in Japan. We were I think invading the place and that’s where we were supposed to be studying now. The trip started through submarine. I could feel the sensation of falling down as the submarine descended to the depths of the sea. The second part of the trip was through air. I wasn’t sure exactly what kind of aircraft it was, but it was a smooth ride and we had a clear view of the high school from up above.

It was total carnage. There were still bodies of students and people littering the grounds of the high school. When we got inside one of the classrooms, it turns out the high school is also infested with these monsters that we thought was caused by the radiation. They kept trying to come in through the doors. I stationed myself at one of the doors, just trying my best to keep it closed, and managed to kill two of these huge cat-like things.

Then we found out there were still several Japanese students that were alive and hiding. They were all girls. I and a group of my classmates managed to save them and bring them into our classroom. There we tried to communicate with them, but none of spoke any Japanese. We found out that the book we used for our Biology classes had the same content, and also that the key to our salvation from the monsters was written in this textbook. We were supposed to drink this liquid and everything would turn out alright. Somehow we found the liquid and every one drank.

The next scene is within a dark movie theater. My high school class and the girls we saved were watching this film. The film was about this kickass soldier-girl battling monsters as she and her unit make their way to an underground research laboratory. The soldier girl was the last of her team to depart to the underground lab as the whole vast lobby filled with monsters then exploded. I guess it was another apocalyptic scenario because there’s a scene in the end where one person asked the other whether they can restart the earth’s flora and fauna through the materials that were stored inside the laboratory. The other person replied yes.Then in the middle of the movie this 3D image of a CGI dragon came into the screen. It was totally terrifying not only because it was unexpected but because the liquid our class drank earlier magnified the effects. It was the clearest most crisp, most HD thing I probably ever dreamed. Movie ends then we all file out.

The dream then cuts to this weird contest where several competitors are climbing this tall and very steep hill of mud. I was just passing through and thought ‘hey why shouldn’t I join too.’ They were already ahead of me, but I bested them. Were using were this flimsy straw rope, but somehow we managed to not break it or slip because of it. Then on my way down I high-fived this one guy who looked like this schoolmate of mine in high school. When I was near the base, a part of the mudhill collapsed on top of me. They spent a long time looking, but they never found me. ##


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