THE MIRACLE

Final Round

The Miracle

by Ben Crisp and Rose Flores 

“Yes,” I said, gesturing pointlessly down the street as I crossed to her.  “I… you left it at the park.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching out a hand to take it.  She brushed a loose strand of hair back and squinted at me.  “I have no money, sorry.  But thank you.”

“No, you don’t… I didn’t want a reward.  Are you alright?  You look upset.”

She turned away, and I wondered how I could be so direct to this perfect stranger.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I’m inquisitive.”

“OK,Yankee Steve.  I have to go now,” she said, and started to walk.A stupid, mad chuckle escaped my mouth and I caught it quickly in my hand as I chased after her. 

“No, not… it means I’m nosy.  I’m curious, sorry.  Like a cat, you know.”

She stopped and squinted at me again, as though wondering whether to smile at this insane white man or not.  Then she pointed at my nose.  “Curiosity kills the cats.”

“Yes it does,” I said, nodding.  “Do you want a coffee?”

She turned and started walking again.  “If I had money I would give it to you, but thank you for bringing my scarf.”

I chased after her.  “No!  No, it’s nothing to do with… I want nothing from you.  I just thought you looked like you could use a coffee.”

Her squinting tortured me.  I had no clue what was going on behind those stern brown eyes, and not knowing this little thing was vanishing all that I did know; every instinct was fading from me.

“I’m a journalist, I’m not…” I said helplessly, and shrugged. Not what?

She shrugged back.

“Your boyfriend’s house?” I asked as we sat at a table beneath a red canvas umbrella.

“Why do you think that?”

“The locket.”  I pointed at the little golden heart turning restlessly between her thumb and forefinger.  She snapped it into her palm defiantly.

“The scarf is from my boyfriend,” she said, pulling it from her neck and resting it on the table as our coffees arrived.

I tore open a sugar packet and tapped it into my cup.  “I’ll bet you chose it.  It matches your dress.”

She checked her phone and did not answer me.  I was right.

“You drink too much coffee,” she said at last, after she had sighed and tucked her phone away again.  “Caffeine is bad for the heart.”

I shrugged again.  “Everything is bad for the heart these days.”

We sipped from our cups and ventured into the silence that filled the air around us.  Empty, silent air; it choked me more than smoke.  Was that why my fingers reached for last cigarette after last cigarette after last cigarette?

“May I see?” I said, and held out my palm.

She stared at me through steam rising from her coffee, a cradle of warmth between her two soft hands; then lowered the cup, unfolding her fingers to proffer the locket.

It was of the yellow gold I had never admired, adorned with rubies that might have been real, or might have not; and not knowing made them seem worthless.  A tiny clasp unhinged its two halves, splitting the fragile little heart in two, revealing a miniature biscuit-tin print of the veiled Madonna.

“Lucky charm?” I asked.

“She is pure.  Perfect.  Everything else is dirty in the morning.”

“Nothing’s quite as pretty as Mary in the morning,” I sang in my best Elvis voice, but she did not smile. A digital chirrup sounded beneath the table, and she withdrew her phone swiftly, reading the message with that same familiar squint.

“Boyfriend?” I asked.

She reached out and took the locket back, standing as she did so.

“I have to go.  Now.”

Her voice had a tiny tinge of urgency to it.  I stood too.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she said as she started to walk away.

I was about to remind her that I hadn’t actually offered to pay for her drink, but changed my mind and dropped a handful of coins on the table instead, following her.

“Your scarf,” I said, offering it to her.  She snatched it from me with a little noise of annoyance – at herself or at me I was not sure.  “It’s Michael, by the way.”

“Violeta,” she said.

She began to murmur underneath her breath as she quickened her pace.  I was almost jogging just to keep up with her, my hands in my pockets as though we were just two friends in a mutual hurry.  She was praying, I realised; every other word of the rosary filtered from her lips through the noise of the traffic – into which she suddenly stepped, waving her hand at a Corolla with barely readable taxicab printing that skidded to a halt beside her.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She glanced at me like an impatient schoolteacher as she grabbed at the door.

“Hospital,” she said.

“Then Michael hop in!  Or would you leave now?”  So we boarded the Corolla. 

I didn’t know what this guy wanted from me, but I didn’t care less because my thoughts were horrible.  I knew something would happen, and whatever fate again would present to me – as to my friend Hannibal’s wisdom was to be happy and free.  I assured myself that what could happen to my boyfriend was reality, like the shifting of clouds – we just couldn’t stop their movements, only God can.  The next thing I felt our hands were tightly locked, and Michael’s gaze trying to seize my brokenness.

     “Is there something I can do?” he asked.

     “Nothing.  Thank you.”

     Lane upon lane, track upon track; my mind whizzed the clouds, the nothingness, the coldness of my fright, the fallen hopes, the waiting, my single life of faith. At this time, the locket...

    “Don’t worry. We’ll get there.” Michael asserted.

     And then, in my bag the phone buzzed again.  I grasped the phone firmly, but my hands were weak so the phone dropped down the cab floor.  Michael got it and read the message. 

     I did not mind his resolve.  The driver was silent with only the twist of his wheels.  The air was cold and my heart pounded heavily like rocks on my chest breaking for mercy.  “Oh, Maria!”

     Silence in the cab, in the air, near the afternoon...  Michael didn’t say any word, but searched the locket for me and put them in my hands.  He held me close and I did not resist the comfort of his arms around my bereft shoulders that needed warmth and flesh. 

    “We’d go to the back office of the hospital, Violeta.  The staff will give us instructions...”    

I paid the driver as she sprang from the taxi.

            My only thought during the ride was that I could not remember the last time I had hugged someone out of the simple instinct to comfort; when had the act of touch become so foreign?

            Please hurry.

            That’s all the second text had said.So whatever disaster had befallen him had not restricted his use of a phone.  I hated myself for the unkind thought.  Had my ex looked as Violeta looked, whenever I had told her I was ill?

            The nurse at the back office desk glanced at the clipboard hanging by her side.  Emergency. Bay 212.  Violeta hurried ahead and I followed, helplessly, at a distance.  I thrust my hands into my pockets and peered through the gridded windows on the doors as we walked the length of the corridor, my lungs filling with the smell of disinfectant.  The figures in the beds looked so small and vulnerable.  As Violeta stopped ahead of me I realised they were children.  The realisation shook in me, and my fingers closed around something in my pocket.  The familiar scratch of a paper curl on skin. A forgotten cigarette.

            I stood behind her. Through the window in front of us I saw a dimly lit room.  A woman leaned forward in a chair, her back to us.  Her hands were clasped around the hand of a boy who lay motionless in the hospital bed.  From where I stood I could see his eyes were not quite closed, fine red lines crossing his face around them.  Machines surrounded him, their cables disappearing under his sheet, electric green and blue lights winking and flickering softly.

            Across the bed from the woman stood her husband.  I recognised him.  I had seen his face in newspapers; a politician, maybe.  He was short, dressed in a dark business suit.  His hands were deep in his pockets and he stood, slumped, staring at the boy with a strange look on his face.  It was the look of a man for whom the curtain of life had been pulled aside, and he saw nothing behind it.

            His glassy eyes drifted from the boy across the room to the door.  He saw Violeta.  He saw me.  I glanced at Violeta, her eyes now welling.  Across the space, through the glass, the two of them were sharing a look filled with all the sadness, the sweetness, the tenderness and heartache that I had ever known love to be about.  It was then I felt alone, as the lonely will do, rain soaked neighbour to the world of the loved.  A world for those who felt the warmth of others even when parted, and who felt another’s pain.

            I felt pain.  I felt Violeta’s, as she felt her lover’s, as she felt and he felt the pain of his son, and the mother did too, and I; all of us there in the chapel of pain, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Hospital.

            He looked to his wife, and Violeta turned from the window, her hands to her mouth, eyes searching for some solace in mine.  I curled an arm around her shoulder and walked her to the stairwell at the end of the ward.  As we rose, step by step, I heard the rooftop doorway humming a mellow chant between the cold conditioned inside air and the free and humid day outside.

            On the roof we stood and stared, listening together as the yellow scarf fluttered in morning eddies, and I saw… I saw, across the avenue, beyond the cries and howls and mirth of the city streets, through a border of bricks and bolts and steel, perched on a plinth in the centre of a pond, the concrete Madonna.

            Perhaps love was not pure, but stained.  Perhaps love was not harmony, but discord.  Perhaps love came in all the shades of earth and grime, and in the moist and dirty breath of the taglamig air that brushed our faces on mornings such as this.

            Violeta prayed in silence beside me, and I lit my last cigarette.

   My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before.

 posted by rosevoc2

NET CHAT

Net Chat (A Fiction Story)


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NET CHAT



Madness creeps to explore new possibilities. How many men can a woman have in a day? I was curious. It was discovering a feeling I had not the luxury in life. I was in a barred, cemented walls that was almost like a tomb. A core in a crust. So I plunged my fears and swam across depths of time and space. First time.

I would taste the pleasure of emotions in words. It was a trance. A temporary exit to the power-playing people around me in the real-now. I began to find the answers to my complicated ideas, deconstructing and reconstructing every word; trying to separate water and oil. I would like to think, there is a knife on my neck and every wrong move I make would slit a cut on my throbbing throat like killing a helpless chicken.

Maybe, I can become what I dream now. In this development of technology, words and letters are like people talking to me face to face.



Connecting…



“Hello and heller!”

Everyone greeted everyone hello. Well, not hell and below, I suppose. It was a greeting of cheers like “Aloha” in Hawaiian and “Ciao” in Italian. I thought all eyes were on me. Searching me head to foot, undressing me, my heart and my soul. But I was armed and shielded. I was wearing a complete battle gear. I floated with the cursor throbbing systolic and diastolic. The keypads wrote the murmurs in the blue sea of fiber optic cables, wires, and wireless connections of the internet.

“How is everyone?

“I want to join in.”

“Nice and happy to be here!”

“Where are you from?”

I could not pretend. I got recharged by the electronic vibrations, pulling my fingers. My emotions were letting go. I needed someone to talk to – like a friend. Maybe another thrill seeker in a machine, or an android at my bidding. On and off with my PC, I was giggling – to this my net baptism. It seemed like exploring a part of the earth where a star would burst and become another planet.

Well, this is technology.

“Asl please…”

“What is asl?” My ignorance let me ask.

“Age, sex, location.”

“Okay.” I got so excited because these were the things I didn’t know.

“Asian, female, between 35-45 years old.”

I went private. At first, I was scared about these private domains. I was foreign to this idea of being too personal, and afraid of some people who were lewd. But I needed these experiences that could break the walls surrounding my routine and sad life. “ The Edge of Things” by Edith Tiempo, pushed me to “that brink or threshold, none other may enter.” And that “leap of faith,” which Kierkegaard calls, let me jump into the abyss or beyond the abyss.

My fight, mhwhahahahah… I’ll do it in cyberspace – I have to make out of something, or else I’ll just be keeping everything and I would die, too. I had to free these golden butterflies inside my stomach and shreds of heaven-threads in my veins if for moments of releasing my act of faith.

I met Eazymaan, Medicate, Caterpillar, Virgo Woman, Pilot, and Wild Fire while I hid on the pseudo Moon and Stars. I thought I had the whole world right before my eyes. Tasks were done at the same time as I searched for the books of Exupery, the Essays of Montaigne and the Reflection of Solitude by Thoreau. I was in the chatroom, inside my room with only the beating PC.

For hours, unrelenting thoughts fell on the monitor, every letter captured the moment of truth and illusions. I found rooms full of people from different places and different time zones and different clothing. I met them as ants would kiss each other and stop and go. And then I’ve learned tags on this new dimension of Science. A new dictionary on the internet.

“LOL.” LOL means laugh out loud. You say that when someone goes funny.

“BRB” means: Be right back.

“Mwah” means a big kiss. Chatmates offer and receive a bunch of flowers as token of

appreciation, a cup of steaming coffee from Starbucks, munch chocolates – Hersheys, Kisses, and Snickers, or Life Savers candy. Yummy! Pick your choice. It was a room full of everything. Illusions over life. This became not a portion of my reality, but my reality. It was fun.

Deprived of power and feeling destitute that time, I explored possibilities. The big difference was taking Jose Rizal’s “Touch me not.”

I got close connections with some chatmates all over the globe. Some names I couldn’t remember though…BUT there were two of them who became my best of friends. Here I found out that people in the chatrooms were not bad, not bums, not stupid. They were ordinary and loveable people just like you and me. I would like to think a few were machines, or maybe models to promote a product. They could even be members of a cult. I don’t know. But above all, proper rules were observed in the room. We called it “netiquette,” which means internet etiquette.

My first private chat was full of oohs and aahs. I was curious how the conversation would go. My chatmate being a gentleman taught me how to be technologically literate and updated. Adriano, I could recall his name. I couldn’t believe he was a sexy star in Italy. I tried chatting with him and when he asked me about my vital statistics, I boasted a perfect measurement of “36-24-36.” He went gaga over me, while I described the features of a beauty titlist, the softness of Venus de Milo, and the charm of Monalisa. I seduced him to beg for my virginal words, until he told me he was aching. The dialogues were spiels in a movie spinning to manifest desires. Adriano thanked me and I laughed out all my stored energy that almost drove me mad.

And you know what? He owned a villa and a number of cars that bestirred my financial desires. How I wished I could reveal my true identity, but because it was in Italy, and Rome is in Italy, the home base of the Pope – I had second thoughts… The act was disgraceful for a respected woman. Besides, I did not have that Aphrodite figure, I was more huggable like Winnie the Pooh bear than a sexually titillating bold star. We were two different worlds.

Good bye Adriano.

I continued searching for unlimited territories. I tried saying hi to all, baring sweet words. The thin line between words and emotions almost cracked like abyss. A word especially written would crush a heart and rip a soul if not thought of carefully. Yet positive words encouraged dreams, strengthened confidence, and saved lives.

Switching from one site to another searched me the stories told long ago. It reminded me the fairy tales, the narrations, and the poems, that gave hope. The stories chanted me to fairy land. The journals of Virginia Woolf, the Diary of Anne Frank, and the letters of the Philippines’ Bienvenido Santos took my breath away. And because I was Filipino, I also found Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo plus the recommended and popular articles that inspired ambitions and made heroes, and Saints. Of course, I never forgot chapters on the Book of Wisdom, the Koran, and the Holy Bible written through the ages – those that until now introduce the words of the prophets, the words of Yaweh, the words of Allah, the words of Jesus Christ.

Cyberspace gulped me. Here’s the evidence of the evolution of language, communication, and words. From the writings of the Nambikwara, the scribbles in the caves to the cultured populace, for ordinary people and literary gods – words are life.

Each passing day the computer was my pal. In the computer were my friends now, and unlike my first time – I realized these people were people who could be trusted – better than those next to me, better than those next to my house. Some of them better than families. Well done! I had my men and the rendezvous I wanted. It taught me that life could be meaningful and exciting as the night closes and the day begins.

The internet thrilled arid fields of my activities . I didn’t know why. My friends laughed at me because I was really growing mad while I tell them stories about chatting. “Find a boyfriend? Why not? I could do that, I told a friend.” And so did I. I chose names from different sites and tried to match; flaming, crossing out, comparing names I felt were charming. I thought their names suggested something, I thought it meant something. Until, I clicked my mouse to an American chatmate, and got agitated when he shouted at me. “Whore!” I knew he shouted. The texts were in BOLD letters.

My blood rose to my head, “ Be careful of what you say!” I could not fight him to the hilt because I was new in the game. He kicked me out of his domain, and I didn’t expect he’d do that. I tried to get even with this rude character.

I shouted back at him…”You are ugly!” “Ugly!” “Ugly!” The colors of his letters changed in rage. He was so angry. And shouted again “Get out of my private!”

I was shocked, his words got into my nerves. I thought he was in front of me, and he made me feel nervous. I could slap his cheeks. I thought I’d shut down. But no —

Instead, I chose another name, “Marksman.” I clicked on Marksman. Because I thought he could shoot him. I ran to him.

Marksman was Jake. Jake was an Indian. He was a Muslim. He lived in Kuwait.

“What’s the matter?” I told Jake, the American kicked me out of his domain because he shouted impolite words at me. He told me to relax, and so I calmed down. It was kind of getting instructed. The chatroom was in a commotion. Then Jake popped up to me in his kind words, “ It’s over. Don’t be furious sweety. Take a deep breath.” Jake saved me from the rude limping white mouse who was hiding in a black cloak.

Marksman and I had become the best of friends. We exchanged ideas and he gave me good literature. His words were profound, you know Indians are identified with the wisdom of Mahatma Gandhi and Teresa of Calcutta. I learned a lot from his one liners and tried to memorize his evoking thoughts. He told me that I would succeed. This gave me confidence. And from here I knew that there were good people around. It’s not because of ones race, or belief, or sex, or religion, or status in life, or even education, that people become friends but people become friends because they respect each other.

Jake was so amiable. He called me Florentine which means a beautiful flower. Jake was proud to tell me that he had lots of women on the net but he had only one wife. He observed Ramadan and other Muslim holidays.

Yakub was the Muslim name of Jake. I told Yakub “We’d watch the stars together.”

After Yakub, I found another bestfriend. His name was Norman. He was based in the United Kingdom. He lived in a house on top of a hill at Yorkshire. I could imagine his house like a castle. What’s fantastic to me was because the movie “Dracula” was shot on that place. And so I was sort of intrigued about this new friend Norman. “In Yorkshire, at night, the fog was a shade of purple,” Norman told me.

Norman was a paramedic. “My job required most of my time and what’s sad is because people only recognize us during emergencies.” Though he told me, that was okay because it’s a way serving people. He was devoted his work so much and told me stories about his job, his schedules, his promotion, his new car, his favorite things. Then he laughed out loud, typing the keys, “LOL.”

Norman was real romantic. He was the sweetest person, ever in this planet telling me about my possibilities and that I was the most beautiful girl in this world. He said he would move the world if I were ill, and would be devastated if I leave him. I fell in love with him on the net, and revealed my wounded soul. Here, I’ve realized that love is faceless (anonymous). Serving the other as in reciprocal love. No one using the other. It is reflective of the Divine (Carol Wotyla). Days and nights had passed, and I did not miss a day writing him. Sometimes we’d chat, sometimes we’d just leave IM’s (instant messages). I thought he was right in front of me. He was the husband I never had and he called me a wife. I promised him a lot of things. I even swore to him and had the guts of a divorce in my marriage after 3 years and I would fly and live with him in UK. We’ve known each other for more than a year and at the close of each day we’d say good night.

One time we had a fight because I crossed some limitations asking him to come and get me. He let me recognize I was too dependent on him and that we were just living our lives in fiction. That struck my head and split my skull.

The plight made me see that I lived quite a miserable state. It opened my eyes to examine my life. I wanted to deny the facts, but it was evident that my spouse had another family. My miserable marriage would in some time, freeze me alone. Fairy tales can’t come true. And cyberspace is abstract and intangible. Should I want to fulfill something – I have to accept my spouse doesn’t love me anymore. The root of this madness is the marriage problem, not the internet gigs, not my Englishman chatmate. And so for three nights and three days, my tears wouldn’t dry living my fiction.

I acted the protagonist who could not decide how to end the fate given her by the creator of the story. Day by day I constantly went online and was surprised on the fifth day checking my inbox: “I’ve got mail!” Norman was too good to start again our unfinished love story. He said I’m sorry and cheered me up. This time he tried to weave a better story for me. I thought we were Romeo and Juliet.

I felt so loved without exerting much effort, just typing on the keyboard: words, living words. I had that intense and affectionate feeling of being the only woman in Norman’s life, a woman who satisfied a lover, a woman with great power over a man to let her bleed and bloom. Norman made me a woman who exulted her man as the toughest among all men to conquer love at the apex of eternity.

He wrote me a letter:

“I could never chain you to my heart.

That would mean that you would forever be a prisoner of my love.

I want willingly to give your life to me.

Your embrace is my wish.

Your touch is my dream.

Your love my salvation.”

I was mesmerized! He held all my senses, he embedded my heart in his and his in mine. For me, this prose was the best poem of my life.

At 12 o’clock midnight, Philippine time, we would get online for five to ten minutes then he would go. We would communicate about us, about work, and some ideas – a lot more. It was worthwhile as I’ve learned a pattern of how an Englishman speaks, his culture, and how he treats a woman, just by the email exchanges. Norman was kind and unselfish of his time chatting to me, as if I was getting a tutorial online for free. And more than that, he made me feel like a dainty wine glass carved with diamonds. He told me he would kiss me anywhere, and would be so proud to have me in his arms, “And if just holding each other’s hand would still be special,” to make me happy.

I kept a journal of our love stories immersing in my dream fiction. From sunrise to sunset my thoughts would not free me, had I not written something and bled for words for Norman. Here – I regained the dignity I’ve lost. 1440 minutes a day, Norman became my real husband. I forgot my problems. I forgot my husband, his devilish mistress.

Norman’s love conquered space and time. His mwahs taught me about a kiss that breaks the glass of age into pieces. Our hearts became one and had thought if we could make love together. It was impossible! Although at times, I felt my ears red and my body weaker every time he teased me he wished for a release. He told me we could have sons and daughters, and if none, he would still love me. “As long as you are with me.” He promised “We would live in the shelter of our love and we would make love while the sun slides down slowly. Then we would sleep together while the stars watch over us and wake again to make love with the rising sun.” Norman was my dream.

Everyday I felt so excited and so beautiful. I was not the dumped wife. I was then the wife of an Englishman. Mrs. Peri.

For a year again we chatted and lived our perfect love story. Him – my husband, and me – his wife. There was that enchanting feeling of being loved and cared for. And though the oceans parting us from different lands, I could never betray him. “Take care of my heart.” He always reminded me. “My love is for you alone.”

How would one contend with this madness? Of living in books? Of living in fairy tales? Of living a life on the net, without seeing, without knowing, and without real touching. Soulmates should I say, or could he be a creature like me? Dying for words? I knew how to differentiate fiction from nonfiction, but now I’m forgetting the rules. Am I getting crazy?

One day my spouse came home at dawn, and noticed me getting online those sleepy hours. He didn’t care. Neither did I. He often mocked, “Stop imagining things!” He exclaimed that I was a deranged writer who could never be satisfied with reality. I was imperfect and I was almost like a chip in the computer programmed for stories. I couldn’t have flesh, I couldn’t have urges, I couldn’t smack, I couldn’t satisfy. I’m only good at words, and that is all. His friends teased I was not a woman, embarrassed by the thought of accused frigidity, maybe.

While time passed by, my situation became more transparent to Norman. I asked him if we could really be together should I get an annulment. He confused me with a vague answer, “ I could not break your marriage vow, it is sacred.”

What? I turned pale and unbelieving. He was playing up…

“Liar!”

He swooned me, got into my soul, melted my heart – let me believe our love was real now he’s telling me he couldn’t break my marriage vow? He couldn’t fight for me.

“Coward!”

His arrogance showed like his well-chiseled pointed nose, “Don’t you know I was just making you feel good? How could you think I would marry you for real? I thought it was clear we were just making up fiction?”

I wanted to kill myself at his insensitivity. How belittling his strong words went through at me, then leaving me with a blank space. That time, I hoped I would never wake up. My marriage was a failure. And now my love affair is a fake. Love dries up on me. My lovers come and go leaving unexplained memories, drowning me in tears of remembering dreams that would never come true – so my flashes of reverie.

Norman swore to me “I adore you.” He was at my disposal.

“I am yours and you are mine. I think of you and yearn for your touch every waking moment. My heart is yours till the sun fades from the sky for the very last time…”

I lament this lying poetry. He lied to me like Genaro. I am one stupid woman.

For several days I was out of touch. I felt I was one of the most repressed persons on earth where I could not email and chat. I forgot my other friends and denied my global community on the World Wide Web (www).

Still, some friends emailed me but I didn’t email back. “Whats up? Why aren’t you getting online now? Keep in touch and take good care of yourself.”

Yes, my friends cared for me a bit, too. But I wouldn’t tell them anymore. I couldn’t figure out the limits from hereon. I felt so broken for weeks, couldn’t escape what I’ve been through. It would be funny and unreasonable for people to know that a deadly computer virus hit me, maybe a damaging Trojan lurking in my soul, crashing my humanity, feasting on my breath.

“Heaven please give me dignity!”

For months I never emailed. I swore I wouldn’t go back to my inbox, never ever. A guy tricked me again! I curse Adam. How I thirst for the male blood and urging to burn his flesh. But then, the internet isn’t human. They’re just wires. I should never be affected. I should understand…

As I am locked in an inadequate marriage, the romance of my life is only an untouchable fulfilling shadow of an earth of technology under the sky.

If for times I had happiness with this creeping madness, then I would sign in. Chat again. Maybe science would extend Norman, once my haven and a dummy, zoom another Norman in tiles and icons, chips and softwares, around space and time. And sometime, online – we would find each other; or, I would find another him among millions chatting, an offspring perhaps, for the rest of my life.

Signing off.

Note: The names and identities of persons here are not true. This is a fiction story.



copyright rosalinda flores – martinez 2009
reposted/copyright rose flores martinez; rosevoc2.2015
iwrotefiction

Maikling Kuwento: Economy Class

June 24, 2014

Economy Class

“Kita tau?” nabasa ko sa iskrin ng aking selfon.  Napangiti ako. Itiniggil kong muli ang paghuhugas ng mga pinggan para makapag-text.

Kelan?

“Maya sa baba ng LRT.  Kain sa labas tapos, bahala na.Sige.  Tex kta maya kung tuloy.Miz na kita.”

Dalawang buwan na kaming magkakilala ni Alex.  Seatmate ko siya sa tren.

Dapat “first class with beds”ang  trennamin kaya lang  nagkaaberya.  Sabing train supervisor ay  mamili na lang daw kung gusto ang sunod na sleeper pero walang aircon o ang third class na paalis na.  Humingi ang supervisor ng patawad para sa PNR. 

“Ano pa nga ba ang magagawa ng mga pasahero,”  pakutya kong sabi para marinig ng marami.

Naghintay ang mga pasaherong gusto ng makaalis.

Ang third class ay walang aircon, walang sleeping beds, walang malambot na upuan. Ang mga ilaw ay parang kutitap ng gamogamu.Di tulad sa first class malamig at maluwang.  Sira ang carriage ng first class kaya ang mga pasaherong gustong makaluwas kaagad ay sumakay na rin.

“Bahala na, kung bukas pa ako luluwas ay hindi ako makakahabol sa meeting.”

Agawan kami sa pagpila sa ticket booth para ma-irefund ang pera.   Lahat nagbakasakali.  Pati ang apat na postoryosang senior citizens ay sumakay na rin.  Waring lahat kami sa first class ay may hinahabol.

Mabilis tumabi sa akin ang isang matandang lalaki. Grabe kung makatitig. Para akong kakainin.  Umalis ako sa tabi niya at nagawi ako sa pinto katabi ng isang babae at isang lalaki.  Nagusap kami ng katabi ko.Mayla ang pangalan ng babae.Natuwa ako dahil may kasama na ako.  Sa ilang sandali, lumipat si Mayla sa harapan dahil natakot sa katabi niyang lalaking mataba na siksik nang siksik sa kanya.  Sumenyas si Mayla sa akin.

Paalis na ang tren at tabi na nga kami ng lalaki at isang tineyger na may dalang lata ng biskuwit.

Ngumiti sa akin ang lalaki.  Ngumiti din ako.

“Bakit ka lumipat ?”  tanong ng lalaki.

Ayoko dun  sa dati.

Parang nahalata niya na natakot ako sa matandang lalaki.  “Takot ka dun sa mama?  Hindi ka aanuhin niyon.Matanda na si Tatay.”

Ayokong makipagsapalaran .Bastos siyang tumingin.Parang nanggigitgit pa ng katawan.

“Ako si Alex.”

Peechy.

Inilabas niya ang isang ID na nagpapatunay ng kanyang pagkatao.Isa siyang  agrikultyurist.

Ilang sandali pa umandar na ang tren. 

“Dapat hindi tayo dito nakasakay ngayon.  Sana nainform nila kaagad na may problema para napalitan agad ng ibang tren sa ibang araw.”

“Oo nga!Malaki and diperensya nitong PNR.  Dapat bigyang pansin ito ng gobyerno kasi inaasahan ang trenng  publiko.”

Ang trenay tatalon talon.Di gaanong mabilis.Ang mga katawan ng pasahero parang nakasakay ng kabayo.

“Diyos ko nakakatakot naman ang mga pintong dito, parang may giyera. Ang aluminom door  ay bukas- sarang humahampas.  Parang may labanan.

Natawa si Alexsa sinabi ko.

“May asawa ka na?”

Meron.

“Bakit hindi mo kasama?”

Nasa abroad.  Sa Dubai.

“Ako hiwalay.Kaya binata ako uli.  Ang ganda mo”   Misteryoso ang kanyang ngiti ngunit alam ko mabait siyang tao.

Pinagmasdan ko si Alex. Matikas.Mataas.  Moreno.  Ang mga bisig niya, maskulado at matatapang ang mga ugat.

Naging sagabal ang pinto ng tren sa akin,  sa diwa, pati na sa  pag-uusap namin.  Halos mapayuko ako sa takot na gustong magtago sa ilalim ng upuan.  Yun bang parang may kalaban ka na hindi mo nakikita.  Hindi ka man lamang makaganti.

Grabe naman ang pinto nila parang may sasalakay na mga terrorista .

Natatakot ka nanaman?  Huwag kang matakot, isipin mo ako ay sundalo.  Sanay ako sa bundok.  Tumawa siya.

Tumawa rin ako.

Pero kahit anong lakas at tapang niya grabe ang takot na bumalot sa akin nung gabing iyon.  Parang may dudukot ng likod ko sa bintana.  Parang may babaril sa bukas at sarang pintuan.  Parang may magtatapon ng Granada sa madilim na loob ng tren.

Marami sa amin ang waring hindi sanay sa third class na iyon dahil sa first class dapat kami nakasakay. Ang matandang babae sa harapan ko ang nagpalakas ng loob ko; ang akap niya ay ang kangyang higanteng kahon.  Waring sanay siya sa third class.  Nakihati ako sa nakita kong katapangan.

Ngunit sa paghampas na naman ng pinto ay nagulat akong muli.  “Diyos ko!”  Maluha-luha ako sa takot at hindi nagatubili si Alex.  Niyakap niya ako.  Mabilis at mahigpit niyakap ko rin siya.

Mayamaya tumigil mulisa isang estasyon ang tren.Bumitaw ang aming mga bisig.

Kalmadong muli ang mga pasahero. Tahimik ang lahat; maingat sa gabi.

“Iwan ko sa ‘yo ang gamit ko.  Punta lang ako sa comfort room.Ikaw?”

“Hindi, ayokong gumamit ng  toilet.”

Ngumiti sa akin si Alex. 

Naglakad siyang marahan, maingat para hindi madapa sa tren.  Malakas ang kanyang mga hita, matatas ang kanyang likod.

Ang bag niyang itim ay iniwan ngasa akin.  Parang gusto kong buksan upang malaman ko kung anong kulay ang bituka niya.

Maya maya pa bumalik  na si Alex.

Malinis ba ang toilet?tanong ko.

“Hehe, okay naman.CR ka na...”

Hindi.

“Ayaw mo lang yata,” parang nanunuya siya.

Ayaw ko talaga.  Isa isang lagok langng tubig ang iniinom ko.

“Hindi ka nagugutom?”

Hindi.

Andar ng andar and tren at marami pa kaming pinag-usapan.  Nawawala ng panandalian ang takot ko.  Pero bumabalik kapag biglang kumakalabog ang mga pinto.

Sa tuwing nahahalata niya ang sidhi ng takot sa ‘kin ay hinahawakan niya ang kamay ko.  Hinawakan ko rin siya.  Ramdam ko may  kapangyarihan ang kanyang mga kamay.

“Tulog ka na. Babantayan kita,” ang sabi ni Alex.

Okay lang ako. Ikaw na ang matulog at ako ang magbabantay.

Sa gabing iyong parang nakakita ako ng kasama sa biyahe. Malaking bulong ng aking puso ‘ Salamat po’. Marahil kung wala si Alex grabe na ang sakit ng utak at katawan ko sa takot.  Mabait ang Langit.

Payapang muli ang tren.Pawang lahat ng mga pasahero ay nakapikit.  Ang iba naman may headphones at nakikinig.

Ang ilaw sa loob ng tren ay kutitap ng isang wat lamang.Ano ba naman ang PNR?Sa isip ko kahit third class dapat may lock ang mga pinto, may wastong ilaw at malinis na toilet.  Dapat may gard din at kliner dahil 21^st century na tayo. 

Ensure passengers’ safety! Ginising ko si Alex.  Di ba Alex?

Tumawa siya at iminulat ang mga mata.

Hindi ako makatulog sa lalim ng gabi.  Si Alex paunti-unti and pikit.Ang mga tao tulog-gising.Ang ibang mga pasaheronakataas ang mga paa.  Kapag sathird class ka nakasakay, halos walang ayus.  Walang namber and upuan.  Pero kahit ganoon kagulo marami pa rin ang may mababait na kaluluwa at handang tumulong lalo na kapag may bata.  Mailap ang bawat isa, ngunit pawang buo ang bawat loob.

Alas-dos na ng gabi.  Tumigil muli ang tren.Nagbaba ng ilang mga pasahero.

Alex bakit hindi pa umaandar?  Ang tagal ng hinto?

“Huwag kang magalala, aalis na tayo.  Ilang sandali na lang.”

Maya-maya may mga taong papalapit.  Nagsisigawan.Isang grupo.  Ang mga tao sa loob naalarma. 

“Sa pinto, sa pinto, bantayan ang mga pinto!”sigaw ng kalalakihan.  Hindi ko alam kung bakit.  Matindi ang takot ko.  Mabilis bago makalapit ang grupo umandar na ang tren.Ang ibang mga babae, nagsigawan sa takot.  Nagkwentuhan ang mga pasaherong mailap.Nagdamayan.Nagsiinom ng tubig.Nagbigayan ng mga baon.

“Malamig ang mga kamay mo. Halika dito.”Niyakap niya ako ng mahipit.  “Matulog ka sa akin.”  Pinasandal ako ni Alex sa dibdib niya.  Sumandal ako.  Yumapos at inilapit ang buo kong katawan dahil sa takot.  Para akong bata na naghahanap ng kumot.  Ipinikit ko ang aking mga mata. 

“Matulog ka na.”  Hindi ako makapagsalita.  Ramdam ko hinalikan niya ang aking noo.  Pinabayaan ko siya.  Pagkatapos hinalikan niya ang aking pisngi, ang aking mga mata, ilong, labi.  Masarap siyang humalik pero hindi ako makaganti sa takot.

“Nandito lang ako.Magpahinga ka muna.”

Lagi kong hinihintay ang text ni Alex.  Simula ng maghiwalay kami sa tren sa celfon na lang ang usapan namin.  Hindi pa kami muling nagkita pero parang matagal na kaming magkakilala.  Alam niya ang buhay ko. 

“Tuloy tau mamaya sa Makati na lang.”

San?

“Sa Walter Mart.May ibibigay ako sau.”

“Sige.  Anong ibibigay mosa ‘kin? Tiket sa tren?  Pabiro kong tanong.

Sagot ng text ni Alex, “Singsing!”

/Rosalinda flores martinez. Katinigwriters 2014

Reading My Fiction Story: Net Chat ( Part 1)

July 2014: Me - After the PowerPoint

1. Make - up

MAKEUP

My father told me I looked like a beauty queen. He told me that if I tied my hair neatly and walked gracefully, I could put on a crown. He bought me many pairs of shoes – orange, yellow, and black, different colors, and dresses that are charming but out of this world. I’m proud to wear those dresses because glancing eyes followed me that echoed what father said: You are beautiful!
Beauty for me was self-expression. It was the way you carry yourself marvelously neat, and appropriate, sometimes even by simply opening the mouth, tacitly smiling and boastfully laughing, or just by displaying an awkward mannerism. Father told me about these things.
But my classmate, like Elizabeth (how much I envy Elizabeth!) glided like a ballet dancer. And Ara with her long lashes brushed with black mascara, and Sophia with her rosy tinted cheeks and glossy powder patted on her face, formed like buds in the morning. I wanted the same things, too - on my eyes, on my cheeks, on my face. “But no makeup, I wouldn’t like you to put on makeup. You would grow pimples and allergy. Don’t apply nail polish, too. Stay plain. Stick to the name of simplicity. It’s the essence of being a woman,” father said.
Being a woman. It was fun being a woman. My friends said it’s as beautiful as butterflies with transparent wings, the feeling of mist, and sunrise. "A woman blossoms to a full bloom with a fragrance enticing the earth to settle and bow down to the sky."
But not yet, being a woman maybe later …
Everyday when I went out the house, I could observe people’s personality were enhanced by the clothing they wore. They’re wrapped in different packages. Though it’s true I saw how they adorn themselves in a civilized environment, I also wanted to discover how they would differ from animals. How we differ from the cats and dogs, lizards and mosquitoes, boars and wolves.
Oh, the skin and its pores – fine pores and coarse pores. Violy’s skin was flawless and white while Judy’s was dark and shimmering. Violy always shouted in her squeaking voice, “Francia, Francia we have to try all possible ways how to look attractive!” I would just look at her. We worked together with school projects. And then Judy would tell me, too – “You have to go with some boys and Andre so you would know how to feel and be woman.” Judy was our school muse who walked in stiletto like a model. She swayed her hips gracefully like the bamboos that swayed with the wind.
My looks spelled naivety. There were times I felt boys were afraid of me because I was so plain, and maybe like them? But I always remember what father said, “You are beautiful Francia.”
One day father bought me two dresses from Escolta. One dress was a violet quilt that seemed to make me a princess ready to sleep, and the other was a red and blue dress, pleated up to my knees which let me symbolized something worthy of praise like a flag. I wore that blue and red dress during an awarding ceremony. I felt simple and elegant in the red and blue dress. And respectable, too.
I could imagine myself so proud in that dress, while father would hand me the award for my declamation. Awarding day came and made me stand glued near the canteen and small gate. I was waiting for father. He didn’t arrive. I could play jumping jack. It didn’t matter anyway, my teacher just gave me the plaque. By the end of the ceremony, father came with his friends and uttered his sorry. That was okay. I hugged him tight.
“You look like a beauty queen,” he teased me and I smiled.
Such was my father.
College graduation highlighted a change in the way father treated me.
“You have to be responsible of your actions and the work you would soon do, Francia.”
“But of course, father. Don’t you trust me?
‘There are many things in life one has to learn. You would know soon. In the jungle out there, sometimes, you have to be a lion and sometimes you have to be a rat.”
“Opposites? Like day and night?”
That was how we spoke to each other.
“What gift would you like to get from me?”
“Nothing, maybe only a few bucks so I wouldn’t ask for any other expense when I look for a job.
“You have to beg now,” father laughed out loud as if insulting me.
The next day father gave me something. I thought it was strange, because of all the reasonable things he told me, what he gave me was immaterial.
“I thought you didn’t like me to put on makeup?”
“You are an adult now. You could paint your face as you like. Reinvent. Disguise. Express. Color.”
I was engrossed inspecting the big box full with varied cases, bottles, and tubes of makeup. Some brands were expensive, some were cheap, but all in all –the gift was very attractive to me. I knew the big box cost more than my expensive novelty.
Thank GOD not only because father could afford these things but also because he had taste.

That night I tried the different hues that would seem to look good on me. Eye shadows and lipstick – pale and daring colors. Yes, I could model and ramp on graduation day!
Father’s gift was so exciting to me. I knew it did not make any sense but I really liked it. He said that putting on makeup made one prepare for maturity, I answered that it gave me the thrill of being a child. Of being free. To experiment on things I’m not used to find importance. Could I be like Violy, or Elizabeth, or Sophia?
Father peeped in my bedroom good night, noticing how excited I was. Maybe on graduation day, I would feel woman.
“Good night Francia. Just wait for me tomorrow at the auditorium. I will be there and would listen to your graduation speech. Mr. Banong would bring you to school early because I have to see a client. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t be late. I’ll make sure of that, I promise.”
My heart wandered a bit. It throbbed a deep longing for my father. But in a way I was quick to get my words right.
“Tomorrow I would wear all these makeup father,” I laughed and kissed him.
“Good night again, model student.” then father sealed my forehead with a kiss.
The next morning, Mr. Banong brought me to school early. In school everybody wore the best they could to impress. You know teenagers and the would-soon- to be adults, they’re searching for identities. And pushing to be on top. Popularity counted for us.


And so the awaited day right in my hands. The hallway leading to the auditorium was full of spotlights. It was elegant and quiet. But inside me, it looked cold and freezing. There was a tinge of loneliness in my heart I couldn’t explain.
Later, I would be delivering the speech as a model student, and I’d make sure father would be seated in front to listen to the girl, he chanted to be the most beautiful in his life. Father was my mom, too, and I could identify with him - not from what a baby would suck from a mothers breast, but because of his sweat protecting me to become a worthy person. I may not be as gorgeous as my other friends but my breeding is something history would preserve. I owe my father.
“Francia, hurry the program would be starting in 10 minutes,” said Elizabeth. “You have to go in front and remain seated.”
“But..”
“Daddy is late again… hahahaha” Elizabeth laughed. I winced at Elizabeth then she hurried away. I still waited until the emcee called my name and I run through the spotlights going to the stage. The scene was a bit dramatic because I deviated from the procedure, and the sitting arrangements. People glanced at their programs, and maybe questioned, “… the model student?

What mattered to me was father to see me deliver this final and memorable speech. I thought he would glory in my shimmering eye shadow, red full lips and a rosy tint – his baby girl and beauty queen: a real star!

But father was not around…My eyes searched all corners of the auditorium to seek for this robust and gentle man until my speech ended. I got applauded for the model student address.
After the other ceremonies, I ran near the canteen to check had father arrived. Time passed by and I stood waiting, shrunk like a soaked sponge in the shifting afternoon.
My face began to sweat oil and I could feel the sticky mascara and eye shadows smudged all over my eyes. I wiped my face with my bare hands and tried to free it from the colors that blemished my innocence . “Where is my father?”
I seemed lost in the night until Mr. Banong came to get my things.
“Where is father?”
Mr. Banong kept his silence. I asked again.
“We would go to your father.”
I felt a deep mystery inside my heart but I kept my peaceful pace because I was accustomed to father’s business meetings.
I have to let father know he did not keep his promise to me, let him see how an adult wears makeup and how an adult expects a promise. A promise is more than words. More than a ceremony. More than something to compromise for… I have to let him know a promise is sacred like the freedom I get putting on all this make up.
Mr. Banong, what did father say?
The driver didn’t answer me. Instead he repeatedly beeped the car so we could make a turn.
And he stopped in front of a mortuary.

I did not ask Mr. Banong questions anymore but hurriedly went down and run the creepy hallway. I guessed I knew what was happening and I didn’t like to understand it. Father was all I got and never in my dreams had I prepared for this scene of meeting him inside a box topped with a mirror.
They said father suffered three gun shot wounds because of the bad guys who wanted to kill him. Anguish was around me – in the air, in the shadows, in my body and in my face. Now I would be alone. Was this the responsibility father told me about?
I still got some colors on me, and I tried to explore my face in front of father in the coffin, with the little angels that watched on the Cross.

By: ROSE FLORES - MARTINEZ 2008