On Jan 20th. My Journal Notebook

 My Journal Notebook.

I have challenged myself in God’s graces.

1.

The past year 2023 was a bit harsh for our family because it reminded us of my Father’s death.  I’m aware that everybody dies, because we’ve already buried relatives; and sickness, in one way or another, bereaved us and bad cells (cancer) have been up in our genes.  At least we’re growing older in God’s care.

Yet, those times when you can’t just say any word but, “God! “ when my Dad got shot with bullets at 38 years old and in 2023, my nephew Martin, fell down a cliff while on a voluntary round with friends. My siblings and I have come to this scenario again, involving new members of the family grieving for a loved one, traumatized because we lost a young family member successful at 25.  We were not able to say goodbye, or probably thought that “Am I able to justify my love?” for him?  We all came at the end of our ropes and there was nothing or no one else left, but God.  It’s in Matthew, so they say (5:3-12), the Beatitudes.

I pray this year 2024, comes to us in God’s graces to overcome challenges, regain our strengths and yes, rejoice in thanksgiving and prayer counting our blessings in this life.

2.

Colors remind me of events, sensational.  It reminds me after my zombie eyes, after the holidays, that in time, things get better and clearer.  The body heals itself, if nature has intervened because water, breeze and sun rays are God’s creations.  You get well with sleep, food and love for people and surroundings, after days of toil.  Now, my sore eyes are pink, close to white and restored.

3.

Back Ride

It had been a long time, since my Dad carried me on his back.  Way way back, decades and decades. Ever since, not a soul carried me but the boatmen in our province.  First time people got carried, some say, they were alarmed they might fall into the deep and drown, even the bigger guys had second thoughts.  But no, not one, ever fell in the water, just like in a survivor’s game. 

The boatmen in our province was dark, neat and well-chiseled.  They were calm as the sea.  You can see Adonis and feel the blood flowing on the veins, they held you with.

When the sea was calm, you would be on the shore in 5 minutes and if they run, in 3 minutes.  If the motorboat was docked a bit far from the shore, perhaps 7 minutes.  The boatmen were just simple and dramatic in their work, especially when the water wet their eyes, they would not blink, but continue on the run heading the shore.  When I was still a young girl, I wouldn’t even notice their humble line of work, but while I got older, I began to see the worth of their service, even if you only paid them cents.  That was how we spent vacation in my Mother’s hometown.  Before you see the beauty of the town, you have to feel the towns people and nature on their backs.

During my recent vacation, with my siblings and family – I got to experience my back ride, again.  Not to carry me to the shore, but because of my older bones. It’s laughable, but real, people grow older.  The boatman, tour guide, helped me stand, but with all my pauses and turns, I was not able to stand abruptly.  You know when the senior bones crack and squeak… But of course, I am not that old.  I could see the robust body of him who pulled my hand as in a dance.  I never thought I’d kneel down because the boat front was built with hard  wood, so it was really hard labor for me to rise and go up and settle up in the boat.  On the third time of going up and down the boat, I didn’t ask, but quickly grabbed his huge back and did a back ride.  It was cool on his back, wet by the waves…  But I felt sorry, however comfortable I was, for letting him carry a big weight; I remember I uttered, “Son, I am sorry for letting you carry a heavy load.”  And he said, “It’s okay, mother.”  I forgot to give him a big tip because I felt he was family. I thank God for his respect and kindness.  And all the way, I pray God takes care of him, too.

/rosevoc. 2024

bible, boatman, caramoan, challenges, christianity, faith, family, GOD, Jesus, love, rosevoc, rosevoc2

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on Sept 14th. my journal notebookSeptember 14, 2019

On May 9th. My Journal NotebookMay 9, 2019In "bad days"

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On February 21, 2022: VAXSIN

 

PANDEMIC SHORT STORY

VAXSIN

 

 

Ang bampira ay kumakagat kapag bilog ang buwan.  Masakit ang kagat, bagamat lunas ang uminom para sa uhaw na lalamunan. 

“Tandaan mo mahal kita.  Ano pa man ang kinasapitan ng panahon kailangan tayong maging matatag.”

“Naiintidihan ko.  Salamat sa iyong kabutihan.”

Hinalikan, maamo, bago kinagat ni Arthur and leeg ni Tasha.

===

Madalas, sabay sa pagsanib ng dilim at bukang liwayway ang pagkagat para lunas sa virus.

Iyan ang problema sa panahon ng pandemic, ang nakatatakot at nakamamatay na virus.

Sa buong mundo at doon sa bayan nina Arthur at Tasha ay hawahawa  ang mga may sakit.

Isang fornite o dalawang linggo ang kwarantin para mapuksa ang virus at mabawasan ang bilang  ng mga may sakit.

Abala ang lahat parang pelikula at walang kasagutan ang bukas.  Balisang paikot-ikot ang mga motor sa supermarket, sa palengke, sa botika, sa bangko.

“Hindi pa magbubukas ang kantin Tasha. Wala pa kaming pasok dahil iilan lang ang mga tao sa opisina. Gusto ni Boss safe ang mga empleyado.”

“Kami din shifting pa sa clinic kasi wala munang biglaang mga chek-up sabi ni Doc. Dapat ay naka-skedyul ang pagpunta sa clinic.”

Paikot-ikot ang mga motor sa daan.  Bihira ang mga naglalakad. Ang mga ugong ng traysikel at grab papunta ng supermarket, sa drugstore, sa palengke, sa bangko, o ospital para sa mga pangangailangan ang pumapaimbabaw sa paligid ang bida.

 

Isang araw sa celfone…

“Walang na kaming pambayad sa upa ng bahay, Arthur. Kung pwede hihiram muna ako ng pera sa iyo. Sabi ng may-ari pede kaming ma-late kasi may pandemic, pero sana kahit isang buwan lang muna ay magbayad.  Mag-aapat na buwan na kaming hindi pa nakakabayad dahil sa pag-aaral ng mga kapatid ko na parehong graduating sa elementary at high school.  Alam mong ako ang tumutulong kila Mama.  Kung pwede sana tatlong libo ang hihiramin ko…kung pwede…”

Madalas ang pag-uusap nina Arthur at Tasha ay sa celfone at internet lamang.  Bago mag-pandemic may balak na silang magpakasal kaya lang, itinigil nila ang lahat na plano dahil ang naipon nilang pera ay pinangtutustos nila sa mas importanteng mga pangngailangan.

Sa panahong ito, marami ang nawalan ng trabaho, o kung meron man bawas ang mga araw.  Ang mga mas pamaparaan ay nagtitinda at nakikipagisa sa mga kamag-anak o kaibigan ng ibang trabahong pansamantala.  Ang marami salat sa pagkain kaya lalong nanghihina.  Hindi kayang tustusan ng watak na gobyerno o pag-sasarili ang problema ng pandemya. 

“Kailangan mo siyang tulungan Arthur,” sabi ni King.  Kawawa naman si Aling Tess at ang mga estudayante kung mapapaalis sila.  Matitigil pa sa pag-aaral., naku!  Meron naman tayong kita sa mga delivery ng pack meals.”

“Tama ka, Kuya King.  Mamaya, padadalhan ko siya sa G-Cash o Pay Maya. Yung pera pala nating naitabi kailangan para sa vaccination .  Itago mong mabuti at marami ang mga mag-iinteres niyan dahil sa panahon ngayon.”

Ilang araw ang nakalilipas, may balita na namang bago sa TV.  Na hindi na raw kailangan ang pera para mag-pavaxsin.  At dahil hindi rin kaya ng pamahalaang tustusan lahat ng mga mamamayan nito, may ilang tao na inuna sa vaxsin na nadulutan ng kakaibang lakas.  IIlan lamang sila, at kung sino ang may malakas na pangagatawan at lakas ng loob para magpauna ng sarili. Pagkatapos sila ay makakapag-lagay ng anti-virus mula sa kanilang kagat.  Ngunit - hindi na sila makalalabas sa umaga at sa may araw, kundi sa hating gabi lamang.   

Maraming na-interview buhat sa ibat ibang bansa at nagpatunay sa safe nga at nakatutulong sa pagpuksa sa pagdami ng virus ang mga taong ito.  Talamak nga ang pandemic at kung hindi ka mag-ingat at mahina ang katawan ay may banta ang kamatayan.

Samantala…

Tanghali sa bahay nina Tasha, habang sila ay kumakain, nabasa niya ang text ni Arthur.

Sa text ni Arthur ay ito ang meseyg.  “Hello Tasha, nagpadala ako nung pera.  Check mo sa G-cash account mo.  Sa makalawa pupunta ako sa inyo.  HIntayin mo ako.  Mayroon akong sasabihin.  Mag-ingat kayo diyan.”

Napasigaw si Tasha “Mama, may pera na tayo!  Ipadadala ko na sa account nila Mrs. Morero yung upa natin para sa isang buwan.  Salamat kay Arthur.  Kaya kayong dalawa mag-aral ng mabuti para kapag maluwag na ay makahanap ng part time work.  At mabuti, hindi kayo matitigil sa pag-aaral.”

“Ay sige at aayusin ko na rin ang iba ko pang mga order na panahi at repair.  Mahirap maglipat bahay lalo na kapag ang mga suki sa panahi ay malayo.  Dito sa simbahan, marami sila Pader Cris pinagagawa sa akin.  Salamat po sa Diyos naayus ang problema ta.”

“Bukas pupunta dito si Arthur, Mama.  May sasabihin siya sa akin na importante.”

“Ano ba iyon?”

“Parang seryoso nga.  Tanong naman ako ng tanong bisi daw siya kaya bukas na lang.”

“Ate pumila pala ako sa Baranggay kanina para sa immunization, sabi basta sa sunod na lang daw ako bumalik kasi puno na ang slots. Uunahin muna nila ang mas may kailangan, tulad ng seniors at may mga co-morbity na tinatawag.”

“Si Mama?  Pwede?”

“Hindi ko alam kasi sobra dami ng tao.  Baka dun pa magkahawaan.  Hindi nila na organize kasi takot na takot na ang marami dun sa San Jose… kaya baka next time na naman.”

“Wala na.  Kailangan magbigayan na lang at mag-ingat.  Kung hindi lahat ng mga tao magkakagulo.  Hindi na kaya kung ang pamahalaan lamang ang lilitis sa pandemya.  Kailangan lahat ay mag tulungan.  Kaya nga sa klinic kahit huli na ang suweldo namin okay lang dahil ang mga pasyente naming ay puro check- up  lang at hindi na araw araw.  Relyebo pa kami.”

Natapos ang pag-uusap nila habang kanya –kanyang nagbalikan sa mga ginagawa.  Naghugas ng mga pinggan ang bunsong kapatid.

Ang mga computer ay bukas.  Ang mga celfone ay nag-aabang ng text at notifikaysyons.  Sa panahon ng pandemic ang bawat isa ay nagsusumikap upang maka-pagtrabaho, makapag-aral, magki-pagkamustahan sa mga kaibigan at kamag-anak, at makapag-dasal din.  Ang iba naman salat sa paniniwala at puno ng takot.  Mabuti na lamang ay may mga frontliners may mga magbubuwis pa, may  mga susubok pa upang mabawasan ang paghihirap ng mga tao sa ibat ibang lugar.  Isa na rin si Arthur.

Umaga sa bahay nila Tasha.

“Tao po.  Tao po.  Si Arthur po.”

“Arthur napaaga ka. Halika Love sa loob.”

“Gandang umaga Kuya.”

“Magandang umaga, Daniel.”

Lumapit si Arthur kay Tasha at hinila sa gilid ng sala na malayo sa mga kapatid.  Seryoso ang kanilang usapan.  Makikitang nangingilid ang luha ni Tasha.  Yinakap siya ni Arthur.  Mahigpit ang kapit nila sa isat isa.  Mahigpit ang yakap at hanggang  maglayong  muli.  Mabilis tumayo na si Arthur.

“Mama aalis na muna ako.  Mag-iingat kayo.  Babalik ako sa isang linggo.”

Nagkatinginan ang lahat.  Tumahimik lamang si Tasha at pumasok sa kanyang silid.

Araw-araw may dumarating na bagong balita sa radyo, sa TV, at sa internet. Napapa balita na ang mga vaxsinaysyon at ang karagdagang lunas sa makakatulong sa pagsugpo sa pandemia.  Ang mga mukha nila sa close up ay maputi at laging kuha sa gabi.  Matitipuno ang mga katawan at maliliksi.  Kaunti lamang ang babae at ang karamihan ay mga lalaki. 

“Magpa-register po ang kaya o gustong sa gabi ang trabaho. Iwas pandemic po kapag kinulang na tayo ng regular vaxsins. Kaya lamang po, hindi  pedeng lumabas sa araw at dapat ay sa gabi  lamang.  Makipag-ugnayan po sa amin sa numerong ibibgay ng Department.  Magtulungan po tayo at walang dapat ikabahala.  Nasa atin din pong pagkakaisa ang lunas!”

Makalipas ang isang lingo bumalik si Arthur kila Tasha ng hating gabi.  Alas dos ng madaling araw.

Binuksan ni Tasya ang pinto.  “Salamat at bumalik ka Arthur.”

“Hindi ako pwedeng magtagal kailangan kong umalis ng alas tres ng madalaing araw.  Gusto mo bang sumama sa akin sa pag-alis?”

“Magpapaalam ako kila Mama. Sa isang araw na kaya…”

“Maayoos naman dun sa kinalalagyan sa amin.  Madilim nga lang.  Bawal kaming maarawan kaya gumagawa kami ng mga bagong tirahan.  Mamayang umaga ang tulog o pahinga.”

“Makakayanan ko kaya?”

“OO magkasama naman tayo at mga tao din naman tayo sa gabi, parehas lang.  Mahigpit na bawal nga lang ang araw o liwanag.”

Nang gumising si Mama Tessie.  Arthur ano ba ang nangyayari?

“Mama, aalis muna kami ni Tasha at baka matagal kaming makakabalik.  Bibigyan namin kayo ng mga supply o ipadadala na lamang.  Kapag hindi kayo nakakuha ng bakuna.  Kailangan mag-ingat kayo. Doon muna kami sa bagong tirahan, sa Night City.”

“Sige humingi tayo ng awa sa Diyos.” Mag-iingat kayo.

“Tayo na Tasha , nandyan na sila.  KInagat ni Arthur ang leeg si Tasha at kinarga papunta sa labas sa naghihintay na van.

 

/rose flores martinez. April 24^th, 2021.

PARA SA KATINIG

 

How I Write Poems

 There are many books and essays on how poems are made, Rilke's How Poems Happen, How I Write, or like George Orwell's Why I Write...

In as much as, I want to gather all the fibers that have been woven and thread them together at this time, I will share how I weave my own, as taught, as read, as practiced, and with all due respect to my professors and other writers and poets.

When I was an MFA student, I was a mother who wanted more than 24 hours of a day to get closest to the life I lived. That ranges from the 20th century (December 1, 1901 - December 31, 2000) and the 21th century (January 1, 2001 - December 31, 2100) now, where I will end. 

I must admit, I was chipped before the boom of technology. From the magnetic tapes on checks and tickets, I evolved with internet cards and got promoted with servers today. That was how I lived. 

Everyday, I was a witness as to how technology evolved from big mobile phones, car phones, antique phonograph and stereos, boom box, first cars with automatic windows, karaoke, microwave, remote controls, laser discs, Altec Lansing speakers, automatic cars, control switches, bio prints, digital cameras, the lap top, notebooks, PC tablets, the complication and elegance of Apple, fame of Blackberries, my tape recorders for work, my Neo laptop damaged by lightning, and my Nokia phone (which I call user friendly) that can only use the text mode due to a writers budget, in some point of my life. Don't forget the Sega games; and now everything online, Twitter and Facebook as with dictionaries and translations, ezines and ebooks. Hence, a blast of high technology and our global community!

Back then, poems were made years, months, or some of them from spark of muses. Poems were crafted, revised many times, simmered, and some just still on stones, mossed. I recommend for reading, "A Passionate Patience," by R.M. de Ungria and "Twentieth Century Pleasures" by Robert Hass, among others. Also, read poems of contemporary poets and teachers like Eric Gamalinda, Cirilo Bautista, Marjorie Evasco, Tony Perez, Luisa Igloria, Zeus Salazar and Albert Casuga.

As for me,  I sing on pages online. I go naked. Maybe. it is that POM in fiction of Isagani Cruz. I send and submit as fast as technology can communicate first drafts, after fire from prayers, other texts, and reading materials. Take for example, the prose prayer poems I had written and attempted based on the Psalms, where I read and wrote only because of God's grace and maybe from God's mercy, too. It is because I lived with the Psalms all throughout my happiest and saddest times. Moreover, I set myself, a deadline, an output for a month that I must produce. Revisions will be later.

My work is to think. Now I am an android built with a heart. That is how fast I can write a poem; press me, press my heart and I will zoom and burst in you words. I deal with symbolisms and images, as well. I experiment because I didn't have enough chances to go out, when I was still younger. So now, while there's still fire in me, I am living in fiction and my poems to pull back the years I have missed.  In the future, perhaps, revisions would be easier because the poems online, are archived and could be published until then, whether paid or free for all. By that time, I will be very old or dead. Thank you for reading my poems.

Article Source: https://EzineArticles.com/expert/Rosalinda_Flores-Martinez/307769

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/7251044

In August 2021. SHOOTER

 Love it!

Lessons about treachery and word of honor is clear enough.  If  all of us can just be honest, what a wonderful world we could have.  But then, there is gold, and silver, and diamonds....Yet, let us all try to be honest.



A blessed day, everyone!

The Diary Of Anne Frank | Full Bio Drama Movie

The Short Story

 

The Short Story: Word Count and an Experience

By Rosalinda Flores-Martinez  |   Submitted On March 03, 2011

  

The short story is normally between 1,000 to 5,000 words. Before this 21st century the popular selling length was 3,000 words.

There are lots of short stories around, and its main characteristic is vividness. Is it a narrative that involves one unified episode or related events. It has a plot (that is the beginning, middle, end). The plot involves rising action(conflict), climax (turning point), falling action (denouement) and/or conclusion (resolution). The elements of fiction among others are theme, setting, character, points of view, style and voice, and symbolism.

When I made my first fiction story (way back graduate school days), I had all sorts of mixed feelings inside my stomach. I even felt, I was in a different world. Some might think it funny, but I thank my writing teachers and editors for helping me get through with it.

Professor Bisa after an exam of writing one story spontaneously, told me that the story was acceptable, but it was not clearly written, for I had many erasures. At least, it was only a matter of good handwriting. A good format is required, as well.

I had written some stories in Filipino, and with a group of other noted and hard-working writers. To hone skills in fiction writing, comments and support from other skilled writers press the creative talents and truly help the exploring fiction writer.

Using one's own language in the short story (native tongue), gives that stark feeling of something really biting. I don't know what that means. Way back, trying to write children's stories for some TV episodes was fun, especially when doing the brainstorming method to be able to write a good story on TV. However, I did not pursue with that aspect.

Short stories (fiction) are majestic to write, but some find it scary. For me, it's more scary than writing simple poems, letters, or magazine articles. I owe my teachers a lot, the editors, and my writer friends, where finding my true self. May God bless them and all the writers and teachers giving inspiration to the readers everyday.

Sir Duque and the editors were so kind and gave free seminars to a writer's group helping them to improve the craft of fiction writing. A writer has to write more and more because what would one improve if he/she hasn't written anything.

The duty of a devoted writer is to produce a rich harvest of works, so the teachers' toil and effort would not come to waste.

Let us write now! Try.

Article Source: https://EzineArticles.com/expert/Rosalinda_Flores-Martinez/307769

SIx Minute Scholar: Understanding the Cask of Amontillado

Love After Heaven by Isagani R. Cruz

Love After Heaven, Parts 1 to 5

2015/08/04 FICTION IN PROGRESS ONE COMMENT

I shall but love thee better after death, one book says, but I don’t believe that. I’m dead and I don’t see Julie anywhere around. Of course, another book says that, after death, we neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like angels in heaven. Angels, my foot! I don’t have wings. I’m not playing a harp. In fact, I’m exactly as I was the day I died, except I’m not tied to that hospital bed with all those tubes going in and out of my body.

Heaven is grossly overrated. I thought that, when I died, I would experience unimagined happiness, like orgasms that last for decades or food that I can eat without having to go to the bathroom or music that I can listen to without getting tired. Or at least, something really enjoyable. I spent most of my life praying that I would go to heaven, even being sorry for anything that would endanger my life after death. I could have done all those things I was not supposed to do, but I didn’t, because I thought that life was hell, or at least purgatory, and if I had suffered enough on earth, I would not suffer in heaven.

What crap! Heaven is just like earth, only a bit cleaner.

I remember the day I died. They were all around the bed – Julie, my cousin Gerry, my sister Yoly, and four, maybe six doctors all shouting orders to three or four nurses scampering like terrorized schoolchildren in the background.

Code, someone kept shouting.

I looked at them from the ceiling, or actually through the ceiling because I could see in front of me the fluorescent lamp and the fire sprinkler. My body – it looked like my body, even with the grotesque tubes injecting all sorts of colored liquid into it – was jerking with every touch of the defibrillator.

I could see not just the bed where my body was lying, but right beside it, or maybe superimposed on it – I can’t be sure now – my condo apartment in upscale Global City. There were two or three cops there – it’s funny how I can’t seem to count properly here in heaven. They were talking to my two domestic helpers, the cook and the laundry woman. I half-expected Julie to be there, shouting at them to keep their hands off the antique blue porcelain plates, but of course, she was in the hospital room, like the dutiful wife that she wasn’t.

I could also see a room in a seedy motel in downtown Manila. He was there, the asshole, the guy that turned Julie against me. He was with a woman, or maybe a man, or somebody anyway. They were in the shower. He was sitting in some kind of contraption that looked like a trapeze swing. He or she or whatever that shadow was was hovering over him.

Then I found myself, without even a dissolve or a fade-away, here in heaven, sitting in this queue that must have stretched for miles.

Oh, yes, sometime – and here in heaven, time has no meaning, so I can’t really tell if this was long ago or just a minute ago – I went through a tunnel. There was a light at the end, the light that some guy in white was waving at my face to guide me through the darkness. I say it was a guy, but it could have been a woman, or even an animal, or something. Maybe an angel? But whoever or whatever he or she or it was, he or she or it had no wings.

But I knew I was in heaven because, well, it felt good to be here. Peaceful. Calm. With no more pain. Not as good as I thought it would be, but good enough. Better than having all those doctors forcing my body to bounce on the bed. Better than seeing Julie pretending to still be in love with me even when she was already sleeping with that asshole.

Boy, that sucks! That really sucks! Some guy with a long beard comes to me and apologizes that they made a mistake somewhere in the bureaucracy here in heaven. I’m not supposed to be here yet. I’m supposed to suffer some more down there on earth.

Okay, so I got carried away saying that heaven was overrated. Okay, so I used the word asshole here. But surely those are forgivable misdemeanors. Surely all my efforts at being good on earth were worth something. I thought that the bureaucrats here kept a ledger of my good deeds. Of how patient I was when I found out about Julie and that asshole. Excuse me, that person. Okay, that human being. Surely that counts for something.

I can’t go back to earth. I was the laughing stock of the entire corporation there. Everybody knew about Julie. Except me. Her husband. Her husband of twenty years. Twenty years of being faithful to her. Not even glancing at any other woman. Not even entertaining any thoughts of sleeping with anybody else.

I was a fool, for heaven’s sake.

When I did find out, I did not even confront Julie. I just went to our parish priest and asked him what to do. He said that I had to forgive her. She was a human being, fallen because of original sin. The devil made her do it. He asked if I still loved her, and I had to say yes. I couldn’t lie to him. He was a priest, after all.

I did love her. I still do love her. But I am not sure if that means anything to her. One thing I know, I don’t really want to see her again. When we got married in that grand wedding in that old cathedral, she promised to love me till death do us part. Well, death is a good way to part now. Though she did say, during our first anniversary, that she would love me better after death. She made me memorize that poem, for heaven’s sake. How do I love thee and all that shit.

No, please, do not let me go back. Please, no, let me stay here in heaven. I promise never to badmouth heaven again. Seriously.

Well, it looks like this guy listened to me. He now tells me not to worry. He will send me back, but not to the same body. He will send me back in a different body, as an adult. I do not have to be born again as a baby and wait so long to be as old as I am now. I will be resurrected – I think he used the word reincarnated – as a male, single, mature adult.

Maybe things won’t be so bad, after all. Maybe I will meet Julie again and she won’t meet that asshole again and maybe we can live happily ever after after all. Perhaps even meet here in heaven again. Perhaps.

What? Now, that really sucks! This guy with the beard says I won’t remember my past life at all, except in moments of great stress. How can I find Julie again if I won’t remember that we were once happily married, that I loved her even when she was unfaithful to me, that I want to be with her again? Holy shit!

* * *

Julie cried, as she had to. It was what she was expected to do. She had practised it at home, in front of the mirror. How to cry without ruining her mascara. How to cry like she meant it.

This man had made her life miserable by doing what she never expected him to do. He had ignored her affair.

He had kissed her like he always did when he would come home from work and she was in the kitchen, preparing their dinner. Except that she had not prepared dinner. She had dinner instead with Frankie. And not just dinner. Dessert. Dessert like she never had dessert before with this husband of hers.

But this man kissed her anyway. Did not even ask, never even asked, where she had been. She was sure that he could smell Frankie on her skin. He was not dumb. He was, in fact, very smart, the smartest in his group of business executives. He had not become a millionaire by being dumb.

She knew that he knew, but he never said anything. Just kissed her on the cheek as he did every evening of their married life. Their unexciting, boring, routine married life.

The only excitement – if she could call it that – was the anxiety of not knowing when he would finally let go and slap her, kick her, maybe stab her with that paper cutter he kept on his desk. But he never let his anger show. The guilt she felt was worse than even the ugliest scene she could imagine between him and her.

She could never forgive him for forgiving her her trespasses.

http://isaganicruz.com/2015/08/04/love-after-heaven-parts-1-to-5/

THE MIRACLE

The Miracle by Ben Crisp and Rosalinda Flores

4

As the days had been stressful, good times were numbered.  Friends popped and disappeared.  When people smelled you could not give enough, they stayed away.  If they could not get anything from you or suck anything from you, merry days would be over; you would be out of the circle.  See I’m out? They smelled they couldn’t get much from me. 

“Good morning, Miss!”

Where is he?

“Please see him in the living room.”

He was sitting in his wheel chair.  He was reading the newspaper and a glass of water was on the table.  Postcards were scattered, a record book, and medals of his faith.  He was supposed to be a cleric, but due to weak health, he didn’t get it through.  Instead, he ventured on a business that earned him a fortune. 

I always borrowed from this man, and he was the only one who didn’t tax me.  As people could see outside, he lived in luxury – but his heart, it was benevolent to any creature who would seek his help.  The only thing that he asked from me was to help him on his records and choose medals for him, which I really liked.  He collected stones, as well; precious and non precious; even diamonds.

“What’s the problem?”

It is the same as yesterday.

“The love affairs...”

Yes. And he will be back for me soon.

“Could you be happy...”

Yes, you know I love him so much.  I danced in front of him.

“You are must be mad.”

Yes, I am. I thought we could be married.

“Next time he would sell you for a gold coin.”

We sorted out the medals.  Some were very, very old.  Some were new.  Some were uniquely precious and of great value.  In a while, he got something inside his fist and told me.

“Close your eyes.  Give me your hands.”

Nah, you will play up on me.

“I’m serious now.  I have something for you to drive evil spirits away.” He teased me.

You and your fart!  I laughed out loud.  My sad laughter filled the quiet room.

“I said open your hands!”

Okay, Sir, here it is.

I closed my eyes and slowly he dropped the object in my hand.  “Magic, here!”  My palms were excited and cold, just like when one student told me to open my hands across snowy Japan, then surprised me with a Sakura.  She told me, she liked me a lot, offering me the national flower of her country.  And now, was another guessing moment. 

Is it another precious gem?

“Hold it carefully and see for yourself.”

That time was special.  I could see his face full of compassion for someone weary.  I felt it was an act of consolation to blow zeal to my broken spirit.  It was as though a magic clock made me a princess or sent me somewhere in time like, Alice in Wonderland. What I held in my hands was dear to my heart, and the feeling was all of a child so loved dearly:  free and happy.   It was a gold heart locket; an old one, embed with red tiny rubies. Inside was a picture of the Madonna.  He knew I liked the Madonna. My throat tightened and my eyes blurred with clouds of water.  And then, his hands came gentle on my cheeks.  He smiled and hugged me, tight. 

I was certain I would get a chain for this.  My ringing phone intruded. He told me, “Go now.”

“Why do you want me to leave? Am I disturbing your holy hours?”

“No, you need to go and find what will make you happy.  And that boyfriend? Stay away from him.  Do you think he’ll marry you for real?  He has got a wife.”

Before I left his house, he’d always tell me the same reminders.  That was what I evaded.  I couldn’t let any one, not even my family or closest friends mock my boyfriend.  It was time to leave again.

“Thank you for the Madonna.”

I hurriedly kissed him and went out of the house.  I didn’t look into my phone to check, nor answer it.  My boy friend was always exciting, as there might be something confidential – not business, not updates, but the tweets and yearnings of him.

Outside, when the gate was closed, I dialled his number.  I was right he was the one who called.  Was he meeting me?  I waited.  He wasn’t answering the phone.  I tried calling him again, but still, there was no answer. I texted, “Pls answer your phone now.  I miss you so much.”  As I walked the empty street, the air glistened to me.  I was reminded, of my separation with him, my incompleteness, and that I was only, waiting for crumbs. 

As I looked the next post, I saw that same white guy, walking and holding something that was mine.  Was it my scarf?