uncle’s secret

After seeing his uncle Boyet forcing himself on Lydia at the back side of the bodega where his father used to pile all those metal scrapes and some plastic and glass bottles, he decided not to tell anyone what he saw that night. He knew why; he was afraid.

By now, Orlan had noticed the silent fear in Lydia’s eyes whenever uncle Boyet is in their house. He would notice too how queer Lydia and uncle Boyet would look at each other whenever their eyes met. Lydia’s eyes seemed to dance crazily, and those black circles would quiver in fright. As for uncle Boyet’s, he could only hiss the word “maniac” under his breath.

“Orlan.” It was his uncle Boyet.

“Uncle?” His heart skipped a bit after hearing his name being called by that familiar voice.

“What’s wrong with you?” his uncle asked after they were left alone in the kitchen that Sunday noon. Orlan’s family was having a small gathering of all close relatives of his father. Occasions like that had seemed ordinary now for his family.

“Me?” he paused for a while and forced a laugh. “No, uncle. Why did you ask?”

“You sure?”

This time, Orlan saw his uncle’s eyes piercing right through his. And he felt his ears burning.

Orlan tried to laugh coolly.

“Why uncle? You seem so worried about me.”

“Worried. You’re right, Orlan.” And he tapped his hand on his shoulder, and Orlan felt its weight.

“What do you mean, uncle?”

It took a few seconds before his uncle started to talk.

“I’ve been noticing you lately.” Orlan swallowed air on his throat.

“Like what?”

“You were looking rather strangely at me…and…” His uncle stopped for a while and looked at Orlan again. “…and at your sister.”

“Lydia?” Orlan tried to laugh but he knew it was of no use at the moment.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Orlan.”

This time, he could feel the loud thumping of his heartbeat and wished that he would blow himself up so that he could escape from answering his uncle’s question.

“Orlan.” His uncle’s voice sounded firm this time.

‘Promise Uncle, I’ll never tell anyone what I saw that night. I’ll never tell father. Please, uncle. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” He did not know why he was saying these to him. He was always scared at him, and he never wanted to taste his fury.

His uncle Boyet gave him a smile and touched his right shoulder.

“That’s my nephew. You’re like your father, eh,” he said, this time in a gentler voice. “Always obedient and never a bad boy.”

Orlan only nodded as he looked at his uncle walking away towards the door where his family was waiting outside for their usual lunch together.

last money

Mila clutched the money in her hand, tightly, as she walked the narrow street that led to a store nearby. She had planned to buy Biogesic, a tablet medicine for her son’s headache, and it made her frown even more. Not because her son had earlier complained of a headache, no. She would do anything for her son. But because she only had twenty pesos left.

She walked straight ahead since that narrow road led directly to Manang Gina’s store, just eight houses from hers. Mila lowered her head and thought how else to earn for a living. She was soon interrupted by Lena’s chitchat ahead and that gave her a temporary smile.

“Hoy, Mila come here,” Lena called. Mila saw that she had just ended a conversation with a younger lady and so she walked towards her.

“Did you hear of Romelyn getting pregnant?” Lena asked after the young lady had left.

“No. She did? With whom?” Mila asked, and she stood closer to Lena.

“Hay, to Bernard. That foolish rascal you have long hated!” she replied with a gentle slap on Mila’s left shoulder. “Di ba, you hated his attitude of plundering drivers at the high way when he should have made use of his big muscles and find work.”

“What? To that sluggard? Ay, I have always predicted that Romelyn—“ She quickly cut off her words and looked around to see if anyone was around, especially Romelyn. “—na igat.”

“Did you see her here just a few minutes ago?”

“Yes. So that was what you talked about?”

“Yes. Actually, I pity that girl sometimes. Hay Mila, that was harsh of you to say that. It’s not entirely her fault, you know.”

“Mare, she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant if she didn’t open her legs for him. Na! She should have realized how hard it is to raise a child!”

“Uy, grabe sad.” Lena exclaimed and gently shoved Mila’s shoulder again. “Anyway, you’re right. It was her decision too, that’s why. It’s really hard raising a child. And to think that she’s only nineteen. Tsk tsk. Poor girl.”

“Of course.” Mila added with a firm tone. “Uy, I’ll just go to Gina’s store ha. I’ll have to buy Bogesic for junior. He was complaining about his headache.”

“O sige. I’ll also be preparing dinner inside. Meynard will be home soon from work.”

“Hay, I wish my husband’s going to find work too.” Mila breathed silently. “O sige. Thank you for that small chat.”

“Sige Mare.”

Mila walked further on until she reached the store. She loosened her grasp on the money and saw that it crumpled into a smaller piece of paper.

“Gin, Biogesic.” Mila said, and handed the last money she had for the day. In her mind, she thought of her son sick of headache and the last money she had. She was surprised herself when she thought she wished her husband was Meynard and not her useless husband who couldn’t find any job.

the cellar

That afternoon, it rained so hard that Bobby thought it wouldn’t stop. Plak. Plak. Plak. Plak. Plak. He could hear all of them and imagined them plummeting on the roof above him though he could see from his window that they really plummeted from the sky. But he thought rain falling on the roof and making sounds like Plak Plak Plak are grander than those fallen on the ground. And he was more interested in listening to the Plak Plak Plak hitting on the roof above his bedroom than imagining the sound it made as it hit on the ground because that would mean going outside the house and inching closer to the ground, ears nearer to the ground, in order to actually hear the sound it made. So he stayed tucked in his bed instead and watched the ceiling in case it gave way, and that was again part of his imagination from the rain pouring hard from the sky which made the Plak Plak Plak sound above his bedroom.

Suddenly, he changed his mind. He freed himself from the sheets that covered his body and walked towards the window. He looked outside and looked closer at the ground where the rain would hit last because he thought that some of the rain should have hit on branches, and leaves, and electric posts, and wires, and clotheslines, and clothes, and airplanes, and trucks, and cars, and steel bars, and cellars, anything higher than the ground. So, he concluded, the rain should hit the ground last.

He went out from his bedroom and headed outside. He did not have any slippers on and he did not mind. He liked the idea of feeling the floor with his bare feet. He felt it prepared him for a colder ground outside. He rolled the glass door in the entrance facing the big sofa and the back of the television. Finally, he was outside.

He trudged on the cemented floor until he reached that part where the concrete floor ended. He felt a sudden excitement from the idea of hearing the kind of sound the rain would create when hitting the ground. He lowered himself until his ears reached the blades of grass growing on the ground. He listened.

Darn! He could not hear anything from there. Instead, he heard the loud Plak Plak Plak of the rain hitting on the roof shading the entrance door. He listened harder. No. He could not hear anything at all except the loud Plak Plak Plak of the rain hitting the roofs.

“Bobby! Where the hell are you? Bob—“ His mother shrieked in horror when she saw her son drenched in the rain. “Bobby! Get back in here or else I will have to lock you up again in the cellar, you stupid son of Edgar Perez!”

Bobby obeyed and quickly sprang up to his feet and ran back inside the house where he would be given another hard smack on his butt and a night stay at the cellar for being a stupid eight-year-old son of his father.

the choice to write

The idea didn’t come too sudden. I never knew then that I would end up inside a creative writing course, or that there was one either! Ridiculous, really. But whenever I think about the decision I made, I knew this one was a different path, unnoticed upon first glance, and I chose to tread upon it.

Choosing this subject took me a year to think whether I’d really shift from Communication Arts to this course, or not. Honestly, the first thing that struck my mind was the idea that there was no Mathematics inside its prospectus. That reason was the core of my decision. I felt I needed to escape from solving equations and the only way to do it was to risk myself in enrolling for this course. Finally, I was accepted.

It took a year and a few months for me to figure out what this course offered. I started to get to know it, slowly assuring myself that the decision was worthwhile. I was introduced to British literatures, Shakespearean plays, Classic Criticisms – few of the major subjects. I tried hard to condition my mind that I’ll become a writer soon, you know how wannabe writers think. We’re ambitious in our own private ways.

Then the idea that I really wanted to write started forming inside my mind. And there’s that perpetual love of stories, of letting my imagination wander through the beautiful weaving of words. Stories were themselves fascinating; I never feel bored reading and imagining them being played in my mind. That feeling solidified my first reason for shifting, and they are still, so far, the reasons I know why I chose Creative Writing.

Right now, I’m still getting to know the course more.