Ihip at agos

Igapos, ikulong ito ay magwawala
harangin, ipiit ito'y maghuhulagpos
sa langit pagtanaw sila nga'y mawawari
sa puso pagdungaw ika'y mananatili

sa bugso ng ulap, halika't sumabay
paglipad ng dahon tayo'y sumakay
bawat ihip, bawat kaway masdan mo kanyang galaw
ihip ng buhay kasabay sa indak ng kanyang sayaw

itago, ilihis sa huli ay dadaloy
sa ating kalooban ito ay tutuloy
saan man bumaling tinig nya ay aawit
tinig ng pagsibol, pagasang makakamit

sa patak ng ulan, lika't humimlay
paglutang ng dahon tayo'y sumakay
sa daloy ng buhay, pagahon ay taglay
pagbangon paglaban salo ng ating kamay

ihip nyang nanghahawi, kung humiyaw buong sidhi
ay syang hiningang satin ay bumubuhay parati
buhos nyang sumisigaw bawat agos umuugong
dumidilig sa lupa nang bagong mundo ay umusbong

Ghostwriter

My name is Robert Berdugo.

Aka Obet.

A ghost writer. frustrated novelist, former obituary writer, now a travel/lifestyle columnist. 

If I tell you my job, you might say I'm very lucky. I write a column in one of the small press publishing in the country. You'll know it when you see it, a catchy tabloid title in shocking red font with a scantily clad woman on the front page. I write in the lifestyle section-- human profiles all around the country. That means I got to travel a lot. In the company's expense mind you. 

Lucky?

On the contrary. Have you heard of Mando Kalubig? How about Joaquin Mastino? Have you been to Palino? Or Catispal perhaps? Yes the last two are places still in the Philippines. And the two people? They are nobody.

That's the problem. My editors send me to the dark unknown corners of the country to interview some unknown personality. They tell me the place, it's my job to find a person of interest. Which is quite difficult to do, to be honest. How do my editors determine the place? Beats me. I've raised this to them once or twice. I requested places like Boracay or Matabungkay at least but they only tell me to do the job or some one else would. I stopped questioning after that.

Now here I am sitting (or squatting) on a kanga (a wooden carriage) drawn by a smelly carabao under a scorching summer sun. Here, bathing in my own sweat, with 10 or more others, also sweating and emitting a stench of something from hell. My only solace as we rode on the moonlike crater-laden road is my ice cold mineral water (at least 3 hours ago) which I bought a million miles from here. Better hold on to this as the swerving kanga might make it fall out of my gri... oops. There it goes.

My assignment for today is a town called Ayungin. Its a small rice farming town on the edge of Nueva Ecija, 6 hours away from Manila. Which doesn't really mean that it's far, it just means we have to travel 2 hours on a cramped bus, 3 hours on a bumpy kanga and an hour on foot. It's that remote.

One thing I learned from my stint as an obit writer is that you get the purest, most raw emotions in the face of death. That's why when I arrive at any town, I only go to two places first; the graveyard and the funeral homes, depending on the time of day. When it is still early in the morning, I go to the graveyard. When it's about to get dark, I go to the funeral homes. After all my days as an obit writer, I'm still a whiny little coward.

The sun is still high up in the sky so I proceeded to the graveyard. As usual, it's very, very quite here. And as usual, it smells different. Not really a stench of rotting flesh like what you'd expect (it actually just smells like freshly cut grass and dishoveled dirt). But there seems to be an aroma of death and sorrow suffused with it. I don't know how one could smell death and sorrow but that's what I get from it. 

I immediately asked for the town's sepulturero (or gravedigger). Mang Temyong as they call him here. If I have my way I'll just write about every sepulturero in each town but I've already done two or three of those and my editors became quite nosy. Write about other people or we'll have someone else to write them, they would say.

Mang Temyong looks like your typical small town old man. He is thin, with wrinkly skin, hair still black but with white strands protruding on the edges. He coughs every few seconds but its a cough which doesn't look like a sickness, more like an acquired habit through the years. He also has this habit of inhaling very very deep and then making his nose move as if he smelled something bad. Maybe it's the smell of death and sorrow. Maybe one gets to know the smell if one stays long enough in places like these.

There's this imbalsamador (embalmer) who has a habit of pinching his nose every few seconds. Then he clears his throat as if he has something in his throat that he want to vomit. There's also this one who has a habit of blinking hard and a little longer than usual. Like he sees something and he want to unsee it. I guess that's what happen when you work in the face of death, you acquire unusual habits that make you seem like you are sensing something out of this world. Or maybe there is indeed something. Maybe Mang Temyong smells death, or that imbalsamador tastes death, and other guy sees death.

Anyway, I didn't come all the way here to think about all those things so I just went ahead to interview Mang Temyong. I already have a set of questions ready for this phase of my research.

When is the last death?

About how many attended?

How are the attendees related to the dead person?

Who is the noisiest crier?

Any noticeable characters during the funeral?

These are the questions I use everytime to find the person to interview. But these are just starters. I always find that the sepulturero or imbalsamador tells more things, juicier subjects, on their own. But from these five questions, I get all that I need. From here I get my story.

***

The moment Mang Temyong the grave digger answered my first question, I know that there something spooky going on this small town. I suddenly realized why Mang Temyong does those mannerisms like coughing involuntarily, frequent inhaling deeply and hands that jerk nervously. I've seen those in people trying to quit smoking after years of addiction. Those aren't mannerisms. Those are symptoms of withdrawal. 

When I asked Mang Temyong when is the last death, he didn't answer with a straight response. It's probably last week, the memory is still very vivid, no probably 2 weeks ago or a month perhaps. Or two. But it's very recent. Maybe 3 months ago. No, I think it was last year. 2 years latest. I asked him if he could show me the last lapida that he assembled. When I saw it, I felt goosebumps in my entire body. I asked him if he is sure this is the last. He seems confident. 

Juan Kalos 

Born: December 1, 1972 

Died: December 1, 1992. 

There are so many things wrong about this. First, the death was 20 years ago. So no one's ever died since then? According to Unicef, the Philippines has a death rate of 6% per year. I don't want to do the math but that figure there simply means there should be someone dead every year (not that I want to, I'm just saying the statistics). But here, nobody's died for 20 years! That's enough to be spooked of. Maybe the people just migrated after that, I don't know. But maybe that's just rationalizing something pretty unnatural.

Second wrong thing is that the person, Juan Kalos' death is 20 years after his birth, to the month and day. Now, how often does that happen? Not often. That's pretty creepy. Maybe it's just some extremely weird coincidence. Maybe I'm just rationalizing again.

The last wrong thing, and probably the scariest is this fact: today is November 30, 2012. Exactly 20 years after the last death, minus one day. I know nothing about the happenings in this town but let me set the facts straight (it makes me shudder just thinking about this): Juan Kalos died 20 years after his death. After his death no one has ever died for another 20 years. Tomorrow is the exact twentieth year. Which means something terrible is going to happen tomorrow, right here. Which means only one thing: I have my story.

***

It's just 3' o clock in the afternoon. I still have a lot of time before night falls in. So I went to the town hall to ask somethings. There's a woman in her late 40's sitting in one of the desks fanning furiously with a small cardboard which looks like some kind of an election paraphernalia for some politician. She's very pretty with her pearly white teeth and her sweet smiling lips -- the politician on the cardboard fan that is. The woman official saw me coming and she gave me her version of the politician's smile, albeit not as sweet.

After some introductions and some small talk here and there (I learned that she is named after Marimar the actress), I went straight to the juicy part. I asked if she was aware that there's no death for the last 20 years. She is aware. I asked her if it does not creep her out. Not really, she said. Have you been talking to Mang Temyong, she asked. Then she turned her back to open a cabinet of files and folders. She rummaged through the piles of papers looking for something. When she seem to finally find it, she exclaimed a loud A ha and faced me again.

She handed me a letter. On its heading, it read Baranggay Decree No. 455. As I started to read it, Aleng Mari, began to tell me the contents much to my relief since I don't want to read this long legal document. She tells me that 20 years ago, Juan Kalos died because of water poisoning. She tells me that the the toxic substances from the cemetery went its way to the water reservoir under the town. So the baranggay ordered to close the cemetery once and for all. They now bury their dead on the next town. 

What a bummer... And I thought there is something supernatural about it.

I asked about the death of Kalos, why it happened 20 years after his birth. Plain coincidence, she muttered. My mother died exactly while giving birth to me. My father died exactly 60 years after his birth. My uncle was born during an eclipse. My children were born exactly 2 years apart. How many more examples do you want?

My creepy conspiracy theory goes down the drain.

***

That night I went to the funeral homes. My creepy story did not pan out so I need to find something else. I just wasted half a day chasing a story which I thought would be something. Now I'm back to square one. Sad thing for me is that there is no funeral homes in this town. With the closing of the cemetery, the funeral homes also moved to the next town. But with existing competition there, they ultimately went bankrupt and out of business. I asked around if the former embalsamador still lived here, but to no avail. Some say he's dead. Some say he's moved to other places. Some say he went crazy and lived inside the forest as a hermit. Some say he is now an aswang. Small town stories.

Without the embalsamador there's no one to ask for my valuable topic. And it's too dark to still go to the graveyard for the sepulturero. So much for my five-point questions.

***

I set my phone alarm clock to 6 AM. I want to start early so I could go home early. My plan of attack is this, I still go to the sepulturero to ask him my five questions. Maybe he'll tell some interesting stories and some fascinating characters. But as an alternative, I'll do it from another vantage point. I think that the Marimar baranggay official is an interesting character and I think I can do a write-up about her. A last resort really, but that's all I can afford at the moment. I'll have to go home tomorrow so I need to have a story by then.

Having set my strategy, I just went to sleep on the hard bamboo bed. Thank my editors they gave me some budget to rent a room even if it's just this small, dilapidated, stacked up shack which is a sad excuse for a house. 

My muses apparently felt pity for me, because that night I slept a dreamless sleep. The night is so quiet, like a graveyard.

***

I was awaken by the signal of my phone alarm clock. I sat up from my bed but it's still very dark. I checked my phone on the table and it says 6 AM. But it's too dark to be 6 AM, i thought to myself. Maybe it's that way around here. When I put down my phone on the table again I noticed a small sheet of paper. I picked it up. Somethings written. I illuminated it using my cellphone.

Today. None. Nothing. You. You.

A bunch of scribbled nonsense, I thought. But who would have left it here? 

I stood up and tried to find my way to the door using my phone as my flashlight. I was able to go outside. It really is very dark. The night sky is very dark. Starless. As i walk towards the town center, I realize there's no light from any of the houses in the town either. I can't see anything from here. 

I turned back to return to my rented shack. But it's pitchblack from my position. I illuminated the ground with my phone but the light never went a meter farther. I walk blindly somewhere, I don't know what direction. I started to call people. Hello. Anybody there. I began to feel frightened. Am I alone? Where are the others?

I began walking faster. Still calling out. 

I'm running. To where? I don't know. I'm sweating. But I feel cold.

I'm shouting out now. Crying for help. 

In my haste, I tripped face down. The pain shut me up. I had to clear my head.

I realize, Hey I have a cellphone in hand! So I dialled one of my editor's number. No signal. Crap. It's no use.

I realized I was still holding the piece of paper. Maybe it holds a clue. Maybe this is the answer. 

I looked at the written words again. Maybe these words are the answer. These five words.

Five words...

Today. 

None. 

Nothing. 

You. 

You.

When is the last death?

About how many attended?

How are the attendees related to the dead person?

Who is the noisiest crier?

Any noticeable characters during the funeral?

It's too quiet. Like a graveyard.

Tales from the Snowflake

This Earth is a tiny crystal on the snowflake of the multiverse. We are all living an alternate life, a parallel reality with another 'us' on another world on the other  side of the snowflake.

We are the stories they write. We are the parallel worlds. We are the imagined possibilities. This earth is what the beings on the other side tell tales about.

There, in the earth where computers were not invented. There they write with pens and papers about a world where magic square boxes can show moving images and can magically speak. There they write about us.

There, in the earth where telepathic communication technology flourished. There they mind-talk about a technologically backwards world who communicate with noise. They mind-talk about us.

We. Here. This world. Our reality is their fiction. We are all fiction in their heads.

Corned Tuna Mayo Toast

Ingredients:
   1 can corned  tuna
   2 slices of white bread
   4 tablespoons of mayonnaise

Steps:
  1. Mix the mayonnaise and corned tuna.
  2. Spread the mix on the bread slices.
  3. Toast the bread in the oven for 5 minutes or until brownish.
 
"This tastes like crap".
"Damn. I think I missed an ingredient. The most important one."
"And what's that?"
"An ounce of love."
"I hate you."

Prawn Crackers

It started with a crackle. Then a spark. Suddenly the entire room is brimming with electromagnetic field lines glowing bright purple like the insides of a neon light. Oishi's body was engulfed with the psychedelic lights.

As he look around him, he found himself floating in the middle of his room. The ceilings and the walls are all radiating with blinding light.

The purple light started to creep into Oishi's feet. His limbs are now glowing as well. It crept towards his torso in a very steady pace. In another minute his whole body is glowing bright purple as he float and rotate like a satellite inside his room.

Moments later, a beam of light emanated from outside his window. The beam target his body. He was being pulled into the light, head first. Slowly, he floated towards the window until finally he was out. Suddenly, it went dark. The room is back in its normal arrangement. But Oishi is nowhere to be found.

The red indicator from the CCTV camera continued to blink.

A week later, the news headlines reported the  first ever alien abduction caught on camera. A month later,  with the new hard evidence they gathered, the Earth government revived the case against the Martians for illegal abduction on Earth's premises.

Tiny Cars and a Yellow Curtain

It's just 10 in the evening and I had 6 cups of coffee already. That would last me another half-hour at least. It's been 10 days -- two hundred and thirty nine hours and fifteen minutes to be exact -- since I last saw you.

'I'll see you on the next iteration,' you said, as you turn the lever to full throttle. In an instant, your time bubble vanished and what's left in its stead is a yellow whiff of smoke and some tiny sparks.

You said you'll send an indicator if you will arrive soon. Soon. I don't know how that concept applies now. Here I am waiting for sometime now. Anytime now, that is soon, for me. But you have the entire universal timeline to traverse. How long is 'soon' if you can outlive the universe itself? What is 'time' if you can come and go as you please?

'Just look at the things that make you safe, at this instant of time.' you had said before you left. 'Just look at them and you'll know when I'll arrive.

What makes me safe at this instant? Coffee? Well, it keeps me awake but not safe. My yellow curtains? Probably. It keeps me safe from perverts looking into the room with their powerful telescopes from across the building. (Yes, I'm that paranoid.). My 1:64 die cast cars on the drawer? They keep me sane, that's for sure.

Seventh cup. The waiting is killing me. I go out to the balcony. It sure is so bright tonight and noisy. Or is it just the coffee? From up here, the ground looks so near. It would be so easy to jump, except that I'm 19th floor high and I'm not insane. I feel nauseous all of a sudden.

I went inside. I closed the door and windows and just opened my orange curtains. When did I change curtains? And when did I start collecting 1:50 die cast cars?

A whiff of yellow smoke appeared in front of me. And some sparks.

Two Moons: Ikalimang Yugto

Technocidal Tendency


Ang susunod na liham ay encrypted Base-128.

Mahal kong talaarawan,

Ngayong araw ay sisimulan kung gumawa ng isang talaarawan. Bakit ngayon pa kamo? Kasi ngayon lang nagsisimula ang buhay ko. Magmula ng makilala ko siya, ay wala na akong ibang gustong gawin kundi makita siyang muli. Nagbago ang kulay ng mundo ko. Naging makulay. Ika nga ng matatanda, parang isang batang kakalabas lang sa clone vat. 

(Parang nagiging love letter…)

Hindi yun ang gusto kong ikwento sa yo. Alam mo naman siguro na meron na lang akong dalawang buwan. Ilang digicreds na ba ang nagastos ko ngayong araw? Malamang kulang dalawang buwan na nga lang ang meron ako. Anuman ang maiiwan kong pag-aari,  kung meron man ay mapunta sana sa pamilya ko na nasa langit na ngayon--sa kanilang Zepellin Mansion.

(Nagiging last will and testament…)

Gusto ko pang mabuhay. Napakasarap mabuhay. Pero mukhang hindi ko maaafford yun ngayon. Nung kinwenta ko ang aking gastusin para sa dalawang buwan ay nakalimutan ko na ngayon taon din nga pala ang expiration date ng Fusion cell na nagpapatibok ng heartpump ng neural system ko. At kung walang neural system, mawawalan ako ng access sa Cyberstream. Mas mabuti pang mamatay na lang ako, kesa maging isang inbalido at kung mas malala pa ay baka maging isang burado.

Napagtanto ko ang lahat ng ito kahapon ng makilala ko siya. Pagsakay niya ng elevator. Nung sandaling yun biglang tumibok ang heartpump ko. Tugss. Tugss. Tugss. At nablanko na lang ako bigla. Hindi dahil sa kung ano mang emosyon, kundi dahil sa takot. Sa takot na biglang tumigil ang tibok. Tugss. Tugss. Tugss.

Kaya naman kung anong tindi na lamang ang kagustuhan ko na makita syang muli. Upang tuloy tuloy na tumibok ang puso ko. Dahil alam kong oras na tumigil ito, ay matatapos na ang lahat.

O aking talaarawan, marahil alam mo na kung gano kahalaga sa akin na makahanap ng trabaho sa loob ng dalawang buwan. Salamat sa iyong pakikinig. Ngayon, ipiprint ko ito sa isang carbon fiber sheet at dadalhin lagi kahit saan ako magpunta, para kung bigla akong maging isang burado ay mayroon pa din akong pagkakakilanlan sa mundong ito. Sana naman kahit itong liham na ito ay hindi mabura sa kasaysayan. Sana ay hindi ako makalimutan ng tuluyan.

(Ayan, suicide note na.)

Nagmamahal,
Ako

PS. Kung maging burado man ako at maging isang tila multo na lang na pagalagala sa Realspace ng walang access sa Cyberstream, kung sino man pong makakabasa nito, pakiusap, bisitahin nyo po ang cybergrave ko sa address na to: httpsq://112304.321.22312.77654019/G65%4#jkjdll.?cyber&hhgslong. Kahit isang pirang cyberrose ay ayos na po. Tatanawin yun na isang malaking utang na loob mula sa isang nagpapakumbabang nilalang na naoffline nang hindi pa nya panahon. 

PSS. Kung may extra creds at ontime pa kayo, baka gusto nyo din ituloy ang nilalaro kong Utotpia Online, o kaya pakainin si Spyke, ang aking Quantumpet,  o kaya ituloy ang aking Fantasy Doctor’s War. (Nasa cyber grave ko ang mga username at password).