All I Want For Christmas.

Forget Montblancs, they're useless for heavy-duty writing. Yes, I snicker everytime I see the lower management clients with their Montblancs in leather pen cases bring them out at meetings.

The ones I want are from the Shanghai Hero Pen Company.






The Wing Sung ones are cool, too.




Seeing as how my running-away-from home-and-hiding-out-in-Hongkong/Bangkok/Singapore-for-Christmas money has gone to pay the teachers in the school, I'll just have to look in 168 and Recto to see if they have 'em.

Or I could just get another red Waterman from National Bookstore, but that's less fun. Too bad they don't carry Lamy or Pelikan anymore. Bah.

I am thankful for blog contests that remind me I have a lot to be thankful for, among others.

Yeah, I'm doing this for the planner.

Jasper, my favorite notebook supplier, asked why I didn't join the Moleskine giveaway bloghopping thingies when we last met. I don't really have a good enough reason not to-- "I don't get around to it" doesn't quite cut it-- though I have tons. One of them is that his prices are reasonable enough anyway, I can afford to buy them, they make samkaynda sosyal presents for friends and clients. (Nah, I just like buying notebooks. That's why I have 56 million of them. Don't ask.)

And I still have that ONE LARGE PLAIN MOLESKINE FROM 2006 THAT JUST WON'T DIE.

A planner, of course, is different. One, I like them, I just don't like buying them. (And I'm not too big on Starbucks coffee.) Two, a planner lets you, well, plan. Which I'm lousy at, that's why I have logical, systematic partners, also known as handlers. Who refuse to allow me within ten meters of any bookstore or art supplies store, which is another reason to be grateful for online shopping. (Not that I'm going to be buying a Moleskine planner, no. )

Aside from family and friends, I know I have a lot to be thankful about. Everyone does.
It's funny, though. Most of the things I'm grateful for this year weren't planned, they just happened. The funny thing is, most of them were things I've always said I wanted, then forgot about. Life is good. Really. Let me count the ways.

1. Family. I'm always thankful for them, but this year, I have a new nephew. He's in San Francisco. It would be nice to see him and his older brother soon. We'll see. The way things are going now, I probably will.

2. Friends. The old ones are always cool, the ones that fell away are slowly coming back, and the new ones are amazing. Yeah, you know who you are.

3. I'm working at the bestest agency in the world. Mine. (Well, ours.) The only two people in the world I can imagine being partners with resigned almost the same time as I did. Chubs resigned the month before I did, and Sam, the month after. And it's doing well. We have paying clients. (Although we'd probably be making a heckuva whole lot more if we worked more than eight hours a week. But it's okay.)

Our clients are cool, too. We didn't kill ourselves trying to run after them, or crankily working unreasonable hours to accede to their unreasonable demands. They showed up, and they're cool. I could never imagine saying this about clients before, but yeah, we love our clients.

And one more thing, I've learned to like pizza again. Pizza's good--especially when it's stopped being overtime food.

4. Like I said, there are many things I said I wanted: to own an agency, write stories, write a book, write a film and more. Done. Again, not planned. It just happened. Amazing, it's just like having a magic lamp, except the lamp is from Ikea, not Arabia.

5. I can draw, paint, write, make notebooks, clean my room and play with my dog and cat now, and go to places I keep saying I want to go, like the ukay line along Aurora, and to Kidapawan, North Cotabato and Davao just for the heck of it. And I have. It's more than just time, it's opportunity. Most of it's by chance, but there you go.

6. Then there's Applecare. Yeah, my logic board crashed and I really couldn't afford to buy a new one if there wasn't one. And I got the Applecare on sale.

7. I know there's a whole world to be thankful for, purple flowers, fluffy dogs, alien cats, funny mean writers on writers_guild who think I'm brilliant and more. But I'll stop now. Seven has always been my lucky number, after all.

Davao

Never drink Coke within 4 hours after eating fresh, ripe durian, because you will still be burping durian burps the day after.

And keep wet wipes handy, though being in close proximity to a shower is better.

Kabacan

There's a sign that says "This way to Aringay."

I'm in Mindanao. They said the whole town was full of Ilocanos, but this is almost surreal.

Cotabato

"OMG, you're in Cotabato?! Are you okay? Are you safe? Is there shooting in the streets? What about the military?"

Right, I'm writing this in a garden, across the mosque where they are celebrating Eid'l Adha. The veiled women are bowed and kneeling peacefully in the sunny courtyard, having spilled over from the back rows, because, I have been told, around here, men have priority seating in front.

It is a cultural thing, I guess, but these are the things that make it hard for other people to believe we're in the same country. Up north, where I come from, women get seats first, the first three cars of the MTR during rush hour are reserved for females. And no, it's not because the women are considered weak, it's because everyone just scared of 'em. Matriarchal society and all, y'know.

:Pretty much quiet all around, though. There was a bit of noise but that turned out to be from the opening of the new McDonald's. They're taking me to a nearby town celebrating its fiesta. During a fiesta, you are required to eat from all the houses that invite you. It's kind of like trick or treating by invitation, except it's dine-in instead of takeout. (Though some will give you takeout as well.)

I think we'll hit about five houses before we burst. We'll see.

I can haz advaizes? Robopandas eatedying my brane. Plz send punctuashen and raiting tipz, plzplzplz fer I needz skilz agen.

Crossed Wires.

Why is it I think in Tagalog when I need to write in English, and think in English when I need to write in Tagalog?

There's a story here somewhere bt I'm afraid it's been done.

My phones won't work. Not even the prepaid ones. I bought cards for those, but they won't load, and the one with the line says it's been redirected, when I just paid my bill last week.

My car has overheated, and is at the shop.

My computer keeps shutting down all by itself every five minutes, making it extremely difficult to get anything done..

There is no money in my ATM, but that's my fault.

Maybe I should just go back and live off the land. Bah.

On the brighter side, America's new President looks exactly the way my grandfather did when he was young. Bahahaha.

Sister: How's your "United States of the Nether Lands" coming along? Almost end of September na.

Me: Dead.

Sister: Why? YOU GOT LAZY AGEEEEEN!

Me: Nope. Main character's a sue. Stu. Sue. Whatever.

Sister: How is it a Sue?

Me: He's an advertising guy who's in hell gypping the actors and the politicians. Sound familiar?

Sister: But he's got no fashion sense whatsoever, wears ill-fitting clothes, has messy hair, is unsociable, has no people skills, is bad tempered and... I see what you mean. Why didn't you just go all the way and make him wear glasses?

Me: He does. Dark glasses. So the fires of hell don't hurt his eyes. Also 'cause I made him crosseyed. And hunchbacked. Does that make him less of a sue?

Sister: No. But you could pass it off as an author insert.

Me: Really? Is that more acceptable?

Sister: No, but it's really creeping me out hearing you say "Sue."

Me: Maybe I'll give him three pesky demons patterned after you, Mom and Jackie. Andun na rin lang tayo.

Sister: Are they vavoom shapely temptresses, kinda like corrupted versions of The Three Fates?

Me: No, the three little pigs.

Sister: Waaaaaaaah! You're meeeeeeeeeeeeeean! I haaaaaate youuuuuuuuu.

Alienkitteh

I have come to the conclusion that Insomnia/Baskittyquiat/MaiT Midnight isn't really a cat. Which is good, because I don't really like cats. For one thing, it looks like it grew twice its size since I found it. Or it could just be my imagination. It's still small, but won't fit in the camera case anymore. And it really, really looks strange. All its legs are different colors, and its face is never the same color from the last time you looked.

My sisters say it's too little to bathe or wipe down, which is why it still looks really scraggly, but here are pictures.

The only reasons I haven't posted pictures earlier are that it won't sit still and keeps walking over the keyboard. It likes walking all over the keyboard. And it talks a lot. Wait, it just killed a bottle of ink. Anyway.

For the time being, we'll just pretend it fooled us into thinking it's a kitty. But only until the ship comes back.

Kitteh can haz laptop?


The banker's lamp as Starbucks umbrella.


Blake the cat doesn't think it's a kitty either.

I can haz midnight kitteh!



I found it an hour ago, at midnight, shivering behind my dad's rosebushes under my window. To be accurate, Andydog found it, but it was probably Andy's fault it was shivering in the first place. Damned dog was growling so I went out to check and there it was: scraggly, wet and hissing at my dog.

It's very small-- the size of a quarterpounder with cheese or a pocket camera case-- very ragged, the color of a Meiji bar that's been unwrapped and left too long under a lamp on the bedside table: dark chocolate, mottled all over with a light, almost golden, brown. It has blue eyes.

It's almost asleep in a box under my desk, except it keeps looking up and answering 'mewmewgurglegarblegeep' everytime I say something. Andy is watching it suspiciously, while Blake the cat is watching Andy even more suspiciously; I think she remembers that Andydoggy has one case of accidental and justifiable kittenslaughter hidden away in his juvenile records.

I wonder what to name it and how to clean it up-- it seems too small for a bath, but the matted parts of its fur are annoying me.

Hmm. I just remembered something. I don't even like cats.

Planting rice is never fun.

Given a range of ideas, concepts and visuals, clients will often choose the most boring one.

Some friends consulted an expensive psychic once, who, after telling them the future, told them about their past lives. I've always thought it amusing how everyone seems to have been a king, a queen, an empress, a general, a tribal medicine man, priestess, courtesan, or some other glamorous historical figure. I t makes me wonder how people ate, seeing as there were no farmers, fishermen, or other kind of common folk in the past.

If reincarnation were true, I wouldn't be insulted, or even surprised to find out that I was a nobody: a footman, a groom, a gardener, a salesman in some small town. Maybe I was that guy who walked down the back streets of upper-crust residential areas at dawn in the olden days, pulling a wagon filled with urine and feces collected from the townspeople's overnight piss-pots and shit-buckets, for transport and distribution to the outlying farmlands for use as fertilizer.

That would make sense. After all, here I am centuries later, still dishing out crap.

Detour

Two kilometres from home, a stretch of road deeply submerged in floodwater brought traffic to a near standstill for two hours. The car's fuel gauge read nearly empty, the temperature reading indicated the danger of overheating, so when an opportunity to make a U-turn opened, I did.

The long way home takes around an hour and a half, goes up easily one side of the mountain then steeply down the other. I stopped about halfway, somewhere near the top, sat on a rock smoking a cigarette. The city below looked somewhat sad; the usual sea of lights was marred by black holes of power outages.

Afterwards, speeding down the lonely mountainside road, there came a sharp feeling of missing someone terribly, but couldn't remember whom.

The trouble with flash floods is that garbage rises to the surface, and things you have already thrown away float back.

Sundei Skul: Openz Yer Baiblz Wit Me

Job 1: 21

21 "Teh Ceiling Cat giv me cheezburger, teh Ceiling Cat takded mah cheezburger awai. Stil laiks teh Ceiling Cat."

Pastor's gunna kill me nao.

From One Outsider To Another

I know you.

I was you, once.

You sit in the back of the class, near the door, in getaway position, even if you sometimes wish people would notice you, because you know, deep down, wishes are never the way they are in your head, and having that wish come true would cause you more harm than good, because life has more monkey’s paws than fairy godmothers.

Sometimes you watch the popular ones, and you wonder what it’s like to be with them, or, maybe, be them.  Your mom, or aunt, or a well-meaning neighbor says you could be, if you’d   only comb your hair or dress better,  or smile more, but you know you won’t because as much as you want to be like them, deep inside, you know you’ll hate it. 

Nobody gets your sense of humor, and they think you’re strange. You have maybe one or two friends, the last remaining people in the world who haven’t let you down, but you still worry that maybe, that’s only because they haven’t had a chance.

Sometimes you wonder if they would still be your friends if you had more choices of people to hang out with; if you weren’t such a geek. a freak,  or a loser.  Other people’s  terms,  not yours. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that way or you’re a goner.  But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m telling you what I know about you. And here’s what I know:

Sometimes, you feel so alone, you can’t stand it.  And you think it’s your fault, so you hate yourself.  And sometimes, late, late at night, you think:  My life sucks. Anything is better than this.

So you think about guns, and knives and other sharp-bladed objects or explosive devices and how to use them. Maybe on yourself. Maybe on others. Me, my weapon of choice, at seventeen,  was a car, driving 120 mph on steep, winding hillsides. I tried cutting my wrists  earlier with a knife , but I was too stupid to realize I was cutting the wrong way (no, I will not tell you the right way, shut up) and a burglar breaking into our house interrupted. Yes, I’m serious. But that’s another story.

Where was I? Oh yes, the things I want to tell you.

Hold on. It gets better. Life, I mean. 

It’s not like in the movies, it will still suck most days.  But here's the secret: It's a little less sucky because you're there.    (Just a little, teeny itty-bit less, but whaddaheck, every little bit counts.) Yes, I'm talking about you, the idiot in black. The girl in olive drab.  The kid with the guitar. And the one in the food server’s  uniform. And the angsty one in emo glasses smoking behind the canteen, with the iPod in a striped sock, listening to whatever your equivalent of Evanescence and Linkin Park is. (In my day, we had Faith No More, but I’m an old fogey .)

Yes, there are people and places and events that mess you up big time, and cause you to go through periods where you just want to lock yourself in and curl up to sleep away in the dark, for only God knows how long, and you ARE allowed to do that, but you have to come up for air and sunshine sometime. And meet the people like the ones mentioned above. The ones who make life less sucky. People like you.
 
And what you are doing to make life less sucky, it all adds up. You all add up.

You are you.

I wouldn't really want to be you, been there, done that, but. never mind. All of you is not who you are with, or what you have done, or what you do, or what you have or do not have; be it money or a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a job or a disease. You are not your aloneness, or your couplehood, your ability or inability or disability, your sadness or happiness, or your pain or your anger or your sin.

You are not what other people think, or sometimes, even what you believe. You are not even what I believe, though it pains me to say that. You are just you. That is all, and that is enough. If it isn't enough for others, then it doesn't matter. It should be enough for yourself, that is all that counts.

Miracles happen. They find survivors months after the wreckage, and it's only because the survivors held on. Sometimes the miracles aren't the ones you had in mind, but that doesn't make the ones that do happen any less of a miracle.

Believe.

I believe in people falling and getting up again. I believe the lost can be found, and if not found, replaced with something better. I believe in the broken made whole, the asleep waking up, the lame walking, the blind seeing, people getting well, and people loving people, one way or the other. I believe in all of that, in this life or the next, but preferably in this life, unless time runs out.

I have never been much of an optimist: I do not believe much in the innate goodness of people in general, because I have seen too many who are just as ready to kick you when you are down, as help you get up. Yes, they are out there, ready to steal what little you have, and destroy what they cannot steal. But there are others. And I also have to believe that there is hope and something more. I believe in forgiveness and redemption, and the changing of things. Otherwise, we should all just get guns and shoot everyone else.

I have seen some of what I say I believe, and like a little match, all you need is one, and the dark is gone. I believe in doing what you can. And believing in yourself, and in those who need you to believe in them. Sometimes you are wrong, and sometimes you are right, but being wrong sometimes, that does not make you stupid: In fact, it makes you smarter, if not wiser.

So believe. Be strong.  After all, I was like you once.

Which means, God forbid, one day, you could be like me. And  then you’re really going to need all the strength and faith you can build up.

 

Three Years

My father's name is Merlin. His mother's name was Fe, and his father's name was Bernardo.

He was born on June 14, 1941, somewhere near a rocky cape with a lighthouse in Ilocos Norte. His mom didn't like him much, because he was the only dark one and had straight hair, unlike his brothers who were fair-skinned and had curly hair, like his mother and their Spanish ancestors. Sometimes, they would say he was really the cook's son, which was why he was not expected to go to college, but stay there and take care of the farm instead.

He loved to read, though: science fiction and fantasy mostly. And comics. Lots of comics.

When he was fifteen, he went to his grandmother, a rich woman, and asked for money to go to college. She gave it to him, but not before making him sign away his inheritance: one-seventh of a ten-hectare piece of land with mango trees. So he took the money, and went to Manila to study. The money lasted a month. He had to take jobs to get through college and an MBA.

He met a girl one year younger than him, the girl he called 'the most beautiful woman in the world'. He was poor and ugly, and she was a bit of an airhead, but so pretty, so he was happy to just be friends. He took care of her through all her suitors and boyfriends, the strongest contender being a good-looking politician's son whose name was Arthur.

Arthur lost. Ten years to the day they met, my father married my mother. Their wedding anniversary is tomorrow.

Sometime in the 1980s he bought a hundred-hectare piece of land that had a hill on one edge, and a beach in the other, and a creek running right through it. I asked him, why, and he said, grinning, "Because of the caves. I saw quartz crystal walls in the caves. I've always wanted crystal caves." He also laughed at how you can fit ten of their family's lands in it, and still have enough space for a racetrack.

He named the piece of land Avalon, which would be a silly name, except for the fact that it is an anagram of our family name. He also bought a white pony for my younger sister, and a Brahma bull, which he named Lancelot.

He told me stories, lots of them, about Bernardo Carpio, the strong man of legend imprisoned in the caves of Montalban; Robin Hood, William Tell, Merlin, Arthur, Fata Morgana, and how my grandmothers could see fairies. And when he was too busy with work, I had his books.

He died three years ago today. At his wake, some of his friends came and talked about how wise he was, and also how naive.

The son of one of the country's richest men came, a man he trained, and told me how he had the perfect name. "Your father always knew where the gold was, " he said. " He turned everything into gold, and never kept any for himself."

"For someone so smart, your father was an idiot, " someone else said. "But he was a good man."

We buried him with chocolate bars and cans of corned beef, and his Tolkien collection, as well as the boxed set of the Lord of the Rings.

He taught me many things: that Santa Claus wasn't real, but that magic was.

He is he reason I believe in magic. And goodness. And true love. It's kind of hard not to, when your father's name is Merlin, and your last name is an anagram of Avalon.

And if you're reading this over my shoulder, dad, I just want you to know your 'most beautiful woman in the world' is giving me a headache. See you later.

Days of Whine and Hydrangeas

I seem to remember learning in grade school that you're supposed to die when you can't breathe, but whoever's in charge of biological natural laws isn't paying attention. I also seem to remember you're supposed to get measles when your age is in the single digits, and your mom's young enough to be running in and out of your room with cold drinks and soup, and not delegating it to giggly maids who keep whispering about you being a little too old to be watching 'cartoons'. I suppose that's still better than getting chicken pox for the THIRD time.

Yeah, I'm being a wimp, geez. Here, I drew you something (to color if you want--you know the drill: right click, save as, print out, color.)

I'm a little too dizzy to put the numbers in, but it 's sposed to look like this when you're done.

Or not. G'night again.

p.s. I want a cig but the bossy sister confiscated them. Whinewhinewhineywhinewhine.

 

Look!
900 pounds of siopao! Bahahahaha.

*liger  Hercules pics stolen from  's lj.

Creative Directors In Japan Have More Fun.



How to write pretentiously 101.

One of the current exercises has to do with a 150 word piece about rewriting an excerpt from your novel to fit the requirements of a snobby, pretentious magazine, and a cover letter submitting it. .

Except I don't really have a novel, so I just decided to rewrite something that used to be pretty straightforward when the German brothers did it first. (Or were they Austrian? I don't remember.)

She was not exactly from a poor or dysfunctional family; her future lawyers would not be able to cite parental neglect or socioeconomic injustices as defenses for her crimes of breaking and entering, as well as willful destruction of private property.

On the contrary, her parents doted on her very much: the kind of indulgence that encourages permissive behavior, daily affirmations that consistently overestimated her capabilities while neglecting to emphasize limits and boundaries. This, perhaps, was to blame for the lack of fear and consideration in her actions leading to an already marginalized family’s loss of dinner, and the devastation of their beloved abode.

Goldilocks, always prone to intrepid exploration despite the numerous statistics about missing children with sparkling blue eyes and shimmering blonde hair, came to a cottage which, unbeknownst to her, was the home of the three bears.

She knocked.

No answer.

Shrugging carelessly, she went in.

Yes, it's Goldilocks.

I think what makes a publication or a piece pretentious and pompous isn’t so much the use of long and heavy words or the run-on sentences dotted with commas, semi-colons and colons; but the misplaced sense that a piece of writing is far more important than it really is, and a reader is supposed to feel privileged for having been able to read it, and/or understand it, and society and literature is much better for the writing.

Vagueness always helps fill the weight requirement. I suppose the principle is the same as with airline food: nutritional content and heft don't matter, but the container and utensils have to be a prescribed weight to ensure that your meal doesn't fly away and poke you in the eye in the event of a bumpy flight.

For the required cover letter to the snobby publication, I suppose the whatsit could be described as a "revisonist piece leaning towards being a cautionary tale of the consequences of disregarding boundaries of social norms, as well as a timely sociopolitical statement on the privileged class and its victimization of the less-privileged, by robbing them of their hard-earned possessions and basic needs through the wanton destruction of their living environment".

Or something. LOL.

Those who can't, teach.

If You Can't Say Anythng Good.

Yes, I need to make a field trip to Quiapo soon.


Normal citizens living their sheltered lives usually think protection money is extortion, but Crispin didn’t care. His conscience was clear: he offered a service, did it well, and was paid his due.

He protected the area surrounding St. John the Baptist Church in Manila, more popularly known as Quiapo Church, one of the country’s oldest basilicas, built by the Spaniards in 1582. Behind it, near the alcove where the devotees of the resident image of the Black Nazarene gather between feast days and parades, is R. Hidalgo street, the center of the underground religious economy, both the Roman Catholic and the alternative.

Here, amidst stalls selling freshly-cut flowers for offerings, novena pamphlets, hymnals, missals, rosaries and replicas of popular religious icons, the visitor, tourist, devotee or miracle seeker will find old ladies offering to light candles and pray by proxy for a fee, herbolarios hawking snake oil, incense, potions and other alternative remedies, as well as mystics selling amulets, talismans, curses, spells and counterspells.

As a territory, it wasn’t as lucrative as Binondo where the Chinese traders wholesaled everything from garments to fake designer goods and pirated DVDs, but he was fine with it. The only people he had to contend with were the purse-snatchers, pickpockets, and misguided policemen. Plus, it was where he grew up, and they were his people.

His preferred payment was cash, and often, the people in his territory would offer him their services in exchange, but the only people he allowed to pay him in trade were the fortune tellers. He liked them, liked what they told him, and once in a while, what they said came true. And even when they didn’t, it was still nice to be told good things.

So when they came to him with complaints, he took them very seriously.

Aling Carmela was one of the oldest fortune tellers, and one the most popular, batting an amazing 95% in her predictions—a fact she owed to her ability to sense what people wanted to hear, and express them in such a convincing fashion that the people believed them so firmly and fiercely, until they came true. Her only failure that he remembered was the time she told a young man he would win the lottery, whereupon he promptly bought a ticket, got caught in a crossfire between policemen and some bank robbers, and died. Still, no one could prove it was totally false, as the said lottery ticket was swept along with the rest of the resulting debris after the shooting had died down.

She and a group of other fortune tellers now crowded in what passed for his dressing room at the Blue Hawaii, a girly joint that advertised nude shows with bananas, pingpong balls and similar props; where he had a regular gig doing the intermission numbers between the regular stripteases and live shows.

They were not happy.

“She’s ruining our business!” Aling Carmela wailed. “And she isn’t following the rules!”

“Who? What? Where? When?”

“The-the-the-the new girl!”

Aling Carmela was by now livid and stuttering, so Mang Selyo, an old transvestite who declared himself the last of a long line of babaylan, Filipino priestesses (who were traditionally male, but acted female, it's true, don’t ask) of the forest guardians, took it upon himself to explain.

“The rules say, you’re not supposed to say anything bad! Even when you see them! You’re supposed to prophesy only good things! “ Mang Selyo was turning pink in the heat, both from anger and his makeup. “ The new girl only says bad things! Terrible things! And then she sells amulets and spells to counter them!”

He frowned. “That’s bad?”

Aling Carmela stamped. “We may be fakes and charlatans, but-but-but we have rules! That ‘s why I didn’t tell that boy he was going to d-d-d-die, even if I saw it clear as day! That’s why I just told him he was going to win the lottery, so he’d at least be happy!”

Mang Selyo nodded, then took a deep breath. “ That Isidora. She is doing a bad, bad thing.”

“With double-compensation!” This was from Attorney Cruz, sometime notary public as well as dealer in antiques (if he can't steal you an original, he'll have one made to order, just for you) and fake diplomas from Philippine top universities.

“She isn’t paying you protection money! “

“And she’s ruining our business!”

“You have to do something!”

He nodded, and said he would take care of it. That was his job, after all.

Crispin found Isidora's stall easily, right where they said it would be. The fortune teller was busy with a mark, er, customer: a young girl obviously alarmed at what she was hearing. He watched as she touched the customer’s shoulder in gentle concern, saying something that obviously comforted the poor victim. Er, customer.

They stood up, and the fortune teller went off to the side, putting an assortment of medallions, herbs and candles into a paper bag, which the relieved girl gratefully received, handing Isidora a bunch of purple one-hundred peso bills in exchange and thanking her profusely before leaving.

Isidora saw him and smiled. “ Would you like to know your future? ”

He shrugged. “Sure. How much?”

“Twenty bucks.” At least she didn’t charge more than the going rate.

She waved him closer, and he sat on the stool. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Basilio, “ he answered. “Although I would have thought you’d be able to guess it with your psychic powers.”

She laughed. “Such a kidder. Here. Cut the cards, please. Keep your questions clearly formed in your mind.”

He cut the cards, frowning, then waited while she spread the cards into the standard Celtic cross.

She turned over the first card. It was the Nine of Swords, right-side up. The figure on the card let out a loud yawn, and her eyes bulged in surprise. The figure yawned again. “ Better be careful what you say, you might get in trouble with this one.”

“Did you hear that?” she asked, alarmed.

“Hear what?”

“Never mind, “she said, turning the next card over.

The Hanged Man sang, “Lalalalala! “ She jumped back in surprise, just abit, but it was obvious she was getting spooked. The hanged man continued.” Better wise up, girl. You’re in way over your head. You’ve gone and pissed off all those mystics and witches and spellcasters in the area, and this area is under the protection of a veeerrrrrrry powerful force.”

She turned the third card over. The Page of Swords had a childish voice. “Nyanyanyah! Someone’s gonna get it! Someone’s gonna get it!”

“You’re taking a bit long, aren’t you?” Crispin asked, covering a grin with his hand as he noticed the beads of sweat forming on her three shades now paler face. “Okay. I’ve paid my twenty bucks. What do the cards say?”

“Hold on a minute, “she said stammering a little. “I…I just need to check something.

Crispin waited, watching as she turned over the next card. The Devil. Perfect. “ You’ve messed with my people! “ the Devil boomed. “Now you must pay! Bahahahahaha!”

She backed away in fear, but tripped, hitting the card table with her knee, sending the cards flying all over the place. She watched in horror as she saw the cards. Death. Justice. Judgement. The Magician. She threw her money at Crispin, put fingers in her ears, shouting. "Go! Please! Go away! Go!”

He pocketed the money, and left, whistling.

It was a happy old bunch that crowded in his dressing room the next night, bringing him gifts of flowers, vegetables, scarves and two live chickens. “ They’re a little old and maybe a bit tough, “ Mang Selyo explained, “But they’ll make the tastiest tinola if you boil them in ginger for half a day, with semi-ripe slices of papaya and pepper leaves. “

He smiled, thanking them, as he put on his cape and fake moustache. “She isn’t bothering you anymore, I take it?”

Aling Carmela beamed. “She’s gone, and business is good, as usual. “ They cleared a path for him when he stood up. “We should go now, so you can prepare for your performance. We don’t know how to thank you…”

Crispin shook his head. “It’s what you pay me for, “ he said, checking his fake moustache one last time as he heard the MC telling the audience to prepare to be astounded by Crispin the Great. Aling Carmela handed him the ventriloquist’s dummy he used for his act. “All in a day’s work, “ he made the dummy say. “Would you like to stay for the show?”

My dog used to be a commercial model.

But now that he's got a bum hip and gained weight, I think I'll teach him to write so he has another career to fall back on. :D

Taxi Ride.

You are the eldest son, they always said. You must have all. So you can study hard and get good job and get good life for all of us. You are the eldest son.

He had never needed to break their hearts before.

He had never been in a taxi before either. They were too expensive, and he had always been taught to be frugal. Besides, with the city traffic, it was always faster to walk, or take the train, or both.

And of course, there was the car.

The secondhand black Ford was a present for both his 18th birthday, and the fact that he was accepted to a “high-quality” school. His family had always been one for trying to make sure he was not behind his more well-off friends. “Only top-quality for the only son, “ they always said. “Only high-class American car.”

He felt a vague sense of regret having to sell the car, but he needed the money for the trip, and maybe living expenses if there was any left over. Still, he was a little sad as he remembered their proud faces when they presented him with the key.

They had made many sacrifices to buy it for him and he was grateful, promising to study hard, get a good job, and do his part in turn as a dutiful son to send the younger sisters to school.

And now he was going to have to break his promise.

He ran his fingers over the cracked door handle, picking at the shreds of what were the gummy remains of a sticker peeking out from below. In the rearview mirror, he could see the driver’s frown when he accidentally pulled the handle by mistake. “Good thing is locked, “ the cabbie said. “I turn here?"

He nodded, seeing the shiny fruit stacked neatly in their boxes in front of the familiar doorways. He felt his chest tighten as they neared his house. He’d drawn many different scenarios of many possibilities in his mind of the confrontation to follow, and was pretty sure he knew what would happen next. He was not looking forward to it.

Mother would cry, definitely. “Aiyoooh, my son, “she would wail. “Why you want leave your sick old mother like that, lah?” He could almost see her wrinkly face all scrunched up and wet with tears.

Father would be angry, that, he knew.

If he was lucky, the old man would shout at him, maybe slap him for his lack of filial dutifulness. That was if he was lucky. If not, Father would just look grim with disappointment, turn his back and walk away, never talking to him again.

He hoped it would be the former—that at least would give him the chance to explain. All he had to do was wait for the shouting to die down, and say his piece. Father and Mother were easy, he’d had practice. Besides, he knew that all he had to do was play up his heritage, explain that all he was doing was following in their footsteps. After all, weren’t they the brave adventurous couple who traveled all the way to a new country with nothing except a baby girl in their arms and another on the way? Didn’t they risk their all to go over the sea to a place they knew nothing about, not even the language?

I’m just following your example, he was planning to say. Except this time, it would just be an airplane ride of less than a day, instead of weeks at sea.

That there was a girl involved was a fact that would be drowned in the bull he was planning to lay on them.

They would be hurt, of course. Maybe even mad, but that would pass. He was the only son, and could be forgiven anything, as soon as he presented them with a grandchild, preferably male.

It was Ah-chie he dreaded facing.

She was the eldest child, his second mother, born with the misfortune of being female, and the responsibility of being the next head of the family, but without the privileges an eldest son may have had.

She never complained about it, however. “I am the eldest, “ she would always say. “It is my duty. You are the son, we waiting for you, ah, so long, very long time. You must study hard, and then get good job, and then help me so we can all have good life. Do not be like me! You must get good job and good life!”

She always laughed, even when her hands hurt from sewing, and cleaning and whatever jobs were available for her to take. He was eight when she announced that she was not going to college, and would instead work, so the others could go to school. High-class schools. Top quality.

She had never married, and when he asked about it, she would look far off, a wistful smile on her face. She had a boyfriend once, but the relationship never prospered. “Oh why do I need to get married? I do not need more children, there is you, and Cherry, and Rose, and Katie and Rose…”

“You already said Rose, Ah-chie, “ he would laugh.

“Oh, oh, I am old now. So very forgetful. Who did I forget?”

“Lisa!”

“Tch, Lisa. She is hardheaded! We give her away, and buy a cow, what do you think? More useful!” He would laugh at that, and she would ruffle his hair with her calloused hands and then shoo him away so she could work. “You study! Do not be like me! Study hard! And then get good job! And then you help me so we can have good life! “

"But I still think we should give Lisa away! ” he would laugh.

“Okay, we give Lisa away, lah! Go and study hard!”

His youngest sister Lisa was the one who told him that Ah-chie took a fourth job so he could go to college with his own car. She would look for it, he knew. They all would, but would look to her for cues on how to react.

That was what he was afraid of. “Why you want to go back?” she would ask. “Father, Mother, Ah-chie went away from the there! Why you want to go back?”

“Ah-chie, there’s this girl with the most amazing eyes…”

Could he tell her that, he wondered. Would she get angry? Would she be disappointed? If so, how badly? Would she regret giving up the man she almost married so she could raise him and his sisters?

There it was. Telling them he was leaving wasn’t what he dreaded, he realized. It was telling them that it was because of a girl. Would they understand?

The taxi lurched to a stop, and he turned to see Ah-chie on the stoop, playing with the neighbor’s grandchildren. She looked so happy with the babies, he thought. She should have been able to raise her own.

He was tempted to tell the driver to drive around the block once more, just so he could gather strength, but then he heard her voice. “Oh you must study hard!” she was telling a laughing little girl. “Oh, cannot be like me! Study hard and get good job and get good life! Happy life! “

He leaned back, took a deep breath, and reached into his pocket to pay the fare.

They said I needed to practice adjectives. So.

You are not here to play. You do not belong.

There is no music in your heart, no poetry in your soul. You have been told that often. You believe it now, and know it is true.

There is no beauty in your mind. It is unable to go through the twists and turns of labyrinthine passages with rose-covered walls ornamented in thorny verse that the poets here take.

Writing is a journey. But you are stuck in a land where it is best to be quick and direct: no straggling behind, no gallivanting about—no looking down or left or right-- it is how to avoid seeing the dead babies, the starving children and toothless crones that litter your way. You look straight ahead, walking as fast as you can, trying not to see the dried-up women barely in their teens, under the fallen arches of doorways in condemned buildings with peeling green paint, waiting for the rancid greasy old men who will decide who lives, who dies, who gets to eat another meal for the day.

You write quickly, without breathing; to pause will only cause you to inhale the acrid stench of old urine, causing your lungs to burn and your eyes to water, then you will have to stop, here, in this place you are in a hurry to leave.

It has been said that to seek the best prose, one must look no further than the asylum, and you are glad you are not part of that search. Your mind is not yet broken, the pieces of it are still held together by spit and duct tape, wrapped carefully in a yellowed handkerchief, and it will keep, if you hurry.

Hurry. Remember that it is not the best prose you seek, only the exit.

I will go-ness with you to the there!

Happy New Year, those of you lurking at WG.

"There are monsters there," you say. They are mean and cruel, and will eat you up, spit you out and laugh while they chew. You tell me you tried to go there earlier, and that was when I found you, running, crying, your ankle bleeding from where they clawed and bit..

You sit down on the rock beside me. I lend you a clean rag, and the water from my canteen to wash the blood away. "Stop crying, " I say. "It's shallow, it will heal. " I light a cigarette, waiting for you to stop your crying before I ask. "What do you want to do?"

"I need to go back. There is something there I need."

I wait as you take a deep breath, your voice quivering with the effort to be brave.

" I need it to live, to be who I am. To be what I can be."

I wait silently, smoking, waiting for you to finish.

"I need to go back." You close your eyes, looking as if you are about to cry, but you don't. " I need to go back."

"But?"

"I'm afraid. Aren't you?"

I smile, and put the cigarette out, and bury the stub under a stone. I close the canteen, strapping it back on my belt and stand, picking up the knapsack to carry on my back.

I walk toward the edge of the dark where you came from, and you run, catching up with me. "Can I come with you?"

I nod, so you go on, hope lighting up your face. " You will walk with me? You will hold my hand?"

I nod, holding out my hand for you to take. You grasp it happily, then ask the question I had known you would, but had hoped you would not. "Will you kill the monsters for me? Please? Will you?"

"I am sorry," I say sadly. "I cannot. " You look so sad, so crestfallen with disappointment, thatI smile, and give your hand a little squeeze. " But I will tell you a secret, if you like."

"A secret? What is it?"

" You shouldn't be afraid of the monsters, for they are more afraid of you. And I cannot kill them. I am sorry, " I sigh sadly. "Because once, I was one of those monsters too."

One never knows at whose hand a deer may die.

Crouching tigers and hidden dragons go slumming, smiling tolerantly as the wannabes pick fights all around them. The fastest gun alive in the west keeps his bar open and his mouth closed while the gun-toting drunks argue about which one is faster. And you? You are just dying to ask what the hell legends are doing in that place. So you do.

" Why in the name of all that's holy did you come here? You've got better things to do."

"Penance."

"You're not even Catholic."

"Atonement?" George Temple Jr. cleans the glass with a piece of chamois, and holds it up to the light to check for spots. He sets it down and pours you a drink from the almost empty bottle of soju he keeps for his favorite customers.

Li Mu Bai is eating ramen with Yu Shu Lien at the bar. He reaches over and absently adds soy sauce to her bowl. "Maybe in my next life, I will have made up for having used my skills and powers for evil."

"That sounds as good a reason as any. Except you're the one who's Catholic."

"Penance, then."

"I like the idea of karma, " You Shu Lien says as she spears a piece of sea urchin off her beloved's plate. "Maybe I'll be back as Anita Mui."

"Hate to break this to you, but she's dead."

"Damn. Oh well. Ramen's good. Eat up."

"It was? Really?"

"A little salty, but I'm not going to be drawing swords over that. "

At the next table, someone does, the wannabe brat who does have potential but just won't freaking listen to those who are old enough to know better, so she picks fights and steals stuff and runs away, becoming a general pain in the ass to those who are just trying to enjoy retirement in the presence of their previously unrequited loves.

Everyone dies, except brat and bartender.

But it's okay. It could have been worse.

Sam0126

"What's up?", the angel with one wing asked the hunched figure, drawing in dirt on the ground.

"There's a war, " came the answer. She scratched her head, then erased the drawing, looking up with a retarded goofy smile. "There's a war and I'm going, you wanna come with?"

He shrugged. He'd been locked away for so long after having fallen. Fallen, of course, was a polite way of saying it, he was kicked out, just because he knew he was prettier, smarter, stronger and sang a whole lot better than those newbies--what were they called again? Oh yeah, humans-- and made the mistake of saying that out loud to their maker. "Another war? Didn't we just come from one?"

"Oh, that was a thousand years ago. I've rested enough. You?"

He shrugged again, lighting a cigarette. "Been that long, huh? No wonder I'm bored. Yeah. Okay. Humans suck."

"Oh goody, " she clapped. Another retarded smile, and she got up, opening the gates. "Come. Now."

He blinked. The gates were unlocked. Had they always been unlocked? He shook his head. Nah. He followed her out into the lifeless desert.

Something was missing, though. Maybe she forgot again, he thought. Always been absent-minded, that one. Forget her head if it wasn't screwed on. He'd even had to fetch it for her a couple of times before. He tapped her on the shoulder. "Hang on. It's a war, right?"

She raised an eyebrow, making him feel as retarded as he always thought she was. "Y-e-e-e-e-s?"

" We're going to war, where's the sword?"

"Oh." She sighed, impatiently rolling up her eyes. "You're it."

Hyena

Did you hear that?

It is the sound of a glass breaking, but don't worry, we won't tell. You invited us here, we respect the invitation, and we will never bite unless you ask.

We will cover the sound of the glass breaking with the sound of laughter , because in the wee hours of the morning, the slightest clink can be heard in this graveyard of dreams and old gods, where, during daytime, ivory hunters and other scavengers roam fighting over the last remaining tusks and bones.


Did you hear that?

It is the sound of someone crying, but don't worry, better tears shed than blood, and we will pretend not to hear.

It is alright to cry, there is enough cigarette smoke to serve as an excuse. If that is not enough, we still have mirrors, although chances are, you will not see our reflections in the glass. And if that is still not enough, we will go out, find something and bring it back.

Did you hear that?

It is the skritch-skritch of a razor, as the were shaves, hair falling, revealing the face that smiles, and pretends to be human. His ears are not as sharp as ours, but he can smell the blood of wounded prey from far, far away.

We do not like them. Unlike our kind, they do not need invitations, or maybe just do not respect them.

They hunt only the weak , the walking wounded, the kind ready to shatter in a million pieces at a touch and toy with them, the weaker, the better,

They run sharp claws over the wounds lightly, just to hear your whimper of pain; and then once more again, this time harder, until the pain envelops you so completely, that you are unable to think clearly, and the only thing you hear is the sound of your voice begging for death, because that is the one thing you can muster up enough courage and strength for.

And so you ask, because you think he will be doing you a service, and are grateful, when the truth of the matter is that it is what he had been waiting for.

It is easier to kill someone who is on the verge of dying, and even easier to kill someone who holds up their neck to your teeth, heart in hand, waiting gratefully to be put out of their misery.

There is no honor in it, but while honor is everything to us, he has never cared much for that.

Our kind hunts in the bright of the new and full moon, but he hunts when the moon is at its darkest, when the goddess that protects your kind sleeps, with her face turned away. Or during the day, as scavengers do, while the rest of us sleep, especially our queen.

Did you hear that?

Most likely not. There is nothing to hear, no one is moving.

Yet.

But when the time comes, you will still not hear the flutter of wings, the sound of teeth against flesh, nor the gurgling of blood dripping on the floor.

You will perhaps hear us howling at the moon, but we will let you think it is just some joke about staff houses and such.

The moon is still dark, but a silver sliver is beginning to appear at its outermost edge, so we wait. We are good at waiting. We are hunters, after all.

Pour us a glass as we wait, little girl.

Red, this time.

Not white.

Red.

It will give me a headache that will be like the screaming of a million damned souls ringing in my ears, but that is alright, I am used to that by now. It is petty penance for what I do.

Pour us a glass as we wait.

Red.

Not white.

Jotei

The empress looks out on the empire.

It is large, stretching as far as the eye can see, and as far as the eye can see, it is a prosperous one.

She was never a commoner.

You know that, because diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies and topazes and pearls drop from her mouth when she speaks. They discovered that a while back, and so they locked her into a room, and made her a princess, and speak until her lips and tongue bled, because diamonds and sapphires and rubies and emeralds and sapphires have sharply cut edges, and can rip your lips and tongue and throat into shreds. (Pearls won't, and they make you whiter if you grind it up into a white powder and drink it, but those are made of mermaid's tears--but that's another story.)

For the good of the kingdom, they said. So she spoke and spoke until she couldn't stand it anymore. One day, when the sky was dark, and silver lightning struck the west wall, she ran away, off to a tower, in the middle of the kingdom, right in plain sight, close to the palace, but out of reach.

In the tower they found she could spin hair into gold. She liked spinning hair into gold and turning pig-faced farmers' daughters into princesses for balls, dressed in the gowns of gold and silver and starlight she made from coffee sacks . She could also turn overripe pumpkins into ballrooms, and she liked doing that too.

But the kingdom was in turmoil, and duty called, and princesses, being princesses, are able to turn a deaf ear to love, but never to duty.

So the empress, that time, left the tower, and went back to the little room, and spoke and spoke until her mouth and lips and tongue bled, dripping diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies and topazes and pearls.

She spun hair into gold and when the hair ran out, she spun straw and dry leaves and twigs and horses' tails instead. Once in a while she would turn a farmer's horse-faced daughter into a princess for a night, dressed in the gown of moonlight that used to be a potato sack before the sun went down. But mostly she spoke, until the kingdom was filled with the diamonds and such. (The pearls, she kept for herself, because they were mermaid's tears, and basically, because she could. If you grind them up into powder and drink it, it turns you white, but all this is another story. )

Anyway.

The empire is prosperous. It is large, stretching as far as the eye can see.

There is a speck at the farthest corner, which if you look closely, if, perhaps, you were a baker opening a shop in the early morning, or a country goosegirl feeding your flock by the roadside, and thus, only a few feet away, would recognize as the cloud of dust, made by the hooves of a horse galloping at full speed towards the castle.

The empress does not see this, of course. It is morning, time to go into the little room and speak, while diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies and topazes and pearls fall out of her mouth, all the things that a prosperous empire needs to maintain its borders.

It is her duty.

She is the empress, after all.

Somewhere, in another tower, in another kingdom, a dwarf she once found broken and bleeding by the side of the road and nursed back to health, and sent on his way with a loaf of bread, a slice of cheese and a story, takes out the ring with one wish left in it. He rubs it on his hat until it shines, until you can see the words written in dwarvish on the inside, and speaks the words, thinking of the empress and the fact that it is the empress's birthday.

Someday, your prince will come.