She tried to wash the blood from her hands — to erase any trace of guilt. After all, there’s really no need to be. A killing spree is always the perfect end for a perfect night. She dragged the lifeless body towards the bushes that covered the entire back of the cemetery. The act was tedious especially that she’s doing it singlehandedly and yet, her mind managed to drift. (Goodbye, bitch Tina. Serves you right for messing my life. Serves you right for acting such a slut.) So what if it’s two in the morning? Nobody ever cared if she went home late — or if she never went home again. Her parents? Maybe they never remembered that they had a daughter. She was always alone from the very start. After all, she’s Angela, the angel that everyone forgot. She stopped in her tracks, deciding to rest for a minute to regain her lost energy. And she remembered  the corpse, the body that only ceased to plead for mercy when it drew its last breath — that was the body of the girl who destroyed her, who took Brian away. (But after this, there would be no more sleepless nights for me, I’d go to Brian’s pad and he would f*** me just like before, he would f*** me like he never knew you, he would f*** me, and I’d be happy). The thought of Brian’s body on top of her excited Angela, and she hurried to dispose the corpse. A few hours from now, she would be lying naked in bed; Brian licking her tits and she, enjoying the musky taste of his organ. That was what she always wanted, to have someone to be with her, to care for her — be it only a game of pretense or not. She may only be sixteen but she’s not too young to let others hurt her. Why make herself cry for nights when she can enjoy the smell of fresh blood in her hands? Why wait for Brian to go back to her when she can get him back? After all, she’s sixteen — there’s too little time to waste.

[Reader-response Theory: In my flashfiction, it is really up to the readers on how they draw their conclusions on the character of Angela. Others may react negatively to her actions and think that she is too naive or that she's crazy; others may take pity on her and understand her situation; or they can say that she reacts to things in a wrong way and that she destroys her life. It really depends on the response and ideologies of the readers towards the issue.]

when father heads for the

rice fields and mother washes

by the riverbank;

I stay by the window of

our hut — thinking

about the waves splashing by

the shore;

the slender coconut trees

swaying with the

breeze;

the carabaos bathing in

the “putikan”…

and I smile and think again —

how I love this

country…

yet, when they came,

each morning becomes a nightmare;

like I was still asleep…

father no longer heads for the

rice fields (he is dead);

mother no longer washes

by the riverbank

(she can’t even wash her tears);

and I no longer stay by the window

of our hut to think

about how I love

this country —

I only think of the “prayles”

and the other “kastilas”…

and how they took

away the happiness

that we could be

having each

morning…

[Postcolonialism: The narrative poem is told in the view of a child recounting the events that had changed in their lives as a result of the colonization of other countries in the Philippines.]

(If Uncle Tom is real — and if he had a journal adressed to his author…)

Quite a lot of things had taken place in my life since you started scribbling on the pages of your drafts and I never really expected that I would come to exist; that I would be known by many. But to be entirely honest, living in the pages of your novel is too tough a job for an old man like me, especially when you decided to put me in the hands of Simon Legree. Why do you have to separate me from the St. Clares? I love little Eva you know — why did she have to die?

Why do I have to live in the character of an old man? Uncle Tom? Why couldn’t I just be Tommy? If I were to choose for myself, I would be a lot happier if I were a handsome, young man in a heartwarming love story. I just don’t like to be a slave, I just don’t like to be seen as an opressed individual, I just don’t like to die in the later chapters. But I heard that you had your own intention in making me suffer such an unfortunate fate. Is it really true that you wrote about me as a response to the 1850 passage of the second Fugitive Act? Well, one of the books stashed in your room told me so, saying that you really wanted to make the society realize how destructive slavery is. If that is really the case, I support you fully — slaves in your world must be having such a hard time.

This morning, I received another beating from my master because I refused to whip my fellow slave. He is too cruel to us — treating us like mere objects and not as human beings. Are the rich people in your society like that too?

(the journal entry is unfinished — the author was ordered to be killed by his master…)

[Marxism: Marxist literary criticism has traditionally been concerned with studying the embeddedness of a work within its historical, social, and economic contexts. I decided to make use of Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel "Uncle Tom's Cabin" to show how a literary piece can reflect certain issues dominant in an era.]

He cowered at the darkest corner of the prison cell, not wanting to expose himself to the other inmates. It was already his second week in jail and yet, his surroundings still seemed too new to his senses. The quarters smelled badly of sweat from unwashed bodies mixed with the stench of urine. He thought of Marie, his Marie; and how entirely different her world is from the place where he now belonged. Tonight, she would be sitting on the couch again, alone — leaving the lights on until morning, waiting for him as always. The mere thought hurt him, making him want to cry. There he was, cramped in a little room with forty other criminals and sentenced to death in less than ten hours. Such a short time to be thinking of things that would not really matter when he died and yet, he thought again and again of his name, Peter Paul. Two apostles in one, how he loved it, how Marie loved it, how he loved Marie… but it was just ironic. He was Peter Paul but there seems to be no place in heaven for him.

Five minutes after nine — the young man knew that it was the last time he would be able to check his watch. As a couple of policemen led him to his end, he cried for the last time. How he loved Marie how Marie loved him how he would leave her how he would die without seeing her how…

Before his eyes closed, he remembered Marie’s birthday. Today? His beloved would be adding another candle to her cake — and he would not be living for another minute to see her smile.

[Structuralism: The study of narratives is one of the successes of structuralism and they are seen as fundamental aspects of human life. A social being is constructed through narratives and binary oppositions arise through individuals serving as "actants". In my flashfiction, the characters are defined through their participation in a sphere of actions (though the events are somehow vague, we see that the protagonist is a criminal) and I also integrated a number of binary oppositions in the narrative.] 

I remember —

it was a night as dark and chilly

as this;

and I was walking down an alley

humming an unfamiliar piece…

I remember —

the three friends I’ve never

met before;

and how I started to shiver

when one of them headed for a door.

said he wanted to f*** the first person

he sees;

how the other mumbled a reason

about “society”, “right thing”, and “peace”;

and how the third one

suggested many exciting things…

to comfort the horny man,

to make him forget his sexual flings.

I remember —

how I went along

with the three;

how we sang the longest song

before starting our drinking spree…

and how my new friends began laughing

when I stood up like I’m sober;

next thing I knew, I was puking;

it was funny — I laughed over and over.

how could I be drunk when

we had not even started?

the bottles are not yet open

yet my head felt already wounded…

After that.

well, I remember no more —

except that I lay in my mat

trying to recall the dream I had the night before…

[Psychoanalytic Criticism: I took only a part of psychoanalytic criticism (which is Freudian Psychoanalysis) and integrated a few concepts into the poem --- Freud's accounts of the structures and processes in the mind (id, ego, and super-ego) are represented by the persona's three friends; the poem is actually a recollection of a dream and I made it that way so as to describe how psychoanalysis can be applied to literature. In a dream, events can be arranged in any order (like being drunk even before taking a bottle of beer) and there are sudden shifts from one episode to another. Dreams have no exact chronology but the episodes can be interpreted and connected with the dreamer's real-life experiences. In the study of literature, critics can look for recurring imagery and patterns in a writer's work and draw conclusions about what they say about the author --- just like how analysts interpret dreams.]

choose an ordinary object and turn it into a human being… what would the attributes of the object be like if it were a person?
pass the character sketch that you developed…
(teacher: folding those pieces of papers… me: watching anxiously…)
now, pick a piece and weave the character sketch of your classmate into a story…
(me: groan… sigh… )

glass? and we were given only half an hour to develop our flashfic… ugh… but i can’t think when i’m under pressure… sheesh… what was that again? the main character has to go on a journey? okayyy…

so there i was — racking my brains and forcing it to come up with at least something unique… cramming, cramming… but then, i was a bit delighted to find myself scribbling… so the protagonist takes a journey huh? the first thing that entered my mind was a particular area on a countryside… top of the hill, a quaint little barrio nestled just below it, twilight… nyahaha… the setting was perhaps too romantic… oh well… i just continued…

plot: the main character is an attractive young lady — looks spirited and daring but really has a pretentious streak… okay, she’s exactly the opposite of the person she portrays (as the character sketch says)… goes to her late grandfather’s hometown to look for stars — literally… wanted to show the old man that his advices were mere words and mere lies…

“see the sky at night? notice how the darkness seems to stretch endlessly into the horizon? so what? there will always be shimmering specks of light up there — as infinite as the black sky… those stars somehow tells us that even if we grapple into the darkest abyss, there will always be a glimmer of light… a spark of hope…”

that was always what the old man would say to the main character when he was still alive… (nyahaha… i really wanted to incorporate this but ma’am muttered something that sounds like “moral lesson should not be told… corny effect…”)

to cut the story short, after a series of events, it turned out that the main character’s grampy was right all along… the end… bow…

so that was basically it… question is, why did i come to write that sort of flash fiction? (pauses and thinks) well, perhaps it reflects my choice of readings… not that i’m really into cheesy, mushy, corny, sentimental things but uhm, well, one thing i’ve noticed about my works is that even before i developed this interest in writing, i would always prefer reading love stories? nyahaha… but hmp, i also based my plot on the character sketch… so it’s not really my choice at the first place (so defensive)… okayyy… truth is, i felt that it would be good if i turn the sketch into a love story — yeah, it might be so cliche but i had to present some sort of events that would make the protagonist realize that there would always be hope… so i made it look like this: she had this kind of sickness which made her so fragile — this is actually funny… nyahaha… i could not really think of a good reason on why the character pretends to be so carefree when she is just so weak… so i thought… and thought… and thought… then an idea struck me… why am i racking my brains at the first place when i should be resting and having a nap? you see, i was just so sick that day — had fever and joint aches… yeah! the character must be sick and due to past experiences wherein she was always left out and had no friends, she learned to live a life of deceit… nyahaha… my fever somehow managed to help…

since she was such a pessimist, she depended on her grandfather’s advices… but she soon realized — or so she thought, that the old man’s aphorisms on hope were not always true… blah blah blah… but when she met a young man (nyahaha… mushy stuff), she started to believe again… whew…

yeah… i’m a hopeless romantic writer (dili lagi sa gusto jud nako ang love stories… i can write horror and thrillers pud uy…) hai… how can i explain? well, you know the saying right? people always have this tendency of incorporating their tastes and opinions in their writing…

so that was how “fragile glasses and starless nights” came to be…

… so what about BAE? what’s wrong with being a creative writing student? it’s almost a year now after i’ve shifted from comsci and i still didn’t come to that phase of regretting what i’ve decided to do — perhaps, i never will… writing had always been something i could turn to each time i feel down or bored to death or wax poetic. for someone who doesn’t really have the guts to express their thoughts verbally (me, for instance), writing can be very comforting. yeah… it’s really nice to know that with just a pen and paper — or a computer, i can vent out all my frustrations and everything…

… so maybe it’s really right that i chose to write…

Just like what I used to do every ordinary night, here I am again — taking slow paces towards my final destination… the 49th house on Buttercup Street. No matter how tedious my day at the university had been or how many barbecues and lemon squares I had eaten during all those foodie sessions with my boyfriend, the story always has the same ending: me going to the direction illuminated by an orange light post — and tonight is not an exemption. Other people would normally love the idea of finally going home after such a long day but I often wish that the sun would not give way to the moon. I never want to go home…

I finally arrived at this particular house on Buttercup Street and as always, closing the red gate was such a difficult task. It meant that I am now in my dreaded place, away from the world that I never wanted to leave. As always, the sight was totally unwelcoming… Like every ordinary night, all the lights are turned off and if not for the flickering light from the television, any stranger would easily mistake the place as desolate. “Home again,” I sighed.

Grandpa is on the sofa again, totally immersed in his favorite basketball show. My aunts are in their bedroom again, equally immersed in their favorite TV sitcoms… They don’t even notice me coming back from school. As I entered my bedroom and switched the light on, I could see grandma sitting on the lower deck of the bed, glaring at me… again. “Why do you always come home late?”… “Turn off that light! You’re not the one paying the bills!”… “How long do you plan to stay here? How many times do I have to tell you to go away?”… It was always the same — nothing has changed. I can’t exactly figure out why but grandma was always so selfish, so wicked. We’re not really a family — we just happened to be related by blood.

Almost 200 kilometers away from here, the scene would have been entirely different and I would have had a different perception of going home…

“Really? A playhouse? A permanent one? Father’s going to build it?” my eight-year-old self couldn’t stop my mouth from throwing all those questions. It was one of those times when my eyes would glitter with a different kind of excitement. “Yes and you’ll be helping me put up the curtains as soon as it’s finished, okay?” came my mother’s reply. I could only nod in delight as I already started to imagine what I’ll be doing with the playhouse.

It was such a nice house — with bamboo flooring, wood slabs for walls and a “nipa” roof. Father even put a sink just so it would look like a real house and it was spacious. It was even more wonderful after all the curtains that mother had sewn were put up. Most of the time, me and the other kids would spend our afternoons there. I’d bring all my stuffed toys and a couple of pillows and there would be lots of partying. On weekends, my mother would even take time to stop doing her laundry just to prepare some snacks and there would be bread and orange juice in replacement of our usual fare which consisted of “santan” petals and leaves.

At other times, when I’m totally hooked up on the TV screen, my two younger brothers and the neighborhood boys would play soldiers and the playhouse would serve as their headquarters with all my stuffed toys as hostages. Then, on certain occasions, when our place is experiencing blackout, mother would gather the three of us to the playhouse where she would share all those scary stories — from grandpa’s encounters with the unknown to urban legends to pure fiction. Later, my brothers would be obliged to accompany me either to the comfort room or bedroom and father would occasionally grumble, “Tsk tsk… You always ask your mother for those stories and now you can’t even pee alone.” Mother would just chuckle and sometimes, she would sneak outside the house while covered in a blanket and stand outside the window. Then, me and the “brave” boys would end up screaming and scrambling in all directions until I end up crying. Father would then fold his arms across his chest and cast my mother that “I-told-you-not-to-scare-them-to-death” look. During those times, I’d be mad at her and pretend to resist each time she tried to hug me but mother would always find ways to make my anger fade away — tickling sessions and an extra allowance would be equally effective.

But as days turned into months and months into years, the playhouse became less and less visited. I became preoccupied with all those school stuff and so were my playmates. All those parties and storytelling sessions just seemed to be long-forgotten dreams — until the playhouse eventually fell into ruins. “You don’t understand! It’s our Music project and I just have to be there. You’re angry because it’s so late? It’s also your fault — you keep calling me and you don’t know that there are feedbacks on the sound system,” I managed to utter between sobs. It was the 1st time I learned to answer back. “It’s dangerous out there… We were worried. You’re a girl and something bad could happen to you…” But I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t understand them — I couldn’t understand my mother.

That was many moons ago and I’ve finally grown up. Now, as I lie in bed trying to fall asleep despite grandma’s tongue-lashing, I couldn’t help missing that woman who never really ceased to care though she was often misunderstood and taken for granted. She was very much different from this other woman in the lower deck — as if they were made of entirely opposite materials.

I am yet to be a mother but I’m quite sure that I’ll be following the steps of the woman living almost 200 kilometers away from here — and my future home would be anything except this house on Buttercup Street.

… uh oh… it’s raining cats and dogs outside — well, it’s not surprising though considering the fact that the weather had not been very good lately… so, mr. sunshine’s out… that’s why i’m close to having a frostbite here… yeah… the aircon’s very near me and well, am i exaggerating if i say that i’m shivering to death?

… ugh… rainy days… well, i sort of loathe this kind of weather (i think all students here do) since well, transportation is just so hard — and very much dangerous too… okay… am i pouring all my sentiments on this page? maybe yes… well, i’m not a rich kid so i have to ride an HH to and from school… and duh, you know it — if you’re studying here… the roads are so damn slippery that moving just a little bit while riding the HH can result to some serious trouble… and well, i’ve experienced riding the said vehicle in the middle of a heavy downpour and i ended up going to class as if i just took a bath with clothes on and then forgot to remove them… yeah… that’s the trouble here in UP…

… 2nd… if there’s rain, then there’s mud — lots of filthy mud… i was hiking to HKC yesterday afternoon just after the rain for my soccer, er, football class… trivia: the term soccer is used only in the US… or is it the opposite? well, back to the point — if there’s any… i can just be considered lucky since i was wearing jelly sandals and not some kind of chucks, ballet flats or worse, high heels… yeah… why? it’s really muddy and me and my classmates have to walk in the water… it’s cleaner though compared to floods in the downtown area… but then, again, it’s mud and it can still make you sigh and say, “hai… ba’t ba ganito ang UP? buti pa ang ADDU…” nyahaha…

… and what more? well, if you’re on your way to mintal and it’s raining cats and dogs, it’s not surprising that the river will overflow… so it’s either you take the risk of soaking wet or you choose to get stranded… but if you’re just super lucky, you can ride the jeep or multicab (which are always full) and be dry and comfy…

… and then, hmm… i absolutely hate the rain when we’re in the middle of the discussion since well, i always want to go to dreamland… i think everybody else does… isn’t it nice to get some zzz’s during this kind of weather? so that’s it… if i’m in school (or anywhere outside the house), i abhor the rain… but then, if i’m at home, well… i just so love it… you know why… i’m a sleepyhead…

… i’ve always assumed that i’m a bookworm — until i entered college, i guess… well, during my childhood days, i was one of the few youngsters who used to kill time by poring over stacks of books in the library instead of playing with my classmates… hmm… one of my early favorites were elizabeth and jessica wakefield (yeah, the sweet valley twins)… i like reading francine pascal since it’s actually really cute… i feel like i’m growing with the wakefield sisters… from sweet valley twins, i immersed myself in sweet valley high and yeah, you got it — sweet valley university…

there was also that phase when i was just so engrossed with horror stories — which is actually funny if you think about it… how in the world would i come to like the supernatural when i’m such a scaredy cat who can’t even go to the bathroom alone after watching (or reading) scary tales? R.L. stein’s stories were such a big hit for me along with the “goosebumps” and “are you afraid of the dark?” series (though they aren’t as spooky as i expected) and what else? yeah, i also liked edgar allan poe’s “the cask of amontillado” and “tales of mystery and terror”… his stories really display that aura of darkness which i assume is probably because of his experiences… trivia: the three most important women in his life died of the same disease… i just forgot if it’s the so-called romantic disease (you know, tuberculosis) or what…

so that was basically it… i thought i loved books… i’ve read lots and lots of them… from fairy tales to apple paperpacks to english and tagalog novels to harry potter… but now, it seems that i’ve just lost interest in reading… yeah… my bookworm days are over — i’m now called a photocopyworm… nyahaha… but seriously speaking, i’m really on the stage where i want to evade all of those “mandatory” readings as possible… come to think of it, i (well, not just me) have to read those lengthy and bulky photocopies in all my major subjects and they’re just so tiring… yeah… and i spend a lot of bucks on those photocopies… but duh, isn’t it a creative writing student’s job? and why did i choose this course in the first place if i don’t want to read? yes, i know… but i still have a hard time convincing myself that words are better than algebraic equations and all those algorithms… pathetic me… i guess i just have to read, read, and read some more… “sayang ang kwarta…” haha… but hey, i’m just lazy… yeah… maybe that’s it… i’m just super lazy that i often forget why i’m in BAE… of course, all those readings aren’t crap… i learn lots from them and perhaps, they might teach me the secret formula to being the next J.K. rowling and be wealthier than the queen of england… wahaha… so in that case, the bucks i spend and all my so-called sacrifices will eventually pay off… yey!

why am i writing this entry again? well… because i have nothing to do? nyahaha… that’s why i don’t make sense…