The Sebastian Lumawig Series: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

There was that familiar stillness in the room.  That stillness, which only she can recognize; no sound except that monotonous mutiny of the computer to that poised room, and that muffled traffic sound which had successfully infiltrated the thick walls of that old building. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and her boss had left the workplace before he even started the day work. It was, after all, his employer’s day of golf. Or maybe not, his face is painted with an irritating grin when he left her. "He is here again.." she remembered him whispering such a couple of times. 

She clicked at the save button and slumped her upper body against the office chair. She is 27 years old, but she looked older. Working for twelve hours a day and six days a week had evidently taken its toll on her. She decided to watch Youtube videos while his boss is away. She immediately clicked on a link of a video, and she smiled after watching minutes of it: "Wow, a baby answering math problems!" he thought. Then she clicked at the link of amazing video of a furry cat. "When the cat is away..." she sighed.

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Atty. Jansen Michael Madrigal, M.D. MA, MS, Ph.D, and what have you, left his office early to meet who he thought would unlock the mystery of the world. He's jittery, cold, and struggling for air. This kind of excitement only happened twice in his life; first when he found out that he is finally going to be a father, and second, when he topped the country's bar examinations. The anticipation for something big and his heightened sensibility for such has guided all his life decisions. He is up to something and he knew it. He played with his chin as he recalled the summer of 1999 when he first met the highlander star kid. Psychologist JM Madrigal then, took the entire day for an sixth-grader who claims to be living a second life, his father dead-worried looked tired and gray to look forty.

"When did he start the...hmmm...claims..of having lived another life?

"Ahh...since he was about four or five....but, he would dismiss it himself and pretend that he just said some non-sense...when he grew older..it became...uhmmm....worse.." The father looked at his son intently obviously struggling to hold his floodgates.

"Doctor.." The child interrupted. "It maybe hard to believe, but it is true. I felt that I have..had...another life. As I grow older, I remember memories from my past life...or lives."

" How is that?" Dr. Madrigal patiently asked while mentally constructing a diagnosis to tell this child's dad. After all, a child can make up incredible stories to cope up with existing realities. Is the child being physically abused? Being bullied? He unconsciously searched for suspicious marks to no avail.

"You do not believe me...Just like everyone else...you may think I am crazy, but it is true. There were studies of it I swear: Earlier this year's work of Tom Shroder, or the many US journals releases of the years second quarter...Or do you believe in any religion sir? Most of it mentions reincarnation and transmigration. Do you believe in that sir?

Dr. Madrigal was extremely amazed by the child's manner of expression. As if he was an adult encased in a twelve-year old's body. This was a first for him.

(under construction :)

The Sebastian Lumawig Series: "Old Soul" (Chapter 1)

I just lost my manuscript of 17 chapters (my months of labor and research). This chapter, which I sent to my own e-mail, is the only piece of it that I managed to retrieve. This is a reminder of the impermanence of things in this world. So, before things will get lost again, I decided to share it. Enjoy a piece of my novel. :)
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Sebastian Lumawig Series: "Old Soul"

Chapter 1

In seat 27, the cloud of existential ponderings caught the reflections in the glass window again. Slowly, those thoughts were drowned away as the bus passes by along the thirty-sixth streetlight. Another village just faded away.

An hour ago, he had deliberately walked along Session Road after stopping the meters at Maharlika Livelihood Complex. His bus won’t be ready until 1 a.m., that’s why he decided to walk.

The city rarely sleeps. The dark blanket cannot hide that buzzing energy of a constantly growing city – the night market thrives, and the drunks populate the sidewalks. How he missed that life.

In college, they ruled Assumption Road as young, confused, and highly intoxicated teens…too much energy, but nowhere to put it into. Until, they realized that they are really at the brink of wasting away their lives. Perhaps, the sin of most of the youth was their delusion that they are living the rock and roll life. The laid-back culture, born from television shows and internet fads has taught them credulous young generation to experience the high of this material world without any remorse. There is really no doubt about it: ‘Everyone wants to be a Rock star.’

He was 16 when he had his first taste of gin.  At first, he did it to impress some friends, but finally ended up using it to run away. Drinking is indeed an escape to another world – free from the agony of life’s pains, frustrations and disappointments…the tiring norm of life and the stress of everyday. And although it is not surprising at all that most of us would rather be intoxicated than to face the realities of life - the corrupted world, the angry parents, the strict teachers, the broken love life, or even the irritating neighbor -  Sebastian, or “Basty” as he was often called, escaped not away from the world, but from himself.

*****

The middle-aged passenger of Seat 34 had covered his face with a towel. An air-conditioned bus in a cold city is apparently the trend. But it is a six hour trip, and after a few more swerves down, the moist in the windows will dry up as the temperature rises.

Little by little, he started doing a better job in learning a balancing crash course. Rarely can one catch a nap under such circumstance. It is a feat that he had planned to achieve before the first bus stop. But the fates, may have had a different plan – to bury him into useless contemplation of his yesterdays.

******

In November 2, 1997, MENSA International, an organization which records geniuses, confirmed an unusual growing number of child geniuses in the last decade. World media was able to reveal startling discoveries of a number of child-prodigies and highly intelligent and exceptional children; of two-year olds reading adult books, of four-year olds speaking twelve different languages or playing the most complex musical scores, of six-year olds offering philosophical counter-proposition against the ideas of established thinkers, or re-structuring formulas of math and physics, of eight-year old inventors, and of teen-agers writing excellent novels which, supposedly, only a man of age, experience, and great wisdom can achieve.

Because such unusual occurrence has inspired the usual religious hysteria that the end of the world is near…again, or that those innocent kids are allegedly sent by the devil, Dr. Shan D. Parker, the President of the organization, obviously not amused, embarked on a research that is intended to settle the minds of the paranoid religious figures of the different continents. After three years of research, the team concluded that the phenomenon is likely a result of the information explosion of the new age. Of course, many did not believe this. Dr. Parker himself doubted this. But the world must move on.

Towards the hyped-millennium, it did not take long for the world to forget this happening. There is so much cheap news; Hollywood and local gossips, political scandals, and day to day BS for most people to take account of it, nor inquire further about it. Besides, ‘this’ will not affect their lives.

In 2007, an intriguing old video from February 7, 1989 surfaced from Youtube, the video sharing website. It featured a toothless baby, about seven months or less, with a couple of adults who are presumably his parents.

In the video, it started with the man, perhaps his father, interrogating his endearing son.

“ Basti, are you okay?”

“Mam mam mam”, the baby replied.

“Okay, Basti. I’m going to ask you questions and you will answer “Daa” if yes, and “Hoo” if no, ok? I repeat “Daa” if yes, and “Hoo” if no…okay?”

“Daa!” shouted the baby to the laughter of the couple. The woman took the teether away from the infants grip. The baby understood that playtime is over.

“Basti…am I your father?”

“Daa!”

“Am I Handsome?”

“Hooooo!” the baby giggled at his own answer, and the adults laughed harder.

“ Okay Basti, this is more challenging…” The male adult pointed at the wall clock and asked, “ Is it 7 o’clock?” The parent rolled his realizing that he asked a dumb question..

“Hoo!....Da-da-da-da-da-daaa!”

“What?” The father looked comical than surprised. The clock shows that it is six o’clock.

“Da-da-da-da- da-daaa!”

The color of the adults’ faces  were immediately  drained. Six “das” may not be a coincidence.

“Basti… one plus one?” The woman quickly experimented.

“Da-da”

“Two plus one?”

“Da---da---da..” the baby almost sneered.

“Three plus two?”

“Da-da-da-da—daaa!” The baby victoriously stood in his walker.

“Basti….how many is One hundred divided by fifty?”

“Da—daa” the baby raised his two-fingers resembling a peace sign.

The astonished adults continued and the baby proceeded to give amazingly perfect answers. The video went on for fifteen minutes, and it soon became an internet hit, gaining millions of views from internet users around the world. And although a few skeptics have challenged the authenticity of the act, the video inspired other exceptional baby videos to be uploaded and soon, the 1997 MENSA report was resurrected. The traditional and the new media went crazier. (The end of the world is really near!)

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The scent of the lowlands is undeniably inviting. The red bus parked at the gas station near a restaurant – the first bus stop is at La Union. The area was dusty, old, and the smother of rust in the structures had only enhanced the eerie feeling of being transported into an older time - without a calendar, it would feel like the nineties. But, the big lighted “V” and that, zen-architecture design of the comfort rooms can pull one back to the present world. Who puts black stones below the sink for design and art?

But he loved that feeling. It is simply ‘familiar’ to him. Maybe he can retire here somewhere along a good beach and spend his last years laying in a hammock with a young wife who will enjoy the properties he will ultimately leave after he dies. Life is wickedly predictable and boring.

He unhurriedly pulled out his wallet and examined its remaining bills. ‘Five hundred peso bus ticket, a hundred for the taxi cab, a hundred for Jolibee….’, he accounted for everything in his head and realized that he must have spent five hundred last night at the G-string bar for a beer. He may have even told the waiter to keep his change.

At twenty seven, he only has about P 32,000 in his ATM account. No savings, no car, no wife, and no direction. If his father is alive, he would have desired to go back to his death bed at such pathetic sight. But, he treasured the moments with his father more than he would consciously admit. One of those moments was his first bus ride with his father in 1999 when he was 12 years old. It will always be the greatest adventure in his life.

But, he knew in him that his father is only one of his 'fathers'. At least his dad is the only one he remembers. He knew that...even when no one believes in him.

"An old soul...that expression, because we knew, we feel..that deep inside of us that we have 'jumped',...traveled….From decades, even centuries. I recognize things, and try to remember...I tell myself that 'its as if I've have seen things before, that they are familiar..that I was here a long time ago..', that scary sense of familiarity...because I knew!"  ” He cried telling these to his parents when he was younger, but they just smiled. “Your bad dreams will soon  go away…” they said kissing his forehead.

He really wished that all of it will go away. He had fried his brains many times to do it. But he later discovered that all the memories lost in infancy (which only a few special people can recover) is sadly, only a tiny portion of what he acquires everyday. 

Who knows? Who dares to? The world leaves questions and gives no clue.

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"Squatter"

He counted the men with powerful tools and concluded that they are almost as many as the thirty armed uniforms that came to assist them. The resonance of the beating and piercing instruments reminded him of the same sight five years ago – when ‘they’ demolished his make-shift home upon the court's order. The scars on his head are still throbbing.

His home is similar to the first house they beat with their metal claws; tearing the tin roof apart, kicking the wooden frames, flaking all the tin sheets which served as its cheap wall. In exactly five minutes, they’re done with it. A man with a plastic crown pointed towards his direction and for a moment he frost.

“Ket kasanu? Inya ngay garud ket saan yu nga kanya daytoy lote? Apay Ada TRO yu….?” they approached his home.

He didn’t really understood what TRO is, but, the sight of the gang with big metal tools clearly scared him. He understood that he has to go. “Sir, mabalin nga iparwar tayu pay dagitoy usar ko?”, he can only plead. The engineer batted his eye, he knew that the guy with a plastic crown hated his job. This job.

After pulling out his things, he reminisce the places where he found the bed sheets, the old plastic chair, the frying pan…even that old calendar with a pretty woman. He had felt joy on each event he picked those things because he can add them to his little kingdom. He was, after all,  born poor and had lived with his mother before she died. He didn't have a family since then. He came to the city years ago and managed to survive by doing any work that requires physical labor...it is the only thing that he can offer - his arms, his shoulder, his hips, his legs. These, he knew, won't last for a very long time.

The gang members with metal tools were laughing. It has something to do with one of them who joked about “squatters”. He is familiar with the term because he had heard it often, and have learned to shun it. However, he couldn't understand why one can laugh even on the sight of a grieving person. He only needed less than ten square meters for his life – a place to stay, a place to hide against the sun,  the chill, the rain. 

He heard that the owner already has a lot of houses. He only prayed for a box which he can run to. He wandered away and wept.

He asked God why some people have everything, and some have none; like his existence, his dirt-like existence. 

Blues of June (Fiction)

It was in the rainy evening of June. He parked his car beside the gasoline station not too far away from the bar where he consumed his fifth beer. He turned the engine off but decided to keep the stereo on – he needed the DJ’s voice, at least the rare hit on good jokes to kill the boredom. After damaging his car in five identical occasions, he had learned to always give himself a few minutes to sober up before going home. The rain and that non-cooperating shield-wiper convinced him all the more that he needed every ounce of alertness to survive the road. At least, just for that night.

The DJ started to dedicate a love song; somehow, she was already finished with her last caller. “Another Chicago song”, he thought on the few opening notes he recognized from high school. He was not aware that he was smiling on the thought of it. Those memories of his high school life had succeeded in tempting him into playing with them again – it was already almost twenty years ago. He saw flashbacks of his few friends, his teachers, some events, and of course, the memorable people with it. They were good memories – the recurring image of his awkward self with a guitar, his club activities, his classmates, his stressed teachers…and of course, Myra.

 That thought of her almost drained the alcohol inside of him. He needed another drink, but he decided against it – it was still Tuesday, and he has yet to complete three designs for a client. At 33, he was a junior architect for ECO-house designs, a young company which specializes in ‘green-designing’. He was not sure if there is a bright future with it, but he was contented – he will own his little home after twelve years of salary deductions, and perhaps start saving for his old Pajero’s replacement. He remembered that his boss will have his chemotherapy next month, and the thought of a possible retirement that will advance his career made him feel guilty – ‘a man’s loss, will always be another man’s gain’. He sighed - again, the stress of it made him thought that high school will always be one of the best parts of his life.

The song switched to another ballad after another love quote from DJ Hillary Johnson - the best Side A classic, and he smiled. Old songs, bring back old memories indeed. He was ready to sing along with it.

“There are times, when I just want to look at your face, with the stars in the night…there are times, when I just want to feel your embrace, in the cold night…I just can’t believe that you are mine now…You were just a dream that I once know..I never thought I would -” he paused to check his phone, and continued,  “ …anything in this world, you’re all I need to be with forevermore..”

Slowly, he deliberately relived the memories of the first woman he truly loved. Myra was his classmate in high school, although she was first stricken by her endearing laugh in his first year. She was his team mate in scrabble, where he intentionally delayed their games just to spend more time with her. From there, a certain kind of friendship blossomed – he started a routine of visiting her in her mother’s clothing-store for years. She was the first girl whom he had truly loved. Too bad, Myra only considered him as a friend. Friend-zoned, you can say. She was the first girl to have given him the drowning feeling of hurt, of pain.

This event in his life changed him. His fear of the same kind of rejection forced him to reinvent himself; changing his awkward appearance with the cooperative stage of puberty and maturity, and developing an image that was easily acceptable for his new friends.  Eventually, he became the playboy he abhorred in highschool. A disguise he made to project desirability, or perhaps for Myra to notice him.

They met again in college and they dated. He guessed that somehow, his transformation helped. As young hearts then were easily swayed with doubts, they did not become an official couple until after they graduated from college. It was easy and difficult at the same time. Easy, because they have known each other since highschool. Difficult, because both are convinced that they are entitled to new things in their lives. More difficult for him because Myra was his first love, actually his only love.

Eventually, Myra went abroad leaving him the promise that if they are meant to be together, then they will always end up in each other’s arms – yes, that overly-used quote again. For a couple of years he submerged himself with work. It is the only way to make him forget that he actually misses someone. It did not take any longer for him to receive the news that she is already back in the country.

It was unbelievable for him when they spent many days together again. He thought of proposing to her after he will earn some money, perhaps in a year or two. Yes, he actually thought of marriage – she will be 26 or 27 when that will happen, which is perfect for her expectations. It was that easy for him to imagine, until Myra told him about ‘it’. She told him of what happened to her and her friend, or lover, abroad. And after the rush of tears, the words "I'm sorry, I don't love you anymore" sunk him deeper into the void.

He remembered that moment well, and he felt the pang again – he never truly moved on. “Why? .... Why?” Is it loneliness from being away? He did not really ask. “You promised…” is all he can mumble. Funny, how he expected too much. “I know,  I didn’t have a choice…” Choice? He pondered on what it really meant that day. It was not something that is not forgiven overnight, not after the feeling of betrayal, not after broken promises.

But, It was about three thousand nights since then, and they never talked again– not after he banned her name on his Facebook account, or after Myra went back to her work abroad. There were many nights like this, when he ponders on what could have been if he had forgiven her that time. However, that wasn’t the first time she did that – there was highschool, there was college, and even when they’re already working. He was just scared on what he will feel if she will hurt him again. It is not easy to let go of things - memorable things, beautiful things - but he worries on what will happen to his world. He cannot afford another heartbreak, especially from her, that is why he decided to let her go. He concluded, actually convinced himself, that some things are not really meant to be.

Just like his failures and inabilities, his desperation and loneliness...just like the rain which will always be there to drench him, he will always be haunted by the memories which he, ironically, holds dear.

He can't move on.

There were many nights like this, especially in June.

Sagada Love Story (Fiction)

 Would it be something that you would want to feel? Even if it’s this late? We could have had it all.

Five, no, about six hours.  Do you remember? The bumpy trail, your head on my right shoulder to show you proudly all the 'views' - an Ibaloi girl with an Ibontoc boy who is proudly showing Mountain Province? A young guy introducing his world, or perhaps attempting to confirm a part of his life to that woman who won his heart?

We arrived on a rainy day, on a stop to Sagada to see the place, particularly, the famous coffins and caves. We walked casually down to a road looking for an Inn. We finally settled with George’ s Inn. It must be the computer shop below it. Do you remember? I hope you do. We never even got to close that penthouse door. We were so in love. We can’t even get enough of each other. Do you remember? The kisses? The hugs? The warmth of our bodies. The passion we can only let go off when we fall asleep. Did we even leave our bed to see the attractions of the place?

Remember when we pulled the pillows and blankets outside to see the stars? We were lucky that before closing hours, we have bought a bottle of gin, and your favorite chips; that black Tortillos along with some vinegar. You really loved that then… I know, because I have come to love it too…

Remember when we walked in the rain. Those are what we saw in the movies, and we never really cared. We laughed about it. You called me “noisy slippers”, because of the way I walk with them. Do you remember when he had coffee on that little shop when we were dripping wet? Tell me that you do.

Do you remember the words that were supposed to be said when one wakes up first? “Good Morning beautiful..” if it was me who does. I never cared any of your words, because I always feel your kiss on my forehead, my cheeks…my lips. Do you remember our mornings? Our nights? Do you remember?

I know you remember when we painfully argued at Bontoc, the way I was jealous back then. When we never talked for two hours and thirty minutes in the van but finally made peace at Bauko, and started kissing again. When we reached Mt. Data and number 114 will be etched in our lives forever? When we (or I) got drunk at the fireplace and you dragged us to our room. Do you remember how happy we were? Do you remember any of  it?

Today, you stood there with that glorious wedding gown...and you are not waiting for me.

The Preacher

He did good. The church will give eighty percent of its tithes and offerings to the Golden Pyramid. Given the vast followers of the fellowship, it can attach thousands of people from its 'bottom' mark. The 'multi-level marketing' business will have another 'market' The production of cash will be instantaneous. He suspected that the lawyer and policeman in the congregation will raise their suspicion, but the networking business is not exactly illegal.

He has been their head pastor for 10 years. He managed to exploit the verses about tithing, or giving 10% of church-members’ income, aside from their church-offerings and love offerings. As their accountant and pastor, he had managed to build a house for himself and even bought a car. It was not enough.  In the Philippines, there are actually four ways to get rich; first is to get into business, another is to work abroad, another is to become a politician or work in government office, and the last and most infamous, actually  almost a taboo to mention is… to build your own ‘church’. He took the fourth path.

In a minute, he will give another speech for the afternoon session. He took his bible and balanced it with the heavy gold ring he wore on his left hand. He walked nonchalantly at the door but transformed automatically into the gleeful leader he projects to his members when he appears before them. He proceeded to the pulpit; he was almost a different person. After the prayer and the usual ‘good days’, he played his gold ring in the pages of Mathew 23:23 and try to tell the church that Jesus criticized people, even the Pharisees who did not observe ‘tithing’. He saw a few people who budged uncomfortably and concluded that they were those who do not give their ten percent income to the church. He tried his best to hide his irritation.

“God told me that the Golden Pyramid will help us. He whispered it to me. And those who doubted this must come to see the check that we received in joining their business. We gained an income of Fifty- thousand pesos in a month by just putting our church-funds in their hands. This is a blessing given by the Lord! Amen?”

“Amen!!” The church had developed a mechanism of saying ‘amen’ immediately after the preacher would say, ‘amen’. Just like how babies respond to their mothers' lullabyes.

He paused, and saw it already: Three million pesos after nine months. Mr. Lee assured him, the business will close at the end of the year, employees will disperse wildly, and the account managers will take the fall while Mr. Lee and the other VIP’s will be on their way to Australia. Another pyramiding scam news. The church funds which were supposed to be used for its' building's construction but were put into the business’ network fund will vanish, actually, transferred to the pastor’s secret bank account. Brilliant.

He cut himself on the pleasure of that day-dream. He ended the sermon after an hour- long ceremony of saying  “Jesus" and “God” and “Lord” repeatedly, he almost felt guilt. But he couldn’t. He marched slowly in the front rows for people to shake his hands. He has to maintain that smile for another ten minutes. After shaking about twenty hands, he saw a familiar face in the right aisle - the policeman from the morning session. He was not smiling, at all.

He didn't care. That policeman can find another church or be labeled a backslider. 

The unhappy writer

“Are you happy?” The young showman waited patiently for his answer. The modern world regarded him as a modern-day-sage, and so he must at least pretend to linger to every second of his musings before he reveal his wise words. “No…I’m not happy”. The author of a dozen life-inspiring books shifted his gaze towards the crowd who gasped at his answer. The young showman, also surprised himself, struggled to cough an introverted laugh and asked; “Why?”. He will always be a show-host.

Or, in that case, an annoying brat. “You wrote best-selling books about happiness. People consider you a modern day philosopher, the next Coelho. Personally, I have collection of your works. I am one of the millions who adore you.” The brat managed to summon a smile and hoped that no one would catch that bullshit he pulled out to keep his audience amused. The celebrated author caught the sly smile and returned it. “How about you? Are you happy?” He asked the brat in a grade school teacher and student manner, “Do you consider yourself a happy person?” The young showman grinned. He was prepared for the answer; he studied a little bit of psychology to expect that a defensive person might, in an eighty-percent probability, throw his question back at him. “Yes, I am. I am living the dream. A career, good health, people who love me. Yes I am happy, really happy” He leaned on his chair with the air of confidence commonly seen on geeks who solved a difficult math problem. “Sure you are.” The celebrated author took his glasses for his bare eyes to study the brat. The audience noticed every move.

“It is not happiness, it is contentment. Happiness is often associated with pleasure; the pleasure you have from your money, your career. Or, the pleasure you get by being healthy and loved. Sometimes, we do not see the distinction; therefore we believe both to be the same. I do not know what makes you happy, really, even with the people present here. Hence, I can’t really say. Contentment on the other hand is different. That can be sensed.  It is like Sunday afternoon; after the work the six day struggle, we rest – go to the park, or read a nice book, feast on cravings, or the simple enjoyment of hot coffee.” He stopped to wait for the brat to speak. There was no interruption. Obviously, no one knows where it is going, although, they would readily ride the wagon to know where.

The celebrated author looked to the audience and continued, “I said that I am not happy because I only recognize pleasure, and often times I get confused; I traveled the world, I had women when I woke up at expensive hotels, the cars, the mansions…the eight figures. I experienced the pleasures offered by this world and I became greedy. I hunger for the next best pleasure, then the next, then the next; the demand for the next high, of pleasure, made me calloused, bored, unsatisfied. The homeless guy is likely to feel more pleasure with a fried chicken, than me eating caviar – I feasted everyday and realized that I have never feasted at all. And, it hit me. I am not happy. I have more but I feel less.”  He paused again to throw a gaze at the brat, “It is difficult to be contented, yet the secret to happiness is in that simple word. People have dreams but the world has long ruled that not everyone can have them. Contentment is a way to make sense out of the rejection, and also a way to ground humans from that insatiable appetite for pleasure. You see, you are happier than me.” He gave a different smile, one with the humility of an honest elder.

The Trapo (a fast fiction)

The Trapo (a fast fiction)

He drained his beer in his throat along with the chunks of grilled beef he bought at a restaurant on his way home. He opened his personal computer to check on his facebook account and the smirk which he carried from a day of adulation faded…instantly. He never imagined that this boy, which he met a few years back will do this much harm. At a point, he regretted the insults and the ‘demolition job’ he had thrown to this boy’s father - he never anticipated any retaliation, but then; he is reaching his 40s, and he must have to show a brilliant political glamour to climb the higher posts. He’s new to politics, but has learned how to win it from observing the “old-styles” – the old political system of the province. He had invested much to it; constantly present at events and communal occasions in their town and pretended helping, “what’s important is the presence”, he had thought, “…that is all that matters”. He played with the mouse and he remembered that he uploaded pictures in the net, ones which he copied from others, edited and inserted his name for the “name-recall” purpose he intended for the campaign. Nicely done, he guessed…the voters in the province will never know. He had paid for the posters, the streamers, and all that political paraphernalia he sometimes doubted but conceded to be necessary…and this boy, he thought, does not have the right to destroy it.

He counted the years on his mind; “councilor today, mayor tomorrow...” he silently grinned, “This is not the City, fool”, he cursed the boy some more. He’d done that as a habit when nobody is looking. One thing that he abhors most is intellectual pestering – he hate the feeling of being reminded that he is dumber than the college drop-out he is, he hate intellectual dealings…especially when it is in the ‘English language’(one which he has no skill of). Sometimes, he regretted it, that chance of education he missed because of his frequent and expensive late night-outs, even though he was provided with everything he needed. His father was after all, a wealthy man.”It doesn’t matter” he muttered, he firmly believed that politics does not demand education but only “popularity” - good pictures hanging everywhere, greetings on streamers with his name in bold letters, being present in events and occasions and waving hands at almost everyone, “even pictures on facebook will enhance political image”, he grinned some more at the ignorance of the people who voted for him.

He browsed at the internet some more to find some quotes he can claim his. He closed his porn tab and opened a private message which popped up a minute ago – the clock on the toolbar declared that it was 7 o’clock in the evening. Then, his knees weakened as if on cue; the shivering cold of that sight was enough to make him half insane. He threw his beer on the wall which broke the silence of the house. The boy warned him of retribution, one he shoved away because he claimed invincibility after having that taste of power. “This is not happening!”, as if to beg the computer screen to eat itself and disappear. His back slumped on his chair. At the corner of the screen shows thirty-two pictures, the enlarged image is enough for him to understand – it is naked picture of him with another naked man having “fun”. The image is very clear, and he remembered the place, he remembered the exact date. He bowed his head, and thought of his family members and relatives, he wondered how they will take this. He took a short reflection on the future of his political career, how he used the little power he had to hurt others; for the sake of more power…then, he thought of the boy and his plea for him to stop the unfair campaign he proudly started against that boy's dying father.

“Retribution huh?” Somehow he had a glimpse of a visible reflection of himself on the computer screen. He thought that it was a demon mocking him.

Buck ends there...

(This is not exclusively mine. This is an inspired literary activity (some friends call it "one-liner") done by several individuals, including me, who still believes in the human value of written arts...maybe, haha--it was done by posting a reply to a comment on a facebook status until an idea, a poem, or a story, will take shape. I did some minor editing, for grammar purposes - even to my own posts, but then, feel free to raise comments. However, I am encouraging Literary criticisms which focuses on the interpretation of the story..Tnx!)

The Buck Ends Here ( a short story)

There was no text message for him that day. The emptiness of words numbed his warm body - her words drifted with the moist..no message for him that day. Indeed, ambivalence's cloak clouds over him, never before has anticipation been so sweet, only to be stained by waiting's vain bitterness. This gadget failed to provide him the noise he needed (or thought he needed), still, almost immediately he sat himself on his father's chair of forgetfulness- in front of the TV. "press ON"and it continued over and over again.

How boring and empty was it? Then, minutes before his phone would beep, his heart skips; something somewhere beneath the TV cabinet starts to light aglow - he intentionally left it there. He realized that he was not watching the TV after all, only the small screen of that celebrated gadget of technology. He picked it up. His heart throbs as he reached for it...even before he could reach it, a familiar sound reverberates. Shock and disbelief struck him. So many questions are now meant to be answered, but it was just an act of hope, which a simple gadget could not do. It wasn't a sound, he presumed after a longer glance and before the vivid screech: a book flipping on its own; and so, the message would wittingly contain: "the buck ends here".He was wrong, it doesn't contain any wit nor even a sensible message, only a puzzle, perhaps a code, he reads but does not understand ( it's essence)... But the gadget commanded attention, perhaps all gadgets do: A phone rings it must be answered or stopped. The text dragged him into a suspicious rumination- "the buck ends here", it was then that his father called him - yet the message from somewhere transported to him by the gadget haunts his sanity. Then again, he sat in a sullen silence, contemplating on something unreal.

He couldn't get it off his mind- puzzled..."the buck ends here"...? whatever the message meant, he knows it's time...somehow - the message wants to deliver something...(AND SO HE REPLIED WITH ALL CAPS) For another search, sanity is a vacuum cleaner as he walked past his dad recuperating his lost virginity of faith. Past his own dad - his father who is a politician and wondered why people thought that politics would complete the circle of success - education, name, wealth...then a position. He started pressing " W" , then decided to ask,"what?' “what must I do to show that I am (thinking what to say), he paused - "oh! this is crazy!", he said to himself. Now, he remembered or rather, realized that in his own people's circle of success, never was there any notion of "family" or "marriage"-- which was perhaps central to her people--or at least to her. His father called him once again- his father who was wearing that tainted old shirt, revealing a hint of what must have been dark blue, etched in what must have been silver linings. But he knew the etching didn't stop there. "Silver linings", was what he whispered with his dried, crackled lips. "The buck", he further pronounces, followed by a bellowed deep breath, pauses a while, then mumbles further, "ends here”. He wanes, then saw a tux, a tux that suits his personality, a man appeared in the mirror to check what it seemed to be a mere act of vanity and discovered the age that lies in his right temple; "twenty years", he whispered, then proceeded to the bathroom.

The urge of urinating transformed to a simple pleasure of natural relief (and still not relieved at all), “why”, he dreamily asks himself. Perhaps he desired a more carnal pleasure? His imagination almost took flight when the door bell rang, "why has it gone to this?" He thought. His eyes open with a blank stare. Steady, but focused at nothing. Nothing had registered into his mind, nothing audible to have meaning. As if the thought had blinded him momentarily. Then his thighs felt cold. It's the first common feeling his brain had been able to recognize in the last three minutes that he had been standing there. His eyes gained focus again. Then, he jumped back at the sight of his pants, wet with his own fluid. The door bell rang some more, and yet he did not move a bit. There was a feeling of victory, however suspicious, in ignoring his father, the door bell and the text message. Looking at his "mess" he decided to leave them all behind. "The hell would I care...why would I bother now?", he said with much remorse as if someone from the realm of his imagination is real. He ignored the persistent noise of the door bell. He instead started to contemplate on that day..that very day. He can still hear his father say..".... "When are you going to start thinking about your future?" "When will I see you make money for yourself and contribute to society?! Have you even seen yourself in the mirror lately? Look at you! You filthy and useless blob of frustration!" then he escaped from the words that had been chanting a morbid melody and decided to continue thinking... "why bother about the society? the society dictates whatever it wants anyway”, but no matter how mighty his words were, he will still remain unyielding, abjuring. The sun sets.

Three days later their house is barricaded with the words "Police line Do not Cross". Inside the house, the chair of forgetfulness is etched in blood- his father's. The details of the murder were very enigmatic. They found the lacerated body in the toilet where he once stood and thought of "it" - where he would start losing himself to an idea, even he himself would consider "monstrous"...where he had not only excreted his liquids, but also his sanity...