BLEAUD STAINED LETTERS

SHORT STORY

4:7 mt

 

            Salvation.  How can I be saved?  Can I be saved?  These questions were continually asked by my mind.  I stepped out of the building, I looked back they were still gathered together.  I did not wait for them to finish when I took off. 

 

            Salvation.  Is it for me?  Can it be for me?  My mind won't stop asking me those questions.  I am walking once more not knowing where I’m off too.     

 

            Salvation.  Is it possible?  When everything around me is a temptation.  I walked towards a store, there in front people were drinking and offering me their liquor.  It would have been easier for me to accept it, and spiral back down to that state of numbness, but something pushed me to say no.  I walked away, but moments after I slammed into man, suspiciously wearing a coat on this hot summer's night.  He looked at me, then conspicuously out of his pocket he produced some drugs, and he said for a certain amount I could be flying high with angels.  I thought, was this the way for me to go to heaven?  I already know what must be the right answer but a part of me still wanted to say yes.  But my conscience won out and I have to say no, so I said no.  He insisted but still I said no.   Fortunately he went away because if he asked me the third time my answer might have been different. 

 

            I stood there for a minute, and then continued on walking, my heart still bothering it still feels heavy.  Salvation in my mind.  Temptations in my heart.  Sex, lies and drugs everywhere: from the cover of magazines to the advertising billboards, from the voices in the radios to the shows on the television. Temptation everywhere.  Nowhere to go.  Salvation?

 

            Salvation.  What about salvation?  Can God still save me?  My feet led me to the ledge of a bridge.  I looked down; the waters were murky, full of the muck that this city has to offer.  If I jump, I may survive, but the diseases I'll get will kill me slowly.  Still, slowly I easen my grip from the railing, It was the only thing that holding me back from following the laws of gravity.

 

            Then my eyes wandered to the writing around me from the railing to the support beams.  Amongst the literary profanity, I saw one wisdom.

 

”...Do not put... God to the test.”

 

            Salvation.  I do not know if the one who wrote that verse had it... 

 

            Me I'm going home that night.  So, I hailed a taxi, went in.

 

            "Lot 4, Blk 7, Salvacion St..."

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BLEAUD STAINED LETTERS

SHORT STORY

4:4 mt

...My body has been walking for hours devoid of thoughts, I wandered throughout the city all through the night, when I looked at my watch it was flashing 4:04. I looked around, I was in a small dark alley, the smell was musty and the air was cold. My feet had been here before, but my eyes had not.

Thoughts began coming back to my empty mind, thoughts that are saying that I have an empty stomach. I looked back and saw the neon glow of a 24 hours sign of a fastfood chain, I went through my pockets and produce enough money for a hamburger and a coke. As I was set to move towards the store, I felt someone tugged on my shirt. I turned around and saw a young child clothed in rags, face darkened by dust and grease, and wearing not a pair of decent slippers. He was pushing along a broken down cart, made up of whatever he was able to pick up on the street. The cart doubles as his house. What caught my eye is an old tattered church banner that serves as his roof on the occasional rain that this unfriendly city have.

“…Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds out of the mouth of God.”

I looked at my money, I looked at the store and I looked at the child...

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BLEAUD STAINED LETTERS

SHORT STORY

4:19 mt

 

            Definition of a Bad Day - Your name is Tomas you are out of work.  You are poorer than the poorest guy you know.  You are down to your last centavo, which unfortunately because of your clumsy hands fell into murky waters and you were not able to find it.   Your wife is in labor, in your small hut because you cannot afford to bring her to the hospital.  Then she gives birth to three hungry mouths on a rainy day. d

 

            Definition of a Good Day – Many years passed, you are called Mang Tomas, a respectable person in the community.  The three mouths you fed are now capable men of the society; a teacher, a policeman, and a government employee.  They have not forgotten their Tatay Tomas, and every year on their birthday they come home to see you and join you in fishing. 

 

            Definition of a Good Timing – You are Tomas, you do not know what to do with the three babies you have.  Your wife is exhausted in giving birth, you are new to this situation, you have no idea what to do, and you are wet because of the rain.  Nothing else to do but surrender, you kneel down, and you pray. Then there was a knock on your broken down door, three missionaries you have helped some time ago passed by your house.  You do not understand what they were saying because they came from parts of the world that you did not know even existed.  But even without asking, they helped you.  And the rain also stopped.

 

            Definition of Good Friends – Some years passed, Tomas with the help of the missionaries learned how to read and write, and they also helped him buy a small fishing boat.  This enabled him to support his wife and his three sons.  The three missionaries are now in a different country but they do not forget to send Tomas a postcard or two from time to time.  

 

            Definition of a Good History – You look at your birthday cake, you are sharing it with two brothers.  You look at your names – Audrigh, Mateos, and Ernes – you are sharing it with good people, friends of your father, the three missionaries.

 

            Definition of a Good Birthday Gift – It’s the 19^th of April.  You received a postcard from the good friends of your father.  The picture was them with their families on a boat in Galilee, Israel.  Written on the back were their happy birthday greetings and written on the upper right hand corner was a verse.

 

“Come, follow me,” “and I will make you fishers of men.”

 

            Definition of Good Tradition – Every year in our birthday, we go out fishing with Tatay Tomas.  It is our way to remember what our father had done for us.  To remember our roots and to keep us humble.  It is also our way to say thank you.  And also every year we manage not only to catch fishes but also great stories.   Like the time mt April (our first boat) tipped over, or the time a giant sunfish was caught in our net (we let if go of course) or the time we went swimming with a whaleshark, good memories.      

 

            Definition of a Bad Day that turned Good – I never got your name, but you missed your ferry to go to the nearby Island.  You hired a small fishing boat so you can follow your friends, but of all the people you can hire, you hired Mang Jude the only fisherman, in fact the only person, I know who do not know how to swim.  As if your day was not bad enough, during your trek the weather was fine and there was no sign of a storm so there was no risk of your boat toppling over, but somehow the worst case scenario happened when the wave of a powerboat hit you and turned you over.   Mang Jude was no help as he was screaming for his life and holding on to his slowly sinking boat, I was waiting for you to rise above water when suddenly someone jumped over our boat and told us to go after them.  He was explaining that you were not able to swim.  I guess that makes you the second person I know who does not know how to swim.   When we got to your position Tatay Tomas quickly swam over to Mang Jude.  The other guy then jumped in the water to save you, both of you were gone for a good number of second.   When you surfaced, you were out cold, and both Mateos and Ernes had to carry you in the boat.  I extended my arm to lend a hand to other guy.  He said thank you.  I remembered the postcard and smiled – fishers of men.

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BLEAUD STAINED LETTERS

SHORT STORY

3:15 MT

I was struggling. I was running out of air. Water was all around, but my lungs still feels like burning. I was sinking fast deep in the salty water, deep into my sorrows and deep into my pains. I was in deep deep trouble. Light was beginning to fade, heavy is what I feel with this new pair of rubber shoes I'm wearing. Darn these shoes I kept thinking, I'm moments away from non-existence and my last thoughts will be about these shoes. Darn these shoes. Darn these shoes if only I can remove them, I might have a fighting chance for survival. Though I doubt that, even without my shoes, I still need to learn how to swim. If only I used the money my mom gave me to join the swimming lessons last summer and not bought those funky pair of sunglasses which I broke the very next day. Darn those sunglasses. Light faded, hope faded, darkness is all around. Darn, darn sunglasses.

Care for a smoke? I said yes. My cousin said no. How about some beer? I'll try that. Cuz’ just shrugged his head. We're going to this new bar, want to join us? I was about to say yes, when he tugged my shirt and said that we need to go.

We walk in different crowds my cousin and me. Where his is straight, mine is crooked with a lot of turns as well as dead ends. Both our paths have their share of obstacles. Where on my path I stop and run away in every challenge we meet down the road. He walk on straight, though at times they fall but they make it a point to stand up and continue on their journey. I have been trying to drag him to join me on the road I've taken; he would just pat me gently on my shoulders and kindly say no. He would then extend his hand and show the entrance to the path his taken and encourages me to enter it; he also offered that in this journey he'll stand proudly at my side. There are occasions that I almost had that first step, but then I'll see my foot and I think it needs a new pair of rubber shoes.

My cousin does not give up easily, he always see some chance to lead me to the door of that path, but he never tried to shove me in. He'll say I can only show you the door, but the steps you have to make. Perseverance is an admirable quality my cousin have, which I don’t share. I have given up long ago to let him see the things I see, and let him live the things I live. I have given up; he has not, something that I would be grateful for in the future.

Water splash. A new creature has emerged. What new creature? That is still him, that's still my cousin. What is new is that stain from the grimes in the water that is transferred to my polo shirt he is wearing. Well used to be my shirt, but still that's not the point, I gave that to him expecting it to be worn properly not to be used in this ritual. People around were shaking his hand and congratulating him, I extended my hand, drew him close and whispered to his ear, you dirtied an expensive polo shirt. He just smiled. He then touched his clothes -"dirty". Then pointed in his heart-"clean". I thought about what he said for a minute. Then I thought out loud -"What the hell does that mean?!"

He was about to answer me, when the pastor shook my cousin's hand. He congratulated him and telling him how proud he was on my cousin's decision. My cousin then introduced me to the pastor. I shook his hand and told him how much I enjoyed his sermon. Enjoyed sleeping through it was what my mind was actually saying. Are you next? He asked. I just gave off a nervous smile. Well nice to meet you and I know someday that you'll follow your cousin on that dip, when the time is right. He let go of my hand and took his bible that was placed on the table. A piece of paper fell from it; he did not notice that it fell off. I picked it up; it was actually a piece of table napkin. With my hands wet after I shook the pastor hand, the napkin absorbed most of the moisture of my hands which resulted to ruining the table napkin and what was written on it. No point in giving it back to the pastor now, so I tried to read what was written. There was a lot of scribbles on it, might have been his notes for the sermon. But there is only a few parts that was readable ”Suffer now, for thus it is becoming to us to fulfill all righteosnes...”

I thought about what was written for a minute. Then I thought out loud -"What the hell does that mean?!"

Memory. That was just a memory. I am once again conscious must have been the wrong spelling in righteousness that woke me up. It was still dark. I tried to breathe; fresh air filled my lungs, a very welcome relief. I opened my eyes, vision was blurry but I knew that it was my cousin who was in front of me and the one who pulled me out of the water. I was glad that he did not miss those swimming lessons last summer. He helped me then to stand up; with my arms around his shoulder he guided me towards the ambulance. I focused for a minute on the Red Cross placed on the ambulance door, and I knew that I'd be okay. My cousin opened the door he extended his hand and showed me the way. I looked at my cousin, he was wearing the polo shirt I've given him, and I just smiled. I then looked back to where I've been, in troubled waters. Above the water was the mt315 Righteosnes, the boat my cousin used to save me. I shrugged my head, as I made my first step in. "Spelling's still wrong".

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BLEAUD STAINED LETTERS

SHORT STORY

4:10 mt

 

“Away from me!”

she cried.

“Away from me!”

she cried again.

 

          Bad dream.  Bad memory.  She was crying wearing mom’s necklace, her shirt was torn and there were some hints of blood on her clothes.  She was 12 and she was young.  She ran out of our small creaky shanty house, with feet and soul bare.  She was scared, she was shivering, she was crying and she never looked back.  That was the last time I saw her.

         

          Bad dream.  Bad memory.  He was drunk.  Again.  Since mom died, since Kuya left there was not a day that he did not let the spirit of alcohol manipulated his mind.  If only Kuya did not leave, he might have done something, but what can Kuya do he was also young. 

 

          The drunk was big, the drunk was strong, the drunk used to be our father but now he was just a drunk.  Ate really did not have any chance.  Innocence was lost from us very early.  Innocence was gone, and on that night so was she.  When she left, it rained shards of glass.  There goes the bottle of gin, there goes the bottle of rhum, a cut in my cheek that caused a trickle of blood which is caused by a bottle of beer. 

 

          Amidst the mayhem a small hope was left, 4 years old with an inch long pencil with a used down eraser held in a tiny right hand.  His head did not veer away from what he was drawing.  Chaos surrounded him, but in his little sphere there was tranquility.  But the serenity he had was about to be challenged. When all the bottles of liquor were gone, the drunk had nothing else to throw, so he set his eyes on the hope which his foul hands had not yet touched.  Inch by inch the drunk moved closer, his eyes were focused on a little hope; my eyes were focused on bad memory.

 

          Dream.  Memory.  A wooden baton collided with thick skull.  Down came the man with his spirits. Handcuffs.  Siren.  Silence.  Hope remained.

 

“Worship the Lord your God…”

 

          Bad dream.  Bad memory.  A bottle of beer crashes on a young man’s head.  The smell of a 14 year’s old blood mixed with a 40 year’s old booze - is never good.

          “Worship this!” he said, as the drunk pointed to another bottle of beer.  Kuya, with half of his face covered with his own blood, did not answer back; he just continued talking to mom as her strength slowly faded away.

         

          “Mom, God is with you.  You’ll be…” 

          Kuya never finished what he was saying when mom gave off her final breath.  Me, my younger brother and Ate were crying.  Kuya did not, the husband did not, but their reasons for not crying differ from each other.  Then the shade that was our father stood up, went through his pockets, got some money, and handed it to Kuya.

           “Buy me another bottle of beer.”

          Kuya stood up.  Walked out the door and never looked back.  

 

          Dream.  Memory.  Alone. Orphanage.  Kuya was not around, Ate was nowhere and Hope is gone.

 

“… serve him only”

 

          Present.  Thought is of now.  I was on my way to work, on a Sunday.  I had the morning paper in my right hand, headline said “RIOT ON CITY JAIL, 1 DEAD”. I paused a while, when something caught my attention.  On the sidewalk in front of an old church, big t-shirts with funny cartoons drawn on them: A camel entering an eye of a needle, a fisherman fishing for men and a waiter serving God.  Somebody then approached me. 

          “I drew all of them” he said “Printed it on the t-shirt as well.”

          I eyed one of the promo t-shirt which had the drawing of the waiter.          

          “I didn’t know they made it that big.”

          “4X” he said “Wanna try?”

          “Not my size…” I answered

          “Those are just for promotions” he said “we do have some regular size”     

 

          He then went through their stocks, when somebody called him.  A woman on her thirty’s with her daughter beside her, which I thought was her sister if I had not heard her call her mom.  So he excused himself, saying he needs to bring something for the pastor, but encourage me to stay and look some more because I might find something.

 

          I looked inside the church, the pastor’s clothes were wet they just had a baptism. The woman handed her a towel, and the person I was talking to awhile ago handed him a fresh pair of clothes.  They were talking and they were laughing and they were happy.  It’s great to see a family happy, I envied them. Looking at their faces, you’ll get a feeling that they haven’t gone into any hardships in their lives.   

 

          I looked at my watch.  I was late. I need to hurry.  In my rush I bumped the table and the guy’s sketchpad fell down.  I picked it up and picked up a pencil, inch long.  It triggered a memory.  I then looked back in the church, I examined their faces.  The pastor had a scar on the right part of his forehead.  I looked at the woman, looked at her neck expecting a necklace.  It was bare.  I guess wishful thinking is just wishful thinking. 

 

          I turned my back and was ready to go, when I felt someone tap on my shoulder. 

          “Have you seen my uncle’s pencil?” she asked.

          I faced her and handed her the pencil, and at that moment where I let go of the pencil - I saw mom’s necklace.

 

          Tomorrow.  Good dreams.  Good memories.

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BLEAUD STAINED LETTERS

SHORT STORY

4:17 mt

 

            Arrepentimiento St., Lot 17, he asked.  With a street name like that it’s understandable that the mailman has a hard time finding the right location.  Wrong house I said, I think that is on the other street. He thanked me, got on his bike and went on his way.

 

            I was just leaving the house, my mom and stepdad have been gone for almost a week now, and there’s really no point for me to stay in the house.  I was already closing the gate, but I could still hearNanang Inday telling me not to go, because my dad (stepdad!) would get angry.  I did not listen to the housekeeper on Monday, did not listen on Tuesday, nor Wednesday or Thursday, then why would I start now.  I shut the gate and left her still yapping. 

 

            I headed down street; I was headed for the kiosk on a nearby coffeeshop where I and the crew decided to meet.  I crossed the street, did not bother to look if there were cars passing by. 

 

            Suddenly, Whoosh!  A hair’s breadth, a millisecond early and I would have been a van’s roadkill. On that split second, at the side of that speeding rusty old van, a blurry image of a skull presented itself. Vision? Reflection?  I thought and contemplated for a moment but it was not the time for thinking and contemplating.  So I continued towards the coffeeshop. 

 

            When I arrived at the kiosk, I saw Zeb talking to a couple of guys.  They already had a collection of empty beer bottles on their table.  They were also smoking cigarettes, except for the other guy Zeb was talking to.  I walked towards them but before I arrived the two guys excused themselves.  Who were those guys I asked Zeb.  Prospect customers he replied, while wearing a wry smile.  I got something for you Zeb said, out of his pocket he produced a small bag and threw it my way.  I caught it in midair.  I did not bother checking what it contains.  I already knew what it was, the usual stuff.  Two hours had passed, two packets of cigar a couple of San Miguel’s, when others of our crew arrived.   So, off we were to this new bar for a night of wild partying.

 

            On the way towards Zeb’s pick-up truck, I caught a glimpse of the rusty old van.  It was parked beside the dim-lighted rat-infested plaza.  I excused myself for a minute from my crew to check out what would have been my slayer.  As I have already noticed the paintjob was blue but the rust, weather and age has colored it red.  Parts and some wiring that were not supposed to be exposed were sticking out.  I was amazed that it was still road worthy or street legal in fact.  I then went to the other side of the van were I saw the skull.  There it was a painted on the side, a white cracked skull, a dislocated jaw with some teeth missing.  Even without the eyes on its socket I had an ominous feeling that it was staring back at me. 

 

            A mirror, a reflection an old man said.  He was wearing a worn out jeans, and a torn out shirt he was in the same story state as his van was.  I paid him no attention.  I just kept on staring at the skull.  I then took notice of what was written below on bold and red letters. 

 

            ZeeeeKRRInnNNGIIINNgggIINNGiiiiiiNNGG!!!  Feedback from a microphone when held in front of the speakers, the sound disoriented me and caused some ringing in my ear.  The old man has turned on his sound system.  Test mic he said with a deep croaky voice, Test mic he repeated.  He then looked at me, his eyes talking to mine signaling me to read once more what was written below the skull. 

 

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near.”

            I whispered.

 

“REPENT, FOR THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS NEAR!!!”

            He shouted. 

           

            The thundering of his voice momentarily pause all the activities nearby.  But when the echoes have passed, life continued.  And the shock was turned to numbness and his voice, his message, his sermon was drowned on the sounds of everyday life.  A tap on my shoulder told me that it was time to go. I did not hear much of the message because there were still some ringing in my ears. 

 

            The kingdom of heaven might be near, but this other kingdom, this darker kingdom is already here.  Boom boom boom the music played, boom boom boom the girls danced, boom boom boom the drunks fall down.  Every night the same, and every time I wake up the same questions - how did I get here, where am I, oh! I’m home.  I looked at my watch it’s already 2 minutes pass 4 quarter in the afternoon it’s time to go again.  Just have enough time to take a quick bath and change my clothes.  No time to eat I just grabbed a can of ice cold Colt.  Nanang Inday was beside me and yapping all the time, telling me about Mom and Dad (Stepdad!) and about today.  She yaps too much, I listen too little.

 

            I didn’t have enough time to gather all my thoughts when I’m already out of our front door and opening our gate.

 

            “Arrepentimiento St., Lot 17?” the mailman asked.

 

            NEXT STREET, NEXT STREET SHEESH! I said.  Deja vu, I felt like this has happened before. Then my cellphone vibrated, 1 message.  C u at Kngdom Bar – Zeb.  Placed back my cellphone in my pocket it’s not safe to have it exposed as I was walking down the street, a lot of pickpocketers andholdappers running around.  I looked at my watch.  It was still early, might as well get me some Arroz Caldo at Mang Pedro’s Arrozcaldohan.  I don’t remember the last time I had decent a meal, so the warm rice soup was a welcome nourishment to my alcohol-abused body. 

            Mang Pedro turned on the television set.  One Dead in Jail Brawl, that was the headline on the 7 o’clock news.  Mang Pedro did not care much about the news so he changed channels.   Advertisement of an ice cream, he changed the channel.  Tom and Jerry running after each other, he changed the channel. Advertisement with a girl riding a white stallion, he paused for a while finished the advertisement then changed the channel.  Man with weird make-up crashing his guitar on the drums, volume was increased and the controller for the TV was set down.  The music was loud, the voice was howling, and I was enjoying – my kind of music.  Chorus came, I joined in - Smoke, Drugs and whole lot of Vodka  - story of my life. 

 

            I looked at my watch, it was time to go.  I left my payment on the counter and I did not bother to wait for my change.  Taxi seldom passes by our area so I decided to walk downhill to the main road.   

 

            Buscar…. Perdon…. Aceptacion… I was reading the street names that I happen to pass by.  Did not know who named these streets but I know he is the mail service least liked guy.  I still have some way to go before I reach the main road, luckily there was a taxi just leaving Salvacion St.  I hailed it and it went towards my direction.  I opened the door of the back seat and said to the driver you are a life saver.  I was barely in, when I heard from a far a screeching sound.  A rusty blue van, the driver was stepping on the brakes but it was not working.  I saw the motion of his hand pulling the hand brake but the hand brake was stuck.  The van was gaining momentum, and the only obstruction on the road was us.  I never had a time to react, I was petrified, last memory I had – the kingdom is near.

 

            Inject him with some pain relievers.  Scream.  We need to amputate the legs.  Scream.  He is reacting to the medication.  More Scream.  Doctor he is slipping into a coma.  No more scream. 

 

            I do not know the science behind a coma.  I am not sure why I am still conscious.  I cannot see anything, my surrounding was dark, I cannot feel any part of my body. I was just a thought floating in a void.  I tried to open my eyes, I cannot.  I tried to move my arms and legs, I cannot.  I tried to let them know that I am still here, I cannot.  I tried to listen, there are times I can hear but other times it was just silence.  Am I dead?  Beep… beep… beep… beep… beep.  My life support system doesn’t think so.      

 

            We should not have left him…  That was my mom’s voice, it was soothing.  Place the driver of the van here…  That was the nurse telling the orderlies to put the patient on the next bed.  Son…  That was my stepdad (dad), he never finished the sentence.  The taxi driver was dead on impact.  That was the nurse again talking to another nurse.   

 

AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near.”

            That was the delirium on the other bed.

           

            BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.  That was my heart stopping.

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