Kristine's Story Proposals

Title: Unsure

Characters:

Diego: A 20 year old saxophone player. The dark and mysterious gentleman with the unsure yet inexhaustible sex appeal. His eyes will suck you in, but the wall that erects around himself is like his own personal fortress.

Lucy: The 19 year old butterfly. Lucy believes that she is still invincible; at that age when everything seems infinite, she often goes to great lengths in order to experience everything that life has to offer. Her haphazard decisions allow her to get what she wants, at the demise of something else. She believes that she is running out of time.

Plot:
The entire story is seen from Diego's point of view, where Lucy barters her virginity in order for him to take her home from a party before her curfew. With heavy dialogue, the entire scene finds our two main characters inside Diego's car, where the arguments and the climax of the story ensue. I would actually like most of the story to be based on the conversation that happens between Diego and Lucy, and most importantly, the intensity of the interaction between the two characters. I'd like to focus on the extreme tension of the situation, and the pressure it has put on Diego to resolve the matter. The entire story is very descriptive, coming from a first person point of view.

Reason for writing the story:
Losing one's virginity has grown to become a rite of passage, and i would like to explore how this could happen in a typical and contemporary setting between two unmarried people. How adolescents handle their sexuality has always been of extreme interest to me, and i have always found this to be a very fulfilling source of inspiration.

Research:
Interviews with people on their first sexual experience with another person, most importantly how it felt for them, and what particular details (a crack in the wall, the print of the bedsheets, etc) they remember of it.

Joshua's Story Proposals

1.) Eternal’s End (Tentative Title)

Characters:
Man
Woman

Synopsis:

In a world where eternal life is made available, everyone kills themselves. Stacks of little red vials named 4Ever are sold commercially. A man, wealthy and frivolous, decides to purchase two of them, for him and his wife. 4Ever stops aging and gives the consumer an immune system in overdrive, rendering him immune against all diseases. The couple enjoyed their immortality for the first ten years until everything starts falling apart. Christian in belief and lifestyle, the man’s faith is tested as he questions the existence of a God. Now that he has gained immortality, religion is rendered useless and faith becomes a thing of the past. His life becomes a meaningless cycle of repetitiveness and everything has been stripped down of its weight. Later in the story, his wife kills herself, and he is left alone – to live a life that is no longer a life, but a composition of meaningless gestures that are made to pattern what life should be. In the news, consumers of 4Ever rise in suicide rates. Thirty years after taking a sip from a vial of eternal life, he holds a gun to his head and fears a Hell that he fully believes in, awaiting him.

Reasons for Writing the Story:
Death is an essential part of human life, and death gives everything on earth its meaning. If immortal life was given, the irony is that those who obtain it would rather kill themselves for life is not life without death. I wanted to tackle the importance of death in my story so that even though it is something to be feared, it must also be something to be embraced.

Research:
Philosophy of Death and Life, Aging

2.) Tiyanak

Characters:
A young boy
A Mother

*Story will be told in the POV of the young boy

Synopsis:
In the middle of his sleep, a young boy hears infant whimpers in their bathroom. The next day, her mother confesses of aborting her child, his brother. The little boy becomes angered by this. Frequently, he dreams of his brother – the both of them playing, until he becomes bothered in his sleep by little cries emanating from his bathroom. He inspects his bathroom and finds nothing unusual except for a pile of tissues covered with blood in the trash next to the toilet. Suddenly, a zombie-like baby emerges from the toilet, covered with rotting flesh. He picks him up and cradles him in his hands, wraps him in a towel and places him on his bed, beside him as he sleeps. The next day, he awakes to find nothing but a clean towel beside him. He becomes bewildered by this. In the following nights, the baby cries become partnered with a woman singing gentle lullabies. Bothered by his curiosity, he barges into his bathroom and finds his mother cradling something wrapped in silken cloth. The mother drops the object and on the floor smashes a jar, and amongst the broken shards of glass and chemicals lie a little lump of flesh and muscle – his brother, sprawled all over the floor.

Research:
Tiyanaks, Superstitions, Philippine Ghosts and Monsters

3.) Rue

Synopsis:

A young adolescent wants to connect with her grandmother who is a writer but cannot for she is senile. He then discovers her grandmother’s journal and lives her life through her words.

Reason for Writing the Story:
The story is about my grandmother Ruffie, who is the only writer in the family. I see her only during our family reunions, and even though I have this deep desire to talk and discuss with her matters of writing, I cannot, for she is senile and can no longer talk. She is a goldmine of stories and ideas, but I cannot penetrate through her age. I want to write about her - her life, and my longing to connect with her. This story is also to prove that writers are made immortal through their works.

Research:
Further observe my grandmother.

Fiction as allegiance.

And an allegation
(paper presented at the UP centennial writers' conference/workshop, dec. 1-6, 2008, UP in the Visayas-Tacloban College)




The burden of representation
As an avid reader and an amateur critic of fiction, I have found that, inevitably, dealing with fiction entails getting to a certain level of inquiry that also, inevitably, leads to one of only two results. One is what Pierre Macherey has termed as the breaking down of the story before questions it is incapable of answering, the other is my breaking down as a reader before a story I am incapable of questioning.

This is hardly unusual. I know that I am not alone in this reading practice or experience. Instead of just asking who the characters are in a story, we ask, for instance: Whose story is this, really? Is it a good/fair/innovative way of rendering these people’s lives? Is this a sound depiction of the subject him/herself? Instead of asking what the story is all about, we ask: What, ultimately, is the story saying about stories, about history, about time? Is this a sensitive rendering of a society, a culture, a social relationship, an event, a phenomenon? Instead of merely asking what the writer wants to say, we ask: What does this say about the writer? Whose interests does the writer serve? Or, even, what does this story want from me as a reader?

These questions, of course, point to concerns that are usually considered as being well beyond the pale of craft, way outside the parameters of form. I cannot disagree more. For sure, these are questions that delve into issues of ideology, representation, language and subjectivity, questions that the creative writer, as it is stressed in workshops time and time again, need not burden herself with. But these are concerns I burden myself with only because I have found that they cannot be disassociated with issues of form. No less than an appreciation of all these other aspects is demanded by fiction itself; and by narratives, in general, primarily because of its very nature, its very form.

My preferred definition of fiction is that which takes into consideration its form and the conditions that give rise to, sustain, or break, the form. Variations of this definition appear in the works of Mikhail Bakhtin, Pierre Macherey, even Haydn White. Resil Mojares’s work in The Origins and Rise of the Filipino Novel also comes to mind. So do the women’s stories in the anthology Fern Garden, edited by Merlie Alunan. Moreover, the stories of Eric Gamalinda, Erwin Castillo, Nick Joaquin, Chari Lucero, Gina Apostol, among others, illustrate the definition further. Their stories celebrate the form, question the boundaries between the mimetic and the marvelous and, in the process, engage quite intensely with the stories’ material and historical conditions. I pay much attention to these aspects because what, as a reader, I demand from (and enjoy about) fiction, are no different from what I, as a writer of it, aspire for. Similarly, the things I am dissatisfied with in some works of fiction are the very same things I want to avoid in my own writing -- monologism, univocalism, and objectivism. Kind of like the traits of this government which I also cannot stand.

I do tend to agree with the idea that fiction is necessarily burdened with issues of representation – not only in the sense of Greek Classical representation as the reproduction of something, or the elaboration of a concept corresponding to a thing perceived; but also in the sense of political, everyday representation as in formal statements made to a higher authority. Representation as the communication of an opinion, or the registration of a protest! More and more, I am seduced by the idea of fiction as a claim, a contention and, sometimes, an allegation.

(I must say that I love the word allegation. Used appropriately, it can be an effective way of stating one’s belief by merely citing the plausible opposite. The exercise of alleging can be an immensely successful way of rendering the tyranny of truth as irrelevant or, at least, relative, conditional. Allegation is a very powerful legal fiction, so to speak.)

I remember a critic from New Zealand, enthusiastically presenting a paper on one of Jessica Hagedorn’s novels, in a literary conference in UP. The critic went on to praise the novel’s style and evocative language, only to be severely critiqued right after. The poor guy did not know what hit him. What more do you want, I’m sure he wanted to ask. Here I am, telling you that I love this novel, by a Filipino writer, about the Philippines, and you complain! What the critic did not anticipate was the ultra sensitivity of the audience – literature teachers, writers, and critics all – to issues of representation. The guy was severely berated for not having recognized that the reading he just offered had long been rendered inoperable, narrow-minded, and generally unsound. His only fault: to praise the book for the wrong claims; and to claim an understanding of the state of the nation, merely through the book. What really struck the audience’s nerve was that this one particular novel by a Fil-am writer was being read by a foreigner as a representation of the entire Philippines. On the contrary, readings of it in Comparative Literature classrooms have tended to treat the novel as being quite unabashedly intended for a foreign audience, and its postmodernist tendencies merely serve to mask the novel’s ideology. At some point, I remember thinking: Well, why the hell not? Why can’t one write for the audience one wants? Would it have made a difference if the author were not a Fil-American, if she were just a Filipino? Would it have made a difference if she wrote about America, instead of the Philippines, and applied the same techniques and strategies?

Apparently, yes, one can and does write for one’s ideal reader. However, one has to always account for one’s subject position, which is revealed by the mere choice of readership. And, nowadays, yes, it does make a difference who you’re writing as, what you’re writing about, and where you’re writing from.

I have my own reading of the novel, and I do tend to go with the postcolonial critique of ideology approach. I submit though that, to a certain extent, the engagement with critical theory – particularly of these kinds – can get out of hand, get in the way of pure reading pleasure. Not to mention how it can get in the way of pure fiction-writing pleasure.

Theory indeed gets in the way. But, isn’t it only right that it should? The complexity of the world we write of and the world we write in demands that it be rendered sensitively and, well, honestly. Whether one writes of a world of simple peasants in the distant Philippine past, or the underground world of punk-gothic individuals in dizzyingly fast-paced urban New Manila, one is still writing of the here and now. One has to, in a sense, theorize the world one writes in, through the fictionalized world one writes of.

All I mean is, there is no turning back, no reclaiming lost innocence, no feigning indifference. One can no longer unread what one has read. There are pressures and demands on the writing and reading of Philippine fiction, in English, at least, that cannot, and should not, be ignored.


Home as a syndrome
As a writer from the Visayas, who is based in Manila, for instance, I cannot help but react, sometimes violently, to pressures for a particular kind of representation in my fiction. I’m sure this is a familiar experience to many. For instance, in national writers workshops, it is almost always expected of us to turn out a story with a strong, local flavor, but rendered from an ironic perspective. I mean, if you merely translate into English a perfectly sensible and successful oral narrative in Waray, for instance, it would surely be considered too simplistic, unimaginative, a failure. But, really, what does local color mean? Does this mean including snippets of conversation, expletives and curses, in the local language for emotional color? Does it involve using Waray terms, written in italics, even for phrases that have an idiomatic equivalent in English? Does this mean writing about rural folks, in idyllic seaside settings, engaging in so-called native – therefore humorous, strange, or fantastic – practices? Because I am very much guilty of all that, of submitting to such pressures and demands. What’s even more unfortunate is that these are pressures I myself exert on my own writing, almost as a matter of course.

The truth is, it is only on occasions like this that I am forced to confront questions that sometimes do spoil the pleasure of writing fiction. Most of the time, I just write what I can, whenever I can. I still believe that a writer’s role is to write. I cannot use the excuse of engaging with theory as a reason for not being able to produce fiction. Neither do I see theory as an impetus to write fiction. I do not write fiction in order to illustrate a theory. I do not write fiction in order to save the country, to improve people’s lives, or to empower the marginalized. There are other activities, other kinds of writing, that I do that, to my mind, would more closely approach those objectives. As a fictionist, my first allegiance is to the story, to memory, to play. My fiction, moreover, aims to play with the concept of fiction itself, with the concept of allegiance even, as well as of memory and remembrance.

My stories have invariably been about home – home as a syndrome, a physiological disorder: a disruption of normal physical or mental functions; a disease or an abnormal condition. The body is in one place, but the heart is someplace else. The language that is used for speech is not the language of one’s secrets. This is the main affliction, an affliction whose symptoms are not always manifest, rather latent. In my stories, the characters are always engaged with and yet distanced from home; but they never really leave it, they bring it with them wherever they go. The struggle is to accept that home is a concept, and a floating, unstable one, too. The struggle is to broaden the concept in order to encompass one’s changing conditions, one’s mobile location, one’s shifting position. The struggle is to not make everyone notice that the character is not always there; that she is, in truth, some place else; that she has actually disappeared, has established her home in the deepest recesses of her mind, a place beyond anyone’s reach.

I remember how, as a child growing up always amidst some twenty other cousins, in a small family compound here in Tacloban, or in Barugo, or Matalom, or Cebu, during the summer, I was always trying to disappear, and it was quite easy to disappear. I did it several times. I simply slipped out of the group of cousins playing out in the yard, to go back up to the house, hide in the room, go through my mother’s bags, rifle through my father’s documents, open cabinets and drawers, climb atop kitchen counters, mix up and blend condiments, write and draw figures on walls, dress and make up the saints, all the while unnoticed and unmissed. This went on for quite some time until one afternoon, when I decided to hide behind the backdoor of my grandparents’ house in Tacloban, to blend with the brooms and mops and cobwebs and dust, for about twelve hours, they say. I stood there without making any movement or sound, watching the maids, some aunts and cousins, go in and out of the house. I remember how I maintained my position even when my cousins and, eventually, the adults started looking for me. I could clearly hear and see people combing the entire house, the entire compound, looking everywhere but behind the backdoor. I stood there even when I could see my mother starting to panic and to blame hapless househelps for my disappearance. I do not, however, for the life of me, remember why I did what I did, or what was going through my mind while I stood there, very, very, very still. Neither do I know what made me step out of the dark, privileged, corner behind the door, in order to blend, inevitably, with the rest of them.

Since then, I don’t think I have been able to hide and disappear without anyone noticing. I did not mind becoming more visible only because I eventually realized that that was actually the best way to obscurity; an obscurity which served my need to observe, to create worlds within a world, story after story.

My head was always filled with stories – real and fabricated, my own and others’, for good and for bad. I think it was my father who first had the inkling that I would one day venture into writing stories, if not jokes. I think the very first time I understood what it took to make people laugh was also the time I understood how language works. I remember that it was one of those evenings, after dinner, the adults were out in the veranda, smoking, having coffee, airing themselves out. I sat next to Tatay and said, in Waray: Let’s say your name is You and my name is Me. Now answer this question: Who is the crazy one between the two of us? Tatay laughed so hard, I was instantly pleased, even if I didn’t have the foggiest idea why he found it so funny. I wasn’t trying to be funny, I don’t even think the idea for what was apparently a joke, was my original. For a while there, I was a major hit. Everyone started telling and retelling my joke, it became deeply embarrassing, especially because I was the last to actually get it. When I finally did get it, I tried formulating similar quips, a few of which elicited a wan response, none of which quite achieved the same kind of sweeping success that the first joke elicited. Until today, I am still trying.

There is nothing special about the stories I write. There is nothing special about me as a writer of stories. Everyone in my family is either a storyteller or a politician, which is basically saying that they are all fictionists. A few of them actually became highly successful writers and many became spectacularly unsuccessful politicians. My point is simply to say that the simple question of why I write has an equally simple answer: given that there have only been two fates, I think I’d rather be a failed writer than a failed politician. As for why I write the way I do and for whom I write, I think it is clear to me now: I write to please those from whom my fiction is derived. This is my fiction, my audacious allegation. Whether or not I actually do please them, can be the subject of another forum, for another time.

Story Proposal

Sorry this is so late, my internet connection doesn't like blogger very much...

Short Story, probably for Young Adults

Characters:
A girl, and several of her friends (have not thought of names, they usually come to me when I'm already writing).

Setting:
A fictional place, still relatively similar to the real world, except for a few things.

Short Synopsis:
A story about a girl who writes – she doesn’t really take it seriously, writes about strange things, occurrences, events, people making choices that don’t make sense, don’t follow any kind of logic at all – and one day finds that the things she writes keep coming true.

Research Method:
Nothing very substantial yet. For now, perhaps I will consult with people on what they think fiction is, and of how writers and readers have viewed fiction through the years.

Reason for Writing:
The source of the idea for my story is something that will, in all likelihood, end up being almost completely unrelated to the story: The Twilight Saga.With the rise of the whole debate about Twilight among the young literature enthusiasts/general readers, of which I am on the “against” side, I found out some troubling things about how my chosen genre, fiction, is perceived by some readers. Whenever people bring up logic and real-world reasoning in order to prove the literary inadequacy of Twilight, the fans of the said book series usually reply, “It’s just a book!” or “You just think too much!” or, most troublesome of all: “It’s just Fiction; it’s not supposed to make sense!”
The last statement, and many variations of it made by different Twilight readers, horrified me. People actually thought that just because it was fiction, it didn’t have to have logic. That it didn’t have to make sense or be applied to the truth of the real world. This of course, is not true – I have always been taught, by CW teachers and Lit teachers alike, that all genres of literature have to convey a human truth. The readers basically think that anything one writes, if it is in fiction, should not have to be taken seriously. That absolutely anything, with no explanations necessary, can happen because hey, it’s fictional.
The difficulty of a writer who writes fiction is in putting forth a world whose logic makes sense even to a reader who belongs solidly to the real world. If it is realistic, then it should, indeed, follow the scientific and logical rules of the natural world. In fantasy, where there are different worlds and different creatures, one has to follow logic, all the while not constraining himself/herself to the scientific laws of the actual world. But even worlds of the Fantastic follow their own logic that is constant and rational (Twilight is unfortunately set in the real world, despite having Vampires, and the author often throws out the window logic that should apply even to Vampires and Werewolves because they, too, live in the world we currently live in).


No solid plans for the next two stories yet; am probably going to try to make one that's more adult, but I have no idea yet what to do with the third.

Story Proposal

Story Idea 1: (Untitled)

Description:

An independent, accomplished and relatively healthy woman constantly gets pressured about “settling down” as she nears her 30s. This would all be too well and good… except for the fact that she feels more than satisfied with her status of being single.

An anti-thesis to romantic love, this is a social commentary/critique on accepted social norms and standards. It will tackle issues on gender, sexuality, the viability of personal contentment as well as aging. This is more or less a conversational piece (possibly more intrinsically directed with the character’s self-realization in the end) and has no concrete plot.

Research Method:

Articles/writings (biological and psychological) on

a) human and animal sexuality

b) common gender roles and politics

c) the myth and romanticism of love

d) self-actualization of individuals

Interviews: peoples take on the possibility of an “asexual” state of existence

Reason/s for writing:

I really want to show how an individual can – by all means – lead a well-rounded, simple and normal existence without actually having an innate (sexual) need; that one can be complete without an “other,” regardless of social expectations/dictates.

***

Story Idea 2: (Untitled)

Description:

World War III’s nuclear warfare causes earth to enter into its Second Ice Age. Due to the drastic climate change, many of the world’s species – all but one man and one woman – die off from the extremely cold weather.

A modern, pre- or post- apocalyptic (haven’t decided yet) take on the first/last man and woman which will be done in a folklore-narrative kind of style.

Research Method:

Articles/writings on

a) Darwin’s Origin of the Species

b) conditions of the first ice age

c) possible conditions/speculations on the second ice age

d) geological concepts and theories

e) creation myths: Hebrew and Greek

Reason/s for writing:

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

***

Story Idea 3: Balut

Description:

A six-year old cracks open a delicious looking balut only to uncover a tiny cockatrice inside. Not knowing what it is, he/she starts to adopt it as a pet.

Research Method:

Articles/writings on

a) anatomy and process of making of balut/duck eggs

b) medieval accounts and myths of the cockatrice

Reason/s for writing:

I think this would be really fun to write. :)

***

Story proposal

Story Proposal: Nana and Juan-- future

Characters

1. Nana- A manananggal who is not necessarily evil, still eats babies as per her character, but acts normal and mingles with the humans otherwise.

2. Juan- A kapre that has a knack for sleeping for centuries, ends up waking up in different time periods, usually with very confusing circumstances. He is usually passive and selfish, but does not act violently unless provoked. He usually wakes up to find Nana around.

* This is not to paint aswangs as neither bad creatures nor good creatures. They are sort of like humans-- except their treatment of humans is almost the same as we would treat cute animals. Sort of like the sheep, its cute, and adorable, and it could be our friend. But it could also be food. HAHAHAHAHA.

Setting

The setting is in the future-- mankind is so dominant, we are like a plague. Overpopulation is so prevalent that people are reduced to killing each other for survival. Governments pay lots of attention to population control. The Church has separated into several factions regarding the use of contraceptions and reproduction. This situation has affected the world of the aswangs greatly. 

* It could also be a pseudo-commentary about the RH bill.

Synopsis

Juan wakes up in the future, Nana is still there but looking very tired. The future is a horrible place with horrible people and world issues that have been left unsolved due to individualism and environmental ignorance. They find that most of the aswangs have been dead for a very long time now.

Research Methods

Books on aswangs, interviews with experts and seniors doing their theses on the aswangs. Also read up on issues that concern the world today, including overpopulation (RH bill), environmental issues, economics, etc. etc.

Reasons for Writing

Since I’ve already done a past and present version of Nana and Juan, it’s only fitting that I create a future for both them and humanity. This story is meant to open readers’ eyes to the possibilities of our future, good and bad, from the perspective of one who was born from both nature and man (the aswangs). It also delves into the nature of the aswang, and touches on my theory of how the aswangs came into existence.

I didn't decide on writing the romantic short story of the Chinese-Filipino relationship for lots of personal reasons, but I probably will one day.

~Margaret Kawsek

Story Proposals (Iggy)

1) The World’s Smallest Violin

Characters:
A forty-something man (nameless)
A rocking-horse

Plot:
The story is about a man who plays the violin while riding his rocking-horse, while a group of people watch him while he does this. The story won’t really have a plot; it's just going to have a lot of descriptions that would hopefully reveal the man's past and personality. It's going to be very phenomenological, with lots of describing as it is.

Reason for writing this:
My parents recently brought a reproduction of Elmer Borlongan's painting "The Rocking Horse," and the painting really took my breath away to the point that I told myself I would write something about it. A piece of fiction I read in the Phil. Free Press, "Barbed Hula" by Danielle Miller, also inspired me to do this. To add to that, I've always been interested in doing prose poetry, even if I don't really understand how it's done (but I'll try it anyway). But as I was all set to write the story, I did a bit of research on Borlongan's "The Rocking Horse," and found out that it has already been used for the children's story division of a previous Palanca contest, with over 80 entries inspired by the painting, so I guess what I'm about to do isn't going to be new anymore. But what the hell, I'm still gonna go through with it.

Research Method:
- Reread “Good Morning” by Gloria Frym, because it is an example of prose poetry
- Reread “Barbed Hula” by Danielle Miller
- Stare at the painting for hours; immerse myself in the beauty of the painting and hopefully derive a message from it
- Research on phenomenology


2) My Grandma’s Going to Eat Me (temporary title)

Characters:
A little boy (very skinny)
The little boy’s grandma

Plot:
The story is about a little boy who thinks his grandma is a witch who’s going to eat him, because she keeps telling him to “fatten up” every time they have dinner. It’s going to be told from the boy’s point of view, and is going to be slightly dark and morbid, although I intend to write it like a children's story. I'm not really sure if I can make it sound like a children's story because the theme is pretty dark, but I'll try. Bahala na.

Reason for writing this:
A friend of mine once asked me to submit a children’s story for Heights once, and this is what I thought of writing. But I was never able to start the story, because I was pressed for time and didn’t have inspiration back then. This is also going to be semi-autobiographical, because I used to feel this way about my grandma. And DM Reyes once said that if an idea stays with you for a pretty long time, then that's probably a story waiting to be written, so I want to write this down.

Research Method:
- Read “Hansel & Gretel”
- Read some children’s stories
- Reread “Fear” by Rhys Davies (hopefully pattern it after that story)
- Research stuff about a child's psychology, if there's something like that


3) (no title yet)

Characters:
Boy and girl (both nameless for now)

Plot:
A day in the life of a boy and a girl. They both live next door to each in an apartment in Quiapo, but they've never minded one another even if they bump into each other. Something brings them together a week before the girl is about to leave, It’s set in the day when the girl is about to leave for another country, and on that last day both of them reminisce about the past week they spent together, and the story follows their conversations as they go around Quiapo.

Reason for writing this:
I've had a lot of awkward moments with women. Sometimes when I like someone, I wouldn't pay her the least bit of attention, for reasons I can't fathom. This story is going to be something of a challenge for me, since I'm terrible at the art of conversation, but I like to challenge myself every now and then haha. And there are times when I like to imagine what would transpire when I've actually talked to someone I like (because there are still people out there I've never talked to and have no intention of talking to in the future), and I want to express it in the form of a lame story.

Research Method:
- Go to Quiapo to get a feel of the place (hopefully a girl will tag along with me :P)
- Talk to a lot of girls so that the conversations in the story would seem realistic.
- Watch "Before Sunset"
- Read stuff that Haruki Murakami wrote, because he's always had some interesting conversations in his stories.

Story Proposal-Joanna

Plot Summary: A middle-aged artist is apprenticed a young, shy, disoriented boy named Nathan but whom he calls Lesley. The boy's parents drop him off at De Leon's home and typically abandon him to his fate as an artist's apprentice. Complications arise when De Leon uses a model and their strange relationship ensues as master and student.

Research Method: I will try to research on different artistic methods used by artists and different terminologies used by artists. Also important is the authenticity of the setting and backdrop of the story. I will try to research on the language necessary for conversations between artists.

Why I Like to Write this story: I'd like to write this story because I think visual art is a captivating subject. Aside from priests and doctors, artists top the list of most interesting characters in fiction, notably for their temperament, tenacity, and the color they add. I think it wold be interesting to see how the story would amount to.

Story proposal: holy trinity by jasmine cruz

The Holy Trinity
By Jasmine Cruz

Story idea: a story about the debate world. Three debaters named Ferlize, Jhareline and Hughert want to become internationally acclaimed debaters. Their story is narrated by five characters. Everytime the story is narrated, something is ommitted and the story changes completely.

The dramatic question/ dramatic theme/message of story: truth is nothing but perception

Point of view: five vantage points:
1.) bitchy debater who is the source of all rumors
2.) Old debater god who comes back to coach the new debaters
3.) A gay debater
4.) A non-varsity debater who desperately wants to fit in
5.) A adjudicator
Characters:
1.) Ferlize=naturally good debater
2.) Jharelina= became a debater by accident
3.) Hughert= eager beaver

Events:
• Blog wars
• Backstabbing
• Partying
• Love triangle
• Rise to fame

Research method:
• I will research on psychological articles on the phenomenon of rumors.
• I will research on the philosophy of truth (Luijpen, Marcel, Descartes, Hume)

Story proposal: I am always way beyond perfect

I am always way beyond perfect
by Jasmine Cruz

Elements of sub-genre (romantic comedy)
Details in story
CHARACTERS
Crazy friends
• Exa is their resident blasphemer
• Charisma is the middle class girl who feels like she’s an upper class socialite. She calls everyone honey
• Puerile always has something negative to say.
• Drea is the mind drifting gullible girl.

Crazy relatives
• Cousins Erika, Erin, Eroll, Era, Erijah, Erikson and Erlize:
o Children of Filipino (Eduardo) and Ria
o They are all one or two years apart
o They are all vertically challenged
o They are dark skinned
o They all look as though they’re septuplets
o Ada calls them Santas Elven Rejects or Eduardo and the Seven Dwarfs
o They answer back in unison
o Their voices blend harmonically
o They are sickeningly sweet
• Grandma and grandpa
o Lovesick couple
o They habitually stare into each other’s eyes
o Grandpa always has a romantic surprise for grandma

Relatives who always ask about the girl’s nonexistent love life
• Uncle-really appealing Filipino who always like to sing love songs, always asks Ada if she has a boyfriend already

Perverted relatives
• Grelk
o Cousin of Ada
o Addicted to porn
o Asks Ada awkward questions about sex

Random eccentric person
• Heylie
o Evil geek
o Neck brace that has tiny red and black stripped devil horns sticking out from certain areas of the neck brace
o Burns the bible in her spar time

Crazy lead character
• Ada
o says she is a perfect girl who lives in the imperfect world
o she is obsessed with knowledge
o she narrates simple events in a very eccentric way
PLOT
The girl is in love with bad boy and hates good boy
• Ada used to like Myrhz because although Myrhz was a popular boy, he did not act like one. Myrhz is the silent type which is very much unlike the popular boys who are usually loud, rude and sexually overcharged. He is also handsome and intelligent. However, in recent years, he has acquired this bad attitude wherein he either ignores you or snaps at you as a form of acknowledgemet. This is the reason why Ada started to dislike Myrhz.
• Now Ada has a crush on Siyen even though he is less perfect than Myrhz. Siyen is the irresponsible type who likes to party hard during exam week. He knows all the prettiest girls and does a lot of “partying” with them. He can talk to anyone and when he talks to you he makes you feel special. So there’s a danger that you might think that he likes you romantically but if that’s true then he must like everyone in a romantic way. Furthermore, due to the demise in the prince of charms quality in Myrhz, Ada began to notice Siyen and eventually she began to like Siyen despite his flaws.

Good boy acts weirdly around girl
• Myrhz acts robotically when he is around Ada
• Whenever Ada is around Myrhz friends ask him “Are you all right Myrhz?” or “Is there something wrong?”
• Ada is clueless that she is the cause of Myrhz’ peculiar behavior

The girl knows she shouldn’t fall for bad boy and thinks he cannot possibly like her for they come from different social circles
• Ada has heard a lot of rumors about Siyen like the rumor that he had sex with a seductive thirty something teacher named Ynize Puttha
• Siyen flirts with Ada but Ada doesn’t know that he is flirting with her

There is an event where the girl dresses up and the bad boy notices how beautiful she is • Ada tells Siyen that she cannot go to his party because her mother obligated her to attend the party of her mother’s new boss. The party turns out to be Siyen’s party too. Her mother’s new boss is Siyen’s mother. Siyen and his mother have a joint celebration.
• Ada looks extremely beautiful and there’s a glimmer in Siyen’s eyes that Ada couldn’t decipher but the audience knows that he is starting to desire her.

The bad boy subtly expresses interest and the girl has a comical response to his expression of interest
• Charisma happens to be at the party too. She tells Ada that Siyen has been looking for Ada. Charisma tells Ada to be careful as she may be the victim of Siyen’s birthday prank (which he does every year).
• Ada tries to avoid Siyen but she unexpectedly bumps into Siyen.
• Siyen doesn’t let her out of his sight.
• Ada becomes more and more worried but then accepts her fate and braces herself for the inevitable humiliation.
• Siyen leads her to a room and shows her a room full of roses. It is his father’s gift to his mother. Siyen just wanted to “show” Ada this beautiful place.

The girl asks her friends for some advice
• Ada asks her friends for some advice.
• Exa’s advice-“make sure he isn’t strictly catholic, make sure he isn’t involved in a cult”
“Don’t let anybody know”
• Puerile-“don’t expect anything, convince yourself that he doesn’t like you so that you don’t get disappointed”
- “subtle clues are bullshit”
- “be extremely aloof like you don’t care about him. Guys like to conquer.”
- “ignore him habitually”
• Drea-
“Love is instinct. Don’t think too much.”
• Charisma-
“Make sure you are always surrounded by many people. Act as though you are important.”

The girl tries to follow the advice of her friends but in the process she makes a fool out of herself
• Her conversations with Siyen become more awkward

She becomes even more endearing to the bad boy
• Siyen just laughs and thinks that Ada is so charming.
• Ada decides to just be herself.

Girl and bad boy become an item
• Siyen asks Ada to the prom.
• They become an item

Friends of bad boy and girl meet and a conflict erupts
• Siyen decides to throw a pre-prom party and he asks Ada to invite her friends so that they can meet Siyen’s friends.
• Siyen’s friends:
- Myrhz: introversive hot guy
- Charlize: beautiful girl who is always around Myrhz, gets high grades, party girl, slut, head of the “Red Laces” (band of kinky-Myrhz-loving followers)
- Tarrah: party girl, bimbo blond type
- Chiel: bulimic
- Greg: cool jock, large man
- Ash: hits on every girl he sees
• The two groups clash:
- Puerile tells Greg to “stop devouring the universe” when he was eating a humungous sandwich, Ada tried to explain that Puerile was really like that and that she did not mean any offense but they did not understand that.
- Exa tries to talk to Tarrah about her blasphemous insights but Tarrah is too dumb to understand.
- Charisma becomes friendly with the Red Laces. They start off well but when the Red Laces offer alcohol to Charisma and she refuses. They do not understand why she does not want to drink so they make fun of her. It is then revealed that her mother used to be a drunkard and that her mother’s drinking habit is the reason why the family lost most of their wealth.
- Drea is so gullible and trusting that she lets Ash take her to a room. He tries to have sex with her. She screams and screams. Ada and Siyen come to her rescue.
• Ada’s friends are too weird for the cool friends of Siyen while Siyen’s friends seem too cold for Ada’s friends.

EXTERNAL OBSTACLES TO RELATIONSHIP: The friends of both the bad boy and the girl say they don’t support the relationship and they try to break them up • Red Laces and Ada’s friend create a temporary alliance because they both want to break Siyen and Ada apart.

INTERNAL OBSTACLES IN RELATIONSHIP: the girl tries to change the bad boy and their relationship suffers • The bad boy characteristics of Siyen:
o Drinking
o Smoking
o Looking at other girls
• How she tries to change him:
o Subtle hints
o Then trying to hide his cigarettes and erase text messages from girls
o Refuses to go to a bar with him
o Then blatantly tells him to quit his vices.
• He promises to change.

Girl begins to have doubts about the relationship
• Ada discovers cigarettes in Siyen’s bag.
• Ada realizes that she and Siyen are totally different.

Girl and good boy unexpectedly meet and their meeting becomes subtly romantic • Ada gets in trouble for writing a subversive paper.
• She is made to do community service (garbage collector).
• Myrhz sees her and rescues her.
• It is revealed that Myrhz’ family owns the school. The school is named after and owned by his mother.
• Ada asks what else do they own and Myrhz tells her that they also own the Mashla Airlines, Morweiz Hotels, Malcheirie Restaurants (all named after and owned by his older siblings) and Madge Yachts (named after and owned by his father).
• Myrhz takes Ada back to his house
• Ada remembers Myrhz’ room because they used to play there together when they were kids.
• Ada points to different toy airplanes and says “Hey I remember this. This was the time when…”
• Ada sees an airplane that had a keyhole in it. Ada asks why there is a keyhole to that airplane and asks if they can open it.
• Myrhz seems pissed off by her question and he asks her to just shower and gives her new clothes.

There’s a magical moment where they realize they like each other but they do not verbally admit it
• They are eating and the maid comes in. The maid recognizes Ada and is surprised to see her there.
• Maid: It’s been so long since I last saw you here, Ada.
• The maid reminds them of their childhood romance.
• They blush.

A confrontation occurs between the good boy and the bad boy
• Siyen visits Myrhz and is shocked to discover that Ada is there.
• There is some sort of tension between Siyen and Myrhz.
• Siyen and Myrhz fight about the new color combination of their basketball jackets but clearly they are fighting about another thing.

The girl finds out that the bad boy is really such an ass
• During the prom, Siyen suspiciously excuses himself.
• Siyen disappears for a long time.
• Myrhz asks Ada to dance.
• Ada rejects him and says she’s waiting for Siyen.
• Siyen still is no where to be found.
• Ada gets irritated and decides to dance with Myrhz.
• After a few minutes on the dance floor, the song changes to a slow song.
• Ada hesitates.
• Myrhz assures her that they aren’t doing anything wrong.
• In the middle of the dance, Ada tells him she can’t do this because it’s not fair to Siyen.
• Myrhz reveals where Siyen went.
• He brings Ada to the garden where Siyen is.
• She sees Siyen making out with Ynize Puttha.
• Ada gets more angry at Myrhz and says a lot of hurtful words to Myrhz.

The girl breaks up with the bad boy
• Siyen and Ada break up.

The girl decides to leave
• Ada feels so heartbroken. She doesn’t want to stay in Naza anymore. Her father reminds her that he wanted her to continue her studies in France (Her father resides in France. Her father and mother are divorced).
• Ada decides to go to France.

Once they are apart, they realize that they are perfect for each other
• In the airplane, Ada’s mind seems to be drifting away. She is brought back to reality when she hears the baby boy beside her crying. “You broke it! You broke it!” the boy says. Mother says “No honey, you really open it using this key.” Ada looks at the toy and sees the exact replica of the plane with the keyhole that she saw in Myrhz’ room. She asks the mother where she got it. The mother says the flight attendant was selling some awhile ago. Ada buys the souvenir. The toy is called “Message in an airplane.” There’s a warning: do not put valuable objects inside as all airplanes can be opened by the same key. She buys one and opens it. As she holds the key, it triggers the memory that was connected to the object.
• She remembers that she was the one who gave that plane to Myrhz. She inserted a message in it and told Myrhz that she will keep the key. She had told Myrhz that she will only open it when he is mature enough to understand the message.
• Ada realizes she loves Myrhz and that Myrhz loves her too.
• She asks the flight attendant when the next flight to America will be. The flight attendant tells her most flights are full because it was holiday season. More likely it might take a week before she can get a flight back to America.

GRAND GESTURE/ CHASING SCENE? Unique expression of love
• When the plane lands, they are not in France. Ada enters a pavilion of a thousand roses. Myrhz emerges. “I decided to redirect your flight”
They express their love for each other and live happily ever after • Myrhz has the airplane and they open it. It contains a piece of paper that says “I love you.”
• They confess their love for each other and live happily ever after.

OTHERS
Accidents Everytime Ada and Myrhz meet, an accident occurs
1.) Ada and Myrhz crashed into Siyen’s large birthday cake because Charlize was trying to flirt with Myrhz while Myrhz was avoiding Charlize because he wanted to talk to Ada.
2.) Ada and Myrhz fall into the big pumpkin during the Halloween party. Ada was standing with Siyen near the edge of the plank that was stationed on top of the pumpkin. Siyen was playfully threatening to let her walk the plank. Suddenly Siyen got distracted because the seductive teacher Ynize walked into the room. He let go of Ada and she lost her balance. Myrhz tried to save her but he fell in as well.


Research method:
• Read romantic comedies

story proposal 1: Cops and Robbers

Cops and Robbers
By Jasmine Cruz
Story idea: This is a story for children. It is about a childhood game called cops and robbers. A group of children will pick whether they want to become cops, robbers or children. Then the cops will chase the robbers while the robbers will chase the children. In order to pay for ransom or bail, one must have enough sticks, leaves or flowers to pay the demanded price.
: No one really knows what each person picked to be. So honesty is an important part of the game. Once a child joins the group, he or she picks the role that is most consistent with his or her character. The officers of the class usually become policemen. The good girls and good boys of the class often choose to become children. The rascals in the class choose to become robbers.
:The game ends when all the robbers are jailed or all the children are kidnapped. Thus only the group of the policemen or group of the robbers can win.
Theme: tradition, honesty, rite of passage,
:musings on an interesting psychological trivia: when a child starts to lie, it is a sign of cognitive development
Plot:
1.) The children play. There is harmony amongst them.
2.) A new member of the group child decides to be a robber.
3.) He becomes pissed off by the fact that the policemen always win.
4.) He decides to go against tradition and breaks the sacred code of honesty.
5.) A robber pretends to be a child and infiltrates the jail camp and frees the robbers.
6.) The rest find out about his scheme.
7.) The children are divided. Friendship cannot be repaired anymore.
Research method:
• Go to the park and observe children play
• Read books on child psychology

Story Proposals

Story 1: Words Story

Point of View: Second Person

Concept:
The premise of this story is the limit and strength of words. When are words enough, and when are words necessary? It will be a story about the function of words in a relationship between a mute guy (I like how in this story, it’s the guy who’s in a position of waiting) and a verbally savvy girl (a girl who rationalizes, makes excuses, obfuscates endlessly because she can’t really deal).

Research method:
Use Google. Research about mute people.

Reason:
It's interesting for me.

*

Story 2: Untitled Story As Of Now

Point of View: Multiple First Person Points of View

Concept:
This might turn out to be maybe a fantasy, maybe just an alternate universe story; I haven't decided yet. There will be rivals, jilted lovers, dark pasts, irreconcilable differences and unspoken tensions between a group of interacting people. The most interesting feature of this particular story is that it years of accumulated mistakes and regrets will explode in one event; a FIST FIGHT, and how everything just intertwines to build up that one event...

Research Method:
Fight with someone.

Reason:
Personal catharsis.

- Isabela Lacuna

Short story proposal (Gel)

Characters:
Dr. Allen Bronson, Chief Resident psychiatrist
Dr. George Martinez, Second Year Resident psychiatrist

Minor Characters:
Patient
Clarence, Allen’s older brother
Arnold, Allen’s father
Camille, Allen’s mother

Plot:
There are two psychiatrists who were friends since college and are now colleagues in the same hospital. Though they came from similar backgrounds (financially), Dr. George came from a “normal” family of three children, still with both parents. Dr. Allen, however, has an older brother who has a record in jail, with both of them still living with their father, and gets regular visits from their mother who is now a wino living in the streets. He was taught about the harsh reality of life, how everyone is out to save his own skin, and how no one will really help you unless they want something else from you.

By becoming a psychiatrist, Dr. Allen is able to manipulate patients, some of which used to be the patients of the Dr. George. Because Dr. Allen showed them what is wrong with their lives by magnifying them immensely, he was able to free them of the confines of their pretentious worlds.

Research method:
Aside from the human tone for the characters, the research in this story will include the medications that will be used, drugs that will be consumed by the characters, and the basic information on the different psychological disorders that the patients are suffering from. Research material will come from books, the Internet, and latest news about breakthroughs on psych medicines.

Reason for doing the story:
I sort of “specialize” on topics that include psychology and/or drugs, since I read about these things a lot. Also, I’ve interviewed psychologists for past articles, and already get the hang of how they talk. As for the psychiatrist, I’ve already talked with two of them, since I went inside a psychiatry ward for an article.


GALANG, Gilda Ysobel G.
061453

Short Story Proposal-mari

Short Story Proposal
Title: Polka Dots
Point of View: First Person
Character Profile: She’s 18, a junior college student living alone in the city.
She’s Miss-All-Positive-Adjectives and loving it. One night, she discovers a weird circular thing on her back but she ignores it. It will go away, she thought. But after three days, it did not go away. Instead, it started growing and crawling around her back. It was a ring-like thing and it was spreading.
This story will be about a teenage girl who turns into Polka Dots. Red, white, and circular.
Research method:
1. Books on Rare Diseases
2. Google. 
Reason:
I want to play with the idea: “There’s no such thing as perfection” by using a “perfect” girl and putting her in a spot which would physically, emotionally, and mentally tear her apart. It’s like a search for happiness that’s not just skin-deep.

Story Proposal

Proposed Story Idea 1

·         Flash fiction/ short short story

·         Character: an up and coming art curator of a museum/art gallery who had the job for about 3 months after graduating college (not yet sure what gender)

·         Setting: late night December in a famous museum/ art gallery where the high-society crowd usually gathers

·         POV: first person narrative of the main character

·         Plot:

       The main character is an art curator, described by his colleagues as the best description to fit the job. Right after graduating from college, the main character was hired as a junior curator for a famous museum. He was in charge of the new art gallery that features artworks done by artists he never heard of. The art gallery has been open for three months, and the story takes place at the closing party of the art gallery.

        After three months of stress from managing his first job as a curator, the main character is relieved that everything is all over. But he didn’t know that there is still one guest waiting for him at the gallery.

·         Atmosphere: psychological, dark

·         Research process: read on about art, and on being a curator. Look and familiarize myself with different works of art in the library and in the net. Try to visit a museum or the Ateneo Art Gallery to get the museum-feeling of the setting.

·         

Stereotype: Physically beautiful women

She was a beautiful woman that was certain. Sometimes her beauty would surprise her, jolt her back to herself, in front of a mirror or with her hands folded neatly upon her lap, the image of a fine crease upon her smooth white brow, or the ghost of a grin, then away it went, this very present gift of fate, her own incommodious beauty, that sometimes she’d bite her pale, oval nails, with their stark white lunulas like crescent moons upon her skin, as though they’ve been bitten off by some animal. Her name is unimportant, what matters is the way she sat on her armchair, a variety of journals strewn artfully upon the beech armoire. She sat with her legs curled beneath her, toes pointing downwards, reticent and unassuming. She barely glanced at the vanity mirror, she’s seen herself countless times before, yes, she’s memorized her own face, blinking, it would disappear for a nanosecond. Once her eyes were open again, she’d feel the impact of time upon the veins in her skin, the marrow of her bones, and she’d feel sullen and dull again, wondering if physical beauty lasted and whether any man would truly love her for what she was and not for what she looked like. There were few men, she was too ethereal to have men lined out their picket fence like bettors betting on a racehorse. Her beauty was her curse. It delivered her to solitude and misunderstanding, ascetism and misanthrope.
Let us name her Sophia, wisdom. She was tall, with a lithe frame, and a sort of Teutonic beauty about her, high cheekbones, elongated torso, she had small breasts and in an act of willful eccentricity she’d wear a dream catcher she bought in some dingy backroom stall just to show to the world that she cared. Sophia will be her name, and that is what we’ll call this haunted stranger, with her deep moss-colored eyes and the pale rosebud complexion of impeccable skin. Some women are born stellar. Sophia was one of them. As a child, her mother, a sewer, would push her into joining beauty pageants, but mostly for the prize money, for Sophia was not from a rich stock. They’d spend an afternoon teaching her that beauty was a prize to be sought, a treasure. She was still young, her mother had sewn a dress for her, a confectionary assemblage of pink and white chiffon that showed off masterfully her length of limb, her depth of gaze, the mysterious depression in her eyes that made one question, what indeed was beauty. Was she merely a creature of fancy? A young Sophia would parade around their home, donning the ghastly pink and white dress, watching it trail behind her like her own shadow. She’d peer cautiously into the mirror and wonder if anybody would love her had she been ugly.
“You look beautiful, we’re sure to win first prize this time,” her mother had said, beaming at her, for she had born this marbled statuette. She’d win the pageant of course, and take home that coveted prize. Her mother would grab the money and go if she had the chance and pleasure herself with drink as she’d sew more and more dresses for more and more pageants and the money would pile higher and higher and Sophia’s self confidence would sink lower and lower until it sank out of reach, into oblivion, beneath the surface of the horizon that no amount of seeing would find her, trembling, an alien in this world of normally beautiful people.
She was a child when she started reading and writing, but she wondered if there would be a career for her in those fields. She believed her beauty was a curse. Too many men leered at her, but her beauty would stand steadfast and strong and no amount of encouragement would push any man into conversing with a goddess, a woman who Vermeer would have painted, a woman whose physical beauty clashed with Blackwood’s, with Sidall’s, with Juel’s. Her mother discovered her diary, a pathetic compilation of sheaves upon sheaves of loose paper, bound together somewhat inexpertly. Sophia would write into it every day, recording the events of her young life, recording every single triviality. In her mother’s rash, overworked hands, her pathetic diary had an ominous quality. Her mother would laugh loudly and slap her beefy hands upon her thigh, reading aloud for everybody to hear the highs and lows of Sophia’s adolescent life. Her mother was seated in the middle of the low wooden table, her fellow sewers and workwomen gathered around her like bees to a hive, a hive about to burst with malice and amusement. Her mother discovered Sophia’s diary beneath the sole white pillow in their shared bedroom, and remembered where it was in case she needed to amuse herself more with her only daughter’s sorrows. She’d read Sophia’s diary aloud to her friends and laugh at each passage, as though life were a triviality.
Sophia loved to read, it compensated for the deep longings she felt to connect with other people. It was not that she was friendless, she wasn’t. She met her friends somewhat regularly, once or twice a week they’d brunch in some café as nameless as she was. She’d pick sullenly the morsels on her plate, moving them around recklessly, as reckless as she sometimes was, given her indecision and caution, move them like ants on a molehill, or the way God did, knowing. But no. She did not know what she was doing, moving uneaten food around her plate, it gave her control. She, in her kindness would save some food inside that white porcelain rim, a rim of the world or exercised authority over everything, and like a naval woman rent the food off the plate and into another woman’s territory, for beautiful as she was, she had no sense of time, of sense itself, that is she was an empty, beautiful woman, with a dark chasm in the order of her orderly living.
Sophia entered beauty pageants when she was young. Did she want to join beauty contests in her adult life, with her mother dead and rotting like a common carcass? Her mother had died of skin cancer when Sophia was twenty one, who was at the prime of her life, full of vigor and energy. She tended to her ailing mother, ignoring rebellious calls from within herself, discouraging her from saving a mother who never behaved like a mother, who was interested more in marketing her daughter like some commodity to earn fast money to ease her selfish self from the tyranny of sewing. Her mother died slowly and painfully, as if it were her last blessing to a child she never loved, as if her slow tortuous death was meant to torture Sophia in turn, in semblance of a curse. Perhaps she was too often exposed to the sun though she worked indoors, or perhaps her skin reflected her prickly personality, red and boiling, sadistic and malign. The skin of her hands and arms wasted away, shriveled. Her mother’s generous throat wrinkled as it aged and her tongue was most definitely a shade of purple. She was often sick in the morning and refused to leave her bed. Sophia’s diary, which had so amused her during the previous years (Sophia never kept the diary to adulthood, concerned about her privacy and moral well-being) didn’t keep her for a day any more and amuse herself by doodling fashion dresses on paper and ordering her only daughter around. Her mother was no beauty; she was a washerwoman in the strictest sense, wide and generously flabby, with loose brown skin and a receding forehead. Whatever vestiges of beauty she possessed soon died with her. She died dragging everybody down with her, she would not suffer alone, and this was slyly the most unselfish thing about her. If she suffered, so must Sophia. If she died, Sophia must die too.
Sophia felt her beauty was a curse. She felt the stares of strangers crawl upon her skin like caterpillars upon green leaves, they snatched her body from within and clamped down on her beating heart and stilled it. Only when alone, with her mother thankfully dead, would she begin to relax. Her friends did not understand her, for they were not beautiful. She hated them secretly for this. They did not undergo the biases she underwent and remained pitifully ugly through time and were unaware of the hurricanes and cyclones that stirred within her pale breast. Were men afraid of them? No. Were they more attractive as partners? Yes. Sophia grew to despise their mediocrity. They were of average height with prominent, dull features and bright smiles. That was all. But they had better luck with men; their beauty was no threat. But Sophia was an unearthly alien.
Was she ever free? Sophia’s favorite book was Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.” Growing up in their little apartment in the outskirts of the city, had she ever truly earned liberty? Sophia was a quiet child, too tall for her age, which excluded her from many street games. She was an average student, which frustrated her. Had she possessed uncanny intelligence, her doubts and personal fears would have dissolved and what would remain would be a tantalizing inner core of suspended brilliance and mental wanderlust. She possessed ordinary mental powers, but found refuge in books and the diary she had kept as a teenager. In books, she learned to love. She made up for her mediocre brain with reading as many books she could get her hands on. She favored Philosophical books. She could not grasp most of the abstract concepts and worldly ideas but found tremendous pleasure in covering her face with the jackets of any single volume and delighted secretly in the fact that her physical beauty had been concealed for a moment. Books to her were symbols of an elite society she wanted badly to be a part of. In this society were tweedy professors and young mathematicians and beautiful, mysterious women. This world, her inner reality, was the only sure thing she knew. Sophia belonged to this world. In her solitude and in her misery, she fabricated this surreal landscape where everyone was as beautiful as she was and there was no more loneliness.
She had a dream one night. She was running through a forest. Prickly bushes and thorny flowers cut through her skin. Her bare legs were bleeding and she, too, was barefoot. What was she running from, and where was she going? It seemed she, herself, did not know the answer, but she was certain of one thing: that she must go on running, though it pained her and exhausted her and tormented her. She had been running for a while now and she never looked back. (Joanna Carlos)

Rock Star

Worn out—that’s the impression Leo Morato always gave people who chanced to see him onstage, breathing and rasping into the mic as if the music was sucking all the strength his body possessed. To some people, he’s almost inseparable from the music—it was as if the furious and at times lamenting rhythms had already enslaved him that they found it hard to imagine him without his band, enveloping him in a wall of haunting riffs and bestial drum fills. The Leo without the band—that’s what the women who had watched him wanted to explore, to unmask.

His body is his instrument, as his adoring fans would say. He let the rhythms flow through his body, let them jerk his arms and sway his head each time he roars into the mic, and before long he would have worked up the crowd of spectators who were lucky enough to witness him. His shirtless antics on the stage have turned him into a symbol—a symbol that women rallied around, and the band’s music was pushed to the backstage, as Leo would say. All that the fans kept seeing was Leo brushing off his hair to reveal his striking features, sweat trickling down the contours of his body, the stage lights making every drop shimmer with his every move. The music entered their ears, but nothing else registered other than the lead vocalist thrashing around onstage, a specimen of beauty that made them grow moist with longing. No one paid much attention to Leo’s lyrics filled with anguish from the past, a past that changed his being altogether.

Someone slithered next to Leo in a bar once, an attractive young lady aiming to slither into bed with him. He was timid all throughout their conversation, answering in lines as if he were just reciting fragments from his songs, which bored her after a while and just invited him to come to her place. He refused. Not knowing what else to do, he left the place without another word, leaving his bandmates wondering what the hell was up with him.

He did take someone home with him one other night, though. She sneaked in with the other groupies backstage, and his eyes found her among the throng of young women who had gathered with the hope of beguiling the rock star with their flirtatious glances. He singled her out, ignoring everyone else. It was her bangs that did it, and it was his bandmates’ questioning glances ever since the bar incident that forced him to take her.

They drove to his condo along Recto. There had been no small talk, no foreplay. He just gripped the steering wheel with a determination to look straight ahead, as if he was driving through a derelict part of the countryside in the lateness of the hour. On the other hand, she couldn’t say a thing for the whole trip—she knew the man onstage, not the man who had chosen her and was now driving her to his place.

At his condo, Leo didn’t know what to do with her, so he told her to strip in front of him.

He took a chair and sat in the middle of the room, tense as a kitten, his knees shaking slightly. His shirt lay at the foot of his chair, but he didn’t dare remove his jeans. She did as he asked—she took her clothes off one by one with theatrical grace, her movements singing in tune with the steady hum of the aircon. She used her body well, Leo noted—all her curves moved gracefully as she crawled over to where he sat, tried to unzip his jeans. He slapped her hand away, but she smiled and moved her head to his neck, letting her lips brush against the skin gleaming with sweat.

Leo waited for the feeling to come, but it never came. She was already draped over him like a blanket, groping, smothering him with kisses, but he didn’t feel anything. Instead, images flashed across his head—the man from downstairs, the calloused hands, a ring on one of the fingers, the pleas for help that never came. Those hands were groping, as much as her hands were already slithering down to his flaccid organ while she kissed him furiously. He pushed her away, and she dropped to the floor with a thud.

“You should go now,” he said, which was almost a murmur. His voice was shaking.

He watched her dress, the surprised look still etched on her face, and led her out the door. Through the window, he saw her cross the street and disappear through the night. He wondered if she would tell people about what just happened—I should have taken her number, he thought bitterly.

Colours

It was at that curious age, where the world was still full of wonder, when I first saw her.

The day is bright and charming, and there is an endless sky that leads everywhere and nowhere. It is still, quiet – until a soft pitter-pattering of footsteps approaches and brushes against the warmth of the bleak stone ground. I hear a thud, and a melodious progression of chains signals an emerging figure which quickly cuts through the dullness of what would have been a slow, lazy afternoon.

She is riding her red bike. It is small, simple, with two pairs of ash-coloured wheels and streaks of dusty yellow lining its rugged edges. The fire-engine hue was no longer as striking as it used to be, but that didn’t matter. Not a lot of things did. She loved that trusty old bicycle so long as it always agreed to take her to new places. It never failed her before and she was positive that it never ever will.

Almost immediately, she closes her eyes – tightly, as if presupposing some weirdly fantastic and wondrously bizarre journey that lay ahead – and feels the curl of her lashes tickle the left, and then the right, edges of those hard-earned bags where she surreptitiously and expertly collects each grain of the Sandman’s magic dust each night.

She accelerates. Delighting in the harried clink-clank of her trusty steed, she thinks of the small xylophone in her room with its welcoming tinkle of notes that dance around her private burgundy spaceship carefully parked and positioned in the vicinity of that unpretentious blue planet (her favourite because it’s blue) between Saturn and Neptune, underneath the faint glow of a jade Polaris.

She smiles, so eagerly, upon hearing the clandestine riddles which the ancient wind softly whispers to her; teasing her all the more by blowing tender kisses to the sides of her cheeks, the back of her bare neck and, ever so gently, to each unassuming strand of pallid – almost colourless – hair which adds a peculiarly whimsical contrast to her remarkable skin, a powdery blend of chalk and snow.

Soon, I saw an extraordinary spectacle of sights. An array of endless possibilities; flashes of what is and what is to be – whether it be imagined or not. Through her eyes, the world is neither black nor white: it is every colour that she imagines it to be. She does not know what to call them. But she doesn’t need to because she finds no need for words.

Suddenly, she stops and rushes off to greet a familiar old face. It is the dog, but she doesn’t know that. She only knows the delight she feels by playing with it or touching its soft white fur (same as her own finer-looking ones, only in a yellowish kind of cream). And she loves it just the same.

She leaves. Her attention is short, you see. She is easily distracted by many things because they are all too big and vast. But just as easily, she becomes fascinated by them.

That was how she spent most of her days. And in all those times, I spent it with her. That girl, she plays with me often but she does not who I am.

I have no name. It is our secret. Because the day she gave me one, she disappeared.

The Secret

“Hey Ada! I’ve been looking all over for you,” Siyen Merluz said, suddenly emerging out of nowhere. He flashed me his famous prince-charming-I-can-give-you-the-world smile and I just stood there helpless.

“Uhh…really?” I said, as I nervously nudged the nose bridge of my Betty-La-Fea-like glasses.

“Yeah. I thought you were avoiding me.”

“Avoiding you? Why would I?” I said, trying to force myself to look innocent.

“Remember I promised to take you around my family yacht? Lucky for you, I don’t break my promises.”

“Yeah…lucky.”

“Come, follow me.”

As I passed by the nose-picking-booger-rolling nerds, sex-is-my-favorite-subject jocks, I-know-aliens-exist freaks, I-will-be-a-whore-after-graduation blondes and other creatures that inhabit a high school prom, I remembered what my friend said. He’s the kind of guy who thinks he owns the world. He freakin’ allowed the school to borrow their family yacht for the prom. People like him are never interested in people like you. It’s a fact of life. Nothing can change that. If he is ever being nice to you, it’s not what you think. He has a hidden agenda. Avoid him.

I know that following my friend’s advice should have been clever, but I guess fate would not allow me to be clever. I did try to avoid him, but he was able to track me down anyway.

I let him steer me towards the other end of the yacht. He motioned me to enter a cabin. Like a zombie, I followed his command. The cabin was dark and its walls were made of a black glass-like structure. It seemed eerie. I did not know why he wanted me there. I did not know what he was planning to do. Yet I couldn’t leave.

“Is it okay if I use the bathroom?” I said, as nervousness always brings out the bathroom queen in me.

“Sure, it’s the white door at your right.”

I got some tissue and I realized that my hand was trembling. Stop it, Ada. This is silly. As I washed my hands, I noticed that the mirror above the sink, which served as a part of a medicinal cabinet, was half open. I was going to close it when I saw a golden metal glimmering through the opening. Inside the medicinal cabinet, I saw a dilapidated trophy. Emblazoned on it were the words: Siyen Merluz—Best Speaker, Topic—It is better to have loved than never to have loved at all. I tried to stifle a laugh. I couldn’t imagine how Siyen won such a goofy trophy. Could it be that Siyen’s a closet romantic?

“Are you okay? You’ve been there for a long time already,” Siyen said, knocking on the bathroom door.

“I’m almost done,” I said, putting the trophy back in its place.

When I went out, it seemed like I was transported to a different room.

“This was my father’s anniversary gift to my mother.”

I was speechless. There were masked butterfly fishes, royal angel fishes, regal tang fishes, moorish idol fishes, stingrays, dolphins, tortoises, and other sea creatures swimming around the cabin walls.

“This is amazing. Are we…are we…underwater?” I asked, feeling a bit foolish.

“There are underwater cameras beneath the yacht which transmutes the images into these walls.”

“Beautiful.”

“Beyond beautiful,” he said, looking beyond my thick black glasses and plunging into my deep blue eyes.

Preso

When the door opens, the first thing that greets him are a pair of prison tattoos and a smile that's this close to a snarl.

Preso flashes in his mind so vividly his knees lock together and he just can't think for a second.

"Who the fuck are you?"

And on most days, he feels like he has a good grasp of spoken language (he usually gets a B in his English and Filipino classes) but today was apparently going to be different, because he makes a sound that's half human and half sheep in reply to the man's question and tries not to tremble too hard that he can't deny it later.

"I-I-I'm Marianne's classmate." He pauses before he adds "Sir."

He gets another once over, a look that goes up one side and goes down the other one, and he's trying not to glance at all the tattoos on the man's body while the purity of his intentions are being weighed, because they're all of things that are looking at him (sometimes, with more than one pair of eyes) like he's digestible through skin contact alone.

The thought almost makes him whimper and he wishes his brain would just shut up.

"Kuya, is that my classmate at the door?"

And if he wasn't in love with her before, then he sure as hell is now, and he would have rushed to her side if he could, but he's still too afraid that the man in front of him hasn't decided he's more useful to him as a human being rather than as adobo, so he just settles for a slow, unthreatening wave of his hand.

"You know this guy, Mar?"

"Yes Kuya, and didn't I tell you this morning that my friend's coming over to tutor me?" She slaps him on the arm, and he'd be kidding himself if he said he wasn't expecting her to maybe hear her fingers break.

A grunt is all the other says in reply, which Marianne takes as a cue to take his hand and lead him inside the house. She doesn't say anything about how his hands are just about as warm as a corpse's, or how he doesn't sit on the chair she leads him too as much as falls into it, but that might be because she's used to this kind of thing.

Her brother follows them soon, and sits on the opposite side of the room with his eyes and the eyes of all his tattoos trained on their (or more specifically, his) every move, as they discuss lines and segments and the significance of starting points.

----*

Marianne is really bad at math, so he finds himself going to her house to tutor her almost every week. He's acclimated to her brother somewhat so that he's not always in a sweaty panic whenever he's in the vicinity. He's still twitchy though, but he's not going to complain about that any time soon because he knows there are worse things in life. Seb (he heard Marianne call her brother by that name a few times) seems to have gotten used to his presence too, because he doesn't watch them like a human gargoyle anymore and instead, goes around doing his own thing, content just to make sure they were actually studying and not fooling around.

He still cracks his knuckles ominously when he's near, still makes sure that Marianne is seated in a position which will make it hard for him to touch her without Seb seeing immediately, but aside from those, everything had sort of settled down to a routine they've all come to expect.

It's not a comfortable one, though.

----*

"What do you think her brother does in his spare time?" One of his friends asks him when he tells them about his weekly experiences tutoring the love of his high school life.

He shrugs.

"I dunno. Robs commuters?"

"Ya think he's a pimp?"

"Nah. He looks kinda stupid to me. Muscles everywhere except where it counts. Bouncer probably, but not pimp."

"GOONZ." Another friend adds, pronouncing it in the slurred, exaggerated cant of the lower class that everybody who hears bursts out laughing.

It's a false kind of bravado and he's old enough to know it's not so different from what his kid brothers say when their pride's are all scraped up and they feel like being hard to deal with. It's fun though, it's so easy, and it makes the fear seated in the back of his mind easier to deal with, so why not right?

----*

It is the week before exams. They're studying parabolas now, and Marianne's so nervous about failing that she's making all sorts of stupid mistakes with the equations. He suggested a break, she agreed to his suggestion, which is how he finds himself on his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He almost doesn't notice her brother on the couch, a book propped on his chest and black -framed glasses on his nose, if it wasn't for the snoring that was emanating from his figure.

It was... weird to say the least. The glasses didn't look right amidst all the wild tattoos, and the book looked overwhelmed by the sheer mass of Seb's muscles. He didn't know Seb reads Kierkegaard. Hell, he didn't think Seb had much of an education in anything except Thuggery 101, so seeing him like this was like being smacked upside the head.

"He almost graduated with a degree in English literature, you know."

He almost jumps up out of his skin when Marianne speaks, but she's not paying attention to him at all and is looking at her brother with clear fondness etched on her features. It makes his gut clench something terrible, makes the guilt start to gnaw at his insides like a bad ulcer when he remembers the things he says about Seb.

"My parents were gone most of the time, and Seb practically raised me by himself. He wanted to earn extra money and he thought the gangs could give him that. It was a mistake. He knows it, I know it, everyone knows it. It's not the kind of thing people forgive easily, though..." Both of them fall silent immediately when Seb shifts like he's about to wake up, and the fact that he doesn't makes them both insanely lucky. She doesn't continue where she left off, but he doesn't need her to fill in the blanks for him.

He feels like the biggest dick this side of Manila, and the feeling doesn't go away for days.

----*

Weeks go by, exams stop slugging people over the head, and though he still can't work up the nerve to talk to Seb man-to-man, he's taken to accidentally leaving books at their house. Last time it was Tolstoy. This week it's Asimov. Marianne doesn't seem to notice what he's doing (he's learned the art of subtly was something she had yet to master, along with Algebra) but her brother sometimes gets a thoughtful look on his face when he answers the door before it transforms to the usual scowl.

He knows it's not enough of an apology, but he hopes he's getting there.

----*

Addendum:
If anyone's curious, Seb's whole name is Sebastian, which apparently means 'revered' in Greek.

ETA:
Editted at 9:51 pm. Fixed the inconsistent tenses and spelling mistakes.