Slip of the Pen

Gaze out of the window and into the moonlit night. Forget the boyfriend who left for another girl, forget the university which kicked you out, forget the parents who left each other and you as well. Forget them all; while away your grief by gazing at the abandoned building across the street. Stare at its dark windows like black holes, consuming the silver light and giving off none. Gaze into those cavities. And see — there she is, the teen-aged girl standing by a third-floor window, her white nightgown a beacon in the shadows. She’s peering over the street, staring at your house, looking at you. She disappears; a minute later, you see a white blur on the rooftop, see it fall off the edge, see the girl plummet to the ground.

Leave the house in your bedtime dress. Cross the street, enter the forsaken edifice, satisfy your curiosity. Go up the floors, stop at the third. Take hurried steps, then more, knowing that each one brings you closer to her. Enter a room — she’s not there. Look out of the window, see your house across the street. Leave the room, go upstairs, up to the rooftop.

There she is — see the white-dressed girl fall off the edge, run to her, run run run, run to the edge, trip over a jutting piece of tile, and fall off the edge, fall, plummet to the ground as a teen-aged girl in her white nightgown, a wishing star blazing through the moonlit night.


[I think I wrote this one a long long time ago for a sudden fiction writing contest (max 250 words). Of course, I lost. Harhar.]

Just this morning, I passed by a public elementary school on the way to the University. Posted on its gate, an official barangay notice read: “Babala. Mapanganib ang lugar na ito.”*

And to add to the stupidity of it all, the school was directly in front of a church.


*In English, “Beware. This is a dangerous place.”

*****

Humans are inherently selfish.**

“Do not do unto others what you would not have them do unto you.” We refrain from inflicting harm upon others just because we’re afraid. Afraid that the all-reaching hand of Karma will seek you and smack down its massive fist on your silly, wicked head as retribution. Afraid that you’ll really pay for that ‘evil thing’ you did. And heck, the concept of Karma itself is both a whip to instill fear into the innate human wickedness and a candy-treat dangled for the pithy human goodness struggling to get out.

Why do you play the part of Mr. (or Ms.) Goody-Two-Shoes, even just from time to time? Oh, I see. So you can get into Heaven or Nirvana or whatever-Elysium-paradise-you-want-to-name. So you can save your ass from the Fires of Hell.

Or being reincarnated as a cockroach.


**Sorry guys. Mebbe I’m wrong here; I’m not out to start a moral (immoral) debate. Just feeling a little nasty today.

******

Bloody scratches.

I’m your typical unsure-if-I’m-an-alpha-male-but-heck-it’s-good- if-I’m-one that perpetually feels the need to have an itch scratched.

I was itching to rise from the murk of my academic performance in the University. And so I strained my arm and scratched my back.

I was itching to live out my passion in journalism amidst computers and mathematics. And so I scratched.

I was itching to be productive and earn a few bucks in my free time. And so I scratched.

I was itching to be finally part of a family, a potent organization in UP. And so I scratched.

I was itching to take a stand in the trends and issues in the IT world — open sourcing and related matters. And so I scratched.

I was itching to mold a brave, determined academic association in its infancy stages. And so I scratched.

Six scratches in one year. Quite a feat, actually.

But the last time I looked at my back on the mirror, I saw blood.

Yes, blood was seeping from my scratches — crimson lacerations inflicted by eager nails, driven by an all-consuming desire…to scratch the itch.

Self-mutilating bastard.


[I want my free time back.]