Slip of the Pen

Deviations II • Deviations I

The Stink

They had just stepped into her house and locked the door when she looked around as if looking for something, crinkling her nose at the same time.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m sorry if it stinks around here.”

“Huh?”

“The result of having too many assholes sharing one place,” she answered, not even looking at his direction. Her stare now seemingly darted from one spot of the floor to another.

“Assholes, eh? Do I know them?”

“Of course you do. Parents, stuff. Why, who else lives here? Son of a bitch, you can be so stupid at times.”

He managed to sound off an overplayed grunt. She disappeared around a corner, and he heard a fridge creak open. He was getting impatient.

“Beatrice.” Full names are commands, he’d found out early in their two years.

She appeared right on cue, eyes now pledging allegiance to him. “Yeah?”

“They’re really out, right?”

“Of course they’re out. We wouldn’t be staying here if they weren’t out.”

“O, so what are we waiting for?” he asked, raising his voice. He scratched his neck.

She stood in her place a few feet away, breathing deeply, slowly — deliberately. She began to crinkle her nose.

He swung open his arms in an imperious manner.

“Give me the goddamn fun, girl.”

She walked into him, letting his arms reach and coil around her. Her face drew nearer to his, and she opened her lips.

“Suddenly, it stinks even more around here.” She kissed him.


[Women, this might not be new knowledge to you, but some men know that their only difference with a sinus is one syllable. The tragedy lies in enjoying being one.]

[Remember the first Deviations? Again, not for kids. This piece is best read with Kanye West's Touch the Sky playing in the background.]


Touch the Sky

“For the day you die, you gonna touch the sky”

Johnny Martires was a good guy — all Johnnies are, of course. He was generous in patience, love, and other goofy-good what-not. But others weren’t as generous to him; for example, his girl. But he wasn’t crying, no, not all Johnnies cry. He was smiling from ear to ear, epilepsisyzing himself to Kanye West’s tune loudly playing in his room, conquering every sound wave from there out to a one mile radius.

Johnny’s girl had just torn him to tatters. She shattered him as brutally as gravity destroys a Superman toy dropped from a hundred stories high. But the song slapped his pieces back into place with P. Diddy’s Mighty Bond. The song always put him in ecstasy. No — the song itself was ecstasy. Kanye West was his prophet of salvation; Lupe Fiasco was the holy sidekick. Touch the sky, baby, touch the sky, yeah, sky high.

“Baby, I’m going on an airplane, and I don’t know if I’ll be back again”

Kanye West’s groovy gospel was truly heaven-sent. Johnny was flying to the province in a week’s time. He was leaving his girl behind, and he hoped, everything else. The song was his covenant with the Grim Reaper. Yes, Grim Reaper with the bling-bling hanging from his neck, shining angel wings sprouting from his back, bloody scythe traded in for a gold-plated one.

But Bad Luck was Kanye West’s foe, and so a tormentor of his disciples. The plane didn’t crash, and the return trip was equally uneventful. Johnny ended up safe and sound at his home, surrounded by Kanye’s mesmerizing pontifications. He listened for hours, for days. His head swayed with every beat. Then he realized — all hope wasn’t lost. He can still touch the sky. Yeah, sky high.

“I gotta testify, come up in the spot looking extra fly, for the day I die, I’mma touch the sky”

He went out, took a ride to the University, to the hallowed, towering Hall where he and his girl first met. He showed his old faded ID to a yawning guard. As he went up the stairs, he passed by both young and old students, people still clutching to dreams of touching the sky, to snuggle into cubicle prisons of the skyscrapers of Makati and Ortigas. He sneered — he’ll reach the sky first.

The sun shone brightly on the rooftop. He walked to the edge, eyes fixed on the clouds leisurely sailing above.

“For the day I die, I’mma touch the sky”

He spread his arms, then jumped off the edge.

He flew.

“I’m, I’m sky high. I’m, I’m sky high. I’m, I’m sky high…”

[Note: This is a piece of fiction. Sometimes, a writer needs to challenge the readers' sensibilities (challenge, not offend). Otherwise he's a spineless writer. If you don't like pieces which aren't 'goody-goody', please skip this post. My next one's going to be tamer. Thank you, people.]


Sacred Vestments

Beatrice isn’t one for Sunday dresses. She’d always show up for her uncle’s masses in a black spaghetti-strap blouse which showed off her pierced navel, and a skirt three-fourths of a ruler above the knee. It made her mom furious, and her dad slightly amused.

This Sunday, in an unlit confessional box, she rips open a package given earlier by a parish acolyte. Armed with a few slivers of light, she finds a card inside, and a black thong with an imprinted bunny symbol. The card reads: “Hugs and kisses to my favorite niece this special day. Enjoy!”


PC Overhaul

“Your baby crashed because of Linux.”

Roger couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He wanted to look the damn PC technician in the eye, but couldn’t. The fool was staring at the monitor, chewing an (imaginary) piece of gum, pretending to make sense out of the Linux boot screen when it was obvious this git was a Windows-only git.

“You don’t tell me things like that. Linux won’t cause this kind of problem,” Roger said, grating his teeth.

The technician nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders. Chew. “You seem to know it —” chew “—so why go to me?” Chew, chew, chew.

Roger wanted to shout something cool and polite that was still shoutable, such as “I’m paying you to fix my machine, not teach me a lesson!”, but settled on punching the PC tower. The thing protested, sounding off a shrill beeeep, then promptly died.

The technician stopped chewing his (imaginary) gum. “What the hell are you doin’?!”

In response Roger seized the PC, walked to the cliff and hurled it down the staircase. The technician’s loud barnyard expletive wasn’t able to mask the crashing sound the PC made.

Roger turned and shouted in his face, “F*ck you!”

Finally, something cool and polite and shoutable.


Head Banger

They called him the proverbial black sheep of the family, a Satanist, a bastard, and sometimes even by his birth name, Damian. They never called him D-Maks, which was bad, because he’d forgive them if only they gave him that littlest and greatest of respects.

After all, being called by the name which lent him street cred is being called king.

“Damian!”

Turning his head to face his mom to the pace of a funeral song was already second nature to D-Maks. He gave her a blank, almost funerary stare to match.

“What time is it?! Why do you always come home when the sun’s starting to rise? You’ve been head banging again with your friends, haven’t you?”

“Well, you should be thankful I still came home, shouldn’t you?” Never mind that rappers didn’t do rock. He’d tried explaining that to her too many times.

“You rude bastard! And what’s that wound on your forehead? You got into a fight, you damn kid! You got into a fight again!”

D-Maks’ ears had enough, and he made his way upstairs to his room. A screeching ululation followed him with every step: Dontyouturn yourbackonmeohidontbelievethisyoubastardyousonofab*tchyou —

He closed the door. He sneered at the thought that she had actually cursed herself.

But then he saw the altar, and the sneer vanished. D-Maks hastily proceeded to prostrate himself in front of the table, bow his head, clasp his hands together. He took a deep breath, then banged his head on the altar.

The crucifix shook. The pain of the previous night’s confession resurrected on D-Maks’ forehead.

“Father, forgive me.” He banged his head again, the crucifix shook again. “Forgive me for my sins, save me from the fires of hell.” Bang, shake. “Forgive me for I do not know what I do.” Bang, blood, shake. “Forgive me…”

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.]