Sunday, October 31, 2010

DWP - the last princess: four-line poem

the last princess

the young king's weary looking at all the princesses
in his search to find his beautiful queen.
"all these are boring, any one at all interesting?"
then comes the last one wearing a large nose ring.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

DWP - the gypsies: four-line prose prompt

He eyes the woman with the large silver hoop earrings and red bandanna as she explains the efficacy of the dried leaves and herbs wrapped in flimsy packets. The silver earrings make small tinny noises that dissolve in her hearty laugh, her bosom expanding as she does so.

He kisses her hand, "Marry me," he says, he takes in the smell of an aromatic packet attached to her wrist, and despite what seemed to be a perfect example of a human female, he notes her hands are coarse and calloused.

"I can't," she says, "I'm a gypsy and my heart belongs to no one and no place, and that's how things should be."

Friday, October 29, 2010

DWP - the squire: prompt

The Squire

Ergil checks his image in the hallway mirror on his way to the Royal Lair. He adjusts the large pewter bucket of his belt, the one that he has just acquired at the local markkinoille. Egil wants to impress and the belt, with the trefot design in stones of amethyst and crystal, gives him the absolute "manly" look.

He arranges his satiny purple cape so that it wraps around his left shoulder and arm just enough for his silver wrist band to peek through. His long brown hair cascades down his shoulders as he straightens them. He gave himself a little smile, proud of how squirely he looks.

Ergil taps at the door. He hears the faint voice of a woman.

"It's Ergil, m'lady," he says in the deepest voice he could muster.

The door opens, a large, middle-aged lady with big blonde hair, heavy long lashes, very rosy cheeks and very red lips, wearing no more than an expanded version of a tiger print corset, appears.

"Oh!" she exclaims, "Are you Ergil?"

Ergil, in shock, his mouth open, slowly nods his head; unbelieving that such a large package could have such annoyingly shrill voice.

"And you even came all dressed up. That's good." Her large bosom seems just a bit too large for her corset and Ergil fears it will burst out as she giggles.

"I'm here for the Lady Leonora," Ergil says, tipping his hat at the large lady.

"But I am Lady Leonora," she declares and giggles some more. "And you are my squire!"

Lady Leonora waves a grand gesture with her hand, then pinches Ergil's cheeks with her fat fingers with very long crimson laquered nails.

"You will escort me tonight to this wonderful costume party, non!" she says as she puts her one arm around his neck and Ergil's face gets buried in her large bosom. "Let's go, sweetie!"

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

DWP - the knight: prompt

The Knight

The beautiful Queen stands in front of the gentleman kneeling before her. She gracefully taps his shoulders with the sword, first the left, then the right. But when she lifts the sword, she starts to say something, looks around at her audience, mouths gaping, eyes unbelieving.

She giggles, softly at first which she tries to suppress it but the trembling of her shoulders could not be controlled. She bursts into a loud laughter.

The gentleman gets up from his kneeling position, swears the "f" word, and lifts his arms in total exasperation.

"Cut!" the director says. "What's going on here? This is take thirty-five, for God's sakes!"

She continues to laugh until tears flow from her eyes. The make-up artist rushes to her and tries to wipe the eye shadows that have smudged her cheeks. When after a few minutes she recovers, she faces the gentleman, his annoyance at her evident in his eyes, and she makes the sign of the cross in the air.

"You are now a knight in tights!" She starts to laugh even harder, then, putting two fingers in her mouth, she makes a loud whistle at the actor playing knight who now walks away from the set.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

DWP - the dragon's birthday: two haikus

the dragon's birthday

the dragon's birthday
celebrated in China
plenty food and coins.


on Dragon's birthday
he learned how to roar and blow
fire at his momma.

DWP - the king: prompt

The King

King Arthur, that's what Regina and her sisters dubbed their father, Arthur, since they were children. In school they were taught that the home is a castle, the father is the king and ruler, the mother is the queen and the light that guides the subjects which are the children. And their father had ruled their home like a ruthless king.

And now, the king lies still on the hospital bed, eyes closed, oxygen mask obscuring the rest of his face. His shallow breathing comes simultaneously with the hissing of the oxygen tank beside him, the ninety-year old body emasculated both by age and renal failure. His last words just before he slipped into this comatose state has been "I wish Regina is here. I want her to bury me."

'How ironic that he wants me here, the bastard,' this thought goes through Regina's mind who now stands at the foot of the bed, her carry-on bag still in her hand, the two days of flight evident in her puffy eyes and stale make-up.

His doctor, a handsome man with bleached hair and young enough to be Regina's son, enters the room, introduces himself, shakes Regina's hand, and proceeds to explain that they will not operate on the patient because at his age his body may not be able to sustain the procedure.

She purses her lips. She knows this will cost her probably a good part of her retirement income for the year. "How long is he going to be like this?" she asks the doctor.

"Hours, maybe a few days," the doctor replies. She raises an eyebrow and waits.

"We never know," the doctor continues, "I'd say indefinitely." He feels his patient's pulse, checks the tubes connected to him then takes his leave.

She stands beside the king's bed, and surveys the man who had been the cause of her misery all her young years. The numerous beatings, sometimes for no reason at all; the unfair treatment she received from him because he favoured her brother, the first born; his adamant wish for her not to continue schooling because it's a waste of money because "she's a girl, and she would just get married anyway"; the contempt at her decision to marry a man much older than her, and to raise a son on her own. And that one despicable sin he committed, the thing she could never forgive. She had not seen or spoken to him for thirty years, although in the last several years she has soften a bit and has regularly sent him a monthly stipend when he could no longer work, because no one else is able to help him.

"Father," she whispers, but loud enough so he could hear her.

She thinks he has made a feeble groan.

"I'm here to bury you, Father, as you had wished." She pauses, waiting for him to stir. Then her face hardens. "Now, die."

Monday, October 25, 2010

DWP - continuation prompt

When he gains consciousness again, he finds himself propped on one of their dining chairs. He feels a streak of tightness in his face - the almost dried drips of blood from his head. The sun has almost set and the room takes on an eerie coldness that sends shivers down his spine. Fran sits motionless, duct tape holds her onto another chair; her eyes start to swell when she notices that he is conscious again. His first impulse is to rush to her and free her up but the cold metal of his father's gun against the back of his neck stops him.

"I tell you, you move and I will not hesitate to shoot you." Even his voice is much colder than it has ever been. He flicks on the light switch.

"Let's make this easy for you, son," he walks towards Fran. "Give me the papers."

"Dad, I know how Mum died," he says, his mind leafing through the papers that he has found among his mother's personal belongings carefully wrapped in manilla envelope.

"The papers, son. It's all I need from you. Then you won't ever see me again."

"Hah! the same way Mum never saw you again because you killed her when you knew she found the papers."

He feels the fire in his eyes as he hisses close to his face, "I loved your mother. I did not kill her."

He seizes this moment of vulnerability and kicks the hand holding the gun. The one mistake his father has made is to not tie him up. So once again he finds himself diving for the gun, and briefly wrestling with his father yet not at all surprised to find the gun's barrel staring at him within a mere inch, his father's face farther behind. Thoughts run through his mind like a video film on rewind. At the same time, he tries to push the gun away, but his father, despite his age, still has the same strength and determination and the barrel of the gun keeps coming back to his face. But he remembers what his father himself has taught him: "always look your enemy in the eye." He stares at his father instead and he notes they have the same blue eyes, although there is a certain coldness behind the deep blue stare.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

DWP - only one remains: four-line poem prompt

his final days are wrought with pain
but matilde stays patiently and tends to him;
it is ironic that of six siblings he helped and loved,
all five have turned their backs and only one remains.

(based on a true story i heard from so many years ago)

Saturday, October 23, 2010

DWP - the white-haired woman: four-line prose prompt

On the pew in front of him, Kalan notices that the white-haired woman has been sitting still throughout the service.

At the end of the service, he is about to tap her shoulder to find out if she is alright when the white-haired woman stands up, walks across the aisle onto the altar proper, proceeds to the vestry and disappears inside.

Kalan thinks this as quite odd, and light on his feet, he sprints towards the vestry, curious to see what the woman looks like, but as he approaches he hears the muffled sound of a gun and a loud thud, the sound of a body falling on the floor, sounds all too familiar to a professional assassin that he is. He pulls his gun from the holster inside his suit, slams his body against the door which opens easily, and finds Father Richard on the floor, a bullet between his eyes, and the old white-haired woman standing a few feet away holding a revolver now aimed at him.

Friday, October 22, 2010

DWP - 2110: prompt

Detroit 2110

Isolde stares at the faint blinking light on the screen of The Tracker that monitors the unused tunnel traversing Point Edward and Point Huron below the pocket of Lake Huron, the blinking travels steadily away from the Canadian side.

Isolde clocks out of her office and rides her Vespa ten miles to the northwest and stops at the point where she knows the tunnel ends - right underneath the Tourist Information Booth or the TIB, a solitary building in the middle of the network of highways leading to the big cities. She does not see any vehicles for miles, as the curfew is still in effect. The light at the Tim Hortons kiosk inside the TIB is on. She kills the motor and parks her Vespa by the entrance surprising the middle-aged woman inside, her face turning ashen as she slams the trapdoor close.

Isolde takes her Taser and aims it at the woman who raises both arms without saying anything. She tells the woman to kneel and face the wall. The woman obeys. Isolde hears hushed conversation down below the trapdoor, she reaches for the handle and pulls it open. An old woman, all wrinkled, a few white hairs on her almost bald head, her dark eyes glossy with age, stares at Isolde.

"Up," Isolde commands and motions the woman to climb up. Slowly, the old woman climbs the ten steep steps up, her old bones making small cracking noise as her face winces in pain, the winkled skin of her knuckles turning white as they grip the steps, eyes blinking as the muted fluorescent lighting of the shop assaults her eyes. Down below Isolde hears footsteps, running towards the tunnel entrance then the sound of small motorized vehicles fading as the old woman's accomplices escape. Her Taser ready, Isolde goes down the tunnel and at the bottom she finds five metal boxes. She tugs at one of the boxes but it is so heavy it wouldn't even budge.

"Please don't destroy my books," the old woman says, her voice quivers and her head trembles involuntarily.

Isolde climbs back upstairs.

"Those are paper books in there? You are aware that possession of paper books is a felony, a federal offence that carries maximum penalties?" she asks in her booming voice.

"Yes, I am aware," the old woman answers, her glassy eyes defiantly meeting Isolde's.

"What is your name? Who are you?" Isolde demands.

"The name's Summerfield."

Summerfield. Isolde eyes the old woman; she's heard about this oldest living writer born during the mid-twentieth century. She can't believe she could still move about, let alone travel through a tunnel 200 meters below the surface.

"I am a writer and publisher of books," Summerfield proudly says, the chin shaking as she speaks.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

DWP - transformation: prompt

the old man sits on the bench under the tree, clutching the collars of his coat. the wind blows every now and then and the leaves of the old sycamore behind him flutter to the ground, kissing the grass before the wind carries them farther.

it never fails to amaze him, this tree. in the spring it has been the keys that fell from it, and in the summer it has been its shelter that he has sought every time the sun shone too long up in the heavens. then as autumn approaches, he stares in wonderment at its changing colours. when winter comes, he knows, the view would still surprise him with its snowy covering, as it has done all these eighty years.

it is a cycle he never gets tired of. and he knows, the tree would still be there while his own body has been ravaged by nature.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

DWP - bullies (part 2)

During recess, Reynaldo throws a small pebble at me.

Pangit! he yells. "Ugly!" His two shadows laugh as well as the other boys in the school yard.

"So what? At least I have a father." I face him with my hands resting on my waist. "You, you're a bastard."

The boys laugh louder and a few of them teased Reynaldo. "Bastard! Bastard!"

"You!" he points at me. "After class, you be ready. I'm going to have you beaten up!"

There is this girl, Gloria, one of Reynaldo's victims. She is tall, at least taller than I am, but skinny. She is sickly as she has asthma. She keeps mostly to herself, like Crispino. From behind, she pulls my pony tail.

"I'm going to kill you later on." She makes this declaration like she is a seasoned fighter then walks away.

Back in the classroom, Mr. Lachico interrupts our Arithmetic class to speak to Mrs. Azores. They glance at me as they talk, and for a moment it makes me think I am in trouble. Well, I am in trouble! After class, Mrs. Azores makes me erase all three blackboards, asks me to count the papers she has from another class, asks me to get water for her. Only a few pupils are left hanging around the schoolyard by the time she tells me to stop and go home.

"Oh, by the way, Lagrimas," she says, "On your way home, I want you to pass by Mrs. Santos's dress shop and ask her when I can pick up my pants, will you please?"

I say "Yes" as I grab my school bag and leave. This errand will make me take the back route from the school, not the normal route I take going home. I look around as I go down the steps to see if Reynaldo and his shadows are waiting for me. But there is only Manuel, one of the boys in my class.

"Lagrimas!" he says, "I heard that Reynaldo is waiting for you at the bridge. You pass by there on your way home, right?"

"Not today," I say, "Mrs. Azores wants me to pass by her dressmaker's shop just to ask for something." I frown. "She made me do a lot today. I think she's picking on me."

"No, I told Mr. Lachico what I heard, so Mr. Lachico told Mrs. Azores. That girl Gloria is with them."

"So they can wait for me there for as long as they want, because I'm taking the backstreet for Mrs. Azores' errands." I walk quicker so that Manuel walks about two steps behind me. He tries to catch up with me and quickens his steps, too.

"Reynaldo told Gloria they will leave her alone if she fights you. And she agreed." Gloria has also been terrorized by Reynaldo and his two shadows-sidekicks. Secretly, I thanked Mrs. Azores for saving me from this fight.

At the turn of the road, in a large vacant lot that is used as the neighbourhood dumpster surrounded by tall reeds so that it is no longer in view of the school, Reynaldo, his two minions and Gloria, along with other kids converge.

"You coward," Reynaldo yells. "I knew you were going to avoid me. You're afraid, aren't you."

"I'm certainly not afraid of you." I know my voice starts to quiver, because in truth, I am afraid. I have not had a physical fight with anyone other than my brother. It is not so much that I might get hurt, I am afraid my parents would find out and more afraid that because of that they will make me stop going to school. This does not look good at all.

Reynaldo walks backwards in front of me. "How come you are ugly and your brother is mestizo? Maybe you were adopted. Maybe your mother was a whore so she left you in the trash. Look at you."

"I still have a father, and you don't." I try to go past him but his two shadows block my way, too.

I take a back step but someone from behind yanks my ponytail. Gloria.

She calls me puta, bastarda, ugly and she curses my mother as well as all my ancestors. This is not the soft-spoken Gloria who teachers say is the best student in Catechism. But I would not deliver the first blow. At least I can say I didn't start the fight.

The first blow comes when Reynaldo pushes me towards Gloria and Gloria whacks my shoulders. It hurts, but I drive my fist on to her stomach, a slight punch, and I hurt more than she probably does. But she is determined to get rid of Reynaldo from pestering her and so she is determined to kill me, as she has threatened earlier. The children who are watching start to yell, cajole, and egg us on. When I realize that Gloria is really serious, as each punch becomes harder and more painful, I start to really fight back.

I remember a story that I have read in comic magazines sometime ago: "Go for the gut!" and my little fists barrel into Gloria's stomach in return to her punches. She starts to cry and grabs my hair, my fist at one point catches her chest. It feels so unreal that my hand has actually landed on another girl's chest and the hallow sound that follow makes me shrink in fear. We fall on smelly rotting vegetables and newspapers.

"Hoy! Hoy! Stop it!" I hear an adult's voice above the din of the other children's yelling. It is Mang Tiko, the ice cream vendor. He leaves his ice cream cart and tries to break Gloria and me apart. He gets hold of Gloria first, tears running down her cheeks, the dust mixing with the tears and gives her face a really dirty look. I get up but Gloria momentarily breaks away from Mang Tiko and she whacks me on my ears.

"I said stop it!" Mang Tiko shouts and yanks Gloria towards him. She spits at him then at me. It feels like my head is about to explode.

"Well, wouldn't you know it!" Mang Tiko tells Gloria. "Wherever did you learn how to act like this. Your mother is certainly going to hear about this." He tells Gloria then turns to me, "You, you go home right now."

Manuel hands me my school bag. I give Reynaldo the finger.

"Reynaldo is a bastard. He doesn't know who his father is because there's soooooo many of them." I yell this at the top of my lungs and the other children laugh and tease Reynaldo. He starts to chase them.

At home, my mother chastises me for dirtying up my dress and tells me to stop playing in the dirt next time. I look in the mirror to check if I have any bruise in my face and I see none. My stomach feels hallow and I can't eat my dinner. Why is it that whenever we have a good dinner, I cannot eat? Mother declares I must be getting sick.

In school the next day, Reynaldo stays away from me, lest I tell the whole world again that he has no father. Gloria does not come to school for a week because she has an asthma attack. During the time she is away from school, I keep praying for her not to die. When she comes back to school, she smiles at me and sticks her tongue out at Reynaldo.

Monday, October 18, 2010

DWP - the woodcutter prompt

the woodcutter

he takes his usual place in the living room, as he does everyday, for many months now, after he has neatly piled all the firewoods he had been cutting the whole day and the other tedious chores that needed to be done. now, he removes the large tarp covering his masterpiece ensconced on his work table, and takes his tools from out of a drawer, organizing them to one side. the masterpiece has been transformed into the shape of a head, a woman's head. he had carved out her hair, long and flowing in the wind, as well as the shape of her face. he caresses the cheeks with the back of his hand, almost as if she was alive.

"i think tonight, she will come," is the thought that dances in his head.

he looks out and the trees beyond have cast long shadows down the frozen pond. he imagines her standing right in the middle, beckoning him. and he will, he will come and take her hand when she beckons.

he picks up a knife and a small chisel and starts to carve, first her mouth, as he has seen her in his dreams last night, so full and soft, with a smile that makes his heart melt. he slowly and carefully chisels, not wanting to make a mistake. when the shadows have disappeared, he leaves his masterpiece only long enough to light the logs in the fireplace, and soon the crackling flame casts a soft glow about the room. he sits back on his bench and looks out the window one last time as the sun sets, the thin strip of the sky in the horizon taking on the colour of the fire that now lights the room.

it is almost midnight when he finishes and the fire is almost dying, too, but there she is, with her tiny nose and her large eyes staring at him. she is exactly how he's seen her in his dream last night. exhausted, he kneels on the floor, cupping his face in his tired hands. she has come to his dreams in choppy bits for so many months and her transformation in his hands has been painfully slow. but he has persevered, willing his dreams and always ready for when he sees her face, for always, it is obscured by the light or the shadows. all this time, he could only make out her silhouette. but all that does not matter now for tonight, there she is.

but something still eats at him since waking up in the morning. he feels certain he has seen her face before, perhpas a long time ago. it is not one of the nymphs in the forest that begged him not to cut the trees. no, she is more beautiful than them.

he hears a moan, faint at first then becoming louder. he looks out towards the frozen pond, the surface sparkling like a polished silver from the moonlight that seeped through the bare branches. but she is not standing on the pond as he has always envisioned her. the moaning continues until he realizes that the sound is coming from the table where the masterpiece stands.

blood starts to pour out on the side of her mouth, her eyes staring at him. he takes a step back, and another until he feels the wall behind him. he covers his ears as her loud moans battered his brain.

then, he suddenly remembers: it was a long long time ago. he was cutting a tree deep in the forest, when a young woman appeared and asked him to stop. my lover promised me that he will come back and this is tree where i have to wait for him. look, he had carved out our names on the trunk. please don't cut this tree. any other tree but this one, she had begged. but he was sure she was just another pigment of his imagination. the nymphs were playing with him again. he swung his axe, the sound of metal against the tree drowned her voice and her fervent begging.

when at last the tree fell with a deafening sound that echoed through the forest, the animals scurried away and the birds flew far and higher. but now there's blood in his hands, on his clothes, on the stump, everywhere! he could not understand what happened, but all he could see was the woman's severed head.

DWP - people are strange: "the doors" prompt

people are strange

Catty shakes her whole body.

"Bleh! Aaaargghhhh!" she screams.

"What are you complaining about, Catty? At least The Mistress loves you." Pinky snorts and continues to lap the remaining slop in her trough.

"Ewwww! I can't stand that woman," Catty says, her green eyes blazing in embarrassment as the other animals in the barn moo and coo. "I don't know why she has to hug and kiss me every time she comes here." She settles at a corner and rolls around in the hay. "Her breath is terrible with that minty leaf she chews all the time. The same lips she kisses her man with, she kisses me with them, too. Ewwww."

"People are strange," says Mrs. Belle, as one of her calves suck at her teats. "They love cats and dogs and horses pamper them..."

"No! No! No!" Doggie interjects. "The Mistress kicks me all the time, calling me lazy and smelly. One day I shall just stop running after the thieves and then she can say I'm lazy."

"And also because you're rude, Doggie." Mrs. Belle sneers at Doggie. "Anyway," she continues, "you guys get toys, and you Catty are always brought to the grooming house. Why, we cows never get that! They come and take our milk so early in the morning, like I am still sleeping for God's sakes."

"And us," says Pinky wiggling her snout in disgust, "we're just fattied up and slaughtered at will. So you should be thankful."

"Still," says Catty, "why can't she just leave me alone?" She gets up, and lazily walks towards the barn door. Her graceful neck sparkles in the sunlight with the rhinestoned collar that The Mistress has placed around her neck moments ago.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

DWP - fading: four-line poem


i plant a kiss on your lips and you smile
your sparkling eyes full of starry thoughts
but i know it's all a lie and a farce
my love is fading, and it's fading fast.

Friday, October 15, 2010

DWP - yellow: four-line prose prompt

Amanda, her eyes unbelieving, gingerly takes the small safe from the lawyer. This safe has always been the source of her fights with her now deceased mother, who ironically bequeaths it to her. The contents were piled the same way she remembered them, since that first and only time when she was ten and she had snuck inside her mother's bedroom closet to look at the safe's contents, not understanding what those now faded photographs meant, and the yellowed birth certificate neatly folded at the very bottom. She unfolds the birth certificate with her name and birthday written on it, and the name of her real mother.


Ten years ago, one of my personal writing projects was to write a novella. Amazing how 20,000 words can be condensed into four running sentences.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

DWP - bullies: prompt

Crispino quietly picks up his tattered school bag from the muddy ground. With the hem of his white t-shirt, he wipes the parts of his notebooks that had been muddied.

Reynaldo, a boy much larger for his age, scoops mud in his hands and approaches Crispino. He wipes his muddy hands on the back of Crispino's shirt then hits Crispino on the back of his head. Crispino, thin and frail looking, does not say anything and instead continues to wipe off the mud from his head. Reynaldo laughs, then as Crispino walks away, he tries to block his way with his large body. Reynaldo's friends, Francisco and Eddie, who are called Reynaldo's shadows because they constantly follow Reynaldo around, both stand back and laugh, egging Reynaldo on as he teases Crispino, calling him a sissy.

In grade five, at 11, I have witnessed Reynaldo and his friends constantly bully Crispino. Crispino never say a word to them. Maybe because Reynaldo is much taller and beefier than him and is accompanied all the time by his two minions. Crispino on the other hand keeps to himself. I don't see him reading his books or doing his homework, he just stays outside the classroom door when there's no class.

Reynaldo and his two friends also teases the girls. The more the girls get angry, the more teasing they get. One time, a girl, Priscilla, in her anger throws her notebook at the boys when she has had enough, but Reynaldo hurls it back at her and the end of the notebook's coil spring scratched her face and it bled. Priscilla ended up in the clinic, and Reynaldo and his two friends ended up in the Principal's office.

For a few days, Reynaldo and friends try to behave but soon get back to their bullying ways. Crispino is an easy target - keeps to himself, and never fights back. Today they have Crispino cornered in the hallway. Reynaldo forces his hand inside Crispino's school bag and fishes out one of his cuadernos, hits Crispino on the head with it so hard that Crispino's eyes start to swell with tears, his face flushed, as he tries to grab his notebook back.

I've had enough.

"Why don't you pick on someone your size for a change, Reynaldo?" I say. "For example, Conrado over there!" I motion towards Conrado who is standing in the middle of the playground. Conrado is my classmate. He is much taller than Reynaldo and is the tallest pupil in grade school. But like Crispino, Conrado is also the quiet type. He is also a little bit slow in class and looks like he daydreams most of the time. But we all know in school that Conrado trains in Judo-Karate and that his father is with the Philippine Marines.

“He’s my friend,” Reynaldo says, fixing the collar of his shirt.

“You’re just afraid of him.”

Tangina mo!” Reynaldo curses. "Son of a bitch." He clenches his fists.

Mas puta ang nanay mo, palibhasa taga Kuli-Kuli kayo!” Your mother is the whore, aren’t you from Kuli-Kuli?” I say, and stick my tongue at him. “Everyone knows your mother’s a big whore and you don’t even know who your father is because there’s so many of them.”

Reynaldo spins around, his eyes blazing, his two shadows following in his wake. "Mind your own business, you ugly son of a bitch."

"No, you're the son of the bitch!"

The clenched fists do not escape me and wait for them to come my way. I’ll make sure he punches the concrete wall and not my face. Being small can have some advantages, I’m sure.

He lifts his hand and is about to punch me when Mr. Lachico, one of the Grade 6 teachers, comes out of the next door classroom upon hearing the noisy exchange.

“Reynaldo!” Mr. Lachico yells, his thin bony hands on his tiny waist. “What are you doing fighting with a girl?”

This is one of those times when I am thankful I am a girl. He motions for Reynaldo to approach him. Reynaldo begrudgingly does so. His two shadows stay where they are. Crispino slowly walks away. I sit back on the floor.

“You use that language again and I won’t hesitate to have you suspended. Why don’t you fight a boy your size?” Before Reynaldo could say anything, Mr. Lachico slaps the back of his head, the loud noise makes the children on the playground look up.

Reynaldo’s eyes become red with fury, but Mr. Lachico is a teacher. You disrespect a teacher, you get suspended, or worse, kicked out of the school. Reynaldo stomps his feet on the floor as he walks away, his two friends following him. I stick out my tongue at them.

“You! Come here,” Mr. Lachico says to me.

I walk over like nothing has happened. I have to mask the fact that my knees are trembling.

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t engage those sons of bitches, okay? Stay away from them, they’re mean people.”

“But, sir,” I say, “They always pick on Crispino. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not your business,” Mr. Lachico say in a firm voice. “Just stay away from them, you understand?”

"Yes, sir," I say nodding my head.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

DWP - cavemen: two-haiku tuesday


grunt! grunt! and more grunt
'tis all he knows how to say
he's a caveman, see?

he makes damn good fire
with two stones or dried branches
cuz he's a caveman.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

DWP - advice: two haikus


your girlfriend dumped you
but still want her back, you say?
kneel down, beg and pray.


Lord! it's thanksgiving
time to thaw last year's turkey
in-laws are coming

Monday, October 4, 2010

DWP - searching: prompt

I wrote poems when I started writing as a teenager. My high school English teacher taught me to understand and love Shakespeare's sonnets and poems of other authors like Ben Jonson, William Ernest Henley. Three of my poems got published, most notably a "sappy" birthday poem for a lost love. But as I grew older, I stayed away from writing poems and when I tried to go back to it by studying poems, I got discouraged because to my surprise, there were so many "kinds" of poems.

The blog Daily Writing Practice which I have been following for several months now have somehow stirred me back to liking and appreciating poems, in all of its forms. I can even write haiku's now. In any writing, be it an essay, a story or a poem, all it takes is imagination. Well, my imagination these days is quite on vacation but today I whipped up this little poem in about 3 minutes. It's a silly nonsense of a poem, but the time it took me to write it amazed me.

“Someday my prince will come”

At six little Daniel was my boy
He played with his booger for his toy
I truly thought then he was the one
Until one day he pooped in his pants.

At thirteen, there was Jimmy
Tall and dark and rather skinny
But he couldn’t do a little calculus
And I didn’t want an ignoramus.

At twenty-seven I dated Johnny
He, too, was tall but not skinny
But he wouldn’t divorce his wife
Even when I threatened him with a knife.

At thirty-five I lived in with Derrick
Handsome and rich and not a prick
But he wanted us to have ten children
Did he expect me to lay eggs like a hen?

So at forty-two, I gave up the search
No man it seems wants a first class bitch
Then I met Chuck, a sweet old Canuck
Who had nothing to offer yet with him I'm stuck!

Sunday, October 3, 2010

DWP - working vacations: prompt

Lorie lets her flowery-patterned wrap drop on the marble floor. She knows that the few people already at the pool have all their eyes on her: ample bosom, flat stomach, well-rounded buttocks, and the slim long legs, accented by her cherry-red string bikini. Through her dark Serengeti sunglasses, she sees the young lifeguard salivate as she daintily loosens her pony tail, her curly dark hair cascading down her shoulders.

She sits on the white beach chair lined with thick velour towel and sprays suntan lotion on her arms and legs, deliberately and provocatively. Then slowly lifting her legs onto the chair, she lies on her back, cradling the back of her head with her hands. She closes her eyes, hears the sound of men’s whispered admiration along with the women’s low hissing at their men.

The instant she feels the sun piercing through her skin, a shadow falls on her face and she opens her eyes. Lucas peers through her sunglasses, and whispers, “Are you sleeping, sweetie?”

In her mind, she wants to reach up and scratch his face, how dare him! She closes her eyes again.

“Whoo-hooo! Lorie! Wakey-wakey!”

She feels something cold on her belly. She opens her eyes and looks down. Lucas is holding a tall glass of Mai Tai on one hand, and an ice cube he obviously has scooped from the glass and has dropped on her belly button.

“What the..!” she says. Her hand savagely pushes his fat hand and he loses his balance, his butt hitting the beach chair behind him before finally falling on the marble tiles, losing his grip on the glass. The floor suddenly takes on the colour of red, both from the Mai Tai and the blood oozing from his hand.

“What do you want, Lucas!” she hissed at him.

“Well, I just want you to take a dictation,” he says. “Why must you be so crabby?” He reaches for a towel and wraps his bleeding hand, careful not to step on the pieces of broken glass.

“Well, I’m trying to sunbathe, in case you haven’t noticed,” Lorie says with sharp sarcasm.

“I know,” Lucas says, still in an even calm voice. “But we haven’t done work for two days now.” He motions to the lifeguard. “And by the way, you should go to the front desk and book yourself a room. My wife called and decided to follow me here so I think it’s best for her to stay with me in the suite. I don’t want her suspecting anything about us, sweetie.”

Saturday, October 2, 2010

DWP - diamond: four line prose

(prompt: Friday's four-line prose; fourth line must end with the word "diamond".)

Ifor opened the door, certain that the person he intended to see was inside; he was.

"What do you want?" Mr. Hallowords bellowed, cigar hanging between his mouth, spectacles resting at the end of his large nose, his bulging eyes bloodshot.

Ifor smiled, one front tooth missing and, like a flash of lightning, pulled his revolver, aimed it at his target and pulled the trigger.

He approached Mr. Hallowords' body whose head had slumped back on his leather chair, and having ascertained that the bullet had rendered the old man dead, he closed the door behind him as he whistled "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds".