DWP - the flood: prompt

the flood

Manila, May 1960
The day started with beautiful sunshine, vivid blue skies and just a touch of breeze. But my mother, having lived in the farm, thought there was something odd in the air. She was supposed to have washed the sheets, but she changed her mind and she said she would do it tomorrow.

We went about our chores around the house and, as usual, at noon, we sat down to eat lunch. Simple stewed fish and boiled rice. Mother kept saying all morning that there was something odd in the air. The skies couldn't decide if they were blue or gray or a mixture of both colours. Then we noticed that water was flowing inside the house. Outside, the streets suddenly became flooded.

Mother said, "The river is rising in the middle of the day." High tide at noon wasn't normal in our place. Also, my mother commented, there is a strange noise with the rising water which by now is ankle deep for her. I was seven and small for my age so my feet were above ground when sitting. Still, we continued to eat.

But within two minutes, the water rose to her knee and almost to the bench we were sitting on. She ordered us to carry our plates up the stairs to the second floor of the house. By the time we finished eating, just at the top of the stairs, the water inside our house was almost near my mother's waist, her skirt billowing in the water as she carried some foodstuff from the kitchen.

By this time, the strange noise that came with the steadily rising water was replaced by the noise of panicking neighbours. The old lady in the house behind us wailed and asked God for forgiveness and to save her soul. She yelled at her grandchildren: "You little pests, come up here and pray with me. It's the end of the world, you sons of a bitch and all you can think of is swim in that stupid flood!"

Another neighbour turned on their radio and tuned in to the news. Apparently, hours earlier, there was an earthquake in Chile and what we were experiencing was a tidal wave, the tail-end of the much larger scale tsunami that formed across the Pacific Ocean.

PROMPT - the sound of a running horse

Sana'a, 1989

I fall asleep with the balcony door open, the warm monsoon air changing to a cool breeze. In my dream I see a horse's feet slowly approaching. In reality, someone is riding a horse around the large yard of the compound of my apartment building. I wake up and see the shadow of the horse and its rider, someone wearing a turban and a cape. An intruder?

The dawn is just breaking. It is only five in the morning. I get up, put on my robe and pinned my hair up. I stand on the side of the balcony door not wanting to show myself to the horse rider. He wears a white dishdasha and a satiny jade green overcoat, the polished khanja in his waist glistening from the balcony lights, and his head is wrapped in a white turban. There is an unmistakable grace in the way he sits on his horse, a beautiful Arabian whose skin glistened like the khanja. He turns around as if looking for something, or someone.

"Your Excellency, sir." I part the flimsy curtain and step out onto the balcony. "Good morning."

He turns around, masking the surprise with a smile, then nods. "Assalam alaikum." Although he is smiling, you can see the seriousness in his eyes.

"Waalaikum assalam," I say back, mentally chastising myself for forgetting the Arab greeting. For good measure, I curtsy, the best one I an muster, to make up for calling him "Your Excellency" as suddenly I am unsure if that is how I have to address the ruler of the country.

"You need not curtsy, you are not one of my subjects, madame." I can see that he is amused by my actions. "Only my subjects are expected to curtsy to me."

"Are you lost, sir?" I ask. "Oh, I'm sorry. You can't get lost in your own kingdom." I give him a big "Garfield" smile.

"I can't, now, can I?" he says and flashes another polite but guarded smile. "But since you ask, where is the house of the Minister of Interior?"

"It's the large house at the end of the street. It has the same fencing as this building. Would you like me to walk you to it? I can change my clothes in two minutes."

He smiles again, the perfect white teeth more visible now as I stand by the balcony's railings.

"It's okay. I should be able to find it myself." He clucks his tongue for the horse to start walking.

"I recognize you." He furrows his brows. "Do you work at the palace?"

"Yes, sir," I answer.

"Leslie, isn't it?"

I give a small laugh, surprise that he knows my name. He rarely sees the paid staff in the palace, much less the foreign workers. I work in the catering room of the palace.

"Yes, sir. Leslie."

"Assalam then!"

PROMPT - sunset

The kitchen window of our first house, the one that my father built on a piece of land by the public cemetery, faced west. I remember the orange light casting a long rectangular reflection on our floor. I would sit on the floor, right in the middle of that rectangular reflection and would move as the reflection moved until it disappeared. Sometimes, our backdoor would be open and long shadows of crosses from the tombs in the cemetery were cast on the floor.

I liked to watch the sun as it set and disappear beyond the distant crosses and the mango trees. My mother used to tell me not to look at the sun for it will damage my eyes. But the setting sun was different. It had a soft quality about it, almost candy-like. I used to imagine that the orange-coloured clouds were cotton candies and the fiery setting sun a large lollipop.

Ihor appreciated my love of the sunset. The first time we went out of town, we went to Laoag, La Union, about four hours drive north-west of Manila. The place was then known (probably still is) as a resort town, with long stretches of pristine beaches facing the South China sea. We swam in the sea the whole day and had a late lunch. We explored the town afterwards, taking pictures of old Spanish houses and churches. While he napped in the late afternoon, I went to walk on the beach to watch the sun setting on the sea. I found a rocky place at the far end of the beach about a mile from the hotel. I picked up little shells and threw tiny pebbles on the rushing waves. The tide was fast coming inland. I sat on a flat rock and watched as crabs scurried as the sea water rushed in. On that rock I had a magnificent view of the horizon, the sun squarely in the middle of the wide expanse as it slowly turned from bright orange then fiery red and until it disappeared.

It was dark when I reached the hotel premises. Ihor wondered where I was. Later I learned someone told him I walked "that" way towards the rocks. When he saw me, without him saying anything, he took my hand and we walked on the shore together until it was so dark we couldn't see anything anymore, just the distant flickering of lamps on the houses nearby, and the sound of the waves that sometimes caressed our bare feet.

"What is it about the sunset that you have to watch it?" he asked.

i miss...#3

wearing high heels.

the 3-inch stilletoes. i used to wear them 7 days a week. to school, to church, to office. anywhere. everywhere. i chased buses and jeepneys in high heeled shoes all the time, in all kinds of weather. i loved the ones that only had single strap at the toes and made the feet look bare. i wore them with skirts, short, really short, long and not so long.

and i especially liked the expensive ones. my clothes were tailor-made because it was cheaper to have them made (believe it or not!) but my shoes were expensive. when the average price of a pair of good shoes was 45 pesos, i would buy mine from brand name stores and sinfully paid 300 pesos for a pair. the most i paid for a pair was 450 pesos. i was 28 back then in manila. in canada i had a pair of shoes from bruno magli or something with an italian name for $280 sale price! brown leather patent with suede toes. the smell of leather. the smell of too much money for a pair of shoes. i should be sent to hell.

i still keep the last pair of high heeled sandals i had from 20 years ago. 3-inch heels, all leather, in black, size 5-1/2. i call it my cinderella shoes. the days when i was 110, a size 4 with 22 inches waist. after ten years, the shoes won't fit me anymore. i had become the ugly step-sister instead of cinderella, heavy and size 7 WIDE!!! yes, life happened to me, as with everyone.

now, i cringe at the sight of a so-so looking pair with a price tag of more than $50. no more high end, brand name pairs. i go to the cheap outlet stores, with BOGO options. now i go for comfort. years of abuse had caught up with my flat feet structure (the genes factor), the bunions, the calluses, the corns, and of course the arthritis is a given. on weekends there's no freaking way i'd wear regular shoes unless i have to dress up. i'd marry my NB sneakers if it was possible. and, i see that they now had heeled rubber shoes - sneakers in heels. a total atrocity.

sometimes i still have some fantasies left in me. i see a beautiful pair of shoes, the 2-1/2-inch heels beckoning me. they'd make any ugly feet look lovely. i look at them and think of trying them on, just for old time's sake. i know i still can walk in them. then i'm jolted out of my reverie as my bunions start to scream: go ahead, bitch, let's see who's boss!

who's boss? dr. scholl's, that's who.