DWP - the time traveler: prompt

Hortense peered at the old woman’s face and said, “I know you; I’ve seen you before. But I can’t remember when. Or where.”

“Yes, we have met before, quite a few times, in fact,” the woman answered.

Hortense examined her face, the droopy eyelids and the little lines around her eyes, the unmistakably high cheek bones and the full lips that now curved downward. Then, as if spark occurred in her brain, she recalled that day when she was five, at the cemetery, her grandmaman’s burial.

It had just rained and the funeral procession started from the little chapel to the family musoleum situated a few meters towards the back of the cemetery. Somehow, little Hortense lost her grip on her mother’s hand and the rush of people walking towards the musoleum pushed her aside. She stood atop one of the old stone tombs, the one with the large metal cross that now gleamed in the light of the setting sun. She watched as the last person in the procession disappeared at the corner. She noticed a double rainbow in the sky, its colours so vivid it made her smile and made her sing.

“Nice song, good voice.” The voice startled her and she gave a little shriek as she put both her tiny hands over her mouth. She was surprised to see an older woman sitting on the little tomb next to her.

“They went over there for Grandmaman’s interment,” Hortense said, pointing to the corner where the procession had turned several minutes ago.

The woman just stood there, smiling at her. Hortense eyed her with curiosity little children always had with people they don’t know. She liked the way this woman smiled at her, like she found Hortense amusing. Hortense was used to being ignored. In her family, the attention is always on her sickly older brother, or her cute little baby sister.

“Look at the rainbow,” Hortense pointed at the rainbow. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Have you seen a rainbow like that before?” She jumps down the ground, her feet splashing on the little puddle of water between the two tombs. “Is it really true that there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

The woman smiled at her, but replied, “I don’t know, I’m not sure.”

“What is your name?” little Hortense asked.

“My name is Hortencia.”

“Oooh, we have the same name!” there is giddiness in Hortense’s voice.

“Hortense!” It was her mother.

“Maman!” and Hortense ran to her mother.

“Who is that?” asked her mother, eyeing the older lady suspiciously. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk to strangers?” She pulled Hortense as she walked away, looking back at the woman only once.

Hortencia waved at them. When Hortense looked back, Hortencia was gone.

A switch had been turned on in Hortense’s head. Hortense…Hortencia.

“It was I!” she exclaimed, touching her face and staring at herself in the mirror. “I visited myself when I was five!” Her reflection in the mirror smiled.

DWP - the library: prompt

The Library

Old Mr. Hillman had a room full of books. All four sides of the room had shelves that reached the ceiling. Even behind the door, there was a four-tiered shelf filled with children’s books and store-bought comics. The bottom of the wall shelves had doors with fancy “gold” knobs that the maids polished every morning. Behind those doors with the fancy gold knobs were glossy magazines, imported from the States, Britain and Germany.

In the middle of the room sat a large leather sofa, two armchairs on either side and two upholstered chairs on the opposite side, surrounding a large coffee table with very thick glass top. An intricately carved ivory chess set sat on top of the coffee table as well as two large crystal ashtrays. My mother used to call the Hillman library as the “bragging” library, for it had expensive volumes of books but none of the ten Hillman children had any desire to read books.

The room had a large bay window with a cushioned sill. Whenever we visited the Hillman’s big house, one of the Hillman children would bring me up to the library and would sit me on the cushioned sill that overlooks the cemetery on the south side. Between the cemetery and the property, there was an ancient mango tree, its branches abutting the large bay window.

The Hillman children had a pet monkey that lived in the small tree house on the mango tree. Often, Moe, the monkey, would tap the glass window of the library and screamed as loud as it could and wouldn’t stop until Mr. Hillman himself opened the window and smacked the monkey.

By the time I was six, I had gotten used to going up to the second floor library whenever we visited, and one day that was just what I did. I had been reading the “G” volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica when a thick book fell on the floor. I picked it up despite its weight and placed it on the floor by the window. Another book fell and I did the same until there were three piles of books as tall as I was. Suddenly, more books were falling off the shelves and I could no longer cope. I ran out of the room and down the stairs but I slipped, scraping my back against the steps as I reached the landing.

“It’s raining books in the library!” I screamed.

My mother, thinking I did something bad, pulled me aside, despite my bleeding back, and spanked me.

Just then, Moe the monkey started to scream while jumping up and down the steps. The younger Hillman children who were being fed their lunch ahead of the adults, scrambled to their feet, laughing and screaming in delight, as one of the maids and Mr. Hillman tried to catch Moe. It was pandemonium inside the house, knick knacks falling and breaking as Moe tried to elude capture. After Moe managed to bite one of the maids' hand and knocked down a couple of light fixtures, he rested on the shoulders of the oldest Hillman son, Harvey who was then seventeen, but not after Moe had already grabbed and broke Harvey’s glasses. Harvey had a soft spot for animals and begged his father, Mr. Hillman, to leave Moe alone, as it was, after all just being silly.

Mr. Hillman, however, got so mad after seeing the books scattered around in the library upstairs, and the thick glass top of the coffee table broken in half. He took the monkey outside, walked to the cemetery which was several yards away and we heard the sound of a gunshot. At this time, my father arrived to collect my mother and me. When Mr. Hillman saw him, he ordered my father to dig a grave by the fence so Moe could be buried. Later on, Horace, one of the younger Hillman boys admitted to having opened the library window to pet Moe, but had forgotten to close it properly.

VIGNETTE - Ihor

A golden streak of afternoon sunlight seeped through the glass walls and heavy drapes, and traced the figure lying serenely on the bed. It caressed the light brown hair, kissed the short curly brown lashes, traced the high tilted nose, and lined the the shape of his mouth. I watched him sleep, taking in the suntanned skin of his naked body, and his slow even breathing almost bothered the silence of the cold room. I lightly touched his shoulder and he stirred; his eyes opening, the green-gray color instantly sparkled in the light of the afternoon sun. The thin lips curled into a smile, stifling a yawn. His arms reached for my half-naked body, pulled me towards him and kissed my mouth. Briefly I returned the kiss. He held me tighter and began to caress and undress; I backed up and turned my attention to Jeffrey Archer’s The Prodigal Daughter, feigning disinterest. But he was insistent; he grabbed the book and threw it down the carpet floor, almost ripping the cover. Then he held me firmly and kissed me again, this time more passionately. In a moment, I was under his spell again; his lips on mine, his body dominating my body. I felt I was drowning again and again. I felt as if the seawater was closing in on me. I half-opened my eyes and saw the red afternoon sun almost halfway down the sea; then as the rigidity of his body penetrated my own, I shut my eyes and let myself drown in his love.
This was the man who could don different personalities, depending on the time of the day, the topic of conversation, the scenery of the place, or the mood of the person with him.

c.v.summerfield, manila, 1984