Jobarhor

The Mark of the Beast

2013-08-18T19:58:00.000-07:00

Joseph Santiago winced as a shard of glass tore his flesh, blinded by the pain to the sight of the crimson rivulet on his right arm. His hand trembled, the fragment of glass in his hand quivered as he explored his forearm in search of a capsule nestled in the muscles. Beneath the skin, the crude probing stirred the implanted capsule to dump poison into his body. The toxic potion spread like a contagion; one by one, his muscles succumbed to the toxin that oozed from the pill embedded in his arm. It wrecked the muscles that were essential for respiration and invaded the diaphragm last, effectively hampering the delivery of life-sustaining oxygen to his cells. Impending death manifested in his labored breathing and the purple tinge on his lips and nail beds that replaced the sanguine color.

The knife clattered to the ground; the dull thud of Joseph's body striking the filthy pavement followed a second later. Before the droplet of toxin had totally starved his wizened body of air, his drying stream of consciousness swirled around his daughter’s toothless grin and his cellmate who had received a presidential pardon after he was accursed with the same privilege.

The search for his child consumed more than the twenty minutes that elapsed from the time that he made the first incision until he expired. Sleuthing for the identity of her adopted parents bore fruit when the custodian of the orphanage’s database - rewarded with one hundred fifty thousand pesos - handed him the confidential information along with a news article lamenting how her death by foul means epitomized punishing the innocent for the sins of the guilty. Pondering on suicide expended only a moment.

“Ah, Michael!” Michael Antonio felt the rotund warden's meaty hand envelope his own hand. “I am glad that you will soon be a freeman!” Gary de Leon, the prison superintendent, curved his lips into a smile, but the skin around his eyes did not crinkle. He addressed Michael's burly escort with a feeble nod and the jail guard assumed his post at the door. The two men wandered to the only desk in the room complemented by a lone chair. Gary shoved the seat to Michael and hefted his portly frame atop the table. Michael dropped his bag at his feet and offered his right arm.

The warden removed a stylus-shaped wireless tag reader from his wrist computer. He aimed the device at the outer aspect of the convict's forearm and began beaming information from his computer to a microchip, a radio frequency identification device measuring mere millimeters in volume that was enclosed together with a minute vial of poison in the capsule embedded in Michael's muscle. The microchip transmitted Michael's anthropometrical figures, medical history, curriculum vitae, taxpayer's identification number, social security number, birth certificate, driver's license and criminal record to the tag reader; the monitor then displayed the retrieved data. It also functioned as a bankbook and passport.

The monitor flashed Michael’s natal day. “You are 45 years old, born on October 10, 1995?” He nodded. “I'm sorry about your friend, Joseph. Still puzzles me why he killed himself a day after he was pardoned by the president. Was he the suicidal type?” The whole penitentiary had followed the saga of Joseph's death - from the discovery of his corpse in a dingy alley to the interment of his ashes at a columbary - in the prison's only decrepit large-screen plasma television. Unlike the media who capitalized on his death or the activists who used his tragic end to advance their advocacy, their interest was borne out of fondness for the good-natured old man.

Michael had formulated a stock reply to the popular question. “He wanted to search for his daughter. He last saw her as a toothless kid before he gave her up for adoption.” Joseph was fond of staring at his child's digital photographs for hours. “No, he would not kill himself.”

“Escaped inmates, ex-convicts, criminals-at-large, plain civilians and now Joseph. Sidapa sure is making people pay for tinkering with their radio frequency identification devices. You know Sidapa?”

The name was familiar to Michael. He had heard it in the news and at school. “Philippine mythology's god of death?”

“Correct! But it is also the name given to the poison that they have stored with the identification chip transponder- to remind the world that its creator is a Filipino named Lorenzo Mendez. By the way, criminals got even with the inventor. They burned him with his adopted daughter.”

The data transmission stopped, leaving the scanned area warmer than the surrounding skin. “Your criminal record remains, but the presidential pardon will help you a lot. The same guy who sponsored your online master's degree course has deposited one hundred fifty thousand pesos in your account. It's probably enough for a month or two - for your fare home. Even the amount that you have stashed from your data encoding job here won't feed you for another month.”

Gary jumped from the table, his globular belly jiggled from the impact. Michael rose and took his bag. “I've said this a thousand times before, and other wardens have also spoken these words: I don't want to see your ugly face in my territory again.” His voice softened, his stern face vanished. “Hatred brought you and Joseph here. Learn to forgive.” The warden’s sermon only aroused Michael’s latent memories.

Incarceration had not purged the image of his landlord ogling at his wife, playing music at full volume and carousing outside his apartment from Michael’s memory. He could never forget the warmth of the lecherous man's blood on his skin as it gushed from twenty stab wounds after the maniac molested his pregnant spouse. Joseph's wrath at seeing his wife fornicating on their matrimonial bed remained as vivid as his account of bathing the lovers in their blood after he blasted them with a shotgun.

“Have you been wronged greatly in your life?” Gary blushed and he smiled meekly. The convict hissed inches from the warden’s face, “Then you have not met the demons that brought us here.” The warden spoke again with a still flushed face. “The world has changed much.”

“I know. It was my thesis.”

Transnational crime attributed to porous borders and the nonexistence of a foolproof identification system - terrorism, human trafficking, massive illegal migration, financial fraud and identity theft – gripped the early decades of the twenty-first century. The introduction of the radio frequency identification device stanched illegal migration and hampered the movement of criminals. Until shields that prevented the interrogation of the identification tags by scanners and counterfeit chips circumvented the system.

It took a Filipino to revive the moribund security program. He synthesized a neurotoxin, aptly called Sidapa, which induced rapid death even in minute amounts by ravaging the respiratory muscles. A nerve gas attack by terrorists that claimed his wife and only child made him embrace the proposal to combine the toxin with the tag and a sensitive sensor in a capsule. Tampering with the imbedded pill would stimulate the detector to unleash Sidapa. The problem of detecting the tags at longer ranges and penetrating the shields was hurdled with the invention of more sophisticated tag scanners.

“Be careful out there.” Gary handed Michael his bag and motioned to the guard. A short trek brought him outside the prison and into an alien land.

*****

“Did you know him?” A trembling feminine voice shattered the tranquility of the columbary.

“No.” Michael shifted his gaze from the niche containing Joseph's urn to the speaker. He expected a journalist who earned a living by exposing the misery of others to the world; her quivering tone was the manifestation of her fear that her intrusion into the sanctuary of the dead had been uncovered. But an anguished face greeted him. The familiarity of her aquiline nose, full lips and button-like eyes drew him closer. She also looked the right age.

“Cassandra Santiago?”

Her face blanched. Nobody had addressed her by that name in fifteen years. Her adopted father had named her Nicole Alexandra. Nicole was his daughter and Alexandra, his wife; both perished in a mist of nerve gas unleashed by terrorists. She was renamed Anna Marie Defensor by the National Intelligence Service after his revolutionary invention earned him assassination attempts. The spooks accomplished this after they razed their home. Inside were two cadavers that resembled them physically.

“You are Joseph's daughter!”

“You are mistaken! I am Anna Marie Defensor!” Defiance now masked her face. She strode briskly to the door; the man who called her by her former name did not advance.

“I was in prison with your father. We shared a cell and jail chores. He showed me your pictures a thousand times. His favorite was the one taken on your last visit before you were adopted.” She halved her stride. “You turned eight then, toothless and you were wearing a dress with a sunflower print.” Only her biological father knew of the digital photographs and dress. She halted and faced him.

“Hey you!” A guard hollered from the door. “How did you get inside? And why are you yelling at that woman?” He had a hand on his holster. He ventured inside the columbary and sauntered past Cassandra. Michael dropped his bag and raised his arms when the watchman leveled his handgun at him. “Who let you in?”

“The door was open.” A pack of nicotine-free cigarettes that he offered to the senile caretaker was his ticket inside. “I'm here to visit an old friend, Joseph Santiago.”

“The ex-con who killed himself?”

“Yes. I’m also an ex-con, just got released today. I got a presidential pardon like Joseph. I'm Michael Antonio.” The guard could unearth his criminal record by simply scanning his identification chip.

The guard’s persistence alarmed Cassandra. “I was rushing to an appointment and I must have dropped something, so he called me.” She hoped that the watchman would not apply his interrogation skills on her.

The guard had heard differently, but the woman was composed in her narrative, not hysterical. “Okay, I believe you miss. Just don't blame me for not sending this ex-con back to the hell that spat him out today.” He holstered his weapon. “By the way, why are you here?”

Only one name registered in her mind. “I visited Catherine Santillan's vault.” Beside Joseph’s niche was Catherine Santillan’s vault. “I'm really late for my appointment.” She waved to the men and fled to her car. She had to return to the safe house before operatives of the National Intelligence Service bodily carry her back.

Remote controlled electronic eyes and ears embedded in the walls transmitted every word that they uttered, every twitch of their muscles to a building with a panoramic view of the columbary. Inside a crowded room, computers and men labored to match the woman’s new photographs and fingerprint with her old pictures and prints. Finally, the green light beaconed: Cassandra Santiago and Anna Marie Defensor were one and the same. A tip that Lorenzo Mendez and his adopted daughter – revealed by research to be Joseph Santiago’s child - did not die in the fire sparked a fruitless hunt. Joseph’s death re-ignited it. The band could smell retribution for their leader, felled by Sidapa. Several men leapt into a van in the garage; they waited for Cassandra to join the traffic before they eased their car into the street.

The flaring red light was similar to the red bulbs sported by the solar-powered taxis and buses that Michael had flagged down on the way to the columbary. The crimson lamps scintillated when the drivers flashed a tag reader on his forearm. All of the cabbies deserted him at high speed when the light started blinking. Only the tenth bus that he stopped let him in after the driver directed him to the rearmost seat that a burly passenger had vacated for him. The eyes of the male passengers, who traded places with the women seated in the rear, bore on him throughout the trip. “What's that?”

“It warns people that a criminal, an ex-con like you, or an Untagged is around. People are scared. They say that every scanner, or sensor, can tell if a person has a criminal record or if he is untagged.”

With his suspicion about the sensitive sensors confirmed, Michael foresaw himself trudging to the nearest bus stop or light rail station or waiting for a very rare sane cabbie. “It keeps everyone safe, especially from the Untagged.” It was a strange word for him.

“Untagged?”

“The Untagged? That's what they call the people who have not been tagged. They are banned almost everywhere - schools, offices, government, hospitals, markets, restaurants, airports, even churches - but they cannot be tracked down. It doesn’t matter to them anyway. I mean, how can you get to those places if you are poor? They were born poor and have become poorer thanks to that tag and Sidapa. They are out there – eating garbage, begging, stealing and killing.”

The watchman returned his bag, led him to the gate and into a smog-free but congested road. “Next time you come here, look for the guard first before you enter. You might be mistaken for an Untagged.”

Michael surveyed the traffic-clogged street before he headed to an intersection. The rundown inn that he spotted from the bus lay a kilometer away; his former home was on the next block. Transient lodging appealed to him more than the familiar coziness of his old apartment. Nobody was waiting for him there; his wife had divorced him and remarried. A taxi festooned with a red bulb and tag scanner pulled to the shoulder; the cabbie beckoned to him. He did not notice any bus stop or light rail station in the vicinity, but he waved the cab away. A private car halted beside the sidewalk; he recognized the person behind the wheel and he hopped inside.

“Your forearm,” Cassandra brandished a tag reader. The name and face matched the description of one of two convicts who received presidential clemency in the Cyber News Network report that she had downloaded from the car’s built-in computer. The other recipient was Joseph Santiago. “So, you are Michael Antonio. Tell me about my father.”

Michael groped for the proper words. “Your father never lost hope that you will be reunited someday while I have accepted death in prison as my end. My thoughts were with my wife while he immersed himself in activities that would shorten his sentence. When we paired for jail chores, he talked about you most of the time.” A sniffle emanated from the driver’s seat. “He lent me his electronic books for listening to him and joining him in staring at your photographs.” He heard a faint chuckle. “He donated his blood when I got sick with dengue. He probably did it to earn points with jail officials, but he saved my life. He also convinced me to enroll in a master’s degree online.”

The car had only covered a block in the gridlock. Michael recognized the area. He craned his neck at the skyscraper that replaced his former home.

“Mr. Antonio?”

“Sorry.” He shifted on the front seat and checked at the vehicles trailing them through the rearview mirror. He quickly turned away when he saw her harassed reflection. The car advanced to the second block, near an intersection. Cassandra maneuvered her sedan to the outermost lane; its signal lights telegraphed her intention to turn right. Still straight ahead was the inn. “You can drop me at the next unloading zone.” A minute passed in silence. “Your father only wanted to see you again. Too bad that Sidapa got him.” Michael bit his tongue as soon as the words flew out of his mouth.

“Sidapa?”

Michael did not reply.

But Cassandra heard. She knew what killed her father, so did Lorenzo Mendez. She surmised that guilt must have prodded her adopted father to aid her in slipping away from their vigilant bodyguards from the National Intelligence Service. Or it could be love that he expressed recently by offering to return her to Joseph. He may have adopted her because of her resemblance to his daughter, but he rescued her from the orphanage. He was affectionate to her as her real father.

Traffic flowed again and Cassandra navigated to the area designated for disembarking passengers. Michael stepped on the sidewalk and leaned into the window. “I hope we can talk about your father next time.” She merely smiled and raised the window.

“Sorry, the rooms are full.” The innkeeper stood behind the door that slid shut when Michael stepped on the doormat. Above the threshold was a digital billboard advertising vacant rooms. He pointed at the sign; the landlord shook his head sideways vigorously.

“Paranoid freak!” Michael doubted that he could find cheap lodging even if he scoured the whole city. Food was another necessity that he had to address. There were vending machines on the sidewalks and food stalls. He walked to the nearest machine hawking vacuum-packed sandwiches fortified with vitamins and loaded with more calories. Ham and egg sandwich looked tasty to him. He stepped forward and readied his arm for scanning. Thick plastic emerged from the sides of the automat and shrouded its front. A shrill alarm sounded and a red lamp flashed.

“A criminal!” A woman cried. The pavement around him was emptied in seconds. A police siren wailed. He gave the machine a savage kick before retreating, chased by alarmed shouts. He ran until he heard curses hurled at him for running on the crowded sidewalk. Another automat was nearby; he stepped on the street than pass by it. It did not react to his passage. He plodded on and halted when he reached a deserted street bordered by a fence with loose metal sheets. His empty stomach growled, his throat burned from thirst, and he was sleepy. He considered the hard pavement as a good bed for the night. He curled like a baby on the concrete.

Shrill laughter and the pounding of small feet heralded the coming of night. Michael blinked in the pale light. Barefoot, potbellied children with thin limbs and shrunken cheeks drifted into his sight. He shut his eyes. The scent of their sweaty bodies wafted to him. He slowly rose; the gaiety died, the children’s eyes were riveted on him. A child broke away from the group, another followed; the rest retreated in minutes into the fence. The street was desolate again.

Michael retraced his path; he walked on the precipice of the sidewalk, away from vending machines and sliding doors. He passed the inn and the automat; no light flashed. Hunger and thirst stabbed more violently, but he only walked deeper into the city, into a row of appliance stores. Banks of wafer-thin split-screen television competed for his attention and his eyes never stayed on one screen.

Michael turned away as the image of a prostrate man filled the screens. The monitors flashed Cassandra’s pallid face next. He swiveled his head back. The camera panned and more bloodied corpses were captured. The images ensnared other passersby, and they slowly pressed around him. He could not decipher the reporter’s words, but he read from the live caption that unidentified gunmen had massacred the occupants of a safe house ran by the National Intelligence Service. He read the names of Cassandra Santiago, Lorenzo Mendez and unidentified agents of the National Intelligence Service on the scrolling text. The knot had grown thicker.

“I thought that Mendez was dead.” A man spoke from the rear.

“Now, we know that he is really dead.” Another man snickered.

Michael touched the glass, willing his fingers to penetrate the window, to touch the screen occupied by Cassandra’s placid face. “You will see your father again,” he spoke softly. Crimson light beamed and an alarm shrieked. The accordion door slid into place, the television vanished behind the steel.

“A criminal?” The crowd spoke in hushed tones and leered at Michael.

He faced them. “Have you met the demons that brought me to prison?” Silence. “Look in a mirror and you will see them.” Comprehension did not register on their faces.

Michael returned to the desolate street. The unshod and pot bellied children shrieked with delight as a teenager chased them with a blinking tag reader. Several tatterdemalion adults occupied the sidewalk. He could see the grime on their faces, the stiffness of their soiled clothes. Their collective mingled was oppressive. He calmly strode to them. The children veered towards him, they screamed. A ring of adults that formed rapidly sheltered them.

A tall Untagged with broad, bony shoulders confiscated the tag reader from the adolescent. He charged with a clenched fist and an intense scowl. Michael breathed evenly.

“I am an ex-convict.”

The adult armed with the tag reader scanned him. The red bulb flickered. His tense face relaxed.

“We know. And we,” he smiled and swept his hand to his group, “are the Untaggeds.”

END

Prospero Pulma, Jr.

Philippine Graphic

September 4, 2006

Vo. 17, No. 13

pp. 38-41

Untitled I

2013-06-28T16:42:00.000-07:00

a scape is traded for

every twitch of our lungs,

for every ounce of strength

we vigorously spend.

we erase a blemish,

add fresh scars, for gaining a day

that widens our schism with the past.

each mighty leap to the sky

chips fragments from our bones;

but each thunderous fall cements

the fissures all.

deeper our skin furrows become,

when we tag them with years;

nearer to the grave we wander,

when longer we want to outlive our birth.

- Prospero Pulma Jr -

Philippine Graphic

October 23, 2006

Vol. 17, No. 20

p.43

accursed with mirrors

2013-06-24T16:43:00.000-07:00

in unison, they snarl, sneer like

imps revolting against their faces

molded from the cheapest plaster - mud.

they could not peer at the mirror:

dreading the faintest glance from

other souls, they have ensnared

a prey to slander, to vilify with

their own filth and deflect the

comeuppance of their birth.

their fetid appetite for falsehood

unsated, they have enticed a mob,

a throng of imps sharing their

aversion for the faces staring

from mirrors polished to reflect

the thinnest streak of grime.

only the eyes are repulsed with

the bearer molded from ivory, or

carved from repugnant mud.

Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Philippine Graphic

May 29, 2006

Vol. 16, No.51

p.43

the half-shut door

2013-06-19T23:06:00.002-07:00

slowly, my feet revolted

against my mind, dragging

me to the half-shut door;

borne by my limbs down

the winding stairs, i was

flung into the chilly night.

lost in the boundless

darkness, my numb thoughts

vanquished my will;

the winding stairs had blocked

my mind, dimming the effervescence

behind the half-shut door.

- by Prospero Pulma, Jr.

Philippine Graphic

May 29, 2006

Vol. 16, No.51

p.43

web.breakfast

2013-06-03T00:26:00.001-07:00

Every Day Poets
April 26, 2013

the fried eggs are sunny, the sky’s grey and dreary
still full of sleep, i creep
to the table.

breakfast is ready,
but the house’s empty;
from my pocket, my smartphone
whispers,
“online, you’re not alone.”

in america, friends are at dinner,
in asia, at lunch.

a quick picture uploaded,
and i add my breakfast
to my friends’ online food.

all is set, so i take a bite
at friendships measured by megabytes.

-Prospero E. Pulma, Jr.

Jester

2013-05-08T12:40:00.000-07:00

Philippine Graphic

August 6, 2007

Vol. 18, No. 9, pp. 40-41.

So, you’re the one who caused all this mess, Dante hissed at the lifeless mass that blocked the eastbound lane of Grand Commerce Avenue. His eyes moved coldly from the corpse crudely shrouded by a tarpaulin to a bus parked meters away. A red streak ran from the cadaver to the vehicle’s right front wheel. Police tape bordered the area where investigators trawled for evidence and interrogated witnesses. Two men laid the body on a stretcher and carried it to a van. It's CSI live, he thought. He clicked his camera phone on the spectacle and pulled away from the sidewalk railing.

His office, nestled on the 40th floor of the Metro Tower, was two blocks away. He joined the multitude forced to disembark from their vehicles and into the pavement by the tragedy. The teleconference had started an hour ago. Better late than dead, he sneered.

The mobile in Dante’s pocket vibrated. It was Charles inquiring if he was interested in a wager. He guessed what the bet was about. Two weeks ago, a lady stood on the ledge of the condominium across their office. Charles wagered that she would back down. Dante predicted that she was doomed. She leapt, and he pocketed half his friend's paycheck. The fool wants to recoup his losses, Dante snickered. The gamblers sealed a deal with a few texts.

Next, Dante called Angelique. Still unavailable. His sister was febrile when he escorted her to work. Her graveyard shift had ended three hours ago, but his ten messages and two missed calls had yet to yield a response from her. Angelique, the cell phone addict, had broken her habit of giving him hourly updates of her activities. Her office sat along the thoroughfare, but he had never ventured beyond the ground floor lobby when he dropped her off at midnight for her shift. Mama must be praying to all the saints by now, he thought.

The late morning throng in the lobby of the Metro Tower was unusually thick. Misery, I adore your company, Dante thought. “Ready for a memo?” He shuddered. “Sir?” Arnold threw a backhanded slap to his subordinate’s chest. “I moved the telecon because of the traffic jam caused by that accident. Only Tess and Lind beat the call time. ” He wanted to whack his boss. “I heard that a bus dragged a pedestrian for nearly a block.” They squeezed into a packed elevator. The incident was a hot topic in the lift.

Dante noticed the empty cubicles in the production area. “Looks like buses made a killing today.” Arnold frowned. “Dispense with the cruel jokes and start working.”

“I saw Lind in the pantry. There must be food there. Can I feed my Ascaris first?” Dante whined. “Someday, you'll get a memo for your humor.” The rebuke did not reach its recipient who vanished into the pantry

“Fat keeps people from growing old. It kills them young,” Dante addressed Lindsay, his five‑foot, 250-pound officemate. He claimed the chair beside her and dipped into her bag of chicharon. She paused masticating the fried pork fat and blurted, “When my sumo wrestler friends are through with you, you’ll know that fat is lethal. Persist in your cruelty, Dante, and you will die younger than fat folks like me.”

Tessa, the gangly frustrated archaeologist, poked her head into the pantry. She did not miss Lindsay’s ponderous bulk and Dante’s ominous grin. “What? Still interested if Lindsay’s cellulite will soon be transplanted to me?” Her words erased his smirk. “Lind, Homo sapiens are not supposed to mingle with Neanderthals.” Tessa pulled her friend from her seat.

“A healthy caveman will outlive any obese or anorexic Homo sapiens.”

“Not if the caveman gets lynched by irate Homo sapiens.”

“Is Charles in?” You lost, Lindsay giggled inside.

Tessa did not read Dante's shift in mood. “Your fellow caveman? The first thing he asked me when he came in a minute ago was about the corpse on Grand Commerce Avenue. His eyes reddened when I told him that the victim was a female, hope they're not related.” He wanted to break into a victory jig, but settled instead to setting his drumming skills loose on the table. “Is that how cavemen mourn the dead? Pity the victim because she fainted in the path of a speeding bus.”

“No. I just became a few thousand pesos richer and Charles won't have anything to eat until the next payday.” Angelique would have her dream of prancing in Lacoste sneakers fulfilled.

“He hasn't paid you for that woman who jumped off her condominium?” Lindsay spoke between manducating chicharon.

“It's another dead woman, the one on Grand Commerce.”

Lindsay stopped chomping. “You're going too far.”

“We’re not different from the gamblers who play poker at wakes.” The gaze of the women was searing. “Bye, ladies. I still have to rob Charles.”

Freed of company, he pressed Angelique’s number. Failed again. Riza, Angelique’s honorary sister, emerged as his best hope in contacting his sibling.

“Dante?” Silence fell on the line. Possession of her number was only for contingencies, not for fraternization.

“Where's Angelique?” They fired the query simultaneously.

“Sorry. Is Angel home?

“Probably not. Is she there?”

“No. She logged out an ago. Work is heavy today and we are short on people, so the supervisor asked us to extend. But aspirin was useless against Angel's fever that she was sent home. I only accompanied her to the elevator because I had to cover for her. Sorry.”

“Any idea why she is not replying?” Charles waved from his cubicle. Dante nodded.

“Ah...I only saw Angel’s phone and her purse when I passed by her workstation. They're in my locker. She won’t get a taxi with the loose change that she keeps in her pockets. Sorry.” She began whispering. “The super is here. Tell Angel to get well. Bye.”

“I'll give the other half on payday.” Charles extended his hand clutching folded bills. “Those statistics about males as reckless drivers and pedestrians are wrong.”

“You relied on numbers churned by geeks?”

“Research and experience. Crossing streets when the light turns green thrills me.”

“Well, you can charge this latest loss to experience and do a little research on gambling and bankruptcy.” His rock ringtone blared.

“Ma?” Her keening burst in his ears. Charles looked up curiously.

“It's Angelique...Angelique...”

“Calm down.”

“Angelique...Grand Commerce.” Her wails rose by several decibels.

“She's not at her office in Grand Commerce. She's not home yet?”

“Angel...Bus...Grand Commerce...”

- Prospero Pulma Jr.-

The Fifth Law

2013-04-30T17:39:00.001-07:00

Oh, poor Izzy. You should not be running like that.” Nana coughed. “You look more short of breath than me.”

“And you’ve never looked so sick.” Izrael examined Nana’s lips and fingertips. They had turned whiter than her milky skin. Her wrist pulse oximeter started beeping, telling him that her blood was crying for oxygen. He glanced at the control pad attached to the wheelchair. “Oxygen’s nearly gone.” Wires linked the panel to the oxygen tank strapped behind her wheelchair. A tube slithered from the tank before tapering into a nasal cannula. The panel’s tiny red bulb was blinking. “This will take a minute.”

Irma - Prospero Pulma Jr. - 1130 words (Horror)

2013-03-10T20:39:00.001-07:00

My first short story published on Alfie Dog Fiction, a UK publisher of books and short stories in Epub, Mobi, and PDF formats. Available for £0.39 a download. Soli Deo Gloria!

Irma - Prospero Pulma Jr. - 1130 words (Horror)

Relics of St. Therese of the Child Jesus Arriving in December 15

2012-12-11T21:06:00.002-08:00

***The third Philippine visit of the pilgrim relics of St. Therese of the Child Jesus will commence with arrival ceremonies on December 15, 2012. There will be a procession at 4 PM December 15 from Villamor Air Base to the St. Therese’s Shrine in Pasay after arrival honors in the air base. At 5 PM, Bishop Leopoldo Tumulak, D.D., of the Military Ordinariate of the Philippines, will celebrate the welcome mass for the relics in the shrine, followed by a public veneration of the relics until 10 PM on that day. There will be a dawn mass on the 16th and 17th of December and veneration of the relics at the shrine’s remembering chapel.

On December 18, the relics will begin their journey to dozens of dioceses and archdioceses throughout the Philippines before they return to the shrine on April 11, 2013 to April 14, 2013. You can visit the website, http://www.thereserelics.ph/index.html, for information about the itinerary and ways that you can support the relics’ visit.

***The author is UNAUTHORIZED to solicit funds for the third Philippine visit of the pilgrim relics of St. Therese of the Child Jesus.

Still Alive but Ungrateful

2012-11-04T22:35:00.001-08:00

It takes five minutes to brush your teeth, longer than that to complete your rituals in the toilet and bathroom. Eating three meals and sipping several cups of coffee will take more than an hour. Going online to check your emails, Facebook news feed, Twitter feed, or visit websites for work or leisure will consume an hour or more. Commuting will eat a significant chunk of your time and work itself will eat a third or more of your day. Take away an hour or two for socializing after work, and you’ll be crawling to bed at the end of another normal day.

Sleep consumes a third of your day, less if you’re insomniac, more if you’re hypersomniac. As your eyes blink open to signal another waking day, you jump out of bed and repeat your routine, forgetting to ask why you have awakened when so many die in their sleep, forgetting to say the shortest but sincerest thank you prayer that will be quicker than reading this blog post.

-Prospero Pulma, Jr.

sa ilalim ng iisang bubong

2012-08-29T06:47:00.000-07:00

mula sa bahay na marmol

at bahay na kariton, sila’y umalis

at sumilong sa iisang bubong

para mag-pasalamat o mag-sumamo.

sa ilalim ng bubong ng bahay

ng tinatawag nilang Ama

maririnig ang maraming tinig ‑

tinig ng tuwa, tinig ng hinagpis.

iba’t ibang panalangin pero iisa ang sinasabi:

“Panginoon ko, Diyos ko.”

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

Blessed Are Those Who Wait

2012-08-24T21:48:00.000-07:00

It was 7:20 in the evening. A light train barreled into the Carriedo LRT station near Quiapo Church a couple of minutes after another train rolled toward Doroteo Jose. Passengers filled every square foot of the carriages. For every passenger that disembarked, two took his place, something for physicists to ponder how two objects could take the space vacated by one.

First train. Still not enough to activate my fourth-train rule (do not squeeze yourself into a rush hour train unless it is the fourth train, you’re terribly late for your appointment, and there’s a big interval between trips). A train stopped on the opposite platform. Seconds later, a male voice came on the PA system announcing a code yellow. My medical clerkship had taught me that people are dead serious when they talk in color codes like code blue for a dying patient. I started wondering what yellow code meant for the LRT-1 folks.

I anxiously looked around for stampeding passengers. Everyone on the platform was relaxed. I sniffed the air. The only noxious fumes came from the smoke belchers on Carriedo and Rizal Avenue. No additional security personnel came on the platform. Still the yellow code bugged me, and the idling Baclaran-bound train told of a possible technical glitch. Trains breaking down in the middle of rush hour would surely complete a harried commuter’s day.

After ten minutes, the platform was like the MGM Grand Arena hosting a Manny Pacquiao fight. The male speaker then announced the lifting of yellow code. The train across us shut its doors and resumed its course while a train from Central Terminal Station made its way to Carriedo. The passengers were packed tighter than sardines in a can.

Fifteen minutes had passed since I stepped on the platform. Under normal operating schedules, three to four trains would have already passed in that time span. The delay promised a longer procession of overloaded trains rolling in from the south.

I was ready to break my fourth-train rule, but there was little room for my lean frame in the train. There would be a fifth train, a sixth, a seventh…an eight…a ninth. I reassured myself to keep from cursing as I had just visited Quiapo Church. Besides, cursing would not bring us an empty train.

Minutes later, everyone gazed at an approaching train as if they were gawking at a celebrity on the red carpet. The attention was well deserved because there was only one person in that train: the driver. Cheers and laughter erupted from everyone, and a cheerful stampede erupted the moment its doors opened. Comfortable in my seat, I thought of the people who stood beside me on the platform minutes earlier and squeezed into the second train. They had a few minutes’ headstart, but I had a seat while they were standing cheek by jowl.

-Prospero Pulma Jr. -

Love’s Misshapen Face

2012-08-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

broken, haunted by
love’s misshapen face,
i huddled in the
darkest corner shivering.
i dare not gaze
at its uninviting eyes
and frigid smile,
or wander to the
room’s brightest corner
where love blooms
the loveliest –
and coldest.

-Prospero Pulma Jr. (www.you.inq7.net, November 11, 2005)

The Mist

2012-08-19T19:18:00.001-07:00

she comes stomping
on the stairs
early at dawn.
garbed in the cold,
unraveling arms
of the morning,
she fades by the sea
stirring from slumber.

--Prospero Pulma Jr.- (www.you.inq7.net, November 09, 2005)

A Filipino in the NBA

2012-08-19T18:41:00.000-07:00

Philippine Panorama

August 19, 2012

Vol. 41, No. 34

For a nation that expects every male citizen to have played at least a game of basketball in his lifetime, not having a Filipino player in the National Basketball Association (NBA) is a tragedy as big as the country’s basketball trophy cabinet lacking an Olympic gold medal and a FIBA Championship title. So fervent is the country’s desire for a Filipino NBA player that scuttlebutt about NBA scouts eyeing a local player can send some fans into basketball nirvana.

A modest people, Filipinos may not be wishing for someone who is Lebron-ish to represent them in the NBA. Any Filipino or half-Filipino stocked with enough talent, size, and athleticism that will earn him significant playing time and respectable statistics in any of the league’s thirty ball clubs will do.

If Filipinos will only open their eyes and broaden their minds, they can stop looking at the stars for signs about the coming of a Filipino player in the NBA for the country already has a representative and a very prominent one at that. The basketball world knows him by name even if he has not had a nanosecond of NBA playing time.

His entry into the NBA did not generate a mad scramble for interviews from Philippine media. Then again, his first job in the league was low profile and he was one of its pioneers. No, he was not a water boy nor a mascot wearer.

Basketball is in his blood, having played for four years as a point guard for an NCAA Division I team before assuming a playing and coaching job in Germany. Like some athletes, he did not fall to a powerful opponent but to his own body. Back problems forced him to quit his post.

His illness was a stroke of good fortune on hindsight because an NBA team hired him to edit its videos and run its video room after his stint in Germany. He occupied several positions for more than a decade until he was one of the ball club’s assistant coaches when it bagged its first Larry O’Brien trophy. Things got sunnier for him when the head coach climbed to the top of the team’s executive totem pole and left his coaching position to him.

Yes. He has Filipino blood in him, thick because his mother is a daughter of San Pablo City, Laguna, and he proudly tells the world about it. Meet Erik Celino Spoelstra. He may not dribble, shoot, rebound, or dunk for an NBA team, but he can set Lebron James and Dwayne Wade into doing all that.

Filipinos are only wishing for an NBA player of Filipino heritage, a player who may end up as just one of the more than 300 names in the league’s roster of players, someone whose luster may sadly fade from competition, age, and injuries. Fate gave the Filipino a better gift in Erik Spoelstra, head coach of NBA champion Miami Heat.

-By Prospero Pulma Jr.

Funds Needed for the Third Philippine Visit of the Pilgrim Relics of St. Therese of the Child Jesus (St. Therese of Lisieux)

2012-07-27T21:55:00.001-07:00

***Devotees of St. Therese of the Child Jesus (St. Therese of Lisieux) will have a chance to view and venerate her pilgrim relics from December 15, 2012, to April 15, 2013, when the pilgrim relics of St. Therese of the Child Jesus (St. Therese of Lisieux) visit the Philippines for the third time.

The Military Ordinariate of the Philippines (MOP) or the Catholic Military Diocese is organizing the tour of St. Therese’s pilgrim relics in 47 archdioceses, dioceses, and some military camps in Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao.

To ensure the success of the relics’ Philippine pilgrimage, the organizers have established the 1,000 R.O.S.E.S. (Relics of St. Therese Empowered Supporters) fund drive. Donors can pledge to donate PhP1, 000 for five months from July 2012 to November 2012. Donations can be made in cash or checks can be made payable to the Roman Catholic Bishop of the AFP and PNP – St. Therese Relics.

You can call Magnificat Ventures Corporation, the developer of the St. Therese Shrine in Pasay, at (02) 636-6279 (MARY) or (02) 853-6279 (MARY) and ask for Jinggay or email relics3rdvisit@Therese.ph for inquiries.

You can also visit the NationalShrine of St. Therese of the Child Jesus in NewPort Boulevard, Villamor Airbase, Pasay City, Philippines. It is located across NAIA 3. Its website is www.therese.ph.

St. Therese of theChild Jesus is renowned for many miracles and intercessions granted to her devotees including healing of serious illnesses, and she is the patron saint of tuberculosis and AIDS sufferers, pilots, illness, loss of parents, and missionaries, and is the secondary patroness of France. Pope Pius XII hailed her as the “greatest saint of modern times” while Pope John Paul II declared her as a Doctor of the Church. Her feast day is on October 1.

***The author is UNAUTHORIZED to collect donations on behalf of the organizing committee.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

Heaven’s Little Flower

2012-07-26T23:23:00.000-07:00

Mention saint to a Catholic, and he will probably think of holy men and women dead for centuries, seen only in iconography in churches and homes and read about through third-person accounts of their saintly lives.

SaintTherese of the Child Jesus or Saint Therese of Lisieux is one saint that Catholics have a clear idea of what she looked like in life, thanks to the 41 or so photographs taken of her from childhood until her death, and what she did because of her autobiography, The Story of a Soul.

On January 2, 1873, a daughter was born to Louis Martin and Zelie Guerin of Alencon, France. They named their child, the youngest in a brood of nine, Therese Martin before renaming her Marie Frances Therese at her baptism two days later. On April 9, 1888, she joined the Carmelites in Lisieux, France, at the age of 15, and professed her vows on September 8, 1890.

Saint Therese probably led an unremarkable life that a Carmelite sister wondered what their Mother Superior would report about Therese’s death from tuberculosis on September 30, 1897. Exactly a year later, the world learned of her saintly life and how she considered herself as “Jesus’ little flower” through the publication of Story of a Soul. Pope Benedict XV beatified her on April 29, 1923, Pope Pius XI canonized her on May 17, 1925, and Pope John Paul II declared her a Doctor of the Church on October 19, 1997.

Many people, including French combat pilots in World War I, have sought Saint Therese’s intercession through prayers and novenas. For each miracle and favor granted such as healing from serious illnesses, she gained new devotees that she is now one of the Church’s most popular saints.

Saint Therese of the Child Jesus promised on her deathbed that she would “let fall a shower of roses.” Figurative or literal roses or the fragrance of roses have been the trademarks of her miracles, most apt symbols for “Jesus’ little flower who glorified God by just being her beautiful little self among all the other flowers in God’s garden.”

-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

33 A.D. and Black Sheep

2012-07-26T09:25:00.000-07:00

33 A.D.*

Philippine Daily Inquirer

Youngblood
May 15, 2004

AFTER WATCHING the movie "The Passion of the Christ," I could not help but ask myself many questions. If I did not know Jesus Christ's real identity and had not heard of Him before, what would have I done if I lived in Jerusalem in 33 A.D.? Which side would I take if I were one of the very fortunate souls who saw Jesus in action?

If I were in Jerusalem in 33 A.D. and had witnessed Jesus Christ's triumphant entry into the city, I would wonder why the people were ecstatic over the arrival of a man on a donkey. I would have asked what He had done to deserve such a grand welcome...

*An excerpt of my first published article. No full copy saved in my email.

-Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Black Sheep**

Philippine Daily Inquirer
Youngblood
July 10, 2004

THE PROBLEM has been in existence since biblical times. It was the subject of a parable told by Jesus. It has broken the hearts of countless parents. It has caused rifts between siblings. It has caused children to rebel against their parents over perceived favoritism. It has shattered the old belief that blood is thicker than water because it has caused the blood of estranged kin to be spilled. No, I am not talking about bitter feuds over family fortunes. Rather I am referring to every parent's worst nightmare: a black sheep in the family.

Parents generally want their children to become…

**An excerpt of my second published article. No full copy saved in my email.

-Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Parenting in the Age of Online Social Networks

2012-07-22T21:01:00.000-07:00

*Philippine Panorama
July 22, 2012
Vol. 41, No. 30

A father once wrote on his son’s Facebook wall, “Hi, Danny! How are you? Your mom and I are okay. We miss you. Please come downstairs. We’re in the living room.” This joke illustrates how Facebook and other online social networks have crept into homes, unsettling parents already troubled by digital age contraptions pulling their children away from schoolwork and family.

With one in six people on the planet owning accounts in Facebook and other online social networks and with about one in three Filipinos registered in a social network, it is not surprising if some Filipino children and preadolescents want a social network account as much as they wish for a mobile or gaming console. The trouble begins here because a federal law called the Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act (COPPA) prohibits websites such as Facebook from collecting names and other personal information from users younger than 13 years old without first obtaining "verifiable parental consent."

Facebook and other websites covered by COPPA have set 13 years old as their minimum age limit for all users. Complying with COPPA would have made the social network theoretically free of underage users. Reality says that the website had approximately 7.5 million under-13 users in 2011, with some of them joining the site with their parents’ help. Despite its efforts to kick out 20,000 underage users every day, the banned users’ reentry and young converts to Facebook ensure a steady supply of illegal members to expel from the network.

Seven and a half million users out of Facebook’s more than 900 million users is a minuscule minority, but it refers to children and preteens who are exploring a largely adult world where they are exposed to age-inappropriate material, predators, and bullies. Parents should not rely on Facebook’s anti-bullying tools because the system is like a police officer reacting to a crime after its commission rather than a thick fence keeping the wolves off the sheep.

Threats to a child’s online privacy and safety should not just be a parent’s major concern when his child is in a social network. American psychologists have discussed the possible negative effects of online social networking on a child’s behavior. This can be as mild as increased narcissism to serious disorders such as anxiety, depression, aggressiveness, mania, and antisocial behavior.

Children and preteens active in social networks also do not perform well in school. On the other hand, adolescents in social networks display more empathy to their online friends while the introverts among them are encouraged to socialize at least online.

Psychologists opine that parents should establish a guideline for their children’s social networking and other online activities instead of imposing restrictions that their young can circumvent anyway. They should also not be complacent once Facebook implements its proposal to set parental controls on the accounts of its under-13 users.

Most of all, some parents should not have helped their children fool the age restriction set by Facebook and other networks in the first place. By that act alone, they have already taught their young that dishonesty is permissible in society.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

General Absolution and First Wednesdays in Baclaran Church

2012-07-13T22:35:00.002-07:00

First Wednesdays have a special place in the hearts of the Redemptorist community and devotees to the Our Mother of Perpetual Help, leading to many more thousand devotees visiting the National Shrine of Our Mother of Perpetual Help than on ordinary Wednesdays.

First Wednesdays are also the time when Redemptorists perform General Absolution. Adding several hours to the regular schedule of confession to accommodate more confessors have not solved the problem of hearing all confessions by about 7:30 PM, so the priests’ solution is to administer the General Absolution which starts after the 7:00 PM Novena, the last novena at the shrine.

Devotees prepare for the General Absolution. A Redemptorist presides over the ceremony. The Redemptorist community in Baclaran is quite large and multiracial.

Devotees pray on the chancel and venerate the tabernacle. It is a custom among devotees to tap the tabernacle and pray for their petitions to Our Lord and God and for Our Mother of Perpetual Help’s intercession for their petitions.

Devotees queue up for their turn to venerate the tabernacle. Patience is a necessary virtue on a First Wednesday because of the long queues. Besides, devotees simply do not make the sign of the cross and pass by the tabernacle. They pray.

On the left are devotees praying and approaching the altar on their knees, a sign of fervent devotion.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

The Feast of Our Mother of Perpetual Help in Pictures

2012-07-01T06:45:00.003-07:00

Filipinos Catholics celebrated the feast day of Our Mother of Perpetual Help at the Philippines' National Shrine of Our Mother of Perpetual Help on June 27, 2012. The feast day was the culmination of nine days of novena-masses that started on June 18, 2012. Several novena-masses were held on the 27th of June and the day ended with a pontifical mass at 6:00 PM followed by a religious procession.

Flowers from the church and devotees transformed the altar, adorned by a giant portrait of the Our Mother of Perpetual Help, into a virtual flower garden for the feast day.

Devotees listening to Bishop Jesse Mercado's homily for the pontifical mass. About 120,000 devotees pray in the shrine on ordinary Wednesdays. That number swelled several times on the feast day itself.

The portrait of Our Mother of Perpetual Help was the last to arrive at the church after the procession. Devotees showered each returning icon with flower petals and much clapping and cheering.

Other religious icons that Catholic devotees venerate at the Mother of Perpetual Help Shrine join the procession through the streets of Baclaran, Paranaque.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

Mary's House of Succor

2012-06-26T09:33:00.000-07:00

One of the first things that a Filipino Catholic learns in childhood is to call the Blessed Virgin Mary as Mama Mary as if she were his own mother. As he puts more years into his life, he will hear mass in chapels and churches and attend schools named in her honor, or at least learn of schools and churches bearing her name. In chapels and churches, he will never miss her statues, garbed in a variety of attires and addressed by a myriad of names. At home or in a beloved’s abode, he will see Mary gracing the altar.

When his life hits a low point, especially if he feels that he is about to fall into an abyss, he might cry to the Blessed Virgin like a distressed child crying for his mother. Among Mary’s many titles, the Mother of Perpetual Help is one of the more popular choices for seeking heavenly succor, with her shrine in Baclaran drawing devotees estimated to number more than a million annually.

A survey of the National Shrine of Our Mother of Perpetual Help, colloquially known as Baclaran after its site in Paranaque City, will reveal it to be just like other major churches in the Philippines and around the world for that matter: imposing in size and design and ringed by roomy churchyards cooled by shady trees.

On Wednesdays, Baclaran stops from being just another church as it blooms with countless prayers. Wednesday is the day when devotees beseech the Blessed Virgin for favors or praise her in thanksgiving. Wednesdays have answered the question why Baclaran has become an icon and a powerful symbol of the Filipino Catholic’s Marian devotion.

The Novena to OurMother of Perpetual Help has a nomadic history. Iloilo owns the honor of the novena’s birthplace in the Philippines in 1946. In 1947, the Redemptorists brought the devotion to Batangas and finally to Baclaran, Paranaque, in 1948. The Baclaran Church could accommodate only 300 people then and 70 attended the first Perpetual Help Novena in Baclaran.

From that small church, Baclaran has grown into a shrine that can accommodate 2,000 people on the pews and another 9,000 or more packed in the nave, aisles, churchyard, and even standing in front of the altar itself. From the 70 initial attendees, approximately 100,000 men, women, and children currently flock to Baclaran on Wednesdays for the novenas and masses that start as early as 5:30 A.M. Thousands more visit after the last novena at 7:00 P.M, on other days, and at any hour that if one were to count each soul that visits Baclaran every minute and every hour of each day, he can come up with a staggering number.

As a testament to the devotees’ burning faith in the Blessed Virgin Mary’s power to intercede, 4,004 letters imploring the Blessed Virgin for favors of almost any kind were collected in one week of September 2011 alone and 621 letters thanking Mary for petitions granted were received at the same time. Out of the hundreds of thanksgiving letters dropped weekly at the church, the Redemptorist community picks one letter to read during the novenas. In that letter, a devotee will share the granting of his petition, inspiring more people to pray for their personal miracles.

Another survey of the shrine will reveal that Baclaran has become a microcosm of Philippine society because the privileged, the destitute, the famous, the unknown, the healthy, the ill, the desperate, and the grateful congregate on its grounds, praying one prayer yet expressing it in different ways. In Baclaran, one can pray in any manner that he wishes – kneeling, standing, kissing the foot of the altar, praying alone or with the community, even knocking on the tabernacle while muttering a private prayer.

As the home of the Our Mother of Perpetual Help, Baclaran is always open and its lights shining bright for the faithful. Because its doors are never closed, anybody tearful from the worries of the world can wander inside and discover why millions of Catholics have called it as the house of their Mama Mary.

-Prospero Pulma Jr. -

Online Privacy and Social Networks

2012-06-14T06:05:00.000-07:00

Creepy is an unusual description for a business agreement, yet an online privacy watchdog used creepy to describe Twitter’s decision to allow a company access to Tweetsdating back to January 2010. The company will mine about 250 million Tweets daily by its own estimate for information and sell the data to businesses for their marketing campaigns. Old tweets that many believe will remain in the archives or disappear completely will now return in the form of advertising campaigns to haunt their authors. Twitter has some company in its misery.

German authorities rapped Facebook in 2011 for the social network’s facial recognition software that automatically tags photos uploaded to the site, although users can disable the automatic tagging feature. Facebook claims that the program is a godsend to users who upload entire albums at a time with scores of friends to tag, but Internet rights advocates and fans of spy films believe otherwise. Facebook’s use of user data and increasing public access to the profiles of its 845 million users are also noxious stimulants to privacy activists.

Online privacy advocates saw a red flag in the re-sharing option of Google Plus that enables content shared within a user’s inner circle to spread beyond his close friends. Activists saw another red flag in Google’s plan to link its social network to its other services that can expose the identities of users who are using pseudonyms in Gmail, YouTube, and other Google services. The plan will unmask JohnnyD’Hunk on YouTube as a skinny man. Google has also wrestled with US attorneys general over its new privacy policy that combines user information from its different services into one.

With about one in sixpeople owning a social network account, the temptation and pressure to join an online social network are overwhelming and the opportunities to disclose much more than a user’s real name, date of birth, and gender that he provided upon registration too numerous.

By requiring users to reveal personal information upon registration, teasing people to broadcast even their breakfasts to the world, and through corporate and computer software ingenuity, online social networking gnaws at a person’s privacy until what is left of the curtain that blinds the world to a man’s secrets is a diaphanous veil.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

A Typical Ending for a Vintage Filipino Action Film

2012-06-08T06:41:00.000-07:00

Napatay na ng bida ang dalawang dosenang hoodlum gamit ang dalawang magasin ng M-16. Lahat ng hoodlum na tinamaan niya ay patay, pero si bida ay walang ni isang daplis kahit pinag-babaril siya ng mga M-16s at ibang automatic rifles.

Sa huli, si bida na lang at si punong kontrabida ang natitira. Siyempre, dapat mo nang mag-usap bago mag-patayan.

Kapitan Manda Rambong (nagpapalit ng magasin ng M-16): Sarhento Matino, nasusuka ako sa kalinisan mo! Putcha! Di ka mabili! Ang taas ng prinsipyo mo!

Sarhento Matino: Kapitan, pinalaki ako ng tama! Tinuruang magsimba, magdasal, at matakot sa Diyos!

KMR: Putcha! Ang dami mo pang satsat! Tapusin na natin ‘to!

SM (ina-asinta na ang pinagtataguan ni KMR): Sige. Dapat nang maalis ang mga katulad mo sa serbisyo! Patawad kong mapatay kita!

KMR: Pwe! Ang bait mo!

(Lalabas si KMR sa pinagtataguan, handang bumaril. Nanlaki ang mga mata at naihi si KMR ng makitang bumubuga na ng bala ang Armalite ni SM.)

SM (Gumagawa ng sign of the cross at mataimtim na nagdasal nang makitang patay na si KMR): Ang batas at hustisya ay walang awa din.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

The House of Succor

2012-06-02T21:07:00.001-07:00

*Published in Short.Story.Me, April 28, 2012

Bathing in the light of magnesium, the shrine resembled a giant lamp drawing moths from the darkness, glowing brighter for the poorest of moths like Daniel standing by the gate. He looked at the buildings behind him as if he could see his father in their hovel, sleeping away his latest binge drinking. Then he remembered that he was in a city away from his father and his belt and broom. He looked behind him one last time before walking inside on his good leg.

Dan, get dressed. His mother used to whisper to him. We’re going to Baclaran. Daniel would immediately abandon his toys and playmates for the shrine that her mother and other people called Baclaran. He had asked his mother if it was Sunday because all that he could see from the shrine’s gate were people. Wednesday was her reply.

After cutting through the thicket of worshippers that stood between the gate and the church, she would unravel her chaplet at the narthex and kneel, approaching the altar on her knees. He would walk behind her, sometimes cheering her when she was faltering, oftentimes hopping on the aisle’s beige and green tiles.

Sometimes they would reach Baclaran close to suppertime and she would finish her weekly devotion late at night. Those were the nights when he would see the ragamuffins and homeless elderly retaking the shrine like natives reoccupying their land after the invaders’ departure. He heard the children laugh more than talk, and their laughter could jolt the bereaved back to living. They called playfully to him more than once. His mother’s chastising look burned each invitation.

Daniel and his mother had witnessed the shrine’s Liguorian Congregation rolling out casseroles of soup and watched the elderly queuing serenely while the snickering children would push one another off the line.

Just one bowl, mama. The aroma of the soup was so thick and inviting. They’re so excited to eat it.

I’ll tell your papa.

After Daniel’s mother had left her mortal shell, many Wednesdays passed without him straying to within sight of Baclaran.

It was not a Wednesday, so Daniel could see the church from the gate. Baclaranwas wearing the same beige paint and none of the outlying buildings looked new. Children were frolicking in the courtyard but they had adults hovering nearby. He looked deeper, sighing from not finding a ragamuffin. He strode inside on his good leg, the left leg unmolested by his father’s belt. His right limb was leathery from the welts that ranged from his knee to his ankle, with some old and fresh welts forming hazy boundaries. Ridges of skin thickened by the belt also crisscrossed his upper limbs and torso.

Daniel limped around the church, checking every pew where soiled blankets covered snoring bodies. He looked closer and saw that they were the homeless elderly. He saw children in the church, but they were clean and escorted by an adult. Where are you? He sat on a pew and scratched a fresh welt on his right knee, his father’s reward to him for leaving their supper’s dishes on the sink. Beside it was skin broken by his belt when Daniel did not wash the laundry. His calf was tender where his father had pummeled him with a broom for feeling dust biting at his bare soles after ordering Daniel to sweep the floor. Yet he was not a total beast to Daniel.

A boy and girl were playing on the chancel, waving at the altar and the portrait of a woman above the tabernacle his mother called Mama Mary. Daniel thought of joining the children, but a man called them. The boy genuflected while the girl blew a kiss to the altar before jumping off the chancel. One by one, the washed children were heading to their clean homes and beds.

Daniel circled the courtyard. It was free of the playing children and the spot where the Liguorians served soup was clean. Where are you?He whimpered. He thought of screaming to attract them but his mother’s screams in her battles with his father had brought half of their shantytown to their doorstep.

With his eyelids coming together more frequently and sticking together longer, he returned to the pew and stretched on the varnished plank. Baclaran never closes its doors. His mother had said when he asked her where the homeless go at midnight.

The wild children could frolic around him, but he would not run and play with them tonight. He would seek them in the morning. Perhaps they would remember him as the boy with the woman in the sweater. Many devotees had sinned from taking humorously at his mother’s wearing a sweatshirt in summer. If only they knew of the bruises and welts beneath the warm fabric. If only.

Prospero Pulma Jr.