My Writings
Poetry
He writes and keep the emotions blazing; even long after the story has been told and forgotten. (TerradeGramm)
- The Shadow Dancer
- Forbidden
- An Unfailing Covenant
- Finally
- Condemned
- Honk
- Black
- Rebirth
- A Poet’s Gift
You may read more of my poems and follow me @ Instagram
Stories
“What are we but our stories.”
(James Patterson)
Restart: Far Beyond That Place
To start building our life our life as family– my spouse, the baby I was carrying then and I. It was the image envisioned in my mind, when we agreed to stay in a little room in his mother’s compound in a little town outside the city.
To start building our life as a family. My spouse, the baby I was carrying then, and I. It was the image envisioned in my mind. We agreed to stay in a little room in his mother’s compound in a little town outside the city.
It is actually a suburb bustling with so much activity from dawn to dusk. Its residents have lived there for several years and grown many generations.
There are a lot of structures that they can brag of. Besides the old Churches, there were the Spanish-style houses with cozy balconies and windows made of capiz shells.
As days and months passed, the simple life of its people unveiled before me. The friendly smiles of the elderlies greet me as I passed them.
Peddlers haggling stuff like tilapia, peanut butter, buttered (small) shrimps, and rags were not uncommon sights on the streets. Neither the scents of various kakanins sold from morning until afternoon.
Young children running to and pro along the eskinitas. The religious piety of both the old and young alike. The noisy bets for the battles of spiders.
The arguments between the members of the paluwagans. People hanging out by the streets in wee hours, pretending they were playing cards or darts. These were a few of the things that may remind me of that place.
But above all else, what bemused me? It was how the neighborhood cradles hucksters. Hucksters trading the country’s most prominent, most prohibited substance today. It’s Methamphetamine Hydrochloride or simply, shabu.
Drub abuse in that little town does not choose age nor gender. Men and women alike, youths, and adults. Married, widowed, separated, single, and out-of-school kids. Students, laborers, drivers, professionals, and the unemployed. The stuff could lure anyone.
The community takes care as well of some “users, runners and mongers”. I realized they were mere pawns in this somewhat big and widespread illegal trade.
It’s a trade that could tolerate even the most painful consequences to a family.
I can only recall a few. Men keeping two wives under one roof. Minors forced into illicit affairs with dealers. Battered wives, and parents axed from their jobs. Couples being separated and mothers who abandoned their children.
Every day, these were only a few of what is actually happening before my eyes. I get curious why those people can outrun the authorities. They do their transactions even in the middle of the day, even they use the simplest street language.
It was a wonder why our other neighbors could tend to evade that. Were not their own sons and daughters affected as well?
Why the residents could overlook this and go on with their lives? Isn’t the neighborhood intertwined with their lives?
I realized existing in the same place demands to act oblivious to what was happening. But I cannot do what someone usually does there and it was sad that it seems it had made things worst.
That’s why I drafted this writing. Because the system affected my own budding family. It had seized from my daughter and me the chance to live peacefully with my husband.
Drug dependence lured him again.
He was unemployed for some time now. But, he learned to steal and selling kinds of stuff. From jeans to CDs to auto spare parts to anything to support the vice.
He even got an affair with a married, much older and similarly, shabu-dependent woman. Somebody who could more satiate him with his monetary and salacious needs.
His family had warned me neither to be disturbed nor to mind him nor his ways. Since he was being his old self again, I had to stop waiting for changes and need not worry about him.
I must no longer mind if he went home at two o’clock or four o’clock in the morning. Suspicious callers must not bother me. Even they call him daily for clear “suspicious business”.
I must not nag. I must not force him to tell where else he had spent almost the 24-hour of his Sundays. Or even his Christmas and Valentines.
It’s funny that it’s still expected, or even insisted on me to remain a docile wife as ever. The house must be neat, and meals are cooked and ready. The kid is well-tended, and the wife must be cheerful and cuddly in spite of everything.
The idea seems foul enough, yet, I tried conforming to the expectations. I strive to be the embodiment of devotedness that was imposed upon me.
Yet, nothing changes.
The distance between us became much too raw and much too cold not to notice. We seldom share lunch or dinner together then.
More often, he was getting unreasonable and defensive. As if protective of something or someone.
The number of times he turned his back at night already hurts. The times our intimate relations became disgusting. He alone needs only to release the tension the substance built within him.
Our fights were another. I withdraw and explode later; while him, he started hitting me.
Apart from the vindictive words he threw, I was more insulted. I was more wounded about the idea that he wanted us to leave him all alone.
It felt as he has long given us up –our family, our relationship, and me.
It almost makes me crumble and shatter. Yet, faith reminds me not to let it defeat me.
It was when I decided, against my desire, to let go of him, and of everything that we started. Our dreams, our little family, and even our little home– if there’s used to be one.
I left that place and took my child with me.
Yet, hoping that in doing so, I am not yet giving up on him. I left vowing that I must do something about whatever happened. Or what is still happening there.
I left praying that we may still take my daughter’s father away from that deteriorating place.
Twice before, I have already tried going away with him to start a new phase of life somewhere.
Yet, he seemed scared about finally detaching himself from the charm of that place. The crutch of his frailties and of his dependency.
Anyway, who else would be brave enough to live a decent life amidst a place poisoned by cowardice and absurdity?
How many young families may still break because of the apathy of today’s society on drug abuse?
Whose children would be denied a secured future before the government will actually do something?
It is in this light that this writing is hoped to be taken.
For the purpose to go far beyond that small place. So that no more neighborhood will stage the same stories again.
That this tale would no longer repeat to another guileless young person’s life again.
©1999 M.C.Padilla
©2018 March – First to published this online
Featured image: Soragrit Wongsa on Unsplash
In response to the Daily Prompt: Restart
Quotes #3
Quotes and Musings: Leaving a Place
The only thing more unthinkable than leaving was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving.
I didn’t want to destroy anything or anybody. I just wanted to slip quietly out the back door, without causing any fuss or consequences, and then not stop running until I reached Greenland.”
The Dream That Is
A baby.
I always dream to bear a child of my own.
Ever since I was a toddler, I often pictured myself as someone who’s older enough, nursing and cuddling a beautiful, bouncing baby girl I would name Cassandra.
I would dress her with a pink lacey gown with soft ruffles and put pink satin ribbons on her curly mane. I would tuck her in bed, tell her stories of princes and princesses and elves and fairies until she falls soundly asleep. Every morning, we would take walks together and I would show her the world around her.
Such a wonderful dream!
Yet, I really do not know how motherhood could have been lovelier–until then.
It was pleasant to remember that used to be within my womb is a tiny speck of miracle who, supposedly, could have been blooming and growing these days.
But perhaps, it’s sad that my baby have to come at a wrong time.
Wearily, I dropped my head, both forgetting the hideous white mask this small room is wearing and regretting the things I have just done.
As I shut my eyes, I heard again my own voice tearing the silence of the past.
“Lorenzzz.”
Lorenz, my boyfriend, was atop my naked body. While his rigorous pumps went faster and harder, he clung more tightly unto my body while running his tongue on my naked skin.
“Tart… Keith…”
And I felt him exploded into invisible pieces inside me.
“Lorenzzz… wait up…” Another spurt from him and he was lying on his back beside me.
“Hey, Keith are you okay? What are you staring about?” he asked me after a while, I can barely hear him behind the monotonous hum of the A/C.
The buzzing seemed to get louder against the stillness. The cold numbly bite on my flesh yet, it nudges me to finally speak.
“I’m afraid, Lorenz, maybe, I’m actually more scared than what I can say. We should have not gone this far,” I whispered a few minutes after, the chilling cold around the room, the thing that just happened between us and the fears building up within me all sent my voice to quiver.
“Ssh…”
“What if Dad learned about this? What if I end up just like Leslie?” Leslie was a classmate who had dropped out from school last semester after she got pregnant. “I don’t want that to happen to me.”
“Keith, stop fuzzing. Stay calm, okay. ‘No need to be scared,” Lorenz indifferently uttered.
He was alternately toying again with my peaks.
“But, Lorenz…” I felt electrified as I respond to his touch.
“I said, don’t worry. Just take those pills I’ve given to you, okay? They can help us,” he said, convincing me.
He, then promptly lowered his head unto my chest.
PERHAPS, HE IS RIGHT.
MAYBE, I CAN TRUST HIM, HE’S BEEN AROUND, I thought foolishly then.
At nineteen, so much was expected from me.
In fact, my dad’s anticipating that I would also be a good lawyer someday. That’s why he was that kind of strict.
It was really easy to please him until one day, during the school’s foundation anniversary, I met Lorenz, a good-looking junior from another Law school.
Eventually, he invited me for a date. It was followed by another date and another one. And after sometime, I ended sleeping with him.
And of course, Dad knew nothing.
Even my recent last visit to the OB clinic has been a secret. Though, I never thought that the obstetrician would later confirm what I still doubt earlier.
“Your tests came back positive, Miss Vialez,” the OB eagerly announced, not knowing her words were like bombs to my ears. I never thought that she would confirm what I still doubt earlier.
Foolishly, I tried to believe that getting pregnant was something that happened to other girls, not me.
Not me, I am sure of that.
Not me, not yet.
However, when I started missing a couple of periods, I began to panic.
Chaos of fears and confusions reeled in my mind. I even didn’t know how to react exactly—to be delighted or to be anxious. Of course, it my dream to be a mother, but not now.
But what shall I do?
“Why don’t we try the doctor suggested by my friend?” Lorenz softly implied on the phone. I’ve just called him and told him about the baby. “Owen said that doctor knows how to help people like us and he only asks a little payment.”
“Who’s doctor? What do you mean… are you saying…? Are you saying that you want to abort our baby? How dare you think about it?” I drawled at him.
I no longer mind his cold reaction about my condition but the idea that he just implied enraged me.
“Tart, we have no other choice…”
“But not abortion. Not that one. It’s no different than murder, Lorenz. I could not allow anyone to kill my own child.”
“Keith, you’re not thinking, are you? You’re going to have a baby, yet, we are too young to be his parents. Tell me, what do you know about taking care of a kid?”
Then, why didn’t we think of these things before, I wanted so much to shout at him, but I might not have the will to do so.
“You told me that’s it going to be okay. You said the pills will help us.”
“If only you have been careful.”
“I’ve skipped only once.”
“Damn, Keith, look what happened? What do you think we will do next? Sit on our damn ass? Relax while waiting for that baby to come out and make our lives more miserable?” he sharply said.
“Please, Lorenz, stop blaming me.”
“Okay, okay, just think about what I’ve said. Not our best option, but it will do us good.” Lorenz reminded before the dial tone went on.
I thought hard, cried and tried to make some sense out of his words; and there really isn’t.
Abortion.
How could he ever think of abortion when we are talking of our own child?
Maybe it was just sad that my little Cassandra had to come too soon. I wonder, DOES SHE EVER FELT UNWELCOMED AND UNLOVED?
OH, IF ONLY I HAVE BEEN BRAVE FOR HER.
But, I have been alone and very confused during those times.
That a week after that phone call, I found myself lying helplessly on that narrow coach untidily covered with a yellowish cloth.
Somewhere outside that room, I heard Lorenz talking with someone. Then, a man in white robe entered and gave me two pricks of injection and went out, leaving me alone again.
After almost an hour, I just felt a stinging pain down my lower abdomen as if a hundred big pins were piercing it.
Afterwards, it gradually lessened, but later returned.
The intensity of the pain was much greater then – it seemed a steel belt was being tightened and twisted around my waist.
“Aaarghh… Lorenz… it hurts.” I cried out, wishing at least he could hear me.
Moments passed, I was already panting and soaked.
I was beginning to be totally scared, when a man in white came in and gave me another shot of injection.
Maybe, fear of what shall happen next, I just closed my eyes against the gleaming lights.
The pain was still there when the man started to work on my lower body with a cold instrument. As he moved it in and out between my legs, shiver crept my spine painfully.
I COULD NO LONGER REMEMBER HOW LONG IT LASTED UNTIL I FELL ASLEEP AND DREAMT THAT MY BABY HAD WAILED HARD, FOUGHT HARD TO LIVE, BUT I, MYSELF, HER OWN MOM, REFUSED TO EMBRACE HER.
MY POOR ANGEL, I KNOW SHE’S GONE.
Then, a few days after we had gone from that concealed clinic, I was suddenly experiencing cramps, but suspected nothing about it, I just ignored it.
Then, immediately the following day, there was just a terrible, severe pain; and later, continuous bleeding.
The blood just won’t stop.
I was scared as hell with the sight of the scarlet blood and the recurring horrors of the abortion in my mind that perhaps, I had finally passed out.
When I opened my eyes, I was already inside this white, neat room. I heard two fuzzy, distant voices from somewhere.
I tried to move but I was so exhausted and drained.
The voices outside continued murmuring—might be of my dad and the attending doctor. From the torrent of their words, I could only sense a few.
“Failed to remove other products of conception…
infections…
serious complications…
hemorrhage…
hysterectomy…
sterility…”
THE HORRORS OF ABORTION, INDEED.
My head seems spinning; nevertheless, I try to sit on my bed, looked outside the dull night.
The moon, dumb and bright has just risen over some distant mountains, while I remained where I was slumped, musing.
I try to believe that one of the million shimmering sparks of lights up there is my own little star. My own little baby whom I snuffed out the chance to see the rays of the sun.
She would never even blow her pink little candles or wear her pink ribbons.
“Cassandra, my sweet darling, you do not deserve me for disowning you, but I wish that you’ll still smile upon me from way up there. Whenever sorrow and regret haunts me, may you always be there to happily shine light to the darkness of my nights.”
PERHAPS, MY MOURNING FOR MY BABY WHOM I NEVER KNEW SHALL LAST A LIFETIME.
Tears start forming on my eyes—tears for losing Cassandra and all the lost babbling babies I would have had.
My dream of bearing and rearing my own children shall always be a mere and lifeless dream.
A dream.
A baby.
It’s all gone.
(End)
Copyright © terradegramm 1994
All rights reserved.
This short story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Quotes #2
Are you sad?
It’s normally fine to feel that, but do not allow yourself to be sad for such a long time.
So, how will you be happy?
1. Think less of your self
2. Help others
3. In the midst of loneliness, find joy. Smile pa rin.
Reblog from Arun Gogna
Static
Why I Write
It is a strength that fills everything that is void within me.
When can they understand? Writing is this little man’s passion as if a raging force is linking and binding me to it.
It is a strength that fills everything that is void within me.
It was never suppressing, but instead it allows me to bare my whole being, honestly and devotedly.
Reposting from © 1990 Terra de Gramm
Why do I write?
Why do I take pleasure in doing it?
Simple. Writing matters most to me.
It became a comrade who withstood beside me through every prose and poetry that I have scribbled. It breathes life to the stories that flourished within me and it fails me not.
It became an ally, to whom I can bare even the darkest ebb of my soul. It listens and allows me to be as true as I am. I can be jolly or glum or mad and writing will judge me not.
Writing became a friend who allows my growth as a real person. It is my eyes, my ears, and my heart that inspires me to see, hear and feel the throbbing world around me.
Writing became silver wings. It carries me to far-flung places and most, into the thoughts of other people. To share my sight and my heart with them.
© M.C. Padilla
In response to Writer’s Digest Word Prompt #WhyWeWrite
Featured Image by Patrick Fore on Unsplash
Perle en Stylos 