21ST CENTURY LITERATURE FROM THE PHILIPPINES AND THE WORLD

THIRD QUARTER MODULE

1
CONTENT DISCUSSION:

Philippine Pre-colonial Literature

Before the Philippines was colonized, it was already brimmingwith a rich tradition of oral literature.
EarlyFilipinos weaved together countless myths and legends to explain certain phenomena in life. They
had stories onhow the world was created-why thereis a sun in the morning and the moon at night, how a
mountainwasformed, why there are earthquakes, and other life events. However, because paper was not
invented yet, many of these tales were not preserved and have vanished from local knowledge. Most of
what have been transcribed now are taken from oral literature, whichmeans that these stories have been
passed on from one generationto another. Most of that which survived are epics and folklores. Here are
their descriptions and other forms of literature that were passed on by the early Filipinos to today’s
generation.

 Proverbs are practical observations and philosophy of everyday life that are written usually1n a
rhyming scheme. It is obviously meant to entertain while teaching basic skills in surviving local
life. In Filipino, these are called salawikain. Here are some examples:
Kung ano ang puno, siya ang bunga.
(Whatever the tree, so is the fruit.)
Kung walang tiyaga, walang nilaga
(If you don't persevere, you can expect no reward.)
 Riddles are like proverbs with one main difference: they demand an answer and are used test the
wits of those who are listening to them. Usually, riddles (or, in Filipino, bugtong) are used ina
battle of wits, where locals young and old join and/or watch to see who is the smartest. Another
characteristic of Filipino riddles is their flippant nature-they seem to be referring something
laughable, but in reality, the answer is more serious than expected. Can you guess the answers to
these riddles?
Heto na si Kaka, bubuka-bukaka. (Here comes Kaka, walking with an open leg.)
Sa araw ay bungbong, sa gabi ay dahon. (Roll in the morning, leaf in the afternoon.)
 Folk Songs are beautiful songs that are informal expressions of our ancestors’experiences in life.
These range from courtship (which they sing in a harana o or a serenade for a girl), to lullabies,
harvests, funerals, and others.
 Tales are stories of origin for certain places, their names. and their creation. These phenomena
are also known as myths and legends. They usually are used to explain certain events or
phenomena in our ancestors’ lives that cannot be explained by the limited practical kind of
science they knew back then. Some examples are the origin of mountains such as Mount
Makiling or Mount Arayat or legends of great heroes like Bernardo Carpio.

 Epics are long-winded poems about a hero and his adventures and misadventures. It usually tells
of a male hero who is born with all the pleasing qualities that your ancestors like in a person and
who also has superhuman capabilities. This male hero is also paired with a beautiful young
maiden, whom he will fall in love with and will usually have to go to battle for. Sometimes,
supernatural elements are also introduced to show the strength of the hero and his capabilities.
One of the best epics of the Philippines comes from Negros, which is the Hinilawod.

Although few, the surviving stories of your

ancestors prove that the Philippines was a lively
nation with a rich indigenous heritage. These
tales, such as the Hinilawod, tell more than just
stories or Diamen and magical creatures; they
also illustrate the history of the country and the
formation of its values system. You see in the
Big IdeaEpics have the special element of
hyperbole. Filipinos love listening to stories of high
fantasy and adventure. When you were younger, you were
probably fond of fantasy stories told bv vour parents and
teachers or from the ones you watch on TV.
story the values of bravery, brotherhood, friendship, and communal respect among the characters. You
see also the way society worked back then, which is important when you think about the society you live
in right now. How do these values shape you as a Filipino today? How much has changed from the way
Filipinos lived before and the way we live now? The surviving records of your precolonial literature can
tell you not only about life in the past, but also in the present.

Spanish Colonial Philippine Literature

When the Spaniards came, there was an
immediate shift on the focus of literature. It
became centered on the Christianaith, and
Big IdeaThe Spanish influence is evident not only in
our literature but also in our language, tradition, religion,
the stories about natural phenomena food, music, dance, and many more aspects. Because of
suddenly became all about the lives of saints the many years of Spanish colonization, the remnants of
and other religious hymns. Slowly, the Spanish regime still run in our veins.
Philippine literature started to emulate the
traditional Spanish ways of themes and forms in writing, including the repetitive plots and
obvious shadowy characters. Despite these changes, Filipinos still found a way to make Spanish
literature their own, as shown through these common kinds:

 Corrido is a legendary religious narrative form that usually details the lives of saints or
the history of a tradition.
 Awit isa chivalric poem about a hero, usually about a saint. It is also usually sung and
used in religious processions.
 Pasyon is a narrative poem about the life of Jesus Christ, beginning from his birth and up
tohis death. This is usually sung during the Lenten season. Many women were trained
before to perform the Pasyon. Nowadays, it is sung by seasoned performers in churches
nationwide.
 Cenaculo is the dramatization of the passion of Christ. It highlights the sufferings and
death of Jesus Christ, and it is also done during the Lenten season. A good example is the
San Pedro Cutud Lenten Rites in San Fernando, Pampanga, where fervent Catholics
volunteer themselves to be actually nailed to the cross to reenact the suffering of Jesus
Christ.
 Moro-moro or Comedia de Capa y Espada is a blood-and-thunder melodrama depicting
the conflict of Christians and Muslims. It is usually about battles to the death and the
proofs of faith.
 Carillo is a play that uses shadows as its main spectacle. This is created by
animatinggamed from cardboard, which are projected onto a white screen.
 Tibag is the dramatic reenactment of St. Helena's search for the Holy Cross. St. Helenais
the mother of Constantine and is oftentimes credited to have influenced her son to be
thegreat Christian leader he is known for today. She is also well-known to have traveled
to Syria to look for the relics of Jesus Christ's cross, the one that was used in his
crucifixion. It is also widely believed that she found it in the same country.
 Duplo or Karagatan are native dramas that are connected to Catholic mourning rituals
and harvest celebrations.
 Zarzuela is probably one of the most famous forms of entertainment back in the Spanish
era. Zarzuelas are musical comedies or melodramas that deal with the elemental passions
of human beings. A zarzuela follows a certain plot, which shows either a satirical look at
society or a begrudged life.

These kinds of Spanish colonial literature show how welcoming your Filipino ancestors were to
the Catholic faith. Most of them were happy to be baptized and immediately began to follow
Catholicism’s traditions and teachings. This faith and belief transcended up until now, because the
Philippines is the third largest Catholic nation in the world in terms of population (after Brazil and
Mexico). At the same time, these kinds of literature also helped shape the literature that we have today,
not only in terms of faith, but also in terms of values system, societal norms, and realizations about life.

Despite being colonized, most Filipinos back then still treasured the old myths and folklores of their
ancestors. One of these is Jose Rizal. Even though he is an ilustrado (a Filipino student educated
abroad), he still firmly championed the literature of precolonial Philippines and had also spent time
researching on them. This is his retelling of a famous mysterious maiden who once lived in the
mountains of his hometown.
 Mariang Makiling
As retold By Gat. Jose P. Rizal in Northern Luzon

There are many stories woven about this guardian spirit. Most of them deal with her helping thepoor and
the sick, in the guise of a peasant girl. The precious things she lent the country folk are said tobe returned to her,
along with the offering of a young pullet with feathers white as milk.
A hunter has recounted a face-to-face encounter with the enigma herself. He was hunting a wildboar, he
said, deep into the forest where Mariang Makiling lived. The boar suddenly erashed into somebushes and the
hunter, fearing that he would not find it again, dived in after it. When he came to hisfeet he sawa small hut, and
witnessed his prey entering it. He followed the boar into the hut, thinking itdeserted, and then he came face to face
with a beautiful maiden standing by the boar, who was meek inher presence. The maiden said "This boar is mine
and you must not harm it. But I see that you are tiredand hurt. Come in, eat, and then go your way."
The hunter felt compelled to obey her. He sat down at her table, and she served him a porridge thathe found
was unlike anything he had ever tasted. It invigorated him, and after eating, he felt healed. Asa parting gift,
Mariang Makiling filled his peasant hat, called a salakot, with yellow ginger.
The hunter, on his way home from the forest, found that his salakot was growing heavier andheavier, and so
he broke a few pieces of ginger in half and threw some bits away. Upon coming home,he handed Maria Makiling's
gifts to his wife, who found that the salakot, instead of containing ginger,as her husband claimed, contained gold.
The hunter regretted having thrown away a few bits of ginger/gold along the way.
Mariang Makiling is said to be more than compassionate. Once, there lived a young farmer whoalways
seemed to be blessed. His fields were never touched by any calamity, and his livestock werealways in good health.
The people of his village say he is endowed with a charm, or mutya, as t 1scallea, tnat protected him and his from
harm. The young man himself was good at heart and simpleSpirit. But he was quiet and secretive, and would not
say much ofhis stranger activities, whicn itciufrequent visits into the wood of Mariang Makiling.
But there came a terrible time for him and his family. Warhad come to his fair land, and army officers
came, recruitingunmarried young men who were in perfect health. So that theyoung man would stay safely in the
village, his mother arrangedfor him a marriage with a most beauteous daughter of a wealthyfamily. Upon finding
this out, the young man became more sullenthan ever.
He visited Mariang Makiling's wood one last time, a few daysbefore his marriage. Mariang Makiling lent
him a dress and somejewelry, for his wife to wear on their wedding day. "I would thatyou were consecrated to me,"
she said sadly, "but you need anjewelry, for his wife to wear on their wedding day. "I would thatyou were
consecrated to me," she said sadly, "but you need anearthly love, and you do not have enough faith in me besides. I
could have protected you andyour family." This having been said, she disappeared. The young man went back to
his village with MariaMakiling's gifts, and presented them at once to the girl he would marry.
But the girl did not care for Mariang Makiling's gifts. Instead she wore the pearls and dressesmother had
handed down
Mariang Makiling was never seen by the peasants again, nor was her humble hut ever rediscover

Big IdeaLearning about Filipino folklore and myths is important in your formation as a citizen of thisCountry. These stories
show you what values were upheld in society before up to now. For example, info"Mariang Makiling" the values of honesty, loyalty,
and generosity are pointed out by Mariang Makilinq,who trusts people.

Essential Learning
The Philippine literary scene has been thriving even before the country was
colonized. The age-old values that Filipinos nowadays still emulate have been
evident in precolonial literature like theHinilawod. In this epic, three brothers show
their bravery, strength, wisdom, and camaraderie towing against their opponents. In
the end, they are rewarded with a peaceful and bountiful life.
The colonization of Spain did not deter Philippine literature from
flourishing; instead, Philippine literature became richer and more intricate. Writers
such as Jose Rizal, despite being educated abroad as an ilustrado, did not forget
about their heritage and chose to transcribe some of the more popular myths and
folklore of their hometown, so that these could be enjoyed by future generations.
These writings, whether precolonial or colonial, are to be cherished for they show
the ever-evolving lives of the Filipinos and the extensive colorful history of the
country. They can be used by future generations as sources of wisdom and
knowledge. Indeed, mapping the Philippine literary landscape of the past can help
young Filipinos like you to live your life meaningfully and determine what you want
for yourself-and the country-in the future.

2 Topic: Poetry of the Archipelago

CONTENT DISCUSSION:

Philippine Poetry: Its Form, Language, and Speech

Poetry in the Philippines is not different from its other counterparts around the world, In the
early 1900s, Filipino poetry celebrated romanticism, and several poems about love flourished.
Eventually, as the years went on, poetry became more formalist-the emphasis of the poetry is more on
the form and language that the poet Used, rather than the theme itself. Then, modern poetry sprouted,
and nowadays, Writers are more adventurous in their craft. Here are some elements of poetry that local
writers use in their poems.
Senses and images are used by the writer to describe their impressions of their topic or object of
writing, The writer uses carefully chosen and phrased words to create an imagery that the reader can see
through his or her senses, The kinds of sense impressions in poetry are categorized in mainly
thefollowing: visual imagery (what the writer wants you to see); olfactory imagery (what the writer
wants you to smell); gustatory imagery (what the writer wants you to taste); tactile imagery (what the
writer wants you to feel); and auditory imagery (what the writer wants you to hear).
Diction is another important element in Filipino poetry. In fact, Filipino writers are very careful
of the way they write and the words they use to form their poems. Diction is the denotative and
connotative meaning of the words in a sentence, phrase, paragraph, or poem.
Rhyme scheme is the way the author arranges words, meters, lines, and stanzas to create a
coherent sound when the poem is read out loud. It may be formal or informal, depending on the way the
poem was written by the poet.
Senses, imagery, diction, and rhyme scheme are emphasized in this canonical poem, "Gabu," one
of the most widely read local poems in English by Carlos Angeles.
 Carlos Angeles was born on 25 May 1921 in Tacloban, Leyte. He finished his undergraduate degree in
the University of the Philippines. His work has been included in poetry anthologies in the United States. His
poetry collection, Stun of Jewels, won the Republic Cultural Heritage Award in Literature back in 1964; he also
won the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards in Poetry in the same year. He is an active member of many
Filipino-American press clubs in the US, where he has lived most of his life when he was alive. His poem
"Gabu" is said to be one of the most widely read and well-loved poems written in English.

Gabu
by Carlos A. Angeles

The battering restlessness of the sea

Insists a tidal fury upon the beach
At Gabu, and its pure consistency
Havocs the wasteland hard within its reach.

Brutal the daylong bashing of its heart

Against the seascape where, for miles around,
Farther than sight itself, the rock-stones part
And drop into the elemental wound.

The waste of centuries is grey and dead

And neutral where the sea has beached its brine,
Where the split salt of its heart lies spread
Among the dark habiliments of Time.

The vital splendor misses. For here, here

At Gabu where the ageless tide recurs
All things forfeited are most loved and dear.

It is the sea pursues a habit of shores.

The poem is about a coastline in Ilocos that has been weathered away by the battering of the restless sea.
Somehow, the persona of the poem is able to relate it with one's situation in life. The line, "It is the sea pursues
a habit of shores," has many possible interpretations. Can you discuss with your partner a possible interpretation
that you have for that last line?
Now, can you guess the rhyming scheme of the poem? The poem has four quatrains, with the last one
offset by only one line that concludes the poem quite well. Which lines rhyme with each other? How does this
rhyming scheme add to the beauty of the poem?
Another element of poetry used frequently is the idea of a speaker. The speaker in the poem is the voice
that talks to the reader. Sometimes, it refers to itself as "I" or "me" or, sometimes, in the third person (she, he,
his, her). You should also note that the speaker is not necessarily the poet. The poet may have a different
persona in mind while writing the poem and may have not taken the situations in the poem from his or her life
experiences.
The structure of the poem is the arrangement of words and lines, either together or apart. It alsorefers to
the way the interdependent parts of it are organized to form a whole poem.
Word order is either the natural or the unnatural arrangement of words in a poem. A poet may use a
word grammatically or not-often called as poetic license-and may invent words too. Sometimes, as is common
in Filipino writers who write in English, Filipino poets use local words to add more locality to a given poem. If
the Filipino word also does not have a direct English translation, then the poet may use the Filipino word and
italicize it for emphasis.
Filipino poetry, although greatly influenced by the previous colonizers of the country, stands omits own
when it comes to its unique elements. There is a certain voice that Filipino poetry offers-one which a fellow
Filipino like you can relate to, especially when you apply these in real life situations.

Close Reading of Filipino Poetry

The concept of organic unity was
established by the New Criticism school of
thought. It says that al the interdependent Big IdeaAccording to the New Criticism school
parts of a literary selection must add up to of thought, poetry must have "organic unity"-
create one whole. In literature, all the parts everything must be whole for it to be complete. This
and aspects of a literary selection must concept means that all parts must be accounted for
contribute to one whole so crucially that if and discoverable. In poetry, this can be done
one part or aspect went missing, the through close reading.
literary selection cannot be complete or
may not have the same meaning anymore. To understand the organic unity of a poem, you must use the
process of close reading. Close readings a way for you to analyze the poem by carefully reading and
rereading a text until you have found its interpretation.
When you close read Filipino poetry, what must you look out for? You may try to find the
context of the poem-when it was Written, the setting in which it was written, the reason why it was
written-for you to better understand its idea. You may also look at its interdependent elements, as was
discussed previously, so that you may find visual clues to its meaning through its rhyming scheme,
overall structure, word order, and the like. You may also try to identify who the persona is and who the
persona is dedicating the poem to. Again, the persona does not necessarily have to be the author-it can
be any face in local society, someone who fits the descriptions in the poem quite well.
Try to close read this poem by Marjorie Evasco entitled "Is It the Kingfisher? Marjorie Evasco
was born in Bohol on 21 September 1953. She writes bilingually in English and Cebuano-Visayan, and
is considered one of the country's earliest feminist poets. She has received numerous awards for her
poetry, and in 2010, she received the prestigious South East Asian Write Award (SEA Write). She is
currently a professor emeritus of De La Salle University-Manila.

Is it the Kingfisher?
By Marjorie Evasco

This is how I desire god on this island

with you today: basic and blue
as the sea that softens our feet with salt
and brings the living wave to our mouths
playing with sounds of a primary language.
“God is blue,” sang the poet Juan Ramon Jimenez,
drunk with desiring, his hair, eyebrows,
eyelashes turned blue as the kingfisher’s wings.
It is this bird that greets us as we come
round the eastern bend of this island;
tells us the hairbreadth boundary between us
is transient in the air, permeable to the blue
 of tropic skies and mountain gentian.
Where we sit on this rock covered with seaweeds,
I suddenly feel the blueness embrace us,
this rock, this island, this changed air,
the distance between us and the Self
we have longed to be. A bolt of burning blue
lights in my brain, gives the answer
we’ve pursued this whole day:
seawaves sing it, the kingfisher flies in it,
this island is rooted in it. Desiring
God is transparent blue – the color
which makes our souls visible.

The poem "Is It the Kingfisher?" analyzes the relationships one has with a Supreme Being. in a tropical
island where everything seems clear through nature. You should read and reread poems such as Evasco's to
understand the depth of its meaning. The questions asked in the Reflect Upon section are guide questions to
help you closely read the poem. This time, try reading the poem out loud with proper pronunciation and
enunciation in front of the class. If you have formed your own interpretation of the poem, try reading it in line
with your interpretation by putting emphasis and feelings on the words and lines which you think are important
to its central message.
Another poem that is made for poetry recitation is Jose Gareia Villa's "First, A Poem Must Be Magical."
Jose Garcia Villa is a National Artist for Literature who introduced the reversed consonance
rhymescheme and the comma poems that used the punctuation mark in poetry in innovative ways. He
receivedthe Guggenheim, Bollingen, and the American Academy
of Arts Letters Awards. Furthermore, he is credited to be a Big IdeaWe are created as different
proponent of experimentation and invention in poetry. people, but we should always respect
Recite this poem out loud with feelings, emotions, proper each other’s difference.Do not throw
pronunciation, and enunciation. Do you think your interpretation hate at people for being different.
of the poem changed when you read it out loud? Why or why
not?
Essential Learning
Filipino poetry is unique in its own composition. Despite having been
colonized for hundreds of years by different countries, the Philippines has set itself
apart with its own unique brand of poetry that may tackle themes ranging from love to
isolation, racial prejudice, one's close relationship with God, natural disasters, and so
much more.
There are ways to interpret poetry such as discussing different elements that
are present. These elements include word choice, form, and imagery. You may also
look at its organic unity to see how a poem's interdependent parts work together to
create a beautiful piece of art. The best way to understand a poem, however, is to read
it out loud with proper pronunciation, enunciation, and feelings. Poems are always
meant to be read out loud, even in these modern times. More importantly, this
sampling of Filipino poetry has made you realize that on a global scale, Filipino
writers can stand on their own.

3 Topic: The Landscape of Philippine Fiction

CONTENT DISCUSSION:

Techniques of Fiction
Fiction, just like any good story, starts
with a great character. The character of the story
is the one you relate with, converse with, or listen
to the thoughts of. This character and the way he
or she change as the story progresses become the
driving force of fiction-the reason that you as a
reader will be interested or disinterested as you
read. The character may be kind, rich, confusing,
Big IdeaFiction is an essential markof
storytelling that takes what appears to be real,
speculative, and imaginative into a cohesive
story that connects with readers. Fictionis
essential because it may enhanceyour
creativity and imagination, which can
influence other aspectsof your life as well.
 annoying, bratty, complicated, ever-changing, and soon. In the end, the character of a short story still
holds the key to whether the fiction will be good or not.
Sometimes, characters also serve as symbols of a story. Whatis symbolism in fiction? A short
story may use a character, object, or event to signify something else from its original meaning. A
character may symbolize a community or an event in history. Two characters interacting in a story may
symbolize the conflict or union between two different societies. There are times when you may not be
sure what the symbolisms in a given story are. As the reader, you need to examine these symbols and
come up with your own interpretations.
Paz Marquez Benitez is a Filipina short-story writer who was an influential figure to many
Filipinovriters in the contemporary era, such as Loreto Paras Sulit, Paz Latorena, Bienvenido Santos,
ManuelArguilla, and S. P. Lopez. In fact, National Artist Francisco Arcellana dubbed her "the mother of
us all, “as she was one of the very first Filipino short-story writers to write in English. She authored the
first Filipino modern English-language short story titled "Dead Stars."

Dead Stars
By Paz arquez Heniter
THROUGH the open window the air-steeped outdoors passed into his room, quietly envelopinghim,stealing
into his very thought. Esperanza, Julia, the sorry mess he had made of lite, the years tocome even now beginning to
weigh down, to crush-they lost concreteness, diffused into formlessmelancholy. The tranquil murmur of
conversation issued from the brick-tiled azotea where DonJulian and Carmen were busy puttering away among the
rose pots.
"Papa, and when will the 'long table be set?
“I don’t know yet. Alfredo is not very specific, but I understand Esperanza wants it to be next month.”
Carmen sighed impatiently. "Why is he not a bit more decided, I wonder. He is over thirty, ishe not? And
still a bachelor! Esperanza must be tired waiting.
She does not seenm to be in much of a hurry either," Don Julian nasally commented, while hisrose scissors
busily snipped away.
"How cana woman be in a hurry when the man does not hurry her?" Carmen returned, pinchingoff a worm
with a careful, somewhat absent air. "Papa, do you remember how much in love he was?
"In love? With whom?
"With Esperanza, of course. He has not had another love affair that I know of," she said withgood-natured
contempt. "What I mean is that at the beginning he was enthusiastic--flowers,serenades, notes, and things like that-
Alfredo remembered that period with a wonder not unmixed with shame. That was less thanfour years ago.
He could not understand those months of a great hunger that was not of the bodynor yet of the mind, a craving that
had seized on him one quiet night when the m0on was abroadand under the dappled shadow of the trees in the plaza,
man wooed maid. Was he being cheated bylife? Love-he seemed to have missed it. Or was the love that others told
about a mere fabrication ofperfervid imagination, an exaggeration of the commonplace, a glorification of insipid
monotoniessuch as made up his love life? Was love a combination of circumstances, or sheer native capacity
ofsoul? In those days love was, for him, still the eternal puzzle; for love, as he knew it, was a strangerto love as he
divined it might be.
Sitting quietly in his room now, he could almost revive the restlessness of those days, thefeeling of
tumultuous haste, such as he knew so well in his boyhood when something beautiful wasgoing on somewhere and
he was trying to get there in time to see. "Hurry, hurry, or you will missit," someone had seemed to urge in his ears.
So he had avidly seized on the shadow of Love anddeluded himself for a long while in the way of humanity from
time immemorial. In the meantime,he became very much engaged to Esperanza.
Why would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined so many.Greed-the desire to
erowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to squeeze from the hourall the emotion it will yield. Men
commit themselves when but half-meaning to do so, sacrificingpossible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving for
immediate excitement. Greed-mortgaging thefuture-forcing the hand of Time, or of Fate.
What do you think happened?" asked Carmen, pursuing her thought.
I supposed long-engaged people are like that; warm now, cool tomorrow. I think they arOtener cool than
warm. The very fact that an engagement has been allowed to prolong itsel arguesCertalh placidity of temperament-
or of affection-on the part of either, or both. Don Jullanloved to philosophize. He was talking now with an evident
relish in words, his resonant, very nased down to monologue piteh. "That phase you were speaking of is natural
enough tor abeginning. Besides, that, as I see it, was Alfredo's last race with escaping youth-“
Carmen laughed aloud at the thought of her brother's perfect physical repose-almOstindolence-disturbed in
the role suggested by her father's figurative language.
A last spurt of hot blood," finished the old man.
 Few certainly would credit Alfredo Salazar with hot blood. Even his friends had amusedlydiagnosed his
blood as cool and thin, citing incontrovertible evidence. Tall and slender, he movedwith an indolent ease that
verged on grace. Under straight recalcitrant hair, a thin face with asatisfying breadth of forehead, slow, dreamer's
eyes, and astonishing freshness of lips-indeedAlfredo Salazar's appearance betokened little of exuberant
masculinity; rather a poet with waywardhumor, a fastidious artist with keen, clear brain.
He rose and quietly went out of the house. He lingered a moment on the stone steps; then wentdown the
path shaded by immature acacias, through the little tarred gate which he left swingingback and forth, now
opening, now closing, on the gravel road bordered along the farther side bymadre cacao hedge in tardy lavender
bloom.
The gravel road narrowed as it slanted up to the house on the hill, whose wide, open porches hecould
glimpse through the heat-shrivelled tamarinds in the Martinez yard.Six weeks ago that house meant nothing to
him save that it was the Martinez house, rented andoccupied by Judge del Valle and his family. Six weeks ago
Julia Salas meant nothing to him; he didnot even know her name; but now
One evening he had gone "neighboring" with Don Julian; a rare enough occurrence, since hemade it a
point to avoid all appearance of currying favor with the Judge. This particular eveninghowever, he had allowed
himself to be persuaded. "A little mental relaxation now and then isbeneficial," the old man had said. "Besides, a
judge's good will, you know;" the rest of the thoughtis worth a rising young lawyer's trouble"-Don Julian
conveyed through a shrug and a smile thatderided his own worldly wisdom.
A young woman had met them at the door. It was evident from the excitement of the Judge'schildren that
she was a recent and very welcome arrival. In the characteristic Filipino way formalintroductions had been
omitted-the judge limiting himself to a casual "Ah, ya se conocen?"-withthe consequence that Alfredo called her
Miss del Valle throughout the evening.
He was puzzled that she should smile with evident delight every time he addressed her thus.Later Don
Julian informed him that she was not the Judge's sister, as he had supposed, but hissister-in-law, and that her
name was Julia Salas. A very dignified rather austere name, he thought.Still, the young lady should have
corrected him. As it was, he was greatly embarrassed, and felt thathe should explain.
To his apology, she replied, "That is nothing. Each time I was about to correct you, but Iremembered a
similar experience I had once before."
"Oh," he drawled out, vastly relieved.
A man named Manalang-I kept calling him Manalo. After the tenth time or so, t young
man rose from his seat and said suddenly, 'Pardon me. but my name is Manalang, Manaidi5know, I never
forgave him!"
He laughed with her.
The best thing to do under the circumstances, I have found out," she pursued, "is to pretendnot to hear, and
to let the other person find out his mistake without help."
"As you did this time. Still, you looked amused every time I"
"I was thinking of Mr. Manalang."
Don Julian and his uncommunicative friend, the Judge, were absorbed in a game of chess.The young man
had tired of playing appreciative spectator and desultOry coand Julia Salas had gone off to chat in the vine-
covered porch. The lone piano in tu onderedternately tinkled and banged away as the player's moods altered. He
isteneu,He was mildly surprised to note from her appearance that she was unmistakably a siste and plump, with
widew brown eyes, clearly defined eyebrows and delicately modeled hips- a pretty woman with the complexion
of a baby and the expression of a likable cow. Julia was taller, not so obviously pretty.
On Sunday mornings after mass, father and son would go crunching up the gravel road to thehouse on the
hill. The Judge's wife invariably offered them beer, which Don Julian enjoyed andAlfredo did not. After a
halfhour or so, the chessboard would be brought out; then Alfredo and JuliaSalas would go out to the porch to
chat. She sat in the low hammock and he in a rocking chair andthe hours-warm, quiet March hours-sped by. He
enjoyed talking with her and it was evident thatshe liked his company; yet what feeling there was between them
was so undisturbed that it seemeda matter of course. Only when Esperanza chanced to ask him indirectly about
those visits did somneuneasiness creep into his thoughts of the girl next door.
Esperanza had wanted to know if he went straight home after mass. Alfredo suddenly realizedthat for
several Sundays now he had not waited tor Esperanza to come out of the church as he hadbeen wont to do. He had
been eager to go "neighboring."
 He answered that he went home to work. And, because he was not habitually untruthful,
added,"Sometimes I go with Papa to Judge del Valle's."
She dropped the topic. Esperanza was not prone to indulge in unprovoked jealousies. She wasa believer
in the regenerative virtue of institutions, in their power to regulate feeling as well ascondict. If a man were
married, why, of course, he loved his wife; if he were engaged, he could notpossibly love another woman.
That half-lie told him what he had not admitted openly to himself, that he was giving JuliaSalas
something which he was not free to give. He realized that; yet something that would not bedenied beckoned
imperiously, and he followed on.
It was so easy to forget up there, away from the prying eyes of the world, so easy and sopoignantly
sweet. The beloved woman, he standing close to her, the shadows around, enfolding.
"Up here I find-something-
He and Julia Salas stood looking out into the she quiet night. Sensing unwanted intensity,laughed,
woman-like, asking, "Amusement?"
"No; youth-its spirit-"
"Are you so old?"
"And heart's desire."
Was he becoming a poet, or is there a poet lurking in the heart of every man?
"Down there," he had continued, his voice somewhat indistinct, "the road is too broad, tootrodden by
feet, too barren of mystery."
"Down there" beyond the ancient tamarinds lay the road, upturned to the stars. In the darknessthe fireflies
glimmered, while an errant breeze strayed in from somewhere, bringing elusive, tarawaysounds as of voices in a
dream.
"Mystery-" she answered lightly, "that is so brief-"
some," quickly. "Not in you."
"Noti
"You have known me a few weeks; so the mystery."
"I could study you all my life and still not find it."
"So long?"
"I should like to."
Those six weeks were now so swift-seeming in the memory, yet had they been so deep in theliving, so
charged with compelling power and sweetness. Because neither the past nor the futurehad relevance or meaning,
he lived only the present, day by day, lived it intensely, with such awillful shutting out of fact as astounded him
in his calmer moments.
Just before Holy Week, Don Julian invited the judge and his family to spend Sunday afternoonat Tanda
where he had a coconut plantation and a house on the beach. Carmen also came with herfour energetic children.
She and Doña Adela spent most of the time indoors directing the preparationof the merienda and discussing the
likeable absurdities of their husbands-how Carmen's Vicentewas so absorbed in his farms that he would not even
take time off to accompany her on this visit toher father; how Doña Adela's Dionisio was the most absentminded
of men, sometimes going outwithout his collar, or with unmatched socks.
After the merienda, Don Julian sauntered off with the judge to show him What 8 tiriving younglooked
like-"plenty of leaves, close set, rich green"while the children, OIVOyed y JuiauInd unending entertainment in
the ippling sand left by the ebbing tide, 1 hey wete farng at the edge of the water, indistínctly outlined against the
gray ot he ot-Crving
Et ns perch on the bamboo ladder of the house and followed. Here were her footsteps,beach.
arcned. He laughed at himself for his black canvas footwear which he removed forthwithand tossed high
up on dry sand.
When he came up, she flushed, then smiled with frank pleasurehope you are enjoying this," he said with
a questioning inflection
“Very much. It looks like home to me, except that we do not have such a lovely beach,”
There was a breeze from the water. It blew the hair away from her forehead, and whipped theEDUp
skairt around her straight, slender figure. In the picture was something ot eager treedomnES ponsed in fight. The
girl had grace, distinction.
Her face was not notably pretty; yet sheaa tantalizing charm, all the more compelling because it was an inner
quality, an achievement ofe spitL The lure was there, of naturalness, of an alert vitality of mind and body, of a
thoughtful,sunny tenper, and of a piquant perverseness which is sauce to charm.
The afternoon has seemed very short, hasn't it?" Then, "This, I think, is the last time-we canvisit.
“The last? Why?”
“Oh, you will be too busy perhaps."
He noted an evasive quality in the answer.
“Do I seem especially industrious to you?”
“If you are. you never look it.""Not perspiring or breathless, as a busy man ought to be."But-"Always unhurried, to0
unhurried, and calm." She smiled to herself.Twish that were true,"he said after a meditative pause
She waited
A man is happier if he s, as you say, calm and placid.
"Like a carabao in a mud pool," she retorted perversely
Who? 17
"Oh, nol
You said I am calm and placid."That is what 1 think
Iused to think so too. Shows how little we know ourselves."
It was strange to hin that he could be wooing thus: with tone and look and covert phrase.
I should like to see your horme town."
nere l1S nothing to see--little crooked streets, bunut roofs with ferns growing on thei aesometimes squashes."
nat was the background. It made her seem less detached, less unrelated, yet withal moredistant, as if that
background claimed her and excluded him.
"Nothing? There is you."
"Oh, me? But I am here."
"I will not go, of course, until you are there."
"Will you come? You will find it dull. There isn't even one American there!
"Well-Americans are rather essential to my entertainment.
She laughed.
"We live on Calle Luz, a little street with trees."
"Could I find that?"
"If you don't ask for Miss del Vale," she smiled teasingly.
"Tll inquire about-
"What?"
"The house of the prettiest girl in the town."
"There is where you will lose your way." Then she turned serious. "Now, that is not quite
Sincere."
"It is," he averred slowly, but emphatically.
"I thought you, at least, would not say such things."
"Pretty-pretty-a foolish word! But there is none other more handy I did not mean that quite-"
"Are you withdrawing the compliment?"
"Re-enforcing it, maybe. Something is pretty when it pleases the eye-it is more than thatwhen-
"If it saddens?" she interrupted hastily.
"Exactly.
"It must be ugly."
"Always?Toward the west, the sunlight lay on the dimming waters in a broad, glinting streamer ocrimsoned gold.
"No, of course you are right.
"Why did you say this is the last time? he asked quietly as they turned back.
"I am going home.
The end of an impossible dream!
"When?" after a long silence.
Tomorrow. I received a letter from Father and Mother yesterday, They want me to sped olyShe seemed to be waiting
for him to speak, "That is why I said this is the last timeWeek at home.
"Can't I come to say good-bye?
"Oh, you don't need to!"
"No, but I want to."
1he golden streamer was withdrawing, shortening, until it looked no more than a p0ol far away"There is no time."
At the rim of the world. Stillness, a vilbrant quict that affects the senses as does solemn harhnony; apeace that is not
contentment but a cessation of tumult when all violence of feeling tones down tothe wistful serenity of regret. She
turned and loolked into his face, in her dark eyes a ghost of sunset
sadness.
Home seems so far from here. This is almost like another lile.
I know. This is Elsewhere, and yet strange enough, I cannot get rid of the old things."old things?"
"Oh, old things, mistakes, encumbrances, old baggage." He said it lightly, unwilling to mar thehour. He walked close,
his hand sometimes touching hers for one whirling second.
Don Julian's nasal summons came to them on the wind.
Alfredo gripped the soft hand so near his own. At his touch, the girl turned her face away, buthe heard her voice say
very low, "Good-bye."
II
ALFRED0 Salazar turned to the right where, farther on, the road broadened and entered theheart of the town-heart of
Chinese stores sheltered under low-hung roofs, of indolent drug storesand tailor shops, of dingy shoe-repairing
establishments, and a cluttered goldsmith's cubbyholewhere a consumptive bent over a magnifying lens; heart of old
brick-roofed houses with quainthand-and-ball knockers on the door; heart of grasS-grown plaza reposeful witlh trees,
of ancientchurch and convento, now circled by swallows gliding in flight as smooth and soft as the afternoonitselt. Into
the quickly deepening twilight, the voice of theD1ggest of the church bells kept ringing its insistent
summonsS.Flocking came the devout with their long wax candles, youngwomen in vivid apparel (for this was Holy
Thursday and theLord was still alive), older women in sober black skirts. Camnetoo the young men in droves,
elbowing each other under thetalisay tree near the church door. The gaily decked rice-paperlanterns were again on
display while from the windows of theolder houses hung colored glass globes, heirlooms from a daywhen grasspith
wicks floating in coconut oil were the chief.
Soon a double row of lights emerged from the church and uncoiled down the length of thestreet like a huge jewelled
band studded with glittering clusters where the saints platforms were.Above the measured music rose the untutored
voices of the choir, steeped in incense and the acridfumes of burning wax.
The sight of Esperanza and her mother sedately pacing behind Our Lady of Sorrows suddenydestroyed the illusion of
continuity and broke up those lines of light into component naivEsperanza stiffened self-consciously, tried to look
unaware, and could not.
The line moved.
Suddenly, Alfredo's slow blood began to beat violently, irregularly, A girl was coming down theline-a 8irl that was
striking, and vividly alive, the woman that could cause violent commotion imhis heart, yet had no place in the
completed ordering of his life.
Her glance of abstracted devotion fell on him and came to a brief stop.
ne ne kept moving on, wending its circuitous route away from the church and then backagain, where, according to the
old proverb, all processions end.
At last Our Lady of Sorrows entered the church, and with her the priest and the choir, whosevoices now echoed from
the arched ceiling. The bells rang the close of the procession.
A round orange moon, "huge as a winnowing basket," rose lazily into a clear sky, whitening theiron roofs and
dimming the lanterns at the windows. Along the still densely shadowed streets theyoung women with their rear guard
of males loitered and, maybe, took the longest way home.
Toward the end of the row of Chinese stores, he caught up with Julia Salas. The crowd haddispersed into the side
streets, leaving Calle Real to those who lived farther out. It was past eight,and Esperanza would be expecting him in a
little while: yet the thought did not hurry him as he said"Good evening" and fell into step with the girl.
"I had been thinking all this time that you had gone," he said in a voice that was both excitedand troubled.
"No, my sister asked me to stay until they are ready to go.
"Oh, is the Judge going?"
"Yes."
The provincial docket had been cleared, and Judge del Valle had been assigned elsewhere. Aslawyer-and as lover-
Alfredo had found that out long before.
"Mr. Salazar," she broke into his silence, "I wish to congratulate you.
Her tone told him that she had learned, at last. That was inevitable.
"For what?"
"For your approaching wedding.
Some explanation was due her, surely. Yet what could he say that would not offend?
"I should have offered congratulations long betfore, but you know mere visitors are slow aboutgetting the news, she
continued.
He listened not so much to what she said as to the nuances in her voice. He heard nothing toenlighten him, except that
she had reverted to the formal tones of early acquaintance. No revelationthere; simply the old voice-cool, almost
detached from personality, flexible and vibrant, suggestingpotentialities of song8
"Are weddings interesting to you? he finally brought out quietly
"When they are of friends, yes.
"Would you come if l asked you?

“When is it going to be?”

"May," he Feplied briely, anern log pa
May ia tlhe monh of hppne they any,"ae enid, wih Winl se lo bi apale of irony"They say," alowly, ndierenly, "Woull
yon enme"Why not
"No reaso I am jist nsking Then yoi will
"If you will aek me," slhe aail witlh diadai
Then I aak you"
Then I will be there

Big IdeaFiction is an essential markof storytelling that takes what appears to be real, speculative, and
imaginative into a cohesive story that connects with readers. Fictionis essential because it may
enhanceyour creativity and imagination, which can influence other aspectsof your life as well.
The gravel road lay before them) at the ond's end the lighled wind0wa of the house oin the hill.There swept over the
spirit of Allredo Nalazar a longing o keen Ihat it ws pain, a wish that, thathouse were his, that all the bewilderments of
the present were not, and that his woman by his sidewere his long wedded wife, returning with him to the peace of
home.
"Julita,"he said in his slow, thoughtlmanner, "did you ever have to ehoose Detween somethinggyou wanted to do and
something you bad to do?"
"No!"
"I thought maybe you had had that experienee then yo could understand a man who was in8uch a situation."
"You are fortunate," he pursued when ahe did ot answe
"Is--is this man 8ure of what he should do?"
"I don't know, Julita. Perhaps not. But there is a point where a thing escapes us and rushesdownward of its own weight,
dragging us along. Then it is foolish to ask whether one will or will not,because it no longer depends on him.""But then
why-why-"her mufled voice came, "Oh, what do I know? That is his problem afterall."
"Doesn't it-interest you?"
"Why must it? 1-I have to say good-bye, Mr. Salazar; we are at the house."Without lifting her eyes she quickly turned
and walked away,
Had the final word been said? He wondered. It had. Yet a feeble flutter of hope trembled in hismind though set against
that hope were three years of engagement, a very near wedding, perfectunderstanding between the parents, his own
conscience, and Esperanza herself-Esperanza waiting,Esperanza no longer young, Esperanza the efficient, the literal-
minded, the intensely acquisitive.He looked attentively at her where she sat on the sofa, appraisingly, and with a kind of
aversionwhich he tried to control.
She was one of those fortunate women who have the gift of uniformly acceptable appearance,She never surprised one
with unexpected homeliness nor with startling reserves of beauty. Athome, in church, on the street, she was always
herself, a woman past first bloom, light and clear ofcomplexion, spare of arms and ol breast, with a slight convexity to
thin throat; a woman dressedwith self-conscious care, even elegance; a woman distinctly not average.
She was pursuing an indignant relation about something or other, something about Calixta, their note-carrier, Alfredo
perceived, so he merely half-listened, understanding imperfectly. At a pause he drawled out to fill the gap. “Well, what
of it?” The remark sounded ruder than he had intended.
He Was buddenly impelled by n desire to disturb the unvexed orthodoxy of her mind. "AllI sayis that it is not
neces6arily wieked"
"Why shouldn't it be? You talked like an-immoral man. 1 did not know that your ideas werelike that,
"My ides?" he retorted, goaded by deep, acCumulated exasperation. "The only test I wishto apply to conduct is the test
of fairness, Am I injuring anybody? No? TheTn I an justified in myconscience, I am right, Living with a man to whom
she is not married-is that it? It may be wrong,and again it may not
"She has injured u6, She was ingrateful." Her voice was tight with resentment.
"The trouble with you, Fsperanza, is that you are"he stopped, appalled by the passion in hisvoice.
"Why do you get angry? I do nof understand you at all! I think I know why you have beenindifferent to me lately, I am
not blind, or deaf; I see and hear what perhaps some are trying to keepfrom me," The blo0d surged into his very eyes
and his hearing sharpened to points of acute pain.What would she say next?
"Why don't you speak out frankly before it is too late? You need not think of me and of whatpeople will say," Her voice
trembled.Alfredo was suffering as he could not remember ever having suffered before. What people willsay-what will
they not say? What dont they say when long engagements are broken almost on theeve of the wedding?
"Yes," he said hesitatingly, deffinitely, as if merely thinking aloud, "one tries to be fairaccording, to his lights-but it is
hard, One would like to be fair to one's self first. But that is tooeasy, onie does not dare
"What do you mean?" she asked with repressed violence. "Whatever my shortcomings, andno doubt they are many in
your eyes,I have never gone out of my way, of my place, to find a man."
Did she mean by this irrelevant remark that he it was who had sought her; or was that a covertattack on Julia Salas?
Esperanza-"a desperate plea lay in his stumbling words. "If you-suppose I- Yet how coulda mere man word such a plea?
"If you mean you want to take back your word, if you are tired of -why don't you tell me you aretired of me?" she burst
out in a storm of weeping that left him completely shamed and unnerved.
The last word had been said.
Altredo Salazar leaned against the boat rail to watch the evening settling Over the lake, heEsperanza would attribute any
significance to this trip of his. He was supposed tO beEightta. Cruz whither the case of the People of the Philippine
Islands vs. Belina et al nad kept n,quiet. A coee ne would have been if Brigida Samuv had not been so important to the
defense.
That the search was leading him to that particular lake town which was Julia Salas' home should not disturb him unduly
Yet he was disturbed to a degree utter.
Out of proportion to the prosaicalness of his errand. That inner tumult was no surprise to nim,forlornlyu the last eight
years he had become used to such occasional storms. He had long realized thatthe womneplayinge cold not forget Julia
Salas. Still, he had tried to be content and not to remember t0O mucn.in that qu
Lne chmber of mountains who has known the back-break, the lonesomeness, and the cnill, nndsa certain restfulness in
level paths made easy to his feet. He looks up sometimes from the valleyHow
where settles the dusk of evening, but he knows he must not heed the radiant beckoning. Maybe, inunforgettas restles
time, he would cease even to look up.
ConsciouHe was not unhappy in his marriage. He felt no rebellion: only the calm of capitulation toof irreplawhat he
recognized as irresistible forces of circumstance and of character. His life had simplydream-
ordered itselt; no more struggles, no more stirring up of emotions that got a man nowhere. Fromprayer.
his capacity of complete detachment he derived a strange solace. The essential himself, the himselfA te
that had its being in the core of his thought, would, he reflected, always be free and alone. Whenindistinction
claims encroached too insistently, as sometimes they did, he retreated into the inner fastness, andathwartfrom that
vantage he saw things and people around him as remote and alien, as incidents not matter. At such times did Esperanza
feel baffled and helpless; he was gentle, even tender, butSoimmeasurably far away, beyond her reach.
Lights were springing into life on the shore. That was the town, a little up-tilted town nestlingstart ofin the dark
greenness of the groves. A snuberested belfry stood beside the ancient church. On theoutskirts the evening smudges
glowed red through the sinuous mists of smoke that rose and lost"Go
themselves in the purple shadows of the hills. There was a young moon which grew slowly luminous"Goas the coral
tints in the sky yielded to the darker blues of evening.
The vessel approached the landing quietly, trailing a wake of long golden ripples on the darkwater. Peculiar hill
inflections came to his ears from the crowd assembled to meet the b0a-Singing cadences, characteristic of the Laguna
lake-shore speech. From where he stood he coudnot distinguish faces, so he had no way of knowing whether the
presidente was there to meet nior not. Just then a voice shouted.
"Is the abogado there? Abogado!"
"What abogado?" someone irately asked.
That must be the presidente, he thought, and went down to the landing.It was a policeman, a tall pock-marked
individual. The presidente had left with Brigida SamuyTandang "Binday"-that noon for Santa Cruz. Señor Salazar's
second letter had arrived late, but thewife had read it and said, "Go and meet the abogado and invite him to our house.
Alfredo Salazar courteously declined the invitation. He would sleep on board since the boatWould leave at four the next
morning anyway. So the presidente had received his first letter? Alfredodid not know because that official had not sent
an answer. "Yes," the policeman replied, "but hecould not write because we heard that Tandang Binday was in San
Antonio so we went there to findher."
 San Antonio was up in the hills! Good man, the presidente! He, Alfredo, must do something forhim. It
was not every day that one met with such willingness to help.
Eight o'clock, lugubriously tolled from the bell tower, found the boat settled into a somnolentquiet. A
cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it was too bare to be inviting at that hour.It was to0 early to
sleep: he would walk around the town. His heart beat faster as he picked his wayto shore over the rafts made
fast to sundry piles driven into the water.
How peaceful the town was! Here and there a little tienda was still open, its dim light issuingforlornly
through the single window which served as counter. An occasional couple sauntered by,the women's chinelas
making scraping sounds. From a distance came the shrill voices of childrenplaying games on the street-tubigan
perhaps, or "hawk-and-chicken." The thought of Julia Salasin that quiet place filled him with a pitying sadness.
How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything to her?
Thatunforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a sense of incompletenessas restless
as other unlaid ghosts. She had not married-why? Faithfulness, he reflected, was not aconscious effort at
regretful memory. It was something unvolitional, maybe a recurrent awarenessof irreplaceability. Irrelevant
trifles-a cool wind on his forehead, far-away sounds as of voices in adream-at times moved him to an oddly
irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent, unfinished
A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young moon woveprayer.
indistinct filigrees of fight and shadow. In the gardens the cotton tree threw its angular shadowathwart
the low stone wall; and in the cool, stilly midnight the cock's first call rose in tall, soaringjets of sound. Calle
Luz.
Somehow or other, he had known that he would find her house because she would surely besitting at the
window. Where else, before bedtime on a moonlit night? The house was low and thelight in the sala behind her
threw her head into unmistakable relief. He sensed rather than saw herstart of vivid surprise.
"Good evening," he said, raising his hat.
"Good evening. Oh! Are you in town?
On some little business," he answered with a feeling of painful constralnt"Won't you come up?
e considered. His vague plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had ie d eandleCanng to her mother as she did so.
After a while. someone came downstairs Witn a gne.
to open the door. At last-he was shaking her hand.
ne nad not changed much--a little less slender. not so eagerly alive, yet something hau Bssed it, sitting opposite her,
looking thoughtfully into her fine dark eyes. She asked n 1e nme town, about this and that, in a sober, somewhat
meditative tone. He conversehis
Creasig ease, though with a growing wonder that he should be there at all. He could not laneeyes from her face. What
had she lost? Or was the loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity Ceepinto his gaze. The girl must have noticed, for her
cheek darkened in a blush.
Gently-was it experimentally?-he pressed her hand at parting; but his own felt undisturbedand emotionless. Did she
still care? The answer to the question hardly interested him.
The young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a star-studdedsky.
So that was all over.
Why had he obstinately clung to that dream?
So all these years-since when?-he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long extinguished,yet seemingly still in their
appointed places in the heavens.
An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some immutablerefuge of the heart far away
where faded gardens bloom again, and where live on in unchangingfreshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth.

"Dead Stars is a short story that encapsulates perfectly how characters in fiction respond to thechoices they
make, what they do to attain these choices, and how they deal with the consequences oftheir actions. What was
the choice that Alfredo had to make, and how did this choice make him feel?What did Esperanza want, and why
did she not get it?
Part of fiction especially in short stories, is the challenge to the main characters: what do they want,and what do
they do to get it? What is the intention of the character? This intention sets the plot for theshort story, wherein
you see how well-rounded the protagonist is and what he or she is capable of doingJust to get what he or she
desires. Depending on the outcome of the story, the character may either triumph or fail, and seeing how the
character reacts to these changes also sets the tone for the climax, until the short story 1s concluded.
Short stories also express a lot of irony in life situations. There are three kinds of irony that you will encounter
in short stories. The first one is verbal irony, when what is said by the character is not what he or she
originallymeant. The second is situational irony, when the actual outcome of a situation (say, the conclusion) is
different from the expected outcome. This is also known as the twists and turns in a story. Finally, there is the
dramatic irony, which is when the readers know more than the charactersin the story.
A Short story that explores what a sad little girl wants is Merlinda Bobis's "The
Sadness Collector and discover how six-year-old Rica deals with her desires-and
the problems and ironies that come along with it.
Merlinda Bobis is a dancer, visual artist, and writer who was born in Legaspi
City, Albay. She completed her post-graduate degrees from the University of
Santo Tomas and the University or Wollongong in Australia. She writes in
English and Filipino (Tagalog and Bikolano). She tackles themesof diaspora,
immigrant cultures, and magic realism in her fiction. She has won numerous awards other literary works, more
recently the Philippine National Book Award for Fish-Hair Woman in 2014.She currently teaches at the
Wollongong University.
Another big element of fiction is the world created by the writer. This world, as imagined by theWriter, may be
fictional or real depending on the choice of setting. The characters move in this world-they interact, talk, win,
lose, leave, or stay in this world. In fiction, more often than not, these worldsand those in them have meanings
or symbolisms, too. For example, a place may not just be a place--it was chosen by the writer because it fits
perfectly the situation the characters are going or will be going through. Things inside the world-such as a vase,
a letter, a picture, a mirror-may mean more than mere objects. They may symbolize an important part or the
story or may serve as objects of remembrance or memories for the characters. If the whole story 1s a symbolism
for something, then the story may be an allegory. A good example of this is George Orwell’s novel, Animal
Farm, which has symbolisms forthe animals in the barn and even the barn itself.
The Plot Structure of Fiction
Aristotle once declared that for a story to be considered a story, it must have a beginning, middle, and an
end. Plato agreed to this, and adhered to the idea of an organic unity in fiction-the interdependent parts
of a story are all needed to create a whole. If one part is lost, the story cannot
stand on its own. Eventually, in the 19th century, a German novelist by the name of Gustav Freytag
realized that plots of stories and even novels have common patterns which can be summarized in a
diagram. This is what he came up with:

Climax

Falling Action

Rising Action
Exposition Denouement

The pyramid above summarizes, albeit comically, what the different parts mean. To refresh your
memory, here is a brief breakdown of the following parts of the pyramid:
The exposition is the beginning of the story, wherein the writer sets the scene by introducing the
characters, describing the setting, and sometimes will give a brief background of the story. It is also
here, before the next part of the Freytag pyramid, that something happens to begin the action. This is
called the inciting incident-small events and telltale signs that tell you that the conflict about to begin. It
is also sometimes known as "the complication" of the story.
The rising action is when the complication begins to show itself on the characters, setting, and events in
the story. This is when the story starts to become more exciting.
 The climax is the event with the greatest tension in the story. This is when the characters know the truth,
act on their impulses, make rash decisions or decide to do something, and so on. This part usually
signals how the story will end.
The falling action is the result of the climax, and it is the part when things start falling into placefor the
characters. Reaching the conclusion of the story, the story reaches a premature resolution ofthe conflicts,
problems, and issues that were raised in the previous parts of the story.
Finally, the denouement is a French term that means the "ending." This is where the story reaches its
final conclusion and the writer starts to get ready to tell the ending by way of explaining a finality, a
flashback, a peace treaty, or anything to make the story complete. It also will include an explanation of
what had happened and how characters think or feel about this.
Of course, the Freytag pyramid does not always apply to every single short story ever written. There are
some short stories, especially modern ones, which will lack or miss out on one part of the pyramid and
are still considered as stories. However, in learning about literature, it is always best that you start with
the Freytag pyramid so as to comprehend the deeper features of the story and its key elements-those that
make it an effective and satisfying read.
Cheeno Marlo Sayuno is a young writer of short stories for children based in Cavite. He has won awards from
the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature in the category of children's short stories in English ("The
Magic Bahag") and in Filipino ("Si Tiya Salome"). He was also an honorable mention at the Salanga Prize,
which is awarded by the Philippine Board on Books for Young People.

Essential Learning
Philippine fiction, as shown through the following short stories, puts a prime on
the characters and how they interact with the world around them. These characters
show the best and worst of being a Filipino-from gender issues, to diaspora of being far
away from home, effects of being left behind by a parent, colonial mentality, and so
much more. These characters, no matter who theyare, all represent a part of you as a
Filipino student. These are your attitudes, words, thoughts, and actions on paper. This is
who you are and who you will be in.
More importantly, short stories of the Philippines say that no matter how life
changes for the Filipinos, the tenacity to survive will always be there. It is interesting to
see that the characters in the short stories were always in uncomfortable situations, yet
they always survived in the end. This is an important Filipino trait that teaches you,
dear student, to always persevere no matter what the difficulty ahead may be. Like the
short stories you have read, you will also reach your denouement-good or bad, there
will still be a conclusion, one that can get you up on that pyramid and start allover
again.

4
CONTENT DISCUSSION:
Topic: In an Ocean of Emotions: Philippine Drama

The History of Philippine Theater

Philippine theater began just like any other genre of literature-with precolonial indigenous
drama. These constitute rituals, verbal jousts or games, and songs and dances praising their respective
gods. Eventually, when the Spaniards came, these indigenous dramas were discarded and were changed
intomainly two categories: the comedy or komedya and the zarzuela or sarswela. These were dramas
that were used to capture the imaginations and hearts of the Filipinos, whom the Spaniards have just
colonized Aside from providing entertainment to the people from the pueblos (and also capturing
theiraffection), these also serve as teaching tools to the religion that they brought with them, which is
Christianity.
Before the stage plays began though, there were also redramatize forms present in
Philippinetheater before. There were loas, declamaciones, and oraciones (Or declamations and orations)
 that usually involved only one person and were not as dramatical as a stage play. They were usually
done during the arrival or installation of a holy relic in the country back then.
Eventually, the komedya was developed into different kinds, one of the most popular ones is the
moro-moro, which are plays that depict the lives, loves, and wars of Moors and Christians. Two more
kinds, indigenized by the Filipinos, are the comedia de capa y espada or secular comedy and thecomedia
de santo or religious comedies. Some of these comedies are still found in the country, nameiy,Parañaque
City and Iligan City.
The zarzuela is a type of theater that is musical in nature-it is both spoken and sung. The first
zarzuela in the Philippines was staged in 1878 or 1879 and was written by Francisco AsnjoBarbieri in
1855, entitled Jugar Con Fuego (Play with Fire). EvenJose Rizal wrote his own zarzuela, entitled "Junto
Al Pasig" andwas staged in 188o. In 1893, because of its popularity, the TeatroZorila was inaugurated as
the home of zarzuelas. Of course,Filipinos also indigenized the zarzuela and called it the sarsuwela.t
became a mix or music, prose, dance, dialogue, and a discussionof contemporary subjects.
Nowadays, Philippine theater has changed and incorporated many modern elements to keep it
relevant to its growing audience. It still attacks contemporary issues and portrays the real lives of
Filipinos here and abroad. But it also went back to some of its roots such as music and dance. More
recently, Liza Magtoto's Rak of Aegis and its unprecedented success showedthat Filpinos are still
craving for plays that feature not only contemporary and important issues, but also fun, music, and
dance.
The playwrights' group called Writer's Bloc has been actively inviting young playwrights to
alsohave their unpublished plays staged in a professional setting, namely, the Cultural Center
thePhilippines or CCP. These playwrights have been annually staging the Virgin Labfest, an avenue
fornew playwrights to submit their plays and have them staged with professional directors, actresses,
andprops. The event has also revolutionized modern Philippine theater because not only does it open
upthe stage for braver and more current issues, it also keeps Philippine theater alive and relevant. Now,
every year, the Virgin Labfest attracts a diverse group of audiences and the plays that are part of it run to
a sold-out crowd.

Another play that deals with contemporary social issues is The Adopted Healthy Baby by Layeta Bucoy.
Layeta Bucoy is a multi-awarded playwright who has won five Palanca awards for Ellas Inocettam
2007, Doc Resurreccion: Gagamutin ang Bayan in 2009, El Galeon de Simeon in 2011, and The Adopted
Healthy Baby in 2015. which are all in the Filipino One-Act Play category, as well as Ang Repleksyon ni Ms.
Trajano in the Filipino Teleplay category in 1998. She has also staged many plays, adaptations, and children's
musicals, such as Walang Kukurap; Kleptomaniacs; adaptations of TitusAndronmcus and Bona; Uod, Butete, at
si Myrna; Melanie; and Prinsipe Munti, which is an adaptationof The Little Prince, among others. She teaches
theater and writing at the University of the PhilippinesLos Baños, where she is also a University Artist.
Creative Presentation of a Play
Similar to how a poem is meant to be recited out loud, a play is meant to be staged and performed.
Despite staging an amateur play, there are still process to it that you must follow of your play to be successful.
In the end, the audience will be the one to evaluate vou and tell vou if they truly like what you have prepared for
them. Here are the steps that vou can follow in staging an amateur play.

1. Find a play. Go through yourlibrary, old school books or even the internet to look for a play that you
may like to stage. For an amateur play, you may stage one-act plays that will be easyto manage and
execute. If you are lost for a play you want to stage, you may want to try Rene O. Villanueva’s short
one-act plays such as Kumbersasyon, Tatlo-Tatlo, and his wildly famousMay Isang Sundalo. These
are simple one-act plays that have only one setting: it may be a classroom, a living room, orbedroom.
 2. Find a group who you want to work with. Find a group of at least 10 of your classmates who are
willing to work with you. Make sure that they have their own expertise that they can bring to help
you stage your play: acting, lighting, preparing, and making props, taking charge of the sound
system, and directing.
3. Assign specific tasks to each of your group mates. Make sure to not over assign or under assign
tasks; assign them to those you think are the best in that particular task. As for you, you may be the
director if you wish or the leader who will oversee all the proceedings of the production.
4. Make a time line of what you want to accomplish. If your teacher gives you one month to stagea
play, then draw or write a time Iine of what you want to accomplish every week. For example,for the
first week, you want to hold auditions for the final cast. For the second week, you have your round-
table reading of the final script and the props people start making the props. For the third week, you
have daily practices, and the sounds or lights people start assembling their equipment for the play.
The fourth week is the final and/or dress rehearsals before theperformance day.
5. Stick to your plan. If in case something goes wrong with your plan, always have a backup plan or a
plan B. The key to a successful presentation is to always be ready for anything that mayhappen.
6. Finally, enjoy the presentation! It is also recommended that you give your audience an evaluation
sheet, so that you know what you can improve on for the next presentation. You mayresearch an
example of an evaluation sheet on the Internet. After your presentation, discuss the comments in the
evaluation sheets with the rest of your team as a post-evaluation step of the presentation.

Essential Learning
Philippine theater takes its roots from precolonial and colonial history. It has
been shaped by the various influences of what people think constitute entertainment:
rituals, songs, dances, comedy, drama, and so much more. From here, local theater
has evolved to be the form it is today: a modern way to present and mirror Philippine
society, on the stage.
You should also acknowledge that theater has played a big part in Philippine
literature, for it is in the dramatization of these written works that the general
audience are reached and enlightened about current contemporary issues that they are
experiencing as of that particular moment in history. Plays are largely historical, in
that sense. They portray the current struggles and triumphs of the Filipino people at
that specific time, era, date, and event. Plays can be reminders of your history and
more. Plays can awaken the consciousness of the Filipino people of what is
happening around them, how they can participate in it, or what they can do about it.

5 Topic: Archipelagic Life, or Creative Nonfiction

CONTENT DISCUSSION:

Archipelagic Nonfiction

One of the most popular genres of literature in the Philippines has always been the essay also
known as creative nonfiction. The essay is often defined as a short piece of writing on a particular
subject. Sometimes, it is also defined as an account of historical, personal, and academic events.
However, the definition of an essay can also be vague and that it overlaps with that of the always
popular short story. Because of this, the essay is sometimes seen as a literary genre that is of lesser form
than poetry and fiction.
Generally speaking, the essay takes the same passion, craft, and artistry as any literary genre. It is
also known to be immensely popular, because newspapers nowadays still bear essays in the form of
editorials, columns, and bylines. Some of the most popular newspaper columnists who are known to
write in the essay form are Conrado de Quiros of thePhilippine Daily Inquirer, Jessica Zafra of the
 Philippine Star and Business World, and more recently, Patricia Evangelista and Shakira Sison of the
online news portal Rappler. In publishing, Carlos Bulosan's America is in the Heart has always been a
staple for creative nonfiction. In this workhe writes about his migration to the United States and the
painful life he has theirfamous ends the whole memoir with a declaration that America will always be in
the "heart”. Another famous hat no other essayist is Carmen Guerrero-Nakpil, who has also defined the
essay as something that "what no other forms of writing seems willing to be."
What then is an essay for you? Have you ever written an essay for school? Was it difficult to
writer was it easy for you to accomplish? Did you focus on only one subject or quite a lot within one
subject or quite a lot within one essay?
An essay can take many forms, but there is one main requirement, as stressed by the
countrypremiere essayist Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo: the voice of the writer must ring clear, true, and fine
all throughout the written work. What is a writer's voice? The writer's voice is the distinctive style or
personality of a written work (an essay, in this case) that will separate it from other written works. Itan
important component of writing for it shows the essay's personality as much as you would if you’re the
one telling the story to someone else. It is one way to make the story truly "your own."
Read the following essay and answer the questions that are asked regarding the writer's voice.

Ma. Elena Paulma is a Palanca first-prize winner for her

short story "Three Kisses in 2010. She comes from Butuan
City, Mindanao, and has finished her bachelor's degree in
English (Creative Writing), master’s degree in
Comparative Literature, and doctorate in Creative Writing
at the University of the Philippines - Diliman. She is an
Associate Professor and the Vice President for Academic
Affairs at the University of Science and Technology of
Southern Philippines, Cagayan de Oro. Her book of essays,
Southern Stories and Strays," was published in 2017 by the
UP Press.

And the Water Flows in Tiniwisan

By Ma. Elena Paulma

What I remember the most when I think of Tiniwisan is not the trill of softly singing birds, the rush of
coconut fronds, or mango, sampaloc and baungon leaves in the breeze. Well, there was that, and the silence
which was always there beneath the occasional trike, the momentary roar of passing trucks whopping up a cloud
of dust in their wake. But the constant sound that lay like the endless silence beneath all the other sounds was
that of the rushing water coming from a huge pipe rising out of theearth.
The pipe had two short arms, and like a proud scarecrow minus a head, it stood out against flatness of
the land and the rest of the world which was sky. That water roared from the bowels earth it seemed, to gush out
of the pipes day and night, so cold and crisp and clear we would stablemate its force for what seemed like
hours. Many came with their plastic gallons and earthen jars orthe potable water. We filled ours in no time,
getting ourselves drenched on purpose. These eternal watersprings dotted the landscape of Tiniwisan from the
Butuan highway intersection down to the wider parts at the end, a long way down the dirt road.
Our elders would talk about running towards those then forested areas during the Japanese Occupation.
One story is about this tree. Its roots formed a cavern huge enough for all the brothers and sisters to hide in.
Lolo would cover them with wide anahaw or nipa leaves that grew near the river while he went out and looked
for food.
When they had no time to run that far, they hid in the dug-out made by Lolo behind the old house. That
is why your Lola told us to never cut the Dama de Noche that grows in front of the hole. It saved our lives many
times." Mom never told me where they buried her baby sister who died during one ofthe raids, having fallen
from my mother's arms as they ran. Once, when the whole family tried to escape on raft down the Agusan
River, they were apprehended by the Japanese. It was the blood coming outofLola who was in the throes of
childbirth that turned the Japanese away.
In the books it says that in 1943, during the World War II Japanese occupation, Butuan was razed to the
ground when the guerilla forces attacked the local Japanese garrison. My Lolo was one of those guerillas, or as
my mom would tell it, he was suspected of being one of the guerillas because he would distribute the harvest of
his land and share portions of the slaughtered pig to the families of those who had been captured. He was
captured with his brother and was held for months in a Japanese garrison. His brother died, but Lolo survived.
When I was a child, my cousins and I used to stay at Lolo s uma (tarm) for weeks during summer
breaks. From the Butuan city proper, Tiniwisan is several kilometers away, across the Magsaysay Bridge
Whenever we go to the farm, we pass by houses below the highway level. Inere 1s more sky than land, it seems.
There are bright green rice fields, coconut trees like frozen fireworks against too much sky, and on mild hills,
clumps of fruit trees trying not to outgrow each other. Above all these, sometimes, a flockof white herons would
rise in unison, painting white wings on blue sky, and only for a moment.
There's a gas station before a left turn onto a road which until now has never been blessed with a single
drop of cement. No sign marks the entrance to Tiniwisan. The dirt road cuts like an intruder through emerald
land stretching out on both sides.
There is really long, bumpy, dusty ride. often the only sound and movement amidst the silence
ofgrowing things, past stretches of rice fields, a horizon of hazy trees, luminousgreen rice shootgrowing close to
the edge of the road, coconut leaves slashing past and into the vehicle, then the line of coconut that mark my
grandparents' land, and thick mango trees guarding two houses iromthe children would already be shouting and
running towards the coming vehicle
When the engine stops, the quiet descends, even with all the children clamoring to carry thepasalubongs,
Mom's "Kuha ta'g butong!" which means get someone to climb up the coconut tree to young coconuts, and
"Amin!" as my nieces and nephews scramble to touch my hand to their foreheads. Go to my aunts and uncles (I
have nine on my mother's side, plus their husbands and wives) to do the same, slapping hands with my thirty or
so cousins.
I can remember three figures already waiting by the door upon our arrival: Lolo, Lola, and Auntie Lilia,
the eldest aunt. She would say a secret prayer under her breath, to me words of magic, whenever I touched her
hand to my forehead.
The boys would wake up long before dawn, and challenge each other to a race towards a small bridge
that spanned a brook down the dirt road. Before the dew lifted and the gold began to settle on allthings, they
would come back holding huge black beetles waving their spindly legs in the air andOmetnaes large white
wormcollected from the inner hollows of coconut trunks. These were place of Lola e and the smell of burning
beetle or sizzling worm would mingle with Lola's rice coffee grams on the hot fry pan. I have never tasted better
coffee anywhere. The boys ate their beetles, or hairworms. The rest of us settled for Lolo's law-oy, a collection
of boiled and salted winged beans, Ilocanos and eremite tops, harvested from behind the house, next to my plate
would be a saucer with Negar and this sauce. Only Auntie Lilia knew that about me.
Then we would spread out to our different haunts. There were bike rides to my uncle's place further
down the uneven road. My cousin had said the first time, pointing with his finger, "It's just over there, further
down the road." From the way my bottom felt afterwards, it was much, much farther. What wasa short distance
to those who lived among the fields was very farto those of us who lived in the city?
Lolo would let us ride on the balsa (a raft-like bamboo box) pulled by his carabao on his way to the
fields. There was a rhythm to the planting of rice. First, the soil was loosened and the paddies filled with water.
The neighbors would come and there would be rows of them bent down over the watery mud, the bunch of
shoots in their hands becoming straight rows of green on the wet black earth. People prayed for rain, not too
much, for it would drown the seedlings, but just enough for the shoots to turn from green to gold.
Harvest time gathered the people again in rows on the fields. The threshers were taken out and the
golden stalks would yield their golden seeds to be milled and shoveled as white grain into sacks. Thewhite
grains were for selling. The red rice (poor man's rice) were eaten by the farmers. There would be mounds of
yellow stalks left behind in the fields. And then it was time again to loosen the earth and fill thepaddles with
water. Thus, either the rice fields were too muddy and wet, or too uneven and therewith itchy brown nice stalks
to play in.
We preferred Lolo's yard. We would climb up the huge pile of corn in the small hut that housed
thethreshers and the araro. We would quarrel over who would wield the sungkit (a long bamboo with absent
nail and a net) as we peered up at the many fruit trees surrounding the house. My ate and I always aimed for the
sour fruits. My mouth still waters at the thought of the firm green flesh that appeared after we crushed the hard
brown shell of the sampaloc, or the plates of tender green iba dipped in salter eaten right out of the tree.
The fruit we all sat down for was the crunchy green Indian mango dipped in sauces of our choice sugar,
sugar with soy sauce, plain soy sauce, vinegar, vinegar with sugar, or the smelly gnomes. The bamboo floor of
Lola's kitchen would break from the weight of all of us crowded around the green piles on her wooden table.
When the baungon (pomelo) tree that grew beside the house bore fruit, my uncles would go to the end of the
verandah, reach out and pluck as many as was demanded. Afternoons found us swinging on hammocks under
the thick-leafed mango trees.
 When the coconut leaves began to turn black against a purple pink sky, it was time for us to tunnel to
say "Tabi po, to appease thein. Anyone making too much noise or running too fast would do disturbed spirits
watching from the shadows of the gathering dusk. Although the sky was always bright at night when all the gas
tapers had been put off, we slept early in Lolo's farm. Something huge had flown after Lolo one night while he
was coming home from a school program. Everyone knew it was awakuak who became one of the neighbors by
day. Once, encantos had lured Lolo away from the house into the forest, but he was sensible enough to take off
his shirt and put it on inside out. He had felt like he had been gone for days but Lola said he had just been gone
an hour.
We would lie in a row on mats lining the sala's wooden floor. Lola would open the lid of her
woodenkaban and hand out carefully washed and starched blankets and fresh pillows. We would squabble over
the stiff and crinkly blankets, all of them of white cotton edged with green cloth or embroidered flowers and
smelling faintly of camphor. Lolo would push at the sliding wooden panels framing the large windows so that
they closed edge to edge, keeping away whatever lay outside in the dark. The tickling and giggling and the
whispering would die down soon enough. The deep silence would finally reign once more, along with the
distant hum of flowing water.
As we grow up, our haunts would shift from Lolo's vard to the basketball court near the barangay hall,
the school and the chapel. Especially during fiesta time, there was always somethinggoing on at the basket
court: basketball, volley ball, beauty pageants, and at night, the baile or dance 1yud set up loud speakers as tall
as a nipa hut. The houses all around literally shook from the" atthat pounded at the night, scaring away
wakwaks with any bright ideas. No need to say this time.
The festivities always began on the bisperas or the day before the actual Fiesta. We would wait the
squealing of the dying pig, and the baying of a hung goat. All of my uncles are great cooks and e
would gather in the kitchen, chopping the meat, downing cases of beer or Tanduay, and "tasting naof
what was cooked. The goat, which is a family tradition, was the specialty of the eldest, Uncle Au. Onany family
gathering, we always had goat kilawin, papait and caldereta. The children would gather forthe program and the
several uncles and aunties would be robbed of their pesos after each game, songor dance. At night, we would
take out the guitars and the playing cards and we would sing and talk tilldawn.
With the passing of years, the gatherings would become less frequent. Lolo would die from old age.
Lola, who refused to leave her bedroom after his death, would follow a few years later. During the funeral rites,
one after the other of two coconut trees that seemed to grow from one root was felled. They say Lolo and Lola
had planted it.
A cousin has died, and two aunts, and Auntie Lilia. All of road them somewhere are buried near another
Lolo than and burying Lola in that is reached Auntie Lilia. All of them are buried near Lolo and Lola in where
in the inner recesses of wish we came together for reasons other than buryingcemetery that is reached through a
muddy and pot-holed road somewheredead." Sometimes, we would not see each other for years. Strange, but
the passing of loved oneiwisan. One of my cousins would say, "How each other, things we have kept to
ourselves, things we have ways the same every time we come together again. Always brings us back together.
There's the slaughtered goat (no, two, because one goat is just enough for a snack) cooked in three
There are things we have said about and things we have failed to do. But it is always thefrom Auntie Pine's
flock with her reluctant approval, roasted, no,
turned to a crisp in a bonfire by the kids and devoured before anyone could say "awan ti inapoy noore
rice n llocano). There's the trip to the beach in Buenavista (a town on the other side of Butuan). Days by Uncle
Au. Perhaps a goose night, we would awaken to the revving of my uncle's pick-up, and everyone would troop
out for therapies joy ride through the silent streets of the city across the bridge. Back in the farm, we would’ve
the dawn while eating balot and peanuts in the verandah, telling our stories.
The early morning would bring Nong Tano, the blind man who walks the length of the Triwizard with
his basket of pan de sal. Like Uncle Au who insists on walking on the rough earth barefoot-ong Tano walks
without any guide, not even a walking stick. There are many of them here, men anromen who know the land
well, by the touch of their hands as they push the rice shoots into the grouney the feel of the watery earth
beneath their feet as they move from one paddy to another.
Nowadays, we talk less about moving away in search of “greener pastures. More and more, as we sit on
the stone railing of the verandah watching the first light of dawn while the softiemorning mist drifts away from
the ripening rice stalks, we talkabout coming back. And building a hut right there in the middleof the rice fields.
And growing old here. And dying here. And being buried on this land.
The water pipes are long gone, and there is talk of these lands airbeing converted into subdivisions like many
rice fields have been. But where we are, Dama de Noches still breathe at night and fillipsthe air with their
haunting scent, and some of the mango trees still bear fruit and the coconut trees are still standing, and the rice
stillgrows on the same land my Lolo and Lola tilled. And underneath all these, the deepest silence, as the water
flows in hidden springs beneath the earth.
The art of writing essay in the Philippines has been through many historical events. According to Nonfiction
Narrative,” during the Propaganda movement of the Spanish ocupationm, the illustrados and katipuneros wrote
essays that were designed to awaken their fellow countrymen in the newspaper La Solidaridad. Their
essayswere written in either Spanish or Filipino, depending on their target audience. These essays
wererevolutionary in nature and were frequently formal ones.
The Commonwealth Period brought about the rise of the informal essay in the country. An
informal essayis an essay on any topic available and is written in the author's own unique style.
However, it is always understood that when an essay is being written, the author should have something
important to tell his or her readers and must say it well through the use of his or her voice.
Eventually, in 1937, Alfredo Q. Gonzalez released the first ever single-author book of familiar
essays entitledThe Call of Heights. It was preceded by Dear Devices in 1933 as the first volume of
familiar essays in the country written in English.
After the war came the likes of Yay Panlilio-Marking and Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, who were
distinguished voices among the new essayists of their generation. As the country progressed toward
Martial Law, so many popular publications such as the Philippine Free Press, Philippine Graphic,
Manila Times, and Manila Chronicle published essays that were also intertwined with journalism.
During the Martial Law era, there was a great suppression of essays in print or media; a lot of essayists
also went to jail or were exiled for their involvement in the revolution.
Nowadays, the EDSA Revolution has paved the way for essays to come back in the limelight.
The essays that you now read in newspapers or online are how essays have been written since the
beginning of literature in the Philippines: to write what one wanted and how one wanted.
Creative nonfiction before were stories that reflect ways of life. Now, it also discusses timely
issues and tells stories that news would not cover: stories of struggle and hope, stories of the
marginalized, and stories of survival despite the times, to name a few. There has also been a spike in the
number of women essayists, and the academe and the media have become avenues for publishing works
on creative nonfiction.

One of the creative who went on to write columns in newspapers is

Dr. Jose Dalisay, Jr.,Who is more popularly known as Butch
Dalisay in his column "Penman" in the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
Dr. Jose Dalisay is a Filipino writer who has won several
awards in fiction, poetry, drama, nonfiction and screenwriting,
including 16 Palanca Awards. As an academician and a writer, he
has been a Fulbright, Hawthorden, David TK Wong. Rockefeller,
and British Council fellow. Born inRomblon, Butch Dalisay is the
Vice President for Public Affairs of the University of the
Philippines System, maintains a newspaper column, and is one of the big names in many literary festivals and
creative writing workshops.

The Modern Essay

What is the modern essay of Filipinos? What do you read nowadays, and what does it say to
young modern essay of Filipinos has become more experimental-it would usually take on an normal are
brave enough to tackle sensitive issues (such as Kat Alano's essay on "rape, or Margarita Holmes and
Jeremy Baer's joint column that feature essays on love advice), and some are alsogood enough to call out
and criticize Filipino culture.
One thing is for sure: essays nowadays also tap on their readers for interpretation. Your own
beliefs, experiences, feelings, values, and morals all take part of your interpretation of an essay. when
theessay wants to say something, it does so with your help as its reader because you will be the one to
decode its message.
Patricia Evangelista is a columnist and writer for various publications, but most recently with the
online news portal Rappler. She has been credited to have changed the face of Philippine journalism and
has sparked discussions with her brave essays on Filipino culture, disasters, and events. She recently
received the NCCA's prestigious Ani ng Dangal award for her journalism.
 Big IdeaPersonal pronouns are never used in news articles. But for opinion articles, "l" is used in
columns and personal essays, just like what Evangelista did. When "we" is used in an editorial article,
"we" refers to the whole newspaper. The editorial is the piece that showcases the whole paper's stand
in an issue.

Essential Learning
Essays, just like any Philippine literary genre, deserve their place in the
Philippine literary canon. The essay is one of the most personal and insightful pieces of
written work that has been around since the era of Spanish colonization. We should also
note that the essay has changed throughout the years and has become a vessel for
various thoughts and ideals of Filipino writers and their culture at the time of their
writing. It has been a way for revolutionary propaganda to be shared with common
citizens and for national consciousness to be awakened.
The essay has developed itself into two kinds-the formal essay and the informal
essay. Whether the essay is formal or informal, it should have a distinct voice that is
able to tell what the written work wants to say clearly. Aside from this, the essay is now
an effective way to relate experiences and stories on a more personal note, whether it is
political, cultural, or social.

6 Topic: Remapping of Philippine Literature through Criticism

CONTENT DISCUSSION:

Literary Criticism
If in the previous module the essay was mentioned as a genre considered to be an "underdog of
literature, what then of literary criticism? Though often ignored and sometimes seen as necessary butnot
a part of the literary genre, criticism plays a vital role not only in literaturebut in the culture itself. Ithas
set the mode for certain eras and their particular tendencies: the Victorian Era and its romanticism,the
Renaissance and its humanist people, and the postmodern era and experimentation with art, to citea few
examples. Criticism, often intertwining both literary and cultural, has set the mode for most of theculture
that has been lived before you were born and the culture you will be living in the future.
What, then, is literary criticism? Some will say it is the "reasoned" consideration or analysis of
literary texts and their themes or issues. It may also be an argument about a literary work, which willbe
proven using the text and the culture or context the text was written in or for. There is one general
agreement among crities, however, when it comes to any kind of critique: it has to be
"practical."Criticism is meant to see what has not been seen before, to say what has not been said before,
and to change what needs to be changed. It interprets meaning in text and judges the text's quality so that
it may bring forth new ideas, new realizations, and necessary changes in society.
One of the earliest works of criticism is Plato's argument against the consequences of poetic
inspiration in his writing entitled "The Republic." Up until now, this text is used to guide critics on howa
text can be interpreted or what other modes of interpretation can be done.
Functions of literary Criticism
There are many functions of literary criticism, and they vary depending on the text itself or the
context where it is being performed. Literary criticism may be the simple review of books that you often
 read online or in local newspapers, or a systematic theoretical discussion of a story's impact on society
These reviews usually determine if a book will be widely sold or acclaimed, though at times they do not
seen as a precedent to the best seller's status of the book. Criticism in everyday newspapers may also
summarize the worth of a book, or support or deconstruct a publisher's claim about a given book.
Another function of literary criticism is to reevaluate any given text. This is to shed new light or
to give new meanings to old texts. Sometimes, literary criticism lets you see the function old texts in
modern society. The literary critic becomes a scholar who works through old drafts and manuscripts.
and edits all of them so that they may be reevaluated. This, when accomplished, may bring old texts to
the new publisher's attention.
Literary criticism may also be used to invoke discussions, reassess society, and redefine culture
based on a literary text. These kinds of sustained criticism may be found in bimonthly or even annual
magazines or journals, which oftentimes have specialized topics. These kinds of criticisms are usually
available to the academe, although some do end up in daily papers or mainstream magazines.
It is also common for criticism to dip its toes into social and political arguments, especially if the
literary work is social or political in nature. Because literary criticism is highly interdisciplinary in
nature, it is not afraid to transgress boundaries to argue a point and it also bravely follows where the
literary text goes. Some forms of critical work done in the Philippines have dealt with the following: the
abuse of overseas foreign workers (OFWs): the marginalization of women and/or members of the
lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) community: the environmental degradation and injustice
and even postcolonial theories that dispute the years of colonization in which the country has endured.
This much, however, is true about criticism: critics may be seen as lawgivers when it comes to
books, stories, poems, and the like. They may pass judgment based on their informed critical lenses and
can make or break a writer. Even if writers, in the truest sense of the word, are owners of their own work
(and are copyright holders, too), critics may still persuade the public to place their own judgments on the
work, according to how they see fit. That is how powerful criticism is in society.
Writing a Critical Paper
You have written a critical paper before in your previous grade levels. What you must remembering
attempting the feat once again for this module is that literary criticism does not look at literatures a way to
proliferate a didactic message. This means that literary criticism does not solely look at a text to see if it has a
message to say to the reader and whether this message is good or bad. Rather, literary criticism sees in the text
what the readers do not see, and leaves the readers to think about what was discovered by them. Literary
criticism also does not always have to delve into religious or nationalistic interpretations-it can be anything
about the literary text on hand, as long as it is within the text. As they say, how can you force your readers to
see what is not there in the first place?
A quick, insightful, and fun way to discuss your theories and in this is through a short paper. A short
paper is literally short It consists of one or me pages of written critique that will succinctly discuss your idea
realization, or concept regarding a literal selection. The point here is to introduce your idea or discovery about a
literary selection to the class which they can comment on and improve through constructive criticism. It is much
similar to the writing workshops that the great national artists have established beforehand.
How do you start with your short paper Of course choose literary selection that you want to analyze. It is
preferred if you choose the same literary selection which you were asked to research on in Modules 1 and 2.
Then, find at least two to three sources that you can use to develop your idea. You can find these through the
internet your school library or magazine/malls. Once you have done your scholarly work it is time for you to
start writing
Always begin with an outline. What do you want to say, and how do you want to say it? This outlines tentative
and may always change as you keep on writing your paper. The important thing with an outline is that you can
clearly follow it as you write along.
Next, start with a joke an anecdote, or a quotation from the literary text as your introduction. The idea is to book
your readers so that they will be more willing to listen to your idea. After this quickly state as a way of sign
posting (or letting the reader know what you are going to write about in your paper what your concept is and
how it is related to the literary text. Tell them, too, if you already have hypothesis or a conclusion in mind. You
may also give a background of the story, especially if it hasn’t been read yet by your classmates, in the
introduction. But make sure it is short (2 pages at the most) because you only have to pages to write about your
whole analysis
The body of your essay must try to discuss the relation of your idea with the literary text. What has your idea
discovered about the literary text? How did the literary text show you or enlighten you about your idea? What
can your idea say about local culture and society? What other future research topics can be established from
your idea? The body is critical in your analysis. If you need to quote from the literary text that you have chosen
do so carefully by choosing which are essential to develop your argument.
The conclusion is just like any conclusion when you are writing an essay - summarize what you have said or
discussed in the body in two to three sentences. You may also want to conclude by referencing your
introduction (the joke, anecdote, or quotation, so that it sandwiches your idea and is more appealing to the
readers. You may also suggest future research projects for your readers, which they may undertake if they are
interested in your topic.

Essential Learning
Literary criticism is often ignored in Philippine literature. Literary criticism,
however, inessential because it not only informs the readers of what they may discover
through a literary text, but also shapes society for it criticizes the context in which the text
was written in. There are many functions of literary criticism. It may be to review a literary
text, to give an informed opinion about subject matter or issue, to invoke discussions, or to
reevaluate texts.
One way to meaningfully discuss a literary selection in the classroom is through a
short paper that can be shared through paper or panel presentations. In this way, you may
apply your critical thinking skills on the texts of your locality or region and be able to
discuss it with your fellow classmates. Criticism is instrumental in fostering healthy
academic discussions in any setting. Thus, it is an indispensable part of Philippine literature
that must be continually practiced and discoursed about.

CONTENT DISCUSSION:
7 Topic: Looking Beyond the Future of Philippine Literature

The Future of Philippine Literature

What are some of the current trends in Philippine literature? Here are some of the latest genres
Emerging in Philippine literature:
Children's Literature - Children's literature has made a paradigm shift as it now includes
contemporary stories that are no longer didactical in presentation. Today, many storybooks
discuss controversial and sensitive issues in the context of the child experience. These include
bullying, death, illnesses, calamities, sexuality, politics, and child abuse, just to name a few.
Writers such as Luis Gatmaitan, Eugene Evasco, Rhandee Garlitos, and Sergio Bumatay
III,among others, have taken this challenge of producing works that talk about contemporary
issues and empowering the child. Writers work actively with illustrators such as the people from
Ang Ilustrador ng Kabataan (Ang INK).
Speculative fiction - This is an umbrella term in the country's literature that includes all genres
of horror, fantasy, science fiction, magical realism, and other no realism genres. The Philippines
is known to have had stories about the unknown for as long as it can be remembered and
speculative fiction explores these kinds of stories. The terminology has been championed by
Dean Francis Alfar, who has written and edited stories under this genre.
Avant-garde poetry - These are poems that push the boundaries of what is expected as the norm.
In that sense, these kinds of poems experiment with form, phrasing, ideas, imagery, and the like.
Some poets who have written avant-garde poems are Angelo Suarez, Paolo Manalo, Conchitina
Cruz, Arbeen Acuña, and Marc Gabba.
Contemporary essay - The contemporary essay nowadays is unrestricted and explores
Diverse topics such as dysfunctional families, LGBT issues, terrorism, religion, and/or faith.
 It is a far cry from the common topics of previous essays, because young writers nowadays are
Willing to voice their opinions about Filipino society through writing.
Here are some exemplars from the given trends above:
Dean Francis Alfar is the co-editor and publisher of the yearly Philippine
Speculative Fictionanthology. His novels and short stories have won him several
national awards, including a total of10 Don Carlos Palanca Awards. His publications
have been global, with his own short stories beingpublished in other international
journals.
 Six from Downtown
By Dean Francis Alfar
The Wet Market
A week after I arrived in the city, I spent a day at the wet market, negotiating my way down theslippery floors
and taking pictures. I was soon lost in the brilliant rainbow of fresh seafood, laid outin ice, suspended on hooks,
swimming in plastic pails and low metal drums, whose names broughtback memories of my childhood: palos, pating,
alimasag, pindangga, lapu lapu, apahap, sap sap,pompano, tambacol, labahita, malasugi, pugita. At other stalls, I found
trays of lato, seaweed thatresembled a miniature bunch of grapes which my parents loved dipping in a mix of crushed
garlic andspicy vinegar, as well as palm-sized oysters, their dull shells encrusted with barnacles.
One stall's sign captured my attention and got my taste buds going: Fresh Sirena. I smiled to myself,surprised at
how many years had passed since I last tasted mermaid. When I was a child growing up inthe south, my grandfather
would take me out mermaid fishing. The boat of my memory was crampedand seemed ungainly in the water, but none
of that mattered since I loved being out at sea with him.
"They think it's unlucky," he told me once, when I observed that it seemed only men went into thesea. "It does
not matter to me that you are a girl. You're what God has given us and that's all the luckwe'll need."
At a precise position whose exact oceanic location was known only to him, my grandfather woulddrop the
makeshift anchor overboard and organize the fishing lines, stretching across the span of hisarms the very fine filaments
he purchased from American soldiers before they fled the Japanese. Whenall the preparations were done, he'd ask me to
attach the bait. This was one of the best parts for mebecause I got to open the large biscuit tin with the end of a spoon
and select a piece of jewelry. I wouldscoop out a handful of shiny trinkets and fuss over them, showing off to my
grandfather how seriouslyI took the task. My favorite bait was a gold scapular embossed with the image of the Virgin
Mary.After I had carefully attached the bait to the line, my grandfather would always tell me to sit still,watch the sea
quietly and be ready with the net. Then he'd slowly lower the filament into the water, one hand unrolling calculated
measures of length. Sometimes, it took forever for a mermaid to bite,and I remember thinking that perhaps they had all
the jewelry they'd ever need. While waiting, mygrandfather would smoke a thin cigarette between his teeth, flipping it
into his mouth when only thesmouldering filter remained, checking once in a while if I had a firm grip on the wooden
handle of thenet that was my part in things
"Be ready at any time," he'd intone, exhaling smoke into the air laden with salt.
The mermaids we'd catch ranged from two and half to three feet in length. Their tails, excellentsteamed, grilled
or boiled with tamarinds, were an iridescent green flecked with blue points of lights.Halfway up was the bony flesh that
was always cast away after cutting the torsos were mottled pink andgrey, with protruding nubs where nipples would be
the thin arms ended in four fingers, a filmy web offlesh between each one. The egg-shaped heads were crowned with
pale stringy hair, like the ghosts ofseaweed, covering much of the face that was punctured thrice by tortoise-colored
eyes and a gaspingmouth lined with sharp tiny teeth.
"Here's one," my grandfather would whisper upon sensing the line grow taut, before exploding intoaction,
standing up and reining in the filament, hand over hand, until the mermaid broke the surfaceof the sea, unwilling to let
go of the shiny bait. At his signal I'd quickly extend the net, making certainto trap the glistening tail, and together we'd
haul the mermaid into the boat, where my grandfatherwould exchange the string in one hand for a fire-hardened club
and strike at the mermaid's head untilit stopped moving.
One was usually enough for our large family, but I remember during the times of fiesta how the seawould be
dotted by little boats similar to my grandfather's, and how they'd return hours later, pitchinglow in the water, each with
several mermaids.
I stood by the sirena stall and looked over what was offered, fighting the rising disappointmentfueled by the
memories of my childhood years. The mermaids lay side by side and almost haphazardlyon top of each other, eyes
closed and mouths agape, on a bed of crushed ice, most of them barely afoot long, some even smaller, and their tails
had only the barest hint of green. Sensing my disquiet, thevendor, a middle-aged man with a red bandanna and a
bulging belly, explained in a lugubrious tonethat it was the lean season, and that all mermaids were that size nowadays.
I purchased the freshest looking one, astounded at the price per kilo, and asked if there was aplace nearby that
could grill it for me. The vendor winked and, for one hundred pesos, offered to cookit himself. I suspected he was
overcharging me but gave in when he agreed to throw in a handful of seasnails for free.

The Business Quarter

There's this story Marie told me after work one time over turtle pie at our favorite coffee place. You would
never expect Marie to be the kind of person who collects a particular bond of story--she's barefive feet tall, round-faced
in a way that recalls cherubs from the angel care a few years back, and worfor a non government agency that is
dedicated to preserving and promoting the carruela, moro-moro and iyakan.
 "I have a new one for you, Tom" she began, leaning toward my good car. "There's this guy olurAround our age,
regular uy, a call center guy, you know? Anyway, heat his third call centerknow how people move around, right? Better
pay is always a great motivator So this guy is handlicustomer service for a phone company in the US He gets a call from
a woman, and you knowgoes through the motions, blah blah blah, the usual they have a script and everything they have
program on their monitors like a walkthrough and everything's there I mean, everything So anyway this woman gets
upset because she can't get the guy to understand her problem But the guy, ourthinks he does. So he asks her questions
again, just to make some very nicely because his supervisorwhatever they're called is listening in-they do, for
evaluation, poes so he keeps asking her questionwhich I guess sounded either really useless or stupid to the woman, and
she freaks out She just framout She starts calling him names, demands exactly where he is and I dont know if they're
allowedsay where they are I mean, they're pretending to be in US, right? They even have the proper accenand all so
she's really upset and out guy's trying to calm her down, but he's sitting affected too. I meanwho wouldn't you know
I nod, offering her a cigarette before highting site for myself"Finally he says he says to her, I'm sorry I can't help
you, ma'am, tales of his headset, standup, leaves the call center drives home, calls his wife's cell phone and tells her to
come home fromschool she was taking her masters in something, and get this, the pregnant with their first child B
I'll get to that, in a bit. Anyway, when she arrives, well, when she arrives, he stabs her seventeen timewith a lotchen
Innife Seventeen times I mean, oh my god, right? Then be sits down next to her on thfloor and waits for someone to find
them. He just sit there looking at her looking at what he's donegues Just sits there. That's when he notices fingers slowly
polong out of the wounds on her stomachknow, I know He sits there transfixed or whatever and just watches his child
pall open the wounds anCrawl to his dead wife's tits Imagine that I don't know what happened next.supposedly the call
center helped keep the thing hush hush to protect their image, but I don't know Obviously, word got out. But it's not in
the papers though And you'd think that something like that would make the tabloids arthvery least. I don't know.”
As I listened to Mane recount the story in her own inimitable way, her eyes punctuating evedetail, every
digression, widening, squinting. Iqund with the excitement of sensational tragedy. Ifslightly diwy when her hands
grasped an invisible knife and punctured the air between as repeaterthe actions of the call center man. I felt myself
bleed, inwardly roeling from the assault as it weredoomed wite, coming home to the unexpected violence of litchen
steel. By the time Marie was finisheI was exhausted, and there was really nothing more to say or do apart from picking
up my for an
eating the remnants of the turtle pie.
"So. Tom," Marie asks, checking her watch "What's up with you?"

The Red Light District

In the city, veryone has to make money. I dance every night for a hundred pesos 1 know it doeslook like much
it's more of an allowance from the club owner-but I make a good living throoghtip. The club is called Suave, and though
all the dancers are there l 7. the doors open only at 10 Thatwhen the dancing begins.
Tonight's no different. Before I am called. I sit in a small room with the other guys. I stroke myself,looped twice
to keep the blood in. Some guys use more, but I've found that my pain tolerance peaks atten. When I'm hard as a rock I
wear my briefs, whiteand tight, to better show off my bulge. Then I wait
When I hear my music play, I make my way to the darkened stage and take my position, my backto the
audience, hands and legs spread apart, leaning against the wall. As the vocals rise the lightshowworking the space to the
beat, posing, strutting, slowly here, faster there. My hands touch my chest.trailing down my abs and over between my
legs.
My face is impassive-I was taught to show nothing to let the audience imbue my face withwhatever they want-
except for my eyes. I look at them, the ones closest to the stage. I catch the eye ofa young woman in the company of
friends. I feel the heat of her gaze, consuming every inch of my bodyI dance for her alone, timing my next motion to a
downbeat, suddenly kneeling so close to the womanthat she involuntarily flinches. I raise my hips and seduce the air,
running a hand over my chest whilesupporting myself with the other.
I know what she wants, what she came to see.
I stand up, pull off my briefs and release my tail.
It uncoils quickly, swollen and pulsing, and I urge it up. The applause that follows is deafeningand I hear my
name shouted above the music. I flex my tail down and sideways, letting it trail downthe cold stage floor before twirling
it around, slowly at first, then faster, double beat rhythm, slashingthrough both the hot air and the deafening music.
Then as I am abruptly trapped in a spotlight, I grabmy thickness and caress the hard muscle, bringing it close to my face
and look for the woman I choseto dance for.
Her arm is raised, her hand clutching a five hundred peso bill.
Please, she mouths. Do it to me.
I break into a smile and send my tail out toward her, fast as a whip, and encircle her neck.
Hereyes open in anticipated surprise and I feel her gasp for breath. I contract and squeeze until her mouthfalls open and
her tongue rolls out. I lift her up, tensing my muscles, hiding the pain of the cuttingrubber bands from my face, and she
is choking and everyone is clapping, hooting, wishing it was themI hold her in the air for a few moments, feeling the
tremors of her spasms on my tail, before settingher down. She draws in several deep breaths and I let myself linger,
stroking her flushed cheeks,brushing against her fingers until she opens her hand, I curl the tip of my tail around the
money andbring it back to my hand, just in time as the music ends.
In the darkness that follows, I return to the dressing room, making way for the next dancer. I cutthe rubber
bands around my tail with a pair of scissors all the guys share and feel immediate relief asthe blood drains away from
the hard muscle.
I'm sore, as usual, but it's a living.

The University Belt

I will never forget how Mr Rosales, my music teacher in 2nd year, vanished. My parents, convincedat that time
that I had a degree of hidden musical brilliance, engaged him as my tutor every Tuesdayand Thursday night, in addition
to my regular class under him on Fridays.
Mr. Rosales came from a small town in Negros, from one of those places whose names the mind finds
impossible to recall, the ones where moths, wings tipped in poisonous dust, trail after would besuicides. He was a
peculiar man who talked about his life to anyone who would listen. After privatelessons at my house one evening, he
told me how much he loved music but felt that his entire life was afailure. I remained quiet, out of respect. But it was
true.
Against his lips, the flute acquired an altogether different aspect, lilting, rising, falling, persuading,leading all
who heard it almost but not quite to the precipice of utterjoy. But consistently at the precisemoment when the next note
would transport his audience of students to an unearthly paradise, he'dfalter, reversing in mere moments the experience
of delight and replacing it with a cacophony thatcould only rouse an exasperated sense of regret, enveloping those of us
within earshot with the fadingechoes of his desperate longing.
One Friday afternoon in class, right after another truncated recital that ended in the manner allhis performances
did, Mr. Rosales walked out of the music room, in tears. My fellow students and Ifollowed him at a cautious distance
down the corridors, past the classrooms where voices expoundedon genes and peas, down the stairs past the glass-
enclosed trophies that proudly attested to the school'svictories in volleyball, origami and spelling, and out into the
pristine and uniform-length grass of thequad. It was there that he turned to us and said, "I'm done with this--and with all
of you."
The whirlwind that engulfed him appeared out of nowhere. It came as an inverted cone, swirlingwith the tip on
top, ten meters tall, colored mostly green and smelling strongly of crushed leaves. It justcovered him, like a cup in a
shell game, and was simply not there the next moment. The fascinating thingabout it, in fact the very last thing that
everyone who witnessed Mr. Rosales' leave-taking remembered,was that the entire event took place in silence. There
was none of the expected sounds associated with awhirlwind, even a completely unexpected one. It just came, upside
down, covered him completely, andvanished, all in silence.
Mrs. Flores, the teacher who replaced him, was less memorable.
I think she taught piano.

Restaurant Row
Evenings at Shiro Shiro were usually a happy time for most of us. Except for me. Tonight I just sathere,
listening to each of my friends relate all their current and prospective creative work ("For profitor for the soul," as DM,
the loudest and the most prolific of us, put it). As each person rattled off alltheir plans and schedules, I kept silent,
knowing I was nowhere approaching my expected output as amember of our circle of writers and artists.
"I'm thinking of the male nude for my exhibit, but very harshly lit," Tony said passing a handful ofPolaroids
around. "No shadows, no textures, no mystique. I think I can pull it off. I'm thinking of gettingreally old guys,
grandfathers, you know, people like that. Hairless, wrinkly. I'll get them drunk or highand give them a fistful of razors.
I'm thinking about what lies beneath all of us--or them, in this case.
It was not a matter of whether or not I had ideas. I did have them, I recall finding a few quite exciting,perhaps
one or two even astounding in their potential. But they remained pure ideas, unexpressed, asI permitted myself to be
mired down by the mundane circumstances of my life.Normally, even thehumdrum everyday would be a source for me
to mine and craft, set down into words, but I've beenunable to pursue my thoughts to their multi-path endings. unable to
commit the time and effort toactually create. The very thought of writing immediately drained me before I even started.
 "Of course, all the thirteen stories will interconnect and are all true-I researched the police filesmyself," Susan
was explaining, a little too loudly as usual. "It's all about the intertextuality of sexualityShe was telling the group about
her book deal and the risks she was undertaking, pushing her personalliterary agenda when all that the publisher wanted
were short romances in Filipino. "Without risk, wecannot create," she said, pausing for dramatic effect. "It would just
be empty fireworks. I'm setting thethemed collection in a school for the blind. The challenge is to articulate what these
characters cannotsee--the onrush of heartbreak. Imagine these kids groping each other, fucking around while they
maketheir stupid paper no one buys."
Her words reminded me how my own thoughts came in staccato bursts, like pyrotechnies that roseand flared,
abruptly lighting my consciousness before just as quickly fading into the quiet of my mind.The longest piece I'd had
written in recent memory was a fractured poem of three verses in first personwith no imagery whatsoever. When I was
finished I knew I was guilty of setting monologues as prosepoems with no hope of truly creating anything; just wanting
to write something, anything, to havesomething to show the others, to burn away time."You know those old "Choose
Your Own Adventure' books." Andrew asked, gesturing to the group."You know, you make choices and get different
endings and shit? Remember how they could havebeen so cool? Well, I'm writing one on my blog, hyperlinked and all,
so there's an actual experience ofmoving away once a choice has been, you know, made. I'm working out linking it to
this sad, sad blogI hacked. There's this woman who's been abandoned by her husband, and everything she writes is
justpathetically exquisite. She exposes everything. She thinks he left her because she's fat and ugly, andshe's absolutely
right. She has a picture and, oh man! One of the links goes directly to her-and shewon't know." His idea made most of
the group laugh and sit up as they contributed memories of the oldbook series.
"She's her own tragedy," Marge giggled.
"That sounds great," DM said, bestowing a dazzling smile of approval upon Andrew. "Finish it andwe'll think
about how to protect it from plagiarists. I like the conceit applied to the web, but I don't trustthe assholes
online."Whenit was my turn to speak, I just coughed twice and proceeded to be studiously engrossed withthe purple-
haired poet next to me, saved me from further embarrassment.
As I listened to her announce the publication of yet another of her collections of angry-young-woman-who-
makes-the-mistake-of-falling-in-love-with-her-mother poetry, I thought about how myown ideas and plans just sat in
the still corners of my mind, perfectly transfixed, like the plastic displaysof menu items in the Japanese restaurant that
DM insisted upon so he could light up and smoke hisnoxious clove cigarettes.

Big Idea In some ways, writing is indeed like cooking. You need to have the right ingredients and you
have to mix them well to have a lasting effect on the readers palate. Speculative fictionists cook the most
exotic cuisines!
"So, in the end, my collection says, in a nutshell, 'I havenothing more to say to you, Mama - go find someone
else to godown on you." Marge sat back, exhausted by her own vitriol.
"I love it," Susan said, raising her glass of Strong Ice to Margebefore turning to look at me. "What about you,
Trish? I didn'thear what you're up to."
"This and that," I muttered. "Nothing much."
"I'm sure you have something," DM said with a small frown.What happened to the novel you're writing, the one
about Spanish friars in Cebu?"
"I have something cooking," I replied. "I have the words."
"You're just being lazy, Trish," DM said with an exaggerated frown.
"Whatever," I said. I composed a text message and sent it to myself.
Get out get out get out
When the message arrived, triggering the beep of my cell phone seconds later, I stood up, excusmyself and
drove back to my house.I headed directly to the fridge. I ignored the giant candy-shaped aluminum foil that
containedthe remains of last year's aborted writing and instead took one of the baby blue tupperwares, peeledopen the
cover and looked at all the words I'd been cutting out from various books, newspapers andmagazines for past several
months.
In a clean skillet, I tossed the words in, added a little water and soy sauce, twisted the heat to low,waited for the
text to simmer and hoped for the best.

The Housing Projects

I wake up from a troubling dream and realize my wife has left again without telling me. She'sdealing with the anxiety
of our inability have a child in her own way-there, I've said it, it's out inthe open. Seven years of trying nearly
everything wears anyone down. I check near the window and seeshe'll be back before the sun rises. She's never
completely gone.
 Unable to return to sleep, I decide to go out for a drink and a massage, leaving at just past midnight.Ilock walk a
bit in the gentle drizzle, and wait for a cab.
Once in a while. I do this: find a friendly bar, have a couple of beers and just vegetate. It's importantthat I'm
alone. I do not want or need conversation and I certainly don't want to think. On occasionsomeone comes over to talk. I
don't respond. I am not in the mood for someone else's story, whether itis as banal as a prostitute with a heart of gold, as
artless as a philandering man, or as half-flattering assome guy who thinks I'm cruising the bar for some action. I wear a
mask of stupidity, of being unableto comprehend complicated sentences, and radiate a zone of general antipathy in the
blue cloud of mycigarette smoke.
After I pay for my drinks, I take another cab. The dark streets offer no traffic, glistening with thedull sheen left
behind by the superficial rain. At the Korean bathhouse I frequent. I check in, stripand take a bath while sitting on a
small wooden stool. Then I immerse myself in the hot waters of themain pool, oblivious to the amiable argy-bargy of
the other men around me, Filipinos and foreigners,simultaneously exposed and cloaked by steaming water. I soak until I
feel the alcohol in my systemflushing out via sweat. Then I go for my massage, hoping that the lady I like is present
Shes, and soonber iron fingers wedge themselves into the knots of my aching back, shaking my body's dalliance
withsadness with redemptive pain.
Afterwards, I go up to the bar in my robe and have a glass of Shiraz, mellow and with a hint oftartness, and look
beyond the glass walls and out into the street below. I think of nothing, not work orchildren. For a while I pretend to be
consumed by nothing, no cares, no worries. Just for a while,
Before 5 AM, I ride a third cab home to the condo. I check to see if my wife is back but she isn'tThe lower half
of her body is still standing where she left it next to the window, wearing only the floralpatterned panties I don't like
very much I look out the window of our 33rd floor unit and see the greyskies slowly changing hues.
I know she'll fly back. She's on her way home.
I realize that I am desperately hungry, that everything in my system since midnight has been smokeand alcohol.
I make scrambled eggs the way I like them (heat the pan with a little oil, dump the eggs.whisk briskly to separate the
mass, then on to a plate-the entire process takes only a few seconds) plusa couple of links of sticky longganisa.
My wife arrives in a rustle of wings. I look up from my early breakfast and she is there, framed bythe bedroom
doorway, flushed and glowing with perspiration
"You've been out," she says, kicking out the kinks in her legs which had gone asleep while she wasaway.”
I nod. "A couple of beers and a massage."
"Good, good," she says, moving to the kitchen counter for a glass.
“Hungry?" I ask, pointing to my half-eaten meal.
"No, thanks," she says, filling her glass with water from the dispenser. "I just ate."
Later in bed, after she showers, I lean over and kiss her.
"You want to try again?" I ask, tracing the contours of her face with my fingers.
In the light of dawn, she turns away to hide her tears.

For Ian Casocot

Conchitina Cruz is a Filipina poet who teaches creative writing and comparative literature at the
University of the Philippines-Diliman. She graduated magna cum laude from the Creative WritingProgram, and
a valedictorian from the College of Arts and Letters in 1998. She has
received aFulbright grant for her Master of Fine Arts (MFA) in Creative
Writing in the University of Pittsburgh,Pennsylvania, and is currently
taking up her PhD in the State University of New York (SUNY),
Albany.She has published several poetry books such as Dark Hours and
Elsewhere Held and Lingered.

11 | A post about Conchitina Cruz - The ...

miljanmichael.blogspot.com
 Dear City
By Conchitina Cruz

Permit us to refresh your memory: what comes from heaven is always a blessing, the enemy isnot the rain. Rain
is the subject of prayer, the kind gesture of saints. Dear City, explain your irreverence:in you, rain is a visitor with
nowhere to go. Where is the ground that knows only the love of water? Whatare the passageways to your heart?
Pity the water that stays and rises on the streets, pity the water thatfloods into houses, so dark and filthy and
heavy with rats and dead leaves and plastic. How ashamedwater is to be what you have made it. What have you
done to its beauty, its graceful body in pictures ofoceans, its clear face in a glass? We walk home and cannot see
our feet in the flood. We forget to thankthe gods for their kindness. We look for someone to blame and turn to
you, wretched city, because weare men and women of honor, we feed our children three meals a day, we never
miss an election. Theonly explanation is you, dear city. This is the end of our discussion. There is no other
culprit.

Shakira Sison won the First Prize Don Carlos Palanca Award for the English Essay last 2013 for"The
Kraukauer Table." She was a veterinarian before she relocated to New York in
2002, where shenow currently works in the finance industry
A look at the psychological factors affecting one's nature to be early or
late may help in addressing,one's punctuality, but in the end, it is simply a
matter of whether one's tardiness has consequences, or itit's "Okay lang, na-
traffic lang naman." (it's okay. He or she was just caught in heavy traffic.")
Shakira Sison – Sometimes I write.
All ...

Essential Learning
The future of Philippine literature is bright-and it is so becau
severalluminarieswho continue to champion different emerging genres. Carlo
one, almost singlehandedlyrestored and renewed interest in Philippine kom
character, Zsazsa Zaturnnah. There isalso Dean Alfar who champions specu
Conchitina Cruz who writes and experimentswith avant-garde poetry, and S
who continues to redefine the modern contemporaryessay
What is the future of Philippine literature for you? What genres do yo
beexperimented on or have a new offering? There are many other ways to
major canonicalgenres of Philippine literature. It is high time for these to be
the mainstream.

Prepared: Checked:

MARK LEO E. MENDEZ LEVELYN D. GARCIA

Subject Teacher Curriculum Coordinator

Noted:

ANNABELLE G. TACADENA
School Principal