Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 1

by Dean Francis Alfar

  “Holy shit! It’s the fucking three-headed dog!” Leonidas slowly backed away from the opening. “It isn’t just a damn myth!”

  A deafening roar ripped through the silence. Leonidas was transfixed. He had an urge to see what would come out of the cave, but at the same time he desperately wanted to turn and run. His body was stiff. He couldn’t move. He watched the cave intently. A large black mass, an indefinite shape suddenly flung out, but was gone in an instant. In its wake, a bundle of shiny, black snakes had dropped to the ground. They slithered toward Leonidas, but seemingly, they were absorbed into the ground before they could reach him. He plopped down and almost wished Charon was there to argue, to tell him that he was in the paralyzed-with-fear-stage. He groped his pockets and produced another joint and the matchbook. His fingers shook as he brought the roll to his lips and took a deep hit and wondered how the smoke was making out – he wasn’t really breathing after all. Still, the pressure was off and he even began to feel mellow after a few more puffs. He pinched the end of the lit joint and saved the remains in his jacket pocket. He didn’t want to move and sat looking into the cave for a while. It had gone quiet again, not even a breath from within. He considered waiting it out at the entrance until Charon showed up again with someone else headed for the same fate. It wasn’t as if he was in a hurry. The longer he put it off, the further away he would be from his torturous future. Then he thought the better of it. What if he could plead his case and go the other way? He’d surely be cozying up to the grill with a nice cold bottle of San Mig and some pork chops on the coals. He began salivating. If only his boys had slipped some beef jerky into his pocket! Suddenly he was seized with grief so sharp as his randomly shuffling memory brought to play his wife in the kitchen, skewering pork meat for the barbeque. They were talking and quickly the conversation turned into an argument. His eyes welled up. How did the argument end? But his memory had reshuffled and now he was sitting in the kitchen with her over Sunday brunch while the boys played, screaming, and running back and forth through the house. He felt the small torture hooks tugging at his chest, where his heart would be, hurting him without even touching him. He resolved to fight for a place in the other direction. Surely there would only be good memories and surely there must be a way to get into those gates? If his name was yet to be written in the books, he still had a chance to be in the good one.

  Leonidas got up and dusted himself and took out his half-smoked joint and lit up. He would get through the cave come hell or high water. He furtively entered the now silent cave. As he did so, he furiously puffed on the joint hoping to transport himself into oblivion before the three-headed monster would notice. He lit another with the dying embers of the last one. His pace quickened though he could not see a path nor direction which to take. He kept walking into the dark, into the black void that could end in fangs or snakes. His resolve and the intoxicating feeling of humor kept him going. Then he stop dead in his tracks. Echoing through the cave was the sound of dogs lapping and smacking their lips. For sure the creature was on the ready to devour him. His heart would have skipped a beat as he hesitated a moment before deciding to run in the same direction he was headed. The dog was after him, after the peculiar smell that was emanating from him. He dropped the still burning joint in his haste. If he could only see in the dark, he would have seen Cerberus stop and devour the remaining embers.

  Presently, Leonidas came to the abrupt end of wherever he was as he slammed into something that was blocking his way. He picked himself off the ground and began groping before him. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he began to make out a desk of some sort.

  “Can I help you?”

  He was taken aback by the high pitch voice, a woman perhaps.

  “Who are you?” he asked, trying to feel for its face. There was nothing but the edges of the table and what seemed to be a dim but slowly brightening lamp.

  “Your eyes will adjust.”

  Leonidas could see a shadowy shape but could not make out any distinct features.

  “Name please?” the voice asked.

  “Uh, Leonidas.” His voice wavered.

  “Religion?”

  “Catholic. The last name is spelled…”

  “We don’t need it. You can wait in Room Three.” The voice offered nothing more and the shadow dissipated in the growing light.

  Before Leonidas stretched rows upon rows of doors, but not in any chronological order that he could discern. He decided that he would just have to systematically go to each door to read off the number: seven, one hundred-twelve, thirty-nine, seven – the numbers seemed to change. He stood for a moment rubbing his eyes. Then he jumped back. Someone had suddenly swung out of one of the rooms and looked him straight in the eye.

  “Pssst. Lookin’ for a room?” It was a burly, squat man. He wore a dirty tank top that must have been white at one time and belted trousers up to his breasts. He motioned with his finger for Leonidas to come closer. Leonidas approached and smelled the smell of butcher shops; veal chops, ground beef and pork shoulder. The man talked closely to him, but decidedly his voice wasn’t low, as Leonidas had expected.

  “What room ya lookin’ for pal? I know where all a ‘dem rooms ahr. But show me what ya got first and we’ll tawlk”

  “Are you human?”

  “Last time I checked, now whaddaya got?”

  “Where you from?”

  “Not too far from hear – across da river – Joisey City, asshole of America, where yew from?”

  Leonidas let out a laugh for the first time. “Same place. Right by highway four-forty.”

  “That’s a beyootiful place comperd to mine. Now show me what ya got, and maybee I can get yews in.”

  Leonidas remembered he had nothing left to barter with and turned out his pockets of its contents once more.

  “Eh, not so good. Shoulda asked for cash – like dem Greeks do.” He picked up the cigar and sniffed. “Cuban Habano. Not bad. Someone was lookin’ for one earlier. Now, dis here would get you places.” He picked up one of the remaining joints, but Leonidas quickly snatched it back.

  “Look, I don’t know how long it’ll be, but that would be asking too much.”

  “Hey, do whatever ya want. Some people are out here for centuries. That’s ya choice.”

  Leonidas stood firm, “I got time.”

  “Ahright. Don’t lemme save yews from lung cancer, but dis here cigar is a cheap price to pay – coz ya from da neighborhood and all. I’ll make ya a deal, O.K.?”

  “O.K. Take the cigar,” Leonidas offered.

  “Here, dis door will take ya where you want to go.” The burly man pointed to the door that he had exited from and on it was the number three. Leonidas wanted to kick himself as he turned the knob. It opened up to a spacious place, more like a train station with benches interspersed rather than a torture chamber that he had half expected. Some had balled up their coats and used them as pillows as they slept on the benches. Others read newspapers or books, prayed on rosaries; others still, stared off into space, dreaming, perhaps of their waiting time to be over. Some people looked up at him, others didn’t notice him. He found an empty bench and sat down. He looked around him, people talked but he could barley hear them. After some time, he looked at his three boys. He hoped they weren’t eating too much and exercised daily. He thought his stomach growled. He tried to turn his mind to other things and found himself wondering what the other rooms might be like.

  “Other rooms look almost the same. Easier for Them to handle similar cases. You’re free to move about. Wag ka lang mawala Just don’t get yourself lost.”

  Leonidas turned to see an older woman sitting next to him.

  “You must be Filipino!”

  “Oo. Madami dito Yes. There are lot of Filipinos here.”

  “So, is this the Junction then?”

  “Yes, one of them, and if you’re craving lechon, Nanay Gloria will most likely have a plate of it lying around, although not a whole pig, mind you.
We take what we can get. The butcher charges a lot – figures you’re most likely in for a lifetime of suffering, so why not have a final feast?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Just call me Inay, everyone here does. Nanay Gloria will be making her rounds shortly. Make sure you have something nice for her if you’re hungry.” She patted his hand and was gone.

  Leonidas had a million questions. But he felt for the wedding favor in his pocket. He hoped it would be enough for a steaming hot plate of anything.

  *

  LEONIDAS HAD NO concept of time where he was. There were no windows and the light that filled the room was neither day nor night, like an afternoon ready for rain to pour but never quite getting there. He had walked around for months it seemed, but there really was no way of knowing. Some people passed the time playing games. Once in a while, people would disappear out of the door. Some would come back, sometimes not. He had been offered MP3 players, Hustler magazines, strange keepsakes. He wasn’t interested. In time, he had learned to quell his hunger and had made fast friends with a group of rowdy, belligerent drinkers that sometimes gave him a shot or two in exchange for his fight stories. They continually played Pusoy and placed bets with anything they could trade: a pen, an orange, a watch, a cigarette. Things would go around in circles until after some time, the original owner would have it back again, and the cycle would begin anew in hopes that it would eventually get them somewhere closer to adjudication.

  Most days, Inay would come and talk to Leonidas and they struck up a friendship of sorts.

  “How long have you been here, Inay?”

  “Too long it seems.”

  “Napakabait mo, Inay, why are you here?”

  “I hear my case can be pleaded.”

  “How did you ever get past the three-headed dog?”

  “Fear is what you make it, Leonidas. It is different for everyone.”

  “Hmm. You think people could have bought their way out of that one? Seems like everything has a price around here.”

  “People, especially the Pinoys are enterprising. Plenty of time to learn the system – that’s how we are.”

  “How’s your case coming along?”

  “Oh, I’ve patience. It will be resolved eventually, although I hear that my husband’s been waiting for some time. I’d like to see him. Kahit sandali. Pero, ganon talaga. Pasensya lang.”

  Leonidas was about to ask her what could be done to speed up his case, but she cut him off and said, “Mag-ingat ka lang. Lahat dito may pag-asa, depende sa presyo.” Then she was off to assuage a new soul.

  After what seemed a long time to Leonidas, a man in a dapper suit appeared in Room Three. He carried a briefcase with papers and met with various people. He made his way to Leonidas and sat down to speak to him.

  “So you might have a good chance.”

  “Good chance for what?” Leonidas tried to understand what the man in the suit was trying to sell him.

  “Well, to go where you and everyone else would like to be.”

  “Heaven, you mean? Who are you?”

  “I represent you, well, most of you here in Room Three.”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “You might say that I’m an advocate.”

  “Are you then pleading my case?”

  “Well, yes, but let me ask you this, what can you offer?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What is it worth to you?”

  “Heaven?” Leonidas thought for a while. “I’ve had a lot of time to think things through. If I remember correctly, my family and I did everything by the book and really, I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Look, they missed one novena for you, so technically, they only prayed eight days, and eight days is a day short. But everything else looks good, so you certainly have a chance.”

  “You have me out on a technicality they probably weren’t even aware of. I’ve made my peace. My family did what was necessary. What if I had been Jewish or Seventh Day Adventist or Mormon? Would I have had this much trouble?”

  “I wouldn’t be your representative, if you were.” The man in the dapper suit looked intently at Leonidas. “Look, all I’m saying is if it’s worth it to you, I can make your case happen, and maybe even speed up the proceedings.”

  “Otherwise?”

  “You could be looking at hundreds, maybe even thousands of years.” The man cleared his throat, “Unless of course, it was a clerical error and your name really belongs in one of the books.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “All I’m saying is, you could have something that might be worth a lot more to someone else.”

  “Who says?”

  “An Italian butcher said I should come see you.”

  “So that’s how it really works here, eh?”

  “All I’m saying – you could be out sooner. But don’t take too long. Try to have a decision the next time I come around.”

  “What if I have a decision now?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Inay’s case.”

  “Look, if I were you, I’d be more concerned with my own case.”

  “Inay’s case?”

  “She’s been a generous woman. Too generous, she’s got nothing now.”

  “She’ll be here forever for being nice?”

  “It will be a long time.”

  “I’ve got something. Make sure you work her case. Otherwise.” Leonidas nodded towards the group of drinkers he had befriended, then handed something over to the man in the suit, got up and left.

  It was only a short while before Inay finally came to talk to Leonidas for the last time. Her eyes gleamed and she held his hand for a long time, as if to give thanks. Leonidas smiled and said, “He’ll be waiting for you.”

  *

  LEONIDAS GENTLY ROLLED around his last joint between his fingers. It momentarily caught on his loose wedding band. Then he ran it under his nose as he sniffed the potent, green scent of the dried herb. He sat back on the bench, stretched out his legs, moved around, finally got comfortable and lit up. He took a deep puff. It was going to be a long wait and there were hundreds of rooms yet to explore.

  GABRIELA LEE

  INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO DISAPPEAR:

  A STORY IN SEVEN PARTS

  Gabriela Lee received her Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of the Philippines in Diliman, where she majored in Creative Writing. She has been published in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine, Philippines Free Press, and The Literary Apprentice. She has also been a Fellow for Poetry in English at the Iligan, Dumaguete, and UP National Writers Workshops. She also has a children’s book entitled La-on and the Seven-Headed Dragon, published by Adarna House, which she co-wrote with her mother. Lee received the Amelia Lapeña Bonifacio Literary Award for her fiction and poetry. She has been a member of the UP Writers Club and UP Graphic Arts in Literature.

  A unique twist on an otherwise cliché break-up plot, “Instructions on How to Disappear captures a” woman midway towards shattering in seven brief steps.

  7. Clean your room

  RESURFACING, YOU NOTICE for the first time the light, the way it moves across your room. The light is an invader, an intrusion into the quiet darkness that you’ve come to know. The light inserts a finger, and then another, into the four corners of your womb, illuminating your arms, your entire body. There is spittle coating the corners of your lips, and your sheets are crusted with sweat. Your eyes are swollen from keeping back the tears.

  “Get up.” The source of the light. “Get up, Sue.”

  For a moment, you refuse to heed the call. It’s always easier to sink, to surrender to the heaviness that weighs you down, that place in your chest that is suddenly heavier than any anchor. You throw one arm over your eyes in a weak effort to block the light.

  “Susan.”

  “Ruiz. Go away.”

  Ruiz takes a look and shakes his head. “You have to get out.”

  You put your head between your knees.
You can’t remember the last time you took a bath, or your last meal. You can smell yourself — sweat, shit, salt on skin. “How long has it been?”

  “Three days.” He sits down beside you, thighs barely touching. “Mrs. Ebo is worried.” Mrs. Ebo is your Korean landlady.

  “My keys?” You almost choke back your words.

  “David returned them to me yesterday.”

  “And how is he?”

  “Getting on. He’s wondering how you are.” Ruiz takes a deep breath. “I told him you were... adjusting.”

  You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. You feel your fingers trembling as you grip your head in your hands. Everything is shaking — your body, the bed, the room. You clench your teeth.

  And then it happens — you feel the cold, tendrils of ice seeping underneath your skin. You hear your fingers crackle as they change, morph into something other than flesh and blood. It hurts, these moments, and you realize you’re taking short, shallow breaths; you realize that everything has stopped.

  Carefully lifting your head, Ruiz untangles strands of your hair from your fingers. Everything from your elbow to your fingers has turned into glass. You look wearily at your own limbs, frozen in the act of cradling your head, your fingers like glass claws catching the reflection of the light. In this angle, they are almost translucent, capturing your moment of despair. You want to cry, want to move your arms, your fingers, but they are stiff and unresponding.

  Ruiz enfolds you into his arms, and cradles you, carefully maneuvering around your fragile limbs.

  For the first time in three days, you cry.

  And then the darkness, the comfortable darkness, moves in again.

  You wake up in your bed, curled up around your pillow. Your arms have returned to their flesh-and-blood state. You flex your fingers experimentally. Carefully, you turn around in your bed. The light is now coming from your desk lamp. There is a Styrofoam container on your desk; the smell tells you that it’s tapsilog, still warm. You swing your legs over the edge of the mattress and conform the soles of your feet to the floor. Everything seems slightly blurry, as if you’re viewing the world through a thin sheet of water.