Philippine Speculative Fiction, Volume 10

by Dean Francis Alfar

  Taste him, taste the flesh.

  Mel descended, to get a better view of the man. She glided just above the rooftops, to stay hidden. From behind, she couldn't see the man’s face, but she could tell that he was bigger than she’d thought. At least six feet tall, his black cloak covered a large, bulky frame.

  She was about to descend to grab the man, when she heard two sets of footsteps coming down the street. Two guardia civil marched down the road, rifles in hand. She ascended into the sky, hiding in the blackness of the night, and kept her eye on the man below.

  The tiny dot of a man turned into an alleyway. She dipped to follow the direction he went in. The man came out the other end of the alley and continued down the road.

  A few blocks down, he ducked into a building, and Mel swooped down into the alleyway beside it. The stench of blood washed over her. A strong wave of the smell attacked her lungs, filling her with the desire to tear and feed.

  Butcher’s shop.

  Even from outside, she could smell the carcasses from within – pork, beef, lamb. Under it all, the faint trace of a dead girl’s blood.

  She tried the knob of the door leading into the shop from the alleyway, but it was locked. She looked around, and saw a window slightly ajar, by the mouth of the alley.

  Mel flew over to the window and slid it open, hating the creak of the wood as she did. She slipped under it and into the shop. Inside, she found herself at the front of the shop, fresh slabs of meat displayed proudly around her.

  “What the fuck?” came a low growl of a voice.

  A knife flew past her and lodged in the wood behind her. She turned to see the man in black, fleeing through a door at the back of the shop. She rushed after him, catching the door before it could shut.

  Behind the door, Mel found flesh. Rows and rows of red and pink carcasses swung idly on steel hooks, as blood pattered on the floor like rain. The sweet smell of death was on the air.

  Rip, kill, feast.

  She forced the predator’s thoughts back, when the cleaver came swinging down toward her. She dodged, but the steel caught her left wing. The blade didn’t go in deep, but she could feel the cut.

  She backed away from the butcher, as he swung the cleaver again. She clawed at the man’s arm, and the cleaver fell from his grasp.

  “Puta!” he cried out.

  She rushed at him, clawing at his face and body. She felt the blood on her claws, as the butcher started screaming. The tantalizing scent of his blood roused the predator in her.

  Ripkillfeastripkillfeast

  The butcher grabbed her and tossed her away from him. She crashed into a slab of beef and tumbled to the ground along with it. The impact knocked the predator out of her mind. She shoved the meat aside, and saw the butcher grabbing the cleaver off of the ground.

  He was moving slower. Blood had gotten into his eyes, and his face was stretched in a gruesome grimace.

  She tried to get back into the air, but he was already charging at her, with the cleaver in hand.

  Patience, get this right.

  When the butcher was close enough, she slid her intestine around his ankle, and yanked hard. The large man tumbled face-first to the ground, the cleaver clattering away on the floor.

  The butcher reached out for his blade, but Mel tightened her grip on his ankle and pulled herself toward him. She wrapped another line of intestine about his waist, and clung to his back. She dug her claws into the man’s eyes, and he let out a harsh, piercing yell.

  Mel released a shriek that drowned out the man’s screams. His face came apart in her hands with ease. She was feasting on him before he hit the ground.

  bruja killer

  THE DRAGONS SLEPT, but the city of Niladan did not.

  As a man of the guardia civil, Captain Andre Ojano knew this better than most men. He walked the beat by the northern wall, where homeless naksuelo whispered his name in the night as a warning, the gypsies and witches fled from his cold justice, and the Calanturez-born peninsulares greased his palm, between muttered insults.

  Bruja killer, he heard them whisper.

  He didn’t mind. It suits me.

  The streets were mostly empty that night. The gypsies had run off into their holes, stinking of the garlic and onions they chewed endlessly.

  “One must eat of the earth, to speak with its voice,” one of them had told him once, before he kicked her teeth in.

  They knew that this was Ojano’s territory, and the stories of him had traveled far enough that they knew to be cautious. Ojano, it was said, had a particular skill for sniffing out the black magic.

  Babaylan, they call themselves. Nothing more than heathenish witches.

  He came to the brothel early. Of all the whorehouses lining the city walls, the one by the northern gate was his favorite. It bore no name, and the women were worth just what you paid. He was rarely in the mood to pay very much, though.

  The owner made a show of welcoming Ojano. He had never bothered to learn the name of the bearded man, with a gut larger than many of his whores’ breasts. The captain had heard that the man was just a Tierraguan, who’d made good somehow.

  “Captain,” said the owner in the Calanturez tongue, his arms outstretched as if to embrace Ojano. “Welcome, welcome!”

  Naksuelo filth. Ojano stood still; he knew the Tierraguan could see the rifle strapped to Ojano’s back. The owner put his arms down and stepped back. The whores around the owner averted their eyes, eager not to meet their master’s gaze.

  “How may I serve?” asked the owner, bowing slightly. “Alia again tonight? I know you’re fond of her. She’d be happy to serve. How about Serena? She only speaks of you, you know. Even when other men take her, yours is the na –”

  “Her,” said Ojano, pointing. The girl sat in the corner of the room, hugging her knees. She wore a dress two sizes too large for her, and her face was smeared with makeup, to lighten the brown tone of her skin. Probably to hide some bruises too.

  Her eyes were large and glared at nothing – unblinking, unwavering. Ojano could feel himself getting hard, just looking at her.

  “Of course, Captain Ojano. As you say,” said the owner. The bearded man yelled at the young girl, who cringed at the sound of his voice. She curled up against the walls, but did not blink. The other women looked away, keeping busy by fanning themselves.

  The girl followed Ojano to one of the private rooms in the back. It was a small, cramped space, but Ojano didn’t mind. He set his rifle down on the floor, and grabbed the girl by the arm. She gasped, as the pungent smell of her perfume came to him.

  Once she’s on her back, doesn’t matter what she smells like. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked, as she turned away from him. He leaned in for a kiss, and she squirmed in his grasp.

  The girl didn’t respond – probably couldn’t even speak Calanturez. She reached into the pockets of her skirts, and pulled out slices of onions. She put them into her mouth, and started chewing.

  “What are –”

  “Andre Ojano.”

  One must eat of the earth to speak with its voice.

  He let go of her, and took a step back. He felt his body tense at the sound of his name. Every muscle in him begged for her voice. Anticipation for the girl’s command overwhelmed any part of him that knew something was wrong.

  “Bruja killer, you name yourself. I name you murderer, of the babaylan that serve this land.”

  He wanted to want to scream.

  “When you step out of this room, you will kill the man who runs this establishment.”

  She took a step closer. Ojano’s body sang with the thrill of her presence. She stroked his cheek, and looked him right in the eye.

  “And then you will shoot yourself in the head.”

  He wanted to call out for her, and slice her head off, at the same time.

  The girl opened the door. Without thinking, the bruja killer picked up his rifle, and stepped out.

  dragon priest

  THE GUARD
OPENED the cell door, and the damp smell of piss and shit filled Father Horatio’s lungs. This was the priest’s third visit, but no matter how often he told himself to prepare for the stench, it always caught him unaware.

  Thrice-damned is this place.

  He clutched his leather bag to himself, out of reflex. The guard must have noticed the priest’s reaction, because he offered a quick apology.

  “Don’t,” said Horatio. “You do your duty well.”

  The guard gave a grateful bow and said, “May the Unending Fire shine down on you.”

  “And may your light never die.” Horatio stepped inside, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the hay and straw scattered on the floor. The underground cell only had one window, high on the wall, which let in the slightest sliver of sunrise. Chained against the back wall was a filthy man, in nothing but a singed pair of pants. Every exposed inch of skin on him was covered in burns.

  “Good day, Anton,” said the priest, in the Tierraguan tongue.

  The rebel spat at the priest, but the spittle barely got past the prisoner’s lips. Instead, it dribbled down his chin and down to the floor.

  “This is your last chance, Anton,” said Horatio. “You’re sentenced to die at noon for crimes against the motherland of Calen and the nation of Tierragua.”

  “No,” spat Anton.

  “No?”

  “Calen can burn, but I fight for Tierragua.”

  Horation smiled. “Confess, and give us the names of the others. If you do, the law and the Unending Fire will show you mercy.”

  “Leave, puta.”

  Horatio set his bag on the ground and opened it. He pulled out a flamestick and struck it. The fire did little to illuminate the dark, but now he could see Anton better. The man had bruises and cuts covering his face. Skin had started to peel from the red burns. His left eye was swollen to the size of a balled fist. His other, bloodshot eye stayed focused on the ground.

  “The dragons should be waking, as we speak,” said the priest, as he took a step closer to the prisoner. “How long have you lived in Niladan, Anton?”

  Horatio could see the rebel’s nostrils flaring. The prisoner’s breath quickened, as the flame drew closer. The priest stopped a few steps away.

  “Long enough that you’ve seen the dragons, I’m sure?” said Horatio.

  Anton’s breathing grew heavier. The priest flicked the stick onto the man’s chest.

  The still-burning stick struck one of the rebel’s fresher wounds. Anton sucked in a breath, bit down, and let out a muffled scream. The sound caught in the man’s dry throat, ragged and painful.

  Horatio couldn’t help but smile. He’s gotten stronger.

  The priest stepped closer, and poked a finger into the first burn he’d applied. It had festered, and felt damp with blood and pus. “You remember the first time, don’t you, Anton?”

  The scream in Anton’s throat grew louder. The priest could almost hear the man’s vocal chords coming apart.

  “The first time, you screamed so loud. Don’t be ashamed, they all do. We are never truly prepared for the fire.”

  The priest dug his finger in deeper, and Anton’s mouth opened, and a scream came out of him, loud and rough. It always surprised Horatio that they still had it in them to scream. He always half-expected nothing but ragged gurgling to leave their mouths, but the sound always came out.

  The flame has the power.

  “One flicker of dragonflame is ten times hotter than that, Anton.”

  The rebel sucked in his breath through his teeth, and held back the last rumblings of his scream.

  “Confess, child. Spare yourself.”

  “No.”

  “Anton,” said the priest, stepping back. “Don’t do this to yourself. Where are the others?”

  “No,” said Anton, with a conviction that impressed even Horatio.

  “Child, don’t. Give us the names, and we will spare you the dragonfire. I will not lie and say your life can be saved. They will still hang you, or maybe shoot you.”

  “One death is like the other.”

  Horatio shook his head. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

  Anton lifted his head and looked up at the priest. “Long live Tierragua.”

  “Tierragua was born of Calen and the flames of the Unending Fire, child. We are on the same side.”

  Anton sucked in his breath, stilling himself. “No, Father. You fear us. This is our land, and the Calanturez know it. You’re all clutching at borrowed space, borrowed time. We were here long before your dragons, and we will be here long after your dragons.” Anton looked the priest in the eyes. “Long live Tierragua.”

  Horatio didn’t say anything. He felt tempted to reach into his bag, grab a torch or a candle, and work. He didn’t need the confession, just the screams.

  The screams in the plaza will be sweeter.

  “May the Unending Fire shine down upon you, child.” The priest shut his bag and stepped out of the cell, leaving behind the stench of burnt flesh.

  The guard was waiting for him outside the door, a blank stare plastered on his face.

  They don't even hear the screams anymore.

  “No progress on this one,” said Horatio.

  “I’m sure you did your best, Father.”

  “The effort is not mine, child, but that of the Unending Fire.”

  “Yes, Father,” nodded the guard. “Of course, Father.”

  This boy has no brain. He is a parrot. Horatio nodded to the guard. “May the Unending Fire shine down upon you.”

  “And may your light never die,” replied the guard.

  Through the door of the cell, a cry came through the stone and wood, muffled and distorted by the walls. Horatio turned to look at the cell and thought of Anton on the inside, screaming his lungs out. The words came out sounding like nothing but screams. Horatio knew otherwise.

  Long live Tierragua.

  Joseph Anthony Montecillo is a BA Creative Writing student at UP Diliman. He’s been writing since the third grade, and has had short fiction pieces published in the Philippines Graphic magazine, Horror: Filipino Fiction For Young Adults, and Philippine Speculative Fictions volumes 5, 6, and 7. When not writing, he’s a part of the Radio1 program on Monster Radio RX 93.1, as well as a stand-up comic with the Comedy Cartel. The last thing he ever seems to be doing is actually studying.

  AJ Elicaño

  IT Girl

  June 2018

  IN THE SUMMER of 2017, if you asked any typical group of Filipino teenagers about singer-dancer-model-actress-super-hyphenate LeAnna De La Cruz, odds were they’d start answering before you even got past her first name. Even back then, she rarely gave interviews, but all the same, it seemed everyone knew at least one thing about her, some hand-plucked gem from some post-show Q&A – her favorite song (the Eraserheads’ ‘Ang Huling El Bimbo’), her favorite billboard appearance (Purefoods, despite or perhaps because of the obvious irony), how many upcoming movies she had (two, three if you counted the Lav Diaz project, where, if rumor was to be believed, the entire five-hour-long script consisted of one take of a man watching looped reruns of her public appearances, while sitting alone at his computer).

  The Purefoods deal expired the year later. The Diaz film, as of this writing, has yet to be released.

  What no one mentioned, at least at first, was how she would never let you shake her hand, or how strange she appeared to flash photography, or the faint buzz that sometimes crackled through her voice. It was the world of celebrity, and in that charmed world, stars of a certain caliber are expected to have a certain amount of larger-than-life peculiarities. We as a people have grown accustomed to them, the Noras and Vilmas and Solenns of our collective consciousness; at a certain level, they cease to be real people and become something else entirely, at least as far as the public imagination is concerned. So really, in a world where Lady Gaga got carried into the 2011 Grammys in a giant egg, is it any wonder we took to a synthetic performer so easily?


  Even a year later, some would call the Gaga comparison hyperbolic; while De La Cruz has received international attention, it’s always come in the form of videos online. Not counting her first single, her music has yet to chart outside the country. She doesn’t even have anything like Charice’s one appearance on Ellen to her credit.

  Others would point out that it’s surely no coincidence that synth performers are now being developed by everyone from Google to Microsoft, when they weren't even on the global drawing board before LeAnna’s arrival on the scene. She’s the proverbial idea whose time hasn’t yet come, and has managed to have something resembling a whole career – ups, downs, and everything in between – in the time it’s taken the rest of the world to catch up to her.

  But before all these things – great idea, talented hyphenate, technological marvel – LeAnna De La Cruz is also just a girl who likes to perform, or so her carefully-curated personal brand will tell you. In addition to a hit album, several high-profile endorsement deals, appearances on popular television shows (shot with special hologram-friendly cameras, of course), and a burgeoning movie career, she also has a Facebook account, a Twitter feed, and two personal blogs (one public, one for “close friends only”).

  And in the summer of 2017, while media studies buffs and philosophers discussed her humanity-or-lack-thereof in terms of abstract theory and big-name thinkers, many of the rest of us simply wanted to hear this girl tell her story and decide for themselves.

  Of course, many of us in the journalism business had largely given up on this possibility. LeAnna only ever answered questions during and after engagements, and even then only for a short time, and with an army of PR people, programmers, light and sound engineers, and other handlers present. Between her alleged natural reclusiveness, the jitters of her corporate masters, and the sensitivity of the technology that allowed her to exist, an in-depth sit-down with the Electronic Diva seemed an impossibility. And a talk show tell-all was completely out of the question.

  This wasn’t to say, of course, that we didn’t try anyway. Oh Lord, we tried. Weekly text messages to her publicists (all politely stonewalled), regular emails (likewise), offhand requests during brief post-event Q&A sessions (ditto, but punctuated at least by that infectious megawatt smile), we all had our preferred methods for being ignored. Some of us, myself included, even mixed it up a bit by occasionally sending messages to her personal social media accounts, knowing all the while that her army of handlers would probably screen them out before she even got to see them.