OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology

by Dean Francis Alfar

  Silverio sees the bones when he peers out the window, alerted by the heavy thump of undelivered mail crashing to the ground. The letters and packages remain unmolested as the ants return to their routines and Silverio to his chanting.

  The neighbor’s dog, a noisy brown terrier, is the next victim that afternoon. A sharp yelp quickly cut short, and canine bones join the mailman’s to gleam in the dying sunlight like lunatic lawn ornaments.

  Silverio makes another phone call. “Please don’t come over today. The place is a mess and it wouldn’t be safe.”

  “You again? Stop calling me or I’ll have the police haul you away.” The woman’s irate voice is followed by an exasperated sigh before the line goes dead.

  Satisfied, Silverio resumes chanting.

  On Wednesday, his breakfast is interrupted by a cloud of locusts. The ravenous buzzing horde descends on the trees and shrubbery of his garden, completely denuding it in seconds and eradicating all traces of foliage before moving through the rest of the neighborhood.

  His neighbors whisper complaints, but none of them walk over to his house.

  The constant chanting takes its toll and he decides to sleep early. His dreams are filled with visions of a world bereft of suffering, loneliness, and conflict. The visions are termites, eating away at his dreams until only a nightmare remains, an insectile nightmare that devours the world, bit by screaming bit.

  Silverio wakes up in the middle of the night, his back drenched with sweat. He refuses to look at the idol, but he can feel its presence flooding the room. He feels like a drowning man.

  Thursday morning and Silverio wakes up thinking it is still late in the evening as he peers blindly outside the picture windows of his bedroom, his eyes unable to penetrate the gloom. Then the darkness shifts and he realizes that the windows are completely covered by hundreds of scarabs, their oily black carapaces a skittering mass sealing away the sunlight.

  He decides to watch some television, undisturbed by the lack of light. The static-laden images of newscasters seem to be on every channel. He listens to a report on beached whales in Boracay, switches the channel to find dolphins leaping to their deaths in Dumaguete. Every station airs an endless string of statements about finned, scaled, and tentacled creatures washing ashore, as if every undersea creature suddenly embarked on a mass exodus from the ocean.

  For the rest of the day, Silverio continues his invocation by the flickering light of the television set. The idol remains unmoved and silent on the mantelpiece. Waiting.

  Outside, the impending apocalypse continues in earnest.

  Ghost of a Sister

  Marianna is an unexpected development on Friday. When she first appears in Silverio’s bedroom, he is convinced that he is still dreaming. She is a luminous wraith that drifts in from the doorway and settles at the foot of his bed.

  “Look at you.” His sister’s voice is firm yet kind, and the familiar sound brings involuntary tears to his eyes which he quickly wipes away.

  “Marie, you’re dead,” he finally manages to say. Her death had left Silverio with a gnawing emptiness which he denied existed, even to himself.

  “Of course I am, Silverio,” Her features suddenly resolve from the formless glow, becoming more distinct. “You know very well that I am.”

  He flinches as he meets her gaze for an instant. “What do you want?”

  “I’m here for you.” She ignores his question even as she answers it.

  Silverio doesn’t know what else to say; a sudden attack of guilt silences him. He turns away from her and goes back to sleep, hoping for another dream.

  Silverio wakes up to the smell of bacon, the sound of fat sizzling on the pan, and he goes down to the kitchen, remembering what happened the night before. It wasn’t a dream.

  He peers out of the windows, trying to find the sun, but the scarabs have made it all but impossible. He hears angry buzzing and muffled shouts from the street outside but he decides to ignore them, drawn to the smell of food. Marie has set the table and is busy frying eggs.

  “You should stop this nonsense,” she says as she serves the bacon and eggs over steaming fried rice and watches him eat.

  “What?”

  “I know what you’re doing.” Her gaze lingers over the idol on the mantelpiece. “Stop it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says between mouthfuls of bacon. He knows feigning ignorance will only delay her at best.

  His obstinacy does not faze her; she counters it with a tenacity that only the dead can hope to muster when haunting the living.

  They argue philosophy. Nietzsche is on her lips constantly.

  He denies staring into the abyss, though he is of the mind that the abyss stares back hungrily whether one is looking into it or not.

  In the days that follow, she takes over the household, until he suddenly realizes that she is smothering him. She has banished all traces of his solitary life with frightening efficiency.

  Silverio makes his one daily phone call, and finds her staring at him, rolling her eyeballs. He ignores her and speaks loudly into the telephone, drowning the angry voice on the other end.

  Marie drifts through the furniture, passing a cloth to dust as she goes on her way. As she passes him she makes noises that grate on his nerves. He suspects she is making fun of him, making him feel inadequate and useless.

  Silverio retreats to chanting. He finds some solace in the twisted syllabication of the summoning. It is a welcome distraction which he knows will keep her away.

  Marie retaliates with a wave of cleaning the likes of which Silverio’s house has never seen.

  Art of the Epitaph

  “How would you want to be remembered?” The question, coming as it does from Marie, is unexpected.

  Silverio struggles to find a suitable answer. “I don’t care if I’m forgotten,” he says at last. “We’re all disposable. No one remembers an empty bottle, so why should I hope for any better?”

  “Surely you don’t mean that. Everyone wants to be remembered after they die. That’s why they write on tombstones.”

  “I think what I’m doing makes the need for that irrelevant.” He turns to walk away from her, but she follows him.

  “You’ve denied yourself a life. That’s why you aren’t worth remembering,” she says at last, and Silverio slaps her. He didn’t think his hand would strike anything but empty air, yet the sound of his palm hitting her face echoes in the stillness of the room.

  “You haven’t changed.” Her eyes are accusations. “Is it any wonder that you’ve remained alone all this time? Unable to let anyone get close to you? Too scared to hear the truth?”

  “Shut up!” Silverio runs from the room, but her voice hounds him.

  “Here lies Silverio, his life was as meaningless as his death. How does that sound?” Marie enters his bedroom, easily passing through the locked door. “You think you’re saving the world? No one will care. Not even that woman you keep calling. She doesn’t even know who you are.”

  “That’s a lie!” His face is livid as he remembers why they parted ways. Her words made it impossible for him to stand being with her for more than a few minutes. But he could not stand to be away from her, could not stand the thought of her leaving.

  “Shut up!” His eyes fill with tears as he turns to face her. “What I’m doing now will change the world!”

  “Will it?” Marie’s face softens, and she takes his hand in hers. “Live your life. What’s left of it can still be worth remembering. Live it before it is lost to you.”

  The statement is almost a threat, a yawning abyss from which Silverio realizes there is no escape. He looks away, unable to frame a reply.

  Corpse Clothes

  Silverio is dying. Despite Marie’s best efforts to keep him fed and rested, the chanting is taking its toll. His eyes are ringed by dark circles and his thin frame has been reduced to the point of emaciation, but Silverio is excited and has never felt more alive. Today the summoning will be complet
e.

  He leaves the bedroom and rushes down to find Marie seated on the sofa. There is the incessant click-clack of darning needles as she knits calmly. The scarabs have kept their vigil outside and the power had long since gone out, so she uses the last of the candles to keep the room from total darkness.

  Silverio clears his throat to let her know he is there. Her knitting continues unabated.

  “Some people are dead but they don’t know it.” Marie is knitting him a new sweater again, her hands a blur of rhythmic motion that Silverio follows, fascinated, almost hypnotized.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Me? What does it look like? I’m knitting you a sweater. You need one.” She smiles at him.

  “I don’t want a new sweater.”

  “You have to leave behind a beautiful corpse,” she says, her hands picking up speed until they are a locomotive force of nature, relentlessly weaving a plaid pattern in violet and blue. “Or failing that, a well-dressed one.”

  And he knows he will have a new sweater soon whether he wants one or not.

  She presents it to him in silence, her stance more insistent than words. She wants to see him wear it.

  He refuses. “It’s hideous! I can’t wear this.”

  The look she gives him inflames the guilt he had long forgotten but had been lurking, waiting for a moment to strike. The outcome is inevitable.

  It is itchy. Just like everything else she had knitted for him in the past. Worse, it makes him look like a walking bruise. He prepares to rip it off and throw it away or burn it.

  “Does your life really matter to anyone Silverio?” Marie’s eyes are mirrors of his sorrow. The look of pity that he sees in them is more painful than any physical blow. “Can you die knowing that nobody cares?”

  Silverio ignores the question. He does not want to know the answer.

  “I have to go now,” she says suddenly, a phantom tear trickling down her face.

  “You do?” Silverio is struck by his overwhelming elation.

  “My time here was always limited, but don’t worry. Once you’ve ended the world we can be together again.” Her face begins to fade, her body shimmers like an oasis in the desert and she smiles at him. Their eyes lock. “Forever.”

  Her final words linger in the air long after she is gone. Silverio remembers to breathe after a minute. Desperation and a sinking feeling in his stomach cause him to retch on the floor. He is stranded with the thought that he will have to spend an afterlife with her, and the thought is more frightening than any he has ever had.

  Silverio hesitates as he takes the eidolon in his hands; it seems to have grown heavier, warmer somehow. The final words are ready, all he needs to do is speak them aloud and it will all be over.

  An image forms in his mind: a great misshapen bat-winged mass of ancient malice and hunger rising from the ocean depths, the smell of brine filling the air, the uncoiling tentacles of the apocalypse reaching out after untold millennia of slumber. The vision wavers and changes into his sister’s face, her eyes impossibly sad, asking him the question he cannot answer.

  His new sweater clings to him and he scratches his back with one hand. There is the incessant susurration of a million wings beating in unison emanating from his backyard and the sound of thousands of chitinous feet scrabbling at the walls of his house.

  “I’ll be with you soon.” Silverio shivers, a sudden chill runs through his spine. The figure on his lap is pulsing with baleful life; pinpricks of blood red light seep from its eyes, tentacles twisting with agitated anticipation. He has yet to utter the final call that will complete the summoning.

  His hands, still tightly clasped around the eidolon, tremble with the weight of his choice.

  Memories Made

  Spring, the season of hope and heartache. The world beams with life, grateful that unspeakable horrors remain locked in their forgotten prisons and sunless tombs. Beneath the bright glow of a full moon, two people walk down a tree-lined path.

  “I’m flattered, but… No.” The woman smiles at him kindly, and pats him on the back.

  “I had a good time, though. Thank you for accepting my invitation.” Silverio smiles and takes her hand, planting a gentle kiss on it.

  “It’s getting late. I’d better go. See you at the library again tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I’ll be there.”

  Silverio remains silent, and as he watches her leave, he realizes that his heart has broken for the first time. The night suddenly becomes warmer, as if to comfort him. He has met the woman of his dreams, and despite her rejection, he is comforted by the fact that she knows he exists.

  Silverio begins to whistle. A symphony fills the air as he makes his way home.

  Tinkerers

  by Jay Wilburn

  Doc Hickory turned away from the lake and pocketed his tools. Doc hoisted the rough-hewn wood onto his shoulder and picked his path down the slope between the trees to avoid connecting with the trunks and jarring his skull. During the day the land seemed like a vibrant forest full of light and green. He had all the wood he needed for cooking, carving, and building. Doc Hickory had all the time he needed in order to collect the wood. He had time to shape the panels for cabinets, to reform soles for his worn shoes, or to cut shingles to patch the roofs of his cottage and workshop.

  He stepped through the thicket into the break in the canopy of trees that formed the clearing for his one room cottage. He had windows covered with single board shutters. He could open them to air out the room that stunk of an old man living alone. He could vent smoke if he had to cook inside because of heavy rain outside. At night, he could clap the boards down and bind them closed from the inside until morning.

  Next to his cottage towered his workshop with rows of tables lining the dirt floor packed with sawdust just inside the open double doors. Ladders led to the lofts packed with stored wood and unfinished projects. There was barely room to walk between all the abandoned, imperfect constructions.

  Doc walked through the wide open doors of the workshop and dumped the new load of boards on the triple line of saw horses. He stretched his back and shuffled through the saw dust on the floor. He breathed deep of the musty smell of mold hidden beneath the woodchips which had failed to absorb all the moisture from the heavy rains of the past few days which also soaked his cloths and stunk his cottage with trapped cooking smoke. Doc sighed realizing that leaving the workshop wide open had failed to air it out, and he might have to sweep the room clean starting over.

  “It would not be the first time in my life I’ve had to start over.”

  He paused at the double doors and looked in the bin of shoes in the corner. Most were large men’s shoes he had brought with him when he fled from the village beyond the forest. He saw a few children’s shoes he had grabbed up in his haste to leave his old life. The tiny shoes bothered him, but he could not bring himself to throw them away. Living deep in the forest as he did, he could not afford to cast aside any material. Something always needed patching. Doc realized he might need to move the shoes into the loft to protect them from the mold.

  Doc shivered.

  “I don’t trust creatures in tiny shoes.”

  He stepped back out into the narrow yard between his workshop and his cottage. Doc left the doors open still in the hope that time might solve his hidden problem below the dust. He approached the door to his cottage without fear of leaving the shop open. He had been careful to lock his shop of shoes back in the village. Here in the deep woods he had no fear of theft, and since he was the only animal that occupied the wood-working barn, he did not fear creatures that came seeking something to eat.

  Doc muttered, “Let them eat dust, wood, and clockwork.”

  At night he closed every door and window. He set lanterns around the edges of his clearing to light the ground and to threaten exposure to any skittering things that might seek to approach his fitful sleep under the protection of shadow. Doc set tattletale wires and scattered powdered wood dust along the g
round to reveal any tracks or attempts to approach his cottage. At night, the forest lost its light and green. It became something where strange magic might occur and unnatural creatures might seek more than just something to eat.

  Doc knew more than anybody what things lurked at night looking for opportunities to tinker in the dark.

  He heard the ticking through the walls of the cottage.

  He shivered as he opened the door to his cottage and stepped into the shadowy, smoky darkness. Doc pushed up the shutters on their leather strap hinges and propped them on wooden staffs.

  He turned and scanned the room in the shallow light.

  His cot sat in the corner covered in hemp cloth over twine weaving with worn blankets over that. An iron bell furnace smoldered on a brick base from the heat of the morning meal. Damp clothes dried slowly on hooks and pegs mounted behind the furnace bell. In the center of the room, a table took up most of the small room with dirty plates and crockery sitting among fine tools, tarnished gears, and other metal clockwork.

  The walls chimed and rang as the hour arrived. Doc Hickory waited for the clocks to complete their signals. Every spare patch on the wall mounted clocks of all shapes and sizes. The carved cabinets and frames showed detailed designs and intricate painting from inks he mixed himself. A few tall grandfathers lined the back wall with pendulums swinging inside the doors with no glass.

  The overlaying bells trailed off and Doc gritted his teeth as a few clocks let out a stray chime out of time with the rest of the chorus. He shook his head at the imperfection. He wanted to blame the lost time on the elements and forces outside his design, but he knew he had been the one to fall short and his work was not complete.

  The ticking resumed once all the chimes were still. He heard the springs rewinding in at least two of the clocks to his left. Many adjustments were needed.

  Doc sat down on the bench in front of the table and spread the black velvet mat out on the only clear spot available. He fished through the plates and utensils to retrieve his tools and to line them along the top of the velvet. He picked up the largest of the gears and began scraping corrosion from between the teeth.