Up in the Air (short story)

I was maybe flying in the air for five seconds. But that would be silly. Less than two seconds I guess would be the most accurate count, but if you had been in my shoe, in my shirt, with a leather jacket over it—if yours had been the head in my full-face helmet, you’ll know it actually seemed like years had passed while I was up there flying in the air. But let’s say it was five seconds.

            Riding gloves should be written in the bible of motorcycle riding. I almost always wore a pair. There were maybe two times I could remember when I didn’t—the first had been that one time when I had to ride bare-handed because my gloves stank of dog piss and I had to wash and hang them up for days. James Corden, my dog, found them on the floor and, I don’t know, maybe saw them like a fire hydrant. Fortunately, I was on a long vacation from work then, so I had no valid reasons to get out of the house and burn doughnuts on the roads, save for that one instance when my wife, whom I had been suspecting of being unfaithful to me with some douchebag at her office, screamed at me into submission, and I was left with no choice but to lift my ass and pick up our little daughter from school. But that had been the only instance in that whole stretch of rest days I had. The rest, I let her go and pick Minnie up herself.

            Not that I was a bad father. I love Minnie. I do. I care for her. I certainly don’t want her to get home from school all by herself—she’s only nine. But my wife, screaming at me like that, like it was the only obligation I have for little Minnie and implying that I can’t even do it? I took offense from it then. It seemed it, it was what was in my head then, after I had brought my daughter home and had been left to ponder on it all—when I am left with my thoughts, that’s when my head actually functions. And that was my conclusion—she can’t scream at me like that. I am the father of the house, I provide for the both of them. I need to be respected, I need to be left alone when I am on my rest day—I can’t ride my bike without my riding gloves!

            The second time I rode my bike without donning a pair happened just a while ago. A second ago, in fact. Technically, I am no longer riding my bike if I am already afloat in the air at the moment. While I was thinking about that first time and what-not that I just related, a second had passed already since I started flying off of my motorcycle. I knew it would be a violent landing once this whole five-second trip was through. A couple of broken bones at least—more than a couple I’m sure. Spots where skin would be peeled off—particularly on my legs, what with me wearing just a pair of shorts. Bruises. Blood loss. Loss of consciousness, maybe. But at the least I could give myself an assurance that when later I’d land on the asphalted ground, there would not be a serious damage to my head, and the gray matter inside it. I had my helmet to save me from that. I had to trust it. It should do the job, with the ridiculous price tag it came along when I bought it, it should. It was the hip helmet, it was the bomb! If you have it on while you drive the roads, you are the Ghost Rider incarnate. Yet now I had to spend the second second of my current trip thinking and thinking sure this expensive piece of shit could absorb all the momentum of the impact once I’d finally crash on the ground for the boom.

            Then the succeeding second suddenly I spent on the thought of my wife. Before all the doubts, before all the suspicions of infidelity, before I looked at her and looked at her like she was less a living thing than James Corden, I used to look at her like she was the Crab Nebula. There was love at the sight of her. She had seemed to me the sun I would gladly agree to collide with and live out the rest of my mortal seconds in such beautiful disaster. When I married her, I knew I married a piece of classical music, a conglomeration of stardust just roaming around the universe for billions of years waiting until I was ready to love. She had been the comeliest little space traveler this side of paradise. I knew little about the chance of her stardust elegance fading away in time.

            Now she seemed to me a stranger. The day unfortunately arrived when I found myself waking up and asking, “Who is this woman sleeping in my bed, eating on my table, watching my TV? Who is this alien slowly sucking me into her own vortex of strange components where I’m sure nothing goes along but despair and hatred?” I realized I was living with a foreign entity where no dog-piss-on-my-riding-gloves could make me want to stay at home forever.

            She had been the reason why I was compelled to ride my bike today despite not having my riding gloves—this for the second time. The intel that involved a motel room and an hour or two of illicit fluid exchange, and the Ghost Rider was off along the trails, ready for the climax and denouement of this once magical fairy tale to be amalgamated into one seamless scenario. But make no mistake, I wouldn’t be there to get my wife, I wouldn’t be there to unleash whatever I was supposed to unleash with the supposed celestial pang of jealousy I was supposed to have in my heart. I wouldn’t even be there to kill anybody. I would be there because I wanted to end things with her all while catching her red-handed, clothes-less in bed with another man. I pictured out a scene where every hateful word came only from me, because where would she ever pick the slightest right to talk her side of the story while she’s wallowing in a fresh iteration of her sin?

            But that was all out of the question now. The only room I’d be finding myself in after this journey aloft would be the emergency room. But I could accept it. I had no choice. Instead of the explosive scenario I planned to have in the motel room, I guess I would have to resort to a calmer approach. When she would be standing there beside me on the hospital bed, that’d be the time to tell her it’s all over between us. I wouldn’t be able to unleash any vehement tirade, or explanation. I knew that already. That moment would be a peaceful nova of what was once had been the only sol my earthly heart was orbiting.

            Three seconds had passed, and now’s the time I realized that while the helmet may prevent my skull from cracking open, there may still be the chance that I’d slip into some serious aftermath in my brain, perhaps some case of amnesia. I’ve seen movies with this kind of plot. And I worship movies enough to not dismiss the possibility—may it be majestically infinitesimal—that I would end up waking to a world where everything would seem new to me. I’d lost every memory I have from when I could stretch it all the farthest to these last five seconds before I hit the ground. I couldn’t wander along with this chance and spend these last precious seconds of consciousness remembering things that are mired with misery and hate. If I should slip into the void of unconsciousness and open my eyes in a once-again uncharted world, I would rather take with me to the edge the memories from when I feel the most of Earthly joys.

            Minnie. My little princess Minnie. She was all the brightest star left in this part of space since everything fell out with my wife. A nine-year old cosmic creation that shone the most beaming of light waves since she was born, since she was laid on my arms the first time, since the first solar flare that came out of her eyes astounded me and conjured in me a soul that was more than just riding gloves, motorcycles, and interstellar choice of words. Minnie was born a star and her gravity was more than I could bear. She pulled me into her own slice of the universe and kept me there revolving, rotating, and making my own place in the world the only place to be in.

            As Minnie was growing up, she became even more adorable. And when the animosity between me and my wife started, I was able to focus all my care and endearing to her, and that had been when the realization that only Minnie could bring true happiness to me became entire. No one else came close to my heart than my daughter. My Minnie. My little Minnie. Only two days ago I bought her a new stroller bag, pink-colored, and when she first saw it, I could see solar flares bursting out of her eyes and her joy was a contagion I was wholly reduced to magical infection.

            The last second. I never thought this to be the part where I’d reconsider every decision I had been planning to undertake, the one particularly with my wife. I knew the glimmer of her cosmic constitution had become dimmer and dimmer already, and becoming dimmer and dimmer still by the second, but she was still my little Minnie’s mother. Every bit of stardust that made up my Minnie’s picturesque existence came from the woman I married. And I don’t want my little Minnie to grow up within the remnants of an apocalyptic cosmic system. I knew that despite all the hatred and all the ill wills that had slowly severed the orbit my wife and I once had of each other, everything could still be compressed into a singular chance at reconciliation. And in getting through this accident, after this five-second trip up in the air, we would turn things around for the better, for the sake of this share of celestial space we had borrowed from the universe.

            And then a second of darkness. I had finally crashed.

            I could hear sirens. I could hear people talking. I could hear someone, near, maybe stooping on the ground beside me—must be the emergency response team.

            “Just keep still, sir. You’ve been in an accident. Help is coming. Keep still.”

            I could feel the heat of the asphalted ground where I had crashed. The visor of my helmet had been broken and detached, and I could see from about five meters away the motorcycle that I had made a diving board of. And despite the apparent intensity of the accident as a whole, I could feel no major or tremendous discomfort anywhere in my body—that maybe I had just made it through this entire tragedy unscathed. Maybe a few bruises and scratches but overall, I couldn’t feel any searing pain or realize any part of my body that I can’t poke the nerves of. It could be that the shock was overriding the pain—that was a possibility. But I tried to get on my feet, and somehow I managed it. All my bones were left intact, at least. I could hear the man talking me out of doing what I was planning to do, but I needed to know. I took off my helmet, trying to see better what I had just seen earlier when I was on the ground. I had seen a pink stroller bag, lying near the motorcycle.

            It couldn’t be. I had told her not to go home on her own. That I’d be picking her up today. My little Minnie, my dear little Minnie, she shouldn’t be crossing the street on her own—she was only nine.

            And my star, she was lying there, on the same asphalted ground where I had crashed into like a miserable meteorite, peaceful, bathed among the clouds of stardust that she had emitted. And it didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense at all.

                                         

(end)

June 15, 2016

For a man who is terrified of swimming into the seas, I sure did make the right call plunging into the waters in pursuit of you. I still remember the first time I laid my eyes on you—you the shy thirteen year old you. I was already seventeen then, but given that I was at the same time already committed to a puppy love affair that was actually doomed from the start, I didn’t really pay too much attention to that particular first time. But I know I had to remember that moment, as I am doing now.

I turned eighteen around two or three months after that, and you fourteen after another couple of months. I had already had my heart broken then. You still had yours kept afloat on the love affair of your own. But that didn’t last long either. Skip to the next two months, we found ourselves alone in our individual infinity. That’s right, I’m buying into the shit John Green said about infinities. But, yeah, we found ourselves alone.

You were fourteen and I was eighteen. You were June and I was October. It didn’t sound very romantic, not even perhaps appropriate then.

But somehow we found a way to distort space-time and meet each other in a dimension that I knew was meant for us. You burst out of June and I skidded out of October, and we saw eye-to-eye, standing across each other in September. And life became stellar since then.

I was there in a lot of your phases, and you were there in mine. We laughed, we cried, we kissed, we danced in tornadoes and in fair skies, and here we are still stiff, polished and tuned for the rest of our unified infinity.

And now you’re twenty-one, and I’m twenty-five. See, it doesn’t sound so odd now. But I still remember the first time I laid my eyes on you, you at thirteen. I would remember it from time to time, because you always remember that first time—that very first instance—when you lay your eyes on to someone and that someone has made your life worth the length of every infinity.

some days she would ask me

Some days she would ask me

“Why did you stay?”

And I would  answer her

“Because I love you.”

But then I thought to myself

Hey, God can answer it better

So I asked God one night

“God, why do you let me stay?”

Then God answered:

“Listen, kid—

She needs you more than you know it.

“She loves photography:

                She’s gonna stop in a sudden

                Taken by some scenery along the way

                And though you know nothing about cameras

                Of course, she’s gonna need you to carry her bag.

                She can’t wave a camera with a bridge on her shoulder.

                Also, she might gonna need someone to throw the petals on her model.

“She loves eating:

                She’s gonna have a list of all this restaurants

                From streetfoods to fine dining ones

                But then she’s gonna deny herself the meal

                She’s gonna say no to eating most of the time

                She’s gonna say she has gained too much weight

                She’s gonna tell herself she’s fine without anything in her stomach

                And you’re going to be there to change her mind every time

                You’re going to tell her she’s the sexiest woman in the world

                You’re going to tell her you left Jennifer Lawrence for her             

                Also, she likes that part of the shawarma that you can never finish.

“She loves to roam around F21:

                She’s gonna dance around the displays of blouses and jeans

                Of course, that’s about all the names of the clothing you know

                She’s gonna throw in some clothing names that you’ve never heard before

                She’s gonna try on everything, try on the hats, fathom on the prices

                And you’re gonna be there all saying, “You’d look very beautiful in that.”

                Because you know she’d always be beautiful in everything

                You’re the Craig Ferguson who’s gonna tell her everyday in every clothing she wears

                “Why, you look sensational!”

“She’ll put the world in a backpack:

                She knows nothing about the Earth but to be roamed

                She’s gonna show you pictures of beaches and wonderful tourist spots

                She’s gonna tell you every day that she wants nothing more than to travel

                She will be your ticket to the world, kid.

                She will be the needle that will prick you out of your introvert bubble

                And you’re gonna be where she wants to be

                She will need you because you are part of her world.

“You stayed because she loves the life that contains a ‘you’

You stayed because she needs you in everything she loves

You stayed because you love her through the odds

And most of all, you stayed because you make her happy.

So happy.”

two birds

two birds sitting over a wall
singing a song in unison
of love, of melodies they call
of memories that come and gone,
the truest kind of love they've won.

two birds through the night have seated
wings touching while upon a wall
passed the moonlit hours embedded
in a dream of a starlit fall,
where all their worries turn to null.

two birds sunk in bliss and in awe
not even envying the stars
of beauty from the skies we draw
of wonder from their brightly wars,
there are beams even in their scars.

two birds that are happy, are still
you can hear the tune they're singing
the world doesn't bend to the sky's will
but to the hearts that keep racing,
two birds just happily sitting.

Travelogue of an Immovable Paranoid

I only have the darkness around me
As the paranoia starts to kick in
Silently pallid and suddenly strong
These voices and pictures growing within.

I only have the silence to soothe me
And battle off the raging disturbance
Like ghosts that haunt in tempestuous ways
Though fear is scarce and worry’s abundance.

I only have a little to cling to
And it barely saves me from my own self
Nil is all it is for a fighting chance
When it is your own mind you have to delve.

A Nightshifter's Guide to the Galaxy

when morning breaks away from dawn
and you stream the sunshine along the way,
i cast a beaming smile of my own
and wear it through the rest of the day.

and when afternoon breaks away from morning,
when i've plunged beneath an ocean of sheets,
you steal into my head's silent wandering
and color it through a thousand beats.

and when evening breaks away from afternoon,
when we're riding through the sunset and dim,
we rush forth feeling chased by the moon
and wrap ourselves in a starry dream.

and then when evening slips into midnight,
when we'd return to our separate strings,
i look back to the seconds of the passing day's flight
and carry on with the happiness it brings.

Read (read: read) List

A list of all literary works I have read since I began reading the first of them.

A Study in Scarlet - Arthur Conan Doyle
The Sign of the Four - Arthur Conan Doyle
Sherlock Holmes (Short Stories) - Arthur Conan Doyle
Kapitan Sino - Bob Ong
Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas - Bob Ong
MacArthur - Bob Ong
Ang Mga Kaibigan ni Mama Susan - Bob Ong
A Tale of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
The Old Curiosity Shop - Charles Dickens
The Prestige - Christopher Priest
Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Damned - Chuck Palahniuk
No Country for Old Men - Cormac McCarthy
American on Purpose - Craig Ferguson
The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
Angels and Demons - Dan Brown
Inferno - Dan Brown
Robinson Crusoe - Daniel Defoe
Shutter Island - Dennis Lehane
(Short Stories) - Edgar Allan Poe
The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket - Edgar Allan Poe
The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
Rosemary's Baby - Ira Levin
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone - J.K. Rowling
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - J.R.R. Tolkien
The Fault in Our Stars - John Green
Marley and Me - John Grogan
Noli Me Tangere - Jose Rizal
El Filibusterismo - Jose Rizal
Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland - Lewis Caroll
The Godfather - Mario Puzo
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime - Mark Haddon
The Revenant - Michael Punke
The Five People You Meet in Heaven - Mitch Albom
The Ocean at the End of the Lane - Neil Gaiman
(Short Stories) - O. Henry
The Alchemist - Paulo Coelho
Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith
The Shining - Stephen King
Cujo - Stephen King
The Running Man - Stephen King
Pet Sematary - Stephen King
It - Stephen King
Misery - Stephen King
Needful Things - Stephen King
Gerald's Game - Stephen King
The Green Mile - Stephen King
Lisey's Story - Stephen King
Blaze - Stephen King
Duma Key - Stephen King
Under the Dome - Stephen King
11/22/63 - Stephen King
Doctor Sleep - Stephen King
Four Past Midnight - Stephen King
Different Seasons - Stephen King
Joyland - Stephen King
Nightmares and Dreamscapes - Stephen King
On Writing - Stephen King
Rage - Stephen King