AFTERTHOUGHTS (71)
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CRAVING

The following is an excerpt from the Penumbra horror/dark fantasy novella, Craving, written by yours truly, and published by Visual Print Enterprises.

The sun was just beginning to set, and Anne was on her way back to the house from her daily walk along the beach. Every other day of the week, Lester accompanied her, but today was Thursday, and Thursday was Clean-Up Day, so she went solo on Thursdays, careful to pack her cell phone in her canvas tote bag, in case of…
Well… just in case.

Anne sighed. She was so grateful for Lester, for his patience, his understanding. As difficult as this and the past two pregnancies had been for her, Anne knew it was doubly hard for her husband, who had no choice but to simply be there, by her side, unable to carry the whole burden on his shoulders.
Which she knew he would, without a doubt, without a moment’s hesitation, if he only could. But this was her burden, by virtue of gender and biology, this was hers, and she felt blessed to have Lester there, always, strengthening her resolve by his mere presence.

Anne smiled, a small, tender smile, as she walked along the dirt road leading up to the Doctora’s house, walked in the Daisy Duckzilla walk, as Lester had dubbed it. Anne had perfected a shuffling, shambling lope that was slow and awkward, but got her to where she wanted to go, safe, and in one piece.
“And that’s what it’s all about these days, huh, Junior?” she cooed, rubbing her stomach through the thin summer blouse she wore.
Dimly, she heard something.
She stopped, frowning.

There, off in the depths of the waist-high talahib to the side of the dirt road.
What sounded like a cat… yowling…
No. Not a cat. Not yowling.
Wailing. Crying.
“Oh, my God,” Anne whispered.
It’s a baby, she thought. It’s a baby that’s been abandoned, and it’s hungry and thirsty and how am I supposed to reach it? There could be snakes in there, and, oh! Snakes! And that poor baby! Lester!

And she began to dig through her bag, frantically. Then she noticed the crying getting louder, closer to her.
Frozen, she watched as the stalks of grass bent, and now, there was the sound of brittle snapping, and something (something?) crawled through the talahib, towards her, the crying definitely louder now, more insistent.
Anne backed away, slowly, her eyes transfixed, watching the swaying, the bending and snapping, marking the path, the trajectory.

And then the crying stopped. No winding down, no softening. Just a clean, dead stop.
But the grass was still being disturbed, upset by the movement, the resolute crawl of whatever it was.
Anne resumed the Daisy Duckzilla walk, a little faster now, pulling the cell out of her tote bag, the sound of crunching, snapping blades of grass deafening to her.

As she flipped her cell phone open, the giggling began, a high-pitched, lunatic sound.
She didn’t look back, didn’t wish or want to, she just kept walking, walking, her eye on the mango tree, which was yelling distance from the house, whispering the “Hail Mary” beneath her breath.
And though the giggling continued, an awful, manic noise, the sound of movement through the grass stopped, and Anne imagined blades of grass being pulled apart, eyes watching her, boring into her back.

But she still didn’t look back. She just walked, tote bag in one hand, cell phone in the other (in a skeletal, white-knuckled grip), leaving the giggling behind her, the “Hail Mary” still on her lips.
“… and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus…”
And the giggling just went on, and on, and on…

If the above tidbit has suitably intrigued you, Craving is available in bookstores. (And if you don’t see it on the shelves, ask for it, please.)
Or, if you’re so inclined, you can drop by Kolektib (Shop 33 in the Cubao Expo) this Saturday, May 24, 2008, and attend “9 in 1: Kolektib Intelidyens,” where I will be among the menagerie of wild writers and artists the good people of Visual Print Enterprises will gather for your awe and amusement.
Craving (and lots of other goodies) will be available there.
It’s from 3pm to 6pm, this Saturday; see Afterthoughts (67) for more details.
Hope to see all you fine folk there!

(Craving art and jacket design by Carl Vergara.)

AFTERTHOUGHTS (70)
PIMP MY BOOK (8)
PARMAN

The following is an edited excerpt from the Penumbra horror/dark fantasy novella, Parman, written by yours truly, and published by Visual Print Enterprises.

The two friends stare at the figure some ten feet away, man-shaped, to be certain, but powerful, made out of (or perhaps, wrapped in) some white, chitinous substance, all emphasized, stylized musculature, and bony ridges and barbs, features obscured in a helmet or mask of some sort, which displays only the vaguest contours of a face, its eyes glowing an unearthly blue.
The figure stands, menace and intent in his muscled stance, his stillness an implication of strength, of power.

The friends straighten their shoulders, their backs, as if shrugging off their drunkenness.
Suddenly, the ivory figure leaps into the air and strikes, a foot catching one on the chin, sending him to the street. The other foot is blocked though, with a solid forearm; blocked, then grabbed by the ankle.
The man swings the armored attacker down, slamming him, hard, against the pavement. Instantly, the man lunges for the white figure, but he is blindingly quick, and already rolling, and on his feet, ready to face his enemy.

The man pauses, just long enough to flash a cold, guillotine smile, before he steps forward and attacks. What follows is a blur of motion, of attack and counter-attack, strike and block, fist against forearm, foot against shin. And though the man is slashing his fists and flesh to bloody shreds on the thick barbs on his enemy’s forearms, he evinces no pain, intent only on the duel.
Finally, the rhythm is broken, the flat of a palm catching the white-clad figure under the chin, sending him staggering back a few paces. Quickly, the man lashes out with his foot, catching the ivory figure square in the stomach, in the stylized abdominal muscles on his armor.

The blow is hard, knocking the wind out of him, doubling him over. Before he can recover, hands are grabbing his arms, pulling them back, while a knee, forcefully, painfully, digs against the small of his back.
Caught in the brutal hold, trying to recoup his strength, the armored figure looks at the man who stands in front of him, in a fashionable, two-sizes-too-small polo of some shimmering fabric, gloating.
“Hey, Uno,” the man says, flashing that grin.

A fist rams into the armored man’s abdomen, and though the angry, sharp pain makes him want to double over again, he can’t, because of the agony of the hold he’s in.
The man leans in. “We’ll be sure to bring Mangilala your head.”
This is all he’s been waiting for.

His knee slams into the man’s groin, and, just as the man folds up in agony, his helmeted head butts savagely against the top of the man’s head, sending the man sprawling to the street.
Then, in a supreme effort of will and muscular strength, the one called Uno does double over, quickly, pulling the man who holds him off his feet, and up, and over, dropping him heavily on his companion.

Standing over the stunned pair, Uno’s hands flare, a blinding corona of white light outlining them. Even as the companions try to get to their feet, Uno grabs them by their foreheads, and they scream, shrill, high-pitched keenings, the light spreading, blanketing them.
Their skin begins to char then, to peel back in glowing, blistering shreds of ash.
Moments later, their skeletons are visible; their bones, and what lies within.

As Uno releases both skeletons, what look like grey water balloons spill out from their rib cages, falling on the street with liquid plops.
Uno looks down dispassionately (and though his features are obscured, one can tell this by his stance, his body language, and the way the eyes of his mask—if mask is indeed what it is, and not his true face—simmer a cold, sky-distant blue), at the two foot-long grey worms that writhe on the asphalt.

Uno places a booted foot on one of them, and it jerks, its needle teeth trying to snap at Uno, its all-too human face twisted in a malignant grimace, its eyes burning with malice.
“You will fall, warrior,” it says, its voice, the screeching of fingernails across a chalkboard. “You will fall, and we saitans shall feed on your innards.”
Uno applies pressure, and the worm bursts in a noisome flurry of blood and sewage.
He turns to the other one, which seems dazed, in shock, its eyes glazed over in an idiot stare.
Uno’s foot comes down, hard.

If the above tidbit has suitably intrigued you, Parman is available in bookstores. (And if you don’t see it on the shelves, ask for it, please.)
Or, if you’re so inclined, you can drop by Kolektib (Shop 33 in the Cubao Expo) this Saturday, May 24, 2008, and attend “9 in 1: Kolektib Intelidyens,” where I will be among the menagerie of wild writers and artists the good people of Visual Print Enterprises will gather for your awe and amusement.
Parman (and lots of other goodies) will be available there.
It’s from 3pm to 6pm, this Saturday; see Afterthoughts (67) for more details.
Hope to see all you fine folk there!

(Parman cover image by Oliver Pulumbarit.)

AFTERTHOUGHTS (69)
PIMP MY BOOK (7)
TAKOD

The following is an excerpt from the Penumbra horror/dark fantasy novella, Takod, written by yours truly, and published by Visual Print Enterprises.

She lies awake in bed, sweating, the house looming around her, like a crouching beast, oppressive. Summer has come early this year, the warmth like a herald for Semana Santa, an angel beating its wings, waves of heat radiating outwards from its divine being.

This is the time of death, and resurrection, though for the little girl, it is only the former she understands.
Death.
Death is when your father leaves one early morn, before the sun has even risen, leaves to make a living from the sea, a sea which betrays him, swallowing him whole, taking him into its cold, blue, bottomless throat.

Death, the little girl understands.
Resurrection, she cannot comprehend, a concept she cannot grasp, a word she cannot pronounce.

Outside, skeleton fingers scratch against the thin capis of her room’s window, as if the tree which towers over their home wishes entry. She stares at the window, at the vague shadows outside, not understanding why the tree is moving when she can hear no wind, when it seems too hot for any wind to even exist.
Or perhaps it is the wind from the angel’s wings.
(Her mother would disapprove of this fancy, so she pushes it from her mind.)

Then, as if summoned by her stray thought, a figure appears at her door.
Shadowed, silent, it is her mother.
She wishes her brother were awake, but he is not. He lies next to her, asleep, snoring softly. He looks exactly like her (for they are, after all, twins), and for an instant, she imagines it is she who is asleep, while her brother lies awake in the warm, humid dark.

Barefoot, her mother walks to their bedside.
She towers above them, her children; one asleep, the other, not. The little girl cannot see her mother’s face, cannot pierce the dark shadows which cloak it, like strands of long, ebony hair.
She watches as her mother leans down to plant a kiss on her brother’s smooth cheek. She remembers the Bible story of Judas, and again, pushes the thought away, mindful of her mother.

Then, strangely, impossibly, she watches as her mother, still on the opposite side of the bed, leans, and stretches towards her, somehow keeping her balance with both arms at her sides, as she moves to kiss her (and surely she can’t reach her, not with the bed so wide, not without having to lean over her brother).
She watches, frozen, her mother’s shadowed face moving towards her, dark hair like water, like spider’s silk, framing features she cannot see (and somehow, she knows, she would not want to see, even if she could).

And finally, finally, when her mother’s face is right next to hers, and she can feel the warm, fetid breath on her cheek, feel the feather touch of those dark strands of hair on her neck, she closes her eyes.
Then the wetness is on her mouth, and something slick finds its way past her lips, sliding along her tongue, something spherical and soft, tasting of mold and rot.
It slides down her tongue, her throat, and at last, she opens her eyes, to look upon the cold, blank face of darkness.

If the above tidbit has suitably intrigued you, Takod is available in bookstores. (And if you don’t see it on the shelves, ask for it, please.)
Or, if you’re so inclined, you can drop by Kolektib (Shop 33 in the Cubao Expo) this Saturday, May 24, 2008, and attend “9 in 1: Kolektib Intelidyens,” where I will be among the menagerie of wild writers and artists the good people of Visual Print Enterprises will gather for your awe and amusement.
Takod (and lots of other goodies) will be available there.
It’s from 3pm to 6pm, this Saturday; see Afterthoughts (67) for more details.
Hope to see all you fine folk there!

(Takod cover image and design by Wawi Navarroza.)