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.)
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.)
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