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Preludes by Daryll Delgado A man died singing. He had sung a total of three songs before he heaved his last breath and collapsed on a chair. It happened at the Municipal Hall. The time was three in the afternoon. The sun was high. Heat seeped into people’s...

Preludes by Daryll Delgado A man died singing. He had sung a total of three songs before he heaved his last breath and collapsed on a chair. It happened at the Municipal Hall. The time was three in the afternoon. The sun was high. Heat seeped into people’s bones. Tuba warmed their blood even more. Someone’s ninth death anniversary was being celebrated. Another man’s life at that party ended. It ended on a high note. At that very moment, Nenita, the wife, was at home, picking leaves for a medicinal brew. Earlier that day, Nenita had been lying on the sofa, slipping in and out of an afternoon sleep she should not have heeded, embracing Willy Revillame in her dreams. She had no plans of taking a nap. She had just wanted to catch a glimpse of Willy after she sent off her grandson for the city, just before she resumed her cooking.At the sala, she opened the window to let some breeze in. But the air was so dry. Outside it was very quiet. Everyone was at the Hall, to attend the ninth death anniversary of the Juez. Most of them bore the judgea grudge, but they were all there anyway, eager to see what kind of feast his children had prepared. The children had all come home from America and Europe for this very important occasion in the dead man’s journey. Nenita herself did not mind the judge really, even if she had always found him rather severe. It was the wife whom Nenita did not feel very comfortable with. There had been some very persistent rumors involving the judge’s wife that Nenita did not care so much for. As soon as Nenita was certain that her grandson had left, she positioned the electric fan in front of her, sat on the sofa, and turned on the TV to catch the last segment of her favorite show. The next thing she knew, Willy Revillame was pulling her into his arms, soothing her with words of condolences, before handing her some cash and offering his left cheek for a kiss. There was a huge applause from the studio audience, even if they were all weeping with Willy, shaking their heads in amazement. Nenita forced herself out of the dream and the motion brought her entire body up and out of the sofa. She found herself standing in the middle of the sala, face-to-face with a teary-eyed Willy. Her heart was beating wildly. Her armpits were soaked in sweat. Her hair bun had come undone. She looked around guiltily, she thought she heard her husband swear at her. She felt her husband’s presence in the living room with her, even if she knew he was at the death anniversary party. She quickly turned off the TV and made her way to the kitchen. She should not have taken that nap, Nenita berated herself. There was an urgent order for ten dozen of Suman she had to deliver the next day, for the judge’s daughters who were leaving right after the anniversary. There was already a pile of pandan leaves on the kitchen table, waiting to be washed and warmed, for wrapping the sweet sticky rice rolls with. She had spent all night until early morning boiling the sticky rice and mixing it with anise, caramel, and coconut milk until her hands trembled and the veins swelled. By the time she was almost done, she had to prepare breakfast and brew a special tea concoction for her grandson who had spent all night drinking. Her grandson had barely made it home – drunk as a fish, crying out a woman’s name like a fool – early that morning. Nenita then remembered that she also had to prepare the medicinal tea her husband needed to take with his dinner. She had yet to complete the five different kinds of leaves, Ampalaya, Banaba, Bayabas, Dumero, Hierba Buena; the last one she purchased from a man who only comes to town on Thursdays. She was getting ready to pick Ampalaya and Bayabas leaves from her garden when she heard her husband’s voice again, his singing voice. She realized that the sound was coming all the way from the Hall. The sound was very faint but more than perceptible, and certainly unmistakable to her. It was the only sound she could hear when she stepped out of the house and started picking the leaves. Everything else around her was quiet and still. It appears the entire town – the dogs, the frogs, and the birds included – had gone silent for this very rare event: her husband singing again. She had not heard her husband sing this way in a very long time, even since he became ill – when the sugar and alcohol in his blood burned the sides of his heart, almost getting to the core of it. Since then, he would get out of breath when he sang. And he also easily forgot the lyrics, especially to the Italian classics, and some of the Tagalog Kundiman he used to be very well known for. Nenita herself never understood all the fuss about her husband’s singing and the fuss his brothers and sisters made when he stopped singing. She could not even understand half of the songs he sang. They were mostly in Italian, Spanish, and Tagalog. He rarely sang Bisaya songs, the ones she could understand, and liked, even if she herself could not carry a tune to save her life. Thankfully, their grandson was there to indulge her husband in music talk. She was happier listening to the two of them talk and sang, and strum guitar strings from the kitchen. She used to feel slighted whenever her siblings-in-law recalled with such intense, exaggerated regret, the way their brilliant brother squandered his money and his talent, and oh, all the wrong decisions he made along the way, including the ones that he could never say directly his decision to marry Nenita. They liked to remind their bother, themselves, and anyone who cared to listen, of what their brother used to be, what he could have done, whom he could have married to. Nenita ceased to mind this, and then, a long time ago she had forgiven all of them. They were all dead now, save for one brother who lived in the city. She never stopped praying for their souls, but he was not very sorry that they died. Nenita knew that her husband was happy the way he was. She never heard him complain. He had nothing to complain about. She took him back every time his affairs with other women turned sour. She took care of him when he started getting sick when the part of his heart that was supposed to beat started merely murmuring and whistling. Thankfully, her friend, the herbalista, had just the right concoction for this ailment. Even the doctors were delighted with her husband’s progress. Nenita took her husband back again when, with the money her in-laws sent for his medication, he went away to be with one of his women. People say her husband went to Manila with the judge’s widow. Nenita never confirmed this. Nenita never asked. She just took her husband back and nursed him back to health again. After that, though, Nenita noticed that he spent more and more time alone, in the toilet. And when she asked if he needed help with anything, he would just mumble incoherently. So she let him be. She could have prepared him then that other brew her herbalista friend had suggested at the time, the one that would make his balls shrink, give him hallucinations, make his blood boil until his vein popped. But she didn’t, of course. She did buy and continued to keep the packet of dried purple leaves said to be from a rare vine found only in Mt. Banahaw. She didn’t even know where Mt. Banahaw is, only that it was up there in the North. She did know that she would never use the herbs, even if she wanted to keep, see, touch, and feel the soft lump of leaves in her palm, now and then. She derived some sense of security, a very calming sense of power, in knowing that she had that little packet hidden in one of the kitchen drawers. She listened more closely to her husband’s singing. She closed her eyes and trapped her breath in her throat, the way she did when he listened to the beats and murmurs of her husband’s heart at night. Listening to the air that carried her husband’s voice this way, she almost caught the sound of his labored breathing, and his heart’s irregular beatingHe was singing a popular Spanish song now, about kissing someone for the last time. Nenita remembered being told by her husband that that was what it was about. Kiss me more, kiss me more, that was what the man wanted to tell the woman he loved. Nenita found that she could enjoy this one; the song was recognizable. She laughed lightly as she found herself swaying in slow, heavy movements, to the music of her husband’s voice. She started imagining herself as a young woman, dancing with this beautiful, dark man who eventually became her husband. And then she heard him choke, heave a breath before he sang: Perderte. Long pause. Perderte. Another pause. Perderte. Despuese. And then there was applause, in which Nenita joined, still laughing at her silliness. After that, all was quiet again. Nenita gathered the leaves and went back inside the house. Just as well, because it was starting to be very, intolerably, hot outside. Certainly, hot enough to boil an old man’s blood and pop his veins, she thought. -End- Lengua Para Diablo (The Devil Ate My Words) [Excerpt from Banana Heart Summer] by Merlinda Bobis I suspected that my father sold his tongue to the devil. He had little to say in our house. Whenever he felt like disagreeing with my mother, he murmured. “The devil ate my words.” This meant he forgot what he was about to say and Mother was often appeased. There was more need for appeasement after he lost his job. The devil ate his words, the devil ate his capacity for words, and the devil ate his tongue. But perhaps only after prior negotiation with its owner, what with Mother always complaining, “I’m already taking a peek at hell!” when it got too hot and stuffy in our tiny house. She seemed to sweat more that summer, and miserably. She made it sound like Father’s fault, so he cajoled her with kisses and promises of an electric fan, bigger windows, and a bigger house, but she pushed him away, saying, “Get off me, I’m hot, ay, this hellish life!” Again, he was ready to pledge relief, but something in my mother’s eyes made him mutter only the usual excuse, “The devil ate my words,” before he shut his mouth. Then he ran to the tap to get more water. Lengua para diablo: tongue for the devil. Surely, he holds his tongue in exchange for those promises to my mother: comfort, a full stomach, life without our wretched want… But the devil never delivered his side of the bargain. The devil was aliened to want. HE lived in a Spanish house and owned several stores in the city. This Spanish mestizo was my father’s employer, but only for a very short while. He sacked him and our neighbor Tiyo Anding, also a mason, after he found a cheaper hand for the extension of his house. We never knew the devil’s name. Father was incapable of speaking it, more so after he came home and sat in the darkest corner of the house and stared at his hands. It took him two days of silent staring before he told my mother about his fate. I wondered how the devil ate my father’s tongue. Perhaps he cooked it in mushroom sauce, in that special Spanish way that they do ox tongue. First, it was scrupulously cleaned, rubbed with salt and vinegar, blanched in boiling water, then scraped off its white coating – now, imagine words scraped off the tongue, and even tasting, our capacity for pleasure. In all those two days of silent staring, Father hardly ate. He said he had lost his taste for food; he was not hungry. Junior and Nilo were more than happy to demolish his share of gruel with fish sauce. Now, after the thorough cleaning, the tongue was pricked with a fork to allow the flavors of all the spices and condiments to penetrate the flesh. Then it was browned in olive oil. How I wished we could prick my father’s tongue back to speech and even hunger, but of course we couldn’t, because it had disappeared. It had been served on the devil’s platter with garlic, onion, tomatoes, bay leaf, clove, peppercorns, soy sauce, even sherry, butter, and grated edam cheese, with that aroma of something rich and foreign. His silent tongue was already luxuriating in a multitude of essences, pampered into piquant delight. Perhaps, next, he should sell his esophagus, then his stomach. I would if I had the chance to be that pampered. To know for once what I would never taste. I would be soaked, steamed, sautéed, basted, baked, boiled, fried, and feted with only the perfect seasonings. I would become an epicure. On a rich man’s plate, I would be initiated to flavors of only the finest quality. In his stomach, I would be inducted to secrets. I would be the “inside girl”, and I could tell you the true nature of sated affluence. -End- Si Jhun-Jhun, Noong Bago Ideklara ang Batas Militar By Augie Rivera I'll get you!"Jhun-Jhun muttered to himself as he aimed carefully at the dented can of Liberty Condensada that was still bravely standing in the middle of the street. Across him, Danny who was 7" was sweating nervously. The other children did not move. They knew they had thrown all their slippers at the can, and the only one left was Jhun-Jhun slipper. It was their only hope. I'll get you!"Jhun-Jhun muttered to himself as he aimed carefully at the dented can of Liberty Condensada that was still bravely standing in the middle of the street. Across him, Danny who was 7" was sweating nervously. The other children did not move. They knew they had thrown all their slippers at the can, and the only one left was Jhun-Jhun slipper. It was their only hope. Jhun-Jhun mouth curled up like a crushed can as he watched his Kuya walk away 'Errands' His Kuya Jaime always had errands. And what was more upsetting was that he was never brought along to these errands! "I wonder why Kuya is like that?" he thought. "He's always cranky." Jhun-jhun remembered how his kuya used to take him along everywhere...when playing siyato, going to the fair, and watching TV (through Aling Gloria Subasta's window). Even when scavenging for big pieces of tira-tira" (thrown away by a big candy factory in Mang Oteng Hubad's vacant lot). But ever since his kuya began working in the shoe factory, he started going on these "errands". They seldom saw each other. When they did run into each other at home, his kuya was always tired and lacked the energy to play with Jhun-Jhun. "It's really like that, anak. Your kuya is working," nanay explained. "And besides, he's getting older, so he's busy with other things, now." Jhun-Jhun thought: "I wonder what Kuya Jaime is so busy with? I wonder where his errands are? Why doesn't he bring me along anymore?" Suddenly, Jhun-Jhun had an idea. "Tomorrow, I will follow Kuya!" Early the next day, Jhun-Jhun went out to buy pandesal*. He also made some coffee for his kuya. "Kuya, here are your slippers!" Jhun-Jhun flashed an angelic smile. Jaime placed his hand over his brother's neck and forehead. "You're not sick...so why are you extra nice today?" Jaime teased while drinking his coffee. "Nay, I'll go ahead!" he said with a small pandesal in his mouth. "Jhun-Jhun, behave yourself, okay?" he said mussing his brother's hair. Jhun-Jhun counted from 1 to 10 before leaving the house. Like a Kitten, Jhun-Jhun followed his kuya as he slid through many streets and alleys. It didn't take long before they arrived at the shoe factory. There was a strike at the factory-the workers were all gathered outside. They had pitched small tents and had posted many placards and signs at the gate. Jhun-jhun could see his Kuya Jaime clearly; shaking hands, talking, and joking with is coworkers who were all older than him. He'd rather spend time with them than with me. Jhun-Jhun thought. Later, he saw his Kuya Jaime leave with some people. They carried red Hags "Where are they going now?" They walked and walked under the intense heat of the sun until they reached Mendiola. There was a rally JhunJhun's eyes widened when he saw all the people on the street. All around mem were boomers with red letters saying: "Ibagsak!" or "Marcos, Diktador! "or "US Imperyalismo, Salot ng Mundo!" People were shouting, "Makibaka! Huwag matakot!" with clenched fists thrusting opwards. In his awe, Jhun-Jhun lost sight of his kuya. All around him, Jhun Thun saw strange sweaty faces, "Kuyal Kuya Jaime!" he shouted. But the people's shouts and songs drowned his voice. Jhun-Jhun squeezed himself into the crowd to find his kuya, but what he saw instead was a barricade of men wearing shiny, round helmets. Suddenly she heard gunshots everyone panicked and ran in all directions. When he was pushed to the pavement. People were throwing stones and bodies. White smoke spread everywhere- it stung one's eyes and made one cough. In fear, Jhun-Jhun hid under a red banner that had fallen on the street. He could still hear yelling and more shots. The smell of gasoline wafted in the air. A few moments later, he felt water on his back. He knew it was not rain, because he heard the sound of a fireman's hose, just like when a fire broke out in their place. Slowly everything grew quiet. "I'm coming out after I count to ten...one, two three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine...ten!" What Jhun-Jhun saw shocked him: not a single soul was on the wet streets. All that was left were stones, broken glass, placards, banners, and slippers! Lots of slippers if a thousand people played Tumbang preso! Jhun-Jhun also noticed that his right slipper was missing, so he tried to look for it among the many slippers on the street. He was surprised to see- his favorite weapon-and he could not be wrong: his kuya's left slipper! That night Jhun-Jhun patiently waited for his Kuya Jaime, but he never came home. His Nanay seemed to be praying to the old transistor radio, as she awaited news about the rally that took place. The next day, some of his kuya's co-workers came to their house. According to them, Jaime was one of those who mysteriously "disappeared" when the Metrocom dispersed the rally in Mendiola. They did not know where he was. Maybe he was in prison. Maybe he was in hiding. No one knew. Jhun-Jhun's nanay sobbed wwhle hugging her youngest son. Jhun-Jhuns nanay decided that they should visit the various military camps. They looked for his Kuya Jaime, but found no sign of him. Many days, weeks, months passed. Still no sign of Jhun-Jhun's kuya. "If I had only seen Kuya... I could've asked him to hide with me under the banner," Jhun-Jhun softly said. "Don't blame yourself anak," his nanay sighed. "We must not lose hope, your kuya will come home.” Since then, Jhun-Jhun rarely played tumbang preso. He had to sell newspapers in the morning, and boiled bananas in the afternoon. During that time, many big rallies and demonstrations were held in different parts of the city. Even if his nanay prohibited him, Jhun-Jhun secretly went to the rallies- wearing his kuya's left slipper. *Anak-Child *Kuya Older brother *Metrocom-Police *Nanay Mother *Pandesal-A kind of bread usually eaten during breakfast and snack time. *Syato-A Filipino children's games that makes use of a short stick placed over a shallow hole in the ground and propelled by striking it with another stick *Tira-tira-Chewy candy made of caramelized sugar *Tumbang preso-A Filipino game where players use slippers to topple empty cans -End- Elements of a Story Setting: Where and when is the story set? The setting represents both the physical location but also the time (i.e. past, present, future) and the social and cultural conditions in which the characters exist. Character: A person or animal or anything personified. There can be one main character or many, and often there are secondary characters, but not always. Plot: The events that happen in the story are called the plot. In the plot, you typically find an introduction, a rising action, a climax, a falling, and a resolution. The plot is often represented as an arc. Conflict: Every story must have a conflict, i.e. a challenge or problem around which the plot is based. Without conflict, the story will have no purpose or trajectory. Theme: Idea, belief, moral, lesson, or insight. It’s the central argument that the author is trying to make the reader understand. The theme is the “why” of the story. Point-of-view: “Who” is telling the story? It can be a first-person “I”, third-person “he/she/it”, multiple, and second person which is “you”. Tone: The overall emotional “tone” or meaning of the story. Is it happy, funny, sad, and depressed? The tone is the expression of the author's attitude. Like the tone of voice in a character, the tone of a story may communicate amusement, anger, affection, sorrow, or contempt. The National Commission for Culture and the Arts states that Jose Rizal was never officially proclaimed as a national hero. Padre Faura Witnesses the Martial Law ended the conflict between the executive and Execution of Rizal legislative branches of government, while also by Danton Remoto addressing a bureaucracy influenced by special interests. I stand on the roof Of the Ateneo Municipal, Shivering Proclamation No. 1081 was the formal On this December morning. document by which President Ferdinand Months ago, Marcos declared martial law in the Philippines Pepe came to me In the observatory. The statue of Lady Justice is modeled after the I thought we could talk Roman goddess Justitia. About the stars That do not collide Crony capitalism In the sky. refers to Marcos' practice of placing trusted Instead, he asked me about purgatory. supporters in key economic positions to direct (His cheeks still ruddy resources for his personal benefit. Allegedly, From the sudden sun this system funneled millions of the country’s After the bitter winters funds into his control. In europe.) And on this day Concubinage With the year beginning to turn A crime punishable by imprisonment ranging Salt stings my eyes. from Prisión Correccional in its medium period I see pepe, to its maximum period, which is from 2 years, 4 A blur months, and 1 day to 6 years. Between the soldiers With their mausers raised Lengua Para Diablo” means “The Devil Ate My And the early morning’s Words” Star: Still shimmering Even if millions of miles away, Literary Devices: The star itself Is already dead. Personification: A figure of speech in which human qualities or characteristics are attributed to non-human things, such as animals, objects, or abstract concepts. Ex: “the devil ate his tongue” Metaphor A figure of speech that directly compares two unlike things without using "like" or "as," implying that one thing is another to highlight a particular quality or characteristic. Ex: “Time is a thief” Metonymy A figure of speech in which one word or phrase is substituted for another with which it is closely associated, typically to represent something by using an object or concept related to it. Ex: “A pen that is mightier than the sword” refers to Jose Rizal “I’m already taking a peek at hell!” means “Distressing”