Fiction

The Child Abandoned

THEY SAY THAT A PERSON knows that she’s reached Quiapo by the way it smells. My grandmother—my Lola—described the scent as tentative, as if the air itself was constantly waiting for something to happen. You can see what she means, if you sniff hard enough.

The scent of it underlies everything you smell in this city, be it the rich, barbeque odor of isaw cooking in the dingiest of areas, to the clean, sweet scent of the Pasig river—the Ilog Pasig—itself. Entering Quiapo is not a matter of crossing the Jones Bridge anymore, even though that’s what the authorities still want to believe. Not that any of them would ever set foot here, anyway. I’m actually surprised that you did, just so you could find me.

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Seek Ye Whore

Week 0
Foster remembered, exactly, when it was he got it into his head to get married.

It was the time he leaned over his cubicle to see Donovan taking a bite out of a dripping, overstuffed roast beef on rye too big, too thick, and too appetizing to have come from the cafeteria.

“New restaurant?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. He had a weakness for roast beef on rye. Heck, he had a weakness for food in general, especially when they looked like they had come straight out of Bon Appetit, the bread just the right shade of brown, the beef sliced in equal thinness.

“Nope,” Donovan said. “My wife made it.”

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Boss, Ex?

He was the first thing Bien saw as he came up the escalator of the third floor of Virra Mall. The man was two heads shorter, about a five-foot three to Bien’s six-foot frame. His extremely short hair was unevenly cut, his dark eyes watchful, darting back and forth even as they focused on Bien.

He sidled up to Bien, a big smile on his pockmarked face. “Boss, ex?” he asked.

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Waking the Dead

DARIO stared out of his bedroom window, studying the mass that congregated at his doorstep below. The dead of Barrio Masigasig had arrived at his house today, dug themselves out of their graves, many of them ancient and rotting, caked with dirt, their faces caved in, chests sunken, limbs falling or long gone.

Others, freshly buried, looked almost alive, their skin unbroken, the pallor on their faces masked by funeral make-up. They were dressed in moldy barongs and musty party dresses, clothes that dragged on the ground or snagged in places, the damage gone unheeded because the dead did not think of these things.

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