Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
CREATIVE WRITING 10
28 MAY 2017
A Semester’s Worth of Short Story Writing
I want to write a story. That was probably the only reason I decided to postpone the
progress of my Biology course in UP Manila for one whole semester and enroll in a cross-
Just a plain old short story that has a character moving and talking in it – I badly
wanted myself to write one. But however much I had racked my brains, I cannot seem to
pass the enormous obstacle of putting pen into paper. In all fairness, I had had no dearth of
ideas swimming inside my head, then; I just cannot string them into words. So I thought
maybe enrolling in a basic CW course would at least give me the inspiration along with
Fiction was the last of the three genres to be introduced, but that is not to say that
my excitement and motivation was any less in Poetry and Non-fiction. The truth is I had
been dabbling as well in poetry before, and poems had been my primary medium for
artistic expression, as music is to others. The selection of poems we read was surprising to
me, though, for I expected some classics, Frost and the likes, instead of contemporary ones.
Nonetheless when it came to giving me insights, they did not disappoint. I read all the
poems and helped in the subsequent extraction of their meanings. I enjoyed the
interpretations, really, for in the sciences, subjective thinking were rarely engaged, and so
here I was given a chance to go beyond the terse language of science and tap into another
person’s feelings. I especially loved Conchitina Cruz’s Geography Lesson which made me
On the other hand, as we went to Non-fiction up to the last reading in Fiction, I took
mental notes of the various techniques and styles employed by the authors. I studied how
were they able to unfold a story, listened to their unique narrative voices, and in the
process, a too valuable insight that had been asserting itself in my mind for some time now,
have been reasserted and reinforced; that is, to be simple and as true to oneself as possible.
I know this was a cliché, but I was having a hard time accepting it. I grew up having an old-
fashion or ‘adult’ sense in almost everything, even in literature; and so, when I try to write,
not only fiction but also personal essays, I unconsciously try to mimic the complex
wordings of classical authors of foreign nationalities, only to fail miserably. In the end, I
almost always sound superficial and insincere. Having read the prose selections in the
course made me see the diversity of ways on how to be able to tell a story—not just any
story but one’s story. I learned that even with simple ordinary sentences, one can build an
Most remarkable were the Filipino pieces. I heard in them a very unique Filipino
voice that is simple, undisguised and dealt with themes aimed to share a truly Filipino
experience. Before, I had this unreasonable preference to avoid works by Filipino authors,
thinking that they would not be able to give the same “richness” I find in foreign ones. But
Finally, for my Final Creative Work, I opted for short fiction. To be honest, I did not
have an easy time. And I occasionally became harsh with myself for it. I have this
abominable demon inside me that always resurface whenever I write, saying harsh
personal words, always criticizing not giving even a single word of consolation. I kept
comparing myself to others who can almost write readily, and so I found myself once again
staring at the blinking cursor for hours with an almost white-blank page.
It is not an exaggeration to say that I pushed the limits of whatever writing skill I have. I
even consulted a few books on CW and advices in the internet. I lay on the floor for hours
exhausted, dreaming of plots and characters. But this time, unbelievably for me, it paid. I
have made a story with an actual conclusion. I even titled it “A Reasonable End”, partly
Then, having my very first short story draft, I was thrilled by the workshop. Again, I
was equally amazed by the works of my fellow participants as with the selected readings in
class. I knew how valuable it is for a writer (professional or amateur) to receive comments
on his/her work, so I tried my best to give constructive criticisms, suggestions and credit as
another person appreciating your work, though even if it was not a positive feedback, I
would still probably have been happy to know someone actually read my story. My story, of
course, as the instructor have said during the workshop, “…is still not perfect. It is still a
draft”, and I think that is true for all stories—that, however final and polished you think a
creative piece is, there is always room for improvement; there is no such thing as a final
draft.
But as of now, after one semester, I can say I achieved my goal. I have written a story
that may hopefully be a precursor for future ones. Even though I decided to pursue a career
in the sciences, somehow, secretly, I feel I would still be harboring the dream of becoming
It was the same night as the championship, the end of the week-long annual sports
meet held by private schools in our hometown, that I was first introduced to booze. I
remember the volleyball game was being played, rather intensely, in the quadrangle of our
sky-blue school, the host for the event. My two friends and I arrived during a serious
exchange, and the court was eerily quiet save for the hard slaps on the tired padded ball.
The gate opened at a side-corner, and we sat silently for a moment with some classmates
and acquaintances on the cold cemented floor. After exchanging casual greetings, sports
updates, and mandatory male quips, we three eventually decided to go upstairs, in the dark
From the third-floor, where the fourth-year classroom was, the two continued to
watch the game, peering below, while I sat expectantly on the wide windowsill in front of
our classroom. Like to the people below (cheers erupted, now and then), that night was
somehow fateful and crucial to me. I had come there, on a Saturday night, instead of
preparing for the upcoming final exams, not for the noble cultivation of sportsmanship and
camaraderie, as the school admins would have loved to think; everybody knew that most
healthy high school students were cultivating a different kind of camaraderie at a huge
inter-school event like that one. And so, the only reason I was there was for this particular
girl, a badminton player from another school, whom I had been watching all those years, at
a distance. I wanted to see her for a last time – just a glimpse, a silhouette that I can burn in
my memory. Who knows, perhaps, if we pass each other, a real conversation, a casual
greeting, a smile may turn up – I thought. I was therefore looking for her the moment we
arrived, but it seemed that no one had seen her for some time now. Some of my athlete
friends below earlier, however, had insinuated that David, a junior badminton player of our
school, was also out of sight. I merely shrugged it; she’ll definitely turn out later, when the
game is over and it’s time to go, I assured myself. Just a glimpse...
The game was finally in its last minutes, a team will have brought home the trophy,
when someone emerged from the stairs to the even darker fourth-floor. It was her! First a
No. There was another. What was I thinking? I should have expected it; almost everyone
was talking about them lately. But I had been refusing to accept. And even then I still
refused what I was seeing. David smiled and greeted my two friends (snickering, the
bastards!) like the victor he was, while he held the hands – the precious hands! – of her.
What came next after that really appeared to me as a dizzying gyration of space-
time. Somehow, time stopped while I sat there concentrating on the rough pebbled surface
of the floor, hoping for the gaping darkness of the corridor to swallow me; but it also sped
up, for I soon found myself abstractly walking meters away from school in the streets with
my two friends, the game apparently won, cheers and drumming everywhere. I noticed that
I was walking the wrong way following them. But no matter, as long as I kept walking, I’ll
be fine, I thought. Then, suddenly, one of my friends spoke the words, which did not make
sense back then to me, but which have surely shifted the course of my life,
Next thing I knew, they were giving me various cocktail shots, making me swallow
pony upon pony of cheap brandy, filling me with bottles of beer of every known brand:
they, like scientists observing the limits of a baboon’s alcohol tolerance; I, wailing like a
baby in the middle of the night shedding tears on the bosom of my friend’s mother.
Rainy days.
Cold musky pillows and rumpled linens.
Steam of a brewing coffee,
someone’s making breakfast in the kitchen.
The young man woke up to the usual whirring sound of the dusty fan, and far away,
as if from another world, dulled by the impervious concrete of his apartment room – the
It was actually barely past noon, somewhere in the middle of the week, but from the
inside, it was rather difficult to tell the time: the grimy moss-colored curtains covering the
windows were made of thick fabric as to suck out the passing daylights. It was dark, but
occasional slivers of light still seeped from the corners, enough to see the shadows and
outlines of a rickety wooden table, a Monobloc chair with a hanging damp bath towel, a
built-in closet with a gaping mirror near the bed, and, on the floor, aside from the pile of
dirty clothes – only weeks of accumulated trash. Garbage of mostly empty cans of beer and
cups of instant noodles were strewn all over the three-square-meter room, like ferns and
mushrooms, the trash bag tied to one handle of the closet had been long since filled.
As he opened his eyes once more, he found himself with a terrible hangover. He had
drunk a bit more than usual last night. Holding his temple with his left hand, what he saw
first was a face at once familiar and unrecognizable. He stared at the hollow mirror with a
gaunt expression, and though dimly lit, he thought he saw an awkwardly shaped head with
lifeless eyes staring back at him. Sallow cheeks, sharp edges of a jaw ridden with untidy
stubs of hair, dried lips with a shade of scraggly lines on top – a petty excuse for a mustache
– sunken eyes, oily skin, and a rough incorrigible hair all but told that his once
unexceptional but comely face had gone. He had lost considerable weight too. He was only
twenty three, but his appearance had dramatically aged, since exactly a year ago. When
small town in Quezon province. His mother had left them when he was still an infant, and
so he had no memories nor any special affection whatsoever for her. Besides, his father
seldom talked of her, if he ever talked intimately to his son at all. In fact, since Robert had
learned to read and write, all his father cared about was how to mold him into an
outstanding student, one who was both exceptional in solving algebraic equations and
rules of English grammar, a morbidly studious teacher’s favorite who have a high chance of
being accepted to med school. Despite this, he reserved no deep spite for his father. He
studied hard enough and, in turn, his father never failed to provide his material needs. Not
that he ever shared the interest of his father of him becoming a doctor. Although he did not
know what really interested him – or perhaps because of this – he decided to better just go
He soon entered a university in Manila, one that specialized in the health sciences.
But by his second year, he would have realized that all his pretensions would not hold on
for much longer. Life at the university sucked him dry; seeing the faces of the students
shining with real passions and aspirations gave him an inferiority complex; moreover, he
just could have not made himself interested to what they were studying. He felt gradually
repulsed by anything the professors discuss every day, the drab experiments in laboratory
classes were menial labor to him, leaving him beaten in his apartment room, every night.
Throughout the year, he found himself almost failing, which caught him not infrequently in
One sultry afternoon, in his Microbiology laboratory class, he had been rolling the
knobs of his microscope for a good half an hour now, one eye glued to the eyepiece, looking
for bacteria that seemed to conspire to evade him, while large beads of sweat had been
creeping from his forehead to navel. He was still vexed by another one of the violent rows
with his father over the phone last night. He was repeatedly, however half-seriously,
mulling over the thought of living by himself. But where would he go? Without a degree,
and with social skills of an iguana, he doubted whether he’ll survive for more than a year or
two.
He sighed as he kept looking for bacterial cells in a smudge of dirt. Then, suddenly
his brows knitted, muttered, more loudly than he intended, “Fuck, you stupid shit eaters!”
The girl at his side was the only one who heard him. She turned to him, eyes
grinning through her thick-rimmed spectacles. She wore her brown-dyed hair in a bun, her
smooth forehead was charming with small beads of sweat. In her lab gown, unbuttoned,
showing a pink blouse with floral patterns, she evoked the relaxing breeze of summer.
He looked at her as well, slightly ashamed. Then, she asked if she could take a look at
his microscope for a sec. He took a small step aside, as she peered into his microscope,
slowly rolling the knobs with her reassuring fingers, and after only a minute or two,
He gave her a quizzical look. But she let him take a look for himself, and sure it was,
there lay, bright and clear, clusters of tiny spheres, with their darkly stained nuclei; there
were even rod shaped Clostridium and long staphylococcus, which looked like fragments of
a broken necklace. The awe in seeing a sudden burst of microscopic life in his eyes will
—as well as the girl who made him see everything from nothing.
The young man did his best to brush off the memories that were bombarding his
mind with the force of an incoming train. A walking distance from his apartment complex,
the LRT 1 chugged along its way from Quirino Station into the calm afternoon sun; some of
its few passengers staring blankly at the sky outside witnessed a huge mass of clouds
approaching. Down below, an ambulance gave a sharp wail as it paved its way in the traffic.
Sounds from the outside reached his ears all too faintly. He closed his eyes and tried
to concentrate on these sounds to distract himself from the memories which only
worsened his hangover. The prospect of an outside world continuing to move forward –
oblivious of everything else save for the sheer passage of time – seemed enough to calm
A life of a human, as may be learned from any basic Biology course, could be
observed beginning with the union of a sperm and an egg, forming a zygote that is no more
than the size of a needle point at its conception. From that single tiny dot, hundreds to
millions of cells that make up a person spring forth, transforming into specialized tissues,
organs – the brain, eyes, lungs and heart – all the while, the flesh and bones slowly gain
shape in the mother’s womb like a lump of clay, religiously following the unique blueprints
Robert had of course undergone the very same complex processes of birth and
development as all people do, but if one had asked him personally, he would have said that
his life had truly started only a few moments after meeting Sophia. Working and chatting
with her, after that first encounter with the microscope, made him feel like a newborn
child, pulled from an oblivious sleep by veteran hands of a midwife. Suddenly, he was
inundated by a cascade of light, sounds and touch, all the people around him seemed to be
People who are skeptical of love may say that there was nothing special in what he
had felt; that it was more worldly and mundane than it seemed: Robert was just a late-
bloomer pubescent boy. And perhaps they are right. He had probably been struck by a
powerful spell of hormones. Nevertheless, the colors that Sophia had suddenly splashed his
world was undeniable to his own eyes. He was seeing the world for the first time in all its
vibrancy. He experienced a kick in his spirit that would sound ridiculous to anyone but
And so, it was not surprising that this newfound passion for life did only to improve
his academic standing. But excellent grades were but felicitous incentives for him
compared to when, in the same year, he found himself actually dating Sophia, the source of
this incredible joy pulsating in his heart. Theirs was a relationship that was to last even
after they graduated and they both entered med school. His feelings for her will have not
relented a bit, throughout those years. If anything, he always saw new reasons to fall in love
with her. He often thought that she was like the mother, the sister, the best friend he never
had. But more than anything and anyone else, he loved her as Sophia – the girl in a lab
There was nothing to see. He knew he was lying on something like a cold marble
floor, but though his eyes were wide open, all he was seeing was palpable darkness. He
remained lying there, listening to the faint beating of his heart, and for a moment, he
thought he was actually dead. Maybe he had actually died in his sleep, and this place was a
chasm for dead souls. But he still felt his body, the cold marble floor burning on his back,
and his heart continued beating. Soon, he heard voices, out of nowhere, resounding in the
blackness – as if in a memory.
“What do you think of falling from high up above … say the sky?” asked a woman’s
voice.
“What d’you mean, like skydiving?” another man’s voice asked in reply. A short
silence followed.
The young man thought it crazy too. They, or their voices, continued chatting,
oblivious of him.
“Don’t think of the crashing,” she said. “just the act of falling …”
No one answered. For a moment, only the faint beating of his heart was all the young
man heard.
“You know, the Earth’s gravity pulls you so fast, and since there is no ground to
make you feel your weight, you effectively become weightless … you can let the air rushing
No burdens, no pain. Yet, your body tells you something’s wrong, so you end up still
feeling very excited. You may laugh, cry, or even shout; it’s all bliss. That’s why even if you
end up a splattered mess on the ground, the knowledge that you can’t resist something as
powerful as gravity – an absolute abandonment – is enough to fill your heart. For me at
least.”
Then, in an instant, the marble ground, on which the young man had been lying,
vanished along with everything else, and he himself took a rather long fall.
A clap of thunder pulled him abruptly out of the dream. His headache had finally
gone, but in its stead, his heart was now pounding violently inside his chest, as if having a
life of its own; not to mention, his lips and throat, so dry and screaming of thirst.
It was nighttime, a little past ten. He had been asleep for almost a day, but the
exhaustion he felt still made it difficult for him to get out of bed. He rose ever so slowly and
slumped on the floor leaning on the bedframe. He reached for a water bottle among the
litter. Emptying it in huge gulps, he threw the bottle back to the floor, then he rose and
The cold night air filled his lungs with the smell of earth. Directly across from him, a
television was left open in a dark room: a close up map of Luzon and a huge white spiral,
He breathed in deeply, and letting out, he turned back to change his clothes. He was
going outside.
Robert was with Sophia in her condo unit for their usual night hangouts, one
October night. They had been together for a good four years now. He remembered her
being quite talkative that time. They talked about a lot of stuff, from bland topics of med
school and childhood, to completely random stuffs, like dreams, gravity and love. Sophia
“What if this is all a dream?” she asked, another out-of-this-world question for
Robert.
He thought deeply for a while before asking again, “Someone must be dreaming for
“Perhaps another person. Could be God himself,” she sounded really curious.
This time his answer was ready, “Right. Then I would have to be grateful for them.”
“And why’s that. You don’t mind being just another person’s fantasy?”
“Yep. Look…dream or not, it doesn’t matter. They could fantasize all they want, but
the fact remains that I feel very much alive in this world,” he said, still looking down on his
magazine. Then turning straight to her eyes, “and most importantly, I have you in here. I
The two remained silent for a few seconds. Then she said, laughing softly, “You’re
The young man was now outside a ten-story building under renovation, wearing a
hooded cotton jacket, his unwashed jeans and tattered rubber shoes.
People near the area knew that the renovation in the site had been going on for
months now but with very little progress. The makeshift gate was made of recycled
corrugated metal that can be easily pushed aside, and there was only a few erected
He ignored the “No Trespassing” sign on the gate, and just as he stepped inside the
building, a loud clap of thunder ripped the brooding sky apart, then –
A cloudburst from the heavens all at once wet the entire city of Manila.
Thousands, millions of raindrops darted straight for the earth like spears and
arrows – each one carrying the heaviness of tears. Inside the abandoned building, the
earthy scent of the storm mixed with the damp smell of concrete and dust. The young man
He trudged each step ever so slowly, to the second floor, the third. Higher …
Higher….
But he never once stopped nor thought of turning back. His steps were as decided as
a pouring rain.
Robert was right. The world he had been living in was real – too real, indeed, so that
his pain, when Sophia leaped off the veranda of her 11 th floor condo unit, a few hours after
he had left that one October night, felt nothing short of hell.
No one had ever actually known her reasons. Not even her family, who had been
kind enough to welcome Robert in the private burial. No suicide notes left. But Robert, by
this time, had lost the capacity for reason. His mind went blank; he wanted to cry and cry,
but the shock was simply too great for him. Until, one day, in their house at Quezon, his
father had remarked something that made him felt the brunt of the pain:
Sophia, with him. But his father persisted on with his fatherly comforts.
“It’s just a girl,” he said. “you’ll find plenty after med school.”
What? Robert wanted to snap. He did not know that a person could be this stupid
and insensitive. But his father continued on with his thoughts on Sophia’s death, and –
“That’s why I—“ his father had not finished his sentence, when his glasses fell on the
Robert’s punch was filled with rage. But it was as well filled with sorrow, so that the
impact was greatly hampered when it hit his father’s face. And the tears he had been
Perhaps, he thought, months after that, he had to thank his father for making him
realize something so important – something so basic – in his life. But he had never once
The young man was at the roof deck of the ten-storey building. He had climbed the
four-foot high wall and was now standing on top of it, drenched with rain. Oddly, now that
he was only inches away from death, he was feeling relaxed. It was as if all his hatred, all his
sorrows had been blown by a strong gust of wind, and the millions of raindrops now falling
This must have been what you felt, right? he thought, smiling to himself. Then,
pushing his right foot lightly on the edge of the wall, he took the plunge, head first.
He knew his life was not a piece of fiction that could be resolved by a tweak of a
writer’s hands, and so, he had thought, it could only end this way. This was his decision. A
reasonable end.