- In 2001 an enormous fire razed Kimball Plaza to the ground. Some say it was an accident, some say it was an inside job, and some even say, invoking a popular urban myth, that it was caused by a humanoid snake. The mall was located along Papaya Street, just next to Pioneer Avenue, General Santos City’s commercial capital then. Today, with their old buildings and their lonely alleys, Papaya Street and Pioneer Avenue seem to be relics of a time long gone.
We were on the rooftop of her apartment in Obrero. A blue Marlboro was in her right hand, a Nescafé can on her left. Her eyes focused on the lights from the new condominiums and the nearest Jollibee signage. Meanwhile, I had a Nescafé can in my right hand, and traces of sweat in my left. My eyes were fixed on her hands. Both were full. Continue reading Quite a Handful
Wiping the sink and stove, I poured zonrox over the stains that would not seem to go away. They could be stubborn. The stain, I meant. But I admitted that I left them for quite some time. That was the thing with stains – the longer left unattended, the harder to get rid of them. And now, I had spent a few good minutes scrubbing them with a labakara. This labakara, a square cut face towel, used to be baby pink. But its color was bleached to dirty white, only faint sign of the pink was left. The same zonrox that bleached the labakara could also make the fingers slippery. Danlog. Like how the hands feel when lathered with soap then washed by rainwater. Continue reading The Smell of Zonrox
I don’t think I’ll forget what Jonard told me the first day I brought the kitten to work. He was watching me slowly push at the plunger of the syringe to feed milk to the days-old creature we had rescued a couple of weeks ago when he quipped: “If he lives, it’s probably a sign that you were meant for medical school.” Continue reading Schrödinger’s Cat
We have more than twenty chickens in our backyard. Our compound is huge and we allot almost a third of it for the chickens. We have a net fence tied from our east side of the compound to the west, and the covered part was where all the chickens are left to roam, lay eggs, and eat. My father is never into cockfights and the chickens are actually there for the family’s entertainment—or something else to keep us busy.
The hens do not lay eggs regularly, and sometimes they get rotten before they even hatch because the hens are too lazy to even sit on them every day. We cannot sell their eggs, even the good ones, because they are never good enough as the eggs sold in the market place. The eggs are either allowed to hatch to new chicks or, sometimes when we forget to include eggs on the grocery list, our chickens’ eggs end up in the frying pan or in the refrigerator egg compartment.