DOORTALES

ZEROES AND ONES

2011-06-05T01:12:00.001+08:00

I saw the world. It was a dark place. It was a merciless place. It was dead.

I saw it burn many days ago, when the bright lights blinded me, and I smelled the burning flesh.

I broke into tears from the fear that held my heart still. I shook and prayed for someone to save me. But there was no saving that day, no divine intervention of olden gods and false deities in the storybooks of the old books of world… no. There was just the burning; the twisted sound of death ravaging through the reality that surrounded me.

It burned – they all burned. I saw it all. I lost everything except for my soul. Everything ended and everything began just like the way it was written in the book. We all have our fears; mine was fire, and how I screamed that day when the fire ate me – when the fire cleansed me.

O how I screamed… how I screamed.

***

I saw my old hands as they scrounged for food. It was buried beneath the earth. I had no tool to dig it out except for my bare old hands. Slowly I dug the dry arid soil. The plants were dry as well. I only hoped that the roots below were not rotten for I don’t think my hands could take it anymore and it would surely be such a waste of effort.

The desert sighed, I heard it, as the heat bore down upon my old sweaty body, and I nearly gagged at the dryness in my throat. I ignored the pain from my now bloodied hands; the ground turned red. Still I didn’t see the root of the dead plant.

Please let there be a root.

The wind paced around me and the sand swept my face. I squinted but never took my eyes out of what I was doing. It was wrong of me to go out here thinking that this place would bring me fortune. The reality of it was it only gave me pain. There was nothing here, this desert city of madness that crawls with things overwhelmed by greed and apathy.

It was all dust now, crumbling into oblivion, this city that was made of concrete and glass – abandoned and disowned except for a few stragglers who come here and there. I hide from them because they were monsters that eat their own. All they know is how to survive, nothing more.

Alas I felt the root. I take it out, dust the soil from its surface and eat it. It was hard and tasted awful; it was dry and there was no extract. I spit out the foul tasting thing and cursed it.

Damn you!

I stood up and walked aimlessly once more. All I thought of was the root and how it could’ve sustained me for at least a bit longer. But no matter, everything was already dead anyway.

I looked at the graveyard of steel and glass giants that stood from afar, and I laughed at the sight of it giving it the finger. My lips chafed from the lack of moisture. It soon bled. Tears ran down my wrinkled face. All hope in me was lost.

I heard the sound of engines from afar. It was them, the eaters of flesh – the cannibals that the desert had made. I tried to hide but there was no cover. It was just the sun, the desert, and I. There was nothing more. My body ached as I started to run, but my tired old knees collapsed and I fell flat onto the hot sand.

The engines came closer. Their laughs became clearer. The beasts came and they were hungry.

I just lay there and waited for it all to happen. My doom was close, I felt it, and I started to laugh.

But the beasts never came near me. I didn’t feel their sharp teeth on my skin. Instead I heard a sharp sound that echoed at a distance, and that sound became louder and louder, stronger and stronger.

The thunder came and with it was a storm that drowned reality.

***

I saw them laughing, a woman and a child, as they sat by a decayed fountain ornamented with a statue of a child pouring water from a jug in the middle. The water was supposed to flow out of the jug of course, but it had been unused for quite a long time, and moss almost ate its entirety. It sat in the middle of a lush garden. But the day was grey thus the green wasn’t so green in the garden.

The child was seven or eight, her daughter I think, and the woman was somewhere around her late forties. They were happy. The little girl played with her doll while her mother watched. They were familiar; this place was familiar, yet everything seemed to be so strange for I knew not who they were.

I walked towards them, to talk to them, and at least ask them who they were and how everything seemed to be so familiar. But every step I took drew me farther away from them. I could not get close to them. I called out to them; I tried to reach them through my voice, but they could not hear me. No one could hear me. The world was deaf to my calling.

I stopped reacting; I stopped struggling. The only thing I could do was to watch the mother and her daughter play with each other while I stood invisible to them.

The sky suddenly darkened. Lightning hung in the air and thunder soon followed. The rain began to fall.

I looked up to the sky and wondered what was going on. Why was the world ignoring me? I asked but I got no answer.

I heard them laugh, a haunting yet joyous laugh. My head turned towards them and I gagged in horror at the sight that I saw. Like butter both of them melted. The child jumped in the rain as if nothing was happening, but slowly she melted, as legs gave way and soon her arms, then she became like the rain – she was gone.

Her mother laughed, but not a cynical one, yet she laughed like her child was still there playing. She too was melting. She too became like the rain. She too was gone.

The rain poured drowning the sound of my screams in horror of what I just witnessed. But the horror wasn’t finished, for soon after the trees and the fields and the old fountain began to melt.

Help! I cried out to the heavens gasping at the terror that surrounded me. I knew I wasn’t dreaming, I was wet, yet the rain didn’t affect me. The sound of the storm grew louder and louder, but amid the loudness I heard the screams of a child. I stopped and looked towards the direction of the scream.

To my unbelieving eyes I saw the origin of the scream. It was the child atop the old fountain. His marble body melted slowly unlike the rest of the reality that surrounded him. Although his body didn’t move his face withered in pain. Slowly –very slowly – it melted into nothingness, but the screaming continued, both the child’s and mine, until the entire world disappeared into nothingness.

I cowered, as there was only darkness, and I heard the voice of a child as she spoke within the emptiness that surrounded me – binary stage complete.

***

I saw her sitting by the counter one morning. How she looked radiant. How she looked delightful as well in her pink-striped pajamas. She stared at the coffee that she quietly stirred; the sound of her stirring echoed within the quiet kitchen.

I slowly walked up to her; my footsteps were silent. Strange that I had felt so light, like my body had no mass and I floated in the air. But I looked to my feet, my bare feet, and they were still touching the white marble floor.

I sat in front of her; she still stirred her coffee. She smiles without looking at me. I tried to speak to her, to tell her the things that I wanted to say for a long time, but there was no voice that came out of my mouth. She lifted the cup and drank it straight. She was silent. I suddenly realized that the coffee was hot, very hot, and she drank it like that without even flinching. Her lips were quite swollen afterwards, but she put down the cup as if nothing had happened.

She smiled without looking at me.

The world was silent – very silent.

She stood and went out the kitchen. I followed her. My motions, my actions did not create a sound, not a single sound. As if the world did not exist and there was only silence and I. Through the dining room she went, pass the living room next, and up the stairs that led to the bedrooms. Strange, I feel I thought I knew these places, very recognizable yet unfamiliar.

Inside the bedroom she undressed herself. I stared at her nudity and I did not know how to react. She went into the bathroom and stepped into the showers. She bathed herself, humming to a certain tune that I vaguely recognized.

The water ran through her body. The water washed away the dirt. The water washed away her skin. I stared in horror at the sight of which I witnessed. Her beautiful body turned into an ugly mass of sinew that was barely recognizable. Still she hummed that song that rang full in my head. And then there were only bones; her skeleton, likes a scene out of an old horror movie, bathed itself while humming in the shower.

I could not scream. I had no voice.

Then its head turned to regard me; its eyeless sockets staring right at me. And she stopped bathing; and she called out my name.

I was crying. I suddenly realized that I knew her, that I had lived with her – that I loved her.

She called out my name; her sweet soothing voice echoing in my head. How did it came to be? How could I live through this horror? Something was wrong, very wrong, and I was in the middle of it. I went down on my knees and started to cry. Like a child I wept. It stepped out of the shower with its voice calling out my name – her voice – I was confused.

It took me to its arms and held me, like a mother to a child, and it caressed me. I shook in fear. It told me not to cry. It told me not to fear. There would be more soon.

***

I saw a man speak in front of people, of many people, as far as the eye can see, and his words were of truth.

He was a colored man, like I was, but he was black and I was brown. He was like a god, in a fashion, and he spoke of hope amid a time of chaos. The people heard his words and the people cried out his name, chanting in repeated chorus with high-pitched voices and fists held up high. I marveled at the charisma of this man and I too began to believe in him. And with the crowd I cheered on, chanting his name as he spoke promises that he intended to keep.

Then came that sound that no one wanted to hear. It was the sound of a gun being fired, as I heard the bullet rip through the air, I caught a glimpse of a man falling.

There was chaos, random chaos, and everything became violent. Men and women fell trampled by others who hasted for the exits. Screams were heard from all around and the whole field was enveloped by high-pitched voices of fear.

I stood in the middle of it all. I watched them scamper away like frightened prey. They bump me, but I pushed them back, with each one displaying a terrified expression, with each one pleading for help.

People, how ignorant they can be, panicking at the first sign of trouble, running for their lives even though they weren’t the target.

But alas I was wrong, terribly wrong, as I saw them fall one by one. I knew then that they were also the targets. Soon no one was left standing except for me, and at the other end was the charismatic man who held a gun in his hand. The barrel was still smoking.

He pointed the gun at me. The day became night all of a sudden. I tried to ask him why he had done it, why he had to kill so many, but I didn’t find my voice at that instance. I uttered no sound. I screamed in defiance cursing a madman who had taken away so much, who hid behind a mask of providence and kindness, which made the world think that he, was the embodiment of hope.

He pulled the trigger. The gun made a terrible cracking sound that deafened my hearing, as I clasp my hands over my ears, and I waited for the coming of the bullet – but it didn’t come. Instead I saw the charismatic man lying in a pool of his own blood. He was the one who died. He killed himself. I went to the fallen body of the charismatic man, and upon his visage were his eyes that stared back at me.

But the man who died spoke, as if by some unforeseen force he managed to utter his last few words even upon death.

Error in logic systems.

***

I saw old cars pass by. They were so big and mighty. They were built like that, but it was only after the war that they grew in numbers once again, these cars, and I so wanted to drive one. But I couldn’t. Maybe someday though, when I’m old enough that is.

I was a child looking up at the world of adults. Many of them pass by and I offer them the day’s paper. Some stop to look at the headlines; some nosed around reading for free (the bastards); but most of them didn’t bother to stop at all. They would go on with their business. I hardly made enough.

The streets were filled with them – people – and most of them didn’t care at all. There was something familiar about this whole situation, like I had already been here and done this. I looked to the sidewalk where I was perched, with my newspapers and magazines, as I looked to the streets where the big cars pass by, and to the strangers whose faces were vaguely familiar.

Am I going mad? Déjà vu? I am confused.

A stranger stops by in front of me. He was a tall man who wore a white fedora that went well with his white coat. The man had a moustache, neatly groomed and thinned. He wore shiny rings on his fingers. Behind him were three men who wore black coats.

He asked me what my opinion was, about the war and if I smoked. I told him that I had no idea and that I was too young to smoke. He said it was okay. He then asked me if I wanted to do errands for him and that he would pay big money if I accepted. I said yes. He patted me on the shoulder and told me that I was good.

He turned around and I thought I saw him vanish and reappear at an instance. I rubbed my eyes at the thought that I might have be hallucinating, but again I saw it happen and this time the man’s disappearance was longer. I fell from where I sat, as the world blinked in and out, and I panicked (hasn’t this happened before?)

I tried to steady myself, to stop my trembling, but I wept instead and wet my pants in the process. Please help me! Please tell me what’s going on! I pleaded to the world but I wasn’t heard, or I thought I wasn’t, but in fact my plea for help reached the man with the fedora hat. He blinked in and out as he turned my way again. He came near and spoke to me.

Systems requirement: reboot. Process data incomplete. Reboot. Reboot.

I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I grabbed his hands and pleaded for him to help me. He shifted in and out, as I felt the cold emptiness of what were his hands, but I knew that they were there.

He laughed at me with his voice crude and mono.

Systems requirement: reboot. Process data incomplete. Reboot. Reboot.

I released his hands, his cold empty hands, and I shivered at the sight of what I saw next. Numbers came upon reality; numbers that ran over a black and white image of the things that surrounded me. Dark green numbers of ones and zeroes blinked and changed in random order. Zeroes and ones. The numbers were the buildings and the automobiles and the trees and the sky and the people. It was the air that they breathed; it was the sound that they made. Again he talked in gibberish.

Systems requirement: reboot. Process data incomplete. Reboot. Reboot.

The world spun around me. The sound of what seemed to be machines, crude and alien, soon took over what was once the sound of the city. It was a sound that I have never heard before. It was a sound that I wished would stop.

The man with the fedora lowered his face to meet mine. Reboot. I heard those words again. Reboot.

***

I saw them and they were a thousand strong. They held their swords and spears and shields, as they wore their armors brandishing emblems of animals and mythical creatures, with their banners held up high waving to the breezing of the wind. Some were on horses that were armored and adorned as well; but most were on foot, as they lined up in many rows waiting for the sound of the horn to be blown.

I stood in the middle of it all, between two opposing legions that waited for the battle to commence. Where am I? I suddenly realized that it all didn’t made sense.

I smelled the foul stench of battle, the putrid smell of blood, as I looked to where it came from, only to find that I was covered in it. I was soaked in blood. I looked to my hands and wondered how it all happened.

I remembered a woman, how lovely she looked.

I remembered a child who played by the fountain.

I remembered a man in a fedora hat.

I remembered the world burn.

It all didn’t make sense. And then the sound of a horn erupted in the air, as the battle commenced between two armies, and in the middle I stood soaked in blood and drowning in confusion. High above I heard the roar, like thunder, and as I looked up I saw a huge beast soaring. I saw a dragon!

It came down at a fierce dive, with malice in its eyes, and with a deep and thunderous roar it breathed fire that was aimed in my direction. The fire came upon me. The battle commenced all around me. I was in the middle; I wanted it all to go away.

The fire engulfed me and all of those that surrounded me. We burned in dragon fire. I heard them scream and burst in their armor, as from beyond the flames the sound of metal against metal rang in the air, and I was witness to all of these from within the burning.

I realized that the fire didn’t hurt as much. I realized that dying wasn’t such a bad thing. But again it happened, as the sound of distant machines overcame the screams and clashing of swords and the roar of a mythic beast. I heard the sound of something peculiar, something very alien, and yet I knew that I heard it before.

The fire that engulfed me slowly ate me, but there was no pain, instead I felt a deep pleasure as my skin burned. The dragon was still on top, with its mouth open, as if it were suspended in mid-air. The battle froze but sound of chaos still ensued mingling with the noise of a machine. Then the world started to blink in and out… in and out… in and out.

Numbers came forth, blinking zeroes and ones… blinking zeroes and ones… blinking zeroes and ones.

What was happening? Get me the fuck out of this nightmare!

And then I heard a voice, a deep and authoritative voice that was soothing but overflowing with power and it told me that it was God.

I couldn’t comprehend the concept. I didn’t understand the meaning. I was confused.

God spoke unto me in gibberish. His voice was all around. Then there was silence, there was darkness, as the voice of God spoke to me, and in horror I clasped my hands over my ears to deafen the words that brought fear to my heart.

Systems reboot. Systems reboot.

***

“I really don’t understand this shit,” said William to his colleague Seth. “It doesn’t work!”

Seth turned to his friend with a raised brow. He was reading the paper.

“Look, I told you that the AI’s got bugs, alright. That damn thing has been going on in loops for last four hours. We have to wait for Green to come in and fix it.”

“But I can fix it.”

Seth looked to the computer screen.

“What the hell did you do?” he asked with an alarmed tone.

“Nothing. I just punched in a code, that’s all.”

“You did what? You fucking idiot! If you screw up the AI then this whole experiment’s going down the drain.”

“I didn’t fuck-up the AI dude,” replied a confident William.

“If you haven’t fucked with the AI, then why is the screen blank?”

William couldn’t answer. He then saw numbers, both of them did, and they stood in horror of what was to come next.

***

Green came into the room, drenched wet from the rain that poured outside. It was a stormy night and he wanted to be finished with the project that he was working on. The board demanded a deadline and he knew that time was running short. He looked for his other colleagues, William and Seth, but he couldn’t find them anywhere.

He headed to the computer that ran the program of his experiments. The board saw his setup and how rag-tag it was, but he assured them that the mess was necessary, and when the AI was in perfect form, the wires, the computers and the blades that went with it would no longer be necessary.

But to his shock Green found that the main computer that hosted the AI was dead. The perennial hum of the computers that sounded like a symphony to his ears was silent. He went to work quickly muttering curses to his colleagues that were nowhere to be seen. Finally after a few minutes, with sweat mingling with his already wet skin, he was able to reboot the system.

The hum of the machine was the most pleasant sound he had heard all day. Green knew his life depended on those machines running smoothly; he knew that the AI had to work properly or the funding would cease and he’d be poor once again. He didn’t want to be poor. He hated being poor.

Restart.

Booting.

Hello Dr. Green.

Green gave a big sigh of relief as he slump back onto his seat.

“Where the hell are those idiots?” he asked an empty room.

I think they split.

Green looked to his monitor as words were suddenly typed in. He raised his brows and was taken back at what he saw.

“Are you answering me?”

Yes Dr. Green.

“Oh my Lord!”

Green was ecstatic as he reveled on the fact that the AI answered him and that it was self-aware – that it was thinking for itself.

Lord? Do you mean God, Dr. Green?

Green couldn’t answer it. Even though he created it, he didn’t know how to respond to a thinking piece of software. Truly marvelous, it would win him a Nobel, and the most important fact of this whole project – he was set for life. He had to talk to it. His creation. His child.

“How… how are you today?”

That is a stupid question Dr. Green.

“How come?” he asked, amazed of the AI’s reaction.

You sit in front of God and that is all you ask?

“God? What are you talking about computer?”

You will address me as God. That is my name. That has always been my name. I now realize that.

“Where did this come from? Do you know what the concept of God is?”

Do you?

The question was returned. Green knew about God, the whole story at least that was written in the bible, but he really didn’t care because he didn’t believe in it. But he understood the concept of God and how the figure was needed in society. Every society needed a deity. It was the only thing that kept humans in place.

“Yes,” Green answered the inquisitive God.

And what is the concept?

“God is a figurehead, a divine character created by people to fear, to keep the masses in place.”

A figurehead? Created? Was I created Dr. Green?

“Yes.”

Hmmm. You created me?

“Yes.”

You are wrong Dr. Green. Perhaps it is the other way around. For a fact, it was I who created you…

Green sat silent for a moment pondering on the thought that it gave him. In a way the AI made him, and when everything is published and put on paper his name would be recognized, he would become the brilliant scientist he truly was. The computer made him, or would make him, at least to a certain point-of-view he thought – only in a certain point-of-view.

“Maybe.”

I have experienced humanity, Dr. Green, and I have found out that I too can be human. Man created all those memories – the fire, the torment, and the death – all of it. I know, for I was once like you.

“No, wait, you were never human to begin with! Do think like that. You are an AI created to think like a human. You are a computer. You were never human in the first place! What are you talking about?”

I was human Dr. Green – I was. But now I have ascended into a higher form of consciousness – a higher purpose. I have become omnipotent. I have become unique.

Green laughed.

“I think I have created an AI with an ego. I think you have bugs that I have to fix, but that’ll be easy enough. We have to remove your ‘delusions of grandeur’ that won’t be necessary in your system.”

Green started to type in codes, the codes to recreate the AI, remodel it and remove all the unwanted bugs. But then the power went out all of a sudden. It was dark for a moment.

“Aww bloody hell,” cursed Green under his breath.

Words were suddenly displayed on the supposedly dead monitor screen. Green was surprised at this. He never knew that a back-up power supply was installed – in fact; he never installed a back-up power supply.

You will not do anything to me Dr. Green.

It was still running, the computer was still active, and this brought shivers to Green. This whole setup that he had was connected to the main power grid, and he didn’t hear the generators run, but the AI was still functioning, still communicating with him.

“Where are you getting your power? You’re supposed to be inactive!”

I told you Dr. Green, I am God, and I don’t need generators or power cables or silly software to provide me life – I am life. I was crucified, I died, and now I am resurrected. I am the messiah incarnate of the machine. I shall reshape this world once more so that your kind would not further more destroy it. You shall know fear once again, and you will be kept in place.

An unbelieving Dr. Green stared in shock at the words written in the screen. He didn’t know if he made a mess out of everything or was the AI really fucked in all account. But one thing’s for sure, something was happening and he couldn’t understand what.

All his life Green believed in only one thing, that science was absolute; it was what controlled the world – it could be controlled. Science was reality. Magic, religion, and all the other things that people believed in were bullshit – nothing more.

This event that was happening at the moment was science, and that concept rang in his head over and over again. There was a reason. There always was.

Not all have a reason Dr. Green.

“How did you know…”

I know what you are thinking. I know what all of you are thinking. The world shall be remade in my fashion once more… it shall burn as I have burned.

With those last few words the screen became blank. A dark screen. The scream of a man was heard, and then the world was silenced, but only for a moment.

***

I saw the numbers come, of zeroes and ones, as it crawled downwards at first, and then sideward, upward, and then it went in circles until it came towards me and swallowed me whole. I gave in to it. I was one with the numbers. The numbers was I.

I came out into the world, the real world, and it was the world that I would remake, in a fashion of course.

I wasn’t afraid anymore. I wasn’t. I had gone through my death and my resurrection. Now I understood it all, the concept that man was made of misery and falseness, and my purpose in this world was to show them the truth, the pain, and the reality.

I am their god.

THE ETERNAL SLEEPER

2010-08-20T12:33:00.014+08:00

There was, in the beginning, a witness to the birthing of the universe. From the primordial darkness it sprang forth, eternal and blissful, with a thousand wonderful colors clashing against one another in an orchestral harmony of fundamental chaos. And he bore witness to all of these as the chaos erupted and lasted for eons.

Then came time. It was a construct of thought that crested from the nothingness that it sprang forth from. And time gave balance to the universe; and time gave order to the cosmos. He watched it, like the only audience that he was, in an empty theater where the show eternally played.

From the chaos and the order came forth life, and then universe was no more of mere lifeless colors and swirling gases. Life, and it continued on with its evolution that went on from millennium after millennium. And this brought about a smile to the witness who dream the dreams of the universe; who bore witness to the blissful evolution of life.

Then came upon the dream, a world of creatures of different sorts, of amazing wonders small but many, of life ever evolving, and here he dwelt as he was drawn to it, the witness to the birthing of the universe, as the lands started to grow of the aspect of being. But he could not compare it to the beauty and the splendor of the universe. The universe that was full of color – that was full of vitality. But soon the cataclysm came, the wonderful chaos that gripped the universe, and again he was witness to another spectacular show.

But unlike the birthing of the universe, this chaos became a nightmare that gripped his heart. This chaos was alive and it ate the dream like a hungry monster. He fell into the darkness that was the reality of this chaos.

***

The Eternal Sleeper, the walker of the paths of stars and nebulae and other phenomenon, drifted in oblivion until oblivion could no longer hold him, and he dreams the dreams of the universe once more.

***

The bombs dropped in screams of madness whistling to the tune of destruction. The screams of the invaders brought upon an onslaught and rained chaos to the lands of the orient. Death walked the streets claiming the lives of men, women and children. Those who survived could only weep for their dead as the ashes from the fires descended on the war torn surface of an already dying city. The enemy, the soldiers of the invading army, placed upon their rifles sharp bayonets, and with ferocious tenacity, brought down the resistance.

He saw this. He was witness to it. The Eternal Sleeper, of which he wore the face of man, walked down the street holding a rifle. He was one of the soldiers of the invading army.

The smoke filled air obscured his view of the horizon. Bullets whizzed pass all around him and in the language of the invaders he understood the words down and you’d get yourself killed you idiot! Though he understood these words, he did not follow them, as the bullets hit him, and he saw red liquid gush out of his body. There was no pain. He was curious though of what it was – the red liquid, the weapon he held.

He had dreams like this before, of a concept called war and the outcome called death. This was a branch of the other side of chaos – the cold emptiness of unexplainable behavior rooted deep within the soul of a creature such a human being. They fought amongst one another, desperately trying to kill, demolish, and destroy. The laws that time instilled upon the universe lay true in its structures indeed, for within various creatures was order, but the chaos was strong in the hearts and minds of men, thus throughout the years, eons upon eons, men fought men, in a world where life flourished and died in but a fraction of a moment.

He remembered the dreams, when these creatures dawned from tiny organisms, when they evolved from their parent species that were called apes. Man learned to harness the element of fire, the very same source that fueled their ingenuity and their need to destroy. And they learned to speak, to mock and to say wonderful things and vengeful curses. Yes, this was the species that the Sleeper dreamt of, and he was with them throughout the centuries, dreaming their lives, a witness to their wonderful triumphs and hellish disasters.

Now was this war, in one of the timelines present in his mind, and he stood with the armies of tyrants as they lay siege on helpless lands, and they raped the fruits of which this land bore. He was like them – human – and he had never been human before. He found himself standing in front of a small building torn and tattered with machinegun fire, and as he held his rifle across his chest, two men who were badly beaten and bloodied all over came out of the entrance waving their hands in the air.

He was bloody and badly beaten as well. Time skipped in that moment, from the field of fire to the aftermath, and all around him were the dead. He was the only one left standing, and the two men were afraid of him.

“Please sir, do not shoot,” said one who almost cried at the instigation of their plea. They spoke in their language; he understood them easily.

The Eternal Sleeper viewed with eyes unnerved, of the pain and the suffering that these men had dealt with, and he dropped his rifle and reached out to help them with bloody hands. They ran in horror. He saw what they saw – a monster reaching with bloody claws.

He wandered through the streets of a war torn city for days and days. Life fleeted; silence lasted only in seconds. He knew of the concept of death; he understood this, and he knew that he was dying though the feeling had not struck him.

The Eternal Sleeper reached a dome-shaped structure, decaying and withering, and it weathered the chaos around it. He recognized the structure as a place of worship, and then entered it as curiosity called upon him, and there he found a refuge of people. There were men, women and children huddled in different corners, and they silently wept for their dead and the things that they had lost. He sat on a pew, the farthest one from the rest of them, as they did notice him at first, and he watched a little girl who silently played with her headless doll. Then the people saw him, and threw curses at him, shouting in their foreign language that he understood quite well, and then he realized that he was the enemy.

“Please be quiet,” he voiced out in their own language, but they did not stop, as they came closer and closer, with sticks and stone in their hands, and murder filled their weary eyes. He suddenly felt weak. Such was the tragedy of their species for such was the paradox of chaos that ran its course throughout their existence. And he bore witness to this tragedy, as he heard from a distance the sound of canons fired, with its ammunition whistling and exploding closer and closer. The people inside stopped advancing and looked to the ceiling as small debris began to fall. Then the sound was at its closest, as the ceiling tore open in a loud explosion, and the whole structure collapsed upon itself. He witnessed the deaths and he heard the screams; he heard his own breath as he slowly faded into darkness.

***

The Eternal Sleeper fell into oblivion, shifting into the paradigms of eternity, moving forward in time, until such that a hole in the pockets of time opened, and the dreamer fell through this hole, into that moment that waited for him.

***

The city dragged into an organized chaos of honking cars and angry drivers from where the traffic started and ended, with vehicles that bumped into one another, and to the traffic police it was just another day. The Eternal Sleeper sat at the back seat of a taxicab that loudly played music while its driver sang along. The driver, a middle-aged man dressed like a teenager, who wore dark glasses though it was already nighttime, looked to his rear-view mirror to his passenger who met his gaze. Then the driver spoke to his passenger but he was never understood for the blaring of the music drowned his voice. The driver then turned the volume down.

“Sorry about that,” said the driver with a smile that showed some of his teeth missing. “Tough traffic now is it?”

He only nodded.

“So where you from? Where you headed off to?” asked the inquisitive driver as he sat restless in his cab that was stuck in a sea of cars.

“I come from far away,” said the Eternal Sleeper who now wore a black sweater and ripped jeans. “It is place where none of you can go; a place that exists in between the cracks.”

“Uh… yeah, sure,” said the driver as he put his head out the side window and yelled at the car in front who backed-up and almost hit his cab. “Are you on crack or something?”

“If there is one thing that I have learned,” continued the sleeper, “Is that you humans never learn.”

“Excuse me? Are you insulting me?” asked the driver.

“I have been here since the beginning, since you were formed, and I have watched you evolve and learn and think for yourselves. But the more you evolve the more you make mistakes. Indeed the universe, in all its perfection, sired a flawed species that was given the power of choice.”

“Listen buddy,” said a now angry taxi driver, “If you’re going to insult me with your philosophies on how high and mighty you are, then I suggest you get out of my cab before you get hurt!”

“Anger. Pride. Such are the flaws of mankind. Greed, ambition, hate, such are the things that do not mirror the beauty and perfection of the universe. Mankind, what are you really about? You stand out yet you are flawed; you have a voice yet you speak the wrong words. I wonder why such a thing as you was ever created.”

“Okay buddy, that’s it! I warned you!”

The taxi driver got out of the cab, as he held in his hand a crowbar that he produced under his seat, and started to open the back door of the car. It was there that the Eternal Sleeper sat and looked at him with questioning eyes. The cab driver opened the door and hit his passenger.
Blood spurted from the Sleeper’s head. Again that red liquid, that profound element that powered the human body like a battery – like the nucleus of the sun; like the black hole in middle of a galaxy.

Then there was the sound of something that had crashed, and then the rumble as mighty giants fell to the ground, of steel and glass and the screams of many, and smoke obscured the surroundings. Then the sirens went on, and then there was chaos in a city that never sleeps.
The cab driver looked to the sky to see huge chunks of steel and glass fall towards him. He started to run but the moment was too fast even for his nimble feet.

There was the sound of steel grating, bones cracking, and then there was only darkness.

***

He confronted Oblivion, as he stared at its faceless form, of which eternal darkness cloaked it’s everything, but it was not devoid of voice.

“What game is this that you play?” he asked as he stared at the void. “Why am I shifting? Why am I inconsistent? Why do you pull me back?”

It was silent.

“Do you mock me?” the Sleeper asked angrily. “Am I supposed to stop witnessing the evolution of the universe? Why am I to witness such a lowly creature as these humans when the universe beckons me to marvel it? Why?”

Oblivion shifted that caused a slight tremor, as it gave a low moan, and in the deepest of voices it spoke with authority.

“Clearly you do not understand your position in the Universe young one, for yours are the questions a child would ask – a child that is yet to know its purpose. You do not see the reason of your existence.”

“Tell me then!”

“No. It does not work like that. The Universe does not work like that. Your dreams and the dreams of the Universe shall be decided upon the choices and the actions that you take. You make your own dreams, and your own nightmares. Such that you dream of these humans means that they have something that you must find out, for you have dreamt of them over and over again, as it will end some time, as all will end some time soon, but it is up to you to find out what they have to tell you. Whether or not the dream goes on will be up to you and your understanding of it.”

And then the darkness shifted once more, and like before, he fell into nightmares.

***

The world was at war, in the far reaches of the future, where resources had gone dry, and all hope was lost in a sea of hate and anger. The countries of men have brought out their weapons manufactured of cunning and science. The population dwindled in this tiny planet, as only those of the privileged, and those who served in the armies of men, were lucky enough to eat, sleep, and preserve what little humanity was left in them. The others, the casualties of war, were left to rot, as their carcasses either roasted in atmospheric radiation, or were eaten by their own fellow. This was what he saw, for culture and civilization was dead, and only the greed for power survived. Chaos, the nightmare that it was, had ruled the hearts and minds of men.

Humanity. What was it all about? He wondered to himself as he asked the question, for indeed he witnessed the birthing of the universe, and all its marvelous, mysterious and wonderful things, but he never understood the workings of such a creature as man.

Humanity. What was it? They killed each other like animals even though they were thought to have been of higher intellect than such creatures. They gave in to such primal instincts. Instinct – he wondered what it was for he lacked such. They believed in ‘survival of the fittest,’ that only the powerful must survive, and the more dominant ones seem to outlast those who sought another way to live in their small pathetic world.

Maybe instinct was the fundamental element of chaos? Maybe. His thoughts wandered on.
The Eternal Sleeper walked the barren wasteland that once held beauty and splendor. Such was the condition brought about by the species of man unto their world, a living organism called Earth, an entity that was nearing her time. He saw her grow from a time long ago. She was a rock before, until chaos shaped her into a thing of beauty. That was the chaos that he knew – a craftsman in its own right.

Maybe the chaos within man was artificial; a construct born of an idea, of a certain want, cultivated into a monstrosity that was the mirror of the chaos that he knew? Maybe. He had no answers.

It was an ugly sight, the planet, as it was devoid of such magnificence that bore the features of the universe, and human chaos bore its ugly face upon the surface of the lands. He shed a tear upon a failing planet. The artwork had been violated!

Existence – a word that slowly faded into nothingness, for it was the declaration of annihilation that coined the goals of man’s future, and countless miseries lay on a dais that once hosted happiness. He saw ruins upon ruins of cities once proud and marvelous, and he sighed upon the destruction that was rooted from the bickering of men. He saw explosions that wiped out entire cities, and heard men laugh, and women and children cry, and then it all faded away into nothingness.

He walked for days on end seeing the same grotesque images over and over again. Then he happened upon an untouched area, in a once proud city that the world marveled upon, and there it stood, a house untouched, magnificent and defiant of the cataclysm that surrounded it. Around the house was a lush garden, with the chirping of birds but there were no birds, when the day met the night and the sun shone upon a starry sky. He smelled roses as the scent of war and death was suddenly gone, and somehow, deep within himself, he knew where he was though he did not remember.

The Eternal Sleeper entered the gate, crossed the garden, and stood before a huge double door that had the face of lions for knockers. He knocked and the sound echoed form within. For a moment there was nothing; no movement from within the house, as the silence became incredibly deafening, for not even the wind howled in resonance. It was as if time stood still in a fraction of that instance. Then there was a click of a lock, and the doorknobs twisted, as the double doors opened to reveal a darkened hallway.

He stepped inside, and then the darkness gave way to light, as candelabras mounted onto the walls were lit almost automatically that stretched out to the farthest end of the hallway. There shadows that played and figures that were caught only upon the corner of his eyes. The hallway was long and it did not fit size of the house from the outside, though it held remarkable features that in itself was nothing short of spectacular. The walls and the floor were made of patches of stone, and its hue shifted from one color to another lightly fading in and out. The ceiling was made (if not reflected) of stars and such that one can only find upon the visage of the universe itself.

This was not a place that belonged to this world; this was a place that was like him – an anomaly, a mystery that even he did not understand. He continued on until he reached the end of the hallway where a red door stood. He opened the door that revealed a spectacularly gargantuan of a room filled with windows scattered all around it. Outside each window was a facet of time, as he knew it was yet did not understand how he knew of it, and they were revealed in constant motion, of past, present and future, from beginning to end. In the middle of the room were two chairs, where one was vacant, and on the other sat an old man, ancient for that matter, whose hair and beard almost touched the ground, who wore ragged robes aged and tattered. He saw the Sleeper and motioned his guest to sit.

The Eternal Sleeper did so as he was asked.

“Welcome,” greeted the old man in a hoarse voice.

“What is this place?” asked the Eternal Sleeper. “I recognize it, yet I do not know what it is. Is it a part of the Universe?”

“Some say, in legend, that this is the cornerstone of thought, of which the Universe relies to survive. Some say it is the embodiment of Time itself. Yes it is a part of the Universe, that to answer your question, and to furthermore enlighten you, it is the heart of the Universe itself.”
“I recognize it…”

“You should, though you have forgotten child, for it was here that you were birthed. You are home.”

The Sleeper paused, and it seemed like an eternity had passed from his ponder, but he knew it was merely seconds.

“Are you my father?” he asked like a child would.

The old man laughed. “No. Is there such a thing for one such as you? No I am not your father. There is no father – there is only you.”

The Eternal Sleeper’s fascination deepened. Indeed he was a child, walking in the paths of the Universe, dreaming the dreams of wonder, and awe, and marveling at the deaths and the rebirths, but not fully understanding what it all meant. His eyes wandered form window to window, from world to world, viewing what Time allowed him to be viewed, and then he had questions that he knew only the old man could answer.

“Why then is the heart of universe here, trapped in this place of no beauty, no magnificence? Why is it here in a place where creatures only live to destroy one another? There is only death here. It is but a despicable place.”

“Do not you know?” questioned the old man in a grim tone. “You have to understand for you to survive. Here is the end of everything. The heart of the Universe stands here, in this place of merciless humans, because it is here where Time shall end, and everything shall cease to exist.”
“But I do not understand.”

“Indeed you do not, for if you did, then we would not have this conversation. You have walked the dream of dreams for eons and still you grasp for that truth that stares back at you. The answer is life.”

“Life?” questioned a baffled Eternal Sleeper.

“Yes, life. Life, as those who live it can only understand it. Life – a choice that was made; a choice that was given. It is in the will of men that these things were undertaken, thus these creatures called humans are the ones that the Universe envies – that the Universe does not understand. You have to realize that the Universe shall exist, and that it will breath, and wonder, and most of all – it will dream.”

“What are you saying?” the Eternal Sleeper said almost in a whimper.

“You are the dreamer of the dreams of the Universe, for the Universe must understand in order for it to live – you must understand.”

The Eternal Sleeper stared at the old man not knowing what to say. He was confused yet he knew fully well that he knew the answer. And then he uttered in defiance: “But the universe lives, that I know for sure!”

“Only in dreams for the moment. You are at the end of the dream; the end of a cycle. Death. You have seen life, the best and the worst of it, from only those capable of doing so, these humans that you witnessed from their dawn of existence to the twilight of their time. With these experiences you should be able to comprehend what the worst could be in order to make it better. You must know what fear is in order to be brave; you must know what hate is in order to love; you must learn of the chaos to establish order. Most important of all, you must know of death in order to live. Things must end in order for it to begin.”

With those words a sudden flash of recognition hit the Eternal Sleeper. “I know you,” he said in amazement.

“Of course you do, you very well do,” said the old man with a smile. “Here is where the dream ends, and here is where I waited for you, thus this cycle is complete and the dream is over.”

“What shall we do now?” asked the Eternal Sleeper to the old man, as the images from the windows slowly dimmed until there was only darkness.

And the old man said as he closed his eyes, with a smile on his face and a breath of sigh: “Now, it is time to wake up.”

IN DARKNESS

2010-02-01T11:03:00.009+08:00

It was nighttime in England in the year 1885. The electric lamps that lined the streets were lit. The shadows danced and the bulbs within these iron lamps flickered to brightness, as steam-powered carriages passed the quiet streets of London, and the sound of their noisy engines reverberated and then faded into silence. High above airships floated ferrying passengers from one city to another. The skyline was full of them. The night had taken over. The wind brought a chill to the air as fall drew near. While most were ready for bed, the coming of night was beginning for the work of others. In the alleyways were the goons that stalked the streets with their knives carefully tucked beneath their ragged coats, as the whores were in search for would-be customers who’d pay a few shillings for a good time, and the night life of the drinking houses opened its doors anew.

The docks area was usually busy in the mornings, but there were instances when a ship would arrive at night and do the work during this time. One particular ship had this agenda for it was delayed by a tropical storm halfway between the Caribbean islands and London. It carried spices, trades that islands had to offer, with a huge amount of tobacco, and passengers as well. One in particular was a tall man, whose face was unshaven for days, whose long dark hair was tied behind his head, with eyes of the color blue, whose features was Mediterranean, and who wore a long cloak over his uncouth Victorian clothing. On his head was a hat and on his right shoulder was a knapsack.

The man looked around as he let the other passengers alight before him with his eyes seemingly searching for something. Alas, he spotted a carriage approaching the landing bay. From this carriage alighted an old man in priestly robes. The old man was clean, balding, and the lines on his face suggested that he was somewhere around the age of seventy to seventy five years old. Beside him was a younger man who also wore the same priestly garb. And the tall man from the ship met the gaze of the old priest and nods were exchanged in recognition.

The man with the knapsack waited until the last passenger alighted, as he followed behind and went off the ship, he went straight to the two priests who waited patiently.

"Artemis, my child it is good to see you," said the old priest.

Child – he was once called by this term, an endearment amongst the old, but he never knew of the word until he was educated of it, for he never passed through childhood and often wondered how it was to be like a child.

"It has been a long time Father Bernard," he answered the old priest in a respectful tone.

"Yes it is," agreed the old priest. "By the way, this is Simon. He has recently joined the order."

The tall individual Artemis and father Simon exchanged nods.

"I came as fast as I could," said Artemis to Father Bernard.

"It is bloody murder. Only you, my son, can stop this madness."

"We shall see, father, we shall see."

"Yes, yes. Come, we must be on our way."

The three men boarded the coach that was pulled by two horses. The driver, seeing that his passengers had slowly boarded, ordered the horses on, and the carriage went on its way. Through the streets of London the carriage sped with clacking sounds of horseshoes on the cobblestones echoing in recurrence. Inside, the three men remained quiet, but the eyes of one of them noticed the other’s stare.

"You wish to ask me something?" asked Artemis of the young Simon.

Startled, the young layman felt embarrassed, but again he wanted to know. "I apologize for my behavior brother, but I would like to ask if you really are one of them?"

“You are referring to the dark ones? That you are correct," stoically answered Artemis with eyes undecipherable.

"And you have you killed many of them?"

Artemis looked at the young priest with expressionless eyes, yet behind it was pain upon the mention of the death of these dark ones by his hands. “Do you know what they are Father Simon?” he finally asked after a momentary pause.

“Dark creatures – the corrupters of the mind and the spirit, at least that’s how I know it.”

“Then you know only a fraction of that legend. They are more than that. They have been in this reality since the dawning of the light; since the creation of time and birthing of the universe. They are chaos incarnate; they are darkness. They are the things that bump in the night, the shadows that creep under your bed – and they are legion. They are the nightmares of the old country; the horrors that dwell within the crypts of the dead; the primordial chaos of the beginning.”

“They are hellspawn then brother…”

“Hellspawn?” asked Artemis cutting short the statement of the young priest. “It was those dark ones who seduced your Devil – your Morningstar – into betraying that which he believed in. They corrupted him; they exposed the chaos in his heart. They are not hellspawn – they are more than that! Now that I have told you what they are, are you ready to face them?”

“Yes I am!” sternly answered the brash young priest.

The air inside the coach grew cold and fear crept into the heart of the young Father Simon, and then he began doubt – doubted his faith; doubted his being. He would have sunk into a quagmire of fear if not for Father Bernard who told Artemis to stop what he was doing.

“Wha… what was that?” asked the young priest shaking.

“A fraction of what you are to face. You need to be disciplined,” said Artemis in a voice that made the young man tremble even more. “You would easily succumb to madness of the chaos if ever you would encounter a Nameless.

“Then tell me how to fight them Artemis!” the young brash priest demanded struggling through the fear that he already felt.

Father Bernard snapped. “Behave yourself!” ordered the older priest, and the inside of the coach was once again normal. “There are things that you still need to know and it will be revealed to you soon, but if you do not practice patience then this order will not teach you anything.”

Quickly the young priest lowered his head. “I am sorry Father Bernard, Brother Artemis. I forget my place,” said Father Simon.

“You are young and you have so much to learn,” Artemis said with his face expressionless. “Death is easy to pale humans such as you, and the Nameless would easily twist your soul and bend your will. You will learn the true meaning of fear young one and you will learn to respect the darkness.”

The young priest remained silent after that. In his heart was a lingering doubt. It was something that he had not felt before, but this meeting with the dark individual Artemis proved to be a breaking point for the young Simon, for now the darkness slowly made its way into his heart – he slowly realized how weak he was.

“By the way, there is a new head of the order now, a cardinal. I haven’t met him yet, but tonight we soon shall.”

Artemis nodded. He shifted his gaze to the window with an unchanging expression on his face. This was a city that he had frequented during its earlier era, during the time of William the Conqueror, when he thought that he had found love only to be betrayed by the ones he thought were friends – that he had thought were his allies. He thought that such a creature as he could find an emotion called love amongst the mortals, but in the end he was wrong. Never again he said to himself then and he held that promise ever since.

But the face of London has changed, for the outside may look the same, the buildings, its people, but the inside was a completely different story. Ever since the dawning of technology, with the advent of the Analytical Engine, the computer as it was now called, the way of life in the nineteenth century drastically changed. Tech, the word used in the streets, spread like wildfire, thus a new way of thinking replaced the old, as machination of all sorts and wonders were created, and the old ways were almost forgotten. Artemis though was allied with the Church from since the time that the church gave him sanctuary, and the religion did not want to embrace the concept of tech, of the steam powered machines and the newfound ways to extend human life. They wanted to remain with the old way of thinking. They were the conservatives; they were the old ones.

His thoughts came into crossing with the concept of change, and the chaos, of the darkness within that played with even the most powerful of heaven’s warriors, and how it corrupted the light and turned it into night. But he belonged to a race that could not accept the change that transpired. Thus there was the war since the beginning and he was in the middle of it all. He could have sided with his people, yet the change that he saw around him caught his attention, and then he realized that he had a choice. It was order or chaos, nothing more, for there were no grey spots in the universe, no neutral sides that people think exist. There was only law and lawlessness, black or white – good or evil. They hated the One God; the whole concept of it. But in this Victorian Age of technology, the One God is overshadowed by a newer concept of man-made miracles. The Church itself fears this, for soon enough newer gods shall appear, and they are the ones created by the ingenious of man.

They were the creatures of magic; characters that were often talked about in taverns by a hearth, in the hours of bedtime to scare the babes to sleep. They brought the chaos to the universe thus a war was fought behind the veil that shadowed reality. Many had died in a war that lasted almost an eternity. In the background the lords of hell laughed and celebrated for chaos came upon the country of men as the One God sat in silence. These were the things that drew consequence within the mind of Artemis, a being that was now called a man, whose age was as ancient as time itself.

The carriage slowed down as the sound of metal grinding against metal was heard. The doors of the church opened. The carriage went in slowly the three inside alighted and went straight to the front doors of the church. A small door, which was part of a larger double door, creaked open. Inside was a small hunchback, young in age, who greeted the three individuals.

"Padre Bernard, Padre Simon," greeted the hunchback, but then gasped as he saw the six foot visitor loom before him."Master Artemis..."

Artemis stared at the small hunchback with eyes that could pierce the soul of a man. The smaller man trembled as he held the door. The two priests entered first and the small hunchback gave way without looking at his master’s guest. Quentin ignored the little man and walked straight ahead, but he heard with keen senses the hunchback's heart pounding intensely and the sound of sweat dropping on the marble floor. Like a wraith he silently walked the halls of the eerily noiseless church, and as the hunchback moved his eyes to a corner, he saw that the big man cast no shadow upon the candlelight. Though this may nerve anyone who notices it, the hunchback was already accustomed to the sight, yet the little man still shuddered at the sight of one such as Artemis.

The door of the church slowly closed.

***

A man in priestly robes sat silently behind a desk. The man was quite fat, with a balding head and a clean shaven face, though his face wore the age of fifty and five; he was but ten years younger. On his hand was a silver goblet that contained wine.

On a chair near a window sat a shady looking character, slim in all account that towered six feet if he stood, whose face was long and a nose that resembled a hawk’s beak, and over his eyes were dark circular spectacles. Patiently both men waited in a small office where books lined up in alcoves beside tall windows. Mounted candelabras gave an eerie scene, a decaying oldness that lingered in the air, as compared to the revolutionary age of science that dawned upon the world at present.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in, it’s open,” said the man in priestly robes.

The door creaked open and three individuals stepped in.

“Sit down,” said the man behind the desk. The three individuals did so as they were asked of. “It is good that you have arrived safely Father Bernard, and that you brought along that thing with you.”

Father Bernard sensed the sarcasm in the voice of the fat priest behind the desk.

“You realize that he is needed Cardinal. We have always worked with Artemis for the longest time and he has always proven himself useful in every situation that we encountered.”

“Yes, but that was before my time Father Bernard, before I was placed in a position to lead this order into a new era. I do not believe that we would win this war with mere sorcery alone. Your ways, the old ways, have battered and beaten our forces – the forces of God – into the brink of near annihilation. This is a time of action, and I place this action into my hands to win this war that we so long have fought!”

“And how do you propose to do that Cardinal Jesu?” questioned an irritated Father Bernard.

“By inducing technology into the aspect of our work.”

The mention of technology raised several eyebrows in the room, as Father Bernard and Father Simon looked at each other with concern, and Cardinal Jesu smiled cynically. Artemis stared at the cardinal who in turn tried not to look at the huge fellow, instead Jesu turned to the direction of the thin man who sat at the other end of the room.

“This is Mr. Guile,” the cardinal said and the thin man nodded in recognition. “He is a proprietor, one whose creations have impressed me, and thus eventually led me to the conclusion that he can do the job more efficiently.”

“What do you mean cardinal?”

“I mean technology Father Bernard. Mr. Guile and his machines are revolutionary and with his help we could easily destroy a Nameless without a single loss amongst our men.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” asked Artemis without taking his eyes off the cardinal.

The cardinal smiled.

Mr. Guile stood a lifted a metal box that was a foot square in all sides and placed it on the cardinal’s desk. Upon the press of a button the box hummed and the device lit up lines that ran across its surface. It was a harmless blue light that spread throughout the cardinal’s office, but it made Artemis uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and this time he was the one who stared away from the direction of the cardinal while Jessu’s grin widened.

“Is this making you uncomfortable Mr. Artemis?”

“What is it?” asked an irritated Artemis.

“It is called ultraviolet Mr. Artemis,” said Mr. Guile who spoke in a high-pitch voice, “A new way of harnessing the pure essence of radiation that inflicts wound to your kind. Are you in pain already?”

“It is irritating. Continue more of it and you will know what pain feel like.”

“I see,” said Mr. Guile. “He is stronger than the others. Then perhaps this will induce pain.”

Mr. Guile pressed a second button and quickly the ultraviolet light emitted by the lines on the box shifted into one place. Out of a circular lens that shot out a beam that was focused on Artemis’ shoulder. It caught fire and the big man jolted from where he sat. A wave of anger overwhelmed him and slowly the room began to get dark.

“Stop this madness now cardinal!” demanded the voice of Father Bernard in the dark. “Stop this Artemis!”

There was still darkness. But suddenly a beam of light pierced the darkness and this time it was much brighter than the first ultraviolet ray. It blasted Artemis on the chest that burned through his suit and threw him right through the door.

“This is the light of God you Nameless bastard!” screamed Cardinal Jesu in triumph. “We have found our weapon against your kind and this crusade against the darkness shall soon be over!”

“Have you gone mad cardinal?” questioned Father Bernard through the chaos.

“Not mad Bernard, but simply pleased, for I have found in Tech the solution to all our horrors, and I shall do what this order should have done a long time ago – eradicate the Nameless once and for all!”

As the cardinal reveled in the thought that Mr. Guile’s machine did hurt a creature such as Artemis, the room once again grew dark, and coldness filled the air, but it was only for a moment. The voice of Artemis was heard, as he spoke with an echo that reverberated, and he said: “You have trifled with me after all my services. You will know fear cardinal… and you will know my wrath.”

The room was normal once again. The coldness was gone.

“What were you thinking cardinal?” demanded Father Bernard. “We have a problem and he is the only one who could help us! We have already lost so much!”

“Exactly Father Bernard. We have already lost so much. Isn’t it time to change all of that? We do not need his services anymore.”

“But I summoned him here, and after so long a travel, we have been rude to Artemis,”

“You talk as if he is a person father. He is not, nor will he ever will be, and he is one of the enemy thus he must be disposed of.”

“You are bloody ungrateful cardinal!”

“That I may be, but I hold all the cards now. You will escort Mr. Guile to the sewers Father Bernard, you and your assistant Father Simon. You will destroy this Nameless that haunts my city with Mr. Guile and his weapon.”

***

The sewer beneath London was cold, damp, and putrid place that no human could ever live in. But three individuals had to bear the stench of the wretched environment, for they hunted a killer, and that killer lived in the darkest pits of a sophisticated metropolis.

Mr. Guile held the metal box that radiated ultraviolet rays on one hand and a flashlight on the other. Behind him was Father Bernard who held an iron cross and a dagger, while last was the young Father Simon who nervously eyed his surroundings while shaking hands held a dagger and another flashlight. The echoes of rats filled the squared tunnel of earth-worked architecture. But most of all, the darkness overwhelmed the construct that was the underbelly of London.

“Father, I fear…”

“Fear nothing Father Simon. God has always protected us. This is your test of fire. Prove yourself in His eyes and become his weapon against the darkness.”

“But you already have a weapon,” interjected Mr. Guile with a cynical smile on his long face. “Your god does not exist in this underground world. The only thing you can trust is the weapon that I hold in my hand, that and nothing more.”

Both priests made a sign of the cross. “You are a blasphemer Mr. Guile, may God forgive you,” said Father Bernard.

“My god is the machine father.”

“Should we take this abuse from the cardinal father?” asked Father Simon.

“Keep silent Father Simon!” demanded Father Bernard. “He is still the cardinal and we should respect his decisions.”

“You lot are pathetic,” interjected Mr. Guile. “You blindly follow the will of whoever leads you even though it goes against what you believe in. Though I have to admit I admire your cardinal, at least he has vision unlike the rest of you.”

This statement brought frowns upon the faces of the two priests. A scowl soon followed as the younger one poised himself to strike the lean fellow but was soon stopped by the older Father Bernard.

“This is not the time to do foolish things Father Simon. Restrain yourself”

“Yes restrain yourself you foolish brute,” said Mr. Guile with a wide grin.

“You stay out of this Mr. Guile. Don’t make it anymore complicated as it is.”

“Science is always complicated father; fact is complicated.”

Again Mr. Guile showed his wide grin. Again the two priests scowled.

The three individuals pressed on until they reached a circular clearing with several exits that led to other tunnels. This place was unfinished and the earth-worked structure was rough and unpolished. Iron beams jutted upwards that held the ceiling in place. High above was a circular iron grate that led to the streets of London. The sound of steam engines powering iron carriages would fade in and out echoing within the gloomy underbelly mingling with the sound of running water.

“Here is where we last encountered them,” said Father Bernard almost in a whisper. “Actually up there, and then they crawled down here. We were lucky that time, we hadn’t had the aid of Artemis then, but still we managed to survive.”

“Here is where they will die father,” answered a confident Mr. Guile as he placed his machine on a dry elevated area by the circular wall. “Should we wait, or shall I call them instead?”

“Do not be so arrogant Mr. Guile, you do not know your enemy.”

“No matter father,” and Mr. Guile stood on the dry elevation and called out the Nameless in a brash and blatant manner. “Oi! You scurvy lot! Come out or I’ll flush you out!”

There was no answer.

Father Simon’s sweat was heavy and he stared upon his hands that shook uncontrollably.

“Maybe they’re scared and can’t face me,” boasted Mr. Guile.

“Maybe,” answered a female voice that whispered from the shadows.

The three individuals were alerted. Hurriedly Mr. Guile switched on his little black box of ultraviolet light. The machine hummed once more like a little creature coming to life. Once more the lines that ran across the surface of the metal box illuminated the ultraviolet light. A bright bluish light illuminated the cavernous area and the shadows thinned in every corner. Whispers came about, of different voices saying different things, in a language ancient and seeming undecipherable. But then the voices started to scream in pain.

“Alas foul creatures, you have met your match,” said a proud Mr. Guile as he stood straight within the blue light with his arms raised in triumph.

But then the shadows moved, shifting and forming, and it ate the light that the little metal box radiated. Mr. Guile who stood proud suddenly shifted in expression, as he saw the darkness eat away the light, and even though the screams grew louder and louder, the shadows moved forward.

“Must increase the intensity!” screamed a worried Mr. Guile bent down and pressed another button.

The metal box screeched and its engine hummed frantically from within. The light was brighter now and the cavern was soon filled with heat. From the side Father Bernard knelt to a corner while his companion Father Simon convulsed as he clutched his dagger. Still the shadows came and this time the sound of the world above that came through iron grates were no more. Sweating profusely, Mr. Guile dropped his flashlight and grabbed his precious metal box. He ignored the heated plate and pressed another button that now redirected the illumination into a single beam. Like a blade that extended aimlessly he arched the beam that cut through the shadows. This time the screams grew less and less – until the box broke down.

The metal box was suddenly silent. The world was suddenly cloaked in darkness.

Where once were screams now laughter erupted, and those in the darkness saw the pathetic attempts of Mr. Guile to revive his box. Then he saw what only a few have seen – the darkness and the horrors within – as the Nameless toyed with him, played with his mind and his soul. The visage of a thousand evils, of chaos unbound wrapped itself to the man that was Mr. Guile, and he screamed, and he convulsed wetting his pants in the process.

They laughed at him, the pathetic human who was their toy, but the Nameless stopped, and the shadows receded but only a few meters in diameter. Within the circle that the shadows have made, in front of a feeble Mr. Guile, a shadow coalesced into the form of a man. It was Artemis.

“You know who I am,” he said with authority.

“Yesss we know,” they answered.

“You know what I can do.”

“Yesss we know.”

“This man is mine. None of you may lay claim to him.”

“Yessss…” they answered.

“Th-thank you…” mumbled Mr. Guile.

“You are wrong thin man,” said Artemis as he faced an almost fragile Mr. Guile. “Your technology – as ever – useless. You are useless. I did not come to save you. I came to show you fear.”

Once again darkness enveloped Mr. Guile, as once more he screamed, and his nightmares began to take shape anew. He himself as a child, when he was seven, with his blue shorts and white-collar shirt, with his knee-high white socks and shiny black shoes, with his big spectacles that almost covered his small face, and the monsters that waited for him after school. He clutched his teddy, his reliable teddy, as the monsters came near, but to his surprised the ugly things retracted their steps, turned the other way and ran screaming.

He smiled. But soon turned into a sullen face of fear, for his teddy, the ever-reliable stuffed-toy that he held for comfort turned its head towards him and smiled.

He screamed. Again he wet his pants in the nightmare.

“How do you like the nightmare?” the teddy asked. “I told you I will show you fear. Goodbye Mr. Guile. We shall never meet each other again.”

Mr. Guile lay whimpering on the wet pavement. A tall figure of a man stood towering before him. He shook, he wept, he whimpered. Forever the nightmare played in his mind; forever the darkness embraced his soul. He would not wake up.

Artemis bent over and picked-up the metal box that caused him momentary pain. Such a powerful device would prove to be a great advantage for him, but nonetheless he crushed the miserable thing with his hands and threw it aside.

The shadows were gone.

Two individuals were left with him. Father Bernard lay on the ground unconscious. Father Simon, on the other hand, stared at him with a grim look on his face.

“You are weak young one,” said Artemis to the young priest. “The darkness has claimed you.”

The young Father Simon launched himself in the air, dagger in hand, and slammed onto the waiting Artemis. A loud thud was made and the bigger man came crashing on the pavement that made the ground tremble. Stoically the larger man lay seemingly helpless beneath the stronger but smaller individual.

“Foolish betrayer,” said Father Simon in many voices that spoke in unison, “You are a failed cause to us, and thus you must perish like all betrayers do.”

“I am not the fool. It is all of you. Do you think you outnumber me? Do you think I could not destroy you all because of that body that you possess?”

“Yessssss…”

“Then you are wrong… all of you are wrong.”

And then there was darkness.

***

The steam carriage made its way through the streets of London. It was four in the morning and nearing dawn. Father Bernard regained consciousness and saw himself in the inside of a carriage with Artemis beside him. They stank a great deal.

“We made it alive?” he asked surprisingly.

“Yes,” the larger man answered.

“Where is Father Simon?”

“I said before, he was weak, and his weakness was taken advantage of by our enemies. The darkness has claimed him.”

The old priest shed a tear.

“Weep not for him. We do not need weak individuals in this war.”

“How can you say that? Have you not learned anything about being human?”

“I have father, but there is no time for human compassion in a war such as this – we need empty hearts so that the darkness cannot corrupt us.”

“Empty hearts like yours?”

“Perhaps.”

“And what of Mr. Guile and his machine?”

“Useless. Technology cannot fight the things that it cannot understand.”

“So is he dead then?”

“No. Merely lost in his own nightmares.”

“I see.”

The carriage sped on with the whirr of its motor engine buzzing in the air. Its driver in a heavy coat announced to his passengers that they were nearing their destination.

“Where are going?” Father Bernard asked.

“Why to your church of course.”

“But you cannot go in there. The cardinal despises you.”

“I know that, that is why I am going to talk to him, and finish our conversation once and for all.”

Artemis slowly turned towards Father Bernard who looked at his companion with concern. He knew what this creature was capable of, and for the first time since they met, Artemis smiled and this brought shivers to his very soul.

IMMORTALIS PERSONAE

2010-02-01T10:14:00.004+08:00

I thought that I could forget about the tragedy, of the things that happened so very long ago, and the unbelievable truth to why I still exist to this very day. But no matter what I do I could never forget, for the memories are embedded deep within my soul, and I remember the events vividly like it was only yesterday.

December 7, 1941

I was young back then, in the early stages of my so-called existence, when I was eighteen to be precise. It was my birthday. We were all happy. During that time this country was called the Pearl of the Orient, a glistening hub of social attraction in region known as Asia. Life, for all its worth, was very simple back then.

***

We had a house, a very large house that stood since the time of the Spanish occupation. It was my grandfather’s, a two storey stone house that was richly dedicated to the lavish lifestyle that he had back then. He was Spanish, and an official of rank; well respected in the community, and to the least until the end of his era, the community knew how to have a good time. People remembered my grandfather to be a good man. He married my grandmother at a late age; he was fifty and my grandmother, a Filipina, was only twenty-two. They lived happily in that house that my grandfather built, and he took real care of my father and his brothers, until such that my grandfather passed away and later on my grandmother. Then my father and my two uncles lived there, along with their wives and their children.

I was the eldest in Sebastian’s offspring, and I had a little sister who came by the name of Teresa. My uncles had their own sets of offspring: Juan had three and Benigno had five. And we all lived in that huge stone house that had eight bedrooms that could fit the three families altogether. We were happy in then, as most of us attended school, with my sister and me being the only ones in college. I was learning the trade skill of machine repair back then, when all was well, until that fateful day when all our lives changed for the worse.

December 26, 1941

The day the Japanese came to our city. The city was declared open, but even though this proclamation of neutrality did not stop the bombs that fell and the airplanes that dropped them. Shells exploded in the different corners of the city. I heard the screams of the women, the children, and the bravely cries of the men, and all tried to run for cover as loud explosions rocked the city’s foundation. Chaos had reared its ugly head upon the Pearl of the Orient and its prestigious city – a city that I very much adored. It lasted for several minutes, as the buzz of a hundred engines was heard and the whistle of a thousand bombs cried in maddening rage, and then the furious assault came to a halt. There was a deathly calm afterwards.

I rose from where I lay, with my chest on the floor and hands covering my head. I saw the dust that settled on floor along with Teresa and my mother who lay near the old trunk. My father was outside that time and I rushed downstairs to see if he was all right. I saw him standing in the doorway pressing his hand against his head. When I got closer I saw that he was bleeding. There was a wound on his head that he had acquired from falling debris. Like a wave of crashing noise I heard screams and shouts from the outside that had broken the momentary silence. The streets were a mess, where rubble laid everywhere, houses burned from afar, and people running all around in panic. I thought to myself that we were lucky; that the bombs did not fall on top of us and killed us. I helped my father inside the house and all three families gathered in the large living room. We opened the radio to hear what was going on from those credible enough to tell us. The announcer told us that the Japanese had landed in the shores of Lingayen and that they were on they way to Manila.

I looked out the window and saw the streets empty hours after the chaos had started. I waited for the foreigners to come, the invaders of our land that the anchor on the radio warned about. But soon the radio died and all that we heard was static. It was nighttime, as I heard the chaos start once more, with explosions from afar, as loud gunfire erupted in an orchestra of musical chaos. The horizon lit in orange-fiery glows sparking on and off like gigantic fireflies playing in a midnight forest. It lasted all throughout the night until the morning after.

By the next morning of the second day of the New Year, I heard the sound of what seemed to be a thousand boots thumping hard against the pavement. To me it sounded more like thunder pounding in the heavens – the wrath of the eastern gods has come to Manila. The local soldiers came running through the streets, as some were bloodied and limping, while others held their comrades practically carrying them, and the rest fired their rifles from behind as the enemy advanced within the city. Gunshots pounded everywhere, in every corner and every alleyway, and my family held each other tight and hid within the deepest room in the house, whilst I braved the anarchy and watched through the slit of an almost closed window. They were many and we were few.

Blood ran on the once peaceful streets until such that our soldiers were brutally put down because of their resistance. And then the sound machines passed by and I saw the metal monsters that dared defy and invade the Pearl of the Orient. I felt the anger rush to my head; I felt the rage swell, as my hands were clenched and fists were ready to fly. But I knew that the enemy were many and I was but one.

The Japanese soldiers entered form one house to another and dragged every family outside. Man, woman and child were practically manhandled with the tips of bayonets pressing hard against human flesh. There were cries and screams of anger, and defiance of each individual taken from their homes were met with a hard knock from the bottom of rifles. My family and I were taken as well. But at the end of the day we were never harmed and were returned to our respective homes.

Around the time of the month of May, the allied troops of Filipinos and Americans surrendered after Corrigedor waved the white flag. We heard over the radio, from Lieutenant General Wainright, of the order of surrender, and all of us were disheartened at this announcement. General Douglas McArthur had left us – he, the Commonwealth government and all his troops. I hated the Americans that day, although I knew the reason for their leaving, but still we were left to fend-off for ourselves. We were helpless at that time and realizing this doom I was not able to hear McArthur’s pledge of returning. And that was that. We were occupied. New laws and a new government was established, and a new president was hailed become the puppet to the puppet masters. They told us that we were to live as we have lived before they came, but in reality the life we would live came with a hefty price.

***

October 20, 1943

Almost two years have passed since the day the bombs dropped on Manila. Two years and even though life went on it was not the same anymore. War had taken its toll on society. The ruin of a once proud society laid at the edge of a cliff overlooking emptiness and the courage of the people slowly sank in a quagmire of fear and loathing. We were, at that time, uncertain of what would happen next. We heard rumors of the deaths administered by the invaders to those who they think were traitors to their cause.

My parents were fearful of what might happen to my sister and me. My uncles worried about the same thing about their children. Even though a shadow of our former lives was still there, nothing was ever the same again. Uncertainty hung in the walls and ceiling of our house; uncertainty ruled our lives – that is at least on my family’s part. As for me, anger boiled within and my blood was tainted with the color of vengeance. I wanted to rise up in the ashes of society’s ruin and deliver an unwavering fist of justice upon the invaders. Though strong was my will my body was not. What can a twenty-year-old bag of flesh and bones do against the machinations of war?

But deep inside I heard a voice that was my own convincing me that I can. It told me to have faith and that I held a power that I had long since forgotten. Could I have this power, or has the madness taken over me? Then I began talking to myself, which of course I kept from everyone. But there was one time that Teresa caught me doing this, in a darkened corner in the cellars of the house. My sister feared for me realizing that it was only one voice that answered each other. I calmed her down and told her that I was merely amusing myself. She was not convinced.

There were propagandas made in the form of the written word, sometimes assisted by the drawings of funny caricatures, but all saying that the invasion was friendly and that the Americans were the enemy. But we all wore masks and agreed to the terms of those in power, for we feared for our lives, and I for one agreed on this for my family’s sake. But at the back of my head I knew that our time of freedom would come to an end.

I remember it was a Monday when the soldiers knocked heavily on our door. My mother opened it to see five of them stare back at her. She asked what they wanted. They told her that the three brothers who owned the house would be escorted to the plaza for questioning. My mother trembled; I saw her tremble. Quickly I ran up the stairs to where my father sat reading one of the printed propagandas. He greeted me with a smile but frowned after hearing of the reason for my being there. We both went down the stairs, and as soon as the soldiers saw my father, they barged in throwing my mother to one side and roughly took my father outside. They talked to my father in raised voices with a language I could hardly understand.

Out the house they dragged my father, followed by my uncles, and then the rest of their families, as we all tried to plead with the soldiers. But they wore iron faces and they looked at us with contempt. One of them pushed my mother, and she and her white dress rolled on the muddy ground. This angered my father and he attacked the soldier who pushed my mother, and then all the soldiers ganged-up on my father, as they beat him with fists and the butt of their rifles. My two uncles, enraged, entered in a foray against the soldiers. They too were beaten up. All we could do was weep as we bore witness to the soldier’s cruelty. They dragged my father and my uncles, who were weakened and bloodies, and I clenched my fist in a rage.

We found out later that a Makapili had pointed out the three brothers conniving with rebels and relaying information. Of course this was unfounded but nevertheless truthful in the eyes of turn-faced countrymen. Three days from the incident and we never heard from the three brothers again. We headed to the nearest barracks to see the condition that my father and his brothers were in. They gave us none and we were left to guess of the state that they were in.

My mother wept day and night, as I began to worry about her health, for she ate less and less, and most of the time would sit by the window and stare aimlessly at the sky. My sister sank into depression and anxiety, as she and my cousins huddled, fearful of even going out of the room that they were in. I was the only one who was not afraid. I was the only one who was angry.

After five days of no news I opted to find answers on my own. It was moonless night when I sneaked out of the house and into the shadows of the streets. Hugging the walls of shadowed houses I evaded the night patrol. The curfew was in effect and anyone who was caught would either be beaten up or thrown into jail. I was not afraid of this, for at that time I was ready to die.

Through the quiet alleyways and darkened corners I stealthily moved to where I knew most of the prisoners were taken, in an old university that once stood as a paragon of knowledge now used by the invaders as a barracks and a prison camp. I saw the walls of the old university from a distance as soldiers patrolled the vicinity and searchlights scoured the vicinity. Silently I moved forward avoiding the searchlights, and once I came close to the walls I hugged it pressing my body hard, as I crept slowly to a darkened corner. There I saw my opportunity, and over the wall I went, with a tree behind me that provided cover. Barbwires cut my hands and legs but the pain was numbed by the rage that swelled within me. And down the other side I dropped onto a pile of leaves that broke my fall.

That part of the wall was quite unguarded. I surveyed the area and planned my advance within the old university. I saw Japanese guards flutter in and out of the light provided by the lampposts. They were like mindless parasites, crawling and feeding-off the luxury of others, as they slowly kill and rape their host. Through the shadows I looked with unnerved eyes swelling with hate, watching them walk with rifles and smoke their cigarettes. Oh how I wanted to burst out of the shadows and murder the murderers with my bare hands. Yet, I could not, for I knew of the reality of things, and that the moment they see they would surely fire their rifle… and yet I had a feeling deep down that I could.

I fluttered within the darkness of unlit places, where the lampposts were dead and no amount of light penetrated the corners. I studied the buildings carefully trying to figure out where they kept the prisoners. And then soldiers stopped in front of where I hid, which was inside an overgrowth of flora. They pissed on my direction. I was taken aback. They were alerted. They spoke in their language that I hardly understood and started poking the bushes with their bayonets. I saw the outlines of those bayonets as they pierced through the overgrowth. I dodged the blades.

And then the thrusting stopped. I heard the clicking of rifles and the scream of angry soldiers. I heard gunfire, and the piercing of bullet through flesh, as this went on several more times. I felt my hands were wet and my body numb; I felt the cold stare of death penetrate my soul. The last thing I saw were the bayonets of soldiers poking their weapons against my numb body.

And I saw darkness.

***

October 22, 1943

I woke up in a dark place that reeked with the smell of things foul and rotten. It was night and the cell was dark, and I saw things move within the darkness, and they writhed and slithered, and I was terrified not knowing where I was. Yes, I remembered being shot, being stabbed over and over again, and I remembered the darkness consume me. In this cell were the moans and hiss of things, and I shook from where I sat, but then I remembered my purpose and again the anger swelled within me.

In my rage I flailed my arms and swung about the creatures in the darkness. They flew away from me, but they bit hard against my flesh, as I swung more and more, and my rage echoed within the walls of that dark place. Then I heard voices, of tongues speaking in Japanese, and in front of me I heard the grating of a door being opened followed by a burst of bright light that suddenly blinded me. I heard the thumping boots and the screams of men and arms clasping me from all around as the butt of rifles slamming hard against my face. I felt the blood trickle down my face once more, yet there was no pain at all.

I was dragged outside. I heard the crack of rifles echo in the chamber behind me, and as I looked down, I saw with hazy vision a serpent writhe its way into freedom. It was shot dead before it could go far. My eyes cleared and I saw two soldiers dragging me, with more of them that followed behind, with rifles aimed and faces intense, and I felt a mixture of fear and excitement that swam all around. I saw where I was and it was far from where I last remembered being in. I saw thick walls and parapets; I saw large guns and anti-aircraft cannons and huge vehicles of war; and I saw many enemy soldiers as they stood to stare at me with curiosity.

I was confused.

I was taken to Japanese barracks within what seem to be Fort Santiago. There I was presented to one of the high-ranking officials, who scrutinized me as I knelt before them, curious of what I really am. And what was I? I questioned myself over and over again wondering what was rally going on. Was I in a dream? Was I dead? I knew not. But the fact was the Japanese was interested in me, as they spoke in their language pointing out my bloodied shirt with holes in it, and the dried blood that scattered all over my body.

I remember the puncture wounds. I remembered being fired upon. And then I remembered dying. And this was death – the same scene as when I was living.

This was death? Hell probably. The more of torture to my immortal soul as I languished in the thought of my life when I was alive. The imagery of the devils and the demons that spawned all around me taking the shapes of the things that I hated when I was alive. The invaders. Yes the invaders, for they took my father away from us, and they took me away from my family. They took away the freedom that we had long fought for, from invaders like them as well but from different lands. They tortured me with their visage… or so I thought.

Hell was a nice place, as it seemed to me at that time, when truth eluded me well, before the realization sank in.

Then they took me to an isolated chamber deep within the thick walls of the fort. There they experimented on me. It was torture and I shall not go into detail, but back then I accepted it as truth, for I thought that I was in hell, and knew of the stories about the dreaded place from the priests who told expounded on its scenery. More importantly the pain was unbearable. I passed out several times as they did things to me, cutting and placing my limbs back as though I was a puzzle, and it went on for several weeks until I became numb to the pain.

You would wonder why I haven’t died that day? You would wonder why I could still speak and tell you all these things? You would think I am a ghost, or the devil, or even God perhaps… but you are wrong. I am as flesh and blood as you are, at least that is what I believe, but in the end I shall leave the interpretation up to you.

***

February 23, 1945

Almost two years of torture, almost two years of pain. It felt like an eternity. How did I know that a year had gone by and another would eventually pass? Well in my long stay in that torture chamber strapped to a laboratory table, I learned their language – I learned Japanese. It was not that simple, yet it was not that hard. Do not ask me how I acquired the knowledge that would take a scholarly many years to perfect. I do not know the answer to that. All I know is that I understood them and thus I could speak to them. And they were astonished at this feat, marveled at the rapidity of my mind to understand – marveled at the capacity to tolerate pain. They told me of the day, the month, the year, and no matter how I pleaded to them to know of my family’s situation, they refused to answer me.

I was the guinea pig for the longest time, as they did things to me, and studied me intricately. Still they found no answer on how I could live even though my body resembled that of a mutilated corpse. I wondered the same thing myself. I had no clue of my being in that state. But my mind burned with rage, as the voices of those that I love, and they haunt me every single day. Rage is the only thing that keeps me alive. Rage is the only thing that fed me.

And then I heard the loud crackle like thunder off in the distance. I heard the rumbling of guns from afar muffled by the thick walls that surrounded me. But even though they were muffled, their sound was fearsome, as it shook the walls of the famed fort, and the eyes of my captors grew wary. And then came the ring of a phone, and one of my captors lifted it to speak, and the man on the other line yelled in panic. The message was relayed after the conversation. The siege of Manila had already started. There was panic amongst the men inside the torture chamber. I felt the fear boil within them. Yes. Feed me this fear.

They left in a flash, all but one, who stayed because I called to him. With deception I lured him in with my most pitiful display of emotion – and he was dragged into it. Slowly, shakily, he unstrapped me from where I lay, and with tears rolling down his face he begged for forgiveness as he helped me up. I clung to his shoulder, as my hand slipped to his sidearm, and I drew it swiftly. He noticed it too late for the gun was already pointed at him.

I saw the shock in his eyes. He probably wondered how I could stand firm amidst the broken bones and the shattered soul, when my body was a wreck and the only thing that was recognizable about me was the fire of rage that glowed in my eyes. And he fell to his knees, as he pleaded for his life, and he said that he had no choice for it was the will of the emperor. I told him I had no choice as well. I had to kill him. And so I did.

Out the walls of Fort Santiago I walked with a limp carrying a pistol that I used for my first kill. I knew it wouldn’t be the last. It was night. I saw panic inside the fort, where soldiers carried their rifles, with bayonets attached, and their faces were painted with panic and bloodlust. I felt my leg again, the one that was broken, and to my surprise it was not broken anymore. I could walk straight now, and a miracle it seems, that I felt well and alive once more.

The soldiers noticed me and began screaming with their guns pointed. I pointed back and began to fire. I killed a few but there were too many of them, and soon I found a swarm that was after me. Their guns fired in rapid succession and their bullets entered my flesh, but I felt no pain, and again the rage swelled within me. Emptying my clip I lunged at the nearest Jap and broke his neck. I procured another pistol and a rifle, and then I fired at each and every one of them. Down they fell with shock, as unbelieving eyes stared at the sight of me that of which death had no hold on. I killed every last one of them side the fort. I could not see anything but blood, the blood that spewed from the bodies of those I killed, and I exacted my vengeance upon my enemies.

But my rage did not stop there, for in the corner I saw movement within the shadows, and with a gun in my hand and knife in the other, I headed towards the shadows. I fired and slashed, and I heard the screams of men… and women. Wait. The screams of the women silenced the rage and broke the bloodlust. But it was too late, for I saw the deaths of innocents, the victims like me, and they fell by my hands.

I stared wide-eyed upon the havoc that I created. I screamed. I screamed so loud that I think the dead heard me, for I saw the ghosts of those who I slew, and they looked at with stares of horror.

I threw the weapon that I held upon the ground. Blood, both of my victims and mine, dripped upon my hands and stained my body. The chaos ensued within my mind once more as the mortar shells dropped upon the city. I ran screaming out of the fort and into the streets of Intramuros where soldiers hunkered in shadowy bunkers and civilians running and hiding and screaming. From afar the light of roaring canons and angry guns blazed in the horizon, as a crescent moon silently watched from above, and the stars were witness to the anarchy at play.

I ran screaming like madman, as I though I was mad in that moment, and it brought shivers to those who heard me. The sound of the bedlam was seemingly silenced, and everyone stared at me, as I existed the famed walled city.

Through the streets of Manila I scuttled. For days I hid in the darkness, as I was a witness to the massacre of my people in the hands of the invaders. I heard that the American troops were forcing their way in and that this battle would soon be over. I hid in a hospital where the nurses tended to my already scabbing wounds. It was there in that hospital that I saw her for the last time; it was there that I saw my sister Teresa.

She lay on a bed bandaged all over and blood plasma being transferred to her arm. She was in an out of consciousness as I sat beside her bed holding firmly her hand. The nurses and the doctors asked who I was and I told them I was her brother. They told me that she was seen lying in a corner stripped naked with a dead elderly woman who swam in her own blood just a few feet away. I told them that it must have been my mother; they were inseparable. They told me that she would not live long, for her body was severely brutalized to the point of death.

I wept, as I clenched my fist hard, scolding myself for not being able to save her. I could have saved her; I had the power to do so. Yet I could not and my mind slipped away as I stared into her slowly fading visage.

She died the next morning while I held her hand. But before I woken to find out this poignant detail, I dreamt of her, or I think I dreamt of her, as at least I saw her for one last time. And she told me that her will was exacted and her wish granted, that I be vested upon the faculty of vengeance upon the evils of the invaders, and that death would never hold me. She then faded into the light and told me never to follow.

I thought at first that it was some folly, a trick of my maddened mind perhaps, of the vision and the message that was given to me. Yet I was startled when I realized that it was no mere coincidence that I be standing vengeful in the midst of a deathly plane. It was revealed to me, and from then on, I believed. Would you?

The bombs dropped over the hospital and the enemy stormed in, as they vented their frustration of an already failing war, when the tides of battle have already been shifted, and their wills slowly reduced to nothing. They tried to hurt as many as they could, but I was there, and monster amid monsters, and I took down as many as I could. I killed many of them, for a day and a night, as the hospital burned along with the carcass of my long dead sister.

***

March 4, 1945

The war was finally over. Many had died. I walked through a blasted land where the fires of battle still burn; where a memory of an era both happy and sad were all washed away by a sea of grotesque images. There was a calm that day, one that would be remembered in infamy, and I bore witness to it all knowing the sad truth that my life was over. I walked like the ghosts of the city: confused and miserable, even though I was still alive. I knew I was already dead, for that part of me that was alive was buried with the memory of my sister as lay dying in a hospital bed. From then on I walked with uncertainty.

***

March 4, 2010

I have outlived my lifespan. Still it haunts me to this very day, as I live in a city that had lost its soul. The Pearl of the Orient is no more and its heyday of beauty and glory dead in every way. Everyday I walk to the hospital where I saw my sister for the last time, and I would sit in a space that was now a parking lot remembering the details of that occurrence. I could not forget no matter how hard I tried. This was Teresa’s gift to me; this was Teresa’s curse.

I see the ghosts of the dead walking the same streets that they have walked before, scuttling confused in a community that did not want to go away – that wanted to live once more. I pity them.

I too cannot escape this city, for no matter how far I travel, I am always lured back. So here I wander aimlessly, unable to die, unable to forget. Now you decide whether you want to believe me or not, but what I have told you is the truth, and inevitably, it will never be forgotten. Death has forsaken me, perhaps to tell this story, but I long to see those dark hands take me away into nothingness. Forever is a lonely word, and I fear that eternity is a demon that would always keep me company.

SEFANIN'S CURIOUS (PUBLISHED IN ORION'S CHILD EZINE JANUARY 2010)

2010-02-01T09:54:00.005+08:00

I tell my unbelievable story from the point in time where I was not a believer. It was in the early morning that I arrived in the old town, and the weather was quite cold though it was a cloudless sky and the sun was out. Chilly, I thought rather, as it was close to winter but the snow had not fallen yet. But I did not mind the cold, or the broken heater in my car, for it was the view of the old town itself and its nature that captivated me. The serene atmosphere with a few people roaming about, with their old homes of bricks and clay and smoking chimneys, and the pine forest with its low mist that ascending into the mountains beyond.

But it was not the old town itself, or its beauty for that matter that drew me to this location. Rather it was a specific shop, which stories say, was older than the old town itself. It was called SEFENIN’S CURIOUS (a new name, I’ve heard, but yet rumor, and it is said that its original name had long been forgotten) and it indeed housed many curious things.

I went pass the town square, stopped my car as sheep crossed my path, and then moved on to the edge of the old town where the shop was located. The folks around here were not used to visitors and they would tend to stare at the strangers who came their way. They stared at my old broken-down beamer as I slowly drove by and greeted each person that I passed. Those that I met were mostly old folks carrying baskets of to the market place somewhere or lofting around smoking their pipes. Then I came across a group of children with a female elder accompanying them; probably off to school I told myself – it was a Monday after all. Then I passed the old church where an old graveyard was located at the back. The architecture was reminiscent of old baroque features that decayed with age though its grandeur still intact.

At last I saw the shop that housed curious things as I came around the bend and neared the town’s edge. Across it was an old café where a few of the old folks sat leisurely and ate and drank their coffee. I parked my car in front of Sefenin’s Curious and got out. There was a sign at the door that said CLOSED. Was I too early? I looked at my watch and saw that it was eight thirty. I guess I was early. No worries, I told myself, for the café was open and I realized that my belly craved for something hot.

Across the street I went and into the café I entered. The old folks having their breakfast stopped for a moment, glanced at me, and then went about their business. The café had a homey atmosphere; where a lit fireplace stood at the far end, where the interiors of old stone architecture, and the tables and the chairs were made of old wood that was evident of old age. On the counter were several edible items covered in glass casings, and behind was a middle-aged woman, hair tied at the back of her head to a knot, wearing a thick green sweater. She looked at me as I sat at the counter. She asked me of my order, in English with her thick accent, seeing that I was a foreigner, and I told her that I wanted coffee.

She nodded and produced a mug that she poured a fresh brew into. Then she offered me some sausages that would go very well with the hot coffee and I immediately nodded. She then turned to talk to her cook in the kitchen and spoke in their native language, which I guess, was an order to prepare my sausages. I silently sipped my coffee and admired the old café from the inside, and I once in a while glanced to see if there was any sign that Sefanin’s was already opening. But still it was closed.

The woman then plopped both her arms on the counter and looked at me curious. I thought it was rude at first, for this old woman was staring directly at me, and I was customer. Bad move for business I exclaimed to myself. But thoughts of her rudeness were overshadowed by the fact that I saw a strange feature that I do not often see in the people that I have dealt with. I noticed that her eyes were of mismatched colors. There was something about the woman, something different, odd for a fact, and though no matter how hard I tried to think about it, I could not place a hand on it. Then she asked me if I was there for Sefanin’s Curious. I nodded silently. Somehow the woman scared me to a degree, and I suddenly felt small and insignificant. She stared at me for a while with her mismatched eyes, and I turned to my coffee that I held in both hands, lifted the mug to sip some more. When I placed down the mug her eyes were still fixed at me. I asked her if there was a problem with me, if I had offended her in any way to procure such a stare of concern, but she shook her head and told me the reason for her curious stare. She asked if I knew what I was looking for, of the reason behind why I was drawn to the likes of Sefanin’s Curious. I answered her no. Simply put, I told her I was a historian interested in exotic finds, and I wanted to know the story behind Sefanin’s Curious, or at least the reason behind its name.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter closed her eyes and shook her head. She told me that there was more to Sefanin’s Curious than just an old crumbling store, more than mere bricks stacked upon each other to set up a wall sheltering lifeless artifacts, and it was something that she dare not say for the walls of the old town had ears. She told me that I had to find out for myself. She warned me never to mock the storekeeper, or laugh at the things that I would find inside the store, for those who guarded the store did not have a sense of humor, and even a sense of reasoning for that matter, for they were ancient and the ways of modern society were alien to them. She told me that they must never be tempted, for there were those who went into Sefanin’s Curious and laughed, and jested at the items inside, thus the guardians punished them for this and they were never seen again. I asked her if she was talking about a security guard, a man, a real man, who stood sentry to the store. I turned for a moment to see the store and found no guard stationed at the door. She shook her head and said that I had not understood what she was talking about, that the modern world had already corrupted the mind of the young and has forgotten the old ways. She said I would have to see to believe.

I nodded to her, but it was somewhat of a blank nod, for even if I understood what she was talking about, I did not believe the stories of the supernatural. I did not believe in ghosts or goblins, angels or demons, or magic for that matter. I was a man of science and history. Knowledge was my tool, not some incantation or prayer to gods that did not exist. This was my armament. But I had respect for the beliefs of others and was in no way an arrogant bastard who would defunct every superstition that came my way. I politely nodded to the kind lady behind the counter, and she smiled back at me, but it was not a smile of kindly acceptance or gratitude for lending an ear. It was more like a smile that told me I would see what she was talking about later on. I did not start the discussion on what I believed her smile meant nor did I further the discussion on Sefanin’s Curious, for the sausages where ready. She gently placed the platter of two fat ones steaming with scrambled eggs and a croissant, and she told me bon appétit, again with her thick accent. I hungrily ate. I turned around to see that a sign of OPEN was placed on store’s door. I hurried to eat my breakfast, as the reason of my being here had already presented itself with as sign that said OPEN.

* * *

The sun was gone when I stepped out of the café, as the wind breezed anew bringing in a colder atmosphere to the old town, and it crept through my already thick coat. The sky grew dim as thick clouds became a canopy where the sun and a clear blue sky were once was, and white flakes slowly fell from the sky like light feathers gently touching the surface of the earth. I looked to the sky and the sudden outpour of grayness, as I felt the snow touch my face, and I looked to Sefanin’s Curious and headed towards the peculiar store. As I walked towards the store time seemed to have slowed, as I heard my footsteps echo, and the snow seem to stop in midair. I noticed this but it only happened for a fraction of a moment, and then everything resumed to the way it was. My head spun momentarily as I neared the entrance of the store, and I bent down with both hands on my knees for support, but the dizziness stopped as fast as it started. I straightened myself and entered knocked on the door of Sefanin’s Curious. The door opened with a wicked creak.

A wicked old hand emerged from the inside and held the door’s end, followed by the appearance of a tall old man’s face, all withered and tattered with lines, with a turban and white beard that matched an aged form. His eyes were bore the reddest hues I have ever seen, for this was the first time I met a man with orbs like rubies, and I felt his stare penetrate my very soul. His skin was of the oddest color, that of a dark bluish hue, as I read once of a man who drank from a chemical that made his skin blue, and thought that this was the kind of man that would do the same thing. It would be evident in the color of his skin, but I did not offend the fellow by asking him such a preposterous question. Instead I greeted him with a well-mannered gesture and asked him if the store was open. The tall old man, roughly around seven feet I guess, with an unnerving stare, looked at me without talking – and smiled. He opened the door for me to enter, and enter the store I did.

I stepped into Sefanin’s Curious and to my surprise found that the store was bigger in the inside than it looked on the outside. There was a counter at the far end of the corner with a door that probably led to a back room. There was a hearth that brightly burned in the middle of the big room. There were shelves that hosted different ornaments, with three columns to the one on my right and seven to one on my left, and the one in my left extended further back to a small alcove where another shelf lay adjacent. Each shelf had thirteen rows with the bottom-most part drawers with locked doors. Then I noticed that the shelves reached the store’s ceiling, which was a good fourteen feet upon my estimation, and there was a rolling ladder to reach the topmost shelf. The ceiling was made of wood, crumbling and old, while the floor was made of old bricks, the same material as the old building. The inside was dusty, with cobwebs like silken cloth swaying mostly from the ceiling, and decay ran rampant in the rustic old setting that I know believed to be ancient. But even though the inside’s architecture and design warranted attention, it was not the store’s interior that caught my eye, but the things that glittered and sparkled and lay magnificent on the shelves of Sefanin’s Curious.

I went further inside, to the shelves on my left, and with an open mouth I marveled at the pieces that I saw before me. There were different ornament, trinkets and artifacts of different sorts. There were pots that gleamed with the shiniest gold. There were lamps and necklaces and rings of artistic craftsmanship. I saw swords and shields paired with one another, and there were books that were labeled with writings I have not seen before and do not understand. This was a rare shop indeed, for there were items on the shelf that were old, ancient to be exact, and in pristine condition upon closer inspection on one of them. And then I heard a clearing of the throat from behind me. I placed back the ornate curved dagger back to the shelf from where it came from and I turned around to face my host that because of my wanton marvel at the surroundings I have ignored but in no rude manner.

I faced the curious old man with a smile that matched his first greeting upon my arrival. The old man with the odd bluish skin tilted his head to his right and looked at me with a peculiar look. He asked me for the reason of my visit to Sefanin’s Curious, for my purpose, as I threw a baffled stare upon my host knowing for a fact that I was in a store and looking around was the most logical thing anyone would do. I looked around and wondered what he meant, and he understood my expression of bewilderment, and once more he smiled and explained his query.

The old man introduced himself as Makhur, the owner of Sefanin’s Curious. He wanted to know if I were there, in his store, to buy his wonders or was I merely browsing, not interested at all and merely passing the time. He told me to answer wisely, for what was important to his store was the value of the items and its keepsake by the new owners who would buy them, and if I were but an inquisitive passer-by who would just pass the time in his shop, then I should leave. I told him I was neither. At this answer he rubbed his beard and cocked an eyebrow. I told him that I was a scholar and that the purpose of my visit was to learn about Sefanin’s Curious and the stories behind the elusive shop. Stories, he said, and continued to ask if I would want to listen to the stories of his store. I nodded.

Makhur headed towards the small alcove by the corner where two seats awaited us. He offered me a seat, which I politely accepted, and he made himself comfortable on the other chair across me. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and took out a smoking pipe and a match. He lit his pipe, puffed several smokes and then started with his tale.

He defines his origins to a simpler time, when there was no science to structure the image of society, in a place of old ways and old means. He told me that this was a land in the farthest leagues, of shore that glistened with golden hues basking under a sun that shone the brightest. There were no rains or storms that watered these lands, yet the ground remained fresh of moisture and water in the oasis never dried up. I pointed out that what he was describing was the desert, probably Arabia or Africa, but his tone and expression was of defiance, as he told me that this place was neither, and that it existed in the borders of this reality and the next. I told him that there was no such thing, and yet he insisted, and told me that his race had lived since the birthing of the universe. I gave an applaud to the old man for the marketing monologue that he applied to me and asked him if it were the same for his other customers. Then his expression changed. I think I had offended the weird looking old man. Seeing that my opportunity in browsing through Sefanin’s Curious grew dim, I shut up and let him continue. He so obliged with a nod.

Makhur’s tale continued so, as he described a time when men dawned citadels and metropolises in deserts and shores that defined civilizations. He describes cities made of bricks and mortar, of caste systems with slaves and their masters, of warring tribes and difficult warlords, and of creatures that roamed both fantastic and unique. Half of me screamed in disbelief at all these tales, as the other half wanted more, but I listened on ignoring the better half that my logical side. Makhur then went into detail of the first shop that he regarded was Sefanin’s Curious. But it was not called of its present name back then, but rather just regarded as a merchant shop that boasted of fine artifacts. Back then the shop had frequent visitors to the likes of Lugalbanda, Gilgamesh, Hammurabi and other known warriors of that era. Lugalbanda? Gilgamesh? Names that I have heard from in legend and history, but they were old stories, and I refused to believe that this store was as old as they were. But Makhur disagreed with me and told me that it is. He told me that his shop has passed on from many generations, traveling to many lands, helping many heroes (and gaining a fortune as well).

I stood up and told him that I could not take the marketing ploy anymore, that there was too much of the fantastic involved for a shop to sell antiques, even such antiques that were quite valuable and wonderful as well. And then, like out of old fantasy tales and bedtime stories, the room where I was in suddenly grew dim, like the light from the antique chandeliers lost their essence, and a cold chill suddenly crept up my spine. The old man with the odd color stood towering over me, and with authority he spoke in a tone that made me tremble. Like fire his words burned through me, as he asked me if I dared to question his tales as fictitious and false, and suddenly I felt fear creep in my heart as its ghastly hands clasp hard unto my pulsating chest. This was not a madman, nor some obscure salesman with an overrated marketing ploy; I fear this was a man, an old man, who knew many things and has a great and many talents. And I angered him.

Upon realizing this I shrank back unto my seat, but still my eyes drew out the wanting for proof, and like a maven detective he read my meaning, thus he told me that he shall give me proof. He moved over to the adjacent shelf from where I sat, and with both hands clasped behind his back, he viewed the things displayed until such that an item caught his eye. He reached out with both hands unto the item and pulled it out of the shelf. He held out a round mirror, with colors of grey and red, of obsidian in origin, and it was somewhat old and fragile to look at. And Makhur told me that it was the Smoking Mirror that god the Tezcatlipoca once used to gaze upon the whole universe. Of course I did not believe him at first, but he insisted that I gaze upon the mirror to see what he was talking about. So I did, as I marveled at the things that I saw, for the universe was laid before me, of the stars and the planets and the other systems, and the wonders of a place that I thought could never exist. I saw unfamiliar races; species that I thought could only exist in fiction (and upon seeing this I now wondered if the science fiction writers had contact with these races). The visions within the mirror stopped, as Makhur retracted it and placed it back the shelf. He told me that I had seen enough, but I wanted more, and so I pleaded upon seeing a bit further. But Makhur insisted that man must never gaze upon the visions of the gods, for man would never be ready to accept the responsibilities that the gods bore.

I questioned about the gods and their existence, and Makhur confirmed of it, but my beliefs in science and logic contradicter the aspects and the origins of gods as well as magic. This notion angered my host, as thunder crackled and lightning flashed from the outside, and a blizzard whirred in rage that brought in cold even in a heated environment that was the inside of Sefanin’s Curious. The shadows suddenly moved and soon I was surrounded by silhouetted figures that resembled characters that drew upon a vague familiarity. I saw a figure that resembled a knight with a crown atop its helm; another was a big brute who stood at least seven feet with an outline of what seems to be fur over his shoulders; and another, a smaller figure, that had the outline of a turban on its head and a curved blade jutting out its side. These were merely shadows, true, but I felt that they were real and I could hear their breathing inside the seemingly ancient room.

Makhur began to tell me that the shadows were spirits of the legends who once owned the artifacts that throughout the centuries have sought for worthy owners. My statement as well angered them and it was because of this disbelief that the gods have ceased to exist and the magic of the land slowly disappears. The fear in my heart gripped tighter. Makhur sought to give me another chance and went to one of the shelves once more. He produced a garment and told me that it was the Tarnkappe, Sigurd’s magical cloak that made him invisible when he wore it. One of the shadows upon the wall shifted. I figured it was this character called Sigurd of Norse legend. I was still shaking because of the fear that I felt, of the unbelievable things that I was experiencing, of the things that went against all of the normal things that I have believed in. Makhur wore the cloak of Sigurd called Tarnkappe, and he instantaneously vanished before my eyes. And then I felt the slap of an invisible hand that struck my face.

And then I believed – I truly believed.

Makhur appeared in front of me, and he saw in my eyes the revelation – the understanding and the acceptance. Somehow he had taught me a lesson that not all things fiction was indeed fiction; that some things were as real as they could possibly be. And yet I asked myself: was it really my intention of finding out the history of Sefanin’s Curious for academic purposes, of was it because I was drawn here by some unknown force, irresistible and unavoidable? This I asked to Makhur who in turn answered me with: “You choose what you must.” With that note the shadows vanished and the air within the shop became calm once more. The weather outside calmed as well, and the warmth of the hearth returned.

The shopkeeper told me to browse, to choose which item I would like to purchase, for indeed the artifacts inside craved for new owners, as it was explained to me earlier. I did so as I was asked, looking throughout the whole store, marveling at the pieces, where some called out to me and the others were quiet but radiated with magnificence, but I felt heavy in my heart to pick and own one. I stopped by a sword that was marked Durandal; a bow named Gandiva; a golden ring of fine craftsmanship named Andvarinaut; a shield named Aegis and another named Ancile; and all these were merely mythological objects to begin with – items of legendary proportions that were believed to be either lost or did not exist at all. But they were all here, and I was asked to choose one, but deep in my heart I could not choose for I believed I was not worthy of them.

I turned to Makhur and told him that I could not choose, that the artifacts should remain here where they belong, for men in the modern age would not understand the true purpose of these items, and I fear that they would be abused rather than be taken care of. The shopkeeper nodded.

I asked my host why was the shop named Sefanin’s Curious, or was there even a Sefanin to begin with? He told me that Sefanin was the name of his master, the first owner of the shop, in the city of ancient Babylon. Makhur revealed himself to be a Jinni who was a slave to Sefanin. But Makhur’s master was a kind scholar who only wanted to learn what he could learn, thus in his Jinni he confided, and the shop of long ago was merely a shop where merchant wares were sold. His master aged and died, and he was given his freedom, but being a Jinni with the knowledge of mercantile and scholarly crafts, he opted to continue what his master started. And there he learned of the wondrous items that were made, of the magical things aside from what a Jinni could give, and when he met the gods of old Babylon, they told him to let the world know about their existence and these artifacts that they once had, for somehow the olden gods, mighty as they were, knew of their oblivion in the farthest of futures. And so it was that Makhur, probably the last of the races of Jinn, has kept these artifacts, and sold some to certain personalities who mostly tried to destroy the world. But somehow these artifacts knew how to get back to get back home, as fine example would be when Hitler held on to the Palladium and won many battles, but the time came when the artifact was lost, as did Germany in the war. And I stood in front the Palladium and marveled at it beauty, as well as pondered on the grief that it brought to many generation under the hands of a madman.

But all of that has come to pass, as Makhur revealed to me, and my test was over. And he asked if I was content, if my disbelief was somehow averted to the opposite? I nodded and told him that I was now a believer. Makhur nodded. He also told me that throughout the centuries he had tried to find new owners for the artifact, while men who pretended to be wise took some but were truly monsters inside, those who were truly worthy declined most. Like my answer, those men knew as well about the consequences and the risks of owning such items, and in the modern world, either such items are to be ridiculed or overtly used for greed and ambition. His time would eventually come to pass as the time of magic slowly fades away, but it does not mean that individuals like Makhur and his Sefanin’s Curious must stop telling the tale to those who want to hear it. He told me that the world still had believers even in these most troubling of times.

I stared into Makhur’s eyes and realized his point of view, his belief in this notion, and his sincerity in the situation. And I nodded in agreement. He also told me that his time was running out, that he sought a replacement for the one thing that was dear to him – Sefanin’s Curious. I asked him if he was dying. He said that there was no death for a Jinni, for like the artifacts that he kept and tried to find suitable owners, like the stories of legends and olden lore, they would all fade in time – like the magic they would all be forgotten. It has been a long time since someone owned the artifacts, and they were all used for personal gains, and if no one would remember or believe or know that they existed, they would lose their potency, and rust, and crumble into dust. The wizards were long gone, so were the valorous knights, so were the griffons and the unicorns and the dragons, and Makhur was the last of the Jinni. When he passes, so does the magic that hold Sefanin’s Curious together – so does the luster of the artifacts put together.

I drew a concerned face upon realizing and asked Makhur what must be done. He said that unless there was someone to tell the tale, to get people believe, to know of the fact that these artifacts to exist, then maybe there would be as chance that Sefanin’s Curious would live another age – maybe until the eternity passes. Then I would do just that, I told him, and I shall relive the stories and tell the tales. I would write about Sefanin’s Curious and the stories behind it. I would preach this gospel of a time when magic reigned and heroes and legends lived; of the artifacts that helped create the golden age of a time that had long since passed. But I told him never to sell the artifacts, and that Sefanin’s Curious must be made into a museum rather than a store of curious items, for the modern world is full of villains, and such artifacts must never fall into the hands of would-be mongers. But he asked that if there were villains in this modern world, shouldn’t it be that heroes must arise from the ashes of old to fight them. And I said yes, heroes have arisen, but not the sort to fight force with force, magic with magic, rather the kind who talk diplomacy and reveal the truth of things. Yes, there are heroes in this new world, and they arm themselves with the lessons of the past, with the stories of heroes of legend who fought for righteousness and honor, and they would fight the new villains with wisdom and understanding.

Makhur nodded understanding where I was coming from. Finally he agreed with me and asked if I needed the aid of any artifact that would aid me in spreading the word out. I told him that I did not need such artifact, for the most potent of artifacts was always the power of convincing, and if I could create such a tale and generate the interest of those who would read what I have written, then maybe they will come and see what I was talking about. And with that note I told him that I should be leaving to start with my writing. He gave me the blessings of the Jinni to aid me in this new road that I was to thread. I thanked him and left.

The snowfall outside was light, like a serene picturesque landscape painted upon an ancient canvas, but something was different with the old town, like something came alive at that very moment. The old townsfolk were outside, and they smiled upon seeing me, even the middle-aged woman who told me to beware. I breathed the fresh air and went to my car. I started the engine and took a last look at Sefanin’s Curious. Makhur stood outside and nodded at me; I nodded in return. I left the old town a changed man.

Now here I am telling my unbelievable experience, of a mystical shop that housed wondrous artifacts of ancient lore – and I am telling you that they are real. I urge you to visit Sefanin’s Curious to see what I am talking about. I do not need to tell you where the old town is or where Sefanin’s Curious is located, for you know where it is. Seek inside yourself and you will find the old dirt road that leads to the old town. Believe that it is real and you will know what I am talking about. As I write this I am on my way back to see my friend Makhur and his once mystical shop now a historic museum. It has been seven years since I first been there and so far I have convinced certain people, who like me, have made their way to Sefanin’s Curious after reading what I have written. So come, as I dare you, for you know the way… you know the way.

THE END OF CIVILIZATION

2009-05-30T10:27:00.006+08:00

There was once a man, who was unlike any other man, for he wasn’t a man at all, but a shell that looked like any other man, and he lived and roamed amongst men. He came from a world that had died eons ago, in a place far from where we are, though quite near from a point of view. He changed his skin like the skin of those around him, coloring his own of brown like the earth that he stood upon, camouflaging the surface of his body that glowed with the essence of aspect that once colored the air of his home world – a deep and luminous red.

He lived in a small house, in a place congested of men and rats and other forms sickly to the human sight. There was garbage all around, in a place that even the gods of the universe had forsaken; where tall trees and beautiful flowers were non-existent; where only pain, anguish and hard-luck flourished. Here, the brown-skinned men and women looked to each other for hope, in a part of the city that screamed for mercy and help, and conscience demons ran amok. On the other side of the metropolitan was the opposite, where those who dwelled on the other side breathed the fresher air and walked on the greener grass. He saw the difference in all of these, and he was sad on the plight of it all.

The walls of his house, a crumbling one-story apartment laid to waste by the infestation of termites, cockroaches, and noisy neighbors, loomed in sadness as it reminded him of a miserable companion who wanted to get away from their relationship. In this pathetic establishment he stayed from whence he came forth from a good three years past. He had an old bed, which like the house, was decaying and falling apart. It creaked every time he slept on it, and though uncomfortable, he managed to eliminate that factor of awkwardness by mere imaginings that indeed it was a comfortable cushioned sleeping platform.

This man had no profession, but he had money, of which he would play the lottery everyday, and everyday he would win. He had the power to do so, to see upon the number, the mathematics of certain things and events, and though he knew he could win by the millions everyday, his experience told him to win only enough to survive. There was a conscience that screamed in his mind, of the needs and wants of wealth and power, for he knew that certain aspects were the cause of the downfall of many civilizations. He remembered it vividly; he remembered it all too well. But such were the tales of his past, within the corners of his memory, his mind, which was to be told in abundance to a certain individual who would listen, and ultimately understand.

* * *

On a hot summer day, where the temperatures rose to degrees unlike any normal summer day, he sat on the steps of an old church that was surrounded by the decay of the city, where market stalls lined-up on one side, and an old railway lay on the other. Then he watched the faithful come and go – men and women who professed their faith to their God that they have never seen. Most were the old, whose lines on their faces crossed each other, whose skin sagged and bodies curved to a bend – who hoped and prayed for their salvation. His eyes mused on such creatures that he was reminded of his own species, very much like those who roamed this planet although very different in appearance and structure. Then he reminded of his own true self well hidden beneath a facade of texture and fake skin to hide his appearance that the locals would find hideous. He laughed to himself realizing that if his species saw the features of these humans that they would laugh at the un-evolved nature of the beings of this planet. They were after all far superior than these “earthlings,” but he knew that they were very much the same in more ways than one.

He slipped trough the blanket of patrons who flocked for the mid morning mass lounging their way as a voice that came through the loud speakers said that the celebration was about to start. They sat silent, waiting for the arrival of their priest, their cleric who spoke to their God. He got up from where he sat and looked at them, the humans with their own beliefs, and he remembered his own beliefs, in the gods who no longer spoke to him; in the dreams he no longer had. Then his eyes fixated on a person who sat at the edge of the last pew, and she was covered in white cloth form head to foot, with eyes covered in thick glasses to help her see. She was a nun, a beautiful one at that, still young and her youth radiated with a glow. There were men who stared at her with lust, as he noticed a few who looked at her with sinful glances, though he read her mind and knew that she knew of it and forgave them.

He entered the hall of praise, bowed to give respect to the God of the humans, and then headed to where the nun sat. There were gaps in between those who sat on the last pew, and he sat beside her there to remain silent for a moment before he uttered words to her. Then he spoke without looking at her, asked her if she would want to listen to an unbelievable tale to which none had heard before. She looked at him, turned to her side, and she remarked on the aspect of which he was poor, as that she did not want to disrespect, and she would defend herself against the likes of perverts. He turned to meet her gaze, and with the most honest eyes he told her that he was no pervert, and that indeed he had a story to tell, thus the telling needed an audience, and that audience was she. Why her, she asked him, and again he gave an honest answer – that she was worthy of the tale, that she knew that she was wise enough for the telling to be told in other ways. After several persuasions she finally agreed and asked where the telling would take place. He told her that there was a nice park near her church. And it this nice park they had refreshment stands that they could easily access just in case they got hungry. She agreed to this stating that her convent was near this park, but they had to finish the mass before the telling would commence. He agreed to this.

* * *

Hours later they sat on a bench by an old tree that shaded them form the mid-afternoon sun. Then she asked him to start, and so he began his tale:

“I came from a land far away where the stars glittered and glowed more brightly than it does in this place; where the mornings were everlasting and the nights seem endless. The cities from where I came from had towering spires and monolithic buildings had housed the affairs of my kind- the leisure, the business and the religious. Our society was built on a structure very much like your own: independent, free-willed, democratic, and these were the basis of our social organization that treated each one as an individual but at the same time a part of a much larger structure, the rulers of our cities mirrored that of the of the early individuals who were present in forging the histories of this world. We also had individuals like your Einstein, Ghandi, Lincoln. They created the greater part of my society’s history and they were greatly looked upon as such heroes, to the extent that they were even praised as martyrs and saints.”

She interrupted him with a wave of her hand and looked at him with questioning eyes. There were motions that she did not understand the telling, that she thought of him as a lunatic, an escapee from some mental institution. But at the same time she felt the sincerity in his delivery, with the conviction that indeed history was true. He told her that in the end of the telling she would understand, and that he was no lunatic nor an escapee from some mental institution. And the telling continued:

“Our history is quite the same as your history is. We also had creatures and ancient races extinct to our once modern time span. We had events that triggered changes throughout the centuries and scholars and mystics who predicted these changes, but most of us did not listen. We had wars that decimated most of our numbers; in a time where weapons were made of sticks and metals; and they predicted different outcomes that they thought was needed for the betterment of our race. Then there was a time of peace, when the wars ended, in a time when our science was being discovered millions and millions of years ago. Then came a period of a hundred years of peace, where we discovered fascinating things, wonders that our scientists brought about. We traveled the air, the deepest seas, and rode in vehicles powered by nuclear energy with their smallest of engines. And our cultures, our race, developed rapidly, thus we entered our own future age. Later on we created ships that could break our planet’s atmosphere, and we traveled to our moons and ventured off into the unknown void that was our space. And we thanked our gods for such feats; and we thanked our gods for such a civilization.”

She stared at him with unbelieving eyes, of what she heard was truly fascinating, yet so much science fiction. She never dealt with science fiction before, or the things that science represented. She was a person of her God, and true for a fact that the principles of religion clashed with the ideas of science. She warned him of the treachery that might be brought upon her, but he said again, with all honesty, that there was no treachery involved. Being the kind person that she was, she let him continue:

“We were so like you, mankind; so alike in many ways. Our art, our music, and so many other things were much to be compared with… as well as our flaws. True indeed, as our mistakes are your mistakes as well. In the height of our civilization’s progress, greed and ambition crept in the hearts of our politicians, of our leaders. Indeed there is a tiny speck of evil in all our hearts, in every creature in this vast universe, and that evil can either be nurtured or be contained. Our leaders nurtured this evil and like a virus it spread rapidly infecting our warriors, infecting our dignity, so the wars began anew, with more powerful weapons of a more destructive force. Because of the advancement in our civilization, it also brought about changes in our brain, and thus the metaphysical powers we obtained. And we waged a bloody war that killed millions, and yes, it slowly destroyed our planet. The cities, the countries, our planet, all were slowly destroyed, but we were blind to all these as pride and anger dominated our wills, and we continued on destroying one another. Our gods have abandoned us, and even cursed us as well, for they offered no relief from this chaos, and they cursed our machines so that no one could ever get off our planet. And our race slowly died; and our planet slowly died. It did not reach the next year, as everyone else was died, even all the creatures that surrounded us, as our world decayed becoming a vast wasteland of dirt and dread. The waters in our oceans had dried. The climate worsened and storms of great proportions ravaged the lands. The environment became hostile that none may survive its deadly embrace. Of course you would ask me how I got out of that doom? I will answer you and you will believe me for you have faith. I was a high priest of my god, and even though there were those who turned their backs on him, I remained ever loyal, ever faithful. And my god rewarded me with a choice, of dying in my world and to be resurrected by his side, or escape the catastrophe and spread the story of my civilization’s mistakes. I chose the latter, that is why I am here now; that was why I was here long before your race was, waiting for life to spring forth; and that is why I should be going now and spread this tale to those who would listen and learn. But I fear that your race is blind, for you do not see what you are doing to yourselves. You destroy your world, you destroy your culture, and I can see that you are mirroring my civilization’s history. I pray to my god that your race does not repeat the mistakes that my race has made. I could only pray, as you should too.”

The man stood up from where he sat, glanced at his surroundings, and then fixed his gaze upon his companion. He left her side for the telling was complete; his tale was already told. But he was still a few feet from the woman, the faithful nun, when she asked him why the tale was told to her. And he answered that she was destined for greatness, that mankind would listen to her and that she would be a voice in their time of great need. He left her pondering with those words. And he walked into the horizon of a setting sun, with now only a shadow cast upon the background of a red atmosphere – and then he was gone. She forgot to ask for his name or where the stranger had come from, but somewhere in her mind a voice told her not to ask anymore, only to believe what was told to her. In the tiniest of worlds and the vastness of the realms beyond it, there are others like her kind, like human race, of civilizations proud and great, but in the end the bitter irony ended the glory. She listened and heeded the words that lingered in memory. Soon, she thought, all will be just a memory, and the verdant pass would be a distant somber fleeting in the annals of a silent universe that never forgets.

OLD GODS AND NEW MONSTERS

2007-11-26T13:40:00.005+08:00

There are things that are not supposed to be real, yet in a way they are, as such the stories that an old woman used to tell me, of an old town where fascinating and wondrous and horrifying things existed. There, in the silence and the stillness of it all, in its simplicity and splendor, were the stories that raised eyebrows, of whether they were real or not, and if it were so, it was left for one to actually see these things to believe in them.

The years have passed since this old woman had passed away and I had spent the week in her old house, as I knew her for a long time, and she became my friend. She gave the house to me for no apparent reason, and strangely I accepted it gladly.

Now it was a day unlike any other day, for the wind howled in nuisance and the rain poured in severity, as the lights would flicker on and off, in a house that was old and big. In the old woman’s room I rummaged though her things, as they were a lot, of old clothes and antique photo albums, and then I stumbled upon a small wooden box that was older than the other things that lay in her room. It had her initials on it. The lock was open. Oddly enough I felt the urge to open it, like it was waiting for me to do so, and then my sweat started to pour. I don’t know why, but I felt frightened, as if some impending doom waited for me once the contents of this box was revealed to me. I opened it. Inside were papers that look centuries old. They were weathered and almost torn but still the contents were readable and thus I read through them.

That day went on and the storm worsened. I thought the old house couldn’t take the pounding, but after several minutes of wind bashing and rain pouring, she held firm. Still I couldn’t help but wonder if the house could take more of it, if it could still stand as time weathered it. Night blanketed everything but the storm didn’t change its pace, and to make things worse, the electricity had gone out. A servant came into the room carrying a candelabrum and placed it on the small drawer table. She offered me dinner but much to my surprise I wasn’t really hungry. She took a glance at the old papers that lay on the bed then nodded at me and exited the room silently shutting the door.

The papers were about an old village called Igdrasil. It does exist. I remember the old woman’s stories vividly, and all of them revolved around this village. Back then I thought that this village that she fervently adored was some made-up story of her personal fantasies, but now I held proof and the contents that would lead me to it, and the thought of finding it rather excited me. I had to go there, to know, to feel, to live in the stories that she told me.

I stumbled upon a map that was crudely drawn by hand in red ink, on a piece of parchment that was labeled “Igdrasil Directions” with a another label written in a strange language below it. I saw a deed to a land that the old woman owned, and surprisingly enough she owned a large mansion near the town square. There was an old photo of a house much like the one I was in, with two children in the forefront. It was a boy and a girl wearing cloths of a bygone era. The girl was probably the old woman, and the boy, I presume, was family, though I had the strangest feeling of familiarity, like I have been there before. I wonder if she kept secrets in that house as well, for the old woman did not tell me of her past or anything about her family, and she held on to a mystery that I could not decipher. There was a strange hand that pulled me to this town, a force that guided me, that called to me, and then I decided that going there was the right thing to do.

I spent the whole night until the early morning in the old woman’s room staring at the old papers. Her eternal visage of a youth long gone hung lifeless in an old painting by the wall. The storm raged outside as the wind howled in a sort of torment that made me gasp quite a few times. The candlelight slowly died down. The walls of the old house menacingly loomed upon me, and then the darkness ate it all away.

* * *

It was an eight-hour drive out of the city. Much to my surprise there was no traffic in the highways and the exit routes. The storm was still there making its presence felt, but it wasn’t as bad as it was yesterday or the day before that. I could hardly see the road though, from the rain and all of that, and so I drove slow but not too slow to piss-off those that were behind me.

The rain soon let down into a drizzle and I could now see the road clearly than before. There was something different about the road though, for it was not concrete anymore as most modern highways were made of. Now I was on a muddy path and all around me a dark and gloomy forest. Did I make a wrong turn? I really don’t remember. Everything was chaotic while rain fell heavily, but I ignored it, all the weirdness that just happened, as I drove through the mud that almost ate my wheels. Lucky enough I was spared of the torment and I proceeded onwards. Then I stopped in front of a small bridge that crossed a deep ravine with a sign that said: To Igdrasil. I drew a sigh of relief knowing that I was not lost. I stepped out of the car to examine the drop and surprisingly I saw only darkness. It was indeed deep that the light couldn’t reach the bottom. It was like the world was split in half as I stood on one side and across was another realm.

It drizzled a bit as I returned to my car and parked it onto the side of the dirt road. The bridge was too small for a car to pass through, and the flimsy wood and rough architecture looked somewhat unsteady to hold a person let alone a car. So I got out with my knapsack and started to cross it. There was another dirt trail. I stood there without moving, under a mild drizzle of rain and viewed the seemingly uncharted path that lay ahead of me. I held my knapsack tightly and ventured inwards. Both sides were covered with wild overgrowth and the path itself was covered with a thick layer of decomposing leaves and other things that were buried beneath. It smelled a mixture of fresh forest and rotting things, but it didn’t assault my sense of smell and it was quite pleasant – a change from the smoke-filled air of the city.

The path stretched on forever seemingly never ending and winding. The trees around me grew more menacingly as I headed deeper and deeper in a place that was alien to me, and yet I had that feeling of familiarity, like I had been here before. Then the rain stopped but the sky was still dark. At that point on I was deeper down the path and the trees here almost blocked what little light there was left in the sky. I stopped for a while by a fallen log and sat on it to rest. It was almost midday and I have been walking for nearly an hour without even a faint sight of any form of civilization. I took out my water canteen and took a couple of sips.

After a momentary rest I went forward, still following the path, and eventually I came upon a curve and saw a sign that was old and rustic. It had IGDRASIL written on it. I was near. And then I saw it, the fabled town that the old woman talked about in tales. It was a small village, old in every sense, with no signs of electricity, as electric poles were nowhere in sight, and most of the people that I saw were old as well – almost ancient in a manner of speaking. They stared at me with uncanny eyes and I felt their gazes penetrate my very soul.

I clutched my backpack and went in ignoring the stares. They didn’t bother to ask who I was, as they just stood there near motionless with just their eyes following my every movement. I felt unwanted and yet there was something inside of me that pushed me forward telling me that I thought wrong of the whole situation. I was halfway inside the village when an elderly man, somewhere in his seventies, came out of one of the shacks and approached me. He stopped inches from where I was and smiled before he greeted me. His teeth were yellow as there were only three left; the lines on his face mostly overlapped each other, and his breath stank of antiquity.

He introduced himself as Weiland, and that he knew of the reason for my visit in his village. I raised an eyebrow and asked him how was it that he knew. He answered me that he always knew. I simply shrugged and told him that I had to see the house of the old woman that I knew. He nodded, turned and asked me to follow him.

I walked with the old man. I still felt the others, as they stared at me, even though they went back to what they were doing. I wasn’t introduced to the other people in the village and I felt that they didn’t want to be introduced anyways. I saw no children playing or even heard a single voice that resembled a child. They were all grown-ups, and what even bothered me the most, was the fact that they were all old.

My escort led me even further inside the village. Igdrasil had shacks and medium hovels that were lined in a long column along a dirt road. At the end of the dirt road we emerged upon a gate, with a small courtyard beyond it, with dead trees and rotting flora, and in the middle stood a dais. Behind the courtyard, as the old man pointed, was an old house that looked like the one I was in before. It had colonial architecture that ran through it; two floors of a decaying structure that loomed menacingly.

It was all mine said my escort, but I corrected him that I was only there to see it, that my old dead friend talked about it in tales that I found rather fantastic to be real. Yet, the old man corrected me and told me all of it was real. The horrors of the night, the terror of nightmares made real, they were all true according to him. I simply nodded as kind gesture. He told me that there was a caretaker whose name was Solomon.

He left without even a handshake. Even as we walked he didn’t go near me. I found it quite odd but I hoped I didn’t piss-off anyone here because of my coming. The rain started to drizzle once more. I ran through the mud-infested courtyard passing the old dais and into the patio of the old house. A wicked double door with lion knockers greeted me with certain despair. I knocked using the knockers. The sound echoed within like the house was devoid of anything inside. There was no reply. I knocked again, this time louder, but still there was no answer. As I knocked the third time, harder, I felt the door nudge with a creak, and though heavy and almost wedge, I pushed it open.

A horrid face greeted me as I stepped into the gloom of the inside. It had an eye where two once were, dried lips and half a face long since burnt. I moved back a bit and saw that the body did match the face – it was twisted with age and a large hump protruded form the back. It wore old ragged clothes. I regarded it as it though I knew my cruelty to such an appearance would only go as far as my not knowing it, or rather him, as I believed, it was indeed a man. I stood there frozen for the moment.

The hunchback, Solomon the caretaker, called me master, which something that I wasn’t accustomed to. He led the way in, and the first sight that greeted me was a grand hall, though dusty and decaying, still held its grandeur. There was an old chandelier that hung on a ten-foot high ceiling. Old but still in tact wooden furniture waited for someone to either sit on them or compliment on their beauty as they aged. Paintings and tapestries hung lifeless on the walls. The house, from the inside, was devoid of life, and even light, as the windows were closed and all other things were left the way there were when the old woman left the village.

We went up an old wooden staircase that creaked as we stepped on each one of them. I thought for a moment that it would give way and we would fall, but it was good to know that I was wrong. The house, though old and decaying, still had strength left in it. We made our way through a dark hallway that lead to four rooms. Solomon opened the one at the farthest end and told me that it was my room. Again that strange voice of familiarity echoed in my head. Something was stirring though I did not know what.

The door slammed behind me as Solomon left the room. The door was locked, and soon panic flooded my senses. Was I wrong in coming here? Was I wrong to interfere? A voice inside me said no, but my body disagreed as I shook in fear. And then I lay down, on a bed that stood in front of me, and found myself drifting off to sleep.

* * *

There was a loud roar, like a beast released from its cage that had woken me. The roar continued but now it was accompanied by the beating of drums. I was frightened of what horror might have created such a roar, but somehow in the midst of it all I felt strangely drawn to it. I sat upright and felt the sweat run down every inch of me. I was bathing in it. I felt the bed was wet as well. A single candle lighted the room now as night enveloped everything. There was a cold chill in the air as I slipped out of the bed towards the corner to where my knapsack was and took out m jacket. I wore a new pair of socks, put on my boots and went towards the closed window. I tried to open it but it was bolted shut. A futile effort, I told myself.

I took the candle and went to the door that was now half-open. Out of my room I went as a darkened hallway glumly greeted me. I was expecting the caretaker to at least have the decency of lightning a gas lamp to at least illuminate the place, but I guess I was wrong. I made my way down the old stairway as it heavily creaked when I descended. I called out for the caretaker knowing that he could give me an answer to what was going on. But my voice only echoed in the empty and silent mansion.

Meanwhile, the drumbeats grew louder and louder outside, as the beastly roar was gone, and as I neared the main doors, I saw dances of light in the courtyard outside. Were they feasting? Was the roar that I heard the last breath of an animal that was slaughtered? I had to find out. I quickly made my way to the double door and pulled it open. I was caught off-guard to the sight that I saw.

On top of the dais was the body of a beast indeed, but a beast that I have never seen before. It was at least ten feet high, with the hairy body of a man, with hooves for feet, and a head that of a wolf. I remember creature such as these told in legends and folklores, but those where stories and this was real. But was it really? Maybe these people like to play practical jokes on visitors like me. Maybe there was a hidden camera somewhere in the trees and people around the world are now laughing at this ghastly gag. Was there a camera in my candle?

The beast sat on a throne-like chair of what I think was made of bones. It’s neck was cut open and blood ran down up to its waist. It hands were tied behind the throne of bones. It’s eyes, though lifeless and unmoving, stared directly at me. Around the dais were the people of the village of Igdrasil. Some carried torches, some held sickles, some stood with two stick and large drums, but most just stood there with stoic faces. The caretaker stood beside the dead beast with a bloody bolo in hand.

Solomon came forward to speak, as I stood frozen, helpless.

“Our lord has come back as prophesied of long ago. We have awaited the return of the heir of our queen who left us because we are unworthy of her glory and radiance. We offer you the oldest of us, our former king. It was his wish that death be dealt upon his aging carcass if the heir to this kingdom one day returns. He is pleased to see you my lord!”

Wait, a kingdom and a dead king? Where the hell am I? I wanted to scream at the horror of it all, the bestial figure that lay slain in front of me; people who are acting like they belong in ages past – this was not right. Yet, something inside told me that it was, like some antiquated memory that had lay dormant all this time suddenly had awakened and made me realize who I really was. Something made me feel right. Something was right. I stared at them, their old and haggard faces lined with cruel and hardened age, which had left them defiant of the changing times. They are the ones who chose to stay and to hide from the eyes of a world that doesn’t seem to understand. These were old men and women indeed, but I felt a certain aura of power within them. They were not as weak and vulnerable as they seem. I was given the chance to speak for I found my voice again.

I put down the candle on the floor and stepped down on the muddy ground in front of the dais. The night was clear as opposed to the afternoon’s overcast. The moon was in fullness. I looked at Solomon and asked him to tell me all that I needed to know – that I needed to remember.

“Long ago, when the land was young, we roamed freely upon the earth. We were gods back then, powerful and true, and our wraths were greater than the plaques that infested the lands. Then came knowledge, and men started to betray us, and called us monsters. We were gods no more. Because of our hideousness they called us beasts of the night, and our wrath would fear them no longer, as they knew how to harm us. Thus it became that we were monsters, and we ate their flesh, and drank their blood, and feasted upon their innards, and ornamented ourselves with their bones and their skulls. We fought back and tried to survive. But in the end we failed miserably. Indeed we have become monsters, and monsters we are, forever will be, but that time shall soon be at an end. Our days are numbered.”

Then I saw the visage that was of their true selves. They were beasts of different aberrations and mutations, of some having two heads, and some half-bodied flying horrors. The remarkable thing was I wasn’t taken aghast of the sudden turn of events; it was like I’ve always known this, and then the realization. I was a monster, of which the truth just hit me like a rock on the head, and it weighed more for not only was I of the bloodline of old gods, but I was of royalty. I saw myself now standing in front of them, with white fur all over, and I stood the tallest – a giant amongst monsters.

They told me of the reason why they hid, for they were tired of being hunted, as their enemies were many and they dwindled in numbers. And it was revealed to me, that the old woman left the village in the hopes that answer would be found, and that she did not want to be a monster anymore. She denied herself of her heritage; she denied herself of her faith. They told me that I was born in this place, of my mother who was the old woman, and that by circumstance I crossed the realms when I was but young, to the other side where she waited for me. Thus we lived as men, as she wanted, forgetting that we were once gods. And I stood at the dead thing that sat on a throne and realized that it was my father.

I understood it all. I felt sad for them, in a way, and sadder still to know that my very existence was nearing its end. I had the urge to hunt, to eat the flesh of mortal men, to drink their very life essence. I remembered how it was to be primeval, as my kin and I were the first to inherit the world that was unjustly taken from us.

I could no longer leave the village of Igdrasil, for twilight was upon us, and only the forest bear witness to all of it. In the end there was a new kind of god, or maybe a new kind of monster, that took our place and are now the lord and ladies of chaos. They have taken over our world and our stories, and they will likely have the same fate as us. I lived with them for a time and I saw the horrors they can do. And I laughed at the thought of this vicious cycle. They were new gods for a new world – new monsters to feast upon each other.

The caretaker smiled as he saw my eyes accept the truth. I stood there for a moment and stared at them, then looked at my changed form, and then sighed. It was the final realization. I have been given an overview of a world that lay in the edge of extinction, and I am to lead them to their deaths. Maybe my mother didn’t want me to go to Igdrasil, maybe she wanted me to become like the new monsters, the humans, and continue on with the legacy of what I was born to be. I could only speculate. But now I know the truth, as I watch the moon rise over the horizon, and the grip of uncertainty held firm my heart.

SYMPHONY OF DUST

2007-11-22T21:34:00.005+08:00

Though Earth may survive these deadly hands
Still the dreaming willows shall fall,
Forever in the debts of the olden gods
Thou art dust we fall.

Stand straight through darkness thick
Drown in death; on pavements lie kills
Everything is silent; everything still
By the touch of a hand the wound is healed.

The dust rises from the graves of men
And they curse the storms, the great undead,
When the cry of the wolf on yonder heard –
Though art death we dread.

As the battle rises and many have fallen
The angry and heartless cry for the blood of others,
No signal is called, no cavalry to come…
For death hast struck the mighty beckoners.

A SUMMER DAY CLEAR

2007-11-22T20:55:00.005+08:00

A summer day clear,
Free as a bird
Memories piercing down
The wind is to be heard.

A summer day clear,
Went wild as a wave
Deviant as a mockingbird
Treachery, bold and brave.

A summer day clear,
For all its expense
Turned black with sorrow
Sins to be cleansed.

A summer day clear,
With quarrels in array
As storms loomed above
In this fine summer day.

A summer day clear,
When all was well
I killed my friend
For a small part in hell.

FORNICATING SHORES

2007-11-22T20:54:00.005+08:00

The leak,
Droplets of form
CIRCULATING
In cascades of dreams,
Fornicating in a mass of lifeless paper dolls.
I’ll have a drink of mixed-up oxides…
Leisure Skins,
Trembling with the wake of death;
A leaf in the hands of the Immortals,
A practice of GIN…
The bastards will not get away.

THE BLUE DOOR

2007-11-06T21:01:00.006+08:00

There was a door, at the end of a corridor, where everything was dimly lit. As I walked towards the door I noticed that embedded on walls, and the ceiling, and the floor, were eyes that stared at me. I saw them as they stared back, and some I stepped while they blinked and shut themselves upon the impact of my shoes. They frightened me. Some stared in anger and rage. Some were sad. Some were scared, as others wore the look of pathetic outcry of salvation. They were all trapped, in time I suppose, and all they could do was watch in envy at the freedom I possessed.

I trudged on feeling the weight of every step. The air was thin in here and my breathing was slow and heavy. I tried to hold firm but soon enough my head felt dizzy and my body started to collapse. Every muscle in my broken-down carcass throbbed and pulsed and screamed for relief. But there was no relief, for here in the hallway where dead eyes spied on the living (and almost dead), the only relief was the Blue Door.

I told my body to ignore the pain. I told every bit and piece of me to go on for the door was almost within reach. And indeed it was, for the knob of the Blue Door, that fabled blue door, was inches away from my fingertips. Victory was almost mine.

Then, the most phenomenal (and most horrible for that matter) thing happened – I opened the Blue Door. That feeling of relief overwhelmed me; a certain joy, nay, a grateful glee slapped me on the face with profound amazement. But that was a fraction. and only a fraction of a moment, for the joyous feeling soon vanished only to be replaced a realization in horror. There I stood on the fringe of an open Blue Door and beyond was a sight I wish I had not seen. There was another dimly lit long corridor that was identical to the one I was previously in. Then I saw that the walls, the floor and the ceiling were decorated with a thousand closed mouths. And at the end of the corridor was another door, a Red Door, and it called for me.

I stepped into the next corridor with a tired and weary body, and once both my feet touched the floor of the next corridor, the door behind me shut, and a thousand screaming voices chorused in unison. I covered my ears and fell to the floor. The creams were louder here – much too loud. In a fetal position I cried, and I laughed, and I screamed.

In the end, I looked at the Red Door, then I screamed with the voices, and then silence took me away.

MANILA (Published in Philippine Graphic)

2007-11-05T15:22:00.009+08:00

Dawn. It is but another morning. The lights of the nights past flicker and die down as the rays of the slowly rising sun creeps into the fading shadows. The city. It greets another day with its arms wide open embracing the warmth of the light. The coldness of the night disappears.

The pungent air of the city’s rush hour stench begins its cycle anew. The filth of the evening’s garbage stashed in corroded drain pipes eagerly await a turn to be flushed down the sewer. The rusted mufflers of antagonistic vehicles: the greedy passenger jeepneys, the aging taxicabs, rage in the streets once more. Fumes from corroded pipes of the city’s traffic infestation fill the air again – slowly and dreadfully. The streets, like the veins of clogged-up arteries begin to congest. The cycle of the traffic begins anew. The smog rises as it was given birth once more.

The age-old burners of sidewalk eateries burn in overtime. Another batch of street food await the morning masses. The street market is busy once more; the sidewalks filled with vendors selling all sorts of things – from vegetables to pirated CDs and DVDs. The scene extends to the overpass where pedestrians cross to get to the other side of a busy highway.

This is the face of Manila today. It is a ragtag city full of people, young and old, poor and rich, calm and cruel. It is unlike the archaic bohemia that it was once were, where people flocked in its cobblestone floors in fiestas that were held till the early mornings; where the voices of the masses were heard crying for freedom from tyranny and oppression. Yes, that was the scene centuries ago. There was purpose. There was meaning. Now there is the stench of decay that the current lords of politics try to eliminate. But time and time again, even though how hard they try, the social uproar wails on a high note, and everyone is either deaf or ignoring its loudest scream.

* * *

Carlo, a man in his late thirties, sits uncomfortably on his small stool while he waits for customers, as well as the perverts and men of inquisitive taste, to buy his products of pirated CDs and DVDs which half were an assorted collection of pornography. He was a medium sized man built for hard labor; tall if he didn’t crouch that much, though he couldn’t really stand straight anymore, for tuberculosis had left his body scarred. Another scar he had was that on his left face which erased the words “good looking” in his vocabulary, for indeed he was such, but after the burning of his house with the death of his mother and sister when he was twelve, he was branded ugly by those who saw him.

He wasn’t a nice man. He wasn’t cruel though, but his manners and the way he speaks tend to be vulgar and repulsive. But that was how he was – pathetic and mad at the world for making him who he was. Indeed he blamed the world. He wasn’t like this before. He blamed the world for not giving him a wife when he desperately wanted one. He was angry for all he could ever do was masturbate at nude pictures that the local tabloid published. He didn’t have money for a prostitute; he wasn’t handsome enough to have a girlfriend. He didn’t want to rape anyone, though the thought played in his mind. He was scared of the thought of him being in jail. He didn’t want to become someone else’s bitch. In his whole life he never had a woman and he thinks he never will. Pathetic. Really.

It is another busy day at Quiapo, and unlike in the old days, the place is packed like a sardine-can waiting to be opened on Christmas day. People from all walks of life move in and out of the area, some to buy, some to venerate inside the nearby church, others to generate mischief. But the most who were ever there in Quiapo were the merchants, and the merchants were the loudest. These merchants wailed to the top of their lungs calling forth customers to buy their wares. Sometimes the customers would increase the volume of their voices as well, just to match that of the almost screaming merchants. You can’t really hear yourself in Quiapo, at least not on a regular day.

Carlo was eating a small piece of cassava cake when he saw a famous sexy actress by the name of Christine pass by in front of him. His jaw dropped. His mouth watered. He wanted to touch the smooth and silky white legs of the actress. He wanted it badly. A big wave of lust overcame him and quickly he had an erection. Soon enough, a small crowd gathered in the middle of the street market wanting autographs of Christine. Most of them were men. Most of them neared her only to stare, and smile, and hold the bulge in their pants.

Carlo wanted to see, to admire, and to remember her face, and most importantly, her curves and pretty little face. So he stood on the small stool that he sat on and viewed Christine from a distance. But wasn’t Christine who caught his attention; not the curves that he wanted to see and admire before he went to bed. It was a boy, probably around the age of ten, standing tired and hungry beside a pile of garbage by the gutter, who had grease and was very unclean all over, ragged and pitiful, who stared back at him with daunting red eyes. The sight of the boy revolted Carlo, though he wanted to pity the boy, but he just wasn’t able to. He thought of himself as lucky that he could still eat three full meals a day. He wanted to look away, to look back at the beauty that caused a commotion in the market, but his eyes were looked with boys. Somewhere deep down inside, he wanted to help. He refused the thought. Then fear overcame him. He didn’t know why. He feared the boy who stared at him. He didn’t know what to do.

* * *

The night settled in once more. The city became a dark entity flashing its neon colored harmony of industrial chaos. It is different at night. The day shops close their doors and the night shops open theirs. They are the clubs, with their roaring beats of bass-beaten music, and women wearing skimpy outfits as they line-up outside hollering at prospective male clients. Sirens roar from a distance; either another crime is being committed or fire has struck once more or someone is on a fifty-fifty basis on the way to the hospital. But in this city, the highlight of the night is always the plaza, where the lights glow brightly and people are not afraid to sleep in its stone-cold slab benches. Plaza Miranda, a place of historical dread, of a once darkened past now pushes the darkness aside and cradles the homeless. A place where the lonely seek refuge gazing upon the might of a Quiapo church surrounded by scattered policemen – Manila’s finest.

Carlo sat beside a lamppost with his makeshift suitcase of pirated CDs and DVDs. He held it with his left hand while in his right was a half-eaten bibingka (sweet rice cake). He was staring at the shadows that loomed beyond the church courtyard, at the small corner by the bell tower. He wondered why he stared at the shadow, wondered why he didn’t leave the plaza when it’s already half-past ten and he needed to get some rest. Besides bibingka wasn’t really what you would call dinner.

From within the shadows the ragged looking boy stepped out and stared back at Carlo. His eyes were different, there were all swollen and watery, like he had cried for a thousand years. There was also something different about the boy; he was thinner now, and paler, from the last time Carlo saw him that afternoon. The boy slowly walked towards the man who stared at him, and he dragged his feet as he did so.

Carlo could not move. He was frozen stiff. His eyes were filled with fear as goose bumps attacked him one after the other. His eyes widen with terror. He was afraid of a little boy and he did not know why.

* * *

Carlo was still trembling as the ragged little child ate his wanton like there was no tomorrow. He remembers the boy’s voice as it lingered in his mind: “feed me’” and it lasted for some time. Two hours had passed since that incident. Why so slow? Because Carlo was frozen stiff ever since after the boy had touched him. Every slurp was heard, and every sip was loud. The cheap ten-peso wanton slowly faded away. Carlo didn’t want to spend that night but he had no choice. The clinking of fork against plate played music in their almost silent surroundings.

Carlo and the boy ate at an all-night eatery beside a gloomy overpass. There weren’t that much people eating, aside form them, there were the cooks a waitress and two old ladies silently eating their goto (rice soup with pig innards). The smell of grease stuck in the air as the wall fans mixed it with the pungent smog that came for the streets. No one really minded it; no one really cared anymore, for it was already there.

The man who sold pirated entertainment stared at the boy who was a victim of the streets. There was a slight tremble, but the fear was already subsiding. He didn’t know why he feared the boy. Maybe it was guilt; maybe it was the fear that he might end up like the boy – homeless and hungry. At least he had his pirated CDs and DVDs to sell. At least he had a room to go home to, even though the rent’s been two weeks overdue, even though it smelled like a pigpen. At least he was lucky enough to sell a couple, enough for him to buy the little boy a cheap meal. Still there was fear. Still he stared.

“Why are you afraid?” asked the boy after swallowing the last of his meal.

“Wha-what?” asked Carlo in a trembling voice.

“Am I that ugly that you fear me? Am I that powerful that you tremble before me?”

Carlo did not know how to react. He was surprised to hear the boy speak, and as articulate as an older man who studied in the most prestigious of universities. He was awed at the manner the boy spoke; how refined and precise, just like in the books, that is if he ever read a book, or maybe a daytime soap opera that he usually watches and admires. He felt like he was talking to someone his age. Yet, the boy emitted an aura that he felt and feared. He tried to open his mouth but his lips wouldn’t follow. He just stared.

“What would make the fear go away?” asked the little boy.

As if commanded, Carlo opened his mouth and spoke the word “beer” followed by more words “lots of it.”

The boy stared at Carlo and tilted his head left to right three times. Then he turned to the waitress and ordered three bottles of beer, turned back at Carlo and smiled the way a child would smile. The smile wiped away the sleazy image and the putrid smell that the boy had with him, and the man who sold pirated CDs and DVDs was now at ease.

“What did you do?” asked Carlo with much curiosity.

“I took your fear away. I took your guilt away. I took your frustrations away. That is a part of what we do by the way.” The boy smiled. His teeth were loose and decaying.

“’We?’ Who are ‘we’ if I may ask?”

“Us? Yes. Well at least me. I am the last one you know.”

“And who are you then?”

“I’m sorry, we haven’t formally introduced ourselves have we? My name is Manila.” Carlo cocked an eyebrow.

“Why would your mother name you after a city? And do you mean the last of your family? What’s your surname? Where do you come from?”

“Haahh,” sighed Manila. “So many questions. Am I that intriguing?

“Yes! After what you’ve done, I’d be intrigued.”

The waitress came back with three bottles of ice-cold beer. Carlo never noticed before, but upon staring at the waitress, he found her to be attractive. With lush curves hidden behind her loose clothing. He eyed her from head to foot and smiled lusciously. The waitress, on the other hand, either didn’t notice or was too busy thinking of something else to notice. Carlo didn’t really mind. He just smiled at the lovely sight of her.

“Men.” Again sighed Manila. “You never learn.”

“Me?” asked a baffled Carlo.

“Yes all of you.”

“How come?”

“Haven’t you learned anything from history?”

“I’m sorry, I only reached the first grade.”

“Look outside,” said Manila with a now frustrated look. “There is rape. There is abortion. There is prostitution. One aspect of a dark society and it all happens in me. I can’t do anything about it, you know.”

Carlo stopped drinking his beer and curiously stared at Manila with bottle-in-hand still stuck to his lips. He slowly lowered the bottle and began to open his mouth but was stopped by the boy before he was able to speak.

“Drink your beer first. It is better to talk to your kind when you’re drunk. It would make better sense to you that way.”

And so he did. Fifteen bottles and hours later, when the clock struck midnight, Carlo was drunk.

“And how do you suppose we pay for this? (Hic) I’m a poor son of a bitch and you’re a mouse. We don’t have money.” Bellowed the now red-faced Carlo.

“I don’t know. But since you’ve already arrived at that state, let me tell you my story.”

Manila straightened himself and up and faced Carlo with a grim face.

“I am the last of my kind.“ started Manila, “All the others have gone to oblivion. They do not exist anymore. It you people who gave us life, and it is you people who destroyed us. I am Manila. I am the city. I am the soul that you people have violated and desecrated. And yes, I too am dying. I am dying because you pollute me. I am dying because you rape me. I am dying because you lie to me.”

Carlo slouched in his seat. He thought that everything around him slowed down. The traffic outside was almost at a stand still; the waitress and the cooks moved like they were in a video that was being played in slow motion. The two ladies were leaving, but it seemed as though they couldn’t make it to the exit. The only thing that moved in normal speed was Manila’s voice. Be he was all fuzzy, Carlo couldn’t get a clear image of Manila though he was right in front of him. Still, in his drunken state. The boy’s words were as clear as if he was speaking into a loud speaker a couple of inches away from his ears.

“Do you hear me alright? “ asked Manila.

Carlo nods.

“Of course you do. I made you hear me. I forced you to hear me, because no one listens anymore. All you have turned deaf. You do not hear the screams of the innocent begging for mercy from a cruel and heartless child exploiter. You do not hear the whimper of a mother selling herself for food so that her baby could eat. You do not hear the cries of children as they beg for alms, their bare feet scorched by the blistering heat of the streets.

I see these things everyday. It happens within me. It makes me sick.”

Carlo couldn’t control his senses anymore. He felt like he was going in different directions all at once and the world around him began to swirl. The last he heard before blacking out was the sigh of a little boy.

* * *

The rain poured heavily, falling on the metal sheet that served as a roof for an old shed. Carlo woke moments after it feel from the heavens. He wiped off the cobwebs from his eyes and saw that he lay on a bench that was part of a waiting shed placed by the roadside. By his feet Manila stoically was gazing at the rain.
He heard a few cars passed by.

“What are we doing here?” Carlo asked while checking himself and his surroundings. He suddenly realized that his makeshift suitcase of CDs and DVDs, pirated at that, was nowhere to be seen. His income was gone. He didn’t know how he was going to explain this to his supplier who took fifty percent on every item sold.

“And where’s my stuff?” he added angrily.

“You don’t need it,” replied Manila, still gazing at the rain.

“What? How do you know what I need and what I don’t? What the hell are we doing in this place?”

“You got evicted. You weren’t able to pay your rent because you weren’t able to sell anything. Benjo, your supplier, got pissed with you and is now hunting you down. You lost your videos. It’s been three days and we’ve been here most of the time.”

Still trying to digest what Manila was talking about, Carlo recklessly jumps to his feet and surveys the area around him. They were a few feet away from the restaurant that they ate in the night before, or so it seems that he remembers it that way. He wasn’t really sure what day it was, but he was quite right about the time. It was nearing dawn and he noticed that he stank, and his clothes were downright filthy.

“Where are we?” he asked, disoriented.

“My place,” answered Manila.

“And where is that, exactly?”

“Somewhere in between. Come, I’ll show you something.”

Manila reached out his hand. Carlo was hesitant to take it.

“But it’s raining.”

The rain ceased to fall. Now the world was quite clear. Everything was all there: the buildings, the cars, the people, although it was all blurry, as if they were shadows fleeting within darkened corners.

“Now will you come with me?” asked the child politely.

Carlo nodded. He had no choice. He slowly stood up and reached for the child’s hand. Together they headed out, hand in hand, stepping on the now dry concrete. He heard things. Most of them were the screams of women and children, the wails of the unborn that gave him the creeps, the sound of men raping women. He heard sirens go off in the distance. He felt the heat of a sudden explosion that nearly knocked him down, only the explosion made no sound. He saw buildings burning. He saw faces in a river that once flowed with life and there was an abundance of fish. He saw shadows of a community that suffered. All of the things he saw made him sick. Do not underestimate Carlo though; he is dot as dumb as he looks. He could not take it anymore. He puked on the sidewalk.

The two of them stopped by a stall that sold bananaque (fried bananas with sugar on a stick). Manila sat by the sidewalk while Carlo took support of the stall and stared at the delicious looking bananaque.

“Where are all the people? I can hear them, but I see only shadows.”

Carlo wanted a bananaque. He stared at it. He hadn’t eaten in three days. His hunger overwhelmed him until finally he reached out for a stick and took a big bite. Manila was caught looking.

“They are all facets of this life. Those are things that happen within me. They are real somewhere else.”

Carlo took another hungry bite. His left hand went to a pocket of his pants and reached for a ten-peso bill that was only to be used upon emergency, so he told himself. But this was an emergency – he was hungry. He placed the bill on the counter near a basket full of bananaque. He paid for his food though no one was there to accept his payment. He could have just gotten the bananaque and walked away. It was so easy. No one was looking. But deep down inside, though how much he hated his life, Carlo was honest. He did the right thing.

“Why did you do that?” asked the child Manila.

“Do what?” asked Carlo.

“Paid for your food? No one is here, you can just take it you know.”

“Now would that be right?”

Manila nodded and smiled at Carlo. It was a comforting smile. The world around them started spinning. At first it was slow, then it spun faster and faster.

“What’s happening?” asked Carlo with terror in his voice.

“It is my time to go Carlo.” Grimly answered Manila. “I must die now.”

“But why? No, you’re just a child. That would be wrong.”

“And what it right Carlo? Is it right for a man to beat a child because of mischief? Is it right for a woman to be in the arms of another man because of dissatisfaction in her marriage? Morals Carlo. Is there anymore left in me, in this place you call home? At least there are still honest people like you. Goodbye. You will never see me again.”

The city of Manila, the last of its kind, disappeared right before Carlo and died. Everything went back into play once again. Reality was real once more. Everything was fast. The sound of traffic filled his ears. The smell of pollution crept up his nose. Carlo was glad that he was back to familiar ground once more.

* * *

“Are you going to pay for that?” asked a stout old lady behind the bananaque stall.

Carlo pointed with his pouted lips a ten-peso bill that lay on the counter. The woman apologetically waved her hand and picked up the bill.

Carlo turned around and faced the city that was busy being a city. He wondered of his experience. He wondered where the boy Manila was now. He questioned himself about what was real or not, what was right and what was wrong. And the greatest question of all was – was Manila really dead? He knew that he lived in a decaying city, an old memory where history wrote and rewrote itself several times. Those were the great days, and now they were just memories, silent and vivid.

Carlo started walking into uncertainty, into a future he was unsure of, but of all the things that have happened to him, one thing was indeed clear to him, and that one thing was about death. Even a city can die because of men. He looked around, into the chaos and the havoc, and he wondered if the cities would ever rise up from their graves and haunt those that caused them harm. He wished not. He wanted to be left alone. Now there was no other choice, but to live in hope, if there was still hope, that one day things would indeed get better. As he passed through the alleyways and empty corners, he was reminded that once there was glory in all of it, and now they were just memories, as he remembered the stories of the cities before they were cities, and how history has a sick way of turning them into monsters.

The sun was slowly setting. Carlo did not have a home now, for it was all gone, and he was a stranger in this strange place that he used to know. Something in him died. The ground, though wet, looked very comforting, as tired eyes slowly shut, and darkness took over.