Audei touched the glass flask with the back of her fingers and felt it cool against her skin. She grasped the neck and lifted the flask toward the light. The liquid inside was clear, colorless, and extremely mundane, like rain or tears, yet Audei regarded it with the wonder of a child. She flicked her wrist and the liquid swirled. There is enough to fill a hundred tiny vials, she thought. Each vial worth an orb of gold in the Keida. Continue reading
For this next set of tales–the third set, for those of you keeping count–I’m happy to have four former PGS contributors returning with their newest work, all of which will be published over the next couple of months.
Dean Alfar is the guest-editor for this set, and he brings with him writers Elyss Punsalan, Alexander Osias, and Vincent Simbulan. All of them have seen publication in previously released print issues of PGS (to see which issues, just click on their names for the links). I’m proud to have them all back.
Eight stories in, and I’m pleased with the progress of PGS online. It feels good to know that as far as plans go, the site will be able to provide genre stories even up to the early part of next year. And looking at the bigger picture, I’m particularly pleased that–based on what I’ve seen, read, and heard through blogs, social-media or through meeting fellow readers–genre tales written by Pinoy fictionists are being read, and more importantly, accepted by fellow Pinoys, particularly younger ones. A part of me would like to think that the print version of PGS played a role in that, and that the online version is continuing that role. This is giving me a lot of hope, since it feeds into my goal of PGS helping develop people into regular readers for the rest of their lives. Of course, full credit for this actually goes to the readers themselves, since it’s their imaginations that is fueling their own desire to read and enter various worlds through reading, worlds of Pinoy creation, and worlds created by non-Pinoys as well. It’s all good.
“The lord loves stars.”
These were Dr. Albano’s words before he died, choking on blood coughed up by lungs breathing their last, red liquid forced upwards and out even as it bled through his torso, which was slashed raw, his entrails—liver, kidneys and intestines—shredded to ribbons, hot and steaming.
The words were said in a gurgle of blood, so soft I had to lean close to hear them, and to hear his last breath as it escaped from his lips.
“What did he say?” Minda asked.
“He said the ‘the lord loves stars.’”
Minda looked out the window, bulletproof glass now cracked, tiny spiderweb-like fault lines running through the formerly impenetrable glass. The curtain had long been torn away. Outside, the sky glowed light blue. Dawn had broken. I let go a breath I didn’t know I was holding in.
“Do you know what he meant?”
Heed these words, apprentice. I am Emilio Alarcon, and you only think that you know me.
I know how history works once a battle is done and a victor proclaimed. If I succeed in this last task, there will be those who would lift me higher than Lapu-lapu, or Rizal, higher than Christ Himself.
If I fail, well…it won’t matter how history remembers me. But if I succeed I will not allow monuments to be built in my honor. I will not allow a day to bear my name.
I will not be called a hero. Not ever again.
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Yna had arrived at Canterbury the next day the most determined she had ever been. She had gotten up from bed far earlier than Jobeth’s early morning nudgings; she had munched on her customary Froot Loops-Honey Stars combination to a purposeful, military rhythm; and she had alighted from the school service for the very first time with her chin held up high. She had spent the rest of the night pondering rigorously, and had absolutely no clue yet as to how she could bring Francesca to hurtle into a speeding auto, but she still knew she’d find a way. If she wanted something to happen, it would. Did action heroes cling to itineraries? Did they overthink strategies and stick to strict and unwavering protocol? No, they did not. Ploys like these unfurled best under pressure at the eleventh hour in the nick of time. She believed, despite everything, that there was justice in this world, and that vengeance for Lola Monina must be a thing of nature, spontaneous. Things would just click into place, she assured herself as she shuffled towards the Grade 4 wing. She could feel it. She could really, truly, really truly feel it.
Moments later at the principal’s office, Yna could hardly feel a thing. Continue reading