Creative Writing: Journal

Cry of the Unborn Jesus

I have heard about the child in the manger from the unseen mouths of the people outside my dark world of sickening salt and slimy water. I have tasted it from the bread of life through your reptile-tongue which then slithers lovingly in the holy words of God’s prayers. The Amen and the Hallelujahs are music to my ears----------now deaf in the muffled cries and the cursing when you found out I was there. A tiny spectacle swooshing and whooshing. A tiny spectacle of blood and sin…..

            I was then afraid of the rumbling sounds of the streets and the clattering of glass wines, but oh how you, my own Mother Mary, laughed and laughed as you danced and danced in the small, dingy room. These delighted me in my innocence. The laughter, which then led me to the thought that I was after all, loved. I will soon see the manger and my angels would come to anoint my head with their perfumed oil. The laughter went on but the bouncing and the shaking makes me ache, and so does the smoke in your breath. Your kiss of venom, and again, I grew wary and afraid. You bathe me in your strong liquor and I would wait ‘till you pass out so I could sing a lullaby to myself.

As you sleep, I dream. I dream of the world outside and see the things you see, feel the things you feel. And I wriggle my still invisible nose to the scent of fresh air, its coolness envelopes my forming limbs, and I was happy. Your snores comfort me, for sure enough; I know I was safe from your sobs, from your choking disgust. I have your womb to comfort me and make me warm like the humble hays that warmed the little Jesus. Perhaps I’d grow up like him. Bearing the light of the star of Bethlehem, I could grow up like him and everyone will love me. YOU will love me.

But a dream is a dream. And I am but a rotten trophy of your lust. I saw a smile in the mirror through your eyes and you looked beautiful in your evident triumph. But I was sulking and barely weeping inside my soul, for yes, I have my very own soul. And I know what is about to come.

Remember your own screams mother? Your body felt sore all over so you screamed, and you screamed, and you screamed. And I was crying inside. My weak limbs tried to move desperately as I grope for vain escape. I hummed to myself like a nightingale in the last minute of its breath. The whooshing sound is so loud that I imagined myself covering my ears. Then, the strong current of the salty water and the blood that surrounds me starts to go whooshing out as I gasped for breath. Still, you screamed. And I was longing for the manger.

I was drowned in pure agony that I could’ve screamed with you. Oh why have you let them in? The clinking metal that touched my undeveloped skin. And though they seemed blind, their persistence allowed them to find what they solely seek. YOU allowed them, and they we’re biting and clamping and grinding!

Few more months and I could’ve touched you with these fingertips, but now my clay-soft bones are crushed and the clamps went on crushing. Still, I gasped and I resist to be dragged out into the lying manger, but the pain is too much to bear and I am but a brave weakling.

Do you remember all? The stink and the filth. The bottles of antiseptics, the syringes, the sheets damped of blood and mucus and urine……and pieces of me which tried to reach out for you in vain. Do you remember all? And the cold stainless pail, have you seen it? For I was there in my last attempt to see love in your face; hoping you’d forgive me that my blood---your blood----- had stained your white dress.

Have you seen your work of art? The moldings of your lust and the metal clamp? Now the feast of the rodents and the flies and the worms. They gnawed lovingly at my torn flesh and I was rotten….forgotten.

Still I dream. Your ivory fingers gathering what remained of me. My flow of tears that puddle the old rustic alley. The blood which dried out from the kisses of the starved. You we’re gathering the fragments of my broken dreams, my little skull grinning in all its fragileness as it crumbles and forever bleed in your palm.

And I hate you……

But don’t you see? I still need you mother, for I am alone in this dark pit where you’ve thrown me away. Where are the angels to anoint my head? I see them in the manger gathered around Joseph and Mary. Let them be, but lie in my cradle mother. Let me drink the milk that now curdles in your breast for it was solely meant for me. Has it gone sour? Or will it be sweeter if you cry in pain? Ahh…the Amen and the Hallelujahs, but the manger now grows dim and I see the newborn Jesus in the midst of his own slaughtering.

Now remember your own scream, mother……scream….for it will be the sweetest thing.

written by: Azrun (August 03,2009)

            I have my thongs hidden in a pile of small boxes underneath my bed. Bright neon green, sassy pink, bright sunny yellow.

Now welcome to my room and please make yourself comfortable. Mind if I smoke? Go on, you may open the windows. So what else can I tell you aside from the fact that I wear thongs? Ah, my room. Did you expect me to paint it pink or something? No, color blue will do. And no, I don’t have Winnie-the-Pooh hidden in my closet. Not even a single Barbie doll or even a Johnny Bravo for that matter. But that’s another story. Ah yes, would you like some more coffee? I’ll pour you another cup---------which again reminds me…….

Years ago, I met him; my Johnny Bravo. He’s a tall hunk from the gym where I was once enrolled. Nice curly hair, smooth talk. The next thing I knew, he was inside my room, lying down my very own bed. And I was there setting two mugs down the bedside table, then lighting down my cigarette while waiting for him to wake up. I still remember him saying something like he cares and he loves me. Some kind of shits, and with a couple of hugs and kisses, I’d be his fool. And he would still be here the next day, and the next, and the next. His underwear scattered on the floor. Imagine me picking it up and putting it somewhere near him so he wouldn’t have any trouble looking for it when he wakes up.

And my kitchen, it always smells like garlic. Forever Sinangag! And he like his eggs sunny-side up and served with bacon strips. His mom always serves it for breakfast he says. Damn the stink of garlic; in the tiles, in the sink. Breakfast in bed, the birds and the bees, and again the stinking garlic. The tub will be full of warm water for his bath. And I will leave for work as he dozes off with his naked ass covered by my wool blanket. My credit card lies cold beside his empty wallet…where I once had a glimpse of this pretty girl-------smiling like shit.

Pictures--------- oh see that framed photo on top of the dresser? Its okay, you can take a closer look. That was taken when I was 10 years old, inside my father’s camp. That handsome old man grinning in his damned army uniform? That’s him. Now you have an idea where I got these ugly scars on my arm and legs. I used to hate him for that. I used to think that if he’s a plain businessman or something, perhaps he wouldn’t even try beating me for playing dolls with Lala. She lived next door in our old rambling apartment. I heard she became a whore as early as she stepped high school. But let’s not talk about her.

The woman beside my father? That’s my mom. Isn’t she lovely? I’ve always adored her. I loved combing her long brown hair when I was kid. Yes, I know there’s a very distinct resemblance between us. When I was in college, I wore my hair long as hers in that picture to remind me of her. It’s the same brown which enticed my father. And although it’s not as soft and silky, it’s still beautiful enough to make my father so angry, he could actually crawl up from his grave with his belt or that paddle made especially for me and my older brothers.

I didn’t cry when he died 6 years after that photo was taken. I hated him-----of course I was a kid then who has so many questions about the beatings. The paddle? I took it away with me when I ran away from home just after the funeral. My mom was so worried that she died the same year. Guess it was my fault.

Will you please hand me that Kleenex? Thank you. Do you still want to hear about my private affairs? Damn my father’s ghost if he’s listening. And to hell with my Johnny Bravo. I’ve been with some other guys after he has gone, but it’s always the same story. Longganisa and Sinangag forever but this time he wants it with Tinola or Kare-kare. Serve him the breakfast then pack the rest of the food in my Tupperware for his fuckin’ wife.

It’s okay to laugh. I laugh about it myself. The fool that I am. Sometimes I pray for my father’s beatings, hoping it would somehow knock me out of my senses.

Mr. Longganisa? He left me when I started putting too much peanut butter in his Kare-kare. The other guys just come and go. I’m not interested in them anymore so don’t be so surprised if you find me sitting down the bar alone, the way you found me last night.

And I feel sorry that I looked beautiful and appealing in my solitude that I was able to catch you eyes…..

Here, let me pour you another cup of coffee. So what else can I tell you? What are these tears for?

I have my thongs hidden in a pile of small boxes underneath my bed. Would it hurt you more to see them? To feel their silkiness in your own palm? You were asking me to tell you the story behind my “nays” and now here it is. I have poured out my soul to you the way you once poured out your heart to me.

I’m just trying to be fair. I can never be yours my dear. Now you must end your pursuit. Am I still handsome to you? Yes? Then I might as well appreciate it. But then again, let me see you smile despite this shocking heartbreak I gave. Let me fix your hair and make up before you leave. Beautiful! And you deserve someone else; that will never be me darling.

Here, take one of my thongs….and despise me…….

written by: Azrun (July 26,2009)